John 19. 17 – 30
So they took Jesus, and carrying the cross by himself, he went out to what is called The Place of the Skull, which in Hebrew[d] is called Golgotha.There they crucified him, and with him two others, one on either side, with Jesus between them.Pilate also had an inscription written and put on the cross. It read, “Jesus of Nazareth,[e] the King of the Jews.” Many of the Jews read this inscription, because the place where Jesus was crucified was near the city; and it was written in Hebrew,[f] in Latin, and in Greek.Then the chief priests of the Jews said to Pilate, “Do not write, ‘The King of the Jews,’ but, ‘This man said, I am King of the Jews.’”Pilate answered, “What I have written I have written.” When the soldiers had crucified Jesus, they took his clothes and divided them into four parts, one for each soldier. They also took his tunic; now the tunic was seamless, woven in one piece from the top. So they said to one another, “Let us not tear it, but cast lots for it to see who will get it.” This was to fulfil what the scripture says, “They divided my clothes among themselves, and for my clothing they cast lots.” And that is what the soldiers did.
Meanwhile, standing near the cross of Jesus were his mother, and his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene. When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple whom he loved standing beside her, he said to his mother, “Woman, here is your son.” Then he said to the disciple, “Here is your mother.” And from that hour the disciple took her into his own home.After this, when Jesus knew that all was now finished, he said (in order to fulfil the scripture), “I am thirsty.” A jar full of sour wine was standing there. So they put a sponge full of the wine on a branch of hyssop and held it to his mouth. When Jesus had received the wine, he said, “It is finished.” Then he bowed his head and gave up his spirit.
He carried a large wooden beam – one half of a cross and they handed it to him like it was nothing. He held the rough wood in his hands and gripped it, he felt its shape, and shouldered the weight, he felt its roughness against his rawness, the splinters that pushed into his flesh anticipated the nails that were to follow. And he had to carry it a long way – from Pilates house through the crowded streets to a hill of the skull outside the walls, about half a mile….and all the way he half carried, half dragged this great girder, this joist from which he would hang.
Everyone knew about crucifixion, it was the Romans favourite execution of choice, they liked its precision, they liked the fact that it produced the maximum amount of pain ….and a death struggle of adjustable duration, they could decide how much it hurt and how long it lasted.
As Jesus carried this weight through the streets, he knew just what was in store for him
We can imagine him stumbling through the narrow-crowded alleys on a hot humid Friday afternoon, we can sense the frenzied animation of the crowd, we can see the spiteful excitement etched into their faces as they shout and jeer, we see their hands waving, their fingers jabbing, we can smell the odour of blood and sweat. We can feel the weight of the cross pressing us down.
And then we see him fall, as if in slow motion – tumbling, stumbling, reaching out for a support that has been taken away, vanquished, his hands sliding in the dust, straining for purchase, the beam crashing down, the crowds laughing, the soldiers pointing, heaving him to his feet, bidding him continue.
And suddenly it seems to mean nothing. Another useless dreamer, another innocent man going to his death, like so many thousands and millions of other innocent people who have died ugly and anonymous deaths through the whole bloody failure of human history – in gas chambers, killing fields, firing squads, trenches, collapsing buildings, atomic explosions…bombed trains….COVID19 ….the list goes on
So many killed…so many names forgotten….
yet here is one more man going to his death, silent before his accusers, stoical in his suffering, and the carpenter’s son from Nazareth, stumbling to his death – He is remembered…and for all his life and his teaching – it is his dying we remember most.
Why is that?
Well because this man is not just a man – not less than man, but God contained within what is to be man, and in his suffering and his dying it is not just one more notch carved in the endless torment of human suffering and misery, but God sharing in it, God involved in the world he made, God stretched out on this fearful piece of wood. Amen





