Jesus
refuses to abandon the cup. He doesn’t
want this; he wants to stay and teach and heal and form disciples… but that’s
not the cup that has been poured. The
cup of divine wrath: divine anger and anguish mixed into one at human
suffering, sin and death. He would drink
that fully for us, he would never abandon his perfect obedience to being human,
to being his father’s son, to being anguished at sin and, in love, consuming
it.
Even
though we abandoned him. The son of God,
creator, came into creation, but creation abandoned him. His friend betrayed him, all the disciples
fled, and Jesus knew this, he prophesied it, but still he would not abandon us,
would not refuse the cup. Though the
fishermen disciples had left all behind to follow him at the start of his
ministry, one young man would leave all behind – his only garment – to flee him
naked. Peter would descend further,
leaving the truth behind to flee him, slowly moving away, until with a
curse Jesus’ last hope abandons him.
Jesus
would let himself be abandoned by all he had and held in the world: his garment
would be taken not as he fled but as he steadfastly refused to abandon. Light, the first created thing, would abandon
him, leaving the source of all light in darkness. In the language of scripture, he would even
quote a Psalm lamenting the sense of abandonment by God.
Finally,
he would breath his last. His breath,
the life-force that God breathes into each human in that messy act of creative
intimacy… his breath would abandon him.
His body would be left lifeless, limp.
Dead.
But he
would never despair. The last words on
his lips would remain prayer, of anguish and anger and lament, but not of
despair. He uses the last of his
precious breath, about to abandon him, to call God “My God.” The last of his life was spent pronouncing
God’s name, making the dark air reverberate with the sound Eli… my God;
making God present to a world that tried to abandon him.
Jesus
makes presence, intimate, loving, close, anguished presence out of abandonment. And seeing this, the centurion, a foreigner,
an occupier, an enemy, recognizes him for who he is: this is the Son of
God! The Temple veil is torn in two,
that God’s presence, God’s glory may no longer be veiled, no longer separate,
contained, but viscerally present throughout the world. The narrator’s gaze turns to the women, who
remained present, though at a distance.
Whose silence would not survive this loving sacrifice, but who would be emboldened,
would find themselves declaring the great work God has done among them. Joseph of Arimathea finds his courage.
And we
find Jesus present to us still. He never
abandoned the cup. He now offers it to
us. Take this all of you and drink of
it.
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