What we’ve
just heard might seem like a story of abandonment; of leaving Jesus behind.
The
fishermen disciples had left everything else behind to follow him at the start
of his ministry, but now 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 with lies, slowly
moving away, until with a curse Jesus’ last hope abandons him.
Light,
the first created thing, would abandon him when it should have been at its
highest, at noon, 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 breathe 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.
What we’ve
just head might seem like a story of abandonment, but it’s not.
For
Christ refuses to abandon us. The cup, the cup of suffering that he doesn’t
want, because suffering isn’t good, he refuses to abandon. Unlike the young
disciple who gives up his garment in order to abandon Jesus, Jesus consents to
let his clothing be taken as he refuses to abandon us. The last words on his
lips would remain prayer, of anguish 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 breath of his life was spent pronouncing God’s name, making the
dark air reverberate with the sound Eloi… 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.
And
then, once we’ve seen the divine refusal to abandon take on flesh in Christ, we
ready to see faithfulness in other humans. 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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