This is my
meditation for this year’s Easter Friday service. The readings are John 18:12-17 (in which
Jesus is arrested and taken to Annas and Caiaphas, and Peter follows them to
the High Priest’s courtyard but denies being Jesus’ disciple) and Amos 5:18-24
(in which the prophet tells the Israelites their worship is an abomination in
the absence of justice and righteousness).
It seems
like only yesterday that we were celebrating Christmas. The angels sang “glory to God and peace to
men”, the shepherds paid their respects, the magicians brought their
gifts. It was a time of hope and joy,
anything seemed possible, God was with us and all would be well.
Yet already
today is Easter Friday, when all the darkness and violence of the world is
revealed and we know ourselves to be powerless against it. It is a day of mourning and weeping, a day of
anger and frustration, a day of terror, a day of failure. Soon it will be Easter Sunday and hope will
be reborn, but not yet, not today. Today
is the day for looking evil in the face and seeing it for what it is.
The day of
Jesus and Caiaphas is like the day of Amos, and it is like our own day. The economy is booming, wealth is being
created at a rapid rate. But this wealth
flows into the hands of a few who live in opulent splendour while many are not
sure if they will eat tomorrow. Did you
know that in the past 20 years the global economy has grown by 200%? Yet over a billion people, one in five of the
earth’s population, still live on less than a dollar a day.
Revolution
is in the air. It makes us nervous and
insecure. The Jewish authorities that
Caiaphas headed felt the same, jealously guarding their privileges in a dangerous
world. They kept up the daily
sacrifices, the festivals, the singing in the temple even as they raked in the
spoils of empire, just like their predecessors in Amos’s day. As Amos says, the day of the Lord will not be light for
Caiaphas and his supporters, it will be pitch dark.
They saw
Jesus as a threat. John 11 tells us that
they called an urgent meeting.
‘What are we accomplishing?’ they asked.
‘Here is this man performing many signs.
If we let him go on like this, everyone will believe in him, and then the
Romans will come and take away both our temple and our nation.’
Then one of them, named Caiaphas, who was
high priest that year, spoke up, ‘You know nothing at all! You do not realise that it is better for you
that one man die for the people than that the whole nation perish.’
He did not say this on his own, but as high
priest that year he prophesied that Jesus would die for the Jewish nation…
Don’t we all
fear the loss of our nation? Don’t we
fear that the vast army of the poor and oppressed will come and sweep away our
culture and our way of life and replace it with their own? So we spend billions fighting wars on foreign
soil and propping up oppressive dictators in the hope that it will keep the
danger in check and buy us peace. Then
when people flee these wars and these dictatorships and find their way to our
shores we turn them away and imprison them on Nauru or Manus or in Darwin or
right here at Pinkenba, and if anyone questions the justice of this we are told
“it is essential that we imprison these people, or send them back, otherwise many
more will come and we will lose control of our borders" - lose control of our nation.
It is better for you that one man die for
the people than that the whole nation perish. It is better for you that we
sacrifice the few for the many. You can
be certain that Caiaphas was not offering to sacrifice himself for the sake of
the people. He was the High Priest, he
was much too important. Much better to
sacrifice this insignificant, defenceless Galilean miracle worker. Better to sacrifice these poor defenceless
young men in their leaky boats, these unarmed women and children. If we get them out of sight quickly, perhaps
we will be able to carry on as if nothing serious has happened, and hope
something else will turn up, that the problem will somehow solve itself without
us having to make sacrifices of our own.
It’s Easter
Friday. The evil of the world is on
display.
But we in
the church can’t afford to be smug and self-righteous, because day after day in
the Royal Commission we have been hearing versions of the same story. Someone in a position of authority in the
church – a priest, a youth leader, a teacher, a counsellor – has abused an
innocent child. Then when that child has
finally got up the courage to report the abuse to the man in charge, the principal
or the bishop, the man in charge doesn’t believe them, or even blames them for
the abuse or accuses them of defaming a good man. Then finally perhaps he is convinced that it
was true after all, so he offers them a small amount of money from a compensation fund on
condition that they sign a waiver. He
pays them to go away.
So the
institution survives, and we are still here in our beautiful churches and
cathedrals celebrating communion and playing our glorious music and singing our
hymns. But you know who is no longer
here? That abused child won’t, or can’t,
ever walk through that door again because they have been so traumatised, so
betrayed.
I hate, I despise your religious festivals;
your assemblies are a stench to me.
Away with the noise of your songs!
I
will not listen to the music of your harps, or your organs, or your guitars.
But let justice roll on like a river,
righteousness like a never-failing stream!
What if the
river of justice, or compensation, should wash away our beautiful buildings and we should find
ourselves stranded and homeless, worshiping in a school hall, or a park, or
someone’s home, but that abused child could join us there in fellowship? I somehow think the exchange would be worth
it.
Jesus has a
different way. In Mark 10, as the
disciples jostled for power and prestige in the coming kingdom, he called a
meeting and told them this.
‘You know that those who are regarded as
rulers of the Gentiles lord it over them, and their high officials exercise
authority over them. Not so with you.
Instead, whoever wants to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wants to be first must be slave
of all. For even the Son of Man did not
come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.’
These are
not empty words. Jesus is about to show
them just how literally he means them.
Jesus’ death means more than just an easy way for us to enter heaven. It’s a pattern for all of us who claim to be
his followers. He asks us to be prepared
to serve as he served, even to the point of death.
Peter knows
it. He was there when Jesus spoke those
words. So he follows Jesus after his
arrest, right up to the door of the High Priest’s courtyard, right
inside the door to where the arresting party is holding Jesus. He is almost there, almost ready to join
him.
The serving girl even identifies
him:
You aren’t one of this man’s disciples too
are you?
But at the last moment his courage fails him
and he pulls back from the brink.
I am not.
I am not.
I tell you, I don’t know the man!
I am like
Peter. I see the evil of the world all
too clearly. I have read Jesus' words
many times. I know how far I should be prepared to go to serve those who are
entitled to my service, to resist the evil that is so clearly revealed on this
Easter Friday. I walk to the edge, I
look at what must be done, but I pull back.
My courage fails me, I am weak and afraid. Often I feel a physical sickness in my
stomach at the evil of the world, my own powerlessness to change it, my own
complicity in it.
It is Easter
Friday. All the darkness and violence of
the world is made plain and we know ourselves to be powerless against it. It is a day of mourning and weeping, a day of
anger and frustration, a day of terror.
Don’t
despair.
Don’t despair.
Don’t ever give in to despair.
In two days
it will be Easter Sunday and hope will be reborn.
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