For Sunday, November 20, 2016 – Luke 23:33-43
Despite all that his life has meant for others and for God, Jesus ends up among the least of the least, the despicable and desperate, criminals against humanity, suffering the ultimate desolation of crucifixion. Right in the middle of his compelling and fruitful ministry, just as his healing mercies seem to be flourishing, they abruptly give way to harassment and accusation. Not for wrongs committed, or good deeds left undone, does he hang on the cross, but simply for being himself, for generating light and love. Just as we were growing more accustomed to following him, now here he is, stripped naked, beaten, unfairly accused, hanging in public humiliation, reduced to the lowest denominator of humanity, unwanted and alone.
What sort of life is this that even our heroes must suffer degradation, even our favored leaders fall? How shall we respond? Shall we rise up in a great clamor of protest? Shall we resist the forces we see as enemies, demean and ridicule them, barricade ourselves against them, keep them from causing us harm? Jesus, even at the point of death, shows us another way, a way nurtured through his continually seeking alignment not with the world but with love. From his mouth come words strange to our ears—not of anger or accusation, no call to arms or self-pity, but words stronger and more provocative than these. Loudly they echo down through the ages, echo so clearly that we pretend not to hear or to understand because to admit that we hear would be to admit our responsibility. Three words that hold the essence of his life and love, his purpose among us and his primary calling to do the same: “Father, forgive them.”
Forgive them all—these criminals around me, these mockers and marauders, enemies and friends, those who are hiding in shadowy corners denying they ever knew me, and all the rest, throughout coming generations, who will blame and crucify one another and feel righteous in the act, who will violate the best and the worst of their humanity and give in to their despair, claiming to be doing God’s will. Forgive them for being so convinced they are right that they fail to notice their common humanity, their common need. Father, forgive them for forgetting who you are, for letting the flame of hope die, for letting distrust win. In their pain, they don’t realize what they are doing or remember who they are. So I will remember for them.
