Periodically, some wise guy will say, “Oh, and if Jesus had been shot by a firing squad, would you Christians wear a little golden gun around your neck? If he had been electrocuted, would you hang a decorative electric chair on the wall of your church?”
Maybe we would. What-ifs are not the same as theology, so I don’t know how it would have played out. All I know is how it did play out. It was a cross that Jesus died on. And that was not just an accident of history.
Look at the shape of the cross: It extends up, down, left, and right, and approximately in the center, at the intersection of it all, is the heart of the dying man.
What is down? The soldiers, the rabble, the clergy, the grieving women, the few disciples who didn’t run away. The stony ground, blood-soaked soil and the whole heavy earth, burdened with its load of the living and the dead.
What is up? The heavens, the Father who said not long before that he is well pleased with his Son. Up is where Jesus cast his eyes to ask the Father why he had abandoned him, and up is where he commended his spirit just before he died.
What is left? The criminal who looks at Jesus and says, “Aren’t you supposed to be God? Then go ahead and get us out of this mess!” Essentially: You come here and do what I want, and do it right now (Lk 23:39).
What is right? The criminal who knows who he is and why he is where he is, but also knows who Jesus is, and how wrong it is that they are on the same level. He doesn’t ask or tell Jesus to go anywhere, and he doesn’t assume Jesus should do anything. He knows, though, where Jesus will go, and he asks to be remembered when he gets there (Lk 23:40-43).
Everyone is a thief
On Palm Sunday, different people read the various speaking parts of the Passion; but really, everyone who is alive today is either the good thief or the bad thief. Suffering isn’t something we may or may not have to deal with; it’s inevitable. Sooner or later, we will find ourselves immobilized on one kind of cross or another, punished and rejected by someone or something in the world. Maybe we’ll suffer at the hands of an enemy, maybe at the hands of someone we love. Maybe we’re in pain because of our own bodies, or maybe because of our own decisions. But we will all find ourselves there: on the cross, suffering, helpless and looking at Jesus.
Then we will have the choice. We can look at Jesus and tell him where to go and what to do, how to be God.
Or we can look at him and say, “I know who you are, and I know where you are going. Don’t forget me.”
It’s not wrong to ask for things. It’s not wrong to tell God specifically what we want to happen, or to ask him to relieve our sufferings, whether we deserve them or not. But it is futile to tell him what he must do for us. How insane does the bad thief look, stuck like a bug to a wooden cross and still somehow thinking he has some kind of power?
The other thief was just as immobilized, just as doomed, just as powerless, but from that spot, what he chose to say to God was: “I know who you are. Remember me.” He trusted that God would rescue him — in the way that God thought best, in the time that God knew was right.
What we can do when we’re suffering
That sounds so glib. If you are reading this in the midst of some horrible, painful trial, and you read the words, “trust in the Lord” or, “God’s timing is perfect,” I wouldn’t blame you for getting mad. Maybe it feels like you’re drowning and as your lungs are slowly crushed and your vision goes black, a lilting voice sings out, “Trust in oxygen!” That’s how it can sound when another Christian urges you to trust in the Lord.
Maybe, at times like that, it would feel more fitting to have a noose or a gun as the symbol of our faith. It would feel like a more suitable sign of how brutal the whole thing is, this whole Good Friday thing.
But it’s not a noose or gun. It’s a cross. This is why it’s a cross: Because it tells us that in our suffering, there is up and down, left and right. On a cross, we are immobilized and powerless, and all we can do is turn our heads one way or the other, and speak our minds for better or for worse.
It is a cross because at center of the cross, at the intersection of it all between heaven and earth, between sin and mercy, there is the heart of the man who did suffer, did call out in pain and fear, did die, and who then did live again, and did rise again, and did not and will not forget us, ever.
If you are helpless — and you are — there is no better prayer. Lord, I know who you are. Remember me.
