This is an image from the Philippines where on Good Friday they issue health warnings for people who will be reenacting the crucifixion by having themselves nailed to a cross. This is no joke. Really, no joke at all. Note: On Google Images, if you search the crucifixion there are 277,000 images but if you search Super Bowl, you get 3,050,000 images.
This is it? I've read thousands of pages leading up to this moment in history only to find little more than 3 pages on his death and burial and tomorrow 6 pages on his resurrection and appearances as the risen Christ? I ache for more detail. I read the Old Testament anticipating the New and this moment. And it's over. Now there will be hundreds of pages helping us to understand the implications of His life, death and resurrection. But the moment itself passes so quickly. James Joyce's Uylsses follows one day in the life of Buck Mulligan and it's over 700 pages, depending on the edition. This day in the life of the savior of the world deserves more than a few pages. They were there. They saw it. Why couldn't they give us more? Why so little? But then, as few pages as it is, how many of us have read the full account of his death? There is no Linus on a stage reading about the death, burial and resurrection of Christ for us like there is His birth. So it goes.
I am amazed how much this is the story of the other people than it is about Christ. Christ is at the focal point but the story is filled with people and it is there presence at the cross that, for me, keeps the fantastic, human. How else could we really fathom the death and resurrection of the Son of the Creator without people to anchor us and give us a point of reference. And there are so many people and so many points of reference. There is Pilate and the chief priests arguing over the inscription fastened to the cross. Soldiers crucifying Him and gambling for His garments, piercing His side, announcing that truly this was God's son, guarding the tomb and being paid to lie about His resurrection. The crowd mocking, always there mocking. The two thieves talking with Him -- one rejecting and one accepting. The women who were always there -- His mother, His mother's sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene -- at the foot of the cross. John, calling himself only "the disciple whom He [Jesus] loved," I'm not sure out of humility or our of pride, but he is given care of Jesus' mother. Joseph of Arimathea daring to ask for the body and then he and Nicodemus prepare and burying Christ. Why so much about the others and so little in comparison about Christ? Was it too terrible at the time? Did the writers and God avert their eyes? Did they look at the people around the cross rather than stare at the awful scene before them?
But what is here is like poetry, powerful in what goes unsaid, powerful in that a few words serve as many. Seven lines of poetry.
Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.
I tell you the truth, today you will be with me in paradise.
Dear woman, here is your son. Here is your mother.
My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
I am thirsty.
It is finished.
Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.
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