Stations: Terror

It may be a plane crashing into a tower block or a car driving through pedestrians. It may be a fanatic with a gun or a suicide vest, it may be waterboarding in a rendition centre, it may be a burning cross erected on someone’s lawn. Whatever form it takes, we’re never free of violence in the name of politics and religion and ideology.

Jesus is in the hands of the authorities, and he needs to be shown his place – or rather, everyone else needs to be shown their place. That’s what this is all about – crucifixion is the Empire’s ultimate deterrant, a public spectacle to quash rebellion. The vicious, inhumane torture received by Jesus was all part of the branding, all part of the theatre. This is tantamount to a lynching, a state-sanctioned act of terror.

There’s an issue of identity here. The violence is to demonstrate Jesus’s weakness, his impotence in the face of power. It’s intended to subvert the values of the people watching, to take control of the narrative. Jesus isn’t tortured to get a confession or to extract information, he’s tortured to stop his ideas taking hold and to demonstrate the superiority of one worldview over another.

The violence isn’t just physical – Jesus is mocked mercilessly, in an attempt to break him before death. That’s why he’s given a purple robe, a symbol of royalty. That’s why a crown of thorns is forced onto his brow, piercing in both pain and mockery. They think they’re undermining his whole message.

And yet that message endures, because the mockery points to the truth, and in doing so reveals a king who stands alongside the abused, the broken, the wounded and the terrorised. He stands not with the executioners but with the crucified, and through the mystery of the Trinity, God lies beaten, mocked, bruised and scarred and yet not beaten, healing in the heart of the agony.

As I write this, a terrorist attack has taken place in London and people have died. And there’ll be many voices shouting how to respond and about how to exercise power. And while these questions need to be asked, pause a moment: pause and remember those killed, and in the midst of those thoughts and those prayers, see Jesus alongside the bleeding, the wounded and the dying. See him there and remember how the Kingdom is shaped by its wounded King, our God-with-Scars, not by terror, not by fear, not by hatred, not by rage.

And now Jesus picks up his cross and in agony sets out upon his final walk.

Stations: Conspiracy

Alt-Truth, Alt-Facts, fake news and tinfoil hats. Suddenly authority is a purely subjective concept and now it feels like up is down and left is right. The abuse of power wears us down, cynical maneuvering leaves us demoralised, and the engines of the world grind on.

The mob seizes Jesus, and he first becomes a victim of religion. An ecclesiastical kangaroo court the breaks its own rules and looks for false witnesses in order to condemn him for blasphemy, but the outcome’s never really in doubt – they’ve been looking for an excuse to get rid of him for months. He challenges their theology, he challenges their power, and so he’s lined up with all those before and since who asked the wrong questions, who sinned the wrong sins, who spoke out against abuse and paid the price. Ossified faith will work to crush the Son of Man himself.

Later Jesus finds himself before the 1%, the establishment, becoming a mild curiousity to the king who killed his cousin. Herod’s comfortable with the whole situation, seeing Jesus as less of a threat and more of a jester. He wants Jesus to show him a miracle, because he’s king of these parts and kings demand to be entertained. When Jesus won’t perform he’s mocked, an expensive purple robe thrown across his shoulders. He’s mocked with wealth, his identity belittled, and when the king gets bored he sends him away. The squabbles of the little people really aren’t his concern. But hey, it buys him a little more kudos with Rome.

Then on to Empire, the State, Pontius Pilate, a man who got where he is by moving in the right circles and now he’s there, he just wants a quiet life. He doesn’t particularly want to execute Jesus, he can’t find a legislative reason to end the man’s life. A couple of times it looks like he’d rather debate philosophy: “What is truth?” he asks, but he already knows the answer – it’s whatever he says it is. Pilate may see Jesus as innocent, but he’ll still treating him as an imperialist, a claimant to the Crown.  None of this is true, at least not in Pilate’s conception of the world, but he’s a politician, he needs to play the angles. And so he makes one last attempt to wash his hands of responsibility for this whole mess: he hands Jesus over to us.

Yes, us. He asks us to choose between Jesus and another leader, another worldview, another ideology. The mob makes its choice – some are paid off, some are silently scared, some are True Believers. But the end result is that Jesus is condemned. Because it’s not just the edifice of religion that becomes toxic, it’s not just those living in ivory towers who mock those they see as beneath them, it’s not just politicians that make decisions based on fear and expediency, it’s all of us. And the innocent pay the price.

And as we get closer to the Cross, things don’t get any better.

Stations: Gethsemane

Despair stings sharply in the middle of the night. The darkness, void and yet full of fear and uncertain futures, is a claustrophobic absence of light, never ending,  a mockery of eternity.

The journey towards Calvary begins, in some ways, in Gethsemane. Knowing what’s to come, Jesus retreats there to pray, even as the despair begins to bite. He knows that things will end in violence, in pain, he knows that one of his friends is now on his way to commit the ultimate treason, and so he walks through the garden, praying from the depths of his soul. He wipes his brow and the back of his hand feels wet with blood. This is sorrow; this is despair; this is stress and anxiety and fear and all the things we’re told that, as good Christians, we shouldn’t be faithless enough to feel. That dismissal, that abandonment, is just another blow; too many of us sleep, like the discities,  and miss the agony of those before us, the stories of worry and fear that surround us.

Still Jesus prays, desperate prayers, desperate for a Plan B. He knows what’s coming, knows that he’should about to meet the Cross and the nails, the scourge and the punches of men just following orders, the disappearance of those who’d been at his side for three years; now his prayers bounce off the ceiling, or at least a canopy of leaves. Later he will find strength to take the next step, and the next, and the next, the walk of a condemned man towards his execution. But let’s pause here, in Gethsemane; don’t sleep, don’t turn away, don’t theologise. Pause and reflect, reflect on the spiritual suffering of a young man weeping in a garden alone, reflect on how this is also the suffering of God in some ineffable way, reflect on how God now weeps with us and knows us in our darkest times.

The journey starts here, more in despair than hope. How like so many of our own journeys; how like so many of our gardens.