A Death On A Long Friday
Sermon
Sermons on the First Readings
Series III, Cycle B
Object:
After dying in a car crash, three friends went to heaven for orientation. They were given the privilege of spiritually attending their funerals. They were each asked, "What would you like your friends and family members to say about you?" The physician answered, "I hope they will say that I was one of the great physicians of my time and a loving family man." The second deceased person, a schoolteacher, replied, "I would like to hear that I was a wonderful wife and teacher." The third auto victim thought for a moment and then replied, "I would like to hear my friends say, 'Look, he's moving!' "
Humor helps us face the inevitable: our last resting place will be the coffin! We pray for a quick and painless death, perhaps a sinking into a deep, silent sleep. Such, however, was not the death of the servant of God described in the fourth servant song of the prophet Isaiah. "... he poured out himself to death ..." (53:12) but not before he was "wounded," "crushed," "bruised," and "led to the slaughter." Not a pretty picture.
Let's get to the point. The early church recognized Jesus in this prophetic image. In Acts 8 we read the story about Philip who was sent by an angel running down the road on the way to Gaza to catch up with an Ethiopian official who had just paid his respects at the temple in Jerusalem. Philip, perhaps huffing and puffing, managed to stop the official's chariot and caught the Ethiopian reading from the book of Isaiah.
Philip asked him, "Do you understand what you are reading?" "Of course not," replied the eunuch. "How would I be able to understand the words of some old Jewish prophet?" Philip replied, "Well, the one who was led to the slaughter like a sheep was my master, Jesus!" Philip's testimony leads to an instant baptism.
A pastor giving a children's sermon described a large, black animal growling, spitting saliva, and flashing its teeth, blocking the path in front of a hiker in the dark forest. "What was it?" asked the pastor rhetorically. One little girl frantically waved her hand, "It's Jesus! It's always Jesus!"
From the post-resurrection point of view, the suffering servant in Isaiah's song is Jesus. For Isaiah and his readers it was the nation of Israel, perhaps, or maybe an individual who gave his life as a guilt offering. (This is the only Old Testament passage that suggests that a person can give his life as a guilt offering.) But Christians would have to jump through hoops to convince themselves that this fellow described by Isaiah says nothing about Jesus.
This is Good Friday. We have to talk about death. Death is not regarded by most of us as "good." Good Friday is good because it was a Friday that led to salvation for many. The Swedes call it "Long Friday" because he who suffered and those who loved him and watched perhaps thought the agony and torture would never end. Mel Gibson's film, The Passion of the Christ, certainly dragged out the horrendous ordeal.
What made that Friday so long? There was a death that Friday. It was the death of an innocent. In his hymn, Johann Heerman, the seventeenth-century German pastor, asks, "Ah, holy Jesus, how hast thou offended?"1 Heerman could tell the difference between guilt and innocence. He saw his town burned to the ground by plundering soldiers, buried his young bride, buried most of his pestilence-stricken townspeople in 1631, and died in 1647 after enduring throat disease.
Like his pietistic contemporaries, he certainly did not regard himself as an innocent, but praised and proclaimed the innocence of Jesus, his personal Savior. When Heerman found it impossible to forgive the bloodthirsty soldiers of Tilly, Jesus could and did. When Heerman wrestled with the visitation of the plague upon his people, Jesus saw a reason for the suffering of good people, a reason that Heerman would have to wait to see "then, face to face." While Heerman wept at the grave of his young wife, Jesus received her into the joy of the kingdom. Jesus was no fallen angel; he was God's beloved Son. He was absolutely obedient to his Father in heaven. His was the death of an innocent.
Methodist Bishop Gerald Kennedy reflected in one of his books on a picture taken during World War II.2 It was a picture taken when some Jewish people were driven from the Warsaw ghetto by Nazi soldiers. Down in the front of a group of captured Jews was a little boy with his hands up and a look of uncertainty and fear on his face. A Nazi soldier was standing behind him with a gun pointed at the head of the boy. The youngster had an expression on his face which seemed to say, "What is going on here? What are you doing to me? What have I done?" For Kennedy, the photo portrayed also that moment when Jesus was betrayed in the garden. The boy was betrayed by his fellow human brothers. Jesus was betrayed by those for whom he died. Innocents are murdered even by those they love.
A pastor received a phone call at the office. A young single lady in her early twenties was senselessly killed by two intruders in her home. The murderers broke into the home to seek revenge upon the girl's mother who had fired them at their place of employment the day before. The mother was not home so they killed Janet, the daughter, instead. The pastor wept with the mother, prayed with her, decided upon the details of the funeral service, and delivered a sermon marked by anger over the wanton senseless murder of a gifted and energetic young lady facing a promising future. It was the death of an innocent. There was a death that Friday. It was the death of a happy person.
Soon after Janet's funeral, the pastor called upon an elderly woman named Martha. Martha had been somewhat frail and weak her entire life, even in her childhood. But she lived a long life, well into her eighties. She and her husband loved the Lord and dedicated their lives and their energies to the work of the church. On the day that the pastor visited her, she shared with him her awareness that she was about to go home to Jesus. She asked the pastor to preach on her confirmation text, Isaiah 43:1 at the funeral service, "But now thus says the Lord, he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine."
The pastor reflected upon the two funerals. If there have to be the deaths of innocents, then why couldn't all those deaths be like Martha's? Martha was ready for death. She was happy. Unexpectedly, she had beaten all the odds. She fooled the prophets of doom and gloom. She had a happy marriage. She had loving children. She sat on her couch in her modest apartment and bounced her grandchildren on her lap. She served the church. The congregation was grateful. She would have served gladly without the accolades. Martha's death was the death of a happy person. So often do we experience the blessed "passing" of elderly people who lived for others.
Instinctively, we know that Isaiah's servant of the Lord gave his life for others joyfully. Did he not know that "he was wounded for our transgressions, crushed for our iniquities; upon him was the punishment that made us whole, and by his bruises we are healed"? (Isaiah 53:5).
Have we solved the enigma of Martha's death, the one to whom a long life was given so that she could experience the joy of serving others? Perhaps -- there was a death that Friday. It was a death unto life. Perhaps here we can begin to solve the enigma of Janet's death.
The servant of the Lord, Isaiah's servant, was vindicated. "See, my servant shall prosper; he shall be exalted and lifted up, and shall be very high" (Isaiah 52:13). Janet's life was cut short; years of adventures were taken from her. But in spite of the pastor's anger at her funeral, he commended her to the God of mercy and grace, the God of life.
Look at the servant on the cross at Golgotha. In an earlier sermon in this series, we examined an altar dated from the end of the fifteenth century in the rear of St. Peter Church in Buxtehude, Germany. It was commissioned and donated to the parish of Buxtehude by the nephew of Meister Halephagen who wanted to honor the memory of his uncle. Meister Halephagen was a learned and loving priest and teacher who gave from his personal estate to help the poor of the city. His trust still supplies the needs of the underprivileged in that community.
In the painting, one sees Jesus bearing the cross to Golgotha. He is surrounded by a crowd of people, soldiers, faithful disciples, and tormentors. He peers straight out from the canvas into the eyes of the onlooker. "Look upon these proceedings; gaze upon your Lord who loves you, O sinner!" The eyes of the beholder of the painting are directed to the left of the picture, following the path to the top of the hill. The peak of the mount is shrouded in darkness and shadows. It is a dark death to which the Lord advances. But, look, the top of the hill is starkly outlined against brightness beyond! There is a suggestion of bright mountain peaks and trees behind Golgotha; the path seems to wind its way above and beyond the tip of the hill! The servant is vindicated! There is light and life beyond the grave. The story does not end on the cross.
Once a well-dressed man casually strolled down a busy city street. He stopped to take a closer look through a window displaying the scene of Good Friday, dominated by three stark crosses set against a grayish-black sky. The figure on the center cross, tragic and lifeless, brought an emotional tear to the viewer's eyes. A small seven-year-old boy, standing there as well, spoke to the gentleman, "Do you know what that is all about, mister?" "No," replied the gentleman. The boy, in his own words, told the story from the gospels. The man nodded agreement and started to continue down the street. The youngster ran after him. The man stopped and waited. The boy breathlessly blurted out, "Hey, mister, wait! He rose on Sunday. He's alive!"3
The death of innocents presents a gnawing dilemma. The children of Iraq, the everyday inhabitants of the Middle East, the women of Darfur, those who struggle in the midst of human need and tension in America's ghettos: These are the innocent. The beginning of peace and resolution for us can only be achieved when the more fortunate of us act to reach out to the victims of our planet. Good Friday was a long Friday. Our Fridays are long, as well. Will the injustice and violence and exploitation ever stop? Good Friday turned out to be good because it ended and dawn appeared on the horizon of the lives of the faithful. Death on a long Friday will find its defeat in the victory of the Sunday to come, the Sunday already achieved by the servant, the Sunday that waits to greet us as well. Amen.
____________
1. "Ah, Holy Jesus," words by Johann Heermann, Lutheran Book Of Worship (Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1979), #123.
2. Gerald Kennedy, The Preacher and the New English Bible (New York: Oxford University Press, 1972), p. 134 ff.
3. Earl C. Willer, A Treasury of Inspirational Illustrations (Grand Rapids, Michigan: Baker Book House Company, 1975), p. 44.
Humor helps us face the inevitable: our last resting place will be the coffin! We pray for a quick and painless death, perhaps a sinking into a deep, silent sleep. Such, however, was not the death of the servant of God described in the fourth servant song of the prophet Isaiah. "... he poured out himself to death ..." (53:12) but not before he was "wounded," "crushed," "bruised," and "led to the slaughter." Not a pretty picture.
Let's get to the point. The early church recognized Jesus in this prophetic image. In Acts 8 we read the story about Philip who was sent by an angel running down the road on the way to Gaza to catch up with an Ethiopian official who had just paid his respects at the temple in Jerusalem. Philip, perhaps huffing and puffing, managed to stop the official's chariot and caught the Ethiopian reading from the book of Isaiah.
Philip asked him, "Do you understand what you are reading?" "Of course not," replied the eunuch. "How would I be able to understand the words of some old Jewish prophet?" Philip replied, "Well, the one who was led to the slaughter like a sheep was my master, Jesus!" Philip's testimony leads to an instant baptism.
A pastor giving a children's sermon described a large, black animal growling, spitting saliva, and flashing its teeth, blocking the path in front of a hiker in the dark forest. "What was it?" asked the pastor rhetorically. One little girl frantically waved her hand, "It's Jesus! It's always Jesus!"
From the post-resurrection point of view, the suffering servant in Isaiah's song is Jesus. For Isaiah and his readers it was the nation of Israel, perhaps, or maybe an individual who gave his life as a guilt offering. (This is the only Old Testament passage that suggests that a person can give his life as a guilt offering.) But Christians would have to jump through hoops to convince themselves that this fellow described by Isaiah says nothing about Jesus.
This is Good Friday. We have to talk about death. Death is not regarded by most of us as "good." Good Friday is good because it was a Friday that led to salvation for many. The Swedes call it "Long Friday" because he who suffered and those who loved him and watched perhaps thought the agony and torture would never end. Mel Gibson's film, The Passion of the Christ, certainly dragged out the horrendous ordeal.
What made that Friday so long? There was a death that Friday. It was the death of an innocent. In his hymn, Johann Heerman, the seventeenth-century German pastor, asks, "Ah, holy Jesus, how hast thou offended?"1 Heerman could tell the difference between guilt and innocence. He saw his town burned to the ground by plundering soldiers, buried his young bride, buried most of his pestilence-stricken townspeople in 1631, and died in 1647 after enduring throat disease.
Like his pietistic contemporaries, he certainly did not regard himself as an innocent, but praised and proclaimed the innocence of Jesus, his personal Savior. When Heerman found it impossible to forgive the bloodthirsty soldiers of Tilly, Jesus could and did. When Heerman wrestled with the visitation of the plague upon his people, Jesus saw a reason for the suffering of good people, a reason that Heerman would have to wait to see "then, face to face." While Heerman wept at the grave of his young wife, Jesus received her into the joy of the kingdom. Jesus was no fallen angel; he was God's beloved Son. He was absolutely obedient to his Father in heaven. His was the death of an innocent.
Methodist Bishop Gerald Kennedy reflected in one of his books on a picture taken during World War II.2 It was a picture taken when some Jewish people were driven from the Warsaw ghetto by Nazi soldiers. Down in the front of a group of captured Jews was a little boy with his hands up and a look of uncertainty and fear on his face. A Nazi soldier was standing behind him with a gun pointed at the head of the boy. The youngster had an expression on his face which seemed to say, "What is going on here? What are you doing to me? What have I done?" For Kennedy, the photo portrayed also that moment when Jesus was betrayed in the garden. The boy was betrayed by his fellow human brothers. Jesus was betrayed by those for whom he died. Innocents are murdered even by those they love.
A pastor received a phone call at the office. A young single lady in her early twenties was senselessly killed by two intruders in her home. The murderers broke into the home to seek revenge upon the girl's mother who had fired them at their place of employment the day before. The mother was not home so they killed Janet, the daughter, instead. The pastor wept with the mother, prayed with her, decided upon the details of the funeral service, and delivered a sermon marked by anger over the wanton senseless murder of a gifted and energetic young lady facing a promising future. It was the death of an innocent. There was a death that Friday. It was the death of a happy person.
Soon after Janet's funeral, the pastor called upon an elderly woman named Martha. Martha had been somewhat frail and weak her entire life, even in her childhood. But she lived a long life, well into her eighties. She and her husband loved the Lord and dedicated their lives and their energies to the work of the church. On the day that the pastor visited her, she shared with him her awareness that she was about to go home to Jesus. She asked the pastor to preach on her confirmation text, Isaiah 43:1 at the funeral service, "But now thus says the Lord, he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine."
The pastor reflected upon the two funerals. If there have to be the deaths of innocents, then why couldn't all those deaths be like Martha's? Martha was ready for death. She was happy. Unexpectedly, she had beaten all the odds. She fooled the prophets of doom and gloom. She had a happy marriage. She had loving children. She sat on her couch in her modest apartment and bounced her grandchildren on her lap. She served the church. The congregation was grateful. She would have served gladly without the accolades. Martha's death was the death of a happy person. So often do we experience the blessed "passing" of elderly people who lived for others.
Instinctively, we know that Isaiah's servant of the Lord gave his life for others joyfully. Did he not know that "he was wounded for our transgressions, crushed for our iniquities; upon him was the punishment that made us whole, and by his bruises we are healed"? (Isaiah 53:5).
Have we solved the enigma of Martha's death, the one to whom a long life was given so that she could experience the joy of serving others? Perhaps -- there was a death that Friday. It was a death unto life. Perhaps here we can begin to solve the enigma of Janet's death.
The servant of the Lord, Isaiah's servant, was vindicated. "See, my servant shall prosper; he shall be exalted and lifted up, and shall be very high" (Isaiah 52:13). Janet's life was cut short; years of adventures were taken from her. But in spite of the pastor's anger at her funeral, he commended her to the God of mercy and grace, the God of life.
Look at the servant on the cross at Golgotha. In an earlier sermon in this series, we examined an altar dated from the end of the fifteenth century in the rear of St. Peter Church in Buxtehude, Germany. It was commissioned and donated to the parish of Buxtehude by the nephew of Meister Halephagen who wanted to honor the memory of his uncle. Meister Halephagen was a learned and loving priest and teacher who gave from his personal estate to help the poor of the city. His trust still supplies the needs of the underprivileged in that community.
In the painting, one sees Jesus bearing the cross to Golgotha. He is surrounded by a crowd of people, soldiers, faithful disciples, and tormentors. He peers straight out from the canvas into the eyes of the onlooker. "Look upon these proceedings; gaze upon your Lord who loves you, O sinner!" The eyes of the beholder of the painting are directed to the left of the picture, following the path to the top of the hill. The peak of the mount is shrouded in darkness and shadows. It is a dark death to which the Lord advances. But, look, the top of the hill is starkly outlined against brightness beyond! There is a suggestion of bright mountain peaks and trees behind Golgotha; the path seems to wind its way above and beyond the tip of the hill! The servant is vindicated! There is light and life beyond the grave. The story does not end on the cross.
Once a well-dressed man casually strolled down a busy city street. He stopped to take a closer look through a window displaying the scene of Good Friday, dominated by three stark crosses set against a grayish-black sky. The figure on the center cross, tragic and lifeless, brought an emotional tear to the viewer's eyes. A small seven-year-old boy, standing there as well, spoke to the gentleman, "Do you know what that is all about, mister?" "No," replied the gentleman. The boy, in his own words, told the story from the gospels. The man nodded agreement and started to continue down the street. The youngster ran after him. The man stopped and waited. The boy breathlessly blurted out, "Hey, mister, wait! He rose on Sunday. He's alive!"3
The death of innocents presents a gnawing dilemma. The children of Iraq, the everyday inhabitants of the Middle East, the women of Darfur, those who struggle in the midst of human need and tension in America's ghettos: These are the innocent. The beginning of peace and resolution for us can only be achieved when the more fortunate of us act to reach out to the victims of our planet. Good Friday was a long Friday. Our Fridays are long, as well. Will the injustice and violence and exploitation ever stop? Good Friday turned out to be good because it ended and dawn appeared on the horizon of the lives of the faithful. Death on a long Friday will find its defeat in the victory of the Sunday to come, the Sunday already achieved by the servant, the Sunday that waits to greet us as well. Amen.
____________
1. "Ah, Holy Jesus," words by Johann Heermann, Lutheran Book Of Worship (Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1979), #123.
2. Gerald Kennedy, The Preacher and the New English Bible (New York: Oxford University Press, 1972), p. 134 ff.
3. Earl C. Willer, A Treasury of Inspirational Illustrations (Grand Rapids, Michigan: Baker Book House Company, 1975), p. 44.
