John 19:19-22

“The Inscription”

So often, when we imagine Jesus’ final moments, we picture Him alone, abandoned by His disciples for fear of persecution. But Jesus wasn’t alone. If we take seriously the accounts of the gospels, then we know that His mother was there, from birth to death, beholding but not yet fully comprehending the mystery of His miraculous incarnation. A few disciples remained– men and women, close friends and outer circle types. Then there were the soldiers. One of them had driven the nails through Jesus’ hands and feet.

And then, there were the other victims. Because Jesus wasn’t crucified alone. On either side of Him, there were criminals, held up for the world to see, with nails in their hands and the same weight of gravity pulling at their wounded bodies. Jesus Christ was not crucified alone.

As I was preparing for Good Friday, I found myself fixated on the inscription that Pilate wrote: “Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews”. It was placed on the cross. An announcement? A warning? A confession?

The chief priests expected a word of warning. “This man said”. As in, see what happens when you make such a claim? See what happens when you say you are a king? You’ll end up like Jesus of Nazareth, hung up on a cross. Don’t claim to be a king. There is no king but Caesar.

I wonder if the other criminals got inscriptions, too. I wonder what their names were. I wonder their crimes. I remember Jesus’ dying words to one of them, saying He would be with Jesus in Paradise.

I think about my own name, my own crimes. The life I’ve lived.

And I gaze upon Jesus once more, that man upon the cross. Arrested by the police, tortured by the military, sentenced to death by the government, Jesus. Hanged and lynched and guillotined and shot with his hands up, Jesus. Another casualty in a never-ending war, Jesus. The cross is reminder for us that brutality and injustice are nothing new. In fact, they are the status quo. In the grand scheme of world history, a crucifixion on a hillside in Jerusalem is painfully ordinary.

Except for the inscription.

Truthfully, you and I aren’t gathered here today to remember either of the criminals that were hanged beside Jesus, though it is a holy thing that we remember them.

We are here because Pilate asked “What is truth?” And then wrote it. We are here because the Roman soldier saw Jesus upon the cross and said “Surely this man was the Son of God”. We are here because Martha believed that Jesus was the Messiah, the Son of God come into the world, into brokenness, violence, and even death.

Maybe we are here because, like the women at the foot of the cross, we don’t know where else to go, and we’re wondering what God will do next. Or maybe we’re travelers passing by, stopping to read the inscription of this man we’ve never met before, trying to decide for ourselves if He really deserved to die.

The question echoes across the centuries: “Who do YOU say that I am?” And our answer is perhaps no more important than on this day.

What will we write on the inscription? Who do we say that Jesus is?

Today, to a broken and hurting world, we preach Christ crucified. The very presence of God come down to dwell with us and suffer our human pain. To be swallowed up by death and bear the weight of the world’s evil and hatred and sin.

We confess the holy mystery that Christ died for us. That the love of God could not be contained by heaven or earth and reaches out to us still today.

Jesus, Lamb of God, have mercy on us.
Jesus, bearer of our sins, have mercy on us.
Jesus, redeemer of the world, grant us peace. Amen.