Lent day 32: who am in the passion story?

 I had to come up with a sermon for Good Friday service.  All last weekend I wrestled with the passion story... which is part of why I'm behind on blogging.

One activity that I did that felt worth sharing on this blog was imagining myself as each character in the story.  Not just the "good" guys,  those at least somewhat aligned with Jesus - his friends and disciples.  But also judas, the crowd, pilot, herod, the high priest.  It is easy to dismiss these people as someone I'd never be... but how would I know. I needed to walk in their shoes for a while to see how the shoes fit.  

I can start with the crowd shouting "crucify him!"  I feel like I wouldn't have so quickly changed my stance on Jesus.  Celebrating him as he rode in on a donkey only to throw him under the bus a week later.  I'd be more thoughtful on something as important as the messiah. Or would I? How easily am I swayed by popular opinion? Do I weigh in on stuff that I know very little about? Do I get emotionally riled up?

 What about the high priest. They never really got to know Jesus.  I mean,  they came and questioned him a lot but they never got past the agenda. They were too busy with the status quo.  They had responsibilities. If I were in a position of power, would I silence inconvenient rabble rausers? Would I listen, truly listen without putting what I'm going to say next? Would I silent a voice for what I thought was the benefit of the whole?  

At the surface,  I don't find any way to relate to Judas.  I'm not really a sell my friends for a few pieces of silver kind of girl. But again,  it's good Friday.  I have to be honest,  do I ever put material comfort ahead of my call to pick up a cross and follow Jesus. Do l trust the power of the world over the power of God?

It's easier to see myself as one of the disciples. Dining with Jesus.  Hanging on his words.  He washed my feet.  We went to the garden.   But then,  out of no where things got dangerous.  Swords were drawn and I booked it to safety.  I was afraid.  I ran away. Totally see myself doing that. 

Or, maybe I was close enough to Jesus to stay with him. Maybe I was Peter. Carrying my own sword, ready to protect Jesus.  But then,  he didn't want a fight.  I got confused.  I followed by I grew fearful as I watched it unfold.  No one would blame me for that, or would they... tell the story across the ages how I denied Jesus. Too afraid to follow him to the cross. 

Maybe the hardest of all was Mary,  standing at the foot of my son's cross. Holding vigil. Watching that miracle baby groaning as the life drained away. Unable to turn away.  Holding up Memories of a life as his mother.  The angel. His birth in Bethlehem.  Running away in the night to save his newborn life from herod, only to see it nailed to this dreadful cross. Wondering why it has to be this way.  

No matter who I choose to be my failure, my fear, my inability to follow Jesus became clear in the reflection of the cross. I am a broken human, like every single person who witnessed the passion... I ran away,  I denied Jesus,  I silenced him and nailed him to the cross.  It was a hard meditation but thankfully, the story doesn't end on Good Friday.