Category Archives: Reflections
Sometimes, the Bible seems boring. It’s because we’re familiar with it. The words have lost their edge.
So when biblical counselor David Powlison wrote Antipsalm 23 a few months ago, I actually found it to be refreshing. It was refreshing because this “antipsalm” echoed and exposed the way I think sometimes. It was refreshing because it brought into stark relief the comfort and the beauty of Psalm 23.
So here’s my own take. Instead of a mega-depressing Antipsalm 23, in which God is absent from my life, I’ve written a moderately-depressing Semipsalm 23, in which God is a distant manager of my life instead of a loving shepherd. Sad to say, this is the way I tend to think of him. It’s hard to love and feel loved by a God like this.
The LORD is my manager;
I’m equipped with what I need to be successful.
He makes sure I have enough to eat and drink,
And that I’m not too stressed out.
He gives me what I need to get by;
He communicates good advice
so I can keep him satisfied with my progress.
But when the darkness closes in and I feel half-dead,
I’m frightened by all the pain that grips me,
Because you seem so far away from me,
And your distant management of my life leaves me alone and afraid.
You do let me help myself to the leftovers from your table,
Which I suppose is better than what my enemies get.
You acknowledge my presence at dinner,
And you let me pour a little wine into my cup.
I guess I have an adequate and decent life most of the time,
And I can always stay at the LORD’s house for a few days if I ever feel the need.
It is high noon, and an execution is taking place. The Middle Eastern sun has beaten down on three criminals being crucified by the Roman empire. But now, a mysterious gloom covers the land, and for three hours, Jesus suffers alone in the darkness.
“Eloi! Eloi! lema sabachthani?” Jesus’ words have burned themselves into Mark’s heart, and he records them in the original Aramaic. For our benefit, he translates them: “My God! my God! why have you forsaken me?” It is three o’clock in the afternoon, and Jesus has been nailed to a cross for six hours. Normally, the victims of crucifixion last much longer than this. But Jesus is about to die, and he knows that God has chosen not to save him.
His body is dying from the physical abuse it has suffered, but his spirit is being killed far more quickly because he knows his Father is crushing him (Isaiah 53:10). His ravaged mind grasps for the words to describe his agony, and finds them in the Psalms. His ancestor David had cried to the Lord:
My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
Why are you so far from saving me,
from the words of my groaning?
O my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer,
and by night, but I find no rest. (Psalm 22:1–2)
As the day has worn on, and an unearthly night has settled on the land, Jesus cries out to his Father but finds no rest. His own people have betrayed him into the hands of their Gentile overlords, who have crucified him. His closest friends have abandoned him, denied him, betrayed him. Priests and criminals have reviled him. And now Jesus knows that God himself has forsaken his Servant. He is alone.
His cry is so mangled that a bystander mistakes the tortured Eloi for Elijah. He remembers a Jewish tradition that the prophet Elijah is available to rescue righteous people in need. Seeing that Jesus is dying rapidly, the bystander offers him a sponge soaked in sour wine to keep him alive a little longer. “Wait, let us see whether Elijah will come to take him down,” this person says. Perhaps God will show his love and favour by sending Elijah to rescue this suffering man.
Elijah never comes.
And finally, Mark records, “Jesus uttered a loud cry and breathed his last.” His strength doesn’t ebb away; he doesn’t slowly lapse into unconsciousness. Unlike any other crucified man, Jesus dies with a loud scream of agony. He is not defeated by Rome; he dies with strength remaining in his broken body.
On the Temple Mount, one of the great curtains of the temple is torn in two, from top to bottom, by a supernatural hand. This curtain has barred God’s people from accessing his throne room, the holy inner rooms of the temple. Now, the way is opened through the death of Jesus.
At Golgotha, a Roman centurion stands facing the dead body of Jesus. He has stood guard over many crucifixions, but he has never seen anything like this one. He sees that Jesus has died like no other man, and in fear he says, “Truly this man was the Son of God.”
Jesus is dead. His enemies have gotten rid of him at last. He has been despised and rejected by everyone around him, and forsaken by God himself. But now, for the first time, a human being has declared that Jesus is the Son of God.
This Roman centurion, an outsider, understands what Jesus’ followers never could. “Whoever would be great among you must be your servant,” Jesus had said, “and whoever would be first among you must be slave of all.” And then he said, “For even the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many” (Mark 10:43–45).
Jesus has been forsaken by God, but this doesn’t mean that he is a worthless failure. On the contrary, his willingness to do his Father’s will and “give his life as a ransom for many” proves that he truly is the greatest man in all of history—and not just a man, but the divine Son of God.
Jesus has been betrayed by the leaders of his own people; now their Roman overlords have sentenced him to death. He has been identified as “King of the Jews” by the Romans. This would be their way of calling him the Messiah, God’s anointed king. The Gentile soldiers bring him into the palace and gather the whole battalion around him. Before this assembly, they dress him in a royal robe of expensive purple dye, place a crown on his head, salute him as they would their Caesar, and kneel down in homage to him.
The catch is that his crown is a wreath of twisted thorns whose spikes are pressed into his skull. Their salutation, “Hail, King of the Jews!” is a sarcastic barb. When they kneel, it’s meant as nothing more than a charade. They strike him on the head with a reed and spit on him. Even the lowliest conscript in the Roman army can slap him around without consequence. They can defy the man who claims to be God, just as the serpent in Eden promised, “You will not surely die” (Genesis 3:4).
They strip Jesus of the royal garments and lead him away to an ominous hill—Golgotha, or Skull Place. He is so weakened by the scourgings that another man is forced to carry his cross for him. But when Jesus arrives at Golgotha, he refuses to drink any wine. Whatever he is about to face, he will do so without an anesthetic.
Mark records simply, “They crucified him.” They hoist him on a wooden cross and nail his hands and feet to it. Mark doesn’t need to write any more, because crucifixion is a horrible and shameful death, practically taboo in polite company. The empire of Rome means it to be a public spectacle. It demonstrates that this man, once a rebel against the empire, has now been crushed under the boot of Caesar. When Jesus is crucified, Rome is saying that he is nothing more than a man, a subject of the empire. He has no property to call his own, not even his clothes—the soldiers gamble over who will get to keep them. His crime is posted for all to see: “The King of the Jews.”
Make no mistake: Jesus is not being crucified for being a good moral teacher. No one gets crucified for telling people to love each other. Jesus’ message runs much deeper than that. Mark summarizes it with these words: “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God is at hand; repent and believe in the gospel” (Mark 1:15). When asked by the Jewish leaders whether he was the Messiah, the Son of God, Jesus has replied, “I am, and you will see the Son of Man seated at the right hand of Power, and coming with the clouds of heaven” (Mark 14:62). Jesus is crucified for claiming to be God’s anointed King over all the earth, and a divine King at that—the Son of God himself.
His disciples, James and John, once asked their King, “Grant us to sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your glory” (Mark 10:37). But now they are nowhere to be found. Instead, Rome crucifies two criminals with Jesus, “one on his right and one on his left.” These are the royal members of his court. His audience passes by and ridicules him by shouting, “Ha! You who would destroy the temple and rebuild it in three days, save yourself, and come down from the cross!” The religious leaders join them: “He saved others; he cannot save himself!” This man is no Saviour. He is no King.
Look at this horrible spectacle of a bleeding, dying criminal! To think that anyone had faith in this man! “Let the Christ, the King of Israel, come down from the cross that we may see and believe,” they taunt him. And then, even the criminals who are crucified with him begin to revile him. Jesus is humiliated and condemned by everyone—Jew and Gentile, ruler and criminal, priest and sinner.
Why does his coronation look like this? Why the shame without even a trace of honour? It is because Jesus must be validated as King through shame, suffering, and death. Here in God’s world, “whoever would be great among you must be your servant, and whoever would be first among you must be slave of all” (Mark 10:43–44). By becoming the lowest man in the world, Jesus has established that he is the greatest. And by refusing to save himself, he is able “to give his life as a ransom for many” (Mark 10:45).
Perhaps today Jesus is well-liked and popular and a good teacher. But he remained on the cross, bleeding and dying, to save a people for his own kingdom. That is why he is Lord.