Jesus (Part Two)

The Aramaic word that Jesus cried out, “Eloi,” sounds like the Hebrew word for Elijah, which is “Elija.”¹ Someone near the cross, likely a Jew and not a Roman soldier, in hearing this word, thought that Jesus was calling for the great prophet to appear, perhaps in order to deliver him. Whether it was a sign of mockery or not, the offer of a sponge of wine vinegar was then made to Jesus, and although our text does not tell us one way or the other, we already know why he wouldn’t drink it. “Now leave him alone,” someone said, “Let’s see if Elijah comes to take him down.” No prophet came.

Though many of Rome’s crucified lingered for days before they succumbed to exhaustion and asphyxiation, in the account of our Marcan text, the death of Jesus came suddenly, abruptly: “With a loud cry, Jesus breathed his last.” Done! That’s it. It was over. What did Christ say when he cried? Mark doesn’t tell us. He doesn’t even offer us a clue. It’s left as an indistinguishable cry almost as if it were simply an emotional utterance, a groan, in the face of great suffering now ended. The Gospel of John, for its part, does give us a bit more information (in a way, similar to what we have previously noted in the Gospel of Luke) and it reveals that Jesus, in his final words, cried: “It is finished” (John 19:30). Jesus had taught earlier, as he was envisioning his impending death, that “I lay down my life—only to take it up again. No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord. I have authority to lay it down and authority to take it up again” (10:17b–18a). That moment had come.

The identification of Jesus with sinners was complete. The descending movement had now run its course. The Word made flesh, transitioning from the form of glory to the form of a humble servant, had died the death of a common criminal, judged and condemned by Gentiles and religious leaders, by Romans and Jews alike. What did it mean, then, that the one who was before Abraham (see John 8:58) had expired on a pole, despised and rejected? For one thing, it revealed that from the heights of glory to the abyss of the cross, there was not a man or woman whom Jesus could not place—here, precisely here. The Highest was in the lowest; the chasm had been crossed.

Was the exact moment of the death of Jesus a critical one, unique in its significance, one that changed the course of humanity forever? Yes! Jerusalem, the city of King David, with its sacred temple for the worship of the Holy One of Israel, could not be silent. That was impossible. Indeed, the temple, the religious heart of the city, spoke loudly; in fact, it shouted. It spoke, however, not in human words, but in the words of a momentous, erupting, and everlasting action: the temple curtain was torn in two from top to bottom! What a message! But who would have the ears to hear it?

If this curtain rent asunder, from top to bottom, was the one separating the Holy Place from the Holy of Holies, as some interpreters believe,² then this meant that the way to God was now open. The alienation and estrangement of sinners had finally been overcome, in rich forgiveness, by no one less than God. Provision had been made, through the suffering death of the Messiah, the Anointed One, by which all people, Jews and Gentiles, males and females, rich and poor, could later cry, “Abba, Father” (see Romans 8:15). And they would do this no longer as walled-off tribes, not even sitting at the same table with each other, but together, in unison, as the children of God. Ever since the fall of Adam and Eve, the communion of all humanity worshiping the Holy One in spirit and in truth was ever the goal, the point of it all. There never was a moment quite like this one when Jesus died. Something new had taken place.

The very last verse of our text is something of a puzzle. Once again, Mark does not give us much help but simply states: “And when the centurion, who stood there in front of Jesus, saw how he died, he said, ‘Surely this man was the Son of God!’” How did this Roman soldier, this Gentile, how did he of all people, have the experience, the knowledge, the very wherewithal to make such a statement—and a religious one, at that? As a centurion he was likely the leader of this execution troop. He, therefore, probably had witnessed this entire event. If so, he saw Jesus languish on the cross for six long hours. He heard the mocking of the religious leaders as they wagged their heads. He witnessed the care and the faithfulness of the women and a beloved disciple. He likely had experienced all of this, but none of it is Mark’s focus. Instead, he tells us that what moved the centurion was seeing how Jesus died—gazing upon the dying Christ, this Roman leader was transformed rapidly, in a flash, as if things had suddenly and unexpectedly come together. He saw what humble, sacrificial love looked like, displayed right before his eyes in the bleeding, suffering, nearly disfigured body of Jesus soon to be a corpse! Yes, soon to be a corpse! Such a love would go all the way even to death’s door and beyond. It was unafraid, serene, and incredibly strong. It split temple curtains in two, from top to bottom, from a distance!

These two things of humble, sacrificial love, on the one hand, and of death, on the other hand, had never been brought together, not like this, not quite in this way, placed side by side. The centurion’s training as a military man had not prepared him for what he saw, not for any of it. Such a love on the threshold of death, in the least likely of places, was not weak and shameful, or driven by fear, as one might suppose, but confident and radiantly beautiful. It was so sublime and awe-evoking, seen with the eyes of faith, that the soldier didn’t have the words for it, and so he spoke with the idiom of divinity, with the borrowed language of the Jews themselves, on his lips: “Surely this man was the Son of God!”

On that day, with the proclamation of this obscure Roman soldier that echoed an important part of the earlier testimony of Peter (see Matthew 16:16), humanity would never again think about God and the things of God in the same way. It was over; it was finished. Such a change would flow through the centuries to reach the world with a new fountain of grace, wisdom, and life. Gone were the attributes, drawn from sinful pride, that were maximized, made superlatives, and then ascribed to the living God. Gone were the abstractions drawn from the things that have been made, from social life and culture or even from family life or a distorted religious vision, all of which were then projected onto God and, thereby, given ultimate value.

In this earlier gross and malformed conception, “god” was but a reflection of an all-too-human creation and, not surprisingly, appeared to be incredibly self-centered, always concerned about conquering enemies—our enemies—and destroying things—their things. This god was powerful, almighty, and in exactly the way that we had wanted it—and needed it. It was always on our side, partisan and useful. It hated what we hated and loved what we loved. Our walls were holy; our divisions were sanctified; our separations were discrete. Our tribe was simply the best. We knew how to intone curses upon the ungodly; those who had fallen short, those so unlike us, and after a while the curses simply rolled off our lips, unthinkingly so, though sometimes they took the form of our fervent “prayers.” At other times we were simply indifferent. We kept our distance, to be sure, to protect ourselves and our own very good values—of course. We had all the good ones. We were saved, praise god! It had all worked out so well. Heaven awaited. The “other,” however, was and remained a stranger.

But then Jesus came along, and he ruined everything. It was a mess. He hung out with the wrong kind of people, you know the unpopular ones, the ones who cause our heads to turn away quickly, the ones immediately forgotten, and then there were the trouble-makers, the prostitutes, the rabble-rousers, the sinners and the thieves, even the irreligious people who don’t think like we do. Imagine that. He sat down at the same table with the riffraff of life, those annoying folks our parents had taught us to dutifully avoid. And they were his friends! His friends! And to top it all, he had a conversation with a couple of rebels as his body was splayed on a tree. He even made a promise to one of them, gave him his word.

In seeing Jesus die, the passion of it all, the Roman centurion saw so much more. Oh, did he see! We must come back to that. What was it? He even called Jesus “the Son of God.” What could that language possibly mean here—and spoken by a Gentile, no less? What did this soldier see at Golgotha that the Jewish religious leaders so obviously had not? And what did any of this have to do with who God is? Why was that question preeminent here, precisely at this time and in this very dark place? Or was it dark? Yes, things would never be the same again.

THE PRAYER