Who Am I?

February 13, 2020

The fifteenth chapter of Mark is filled with tragedy, but even more, with tragic people. It begins with the chief priests, the scribes, and the religious council, all determined to rid themselves of Jesus, once for all. Enter Pilate, the ethically bankrupt weasel of a governor, questioning Jesus with pompous air before caving to the crowd, weakly hoping to appease them. “Daddy’s Boy” Barabbas (that’s what his name means), a ruthless guerrilla bandit who shockingly gains freedom at Jesus’ expense. I wonder if he ever mused over the gift of life he was handed that day. The crowds clamored for Jesus’ blood, the Praetorium soldiers mocked and abused him, while Simon they conscripted to carry the cross. Acts 13:1 tells of Simeon “the Black” who was from Cyrene, probably the same man, who years later was one of the leaders of the Antioch church. Did carrying Jesus’ cross lead to his conversion?

Soldiers drove nails into his hands and feet, then gambled for his clothes while passers-by taunted. An anonymous person held up a sour wine-soaked sponge for Jesus to suck on to ease his agony while others objected to even that small act of mercy. A centurion watched and understood, and while his disciples were hiding, the women watched, horrified at what they saw. Mary Magdalene, Mary, and Salome are named; high honor in that long ago day. Lastly, Joseph of Arimathea worked up nerve enough to finally come out in the open to ask for the body of Jesus, so he could place it in his own tomb.

So many people, some brutally hostile, some cowardly, some just “doing their job,” some risking their own safety to do what little they could, and still others just watching. I suspect Mark is inviting us to place ourselves in the story. If so, who would I be? Preening Pilate, the ruthless Barabbas, one of the religious leaders, a soldier, Simon, one of the women, Joseph? Jesus hung on that cross for every one of them, for every one like them, including you and me. I’d like to think I could be one of the heroes, but fear too often I am the villain, one of many whose stories played out that day. Wherever I am at any given time, Jesus hung on that cross for people like me, for which I give thanks tonight.