Jesus Isn't Decaf (By Naomi Meyers)

When I was a child, we used to play a game we called, “king of the hill.” There weren’t a lot of rules. Or any, if it comes to it. One person, dubbed the king, would stand atop a mound of dirt, rise in the land, or actual hilltop. The rest of us would race up and attempt to remove them from their position by force. Pushing. Pulling. Dragging. Lots of laughter. You get the idea. It wasn’t a particularly serious or competitive event. In retrospect, I have no idea why we did it. It wasn’t really fun. It didn’t serve a specific purpose. It wasn’t incredibly athletic. There was no prize for winning, no special recognition, no granting of authority. It seems the only point of playing the game was to gain the title of “king” for a moment.

 Apparently, the chief priests and leaders of Jesus’ day were playing a similar game. Similar because they were all jockeying for a specific position. Different in every other way. Absolute authority and prestige were at the top of their hill. Being always right and allegedly indisputable came with that top of the hill territory. They didn’t rush the hill with pushes and shoves and shrieks of laughter. Their assault was much more serious, more stealthy. Their opening salvos words of dissent, disgust, diversion. Their game had unwritten rules only a select few knew. Their game was fixed. Their force was deadly. Their stakes unmatched. At the end of the game, someone would die and someone would become king. 

Never, in their wildest dreams, did they imagine it would be the same person. They hadn’t thought it possible. Death of the One claiming they were seeking to eradicate would certainly be the end of it. They would find another king. Someone who would forcefully put people in their place and rule with the iron fist of a powerful leader. Maybe it would even be one of them. A man could certainly dream. 

They laid their groundwork. Struck a deal with Judas. Collected an armed mob to go make the arrest. Brought Jesus to stand trial before their cohorts, the Sanhedrin, twisted His words, made up lies. Spit. Slapped. Punched. Lightened by the clear progress they were making in claiming the hill, they organized His death. Pulled Him before Pilate. But Pilate couldn’t find justification for a death sentence. They thought they were losing ground. So they went out and accosted the crowd, convincing them to demand the death of Jesus. And so it was, Pilate failed to stand for justice, the fickle people failed to remember mercy, the chief priests and elders got their way. Jesus was to be crucified. It looked like they had won. (Matthew 26-27)

I wonder if they went out to celebrate. I wonder if that is why they were surprised by the sign Pilate dictated for the top of Jesus’ cross. Perhaps they forgot about its necessity. Pilate made those signs all the time. Actual and alleged guilt scrawled on a plaque for all the world to see. Few really cared what he wrote. Too late, the purported winners in this vicious “king of the hill” game realized they did care. While they were off celebrating their victory (or plotting their next game), Pilate had declared a winner. In an astounding victory, the truth screamed out from the top of the cross, “Jesus the Nazarene. King of the Jews.” King on the hill. (John 19:19)

And Jesus owned that win. Not by strutting down the streets of Jerusalem, shaking hands and kissing babies. Not by buying a round at the local watering hole. Not with press conferences, edicts, or delusions of grandeur. Not in any way we or his opponents would celebrate such a victory. No. In celebration, Jesus willingly laid down on a cross, stretched out His arms, and let them do their worst. 

In truth, enough had already been done. The mocking and bullying had been intense. The beating had left ribbons of flesh hanging from his back, dripping blood and drawing flies. The humiliation of standing naked before a room of soldiers to be scorned and scoffed was nearly unbearable. The pain of thorns plunging into the tender flesh of His brow, the blood flowing into His eyes, stinging, burning pain upon pain upon pain. Yes, enough had already been done. It is difficult to imagine worse. 

Worse was coming. As the guiltless, sinless Son of God lay down on that cross and stretched out His arms, those burly soldiers gathered sledges and spikes. The ring of sledge to spike sounded out across the valley as they drove nails through the flesh of His hands and feet, tearing skin, bursting veins, inflicting unbearable pain. One would think it would be enough, they’d be done by now. They aren’t. The cross was then lifted and set upright, jostling the Savior, the nails tearing at ripped flesh as He hung suspended by hands and feet from a rough, splinter-shedding cross. There are no words to help us explain or comprehend the enormity of the Savior’s pain. 

The horror boggles my mind. My stomach turns, tries to rebel. I hate contemplating the atrocities of that hellacious day. My mind wants to shy away from it, skim the accounts quickly, not think too deeply. My heart knows I have to stay. I need to stay. I need to look. I must carefully read the accounts. I must purposefully remember. I need to let my imagination creatively conjure up the sights and sounds of mocking, beating, torture, hammering, and death. I need to smell the blood and sweat. I need to hear the weeping of His mother, His aunt, and Mary Magdalene. I need my heart to break at their loss. I need to hear the echo of His final cry, “It is finished.” Why? Because I need to remember what it looks like to win. (John 18-19; Luke 22-23; Mark 14-15; Matthew 26-27)

For Jesus, winning looked like hanging on a cross, bruised and beaten, so the people who abused, derided, and deleted Him could find forgiveness and peace for their souls through His blood shed on the cross. The thief beside Him. The priests. The scribes. The Pharisees. Jews and Gentiles. Disciples and doubters. Betrayers. Sinners. Pilate. Judas. Peter. Thomas. You. Me. 

We are all lined up at the foot of that cross. Every single one of us. We are all filthy, sinful beggars of grace. Losers. So deeply steeped in sin those mocking words, pounding fists, scourging strikes, and hammering nails might as well have come directly from our hands. And they do. Every time we choose sin over salvation, self over the Savior, we hammer another nail, throw another punch, spit in His face once again. In our sin-ridden state, we look at that cross and see losing. (I Corinthians 1:18; Matthew 7:13-14)

It wasn’t. The cross was the only way for humanity to win. God knew that. We are all dead, eternally so, in our trespasses and sins. On our own, we are hopelessly lost. We can’t save ourselves. We can’t change our own eternity by human machinations. But God, in breathtaking love, sent Jesus, His only Son, to change our ending. It is only through the blood of Jesus painfully, atrociously shed on the cross that we might find repentance, forgiveness, and remission of sins. You only have to ask. Losing in the eyes of the world was the only way to provide salvation for lost humanity. It was the only way for us to win. And Jesus did so, as He hung there, our King on the hill. (John 3:16; Luke 24:46-47; Colossians 2:14; Ephesians 2:8; Hebrews 9:22; I Peter 2:24-25; II Corinthians 5:21)

If you miss all the other celebrations of Holy Week, I hope you don’t miss Friday. We selfishly call it good. I doubt it felt good for Jesus’ followers at the scene. I know it was horrible for Mary to watch her son die. There is no question it was incomparable in pain and suffering for the Savior. So don’t gloss over it. Read every account. Slowly. Picture the scenes in your mind. Feel the pathos. Don’t gloss over Friday “because Sunday is coming.” You can’t afford to skip Friday. Without Friday, your soul would lose for all eternity. With it, you have the opportunity for an eternal win. It’s your choice. Your King hung on a hill to give you options. Life or death. Heaven or hell. Win or lose. (Acts 4:12; John 3:36, 8:24; I John 5:11-12)

We are all standing at the foot of the cross. You. Me. The soldiers that pounded the nails and pierced His side. The mockers, scorners, spitters. We have all sinned and fallen so far short of God’s glory that we are clearly losing Heaven. But this is our moment. This is our opportunity. This is our chance to choose. Now is the time, the day, the moment of salvation. You have only to ask. It will change your life. What we do at the cross today will make all the difference in every tomorrow. It will determine our eternity. It’s up to you. Win or lose. You choose. (Romans 3:23, 6:23; Joshua 24:15)