“Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.”

Luke 23:46

This week our reflection on the Seventh (and final) Word is written by Anthony Ho.

Luke 23:44-46

“It was now about noon, and darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon, for the sun stopped shining. And the curtain of the temple was torn in two. Jesus called out with a loud voice, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.” When he had said this, he breathed his last.”

Near the end of this epic story is this surreal moment. The sun stops shining and for three hours it feels like time stands still. The curtain is torn – the barrier between God and man has finally been destroyed – and yet, creation cannot help but rightfully mourn the crucifixion of this righteous man.

At the close of the seven last words, I’m reminded of Jesus’s prayers in the Garden of Gethsemane. In an uncommonly human scene, Jesus pronounces his fear, anguish, and lament before the Father but yet still asks that God’s will take precedent over his own. In a setting similar to that of the fall of man, Jesus, unlike Adam and Eve, chooses to pray repeatedly that his heart be obedient.

Far too often I forget that the actual story of God’s people has been of a benevolent creator requesting obedience from his creation. From God’s calling of Abram out of Ur of the Chaldeans to his willing sacrifice of Isaac, to Saul’s deposition as King of Israel for disobedience, now to Jesus in Gethsemane and his crucifixion on the cross, God’s call for his people has always been towards obedience.

And yet, Jesus’s words on the cross are not from a place of fearful submission but rather abandonment of self-preservation for a deeply rooted trust in God. Despite the horrors that Jesus has already experienced and the impending fear to come, Jesus still refers to God as his beloved Father by whose hands he trusts his deliverance will come.

In the opening chapter of the Gospel of Mark, Jesus opens his ministry by declaring that “the Kingdom of God is at hand!” In my own observation, the use of the word hand (or the imagery of touch) thereafter is an indicator of another glimpse of the Kingdom of God drawing closer. When Jesus heals a man of leprosy with the touch he so desperately longed for, or the bleeding woman reaching to touch Jesus’s garments, or Jairus’s daughter being brought back to life, or Jesus breaking bread to feed the 5000, all of these instances evoke not only the image of God’s benevolent hand but also the Kingdom of God drawing ever nearer. It is into these same hands that Jesus chooses to commit himself, giving both his obedience and his trust. It is to these same acts of obedience and trust that God continues to call his people to as well.

In my pursuit of a career as a physician, I found that obedience and trust in God has led me to opportunities and a vision more wholly myself than I could have achieved on my own. God took a shame-filled college student with failing academic marks and provided the necessary steps and opportunities that not only renewed my confidence in myself but also meticulously demonstrated why and how he had called me to this practice.

In this Lenten season, however, it is ever more apparent that Jesus’s obedience and trust in God meant not only putting off false expectations but becoming more wholly himself, becoming more of the person God had intended for him to become, meant crucifixion on a cross. It is in light of these things that I am reminded of how bold and audacious my vicarious claim to the cross is. While victory over death is of course to be celebrated, for now I am learning to pray and sit underneath the gravity of God’s great love and the heavy weight of the cross. And for now, my heart doesn’t know how to do much else but join in with the rest of creation in mourning that perfection Incarnate’s obedience and trust meant humiliation and death for my sake.

“It is finished.”

John 19:30

This week our reflection on the Sixth Word is written by Joseph Chen.

Out of all of Jesus’s utterances on the cross, the sixth one—”It is finished”—is probably the most relatable. How many of us remember voicing a similar sentiment, maybe after a difficult project, a messy breakup, or just a long day of work? We reach the end, and usually with a long, deep sigh, we say under our breaths: It’s done. It’s finally over. It is finished.

Imagine the relief Jesus might have felt at that moment. He was finally going to die. A lifetime of being tempted, mistreated, misunderstood, and persecuted. The conclusion to the betrayal, humiliation, and torture he endured that very day. All suffered at the hands of the ones he loved and came to save. Who could blame Jesus for being glad when the pain had finally come to an end?

I confess, it’s uncomfortable for me to think about. God became flesh knowing full well he would end up on that cross, but he made his dwelling among us anyway. Surely, it was because Jesus knew he had a job to do. “It is finished” is a proclamation, announcing once and for all that the work of salvation has been accomplished. It is victory over death. The defeat of sin. The promise that all sad things are coming untrue. How could he have possibly felt relief when the pains of the present pale in comparison to the cosmic significance of the cross?

I need to remember, in Lent especially, that Jesus did not want to die. In Gethsemane, Jesus is “overwhelmed with sorrow” and asks the Father to take the cup away, his face pressed against the dirt as he prayed. In the story of Jesus at Gethsemane Matthew reminds us that Jesus dreaded the day of his crucifixion. He dreaded it because dread is the human response to what Jesus was about to go through. After all, Incarnation means that everything that humans have gone and will go through, he has been there. That includes the entire emotional spectrum: from joy, excitement, and relief to loneliness, depression, and anxiety. Jesus has been there before us, and therefore knows firsthand what we are going through.

So yes, Jesus completed something incredible on the cross. But it was also the completion of something awful, the worst pain that humanity could muster inflicted on one who could experience that bodily, spiritual, and emotional pain to its fullest extent. In the midst of our own pain, may we be comforted by the crucified God who has been there before us, and is with us still. In the midst of our journey through Lent, may we be discomforted by the fact that we were the ones that put him through that pain, a tension that we must continue to bear until He comes again.

I mentioned, at the beginning, examples of situations where, after some long arduous task, we too might be inclined to say “It is finished.” Though the details may differ, the constant in all of these situations is that every end leads to a new beginning. No matter how long, how painful, or how draining the experience was, life goes on. Perhaps sooner than we’d like, we wake up the next morning and head back to work again. But something is different about Jesus’s statement. Scripture speaks of a different pattern, one that goes beyond merely continuing what came before. The last time God said “It is finished” was all the way back in Genesis 2, on the sixth day of the creation story. The work of creation was over, but it was not the end, but rather the beginning of our story. Implicit in Jesus’s statement about one end is the anticipation of a new beginning. A new creation, a stone rolled away, an empty tomb…

But we are not quite there yet. It’s only the fifth week of Lent, and there is still a ways to go before we are ready to walk with Jesus to the cross, where we will once again remember what has been lost so that we may truly know what has been gained.

“I thirst.”

John 19:28

This week our reflection on the Fifth Word is written by Andrew Kosch (with love from Thailand).

Imagine a hot sunny day with temperatures in the 100’s. Imagine spending the day in the sun without any water or refreshments. Imagine your body becoming physically dehydrated as your skin becomes dry and leather-like. Your brains stops functioning properly, your head aches, and you become disoriented. You know you thirst for water. And when you finally get that glass of water, you are delighted with how satisfying and glorious it is. You vow to yourself to never go that long without water again.

Now imagine a busy day packed with responsibility and obligations. Imagine working through your seemingly never-ending to-do list. Imagine some degree of fear or anxiety or worry or stress setting in as you begin to lose control of your mental, emotional and spiritual situation. You are stressed. You seem to be losing track of God’s presence in the stream of busyness. Your mind may not realize it, but your soul knows what you thirst for is God. And when you finally run to God and receive rest, or comfort, or peace, or understanding, etc., you are delighted with how satisfying and glorious it is. You vow to yourself to never go that long without God’s nourishment again.

But oftentimes, and sometimes without even realizing it, we find ourselves spiritually dehydrated despite our best intentions. And I think that is because we lose track of God’s presence in our lives. This need not be the case though. See, on the cross Jesus drank the cup of wrath and suffering for us so we could choose to drink the living water of God that brings love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control into our lives. We drink this living water by believing in Christ and obediently submitting to His will in the moment. We can only receive this water of life by the gifts of grace and mercy from God, which we then access by engaging in spiritual disciplines like praying and fasting and meditating and serving and worshipping God.

So, in the same way we drink water to maintain a physical hydration, we should take action daily to maintain the spiritual hydration of our souls. The cup of destruction that Jesus received after declaring “I am thirsty” was intended for us. So in a way, Jesus’s sacrificial death purified the “water” we need for the proper functioning of our souls. So thank God and drink deeply.

(*The analogy may not be perfect, which is okay, because God is – so do not take my word for it, just talk to Him.)

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

Matthew 27:46

This week our reflection on the Fourth Word is written by Serena Lee.

It’s a cry I often prayed through several years of long-suffering. Growing up, I don’t think I really understood why Jesus said this while he was dying. Didn’t Jesus know and anticipate this kind of pain? Didn’t he know his death would bring glory to God, and save humanity from eternal punishment? Little did I know that my struggle with borderline personality disorder would render me so hopeless that these words of Jesus would become my daily cry in the midst of my darkest seasons. I was grasping for any relief from my psychological pain. But most of the time, I felt like I was drowning, and God was nowhere near.

Borderline personality disorder (BPD) is characterized by the intense fear of abandonment, unstable relationships, and impulsive behavior stemming from the inability to cope with strong emotions.  Having grown up in a fairly fundamentalist, Asian immigrant church context, I didn’t feel like I could be a good Christian while also struggling with BPD. After all, I often blamed my friends for not caring about me, and attempted to manipulate them by exaggerating the depths of my woes to force them to show me an even greater extent of love and loyalty. I harbored resentment towards people I loved, and confused them when I pushed them away even though I wanted them to stay. It felt like I was riding a roller coaster, my mood constantly swinging, and my “frantic efforts” to avoid real or imagined abandonment became my new obsession.

In the first few years of my struggle with BPD, I found no relief in Christian faith. Honestly, I didn’t try because many Christians would “comfort” me by saying that I just needed to trust in God more, perhaps believe in the “peace that surpasses understanding,” or focus on the joy of the Lord. It wasn’t until my senior year of college when I went through one of the darkest periods of my life that I finally cried out to God, blaming him too for abandoning me. I poured out my anger, my bitterness, and all my resentments towards God and asked him, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” I was so expectant of abandonment from all those I loved, that it seemed as though God finally decided to leave me too.

Admitting to myself and to God that I was angry was the moment I now recognize as my first step towards recovery. In my anguish, I found relief. In my bitterness, I found understanding. As uncomfortable as it was engaging in my deep anger towards God, I felt a freedom to be completely naked before Him, my heart and my mind pouring out laments everyday. He is, after all, my God. He is my God.

Using this very prayer gave me great comfort knowing that Jesus enters into my loneliness and fear of abandonment. It felt like Jesus created this prayer for people like me- people plagued by fear, anger, and confusion. More importantly, it seems that Jesus prayed this prayer because He needed it. Up until the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus had never been separated from His father throughout eternity, before time and space. Can you imagine the kind of anxiety Jesus had while he prayed, sweating blood and tears? Can you imagine the heaviness He felt while carrying His own cross up the hill, knowing that Father was nowhere to be reached? Can you imagine Christ in shock and disbelief that His own Father actually turned away from the Son in his most excruciating, painful hour? Perhaps Jesus was unprepared to accept the reality He had theoretically understood before agreeing to suffer for humankind.

God did not answer Jesus’ tireless supplication. Defeat is on its way, and God appears to have abandoned His one and only son. And yet, as much as Jesus feels indignation towards God, still he uses a personal pronoun “my” to describe the Father, demonstrating that the relationship with God still exists and has significance despite the fact that God will not save him from his suffering and imminent death.

Of course, we know how the story ends. But if we skip over the significance of Jesus’ lament on the Cross, the resurrection loses its compelling power to transform lives. As the Church, we need to be able to sit in the discomfort of lament in order to become more human. That is, Jesus’s death on the cross reveals that the goal as Christians and as humans is not to be joyful, peaceful, or strong all the time, as many of us grew up believing. Rather, allowing ourselves to change in thought, in emotions, and in resilience brings us the freedom to accept seasons of adjustment in our relationship with God. We can be filled with joy before the Lord, or sit in anger. We can hold both peace and anxiety. We can live in doubt and in faith, hold lament in one hand, and hope in the other. This is humanity the way Christ has exemplified for us. This is beautiful.

Paradox — by Serena Lee

What a relief to be at peace

with the reality of warring virtue and vice,

Spirit and demon,

voice of God and voices of untruth,

anxiety and serenity,

depression and joy.

To live in the in between,

the already not yet, 

is the path that leads to sanctification, to healing

to full freedom

I am looking forward to those very things.

A few months back our daughter Carissa heard the song “I Wanna Go Back” on the Fish and got hooked. She kept asking to hear it. And pretty soon Janet and I got hooked too. If you don’t know the song here’s the music video:

It’s one of those songs that gets stuck in your head, the kind you find yourself singing under your breath throughout the day. That’s what happend to me. I kept singing the chorus over and over: “I wanna go back to Jesus loves me this I know, for the Bible tells me so…”

So catchy.

Aside from its infectious melody, the song reminds me of a story about the Swiss theologian Karl Barth. He was visiting the states as a guest lecturer at Princeton Theological Seminary and the University of Chicago.

During his trip, a student asked him if he could boil down his life’s work as a pastor and theologian into one sentence. According to church lore, he looked at the student from behind his thick black rimmed glasses and said, “Yes, I can. In the words of a song I learned at my mother’s knee: ‘Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so.”

The story is often told to remind us not to miss the forest for the theological trees. There is an enormous depth to the Christian faith, and we can sometimes get lost in its limitless intracacies and complexities. But all our inquiries ought to lead us back to the simple truth at the core of our faith, which begins, “God so loved the world…”

But for many, we find that we cannot simply “go back.” Either because of things we have experienced or the questions that incessantly gnaw on us, we are pushed to a place where what used to work for us no longer does. To “go back” would be akin to what Jesus says about sewing a patch of unshrunk cloth on an old garment. The new will pull away from the old, making the tear worse.

When what we grew up with no longer fits, it is important to hear in our questions and doubts a necessary voice pointing the way forward (if we will let it). We are not trying to go back so to speak, but as C.S. Lewis puts it, “to go further up and further in.” Biblically we might say, we are not trying to get back to Eden, but onward to the New Jerusalem.

Most Christians I look up to have gone through some kind of crisis of faith. And this crisis is often a scary thing because we find ourselves deconstructing all that we once believed good and true. But the critical distance that is created here is often bridged by what philosopher Paul Ricoeur coined, “the second naivete.”

In the second naivete we are able to engage faith in a different way than we did in the “first naivete.” We don’t simply accept everything at face value or on a surface level. In critically reflecting on our beliefs we are brought to a place of informed engagement. We are able to reengage our beliefs. And we find that there is now an imaginative depth added to what we once believed. The story we used to hear in a pre-critical way is now charged with a more dynamic and vivid range of meaning.

For those of us who find ourselves in a place of doubt and uncertainty, may those doubts and uncertainties be the place of struggle and growth that brings about a second naivete. And in so doing, may we find that what can be wholeheartedly sung by an eight year old girl is also deep enough to encapsulate a lifetime of theological investigation…

Jesus loves me this I know for the Bible tells me so.

Amen.