It is Finished [Good Friday]

The Rev. Jeremiah Williamson

John's Passion

It is Finished

I make lists. And I check things off of lists. One-by-one, scratching out each task until all I see before me is a page of scribbles, no more words: I like that. I get a profound sense of satisfaction from gazing upon an accomplished to-do list.

On the other hand, things left undone drive me crazy. Like an itch left unscratched, those things remaining, incomplete, unfinished weigh on my mind causing endless amounts of stress – stress that I know will only be quelled when I can finally look at my task list and sigh in relief: it is finished.

The cross, that terrible instrument of death, it was always on Jesus' list. The cross, that terrible instrument of death, was the last thing between Jesus and his “it is finished.” Jesus' journey to the cross was much longer than anyone else realized, longer that anyone else could have imagined; it was always there. Long before he hung on the cross, that cross hung over his head – casting a shadow over every word and every deed.

Angels sang at his birth. And clouds parted at his baptism. And eyes opened at his touch. And death fled at the sound of his voice. Signs and wonders padded his resume. But still the cross was there, always there – that final dreaded task on his list.

Every follower who walked away. Every religious leader who plotted his destruction. Every disciple who kissed betrayal upon his cheek. They never let Jesus forget the ending of his story.

And sometimes, he found the words stumbling out of his mouth like a secret too terrible to stomach. And every time, every mention of death, every mention of the cross was only met with confusion and hollow words of encouragement, as if Jesus were just a pessimist in need of some cheering up.

His disciples usually hung on his every word as if their lives depended on them. But not the cross talk. When he talked of his fate, it never really made sense to them because they saw the way the crowds looked at him. They adored him – or at least they adored his miracles. He healed the sick; he fed the hungry; he encouraged the downcast; he even raised the dead. He loved people; he loved them so extravagantly, so perfectly – even people who, if we are being honest, were pretty unlovable. These people, they were in his corner; they would never let Jesus die on a cross. How could he not get his happy ending?

And then Sunday happened: Palm Sunday. And the people were quite literally dancing in the streets before him; he was the hope of a nation riding a donkey, looking every bit the Messiah. They could not help but get caught up in the excitement. He looked like salvation up there. The people, they waved palm branches and they shouted their “Hosannas”; they called him a king, their king, the king. On that day, the crowds loved him; they adored him. That was a good day.

How could that good day not open up into a good future and finally a good ending to a good story?

Every person who heard him speak, who felt his touch, who saw his love knew that one day, one day, he would don a royal robe and wear on his head a crown. And the people, the crowds, they would lift him up. And Jesus, he would look down at them with such overwhelming love. It would be the perfect ending.

But it wasn't supposed to look like this or end like this. Not like this. Not under this hateful, black sky. Not on that twisted, bloody cross. Not on this terrible, terrible day.

Those who stood at the foot of his cross, they heard him say the words: it is finished. And probably they thought he meant his life. Because they watched his life pour from his broken body. Those hands that brought healing forever wounded. That tongue that spoke the dead to life now whispering words of surrender.

Under that hateful, black sky, on that twisted, bloody cross, on this terrible, terrible day love surrendered. The forces of violence and hatred once again proved their strength. And so the crowds drifted away: their hopes dashed, their hearts broken. But also, their suspicions confirmed: he was too good to be true. In a world dominated by violence and hatred, there are no happy endings. It is finished, indeed.

Good Friday always places us in that crowd – with the same hopes, and the same doubts, and the same disappointment when Jesus whispers his “It is finished.” But we know something those crowds did not know. This time is different. This man is different. This Good Friday is followed by Easter Sunday. And this “It is finished” is not a cry of surrender; it is the sound of satisfaction. Jesus crossing out his final task in his precious blood. It is finished.

The reign of violence: it is finished. The reign of hatred: it is finished. The reign of death: it is finished.

But the empty tomb of Easter Sunday proves that the reign of Jesus is not.