John 18:1-11 · Jesus Arrested
Personal History
John 18:1-11
Sermon
by David J. Kalas
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A junior high school student sits down with his world history textbook, and he wonders what all this stuff has to do with him. Clearly, people like Alexander, Hannibal, Caesar, Charlemagne, and Napoleon had a great impact on the world in which they lived, but what do the Rubicon and Waterloo have to do with that thirteen-year-old American boy?

When he gets to senior high school, that same student may find a greater sense of relevance in his American history textbook. It is easier for him to see the connection between Jefferson, Lincoln, Roos­evelt, and the contemporary world in which he lives.

Still, the history lacks a very personal quality. After all, the best that can be said is that those famous individuals and events helped to set the present stage, directly or indirectly. But they do not feel personal. The history textbooks are not the same as personal history.

Personal history is what happened to me. And what happened in the past that directly affects me. Per­sonal history is the move we made when I was ten, my schools, my teachers, and my friends. Personal his­tory is how my parents met and how my grandparents came over from Europe when they were teenagers. But Cleopatra’s barge and Paul Revere’s horse are not personal history.

Then we come to this event from ancient Palestine. In many respects, it may seem much less signifi­cant than any of the others we have referenced. After all, it was just a death. Not a battle, not an invasion, not a massacre of thousands; just the execution of an individual. And not even the death of a general or a king. Indeed, we’d be hard put to label this particular man with any sort of official title, at all.

Here is a poor man, without property, family, or office. He was unknown beyond the narrow confines of his own country — and an occupied country, at that. He won no battle, amassed no fortune, and gener­ated no invention. He led a movement that was conspicuously small, mostly unarmed, and apparently not very courageous. Then he died, rather young.

It is a profile of insignificance.

And yet, the day of his death remains a holy day 2,000 years later around the entire globe. That death, though centuries before Charlemagne or Napoleon or Lincoln, somehow becomes personal history for you and me.

This day carries with it a definite and specific picture. The prophet Isaiah anticipates it. The gospel of John portrays it. The writer of Hebrews explains it. And you and I get to preach it today.

Isaiah 52:13—53:12

On the eve of his death, Jesus invoked this passage of scripture. At the conclusion of the Last Supper, just before departing for the Mount of Olives with his disciples, Jesus said to them, “For I tell you, this scripture must be fulfilled in me, ‘And he was counted among the lawless’; and indeed what is written about me is being fulfilled” (Luke 22:37). Perhaps that brief reference to this suffering servant passage was meant to trigger in the disciples an understanding of what would follow. Perhaps with this seed planted, they could see him in a few hours on the cross and not be so entirely bewildered and frightened. There’s little evidence, however, that they made the connection at the time.

Within a generation of Jesus’ death, though, his followers had come to recognize that he was the sub­ject of this prophetic passage. Peter quoted from it in referencing Christ’s sufferings (2 Peter 2:22). And, still more pointedly, this passage became the pivotal text in the conversion of the Ethiopian eunuch (see Acts 8:26-39). Indeed, when the Ethiopian asked about whom the prophet was speaking in this passage, Philip did not hesitate to “proclaim to him the good news about Jesus” (v. 35).

You and I are called on to preach Philip’s sermon on this day. Perhaps, again it should be followed by conversions and baptisms.

We do not have a record of all that Philip said to the eunuch. But we do have here what the prophet said about Jesus. We might summarize it in terms of the following five themes:

First, Jesus was innocent. It was “by a perversion of justice [that] he was taken away,” Isaiah claims. “He had done no violence, and there was no deceit in his mouth.” Surely this squares with what we see in the gospel accounts of Jesus’ righteous life and unjust death.

Second, Jesus was unrecognized — and perhaps unrecognizable. Isaiah says that “he had no form or majesty that we should look at him, nothing in his appearance that we should desire him.” From his lowly birth to his humble upbringing, he did not display that majesty that would make the people recognize who he was. We are reminded of John’s early testimony that “He was in the world, and the world came into being through him; yet the world did not know him” (John 1:10). In our gospel lection for today, we see the ignorant soldier striking Jesus on the face, thinking that Jesus was not showing proper respect to the office of the high priest. So the soldier had a sense of propriety; but he had no idea whose face he struck. Likewise, we see the mocking crown and purple robe with which the suffering Christ was adorned: dra­matic irony, as the scoffers did not recognize at all that he was, indeed, a king. King of kings and Lord of lords, no less.

Third, what happened to Jesus was the design and purpose of God. While the events of Maundy Thursday and Good Friday in the gospels appear to be entirely the orchestration of the jealous, conspiring Jewish leaders, Isaiah sees a different hand behind it all: “the Lord has laid on him the iniquity of us all.” And then, more directly, “it was the will of the Lord to crush him with pain.” So he suffers innocently, but he is not a standard martyr. No, there’s something else at stake here.

Fourth, we are involved. We are exploring today the theme of “personal history.” The prophet Isaiah helps to convey the personal quality of this event, for he makes constant use of first-person-plural pro­nouns. Unlike ordinary history, with its third-person characters, this passage keeps bringing us into the picture, with words like “we,” “us,” and “our.”

Finally, at the intersection of points three and four comes the fifth theme: the doctrine of substitution­ary atonement. I circled in this passage eight different phrases that all make the same basic claim: namely, that what happened to Jesus somehow benefits us. “He was wounded for our transgressions... upon him was the punishment that made us whole... he bore the sin of many” — this is the theology of substitution­ary atonement. It is at precisely this point where Christ’s death is not merely the result of a plot against him and not merely the death of a martyr. It is at this point where Good Friday becomes personal history for you and me.

Hebrews 10:16-25

An individual includes in his conversation and correspondence references to the things with which he is familiar. They may be pop culture references or mentions of sports. His conversation may feature traces of art and literature, allusions to music or theater, or the thinking of a scientist, a mathematician, or a philosopher. Whatever our area of special interest and exposure may be, it will reveal itself in our communication.

As we read Hebrews, we discover that this writer’s particular expertise is the Old Testament Law, and, more specifically, the rites and images of the tabernacle. Because this field is likely to be unfamiliar territory to most of the people in our pews, however, the references will be lost and the allusions mean­ingless. So a bit of translation may be necessary.

Within these ten verses, we are presented with a half-dozen different allusions that may need to be glossed for our people: covenant, offering for sin, sanctuary, the curtain, priest, sprinkled clean and washed with pure water.

Such glossing, of course, could be tedious stuff. Merely defining the terms and explaining the back­ground may be more the stuff of teaching a class than of preaching a Good Friday service. Our explana­tions of the passage should instead be woven into the larger narrative of the day.

Perhaps we might invite our people to see, first, in their mind’s eye, the familiar Good Friday scene. There is the hill called “skull.” Hear the grotesque, mocking mob. See the flanking thieves. And there, in the center, Christ: suffering, bleeding, thirsting, praying, caring, and forgiving.

Then, having established the familiar scene that is in the foreground, we invite our people next to squint to see the less familiar scene that is in the background.

It’s a great, colorful tent in the midst of the wilderness. In the courtyard outside the tent stands an immense basin filled with pure water for washing. Nearby is a grand altar, with smoke from its offerings rising toward heaven. An ornately dressed priest presides over the altar, where the people come to make blood offerings for their sins.

Once a year, that priest takes the blood of an offering from that altar and goes into the great, colorful tent. He passes through the curtain that marks the entrance into God’s presence. There, as the sole oc­cupant of this most holy space, this sanctuary, is the Ark of the Covenant. It is a gold box, attended by golden cherubim and containing the stone tablets that articulate the covenant between God and his people. The priest sprinkles the blood of the sacrifice upon the top of that box — a part of the process of making atonement for a sinful, unclean people before their holy God.

The scene in the foreground at Golgotha is a familiar one. But a thousand years in the background stands a less familiar scene. It is against that backdrop of covenant and curtain, of priest and offering, of blood and water, that the writer of Hebrews sees the cross of Christ. And as you and I tell the story this Good Friday, we may tell it in light of that illuminating backdrop.

John 18:1—19:42

The gospel lection for this day is an immense passage — two entire chapters from the gospel of John. Unless our churches are in the habit of three-hour Good Friday services — and, specifically, three hours of preaching! — it is hopeless to think that we can cover thoroughly everything that is recorded in John for today.

The scope of the passage runs from late Thursday evening through late Friday afternoon: from the con­clusion of Jesus’ eventful meal with his disciples to his burial in the tomb. Interestingly, the entire passage is book-ended by gardens. At the beginning, we see Jesus going “out with his disciples across the Kidron valley to a place where there was a garden.” And, at the end, we read that “there was a garden in the place where he was crucified, and in the garden there was a tomb... they laid Jesus there.”

The two chapters cover fewer than a full 24 hours. It is already the dark of evening when Peter and his disciples are in the garden; and the next evening is coming on as Joseph and Nicodemus hurriedly take care of the corpse. Those few hours are eventful and painful. And the disciples’ heads must have been spinning at how completely their world had changed in less than a full day.

As we watch the events of that day unfold — and, specifically, as we watch the people involved — we are impressed by several things.

First, there is the utter fearlessness of Jesus. He stands tall in the garden, knowing what’s coming, yet never flinching. He is the one under arrest, yet one senses that he is also the one in control of the whole scene, maintaining an awareness and a poise that does not characterize either his opponents or his friends.

Likewise, as he stands before his judges, he does not cower or beg for mercy. He is calmly engaged in dialogue with both, even to the point of frustrating them, it seems. Even dying on the cross, John portrays Jesus as completely in control. The same caring one who healed Malchus’ ear in the garden is now making arrangements for his grieving mother. And his final words have a triumphant ring, as he proclaims, “It is finished.”

The fearlessness of Jesus makes him unique within the larger context of the story, for it seems that he is the only one who is not afraid. Peter is clearly unsettled, one moment flailing with his sword in defense of Jesus, and the next moment unwilling even to be identified with Jesus. The conspirators behind the whole process, the chief priests and Pharisees, were obviously operating out of fear, which is why they conducted the whole thing in the dark and in a hurry. Joseph and Nicodemus appear as timid characters: the former having been a disciple “in secret,” and the latter having only “come to Jesus by night.” Even Pilate, the nearest thing to a sovereign in the whole scene, is manifestly afraid.

The soldiers are perhaps the only other major players who do not exhibit fear, but that does not speak well for them. They do not come across as brave so much as obtuse. They mock Jesus as a king, unaware that he is, in fact, the King of kings. They then huddle around at the foot of the cross, contesting one an­other over the pathetic booty of their grim assignment, preoccupied with trivia, while the Son of God and Savior of the world dies just above them.

The whole scene ends with a hasty burial. The curtain is necessarily closed, as the sabbath is on the horizon. But then it would open again, early in the morning, on the first day of the week....

Application

We imagined a student, in both junior and senior high school, studying history in school. It may or may not be a subject of interest to him. In either case, though, he finds that there is a great distance between the people he is studying and himself — between those events and his own life.

That student then arrives at church, and he is presented with still more history. On this particular day, he is presented with a historical event that is many more years — and many more miles — removed from him than the Battle of Yorktown or the Gettysburg Address. Yet this distant episode from history is some­how presented to him as personal.

The old spiritual asks, “Were you there when they crucified my Lord?” That seems like a ridiculous question. No one asks, “Were you there at General Custer’s last stand?”

But this is different. George Custer is not Jesus Christ, and their deaths are unequal in both importance and effect. Indeed, according to this day’s texts, there is no other death like Jesus’ death.

In our consideration of the texts above, we have laid out the case. We are involved in this death. The story of this suffering servant includes first-person pronouns. We discover that “our infirmities,” “our transgressions,” and “our iniquities” are all in play. And so we are different — our situation and our status are different — because of this death. For now “we have confidence to enter the sanctuary by the blood of Jesus.”

“Were you there,” the spiritual asks, “when they crucified my Lord?” Yes. It turns out that I was. For by that death, I was saved, healed, forgiven, and reconciled. It was 2,000 years ago, but it is part of my personal history.

An Alternative Application

Isaiah 52:13—53:12; John 18:1—19:42. “We Esteemed Him Not.” For so many of us, the King James Version was the translation of scripture we first heard and where we learned some of the most familiar passages. In the case of Isaiah’s suffering servant passage, I remain tied and drawn to the poetic language of the old King James.

One phrase in particular especially moves me: “We esteemed him not.” The New Revised Standard Version renders it, “we held him of no account,” which is fine and speaks the same truth. It lacks elegance, however. Still, of course, it is the truth, not the language, that we might well proclaim on this day.

As we observed earlier, this day carries with it a very specific picture. We have seen that picture so many times — perhaps thousands of times — in art, in movies, in passion plays, and on and on. And so when we read the detailed account in our long passage from John’s gospel, we are not left without vivid images in our mind’s eye.

Take those scenes from John and make them into a kind of slide show: one picture from each scene. The betrayal of Judas. The arrest of Jesus. The denials of Peter. The trials before Annas and Pilate. The mob’s preference for Barabbas. The mocking cruelty of the soldiers. And the crucifixion.

And now put this caption from Isaiah under each picture: “We esteemed him not.” It applies in every instance, doesn’t it? Scene after scene, the people involved “esteemed him not.” They did not recognize who they were dealing with, and so they treated him with epic impropriety.

But that grand failure is not limited to Good Friday. We saw it earlier in the story, as well. The cavalier scribes, who could direct the magi to the Messiah’s birthplace, but who did not go themselves. The irritated people in the Nazareth synagogue. The unresponsive people of Capernaum and Chorazin. The would-be disciples. The antagonistic scribes and Pharisees. They all, in their own ways, esteemed him not.

And the tragedy continues.

In a myriad of ways today, people still esteem him not. As his name is misused, his words distorted, and his example ignored. When his opponents misunderstand him and his followers misrepresent him. Whenever you or I let our love grow cold, our allegiance becomes divided, or our priorities get out of or­der. Along with Isaiah and the circles of fools from Good Friday, we must reflect back on our own world and our own lives and confess that we, too, have “esteemed him not.”

CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Navigating the Sermon in Cycle B, by David J. Kalas