Peace & Victory – Part III

 

The Final Lamb

For generations, Passover had followed the same pattern: a lamb was selected, examined, and found to be without defect. It was brought into the home, then taken and slaughtered. Its blood was applied to the doorposts, and that night, death passed over. It was specific, deliberate, and it worked. The people were spared.

Another lamb.
Another sacrifice.
Another covering.

It dealt with what was in front of them, but it didn’t remove the need for it to be done again. It was never final. By the time of Jesus, this pattern was well established.

And then, at Passover, He was put to death.

The timing is not incidental. At Passover, with the system continuing as it always had, He was crucified. Not outside it, but within it. Not disconnected from it, but aligned with it in a way that is difficult to ignore.

A life given. Blood shed. The pattern holds.

There is nothing in that moment that suggests anything has changed.

But the matter of the body is where it diverges.

Each year, the Passover lamb was fully consumed. It was eaten, and whatever remained was burned. Nothing kept. Nothing carried forward. The act was completed in full, each first night.

But here, we have a body laid to rest in a tomb. Three days later, the tomb no longer holds it.

The resurrection is not separate from the cross. Three days later, the tomb, which should contain a body, does not. There is no sign of interference, no indication that something has gone wrong. Just the absence of what would normally be expected.

The crucifixion was not another instance within an ongoing system, but the point at which that system finds its conclusion. What had always required repetition no longer does.

Not another covering.
Not another year.
Not another sacrifice.

Something final.

The crucifixion is not an addition to the pattern, but its completion.

Peace & Victory - Part II

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A Centurion’s Account of the Cross

It started like any other shift. Passover always made things harder. The city fills up, tempers run short, but as long as you stay alert and keep the crowds moving, trouble can be contained.

But to be honest, there was something different this year, more than other years.  The whole week felt unsettled.  There seemed to be more people than usual, and we had a harder time containing the crowds.  It started on the Sunday when people began calling this Nazarene a king.  Can you believe that? A Nazarene. Anyway, this man drew crowds wherever he went, which is a headache for us.  Where there are crowds, disorder usually follows, and so it did.  There was even an incident at their temple.  I have to say, as I stood guard trying to contain the crowds, I did find what this man Jesus was saying intriguing.  It was radical.  He definitely divided the crowd, and a divided crowd is just as bad as a united one.  But at least in this instance, they were going at each other.

He’d been arrested overnight. Things had obviously moved quickly.  He was back before the governor just as I started my shift.  The religious leaders headed the crowd and pushed hard to get things moving.  It is unusual to see them at the steps of Pilate.  They usually send their officers.  But today, they were there in person, demanding Pilate act on their behalf.

And that’s when I saw him again, as the three of them were led out. Two were what you’d expect: angry, loud, and still resisting as much as they could. The other one was different. He’d been beaten, but he wasn’t fighting. He wasn’t trying to defend himself. Most men say something eventually. With him, there was almost nothing.

He was wearing a crown made from thorns, and my colleagues were jeering, “King of the Jews!” And that got a reaction. Not from us, but from their leaders. They didn’t like it. They pushed back on it, wanted it stopped. It didn’t matter to us. It was just mockery. But they cared about it more than I expected.

The crowd swelled as we made our way from the city to the hill of execution just outside the gates. It was loud, and louder still when his cross was finally erected. The crowd shouted at him, telling him to come down if he was who they said he was. I’d heard that kind of thing before. People always want to see something. Some kind of proof. But, he didn’t respond! Not to them.  Not to the accusations.  Not even to the ones mocking him.

That stayed with me, because it didn’t match what we’d been hearing.  If this was the man stirring crowds, if this was the one people were talking about all week, you’d expect something.  Some kind of resistance.  Some kind of claim.  But there was none.  And yet, he wasn’t removed from it either.

At one point, he spoke to the woman standing near him.  His mother, I think.  Made sure she would be looked after.  He spoke to one of the men beside him as well.  It wasn’t much, but it was deliberate.  Like he was still paying attention to people, even then.

I remember him saying, “Father, forgive them.”  That wasn’t something I’d heard before.  Most men don’t speak like that at the end.  Then later, “I thirst.”  Simple.  No strength left to make it anything more than it was.

By then, the day took a turn.  That undercurrent that had been building all week seemed to surface as darkness came and covered everything in the middle of the day.  You could feel the shift in the crowd.  The noise changed.  Less shouting.  More uncertainty.  People didn’t seem as sure of themselves anymore.

I’d seen plenty of executions.  This didn’t follow the same pattern. When he spoke again, it wasn’t to answer anyone. It wasn’t to defend himself. It was like he was finishing something.

And then he was gone. No struggle at the end, no last attempt to hold on.  Just finished.

And then the ground shook. Not something you expect or can prepare for.  It came suddenly, and the whole place shifted.  People who had been standing there watching only moments before started moving, scattering, trying to get out. The same crowd that had been so sure of themselves didn’t look so certain anymore.

We’d spent the whole week trying to contain the chaos, and now it had returned anyway, only this time it didn’t feel like it was coming from them.

But standing there, watching it unfold, none of it quite lined up with what I was seeing.  I’ve seen men die before. Many times. This wasn’t the same.  This man was different.  He hadn’t fought it.  He hadn’t defended himself.  There was no anger in him, no resistance.  And yet the crowd wanted him gone all the same.

Surely this was the Son of God.

The Last Day

There is a moment near the beginning of The Passion of the Christ where Mary pensively asks her companion, Mary Magdalene, “why is this night so different from others?” This is one of the four questions (ma nishtana) recited at Passover each year, and as is answered at every Seder table for centuries: “because once we were slaves, but now we are free.” I absolutely love the placement of this, coming just as Jesus is arrested, because it quietly sets the scene of a night that will lead to a new kind of deliverance.

The arrest of Jesus, as detailed in the gospels, is chaotic, to the point where during the scuffle between the disciples and those who had come to make the arrest, Peter cuts off the ear of the servant of the high priest. In amongst this commotion, Jesus remains the same as we saw Him at the Passover table: steady and unmoved. He quietly reaches down, picks up the ear and restores it back to Malchus. He doesn’t leave it. He doesn’t allow it to stand. He undoes what has just been done, and then says to Peter, “shall I not drink the cup the Father has given me?”

From there, He is taken and moved through a series of accusations and questioning, eventually brought before Pontius Pilate. The pressure builds, the tone around Him becomes more forceful, but He doesn’t meet it. There is no defence. No attempt to correct anything. No effort to take control of the situation. He remains the same. As everything continues, the mocking, the beating, the public nature of it all, it doesn’t look like anything is going to change. From the outside, it looks like things have gone in the opposite direction to what had been hoped for.

But sitting alongside all of that, it’s hard not to notice how closely it follows the pattern of Passover. A lamb chosen, set apart, and then given. Something that, in the moment, does not look like victory.

And I think that’s what makes that opening question sit differently. Why is this night different from all other nights? Because what looks like loss…is not without purpose. Because what doesn’t look like deliverance…is not separate from it.

And because sometimes what is happening doesn’t match what we expected to see, it becomes very easy to miss what is actually taking place. The coming King, who was welcomed into Jerusalem only a few days earlier, heralded with palm branches and carrying the hope of a new Israel, is now crucified and dead.

And yet, nothing about Him has changed.

In the same way, I will not cause pain without allowing something new to be born.”

The Lord says this: “I promise that if I cause you the pain of birth, I will not stop you from having your new nation.” Your God said this.

Isaiah 66:9 (ERV)

The Table

The last supper isn’t just what Jesus said at the table, but how He carried Himself in it.

This was Passover. A meal already full of meaning. A remembering of deliverance, of sacrifice, of a people brought out from slavery. It wasn’t casual, and it wasn’t new. And yet, in the middle of that, everything is quietly shifting.

Jesus knows what is coming. Not in a vague sense, but fully. He knows one of them will betray Him. He knows the hours ahead. And still, nothing about Him feels hurried or unsettled.

He gets up from the table, takes a towel and begins to wash their feet. This is their rabbi, the Messiah, the one who is about to face excruciating pain and humiliation, choosing to wash his disciples’ feet. And notice He washed the feet of all 12 disciples, including Judas. That part stops me a little, because there’s no distinction made, no pulling back, no subtle exclusion. The one who is about to betray Him is still included in the same care.

In his final hours, Jesus continues to demonstrate the core of what he is there for, not exposing Judas or making a moment of it, but in a quiet way, He covers him. He simply says, “What you are about to do, do quickly,” and the others don’t even realise what is happening, there’s no shift in tone that matches what’s unfolding underneath it all.

Back at the table, He takes the bread and the wine and begins to speak about His body and blood. He is sitting within a meal that has always pointed to covering, deliverance, and quietly, without spectacle, He places Himself at the centre of it.

What stands out here isn’t just the significance of what He said, but the consistency of who He was as He said it. Nothing in Him shifts, even when everything around Him is about to.

And this is what I keep coming back to, not just what He said, but who He was in that moment. Steady. Present. Undivided.

Monday to Thursday

"First clean the inside of the cup and dish, and then the outside also will be clean" ~ Matthew 23:26

After Jesus’ arrival in Jerusalem, there is a noticeable shift in His ministry.

Prior to this, there is a sense of invitation. He moves among people, teaching, healing, drawing them in. But in Jerusalem, something changes. Not in who He is, but in how He speaks. There is a clarity to it that feels more direct, as though what sits beneath the surface is now being brought into view.

In the days between Palm Sunday and the Last Supper, His actions and His teaching seem to circle the same idea again and again. He drives the traders out of the temple, a place that was meant for God but had taken on something else. He curses a fig tree that appears full, yet bears no fruit. It looks right, but it isn’t.

The parables He tells during this time carry that same thread. They speak about what is said compared to what is done, about response, about readiness, and about what is revealed when things are tested. There is a steady drawing out of what is real, rather than what is presented.

It does not feel like a new message, but it does feel like a clearer one. Almost as though the time for things to sit comfortably at the surface has passed, and what is true is now being shown for what it is.

And perhaps that is the part that is hardest to sit with.

Because it is one thing to appear a certain way, and another for that to be true beneath it. Over time, the two cannot be separated. What is within has a way of becoming visible, whether slowly or all at once.

There is something in this week that quietly calls for that alignment. Not in a forced or performative way, but in an honest one. To let what is seen match what is real, and to let go of what only ever sat at the level of appearance.

God, help me to live from the inside out, with what is within aligned with what is seen.