Let His Blood Be On Us

Posted for Gary Fitzgerald

Yesterday was by far the most dramatically wrenching observance of the Christian liturgical calendar. Christmas is more popular (also cuter, more nostalgic, or more personally painful, depending on your life experiences to date), Easter is more foundational (and so far not nearly as culturally debased as Christmas), but nothing exceeds the heart-rending emotional nosedive of Palm Sunday.

As a group, we are the healthiest, most long-lived, wealthiest, freest, and most secure people who ever walked the earth, so it’s very difficult to imagine the joyful hope that Jesus represented that day as He entered Jerusalem for the last time. It’s very hard to think of our God being silent for 400 years—it’s as if no one had a word or sign from God for all the time Europeans have lived in North America. And it’s even harder to imagine being part of a poor, oppressed society living under foreign occupation in a world crossroads that was universally regarded as a pit of pestilence.

And now, after all this time, all this struggle, Jesus shows up—not as one more charlatan magician with a bag of tricks, but as one who speaks with authority, announcing the Kingdom that is at hand, and confirming His word with healings and miracles so outside anyone’s experience that even the Pharisees are afraid.
 
How great would it be, after generations of frustration and struggle, to suddenly think, “This is the one—finally God has heard us!” What an enormous rush it would be to think, “It’s finally happening, and I was here to see it—now things are going to be great!” And how deeply would it cut, to be part of the crowd that’s screaming “Crucify him” with the same energy it gave to “Hosanna” just a little while ago. 

Although Scripture, and especially the Good News, was always meant to be heard more than read, it has become a long-standing tradition for congregations to take an active part in the reading of the Passion Gospel. We like to do things in threes, so we rotate yearly between Matthew, Mark, and Luke. This year, Year A in the lectionary, we used the Passion of Matthew, the only version which contains this powerful sentence, said by the whole congregation:
 
“Let his blood be on us and on our children.”
 
I believe this is the most explicitly vicious thing in the entire New Testament. I don’t denigrate or belittle the harsh cruelty of crucifixion, but in the cultural context there actually wasn’t anything unusual or unique about it—Jesus wasn’t singled out for special treatment, it was just what the Romans did. But this oath will be part of the Christian story until the end of time, and what a fearful thing to contemplate, being so consumed as to intentionally call down the wrath of God not only on yourself but on your children! And what a thing to have to say together in church—and we do have to say it—fifteen minutes after singing with gusto “All glory, laud, and honor to Thee, Redeemer King!”
 
And then, how incomprehensibly amazing to realize again what has been done for us by Jesus’ sacrifice. No longer a curse or an oath, but the centrality of our life in Jesus:

Please, Lord, let Your blood cover me, and my children! You had a choice, and You made it on my behalf and theirs. Help me to apprehend this more clearly, more deeply and more completely as I contemplate all that Holy Week means for those who know You, and for those who don’t know You yet. For what You did, what You’re doing, and what You’re going to do, deepest heartfelt thanks. Amen.