Who Is It You Want?

John 18:1-9

March 25, 2016 (Good Friday) • Mount Pleasant UMC

Evening was garden time; it always had been. He would come, in the cool of the day, and they would talk, walk, play, spend time together in the garden. Evening was garden time. That’s where they always met, and it had always been a time they had both looked forward to. And so, when evening came, he came to the garden and called out the other’s name. “Adam! Adam! Where are you?” But Adam was hiding behind some of the trees because earlier in the day, he and his wife, Eve, had broken the one “don’t” rule God had given them. They had foolishly listened to this walking serpent and eaten from the fruit of the forbidden tree. As soon as they had done it, they knew it was wrong. They knew they had broken not only God’s law but God’s heart. And so somehow Adam got it in his head that he could hide from God, that if he stood behind a tree God wouldn’t be able to see him. He should have known better. “Adam! Where are you? What have you done?” (Genesis 3:8-13). Have you done what I told you not to do? What have you done? Why have you broken my heart?

Those questions once asked in a garden called Eden echo down through the centuries and are heard once again in a garden called Gethsemane, on a night when the roles are reversed and human beings come looking for God (Wright, John for Everyone, Part Two, pg. 102). They don’t know that’s what they are doing. They think they are coming to look for a renegade rabbi from Nazareth, someone the chief priests and the religious leaders are interested in silencing. And so they come to the garden, because that’s where one of his associates, the one leading the group, said he would be. If it’s evening, and it’s Passover, he would be in the garden.

Throughout Lent, we have been walking through the last day of Jesus’ life, this 24 hours that changed the world forever, and as we’ve journeyed from the Upper Room, through the night of prayer, the trials, the humiliation and the cross, we’ve been trying to understand not only what happened, but what it means, and what it means for us—because each of us finds ourselves at different places in this story. And just so, each of us can also find ourselves somewhere in that garden on that fateful night.

Judas arrives at the front gate of the garden after Jesus has finished praying. It’s sometime after midnight, and most of the disciples are asleep or at least groggy. It’s been an emotionally challenging day, but the worst is yet to come. They are quickly awakened when Judas arrives with the soldiers. The word John uses to describe the soldiers indicates that Judas was sent with a group numbering somewhere between two hundred and six hundred men. That’s a huge group to send just to track down one man. Why so many? John also tells us they were carrying torches and lanterns. But this is Passover time, remember, and Passover always falls during a full moon. You know how bright it is when there’s a full moon, so why would they need lanterns and torches? Most likely it’s because they expected to have to search for Jesus in the garden. They send such a huge number of soldiers because they assumed there would be more than just Jesus and eleven followers. And, they assumed Jesus would be hiding, possibly armed (Card, The Parable of Joy, pg. 205). They come ready for a search and a battle. But what they get is something far different. They get a rabbi who isn’t hiding, who isn’t armed, but who instead meets them at the front gate and asks, “Who is it you want?” (19:4).

All four Gospels, of course, tell us of Jesus’ arrest, but only John tells about the confrontation in such a dramatic fashion. “Who is it you want?” Jesus asks, and someone, perhaps the commander of the soldiers, replies, “Jesus of Nazareth.” Without batting an eye, Jesus says, “I am.” And then all chaos breaks loose. That simple statement, two little words, causes the religious leaders to fall to the ground and the Roman soldiers to retreat and regroup. Two little words—why do they have such power? Well, remember what we talked about a few weeks ago, when we stood with Jesus on trial in the high priest’s house? When the high priest asked him directly if he is the Messiah, he says, “I am,” and those words cause the high priest to tear his clothing in shock and horror that Jesus would claim God’s name, Yahweh, I am, for himself. Whenever Jesus says “I am,” ego eimi, it’s the same thing as him saying, “I am God.” I am claiming God’s holy name for myself. There, in the dim light of the garden, Jesus says the same thing. “I am…I am the one who came looking for Adam in another garden…I am the one who spoke to Moses from a burning bush…I am the one whose name you have been afraid to speak.” In fact, it was widely believed that if someone impure (and who isn’t impure?) spoke God’s name aloud, they would quickly be destroyed (Card 206). The action of the religious leaders, falling down, is like when we say someone is going to be “struck by lightning.” And while we joke about that, they were deadly serious. They don’t want to get caught in the fallout when Jesus is surely destroyed for speaking God’s name.

But why do the soldiers fall back? These are trained professionals, part of an army that is charged with enforcing the “pax romana,” the Roman peace. They aren’t concerned with Jewish religion, nor do they likely have all that much interest in the Jewish God. Surely they don’t fall back because they’re worried about fire falling from heaven. No, theirs is a more practical reaction. When they see the reaction of the religious leaders, and add that to the fact that this person they expected to have to search for is meeting them at the gate, they’re nervous about an ambush. Their “falling back” is more of a regrouping, a military maneuver designed to take on whatever threat this Jewish rabbi has prepared for them (Card 206). They’re likely looking around, wondering if he has an army hidden away, worried that he has firepower to confront them with. Now, what a comical scene John has painted for us. A lone, unarmed Jewish teacher, standing in the gate of a garden under full moonlight, able to paralyze both the religious leaders and the professional soldiers with two simple words: “I am.”

Whatever other meaning we might pull out of this scene, here’s the bottom line: all of them come looking for Jesus and when they find him, they don’t know what to do with him. “Who is it you want?” Jesus asks, and they reply, “Jesus of Nazareth.” And suddenly, confronted with the reality that is Jesus, there is great confusion. We thought we wanted him, but now, there he is, and we’re not sure what to do. And don’t we very often react the same way? We come here, this night, out of devotion to Jesus. We come here to remember his suffering and his death, to give thanks for all he did for us when he gave his life on the cross to save us from our sins. And yet, the more we come to know about Jesus, the more we are confronted with the reality of what he asks of us, we’re not quite sure what to do with him. We fall back, afraid, or worse, we try to bind him and force him to do our bidding, to follow our plan. We’re not sure what to do with the Jesus who confronts us, the one who cares for those who are without—the least, the last and the lost. We don’t know what to do with the Jesus who calls us to serve, who will not allow us to pick and choose what we like about his teaching or his commands. He is the one who says, “Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for me and for the gospel will save it” (Mark 8:34-35). He is the one who said, “If you do not forgive others their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins” (Matthew 6:15). He is the one who said, “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for the rich to enter the kingdom of God” (Mark 10:25). And he is the one who calls for full obedience in every area of our life. He is also the one who calls us to mission, to reach out beyond our own lives, to giving ourselves to something bigger than ourselves. He calls us to give our lives for his sake, just as he gave his life for our sake. And he is the one who calls us to love others.

We don’t know what to do with this Jesus. We’d rather be like Adam and hide in the garden than deal with this Jesus. Still, some try to chain him to their particular cause, or their particular political party. Jesus the Democrat; Jesus the Republican. Jesus the environmentalist; Jesus the industrialist. Jesus for this cause and Jesus for that. We chain Jesus to whatever we think he ought to be doing. The question usually becomes less “What Would Jesus Do” than “What Do We Wish Jesus Would Do.” We try to chain Jesus to our denomination or our theological perspective. Jesus would approve of this or that, so everyone else must be wrong or unChristian. I spoke with a man just last week who believed that. Jesus had called him to, basically, straighten everyone else out—or at least that’s what I think he was saying. When all we rely on is our own feelings, it’s easy to try to imprison Jesus in our own perspective, to focus on who we want Jesus to be and what we want Jesus to do. Some believe that’s what happened with Judas, that he became so disillusioned with Jesus because he wasn’t doing what Judas thought he ought to be doing. Judas had his idea of what a Messiah should be and do, and Jesus wasn’t being and doing that. So, some think, Judas betrayed Jesus in order to force his hand, to try to make him take up weapons and become the warrior Messiah. Others think Judas had become so discouraged that he just gave up on Jesus and decided to try to make whatever money he could off of this failed hope. Either way, Judas wanted Jesus to be something other than he was, other than the Messiah he came to be. Who is it you want? Judas wanted someone other than Jesus, and often, so do we.

For the last six weeks, we have been on a journey, a journey to the cross, and tonight we stand in the shadow of that cross, the wondrous cross, the cruelest form of execution ever devised, and the only symbol of hope for our salvation. When we stand in the shadow of the cross, when we contemplate all that Jesus did on this day, how can we, in our selfishness, demand that he be other than he is? When we stand in the shadow of the cross, we come to realize one thing: either we want Jesus or we don’t. And either we want the full Jesus or we don’t want any part of him.

Rather than trying to shape Jesus into our image of what a savior ought to be, he calls us to let him shape us into who he wants us to be. I love the way the apostle Paul puts it—Paul, who had worked against the Christian faith in his early life; Paul, whom Jesus said was “persecuting” him; Paul, who in a moment of radical transformation went from being a Christian-killer to a Christ follower; Paul summed up his life’s mission this way when he wrote to the Philippians: “I want to know Christ—yes, to know the power of his resurrection and participation in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, and so, somehow, to attain to the resurrection from the dead” (3:10-11). I don’t know that Paul necessarily meant it this way, but when I read those words “becoming like him in his death,” I think of the way Jesus died—with his arms outstretched so that all humanity could be saved. I’m called to live the cross-shaped life, arms outstretched to all humanity. My life, shaped by what Jesus did when he died for me. I know the sin in my own heart. The sin that started in that first garden grows in my heart as well. I know the places where I struggle to live as Jesus would have me live. I know the times when I simply don’t want to follow God, when I want to make Jesus into my own image, and I also know that if it were not for the cross, if it were not for the tremendous sacrifice Jesus made to save me, if it were not for his presence in my life and the way he is constantly shaping me, I would be so lost, so far gone. If I relied simply on my own wits, or my own way of thinking, or my own abilities, I would be so lost. I have a long way to go, but I thank God every day that I have come as far as I have—by his grace.

“Who is it you want?” Jesus asks. I don’t want the Jesus I can create out of my own mind. I want the Jesus who was willing to die so that I could live, the Jesus who was willing to stretch out his arms and include me in his family. That’s the Jesus I want. On this Good Friday, in the shadow of the cross, let’s give our whole selves to the whole Jesus and let him do with us as he wants. Who is it you want?