In Need of Nails

“Then the people as a whole answered, ‘His blood be on us and on our children!’” (Matthew 27:25, NRSV)

The above verse is certainly a harsh one. It has been abused over the centuries, twisted to fit an anti-Semitic agenda. I am here to argue that this acceptance of responsibility for murder, this horrid line in the Passion narrative, is not an indictment of the Jewish People. It is an indictment of people. You, me, us. The people as a whole.

Among the best triduum traditions in the Episcopal Church, and surely others, is the quasi-dramatic reading of the Passion. It is not a particular individual or group, nor the narrator, who shouts, “Crucify him!” It is the entire congregation, in unison, stone-faced and profoundly disturbed. Of course, we think to ourselves, we would have remained loyal to Jesus, had we only been there. Yet two of Jesus own disciples betrayed him—albeit to differing degrees—during the hours leading up to his crucifixion. Surely, many more who heard his words and saw his miracles with their own eyes turned away, too. Surely, these followers are in the crowd, begging for blood. On Good Friday, many churches have a ritual of allowing congregants to hammer nails into a cross. This is an even more direct representation of what the Gospel tells us. While we may mourn the crucifixion, we must always remain aware that we demand and perform it. We ourselves execute Christ—not out of cruelty, for the most part, but out of sheer need.

In my own Lenten discipline this year, I have become more sharply aware than ever of my utter inability to do everything God as would have me do it. Try as we might, we fall short. Even in the span of forty days, even in the span of one, we fall short. Our need is evident. Our hearts cry out for the bread to be broken, the wine spilled. Every Sunday, we are told that this was done for us, and we accept the gift; Holy Week brings us greater awareness of what this gift means. Sometimes it takes a hammer and a nail to truly understand how much of our burden we can, and must, put on Christ.

We are the ones falling asleep in Gethsemane. We are the ones leading the march to Golgotha. We are the ones betraying, denying, accusing, spitting, flogging, shouting, nailing, needing. At our best, we are Veronica, wiping the sweat from Jesus’ brow, humbly striving to meet others’ needs. We are all of these people; we are supposed to be. In this holy potential, comingled with holy, childlike dependency, lies the beauty of human life—thus the “good” in Good Friday. At the altar, sometimes consciously and contemplatively, sometimes not, we accept the blood of Christ. Now is the moment to look in grateful awe upon how much we need it.