The Father's Cup: A Good Friday Meditation by Rick Gamache

 The Father's Cup by Rick Gamache


Jesus is bowed and bloody, 110 pounds of lumber is strapped across his shoulders. The weight of the rough wood proves too much as it grinds against the lacerations left by the Roman scourging. Pain explodes like light in Jesus' brain. And he crumples under the beam.

When he comes to, Jesus feels somehow weightless and he realizes that the wooden crossbeam has been cut from his back. Another man is carrying it now, a dark man whose face he cannot see. But he does see the face of another.

Mercifully, a Roman centurion bends and takes Jesus under the arm to lift him gently to his feet again. Jesus looks up and holds the soldier captive in his gaze. The victim’s eyes do not pierce the centurion with the hatred he expects. Instead, he finds love in those eyes. Love mingled with pain, yes — brokenhearted love — but love nonetheless. And not a love excited by one mere act of kindness. This love preceded the moment. This love preceded his existence. This love preceded the existence of the world. Somehow the centurion knows that these are the eyes of Eternal Love.

Jesus holds the soldier’s gaze as long as he can. But the blood that dripped off the ends of his hair to the ground when he was bent low under the cross now drops into his eyes. The blood mixed with sweat stings, and Jesus blinks.

By this time Friday, Jesus is familiar with that sting. But it was a new sensation on Thursday night in the garden.


There, in the garden, he walked with his friends singing hymns and speaking quietly. They passed through the city gate and walked up the hill of Gethsemane through the olive trees. But there were only eleven friends with Jesus—not twelve. One of the twelve chosen proved no friend at all. Satan already held Judas, the betrayer, by the hand then and now he has him by the neck. Judas hangs pale and gasping swinging from the end of his belt under the limb of a tree. The flames of hell are already lapping at his feet. It would have been better if he had never been born.

Eleven remained then. But soon there would be none. Not one friend would stay. Strike the Shepherd and the sheep will scatter. One would run terrified out of the garden naked and the rest would follow.
Jesus fell on his face in prayer. He tasted the dirt as he fought for the eternal destinies of his eleven sleeping sheep a stone’s throw away.

“Let the cup pass,” he cried. “Father, if possible, let the cup pass!”

The Father gazed lovingly at his Son and the Son stared back knowingly.

“Your will be done, Father,” whispered the Son.

And the Father held out the cup and Jesus looked in. What he saw there flung him into the throes of agony. He pressed his forehead deep into the dirt, which softened into mud when mingled with his tears. Jesus felt several small explosions of pain underneath the skin on his face. His tiny capillaries in the sweat glands burst under the stress and blood flowed through his pours and dropped into his eyes. And it stung.

Jesus lifted his head to the sky and cried out, “I will drink from this cup, Father. I will drink from this cup so that your glory may be vindicated and my name may be glorified. And so that the sheep that you have given me will see our glory and enjoy it forever. I will drink on behalf of our rescue mission.”

Just then, through blurry eyes, Jesus saw the line of torches slithering like a snake up the hill to the garden. The mob arrived. Judas kissed. Friends fled. Soldiers arrested. And Jesus’ world became a swirl of torment and mockery.


His trial was a sham as liars lied and mockers mocked. God claimed to be God, and it was called blasphemy. And the face that Moses longed to see — the face that he was forbidden to see — was slapped and spit on. More blood in the eyes; more stinging.


As he was dragged from the High Priest’s house, Jesus managed a bloody-eyed glance at Peter. This friend ran from the garden, but this friend followed. And this friend had done the unthinkable three times. This friend denied the Friend of friends. This friend denied the Friend of sinners. He invoked a curse to lend credence to his denials. And now the cock crowed. And Jesus held Peter in the gaze of Eternal Love. But Peter looked away and ran. Just outside the city gate he stumbled and fell to the ground heaving sobs and considered joining Judas on his tree. But he pleaded to the Father for forgiveness instead. And the Father looked a few hours into the future to Friday afternoon, and, on behalf of what he saw there, he granted Peter the forgiveness he requested.


The Governor of Judea was up early this cold, gray, wet Friday morning. The city still slept as the priests and soldiers led Jesus to the palace of Pontius Pilate. But soon the priests would have a sympathetic crowd as news of Jesus’ arrest passed from house to house.

They leveled their charges: “This man forbids us to pay tribute to Caesar and he calls himself a king.”

Pilate stared intently at Jesus. He questioned him. And found no guilt. Neither did King Herod. So Pilate offered to release Jesus to the swelling crowd. But they chose freedom for the murderer Barabbas instead.

“Then what should I do with Jesus of Nazareth?” Pilate shouted to the mob.

The mob thundered back: “Crucify him! Crucify him!”

And their voices prevailed. Pilate washed his hands and delivered the Innocent One to death.

Next, Jesus was stripped and his hands were tied above his head to a post. A large, shirtless Roman legionnaire stepped toward Jesus fondling a short whip. Several heavy, leather thongs hung off the handle weighed down by the small balls of lead attached near the ends of each. The muscles in the legionnaire’s back and arms bulged as he brought down the heavy whip with full force again and again and again across Jesus’ shoulders and back and buttocks and legs.

The Jews would have been more merciful — no more than thirty-nine lashes. But the Romans extended no such mercy. And the balls of lead yielded large deep bruises. Then the bruises were eventually broken open by the endless blows. The thongs cut through the skin and then they cut deeper into muscles. From behind, Jesus no longer looked human. His skin hung in long, bloody ribbons of tissue.

Fearing they had gone too far and killed Jesus before it was time, the soldiers cut him loose. He fell in an unconscious heap at their feet.

As Jesus came to he was forced to stand. A purple robe, not his own, was wrapped around him and clung to his open wounds. They made him hold a stick — a mock scepter. And now the King of the Jews needed a crown. One of the Romans picked up a thorn branch from a pile of firewood and braided it into a circle. Never did thorns compose so rich a crown — or so painful a crown. Another soldier took the scepter from the hand of the King of kings and beat the crown into his skull. Bloody sweat blinded him. And his stinging eyes momentarily took his mind off the pain in his back.
But then the purple robe was torn from Jesus. And ribbons of flesh that adhered to the cloth were ripped off with its removal. Each wound had a voice of its own to shriek its pain. And Jesus collapsed again.


Now Jesus is dressed in his own clothes. And before the merciful centurion can move Jesus along behind the dark man now carrying the cross, an old woman approaches and wipes Jesus’ face with a linen cloth. Jesus looks her in the eyes and then looks to the crowd of weeping women behind her.
And he says, “Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for me, but weep for yourselves and for your children. The days are coming when they will say, ‘Blessed are the wombs that never bore and the breasts that never nursed.’ Then they will say to the mountains, ‘Fall on us,’ and to the hills, ‘Cover us.’”

And to the old woman he adds, “If they do these things when the wood is green, what will happen when it’s dry?”

Then Jesus walks on beyond the city gates. It’s nine o’clock in the morning, Friday.

Through the steady rain Jesus glances up from the base of a rocky hill. It’s named Golgotha — the Skull.

At the top he sees several posts fixed in the ground. Three of those poles stand ready to receive their crossbeams and the tattered body of Jesus and the two criminals carrying their crosses behind him.
At the top of the hill the merciful centurion hands Jesus a cup. Jesus sniffs the liquid. It’s wine mixed with myrrh, a mild narcotic to dull the pain. But Jesus is meant to feel all the pain. So he hands the cup back. This is not the cup of the Father.

A soldier strips Jesus. Again his back is set on fire as skin tears away with the cloth.

Jesus now lays naked in the dirt. The dark man places the crossbeam by Jesus’ head. This time Jesus sees his face. It is Simon of Cyrene. Jesus knows him by name and did before there was time.

The beam becomes his pillow now. Two men take hold of his hands. The soldier on his left yanks his arm as far as it will go. But the soldier to his right is gentler. Jesus turns to him. It’s the merciful centurion again. He picks up a cold spike and places it to Jesus’ wrist. Then he picks up a hammer. Their eyes meet. Eternal Love shines forth again, and the centurion is undone. He looks away and lifts his hammer.

In that moment Jesus hears his own word of power: the word of power that holds the merciful centurion in existence, the word of power that causes the hammer to be. He’s speaking it all into being: the soldiers, the priests, the thieves, the friends, the mothers, the brothers, the mob, the wooden beams, the spikes, the thorns, the ground beneath him, and the dark clouds gathering above. If he ceases to speak they will all cease to be. But he wills that they remain. So the soldiers live on, and the hammers come crashing down.

Jesus is lifted on his crossbeam to the post. He sags held only by the spikes in his wrists. Jesus designed the median nerves in his arms that are working perfectly now. The pain shoots up those nerves and explodes in his skull as the crossbeam is set in place.

His left foot is now pressed against his right foot. Both feet are extended, toes down, and a spike is driven through the arch of each. His knees are bent.

Jesus immediately pushes himself up to relieve the pain in his outstretched arms. He places his full weight on the spikes in his feet and they tear through the nerves between the metatarsal bones. Splinters from the post pierce his lacerated back — searing agony.

Quickly waves of cramps overtake him — deep, throbbing pain from his head to his toes. He’s no longer able to push himself up and his knees buckle.

He’s hanging now by his arms. His pectoral muscles are paralyzed and his intercostals are useless. Jesus can inhale, but he cannot exhale. His compressed heart is struggling to pump blood to his torn tissue. He fights to raise himself in order to breathe and in order to speak.

He looks down at the soldiers now gambling for his clothes. He pushes himself up through the violent pain to pray aloud, “Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they do.”

Then he sags back into silence. But the crowd is not silent, though he can barely hear their taunts through the din of his pain.

“He saved others, let him save himself!”

“If you’re the Christ, come down off the cross!”

“Save yourself, King of the Jews!”

The criminal on the cross to his left joins the mockery. But the thief to his right repents. Jesus pushes himself up to say to him, “Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in paradise.”


It’s noon now. The rain falls harder and the clouds blacken. Jesus looks down through wet strands of hair into the familiar face of a woman. A new pain grips him — greater pain than all the whips and spikes in the Kingdom of Rome. It’s his mother. She’s sobbing so hard that her breathing is as labored as his. Without words she looks into his eyes and begs to know why. He longs to hold her and to tell her that it’s all for her. He pushes upward and says, “Woman.” Then he looks his friend John in the eyes. John is standing behind her supporting his own weeping mother. “He is now your son.”

Then to John Jesus murmurs, “And she is now your mother. Take her away from here.”

And he sags back into silence, back into countless hours of limitless pain.


Then Jesus is startled by a foul odor. It isn’t the stench of open wounds. It’s something else. And it crawls inside him. He looks up to his Father. His Father looks back, but Jesus doesn’t recognize these eyes. They pierce the invisible world with fire and darken the visible sky. And Jesus feels dirty. He hangs between earth and heaven filthy with human discharge on the outside and, now, filthy with human wickedness on the inside.

The Father speaks:

Son of Man! Why have you sinned against me and heaped scorn on my great glory?

You are self-sufficient and self-righteous — consumed with yourself and puffed up and selfishly ambitious.

You rob me of my glory and worship what’s inside of you instead of looking out to the One who created you.

You are a greedy, lazy, gluttonous slanderer and gossip.

You are a lying, conceited, ungrateful, cruel adulterer.

You practice sexual immorality; you make pornography, and fill you mind with vulgarity.

You exchange my truth for a lie and worship the creature instead of the Creator. And so you are given up to your homosexual passions, dressing immodestly, and lusting after what is forbidden.

With all your heart you love perverse pleasure.

You hate your brother and murder him with the bullets of anger fired from your own heart.

You kill babies for your convenience.

You oppress the poor and deal slaves and ignore the needy.

You persecute my people.

You love money and prestige and honor.

You put on a cloak of outward piety, but inside you are filled with dead men’s bones — you hypocrite!

You are lukewarm and easily enticed by the world.

You covet and can’t have so you murder.

You are filled with envy and rage and bitterness and unforgiveness.

You blame others for your sin and are too proud to even call it sin.

You are never slow to speak.

And you have a razor tongue that lashes and cuts with its criticism and sinful judgment.

Your words do not impart grace. Instead your mouth is a fountain of condemnation and guilt and obscene talk.

You are a false prophet leading people astray.

You mock your parents.

You have no self-control.

You are a betrayer who stirs up division and factions.

You’re a drunkard and a thief.

You’re an anxious coward.

You do not trust me.

You blaspheme against me.

You are an un-submissive wife.

And you are a lazy, disengaged husband.

You file for divorce and crush the parable of my love for the church.

You’re a pimp and a drug dealer.

You practice divination and worship demons.

The list of your sins goes on and on and on and on. And I hate these things inside of you. I’m filled with disgust, and indignation for your sin consumes me.

Now, drink my cup!

And Jesus does. He drinks for hours. He downs every drop of the scalding liquid of God’s own hatred of sin mingled with his white-hot wrath against that sin. This is the Father’s cup: omnipotent hatred and anger for the sins of every generation past, present, and future — omnipotent wrath directed at one naked man hanging on a cross.

The Father can no longer look at his beloved Son, his heart’s treasure, the mirror-image of himself. He looks away.

Jesus pushes himself upward and howls to heaven, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

Silence.

Separation.

Jesus whispers, “I’m thirsty,” and he sags.

The merciful centurion soaks a sponge in sour wine and lifts it on a reed to Jesus’ lips. And the sour wine is the sweetest drink he ever tasted.

Jesus pushes himself up again and cries, “It is finished.” And it is. Every sin of every child of God has been laid on Jesus and he drank the cup of God’s wrath dry.

It’s three o’clock, Friday afternoon, and Jesus finds one more surge of strength. He presses his torn feet against the spikes, straightens his legs, and with one last gasp of air cries out, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit!”

And he dies.

The merciful centurion sees Jesus’ body fall far forward and his head drop low. He thrusts a spear up behind Jesus’ ribs—one more piercing for our transgression—and water and blood flow out of his broken heart.

In that moment mountains shake and rocks spilt; veils tear and tombs open.

And the merciful centurion looks up at the lifeless body of Jesus and is filled with awe. He drops to his knees and declares, “Truly this man was the Son of God!”

Mission accomplished. Sacrifice accepted.

http://www.desiringgod.org/blog/posts/the-fathers-cup-good-friday

A Little Child Will Lead Them

I want to pass on a story that Joe Thompson told us last night at deacons meeting.  I hope it blesses and challenges you as much as it did me.

You may already be familiar with our annual youth group fundraiser involving the silent auction of baskets.  If not, allow me to explain.  Each year several small groups in our church put together baskets filled with goodies to be auctioned off to raise funds for the youth group to participate in their summer camp activity.  For several weeks, these baskets sit in a hallway for all to see.  People stop by and write their name along with their bid on a sheet of paper in front of each box.  At the end of the designated period of time, the person who has made the highest bid "wins" the basket.  They pay up, then they get the basket.  Everyone else who made bids is out of luck.

This whole process recently came to its conclusion for the year.  Several people were tracking Joe down to pay for their baskets and enjoy their new goodies.  One very special 9 year old member of our church named Rachel found Joe last week.  She approached him with an envelope that appeared to be full of money.  Joe said he immediately began to feel bad for her and assumed that she had misunderstood.  You see, her bid was not the winning bid.  Someone else had won the basket she desired.

Joe said he began to explain the situation to her when she interrupted him.  "I know I didn't win the basket," she said.  "But I committed to God to give this money whether I won the basket or not.  I just want to help out."  You can imagine Joe's response at that moment.  It was probably a lot like yours right now.  Joe told us that he took some time to tell her how much he appreciated her sacrifice and how he looked forward to seeing how God would use her gift to help out a teenager in need.

Around here at FBC, we say "WOOF" to that.

I hope this little story encourages your heart.  I also hope it also challenges you.  Rachel has much to teach us and we are thankful to God for her.

Yesterday. What a Day!

Yesterday was a really full and really good day at First Baptist Church in Harrisburg. 

It started off on the right foot in prayer with some brothers early in the morning.  I talked to them about how full my heart was from the previous week at Together for the Gospel.  I learned so many things from God's Word.  HE spoke all week with power and authority.  Sometimes it felt good.  Other times it hurt.  In fact, sometimes it was crushing.  While my heart was full, my body was weak from running in the River to River Relay with a team from the church on Saturday.  I asked the guys to pray for supernatural strength, energy and clarity.  They did, and God provided each in abundance.

After prayer time, I headed to Small Group Bible Study.  I had been out of my normal class for a few weeks to fill in teaching my brother's class while he was in Africa.  It was good to be back with my normal group.  They are special.  The room was full of young couples.  In fact, there were so many there yesterday that we didn't have enough room at the table and some had to sit in the "cheap seats."  One of the interesting things about this class is the number of infant children that come in with their mothers because they are still nursing.  Those little babies make every one smile.  I love that group of people.  I love what they represent at First Baptist Church.  I love what seems to be the trajectory we are headed on for the future!

After SGBS, it was off to worship. We were celebrating believers baptism, so I went to change into my waders.  I was reminded of some preaching I had heard last week at T4G about the celebration that takes place when a sinner repents.  So, I talked about this before we baptized Kaden.  I invited people to rejoice like the neighbors of the shepherd after he had found his lost sheep; like the friends of the woman rejoiced after she found her lost coin; and like the servants of the father after the Prodigal Son returned home.  We want to rejoice along with The Father and share in His joy when we hear of someones conversion and when we see them step into the waters of baptism.  It is truly a celebration!

• Luke 15
• 4“What man of you, having a hundred sheep, if he has lost one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the open country, and go after the one that is lost, until he finds it? 5And when he has found it, he lays it on his shoulders, rejoicing. 6And when he comes home, he calls together his friends and his neighbors, saying to them, ‘Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep that was lost.’ 7Just so, I tell you, there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance.
• 8 “Or what woman, having ten silver coins, if she loses one coin, does not light a lamp and sweep the house and seek diligently until she finds it? 9And when she has found it, she calls together her friends and neighbors, saying, ‘Rejoice with me, for I have found the coin that I had lost.’ 10Just so, I tell you, there is joy before the angels of God over one sinner who repents.”
• 21And the son said to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son.’ 22But the father said to his servants,‘Bring quickly the best robe, and put it on him, and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet. 23And bring the fattened calf and kill it, and let us eat and celebrate. 24For this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found.’ And they began to celebrate.  

After worship, I headed home to change into work clothes before lunch.  Even lunch was special yesterday as we shared it with some dear friends before heading to the high school for a community service project.  At the high school about 75 people from 3 different churches joined together to rake, dig, mulch, rock, and laugh.  It was beautiful.  In the planning we totally underestimated both the number of people that would participate and the amount of work they could get done.  Consequently, we were able to complete the project in about half the time we expected it would take.  It was a great afternoon as we saw families working together.  We saw churches working together.  All of this was for the glory of God and the good of our community.  Like I said, it was beautiful.

Then, we headed back to FBC for a meal.  This too was a special time of fellowship around a very simple dinner.  It nourished both our bodies and our souls and prepared us well for the joint choir event called Palm Sunday Worship.  5 churches.  5 Choirs.  Nearly 100 voices.  All joined together to worship the Risen Lord.  It was glorious!  I told someone that the experience was like being launched into orbit on a rocket ship.  We took off at breakneck speed and never slowed down.  We reached incredible heights and saw glorious things.  It was a night I won't soon forget.  I am very thankful for Jason Brannock and his leadership in this event.  I am always impressed by his love for the church and The Church.  Last night those two came together in a special way.  We are blessed to have him leading us to sing the truth here at FBC.

I wrote all of this not because I think you are interested in the details of my day, but to say how glad I am to serve as pastor of First Baptist Church.  I want to say how proud I am of the members of this church.  I want to encourage you to keep up the good work.  And I want to say that if you missed out on all of this, you missed out on something really special.

I just passed a deacon in the hallway.  He said, "Yesterday was a full day full of goodness."  Right on.