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Just before the Last Supper, “Satan entered into Judas, the one surnamed Iscariot” (Lk.22:3), and we recognise that the sword of Simeon’s prophecy hangs over those whom we meet in the Last Supper narrative. Even with Jesus’ chosen disciples, some will fall, some will rise, some will both fall and rise. We can identify with all of them in larger or smaller ways. Jesus sits at table and announces the beginning of the meal that this is to be his last. Bread and cup become and event of Body and Blood, of the whole person and presence of Jesus, which establishes a new relationship of participating in and sharing his life. Tonight the disciples recline around the table with him; tomorrow they will decline to be guests at the board of the cross.
And then it is off to the Mount of Olives: to agony among the generations of olive trees where Jesus lies among them like a protruding root, struggling in prayer to surrender to his Father’s will. For the three apostles with him, it is escapism into sleep. Then comes the pain of betrayal by a friend, the sword-slashing panic by the awakened apostles, and the command of non-violence from Jesus. Arrested and parcelled up in false accusations, Jesus is sent from one judgement seat to another: from Pilate to Herod, from Herod back to Pilate, wrapped in insult. All Jesus’ friends are scattered; even Peter follows only “at a distance.” He, too, is put on trial by a servant girl outside Pilate’s courtroom, and a cock’s crow brings in the verdict of shameful guilt. But when Jesus is brought out, he passes by Peter, turns and looks at him . . . And Peter is saved. He realises that his master will never turn away from him. Then he remembers his master’s words and weeps bitterly at their truth and his untruthfulness. The same realisation, the same remembering, the same tears will save every disciple.
Scourged and mocked, Jesus is led out to his death - the innocent, non-violent victim of the sin of the world. A man from the country, Simon of Cyrene, is made to help him carry his cross, but Jesus is the Servant who will still reach out to others. When some of the women of Jerusalem follow him like a mourning chorus, Jesus ministers to their grief but begs them to make it a larger lamentation for all those who are unfaithful to their God. On Golgotha, Jesus ministers also to the poor criminal who recognised him as a just one. Lover of sinners to the end, Jesus allows the thief to ‘steal’ Paradise from him. Then Luke put’s on Jesus’ lips the words of Psalm 31: “Into your hands I commend my spirit,” a gentler dying prayer than Mark’s or Matthew’s cry of “My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?” Quietly, Jesus escapes, like a bird freed from a trap, into his Father’s hands.