Jesus Minus Miranda

You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense.

That’s the minimum presentation of the famous Miranda Rights.  Did Jesus get His rights read to Him?  Of course not.  Western jurisprudence, as we know it, wasn’t around yet.  It looks as though He just got a kiss from Judas at the time of arrest.  So much for the whole “innocent until proven guilty” thing.  In Jesus’ case, the “squeaky wheel got the grease.” Pilate caved.

Looking at today’s Good Friday Gospel through the lense of Miranda, did He remain silent?  Yes and no.  Was what He said used against Him in court?  Yes and no.  He wasn’t really “in court” as we know it today.  Probably the closest thing was the praetorium in Jerusalem. 

Was there an attorney?  Absolutely not.  He was on His own.  The ones closest to Him fled.  Did the governments behind the accusers (Jewish and Roman) cover His legal fees?  Nothing is said.  Think of it:  the Creator of the rolling spheres, ineffably sublime, cannot afford an attorney. 

Don Henley sings:

Happily ever after fails;

We’ve been poisoned by these fairy tales;

The lawyers dwell on small details.

This is the end of the innocence.

It certainly sounds like it.  “My God, My God why have You forsaken me?”  That’s from Psalm 22 – as we heard it most recently at the stripping of the chancel last night.  It’s a good working definition of hell:  to be forsaken of God.  Jesus claims to have experienced it.    As far as Pilate, Caiaphas, Herod, the screaming crowds calling for his crucifixion, and, most specifically, those who nailed Him to the tree are concerned, it’s “Father, forgive them; they know not what they do.”

So often, we think we know what we are doing. Only later do we discover that the more we know, the more we know what we don’t know.  It is said that “The arc of history bends toward justice.”  No doubt, at Calvary it was meted out.  Whether that justice was deserved or not by the three men executed was an altogether different question.  Looking at Jesus, one of them said:  “This man has done nothing wrong.  Remember me.” In the end, remembrance is powerful stuff.  How precious it is to be remembered.  You are here.  I am here.  You were here on this earth.  I was here on this earth.  No, we didn’t split the atom or come up with the microchip, but we loved our children and we did as best as we could.   And all of that somehow MATTERED.   Jesus replied:  “Today you shall be with me in paradise.”  That’s how much it matters.

The Creator of the nuclear family did a bit more creating. A blended family was born that day.   He gave over His mother to His friend, the disciple that “he loved.” 

Of course He was thirsty.  Forsaken by the Father, He still, astonishingly, commits His Spirit to Him.  What shall we do with our spirits, our souls, when every fiber of our being cries out that God is not around?  “My spirit.  It’s all in Your hands, Lord.”

Tetelestai, cries Jesus.  “It is finished.”  We need a doctor to verify that for legal purposes.  Hospice nurse gets a hold of attending physician.  Attending physician signs death certificate.  Jesus, with His Words, signed His own.  Who really is calling the shots on Good Friday?

He bowed His head and gave up His spirit.  No need at all to make this a we/they thing, an anti-Semitic thing, a race thing.  “They” did not take His life.  The blame game doesn’t fit with Good Friday.  Jesus gave up His life on His terms.  Again, who is really in charge here?

Ultimate justice, quite simply, would have found us without recourse to Miranda rights.  Nevertheless, in the mystery of the ages, ultimate justice was flipped to Jesus.  All that’s left to say is that this puts us, now, on the receiving end of grace. 

“He suffered once – the just for the unjust – to bring us to God.” And here we thought it was we who brought ourselves to God.  So much for that tomfoolery.

Farewell, Miranda.  We have the right to be joyful and to not remain silent about the grace and love that was extended to us on that “green hill, so far away, outside the city wall.”

O dearly, dearly has He loved,

And we must love Him too,

And trust in His redeeming blood,

And try His works to do.

Amen.