Easter, 1960. Forgiveness breaks the chain of causality because he who “forgives” you—out of love—takes upon himself the consequences of what
you
have done. Forgiveness, therefore, always entails a sacrifice.
The price you must pay for your own liberation through another’s sacrifice is that you in turn must be willing to liberate in the same way, irrespective of the consequences to yourself.
23
This utterly penetrating observation, validated by Dag Hammarskjöld’s own life and death, makes it clear what is at stake when we talk of representative atonement: love forgives, but it cannot forgive the consequences of sin because they are long since buried within history. The chain of causality set in place by sin continues of itself. If love is genuine it therefore not only forgives but takes responsibility for the consequences of what the other has done. And that costs something. It cannot happen without sacrifice, and it can only succeed if many work to heal the consequences of others’ guilt. Dag Hammarskjöld indicates that when he says that one’s own liberation obligates one to give oneself for the liberation of others. So arises a new chain of causality that works against the causal chain of guilt.
When the New Testament tradition speaks of Jesus’ atoning death, it means that through his death—which was utterly and entirely death for others, self-emptying to the ultimate degree, agap
“Atonement” and the People of God
So Jesus’ death did not effect any magical redemption applied to the redeemed in some mysterious and opaque manner. That Jesus died for our sins does not mean that we ourselves need no longer die to sin. His death is not a substitute action but the cause and enabling of a process of liberation that goes on. But the social basis on which it continues is the eschatological people of God, which had already begun with the creation of the Twelve. But it was only Jesus’ self-surrender for the sake of Israel, even to death, that made possible the new chain of causality and endowed the world definitively with redemption and liberation. The Fourth Evangelist says it in an impressive image:
Standing near the cross of Jesus was his mother, and his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene. When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple whom he loved standing beside her, he said to his mother, “Woman, here is your son.” Then he said to the disciple, “Here is your mother.” And from that hour the disciple took her into his own home. (John 19:25-27)
This scene may indeed signify the legitimation of the Beloved Disciple as witness to the tradition.24 But there is something still more fundamental at work here: Jesus is founding a new family, the basis on which people who have nothing at all in common can join together in unreserved solidarity. It is the place where true reconciliation with God and one another is possible. But human beings cannot of themselves create that possibility. It must come from the cross and be founded in the death of Jesus.
I have tried to show that in Jesus’ death his message of the reign of God reached its most profound depths. When, at the Last Supper, he interpreted his coming death as a representative “atoning death” he did not take back his previous proclamation of God’s mercy but instead demonstrated the social reality of that mercy. God is not content merely to forgive. In the death of Jesus God bestows the social location where guilt and its consequences can be eliminated. A message about the loving Father God separated and isolated from that whole context not only fails to recognize the powers in society; it also ignores the web of evil in history. It takes no account of the world’s reality. It is absolutely unworldly.
In view of Jesus’ previous proclamation, however, his death shows something different: it reveals in all clarity the hidden and humble form of the reign of God as I spoke of it at the beginning of this book, in chapter 2. The reign of God does not come without persecution and sacrifice. It comes precisely where Jesus himself can do no more, but surrenders and sacrifices himself for the sake of God’s truth. How did Jesus’ self-sacrifice look in its concrete form?
Chapter 17
His Last Day
It is impossible to write a life of Jesus with the fullness and linkage of events required by a biography. The gospels do not provide the material—with one exception, namely, Jesus’ last day. That can be rather precisely reconstructed on the basis of the passion account in Mark’s gospel. Behind Mark 14–15 there must stand ancient traditions, carefully handed down, and behind those traditions the memories of eyewitnesses, because these two chapters recount a connected set of events and offer an unusually large number of concrete details.
Merely a glance at the numerous personal names found in Mark’s passion account is enlightening: Simon the Leper, Judas Iscariot, Peter, James, John, Pilate, Barabbas, Simon of Cyrene, Alexander, Rufus, Mary Magdalene, Mary the (daughter?/mother?) of James the Younger, Mary the mother of Joses, Salome, Joseph of Arimathea. On the other hand, Mark does not speak of the current high priest by name. Matthew and Luke saw this omission and corrected it. In contrast to Mark, they name the high priest: he was called Caiaphas (Matt 26:3; Luke 3:2; cf. John 11:49). This could be evidence that the passion narrative Mark is drawing on is very ancient. The New Testament scholar Rudolf Pesch argued that if someone telling a story today simply refers to the president, in general the reference is taken to be to the one currently in office and not an earlier one.1 In the same way, the pre-Markan passion story spoke of the high priest. Does it then go back to the time when Caiaphas was still in office? He was high priest from 18 to 37 CE.
Gethsemane
The Passover meal ended, at that time, with the singing of the little Hallel, that is, Psalms 114(115)–118. Mark says that Jesus and his disciples went to the Mount of Olives after having sung the hymn (14:26). Even this rather minor observation, which seems almost an aside, shows that Jesus celebrated a Passover meal.
At the foot of the Mount of Olives, in a place called Gethsemane, Jesus was overcome with deep anxiety. “He began to be distressed and agitated” (Mark 14:33). Jesus sees death approaching, and he struggles with God in prayer: “Abba, Father, for you all things are possible; remove this cup from me; yet, not what I want, but what you want” (Mark 14:36). On the one hand this prayer depicts Jesus’ profound trust in his Father: the Aramaic abba is not attested as an address in the prayers of Judaism at that time. It is the trusting and loving address of children, but also of adult sons and daughters, to their father.2 So according to the text Jesus prays with childlike trust. On the other hand he struggles with God, because when he speaks of the “cup” he wants to have pass by him, that is biblical language. It is the cup of wrath and of desolation,3 in this case the cup of death. This makes it clear that Jesus is pleading not to have to die. We dare not detract from that, and it must not be drained of its significance. Jesus—according to the narrative—fell into deep fear. On the other hand, he places his life completely in his Father’s hand. It probably contributed to his fear and distress that the most trusted members of the group of the Twelve—Peter, James, and John—have left him alone in his time of crisis. They do not understand. They keep falling asleep.