Arcane Celestial Madness

Our exploration of the woodcuts used to illustrate the classic Grande Bible de Tours, etched by renowned French artist Gustave Doré, continues the drama of Calvary with Luke 23:34-35—

Then Jesus said, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” And they cast lots to divide his clothing. And the people stood by watching, but the leaders scoffed at him, saying, “He saved others; let him save himself if he is the Messiah of God, his chosen one!”

Father, forgive them, they know not what they do.

That verse still stuns me. I need to stop and put my Bible down to breathe.

The Romans had made death into an art. Who else could come up with something like the poena cullei—sewing someone inside of a sack with wild beasts, then tossing them together into the Tiber so that the animals in panic would tear apart the man? Who else could have imagined, let alone planned and executed, the symphony of death played out within the Colosseum?

No matter how bad you may think that it was, I promise you that the reality was so much worse. Find a copy of Mannix’ Those About to Die, if you dare. You’ll need a strong stomach.

Rome did not create the cross, but she made it into her calling card. Crucifixion didn’t simply kill a person. It tortured them, humiliated them, agonized them, so that they would have begged for death, if only their lungs weren’t collapsing. It was spectacle and sadism and profound political statement, laid out for all the world to see, and all for the bargain basement price of a few nails and some wood. Meanwhile, the men who carried it out proved so blasé that they cast lots.

Any sensible god would have burned the world for such an offense, would have commanded the planet Mars to come knock the Earth out from under his feet. But what does Jesus say to His executioners, His torturers, these fiends in human flesh? “Father, forgive them.” Forgive them! Forgive His murderers even as they murder Him! What arcane celestial madness is this?

Such, for me, is the divinity of Christ. Not the wonders nor the wisdom, not the powers He possesses, but this defiant declaration of His mercy in His agony—good God! What can we do against that? How can we resist this sort of a God, who takes into Himself all of our anger, our hatred, our violence, our savagery, and drowns them in the ocean of His love? Fire and steel and blood we can ken, but grace without limit, love beyond death?

We are powerless, impotent. All we can do is weep and bow.

Luke’s is the only Gospel account that records this prayer of Jesus, and even many manuscripts of Luke have left it out. This appears to be the case not because the verse is a latter insertion, but because these words of Christ were so radical, so shocking, that many scribes simply chose to leave them out. The implications prove too scandalous, too overwhelming. They humble us even today, we who killed the Christ, we who yet are Rome.

Humanity threw absolutely everything we had at Him; murdered Him in the worst way we knew how; poured out into Him all of our sadistic rage; cast Him down to the deepest pits of hell—and there He conquered! By death has death been slain! We cannot stop a God like this; we could barely slow Him down. His grace is inexorable. We could better hope to hold the sea.

“Father, forgive them, they know not what they do.” What can we do against that, a love like that, a prayer like that? Not a damn thing. He slays our ego, pulverizes pretenses, and raises us anew to life in Him. The one whom we killed has conquered the world. Thanks be to God.