The Curious Case of the Missing Cross--April 30, 2020

The Curious Case of the Missing Cross--April 30, 2020

[Peter said to the religious leaders:] "The God of our ancestors raised up Jesus, whom you killed by hanging him on a tree. God exalted him at his right hand as Leader and Savior that he might give repentance to Israel and forgiveness of sins." [Acts 5:30-31]

So, I was today years old when I learned something really surprising: there's no cross in the book of Acts.  It has gone missing.

"Now, wait!" I can sense you thinking, "Jesus died on the cross before the story of Acts takes place!  That's why there's no cross! This is just a trick of the preacher."  And you would be half-right: the story of Jesus' crucifixion is told in the first part of Luke's two-volume work, what we call the Gospel according to Luke.  So yes, there is not another crucifixion scene in the sequel that we call Acts.  But that's not really what I have in mind... and there's no trick in what follows.  Check me on it if it seems surprising to you, too.

While there is no second narration from Luke about the crucifixion of Jesus, there are indeed lots of points where the followers of Jesus retell the story of Good Friday and Easter Sunday as they share the Good News with people.  And that's where the curious absence of crosses got my attention.  See, while Luke records people like Peter talking about how Jesus "was crucified," he doesn't ever use the word "cross" in the book of Acts.  That's weird at one level, because he obviously knew the word and had no problem using it in the first volume, where Jesus both talks about "carrying your cross" and has to have Simon of Cyrene carry his literal "cross" to the place of his execution. 

But here's the surprising thing.  In the book of Acts, while there is no mention of a cross, there is, in its place, a "tree."

Now, you could say I'm splitting hairs, and you could point out that it's still a Roman death stake.  You could point out that the Romans didn't really care whether they strung you up from a dead wooden post or tied you up to a tree--the point wasn't the uniformity, but rather the cruelty. And those things would be true, of course: sometimes they crucified you on a beam of lumber, and sometimes they would use a tree--just like in the American South the smiling crowds of churchgoing folks had no problem lynching people from a live tree or a gallows.  Dead is dead, right?  Domination is domination.  All of that is true.

But I don't think that Luke is being sloppy here.  I don't think it's a slip of his pen that every instance leading up to Good Friday sees this instrument of torture as a "cross," and then that every mention on the other side of Easter talks about it as a "tree." I think there is a method to Luke's madness, and it is the difference between cut lumber and a living plant.

On the other side of Easter, Luke starts calling the cross a "tree" because even the instrument of death itself has become the means for life.  And this is the real genius of Luke's storytelling: he wants us to see that what the powers of the day used for death, God used for bringing life.  What the empire and the crooked, arrogant emperor on top of it saw as a means of domination, God used for liberation.  What Caesar, Pilate, and the religious leaders intended to use to condemn, God used to save and set free.  What the political and religious leaders saw only as a cross (dead and death-dealing), the followers of Jesus could now see as a tree (alive and life-giving).

This is the transformation that Jesus' resurrection accomplishes--even the means of death itself becomes the instrument of life.

And if we can recognize that subtle but powerful change in the way Luke words his story, maybe we will recognize God transforming the marks of death all around us into signs of life.  Maybe there's no place in creation that is off limits to God.  Maybe the very things we think are no good, not usable for good purposes, and utterly hopeless become the elements through which God brings all of creation to life again in Christ.

All of this conversation reminds me of a brilliant insight of Frederick Buechner's. He writes, "A six-pointed star, a crescent moon, a lotus--the symbols of other religions suggest beauty and light.  The symbol of Christianity is an instrument of death.  It suggests, at the very least, hope."  I think he's on to something.  Part of the beautiful scandal of Christianity (as opposed to the ugly scandals that happen when we pair our faith with the quest for political power, money, or televangelism) is that we have been dared by writers like Luke to use our faithful imaginations to see death-dealing crosses and life-giving trees.  And if that kind of transformation is possible, well, my goodness... God could use even the meager stuff of this day in the middle of a pandemic to bring about a little resurrection.

Here, O God, are all of our crosses.  Turn them into trees by your creative power.