Good Friday Stupidity

What Were They Thinking?

Naked, beaten, bleeding, and gasping for breath on the cross, Jesus prayed, “Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they’re doing.” (Luke 23:34)

Really? We might ask: How could they not know what they were doing? How could they be so stupid?

But then along comes Dietrich Bonhoeffer, writing his “Letters and Papers from Prison” in a Nazi prison cell, knowing he will die because of his opposition to Hitler. Sometimes his words are both surprising and disturbingly accurate.

Does this sound familiar?

On Stupidity

“Stupidity is a more dangerous enemy of the good than malice. One may protest against evil; it can be exposed and, if need be, prevented … Against stupidity we are defenseless … reasons fall on deaf ears; facts that contradict one’s prejudices simply need not be believed … when facts are irrefutable they are just pushed aside as inconsequential.”

Bonhoeffer went on to describe what many of us experience.

“The stupid person is often stubborn … one virtually feels that one is dealing not at all with him as a person, but with slogans, catchwords, and the like … He is under a spell, blinded, misused, and abused in his very being … Having thus become a mindless tool, the stupid person will also be capable of any evil and at the same time incapable of seeing that it is evil.“

There’s a lot of that kind of stupidity going around these days! Is there any hope of overcoming it? Bonhoeffer answered:

“Only an act of liberation, not instruction, can overcome stupidity … the internal liberation of human beings to live the responsible life before God is the only genuine way to overcome stupidity.” (p.43-44)

Father, Forgive Our Stupidity

Jesus’ prayer could be the starting point for liberation from stubborn stupidity as we confess our responsibility for what happened on that dark, stupid Friday.

Father, forgive our stupidity…
… when we, like the religious and political leaders who sent Jesus to the cross, know exactly what we are doing, but do it anyway to protect our shallow grasp of power;
… when we, like the easily manipulated crowds, fall prey to persuasive forces that play on grievance, anger, resentment, prejudice and inherited racism, thereby becoming “capable of any evil and incapable of seeing that it is evil”;
… when we, like Jesus’ disciples (except the women), run away and deny who you are and who we are called to be as your followers;
… when we, like Pilate, deny the truth we know for political, social or economic expediency;
… when we, like the soldiers who nailed Jesus to the cross, hide from personal responsibility for the suffering we cause in the name of simply doing what is required;
… when we think we no longer need to confess our sin and receive the undeserved gift of your forgiveness and grace;
… when we are too busy to stop, be still, and stand in awe of the extravagance of what happened at the cross.

Father, forgive our stupidity as we pray:

Merciful God,
we confess that we have not loved you with our whole heart.
We have failed to be an obedient church.
We have not done your will,
we have broken your law,
we have rebelled against your love,
we have not loved our neighbors,
and we have not heard the cry of the needy.
Forgive us, we pray.
Free us for joyful obedience,
through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

I encourage you to find a quiet place today or tomorrow to read the story (Luke 22:39-23:56). Then pause and listen to Isaac Watts’ magnificent hymn here.

When I survey the wondrous cross
on which the Prince of glory died,
my richest gain I count but loss,
and pour contempt on all my pride.

Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast
save in the death of Christ, my God!
All the vain things that charm me most,
I sacrifice them through his blood.

See, from his head, his hands, his feet,
sorrow and love flow mingled down.
Did e’er such love and sorrow meet,
or thorns compose so rich a crown?

Were the whole realm of nature mine,
that were a present far too small.
Love so amazing, so divine,
demands my soul, my life, my all. 

Grace and peace,

Jim