Stations and Benediction - 2.20.26

Dr. Richard Kieckhefer

February 20, 2026

Did I kill Christ?  Did you?  Our hymnal gives one ferocious answer to that question.  The hymn “Ah, holy Jesus” addresses the suffering Christ:

      Who was the guilty?  Who brought this upon thee?

      Alas, my treason, Jesus, hath undone thee.

      ’Twas I, Lord Jesus, I it was denied thee;

      I crucified thee.

            [Johann Heermann, “Ah, holy Jesus”, trans. Robert Bridges, No. 158]

The treason of Judas, the denial of Peter, the crucifixion itself, all that is mine.  This is not an isolated or idiosyncratic way of thinking:  it is an English translation of a German paraphrase of a Latin text, and the formulation is an age-old version of the recognition that Christ died for our sins.  What can that mean?  The devotional culture that brought us the stations of the cross and the Stabat mater was clear on this point:  compassion at the foot of the cross leads to contrition and a sense of responsibility, even guilt.  Had we not sinned, Christ’s sacrifice on the cross would not have been needed.  Yes, according to that long tradition it was our sins that killed Jesus.  Yes, according to that long tradition we crucified him.  What can we make of this message?

Here at the Church of the Atonement we might well ponder the mystery of Christ’s atoning death, and we would have many theologians to help us in our meditation.  We would certainly not wish to deny that we sin, and that Christ’s life, death, and resurrection give us the grace to turn away from sin.  But let us come at this from a different direction, that of devotion more than theology.

The cry “I crucified thee” is the ultimate expression of the devout soul confronted with Christ’s sacrifice on our behalf.  It is the depth of compassion giving voice to the height of contrition.  But how else might we express our compassion?  Like Mary the mother of Christ, like John, like Mary Magdalene and the other Marys, we stand by the foot of the cross and look at Jesus in compassion.  Or like the women of Jerusalem, we seen him carrying his cross and we weep in compassion.  But note carefully what all these figures say to Jesus:  nothing.  Not one of them said a word that is recorded in the gospels.  Their compassion is a gift of presence.  If we have a friend in the hospital, perhaps near death, and we know we should visit him out of compassion, we may be afraid we will not know what to say.  We have a friend affixed to the cross, and we do not know what to say.  But we should follow the example of Jesus’ closest friends and express our compassion most eloquently with our mere presence.

Being there with Christ in meditation is the finest and most eloquent way to be compassionate.  If we find ourselves wanting to say “I am so sorry that I did this to you” we might stop and ask ourselves if that is what the moment calls for.  If we make ourselves present to the birth, the ministry, the passion and death, the resurrection of Christ, if we enter into his life with a sense of wonder, if we share his joys and his agony, being there and being present to him as he is to us is itself an opening to atonement.  There are times for penitence and reconciliation, but first let us be with Christ and focus not just on ourselves and our failings but on him, on the sufferings that will soon give way to glory.  In being with us he allows us to be at one with him, atoned by him.

The medieval visionary Julian of Norwich requested and received the grace to be present with Christ’s lovers and see his Passion with her own eyes, to suffer with him “as others did who loved him,” to suffer with him and with them.  She saw Christ’s pain and then, suddenly, his glory.  She said almost nothing, though on seeing the devil overcome she did laugh.  In one brief exchange with Christ he asked her “Are you well satisfied that I suffered for you?”  “Yes, good Lord, I said; all my thanks to you, good Lord, blessed may you be!”  To which he replied, “If you are satisfied, I am satisfied.”  She did not accuse herself of killing Christ.  She saw the love of Christ in his suffering, in his overcoming of evil, in his glorification.  Chiefly what she did was see and be seen, be present to him as he was to her.  And the devotional culture in which she was steeped had taught her to be drawn into that vision, to see Christ with his cross, on his cross, come down from his cross.  Which is our calling as well, our reason for being here now tonight.