What does it mean to be the king in this moment? That’s what we are struggling with on Good Friday. If we decide to preach – and there are plenty of reasons why we shouldn’t; we should let the scripture be the voice proclaimed today – then we have to figure out some way of addressing the issue of the king who is killed. No, that’s not even it. Kings are killed all the time. Just a casual glance through the history of the monarchy in various nations will show us that. But rarely do kings hand over their lives so willingly. We tend to prefer displays of power. We respect strength. It is hard to understand the goodness of this day or of this act. And yet we gather on this day because our faith says this is a central moment for us. So, we come to wrestle. But where do we start?

There are so many avenues to take for this worship moment. The lectionary gives us two whole chapters from the Gospel of John. Again, we could simply read it or major parts of it, and let it stand as the proclamation for this act of worship. Perhaps offer a Tenebrae style of worship, with the dimming of lights or putting out of candles to signify the encroaching gloom. This might be the most effect sermon you could deliver on this day.

But if you feel the need to preach, choose a moment over which to reflect. A common approach is to look at the seven last words from the cross. Some communities come together with other churches and denominations for a three-hour service touching on all seven words. But that might be a bit much for a single congregation to endure. The last of the seven words seems most appropriate for this service— maybe comparing John’s final word with Luke’s.

When Jesus had received the wine, he said, "It is finished"; and he bowed his head and gave up his spirit (John 19:30 NRSV).

Then Jesus, crying with a loud voice, said, "Father, into thy hands I commit my spirit!" And having said this he breathed his last. When the centurion saw what had taken place, he praised God, and said, "Certainly this man was innocent!" And all the multitudes who assembled to see the sight, when they saw what had taken place, returned home beating their breasts. And all his acquaintances and the women who had followed him from Galilee stood at a distance watching these things (Luke 23:46-49 NRSV).

We could have just chosen verse 46 from Luke 23, like we chose only one verse from John's nineteenth chapter. Of all of the words, these two are the most personal for Jesus. I'm not sure that the centurion's comment adds much to our understanding of what was going on with Jesus. It does show us one response to his death that we might emulate, but it doesn't really help us hear the theological meaning of what Jesus said. Likewise with the other responses presented there in Luke's Gospel. Those who were beating their breasts might have been moved by what took place, might have been troubled and convicted by what they observed, just as we are. Or they might have just been going through the motions, professional mourners doing their jobs, not really being touched, not really being challenged by what they saw. And it is possible that many of us are like those women who followed, and while we want to be present, we want to be connected to this man, to this death, we also want to keep some distance while we watch. To save our own skin perhaps, to keep a little cleaner, to invest a little of ourselves but not too much.

I shouldn't condemn those women, however. At least they were there. And even at a distance, they couldn't help but be affected by what they saw.

But all of that is really beside the point here. Jesus' words would have been just as important, just as rife with possibility, if he had been completely alone on that skull-like hill that Friday afternoon. That is what I mean by saying that these words were the most personal of all the words.

None of the seven words appear in all four gospels. Most of them appear in one only. “My God, My God” appears in two - Matthew and Mark, but the rest only in one each.

However, an argument could be made that the sixth word, “It is finished" appears in all four. Certainly not as written, not in those words, so don't go running for your gospel concordance. However, if you look at Matthew and Mark, you will find the notation that just before he died, just before he gave up his spirit (and that difference is vitally important - as we'll see in a moment), he cried out in a loud voice.

Some folks interpret that cry as a last gasp of pain, as surrender or collapse. But given what else we read, I doubt that very much. In Greek, the sixth word is not a phrase or a sentence, it is one word: "telesthai." "Telesthai" could be translated as "Finished!" Or "Done!" It is a cry of triumph, of completion, not of resignation or surrender. It is the cry of the runner finishing the marathon; it is the shout of the artist completing the work of art; it is the weary laugh of the mother who has given birth. "Finished!"

Jesus was crossing something off the list that his Father had given him to do. He was beaten and bloody; he was torn and bruised; he was breathing his last ragged breaths, but he was triumphant. And he was in control.

Here is a key understanding to the whole Crucifixion event. Jesus wasn't killed; he gave up his life. Matthew, Mark, and Luke all say, "He breathed his last." He was the subject, not the object, of that sentence. He was in control. He was the actor, not the reactor. John says it even more plainly - "He gave up his spirit." He handed over all that he was to the Father. For us.

That brings us to the final word. Luke's loud cry is wrapped around a different word. "Into Your Hands," he shouts. This is the completion of the task that he was given—to return to all that he was before the incarnation, to reclaim his role in the Trinity, or to sit at the right hand of the Father. So, the seventh word doesn't announce completion; it accomplishes it.

And it shows us the way. Jesus' final word from the cross not only shows us how to die, it shows us how to live. In the hands of the Father.