Sometimes they crowd his way and his sweet praises sing,

resounding all the day hosannas to their King.

Then “Crucify!” is all their breath,

and for his death they thirst and cry.

[My Song is Love Unknown, Samuel Crossman, verse 3]

One of the fundamental themes of Holy Week is the powerful spin from the commendation of Palm Sunday to the condemnation of Good Friday. What makes things flip so fast?

How is it possible for massive popularity to tank in less than five days? We’re not talking 15 minutes of fame; we’re talking how a whole populous in a few short hours can shift their cries from King to Criminal, from crown to crucify, before the benefit of high-tech social media.

Last Sunday, when I was in this pulpit, I had in the back of my head that Dani had a doctor’s appointment the following day. A persistent growth on her left breast needed medical attention. Not less than 24 hours after the benediction, we were wrestling with the implications of the “C” word. Up until then our schedules were fairly straightforward, but by Tuesday Dani was playing a complicated game of calendar bingo with clinics, labs and a variety of oncologists. Boom! Life can spin on a denarius.

As you can imagine, our attention has been transformed from mundane routine to the oncogenic process. How is it that cells, with lives to live and jobs to do, can suddenly switch themselves into crazy malignant minions?

That thought, of course, intellectualizes the stress. Pressure gets too great; there’s nothing like deep thought to distract from the heat’s pain.

As an aside, you need to know that when I’m stressed out, I tend to make inappropriate jokes. It’s the coping mechanism of this youngest child—when things get tough, make the family laugh.

I remembered that last night when Dani and I were talking about…guess what? Breast Cancer.

She was expressing her amazement that, through thick and thin, I have been at her side. When we’ve had financial problems, I was there; when she had some other health issues, I was there; when she had problems at work, I was there; when the kids were acting out, I was there. And now, with this cancer diagnosis, I’m right here.

She paused and looked deeply into my eyes, and I said, “So you’re glad I’m with you?”

She said, “No, what I’m trying to say is… you bring me bad luck.” (Warned you.)

But back to the intellectualized form of denial. I want to talk to you this morning about the Crucifixion and Cancer.

We have in our congregation individuals who are far more equipped to address the science regarding oncogenic process. Our own Dr. Harold Sutton, who passed away several months ago, devoted a large portion of his research career to unpacking the metabolic characteristics of the very cells currently screaming for attention in our house. So, apologies if my analysis is a little crude. I’m sure anyone with even a passing understanding of carcinogenesis would take my thoughts and quickly point out that it’s not that simple. But this is my cathartic moment, so bear with me.

On a cellular level, all the cells of our bodies have assignments—skin, bone, muscle, fat, nerves, you get the idea. Their marching order DNA tells them what to do, and as they reproduce, they hand on their orders to each successive generation of cells. They also carry with them little life-cycle schedules, so the older cells retire and get out of the way, and newer cells pick up the job.

Not so with cancer cells; these little guys lost their ‘things-to-do’ lists. As a result, they just start reproducing with no particular purpose except to keep multiplying. They also fail to turn themselves off. They just keep demanding nutrition from the body so they can continue to replicate their pointless little selves until, next thing you know, someone who knows what they’re talking about looks you in the eye and says, “You have Cancer.”

The problem is, of course, they’re still cells. And the major work of treatment is to find a way to stop the cancer cells from multiplying while not shutting down the cells who have the decency to mind their own business.

Forgive my crude analogy; now you know why I majored in theology and not oncology. But by analogy, let’s move from one “C” word to another, from cancer to crucifixion.

In first century Jerusalem, a functioning system provided for the welfare of its citizens. Some folks were in charge of gathering and preparing food, others building things, still others sanitation—all the stuff that would make a society function.

Except somewhere along the line, and this analogy works in every dysfunctional system, rather than replicating a differentiated process, some portions of the system drop their instruction manuals. They no longer replicate according to systemic need; they reproduce for the only purpose of multiplying themselves, their influence, their priority. What’s more, they have no off switch. The refuse to get out of the way and allow other social participants to have meaningful participation.

They even commandeer the activity of other parts of the society to do their bidding, to grow uncontrollably, to suck nutrition and energy from the system to fill their own blinded identities. Thinking they are contributing to the common good, the rest of the system pours resources into these growing tumors. Next thing you know, the body politic becomes profoundly sick.

How does someone get cancer? Trust me, on a cellular level, fake news is at work.

At one point the people are seeing hope, possibility, creativity, imagination, love… just hours later, they’re crying for blood.

Folks who were once reasonable neighbors with manageable conflicts are suddenly at war because someone somewhere decided conquest of the other was the next thing they needed to do. Twisted DNA, perverted interpretation of role and process, and suddenly a whole region of the body is at war with itself, and the question is how to eliminate the cancerous tumor without destroying the healthy tissue.

What happened to Jesus, the first century Palestinian Jew, is replicated in nations, neighborhoods and individuals throughout history. Oncogenic process isn’t new; it was the very balance that was upset in the garden. Why not take what isn’t yours and make it yours—not for any good reason, just because it might feel good or taste good or satisfy the boredom of being well-behaved?

In addition to trees for beauty and food, there were two other important trees in the Garden of Eden, one the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, the other the Tree of Life.

Hear again the words from the divine upon thinking through the consequences of original sin.  “And the Lord God said, ‘The man has now become like one of us, knowing good and evil. He must not be allowed to reach out his hand and take also from the tree of life and eat and live forever.’” Genesis 3.22

Death came as a check on unrestrained and un-purposed knowledge. All of us are prone to overstepping our bounds; thank goodness we eventually die.

What profoundly shakes my intellectualized interpretation of all this is the peculiar character of Holy Week. In Jesus we see God stepping into our cancerous, cankerous conundrum and conforming to the consequence of the cross. 

In our Philippian passage, Paul quotes one of the first hymns of the church:

“Have the same mindset as Christ Jesus: Who, being in very nature God,

did not consider equality with God something to be used to his own advantage;

rather, he made himself nothing

by taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness.

And being found in appearance as a man,

he humbled himself by becoming obedient to death—even death on a cross!

Therefore, God exalted him to the highest place.”

The self-regulated savior functioning not to his own selfish advantage, but arriving in an unregulated world, and by his own sacrifice, giving to us a model of service. To radiate to us the self-transforming and system-transforming power of love.

 My song is love unknown, my Savior’s love to me,

love to the loveless shown that they might lovely be.

Oh, who am I, that for my sake

my Lord should take frail flesh and die?

[My Song is Love Unknown, Samuel Crossman, verse 1]