Holy Week | Thursday
The Silent Savior
“He was oppressed, and he was afflicted, yet he opened not his mouth; like a lamb that is led to the slaughter, and like a sheep that before its shearers is silent, so he opened not his mouth.” - Isaiah 53:7
We live in a time where self-expression is prized as a highest good. From the moment we wake up—including in the middle of the night—to the time we lay our heads down to sleep, we want our voice to be heard on matters large and small. We crave for everyone within earshot to know exactly what’s on our mind, and even on our dinner plates, at all times.
Social media has amplified this deeply embedded desire, giving us each a 24-7 platform from which to air our thoughts to a listening world. And who can tell the degree to which the isolation of the current stay-at-home orders will play into this dynamic?
But have you considered what lies at the heart of this need to express ourselves? Why is it so appealing to be heard? No matter how you may answer that question, I think we can at least agree that the word “significance” comes into play.
Imagine I’m on the couch—where I’m finding myself more and more these days—and my daughters are playing in front of me on the carpet. One calls to me, “Daddy, look at what we’re building. It’s a fort where we can read books and where our dolls can sleep.” What does she need from me at that moment? Advice on how to build a fort, or a simple smile and recognition that tells her how deeply significant she is to her daddy?
This is all well and good. Kids should look to their parents for significance. And to the degree that we’re able, we should be faithful to provide it. The problem comes in where we shift from a healthy desire for significance to a mindset better described as self-importance. That’s sin, and it’s why this week is so precious to us.
Consider our Savior’s last week. His last days. Hours. Minutes. Moment. He knows exactly where he is headed and when—to a sham trial and an excruciating, humiliating death. Nothing is more oppressive and unjust than the crucifixion of Jesus at the hands of sinners. Nothing.
And nothing is more painful to Jesus than the weight of knowing that as he’s going, he’s going all alone. That’s why the worst cry of anguish from the cross had nothing to do with the physical torment or dehumanization involved in the crucifixion itself. No, our Savior’s cry of agony was, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
In that moment, Jesus the eternal Son of God—very God of very God—is torn away from the perfect and complete union between himself and his Father. In that moment, Jesus is walking through the hell of separation from God for the sake of us, his people. Even when he cries out in his pain and anguish, Jesus hears back only silence from the equally grieved Father, bereft of his one and only Son.
And keep in mind, he’s doing this to save self-important rebels like you and me.
Yet, as Isaiah had foretold centuries earlier, Jesus marched toward the certainty of this excruciating moment in silence. “[H]e opened not his mouth.” How? How could the King of the Universe stay silent as he was arrested without warrant, convicted without evidence in a Roman kangaroo court, spit upon, whipped, and forced to carry his cross? Rejected by the very same people who had welcomed him with palms just days earlier?
How could our King resist this very human urge to speak out and defend himself? We find the answer in Philippians 2. There, we find our Savior emptying himself—divesting himself of all titles of kingship, nobility, and even the honor belonging to divinity itself.
In a word, Jesus willingly laid down his claim to significance. Not because he had to, not because it was the “right” thing to do. Our Savior owes no debts. This was born purely out of his unfathomably deep love for us. That’s why we find in Hebrews 12 that it was “for the joy that was set before him” that Jesus “endured the cross” in our place.
Our Savior’s silence bought us back from our own slavery to sin, death, hell, and the righteous wrath of God. Fueled by his love for us, and his forward-looking joy at our rescue, our King willingly, whole-heartedly laid down his life. No man took it from him.
May no man, situation, or virus divert our eyes from our crucified and risen Jesus. May nothing in ourselves lure us into a sense of self-importance that keeps us on the outside looking into the fellowship between God and his people.
May nothing rob us of the joy that our Savior has silently, submissively purchased for us.
Lord Jesus, in you we find our rest. No one took your life from you—instead, you laid it down willingly for us. Every moment of anguish, every lash of the whip, every indignity you suffered was proof of your love for me—a sinner whose guilt you gladly bore. Why you love me, I’ll never know, but I do know that you love me and joyfully welcome me into your presence even today. Oh Lamb that was slain, be glorified in my life, my home, our church, and your world today even as you are glorified and exalted at the right hand of the Father. Amen.