So when Pilate saw that he was gaining nothing, but rather that a riot was beginning, he took water and washed his hands before the crowd, saying, “I am innocent of this man’s blood; see to it yourselves.” And all the people answered, “His blood be on us and on our children!” Then he released for them Barabbas, and having scourged Jesus, delivered him to be crucified.
—Matthew 27:24-26 (ESV)
Eyes open wide. A little man frozen in terror.
Fear of his mom. Of me.
We were just home from AWANA on Holy Week Wednesday. There’d been puppets who told of the love of Jesus. Then, with rowdy ones underfoot, there’d been table set-up for Bible study in the morning. Then the loading and delivering of friends.
Now frayed and worn and two minutes inside our door, I snapped. I yanked one lippy young son by his hoodie and my words, wer harsh and rushed. Massive tears filled saucer eyes and I had his attention but not how I wanted it. Both of us jolted, silent.
Christ died for this.
God sent his Son to die for sin. For the sin that jarred my son and me. Christ’s blood spilled to save me from bearing the guilt of that sin. There is grace for this.
And this sin, eight years later, when a son went 30 miles to meet us at the wrong restaurant and in disappointment and pride, I had to remind him how “I was so clear.” I had to mention that I’d texted the location not once, but thrice.
I could have said, “I’m sorry for the misunderstanding. We will gladly wait.”
But no, I had to justify myself. I had to teach him a lesson about responsibility. I had to make a son I love feel a like a failure rather than well loved.
That was this week.
This week, too, I read of Christ’s trial in Matthew 27. I read how Pilate’s wife “suffered much” because of Jesus in a dream, how the crazed crowd picked Barabbas and Pilate washed his hands “of this man’s blood.” Then, then of the people’s murderous cry, “Crucify, crucify him!”
But it’s the words they spoke next, words that were more true than the crowd knew, that pierce my soul.
“And all the people answered, ‘His blood be on us and on our children!’”
I wince and I worship.
And I realize one massively merciful thing from the crowd’s bloodthirsty cries.
“[Y]et on some of them, and some of theirs, this blood came, not to condemn them, but to save them; divine mercy, upon their repenting and believing, cut off this curse, and then the promise was again to them, and to their children. God is better to us and ours than we are.“
—Matthew Henry, Commentary on Matthew 27
Surely this God is better to us and ours than we are.
—Matthew Henry
Harsh, ugly selfishness even with my own children—the blood of Jesus can cover even this. This blood, far from being on my head and on my children’s heads, this sacred blood was on his head.
This often unsung verse of O Sacred Head, Now Wounded, gets to the heart:
My burden in Thy Passion, Lord, Thou hast borne for me,
For it was my transgression which brought this woe on Thee.
I cast me down before Thee, wrath were my rightful lot;
Have mercy, I implore Thee; Redeemer, spurn me not!
God’s wrath was my rightful lot.
But the Father’s rightful wrath was borne by Jesus Christ on the cross.
This is the Good News. “He himself bore our sins in his body on the tree, that we might die to sin and live to righteousness. By his wounds you have been healed” (1 Peter 2:24).
Our Redeemer will not spurn us. The soul that leans on Jesus will not be deserted. When we and our children turn to him, our sin will not be upon our heads.
Instead, His cleansing, healing blood will be.
Even if, as in the crazed and bloodthirsty crowd, we asked for it.
Surely this God is better to us and ours than we are.
