Luke 22.63-71
The People vs. Jesus Christ (1)
(Luke 22.63-71)
At some point or another in our lives, all of us put God on trial.
We will come to the evidence at hand, we will consider and reason and weigh, and we will come to a verdict concerning how we feel and what we believe about him. Some of us will come out of it carrying a negative verdict: God is not real, or God is not who he says he is, or God is cruel. Others will come out carrying an inconclusive verdict: There’s not enough evidence to decide the matter one way or another. And still others will come out with a positive verdict: God is real, and he is who he says he is.
Now of course this trial is an imaginary one—God isn’t really on trial for anything, it all happens in our own minds and hearts as we reach our own conclusions about what we believe.
But in reality, a little over two thousand years ago, this trial happened for real.
God himself, Jesus Christ, a human being who is both God and man, was put on trial before men that he created, who came to a verdict about the nature of his identity and his work.
This trial is what we’ll be looking at over the next two weeks, because it happened in two separate stages.
If you remember where we are in the gospel of Luke, Jesus has finished his earthly ministry; he’s been arrested by the Jewish authorities and abandoned by nearly all of his disciples.
And it is at this point that his suffering begins. The religious leaders in Jerusalem begin their interrogation of Jesus.
But in order to understand what happens during this interrogation, it’s important to understand the political and religious context in this particular place, at this point in history.
On the one hand, we have the relationship between Rome and Israel. Israel at this time, like much of the world, was under Roman occupation. Rome had let Israel maintain a limited autonomy—the religious life in Israel was unaffected, and they still had their king (Herod, whom we’ll meet next week), but Rome still kept a very tight grip on day-to-day life, exacting harsh taxes on the people. The people, obviously, felt burdened by this occupation, and longed for the day that they would be free.
Which brings us to the prophecies of the Messiah.
The Old Testament—the Jewish Bible—contains prophecies of a man who would come and save God’s people, Israel. This man was referred to as the Christ, or the Messiah, and everyone believed he would be a kind of divine warrior, a conqueror who would unite the people and lead a victorious uprising against Rome.
So when Jesus showed up, and began performing miracles and speaking in ways that seemed to suggest he was the Messiah, obviously people—including the religious leaders—were intrigued.
But very quickly they realized that he wasn’t the kind of Messiah they were expecting. Jesus didn’t act like a warrior at all, but more like an itinerant healer and teacher. And rather than going after Rome, he went after the religious establishment in Israel.
Quickly the religious leaders began to see Jesus, not as a savior, but as a threat to their own power—and with all the attention he was getting, if things continued in this way for too long, he’d have enough power to supplant them.
So they wanted to get Jesus out of the picture as quickly as possible. But to do that, they would need both the support of Rome, and the support of the people.
The religious leaders didn’t have the authority to put anyone to death; Rome had to get involved if a death sentence was to be executed.
And if they tried this without the support of the people, the people would likely lead an uprising against them.
So if they want to get rid of Jesus, they need everyone on board.
That is the endgame of this interrogation.
The Interrogation (v. 63-68)
All that being said, let’s pick up our reading in v. 63. If you remember, Luke has just told us that Jesus has now been abandoned by his disciples, and left alone with the chief priests and the soldiers of the temple.
63 Now the men who were holding Jesus in custody were mocking him as they beat him. 64 They also blindfolded him and kept asking him, “Prophesy! Who is it that struck you?” 65 And they said many other things against him, blaspheming him.
66 When day came, the assembly of the elders of the people gathered together, both chief priests and scribes. And they led him away to their council.
And they led him away to their council, and they said, 67 “If you are the Christ, tell us.” But he said to them, “If I tell you, you will not believe, 68 and if I ask you, you will not answer.
Now let’s stop there for a moment. The justice-seeker in me is so frustrated at this point, because Jesus so easily could have frustrated their plans here.
The council asks him if he is “the Christ”. Christ is not Jesus’s name, it is a title, meaning “Messiah” or “Savior”. So they’re asking him point-blank to say that he is the Messiah whom God had promised to send to save his people.
And the first thing he does is, frankly, pretty satisfying (v. 67b):
But he said to them, “If I tell you, you will not believe, 68 and if I ask you, you will not answer.
Now he could have stopped there. And the part of me that wants to see Jesus get out of this ordeal unscathed really wants him to stop there. “You won’t be satisfied by anything I say, so I just won’t say anything.”
He so easily could have done that, and at least delayed (or maybe even protected himself from) condemnation and death. They would have had to find some other way to condemn him—and perhaps been unable to—had he stopped there.
The Context of Christ’s Victory (v. 69-71)
But he didn’t stop there. Even though he is right that nothing he says will change their opinion of him, he goes on anyway.
V. 69:
69 But from now on the Son of Man shall be seated at the right hand of the power of God.”
This is a very loaded sentence, because in just a few words Jesus unpacks a wealth of biblical theology.
Firstly, he says that he will soon be seated at the right hand of the power of God. In the Bible, to be “seated at God’s right hand” is to be invested with God’s own power and authority. The phrase is taken from Psalm 110.1, in which David, speaking of the Messiah, says,
The Lord says to my Lord:
“Sit at my right hand,
until I make your enemies your footstool.”
In other words, by telling the Messiah to sit at his right hand, God is giving him power and authority over his enemies.
Secondly, Jesus again uses the phrase “the Son of Man”: From now on the Son of Man shall be seated at the right hand of the power of God.”
“The Son of Man,” as we saw a few months ago, when we looked at Jesus’s sermon on the Mount of Olives, was Jesus’s favorite way of referring to himself (instead of saying, “I did this,” or “I will do this,” he’d say, “The Son of Man will do this”). It was a daring title to give to himself, because everyone who knew the Jewish Scriptures knew that the Son of Man was the Messiah.
The term comes from the book of Daniel, chapter 7, verses 13 and 14, in which Daniel reports a vision he had received from God:
13 “I saw in the night visions,
and behold, with the clouds of heaven
there came one like a son of man,
and he came to the Ancient of Days [God]
and was presented before him.
14 And to him was given dominion
and glory and a kingdom,
that all peoples, nations, and languages
should serve him;
his dominion is an everlasting dominion,
which shall not pass away,
and his kingdom one
that shall not be destroyed.
So what Daniel describes here is that day when “one like a son of man” will be presented before God, and will be given dominion, and authority, and the eternal reign over God’s kingdom.
And he’s called "one like a son of man” in order to underline the fact that the Messiah, who will have the power and authority of God himself, will not be an angel, or a spirit, but a human being. One person, with two natures: a divine nature and a human nature.
Now we’ve seen all this before in our series. But here’s why it’s such a big deal that this is coming up again, at this moment.
Jesus’s claim that he—the Son of Man—will soon be seated at the right hand of the power of God is a confession of absolute power. It’s like when Babe Ruth (for you non-Americans, Babe Ruth was the greatest baseball player in history) pointed at a specific place in the outfield, indicating that he was going to send the ball right there. (And then he did it.)
Jesus saying that he will soon be seated at God’s right hand is a claim that only someone in an ultimate position of power could make.
But at this point in the story, Jesus has never been more vulnerable. He is beaten, he is bloodied, and he is tired. He is standing before a council of men who have already decided to condemn him.
And yet he says that from now on, the Son of Man shall be seated at the right hand of the power of God.
Do you see how incoherent that must have sounded to the religious leaders? Perhaps it would have made sense if he had said it on the mountain when he was being transfigured, or as he was calming the storm, or just after raising the dead. But he says this now? When he looks like this?
How is he going to take his place at the right hand of God if he’s in chains? How is he going to exercise power over his enemies if his enemies have beaten him? How is he going to reign over the world if he’s dead?
You can almost hear the religious leaders laughing to themselves: they had him.
All they had to do now was put the final nail in the coffin.
V. 70:
70 So they all said, “Are you the Son of God, then?” And he said to them, “You say that I am.” 71 Then they said, “What further testimony do we need? We have heard it ourselves from his own lips.”
They had him, and they knew they had him, because with this one exchange, they could garner the support of both Rome and the Jewish people.
They could now go to Rome and tell them that Jesus was a political threat, poised to start an uprising, because he claimed to be the Messiah. Jesus admits he is the Son of God—a clear threat to Caesar, who claimed to be divine.
And they could put Jesus before the people and say, “This man claims to be the Son of God, and clearly he is not: just look at him. He can’t even save himself.”
They had him.
This one exchange effectively sealed Jesus’s fate, and if we’ve learned anything from following Jesus so far in this gospel, it is that he is a masterful scholar of the Bible. Of course he knew that by saying these words, he was essentially signing his death sentence.
So why does Jesus say it? Why does he give them the ammunition they need to condemn him?
The answer is simple: it was always his plan to come and die.
The Enthronement of Jesus Christ
When I was a child my dad worked as a youth pastor at a tiny church in Detroit, Michigan. The pastor of this church was a man named Sam Peterson.
He was an intimidating figure when seen from a distance—in my memory he was impossibly tall (though I was a short kid, so that may have had something to do with it). I don’t remember ever seeing him dressed in anything other than a suit—complete with vest, tie and cufflinks—his hair slicked back on his head in the style of the 1960s, and fairly severe wire-rimmed glasses.
But that’s not what I remember most about him.
I remember Pastor Peterson sitting cross-legged on the floor with me, in his suit, tossing a ball back and forth. I remember the way my dad talked about him and looked at him, because if my dad ever had a problem, something that he needed help with, Pastor Peterson was the guy who was willing to help. He was one of the few people in attendance at my first birthday party.
Pastor Peterson has always been a mammoth figure in my mind, precisely because he was always ready to make himself small.
Here’s why I bring him up. The story of the life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ shows us what kind of God our God is: his power is awesome and admirable because it proves itself in what looks like defeat.
Earlier in our worship service we read 1 Corinthians 1, in which Paul explains how, as we explained to our son this week, in God’s plan, everything seems backward. When God desired to display the truest manifestation of his power, he didn’t do it through a warrior, but through a man who appeared weak.
This had always been the plan: even the prophecies of the Messiah pointed to this (had the religious leaders only paid attention to their own sacred texts). Isaiah 53 describes the Messiah not as a victorious warrior, but as a suffering servant, despised by his own people and punished by God for the sins of the people.
The vision in Daniel 7, of the Son of Man taking up his throne and receiving the authority over God’s kingdom, absolutely happened. Jesus Christ is on the throne, and he reigns right now over all of creation.
But Christ did not take up his throne by any outward sign of victory.
Christ took up his throne by dying.
We often think of all of this—Jesus’s interrogation by the religious leaders, his presentation before Herod and Pilate, and his crucifixion (all of which we’ll see in the coming weeks)—as the method by which God saved his people from their sins.
And that is absolutely true. We have been separated from God because of our rebellion against him (which the Bible calls sin), and God provided for us a sacrifice, Jesus Christ, who lived our life and suffered our death so that we might be reconciled to God. This is gloriously, wonderfully true.
But that is not the only thing—or even the main thing—going on in the crucifixion. The crucifixion was not merely a sacrificial event.
It was an enthronement.
The Kingdom of God did not come through a spectacular conquering of his enemies—at least not the enemies the people of Israel were expecting. The “enemy” in question here wasn’t Rome at all, but Satan, sin and death. Sin is the enemy, occupying God’s kingdom for a time, and we are all, by our nature, subjects to this foreign occupier.
And by living the perfect life we are called to live, and taking on the sins of his people, and dying in their place, for their sins, Christ defeated the real enemy. Christ defeated sin by taking it on himself and making it follow him into death; he defeated death by dying and rising again three days later.
By defeating the enemy, Christ took his rightful place on the throne of the kingdom of God. The crucifixion was an enthronement ceremony. Christ took his throne by dying.
The Son of Man is, right now, seated at the right hand of God, reigning over this world.
Application
At this point, the first part of the trial of Jesus Christ came to an end.
Jesus was condemned as a blasphemer by the Sanhedrin, and sent ahead to Pontius Pilate, who would undertake the legal proceedings as Roman governor of Judea.
And if we think about it, it’s obvious why the religious leaders were so hostile toward Jesus. Here was a man claiming to be the Messiah, and he was full of contradictions. He claimed to be the Messiah, but he came not attacking the Romans, but attacking them—the religious elite. He came as a King, and at the same time as a humble carpenter and teacher. He came from an insignificant town of no consequence, and at the same time he taught with an undeniable authority leveled against them, and the undeniable power of his miracles behind him.
These contradictions would have made it practically impossible—outside of divine intervention—for the religious leaders to see Jesus for who he was.
But these contradictions show us the grace and the brilliance of God’s plan of salvation.
At the end of Luke 22, we leave Jesus in a sad state: beaten, bloody, exhausted, falsely accused and interrogated. He has told the truth about himself, and yet the religious leaders have drawn unfair conclusions about what he has said, and are ready to turn him over to Herod and Pilate, to secure his condemnation.
And it is in this context that he affirms his victory:
“But from now on the Son of Man shall be seated at the right hand of the power of God.”
There are fewer verses in the Bible that should be more reassuring for the Christian than Luke 22.69, because it shows us that what seemed like Christ’s complete defeat—his betrayal, his trial, his death—is actually the means by which he takes up his reign.
Understanding the crucifixion as an enthronement instead of a defeat should radically change the way we think about Jesus.
Firstly, it means that Jesus Christ is relatable.
Of course no one can relate to the infinite sacrifice we see on display at the cross, because none of us has given as much as he did. But he can relate to us.
He became a human being, he lived a human life, he suffered a human death, and he underwent a human resurrection. Our King is a King who preceded us in death, who paved this road we all must walk on one day.
What difference does that make?
Think of your most painful memory, the moment when you were most wounded, when you felt the weakest, when you felt the most alone. Our King knows what that feels like. He knows what it’s like to be afraid, to hurt, to be tired and weak.
Our King didn’t take his throne through a visible manifestation of supernatural power, but by dying a human death at the hands of those whom he created and loved.
He has compassion on our weaknesses, because he knows what we’re going through, and much more.
Secondly it means that Christ is humble.
The cross is the ultimate proof that the goal of our King is not to be served by his people, but to serve his people. His goal is not to glorify himself, but to glorify his Father. His goal is not to maximize his own life to the detriment of ours, but to give us life, in abundance.
As Paul said in Philippians 2.6, although Christ is God himself, he didn’t seek to be worshiped and served as God during his earthly ministry—rather, he served us. He served people he himself had created. He served people who rejected him. He served people who hated him.
And he still acts in this same way today. Our King reigns with self-sacrificial love.
Thirdly, it means that he is powerful.
I know it sounds strange to say that, in this particular context. Our temptation will be to put his power at odds with his humility.
We always make distinctions like this: we imagine that suffering is antithetical to victory, that trials are the enemy of hope, that defeat is the enemy of power. We even separate our lives out in something like chapters: “I’m in a season of suffering,” or “I feel like I’m in a really victorious moment in my life.”
But how often do we think about the relationship between the two? What if suffering wasn’t the enemy of victory? What if hope was proved in trials? What if power came through defeat?
The biblical story tells us exactly that.
Christ related to his people by taking on a human nature, and he humbly served his people during his earthly life. And it was precisely because of this humility, taken to its culmination at the cross, that God highly exalted him, and bestowed on him the name that is above every name, 10 so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, 11 and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father (Philippians 2.9-11).
Jeremy Treat said this: “The cross is not a defeat that needs to be undone by the resurrection; the cross is a victory that needs to be unveiled by the resurrection.” Christ reigns today, absolutely—but he reigns as a King who was crucified for his people; he doesn’t reign with ruthless authority, but with self-sacrificing love.
What we’re going to see in the next few passages runs counter to everything that seems and feels logical to us. It doesn’t make sense to us that God would fulfill his plan in this way.
But God did it this way to prove both his power and his goodness.
Christ displays his power at the cross, because there he shows us that he can redeem anything: even brokenness itself.
And Christ displays his goodness at the cross, because there he shows us he is willing to not leave us alone in our darkest places, but rather to join us there, and bear the weight of our suffering for us.
We’ll explore our response to these realities in the next few weeks, but for now, let’s just sit under them. Let’s take a moment of quiet reflection and prayer, and during this time let’s rest under his humility and his power. Let’s rest under his goodness and might. Let’s take a moment to fix our eyes on Christ, and worship him as King.
