God Almighty, Let Men Spit in His Face

Imagine the son of a king walking up to his father in public.

In front of everyone, he slaps him across the face.

Then he spits in his face.

Before the king can even react, the royal guards rush forward. Within seconds, they're ready to seize the young man.

But the king raises his hand.

"Leave him."

The guards stop.

Not because the son has done nothing wrong. Not because the insult doesn't matter. And certainly not because the king lacks the power to punish him.

But because he's his son.

The relationship changes everything.

Now imagine that same king watching someone brutally beat his beloved son.

He has the power to stop it. An entire army stands ready to act at his command.

But again, he raises his hand.

And again, the guards stand down.

Only this time, the people he's showing mercy to are the very ones hurting his son.

What kind of love would make a father do that?

I read a sentence recently that stopped me.

God Almighty let men spit in His face.

I've been sitting with that thought.

The God who spoke the universe into existence allowed men to mock Him, whip Him, slap Him, and spit in His face.

And the part that really gets me isn't just that Jesus endured it.

It's that the Father allowed it.

Think about that for a moment.

Imagine watching someone beat your son. Not just insult him, but whip him, drive thorns into his head, and eventually nail him to a cross.

What would it take for you not to intervene?

Now imagine having all the power in the universe to stop it.

Jesus said He could ask His Father for more than twelve legions of angels.

In other words, there was no shortage of power to put an end to what was happening.

And yet, the Father restrained Himself.

Why?

I keep coming back to this thought.

Mercy is love in restraint.

We often think of mercy as God withholding what we deserve.

But what if mercy is also God revealing who He is?

What if, in the Father's restraint, we're seeing something about His heart toward the very people doing this to His Son?

I've heard people say that God isn't our Father until we accept Jesus into our hearts.

And I understand that Scripture speaks of becoming children of God through faith. I'm not dismissing that.

But I can't get past the fatherly disposition God demonstrates toward people who haven't yet believed, who haven't repented, who don't even recognize Him.

Especially at the cross.

Here are men doing unspeakable things to His beloved Son.

They are not worshipping Him. They're mocking Him.

They're not asking for forgiveness. They're gambling for His clothes.

They don't even know who He is.

And the Son prays:

"Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing." — Luke 23:34

I find that prayer astonishing.

Jesus isn't pretending the violence doesn't matter. He isn't calling their actions harmless.

He's asking for forgiveness for people who don't even understand the magnitude of what they've done.

It's as though He's saying, Father, they don't know. They don't know who they're hurting. They don't know what they're doing.

And I can't help wondering whether that prayer reveals something we've missed about God's heart.

After all, Jesus told us to love our enemies. To bless those who curse us. To turn the other cheek.

He told us that our Father in heaven sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous.

He was revealing what the Father is like.

And now, at Calvary, He's living it.

The very people who are hurting Him are the people He came to save.

The Father isn't looking at humanity as something disposable. Something He made that has gone terribly wrong and can simply be destroyed.

These are people He loves.

People made in His image.

People who have rejected Him, misunderstood Him, and wounded the One He sent to rescue them.

And still, He loves them.

It's one thing to show mercy to someone who loves you.

It's another thing entirely to show mercy to someone who is driving nails through your Son's hands.

What strikes me even more is that none of this caught God by surprise.

Peter tells us that Christ was chosen before the foundation of the world.

Before the world existed, before humanity sinned, before the first whip was raised or the first nail driven, God already knew the cost of loving us.

And He came anyway.

This wasn't a reluctant Father being persuaded by a merciful Son.

The Father Himself so loved the world that He gave His only Son.

The cross wasn't Jesus changing the Father's mind about humanity.

It was Jesus revealing the Father's heart toward humanity.

And suddenly Paul's words carry a different weight:

"But God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us." — Romans 5:8

While we were still sinners.

Not after we repented.

Not after we understood.

Not after we loved Him back.

While we were still sinners.

We didn't become loved when we recognized Him.

We were loved even when we rejected Him.

And that makes me wonder whether we've sometimes made God's fatherly love sound like a reward for accepting Him, rather than the very reason He came looking for us.

I think there's a difference between entering into the life of sonship through Christ and discovering the Father whose love was already reaching toward us.

The invitation to become children of God doesn't mean He was indifferent to us before we believed.

Calvary tells me something very different.

It tells me that while we were still His enemies, His heart was already turned toward us in love.

There's something extraordinary about a father who has the power to intervene but chooses mercy.

Not because the wrongdoing is insignificant.

Not because the suffering doesn't matter.

But because the people involved matter to him.

And I think that's what I see when I look at Calvary.

I see a Father who loves His Son beyond anything I can imagine.

And I see that same Father loving the people who are killing Him.

The Father doesn't cease loving His Son in order to love humanity. Father and Son are united in the love that makes this sacrifice possible.

That is the mystery of the cross.

God doesn't excuse the violence. He bears its cost.

He doesn't pretend evil isn't evil. He overcomes it with love.

And Jesus, the perfect revelation of the Father, turns the other cheek.

Not because He has no power to respond.

But because love has chosen another way.

The restraint of God is not the absence of power. It is the presence of love.

I wonder how much of our picture of God would change if we began there.

Not with a God demanding to be recognized.

Not with a God waiting for humanity to become worthy of His affection.

But with a Father whose heart has always been turned toward us.

A Father who can look upon the very people harming His beloved Son and still desire their forgiveness.

A Father whose love was not awakened by our repentance, but whose love made our repentance possible.

I don't think I'll ever read that scene quite the same way again.

Because perhaps the most astonishing thing about Calvary is not only what humanity was willing to do to God.

It's what God was willing to endure for humanity.

God Almighty let men spit in His face.

And the mercy that held back His hand was revealing His heart all along.

I am your Father.

And though you slay Me, I will still love you.