The Hill to Die On
Crucifixion as success
One of the games children learn early in life is called “King of the Hill.” You probably played it yourself. As we once learned, children choose a spot they consider the very highest place, where everyone else must also try to reach. Kids quickly compete to topple whoever is standing perched above—pushing, pulling, grabbing, whatever it takes. And once they reach the top, everything turns to defending it from others who want to take the throne. The game is fun. But before long, it becomes the very basis for life as adults.
I recently shared a conversation with a man who is dying. A dire diagnosis had almost certainly shortened his perceived future, leaving his family facing insurmountable changes and painful challenges ahead. Listening to the man talk, it struck me how differently he spoke about his time compared to how others spoke about theirs. There was an urgency to his voice, a passion, an awakening that was not there before. Oh, how we see life differently when it’s being shortened.
“One of the most precious of all experiences is being with a person when he or she is dying,” once wrote Ronald Rolheiser, “...death clarifies so many things about life and the dying often generate community in ways that the living cannot.” Facing our mortality, we will likely care less about what others think of us, how much money we can earn, or earning new and shiny titles to boast of to others. Instead, our focus shifts to other things: making sure those we love know they are loved, saying the words that were never spoken, and finally fixing the things in life we never straightened out. People nearing the end of their lives often give up on reaching the summit of life, which we are taught to strive for from an early age. Or, rather, there become new hills on which to die.
Death does indeed bring clarity to what truly matters in life. It appears that when we’re younger, we can’t help but believe that the innocent game of “king of the hill” is more than just a game. What begins as a game quickly becomes our entire lives. We kick, push, pull, fight—even kill—to reach the top of life’s hill. And then spend much of the rest of our lives making sure no one else can reach the same place we’ve fought so hard to attain.
The earthly story of Jesus ends, of all places, on a tiny, little, insignificant hill. John records for us the place of the death of Jesus as he is raised on a cross—“the place of the skull, which is called in Hebrew Golgotha.” (Jn. 19:17) I remember visiting one of the two traditional sites of the crucifixion in Jerusalem. When a tourist sees it, they are struck by its humility and seeming nothingness it presents. The supposed hill is tiny, insignificant, and towers over a busy bus station just outside the ancient city walls. This hill, this high place, is to the outside a place of disregard and disrepute. Most certainly not the place one would expect the King of the universe to take up their throne.
But that was the power that he took to himself. Cruciform power. Not conquering power. The power of willing sacrifice and death. One of the ancient Psalms—Psalm 2—speaks of this very thing by highlighting two tensions. On one hand, there are the raging nations who come to laugh at the king God is setting up, mocking him, raging against his very authority. Then, on the other hand, there is God’s word. He is setting up his king. And he will be set up on a hill: “I have installed my king on Zion, my holy mountain.” (Ps. 2:6) Brought together, these two tensions seem to have a premonition of the cross in mind. As those who mock and jeer at Jesus below are at their apex of pride and indignation, Christ, God, the Son, has been set up on a hill just outside the city gates.
The enthronement ceremony for this king is not on the hill that people would have expected him to be set upon. This isn’t the hill of power. It is not the hill of politics. It is not the hill of wealth, the prominence of fame, or conquering institutionalism. Instead, it is the hill of humble death. This is the hill God chooses to die on. As N.T. Wright would say:
But the holy hill in question is not now Zion, the temple mount, the joy of the whole earth. It is the ugly little hill about a mile further west, just outside the wall of the old city. That is where the King of the Jews is enthroned, his brow still smarting with the crown of thorns, his cross the sign of God’s victory over the world.1
Success in God’s Kingdom looks like a cross. There is, of course, nothing sinful or wrong in becoming adept and skillful in the things of this world. We should strive to be the kind of people who are successful because we have been shaped and formed in the ways of Christ in the context of real life. The Christian life isn’t a vague invitation into a dull expression of humanity. The problem isn’t being successful. The problem is in seeking success itself. And for itself. The truth remains that true success comes in and through the complex, challenging, painful, and arduous journey of Christlikeness. Christ was successful on the cross. He won the world from its love of sin and evil. But it wasn’t success he sought. He sought to die on the hill of faithfulness to his Father.
As difficult as it is, consider your death, your mortality, and your eventual return to dust. It will happen. And the most spiritually mature people are the ones who refuse to forget this. By graciously acknowledging our mortality, we can focus on what truly matters in life. And we soon start dying on different hills. The truth is, we are all trying to take one hill or another.
The question we must all ask: which one?
Thanks again for being a supporter of the Low-Level Theologian. You can always find me wasting as little time as possible on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook. Or, check out my podcast with Dr. Nijay Gupta at Slow Theology. Remember my most recent book entitled A Teachable Spirit: The Virtue of Learning from Strangers, Enemies, and Absolutely Anyone. And, as always, don’t hesitate to reach out with questions or comments in the comment section below.
N.T. Wright, The Crown and the Fire: Meditations on the Cross and the Life of the Spirit (London, UK: SPCK, 1992), 29.
Absolutely LOVE, “Success in God’s kingdom looks like a cross.”
That. Right. There. Man that struck me, thank you!
Chuck Colson had a plaque on his desk that read " faithfulness not success".
Reading your Substack article reminded me of the Latin phrase "memento mori".
Remember you will die.
In recent years I have found Wikipedia to be less reliable than it used to be. It seems to have become dominated by ideological editors who interweave their bias into the entries. But I found the Wikipedia article about memento mori to be a well rounded reminder to think often of the brevity and vanity of this physical life. It's worth reading.
It also reminds me of the eternal effects of sex. God designed sex to make new bodies and souls for this world. Yet they exist forever! Is saddens me that most of the world treats sex as a plaything of no consequence. But it has immense consequences both in this world and forever. The triviality with which most of the world treats abortion and death is appalling. Life matters. Death matters. Sin matters. Jesus matters. Reality has eternal consequences.