Throughout my childhood I managed a number of impressive accidents. As well as the usual hot water scalds and mishandlings of knives that most kids get through, I also managed a nice groove in my skull from a flying cricket bat (and you can have a feel of it later if you so desire) and several occurrences of electrocuting myself off the mains. 240 volts through your hand is not a pleasant experience, let me tell you. Do not try that one at home.
The thing about all those events though is that they were accidents. None were planned. At no point did I decide it would be useful to impale myself of become a human volt-meter or burn bits of my body off in an attempt to improve myself. Neither was it the fault of my parents. For example, at no point did they think it would be particularly useful if I learnt what it was like to come within a few millimetres of losing my eye. No, it’s not the kind of thing that Mums and Dads do.
And that’s why the events that we remember today are so shocking, because nothing about the crucifixion was an accident. No, in remarkable contrast to the tales of woe that I have shared with you about my life, the things that happened to Jesus on that Friday were entirely planned.