When Jesus Said “It”

How the frame you choose becomes the road you walk.

I was in church last Sunday, listening to our pastor read the account of Christ’s final words, when he paused over one small word: “it”.

In his last breath Jesus didn’t center the story on his suffering, saying “I am finished.”

He didn’t adopt the crowd’s verdict: “He is finished.”

He said, “It is finished.”

Even at the end, Jesus drew our eyes back to the mission the Father gave Him.

He had just endured pain, betrayal, and humiliation—shouts of defeat swirling around him—yet his final word, “Finished,” wasn’t the version of the word that announced an ending. It was the kind that named completion. The Father’s mission had been accomplished, Scripture fulfilled.

Think referee vs. artist. In a fight, finished means the ref steps in, waves it off, and declares one competitor done—no more rounds, no appeal, no return. But a painter uses finished to mean the work is complete—the last touch added, the artist steps back, signs the corner, and admires the work.

That’s the difference between “It is finished” and “I am finished.” I am finished sounds like a funeral—finality, collapse, the story stopping at the grave. It is finished widens the view: you step back from the canvas. What broader picture has been painted here? What is now emerging as new creation? “It is finished” closes one chapter so the next can open—resurrection unveiled like a painting brought into the light. Meaning doesn’t die there; in that moment it comes into focus for the world.

As poetic as it all sounds, I can’t help but wonder if the crowds shouting around him all day tempted his flesh too.

“He is finished.”

You have to imagine that mocking phrase floated around the proceedings all day long. The rulers scoffed, “He saved others; he cannot save himself” (Matt 27:42). A passersby hurled, “Come down from the cross” (Mark 15:30). Soldiers jeered, “If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!” (Luke 23:37), and mocked, “Hail, King of the Jews!” (John 19:3). One criminal railed, “Are you not the Christ? Save yourself and us!” (Luke 23:39). The priests taunted, “He trusts in God; let God deliver him now”. The chorus was relentless: he is finished—he is not who he said he was. But Jesus refused that frame too. He knew what his story looked like but He would not let the crowd narrate His moment, define His mission, or control His timing. He did not reply to their verdict; He announced His own.

A job change through these three frames

A few years ago, I was serving in what was a truly dream job. I got the chance to channel large amounts of resources to nonprofits all around the world, I got to sit with incredible leaders doing real Kingdom work, and I was constantly learning, growing, and improving. It was meaningful and, if I’m honest, it made me feel significant. The platform helped satisfy my ambition and my desire to make a difference. Those facts meant that the temptation to preserve was always nearby: keep this at all costs, even if it means staying long past the date God has marked on the calendar.

You see, the scale of the work whispered meaning. The budget was large, the staff count high, the projects numerous, and the dollars given away substantial. I told myself this work mattered and that I was doing something uniquely important. It felt difficult and it felt good, and somewhere along the way I began to derive significance from problems solved and people served instead of from obedience to my unique calling. I wanted to believe there was something indispensable about me—that this difficult position required my particular leadership to steer it through. That wasn’t faith; it was fear— or worse, vanity.

That’s when I felt the pull to move on. I felt like my time was up, God moving me to a new season, a new assignment.

It was only then that I started to notice these familiar voices…

“I am finished.”
If I step away, would I matter anymore? Would anyone pick up my call? Would the work lose momentum? Would I lose significance? Don’t I need to be doing hard work like this? These questions weren’t all vain, but they were showing my lack of trust and my insecurity. Did I need to be front and center or did I trust God’s bigger picture?

“He is finished.”
Will people assume it was a downgrade? Should I polish the narrative so it reads strategic, temporary, and impressive? The imaginary crowds were loud in my head—so loud that I sometimes found myself projecting in conversations, answering questions no one was asking, curating a story for spectators who only lived in my imagination. That is vanity—measured by the praise and adulation of others.

Thinking through the “It is finished” lens, I was reminded that obedience is paramount. If my time at the church had run its course (and I believed it had), then clinging to a seat was not stewardship; it was fear. Saying yes to a different role wasn’t a branding play to be managed, it was a healthy re-assignment, away from preserving a platform and back toward building the Kingdom.

It was still hard. Endings usually are. Some days the imagined chorus (he is finished) sounded plausible; other days my own heart muttered I am finished. But reframing the moment under “it” changed the calculation. There were parts of me that still felt knockout “finished” (not masterpiece painter “finished”) but those were the parts more aligned with the “Josh Project” than the “God Project”.

The frame we follow

When our identity is threatened and a chapter closes, what you decide is finished will usually influence your next move.

“I am finished” — insecurity.
Significance depends on me at the center; I lean on my own understanding—if I’m not central or scaling, it must not matter. I need to be central to feel it counts. I buy the myth that God needs me: my efforts, my genius. So when my title gets smaller (or disappears), I assume God’s work has stalled. I treat a God-timed ending as my personal failure.

“He is finished” — vanity.
The outsider gets the loudest voice. I cultivate my story for spectators, and hedge on obedience until it reads well. In my head I’m measured by applause, not faithfulness. Under this frame I can win approval and still be in the wrong assignment.

“It is finished” — kingdom alignment.
God’s mission moves to the center, so significance = obedience. I tune my ear to the Shepherd’s voice, not the crowd’s. I release outcomes and reputation, refuse the myth of being indispensable, and measure by faithfulness, not scale. When He says a role is done, I let it end—my seat on the bus is not my ceiling in His kingdom. He directs the path; my job is to be faithful.

Your own heart will sometimes insist: I am finished.
The crowd will always be there to chant: he is finished.
But the word that changes everything is it.