Sermon: Good Friday Three Hours

Preacher:

Date:

Friday 29th March 2013

Service:

Three Hour Devotion

Let me go there, he said.

I want to begin this time of reflection with a word about Nic Fiddian-Green’s sculpture, Christ Rests.

Throughout Lent we have perhaps been taken aback by the scale of this creative work, the starkness of the thorns and the curl of the hair; perhaps we have been drawn into its intimacy, of closed eyes and silent lips. Perhaps we paused and watched and walked round; perhaps it is now so familiar that we walk by, hastening on with somewhere else to be.

But now, let us stop once more and look:

Are we shocked, angered or saddened? Do we see a glimpse of peace or failure, and ending or a beginning?

Are we attracted, repelled or challenged?

What happens within us when we stare love and suffering in the face?

Do we see the face of God ?

An opening prayer, from the reflections on Christ Rests:

Loving God, we stand before the head of Christ

and see, through the skill of human hands,

the face of the One who suffered and died

for us, and the whole creation, to make all things new in him.

Help us to see in him, wounded by human cruelty,

our hope and our salvation,

that he would bear our sins,

encourage us in our weariness

and raise us up with his healing power.

May we go from here refreshed and renewed

to be a transformed and transforming presence

in the world you love so much,

seeing the face of Christ in all people

and in ourselves. Amen.

 

 

Reading: Luke 23:20-31

Poem:  The Coming  by  R. S. Thomas

Address: Christ walking

 

Reading: Luke 23:32-43

Poem:  A quiet Roar by  V. Zundel

Address: Christ speaking

 

Reading: Luke 23: 44-56

Poem: Dead and buried by  E. Rooney

Address: Christ resting

 

Final address: Here we stand at the foot of the cross
The Coming by R. S. Thomas

And God held in his hand

A small globe. Look he said,

The son looked. Far off.

As through water, he saw

A scorched land of fierce

Colour. The light burned

There; crusted buildings

Cast their shadows: a bright

Serpent. A river

Uncoiled itself, radiant

With slime

                            On a bare

Hill a bare tree saddened

The sky, many People

Held out their thin arms

To it, as though waiting

For a vanished April

To return to its crossed

Boughs. The son watched

Them. Let me go there, he said.

 

 

Christ walking

Let me go there, he said.

 

God’s Son dwells with us. He comes to this small globe – a light of water and light and colour; a place of buildings and shadows.  He comes to us; to a people whose arms are out stretched in longing; to a people waiting in hope and fear.  Let me go there, he said; to a bare hill and a saddened tree.

R. S. Thomas’s poem captures our human condition.  It is both bleak and luminous. Such is the complexity of our world, our lives.  God does not just look on – watching us build and create and desire.  God comes to us. For God so love the world he sent his only Son.  The one who abided with his Father comes to us and dwells amongst us.

Christ walks in our midst.  Let me go there, he said.  Over the course of his ministry, Jesus has walked the length and breadth of the land.  As he does so he encounters crowds and pays attention to individuals; he captures imaginations with parables and arouses wonder and outrage with his acts of generous mercy and transformation.

He walks.  And many follow: the lost and the least; the curious and the hopeful; the bold and the restored. 

Today the voice of earthly authority is shouted down; Pilate wants to release Jesus.  He finds no grounds for the death sentence; he cannot equate the man standing in front of him with the charges against him.  He hopes that flogging will suffice. He does not prevail.  His verdict colludes with their demands. Political expediency claims another victim.   Crucify, crucify, crucify.

This victim is Emmanuel. The one who dwelt with us, walking among us and calling us to follow, is led away to a bare hill and saddened tree.

They led him away.  And coming towards the crowd is a Simon of Cyrene.  They seize him.  They lay the cross on him.  He carries it. He follows Jesus.  Does he cast his eyes down to the ground, bearing the weight and fearing lest he stumble? Or does he focus his gaze on the crowned head in front of him? He is following Jesus, walking the steps of suffering and humiliation; bearing the weight of brutality and injustice.  And he looks ahead, and the crowned head.  The thorns piercing matted sweat soaked, bloody hair.

If we dare to look up we see a head crowned with thorns; we see the vulnerability of the nape of his neck; our eyes bore into the back of his head as our footsteps are placed in his.

Let me go there, he said. To a people whose arms are stretched out in need and longing, in desperation.  He walks.  Simon follows.  A great number of the people followed.  And there is a double lament. 

The women beat their breasts and wail for him. Their lament is gut wrenching and visceral; they rend their hearts as they follow this man who has loved, who has walked among them, reaching out to them. But Jesus turns his head to face them.  Daughters, he says, weep not for me.  His lament is reproachful and sorrowful.

We too lament: we lament the brutality of conflict and injustice; we lament over the words that embitter us and the people who are alienated from us; we lament the divisiveness of policies that pit one generation against another; we lament the exploitation of the earth’s resources.  We weep not just for the one who walks ahead of us; but for those who walk with us and those who follow us.

Do we pass by or mock or lament?  Every footstep Jesus takes, is a step with us in the anguish of our world, the personal burdens, all that overwhelms us as we see the scale of human suffering. In every step he takes, bears the pain and sin of the world.  We see the love of God meeting us in the midst of all that, whether unsought or self-inflicted;  we see that hurt and despair taken up into the heart of God. 

Christ Rests, confronts us with a crowned head.  Around it lies a purple robe of mockery.  As we leave, we see the head of one who walked ahead of us, and with us; the head of one we are called to follow as we step back into the world. We too are to weep and to love; to follow Christ, walking our own paths in his way.

And God held in his hand a small globe.

The Son watched them.

Let me go there, he said.

 

Dead and Buried   by E. Rooney

And so we took him down

(Or thought we did),

Wiped off the sweat and spittle

From his face,

Washed the dried blood,

Threw out the crown of thorns,

And wrapped him once again in swaddling clothes.

 

A tomb can be a cramped,

Confining space,

Far smaller than a stable.

We laid him there

(Or thought we did).

We were not able

To comprehend

The infinite contained.

For us it was the end.

Only the harsh realities

Of death and stone

Remained.

 

 

Christ speaking

Let me go there, he said.  The hand that cupped flowers, that stroked the bee’s soft back is stretched along a beam.  The hand that brought life out of death, that restored with touch and spittle is nailed to the grain.  The one who brought bread in abundance is the bread of life broken; broken that a fragmented world may be made whole.  There is no beauty here.  Laborious, sagging, split and nailed.

Zundel’s poem resonates with the hammering of nails: one... two... three. The sheer physical constraint and agony of being put to death.  Everything that we cling to in order to define ourselves is stripped away.  Jesus is led, with two criminals: they are led away. There is no autonomy or freedom in being “led away”.  There is no choice or trust.  Led away to be put to death; life does not ebb away gently.  It is taken, painfully. Every shred of clothing is divided by lot. What we wear, what we own, all that we possess defines us, shields us and cloaks our vulnerability.  Here Jesus is laid bare.  He is dispossessed.

Around Christ Rests, lies a simple robe; taken from our Lord as he gives up his life. The dice rest alongside it; the casual gambling to attain what? That which belongs to another? And there are nails and a hammer; not in the hands of a craftsman but of those caught up in a system of brutal punishment which brings no peace.

There was noise: a deafening, clamorous cacophony. The one, two, three of nails; the cries in agony; the indifferent banter of those casting lots; heckling voices and somewhere, far off, a deep quiet roar.  There was noise and din but what is heard?

The voice of Jesus saying “Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.” 

There is a plea to his Father to forgive those who taunt and torture, who mock and despise; who led him away to death and scorn the possibility of salvation. They know not what they do. 

There are times when we know not what we do: the effect of our words or of our indifference; the consequences of selfish preoccupations; our collusion with agendas which, though seeming soft and harmless, have within them the sting of death.  Father, forgive us. We know not what we do.

This is the complexity of our life: this is where our pain, pride, loss, ambition, betrayals and mockery collide. Our failures and selfishness coalesce around the cross; at the foot of the one who knows we do not know what we do. And on his lips we hear no longer a lament, but a gut wrenching plea for forgiveness.

And the crowd stands by, watching. Leaders scoff; soldiers mock; a criminal derides. Yet even in the callous words of victimisation and aggression reverberate with a glimmer of truth. Yes, he saved others. He restored relationships, brought peace, shared puzzlements, told stories; he burgeoned bread and smoothed down the rumpled sea.

Yes those words of derision and provocation also reveal misunderstanding.  He cannot save others by saving himself.  The paradox made manifest on the beams of a bare tree is that peace comes through death’s sting; touched, confronted and embraced.  Far off, where we are lost, a distant roar of thunder prefigures the triumph of reconciliation.

Save yourself is not an imperative that Jesus can obey.  Instead he empties himself, pours out his life in generous, costly, incomprehensible love.  Let me go there, he said. Let me go to the furthest point of human alienation and abandonment; let me go to the depths of despair and condemnation; let me embrace the victim and bully.  Let me go there.  There is no longer any place where God’s love is not. 

Under the weight of condemnation and in the face of death, one of the criminals derides Jesus, making a desperate plea for escape.  Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us.  It is the other criminal who rebukes him.  He speaks under the weight of condemnation and in the face of death, in the light of his own culpability.   He trusts in who Jesus is: he expresses deep longing and hope. Remember me.  When you come into your kingdom, remember me. 

Today, says Jesus, you will be with me in Paradise. All that we are is drawn into the heart of God.  Far off where we are lost begins a quiet roar which startles us alive.  A cloud no bigger than a man’s hand is a sign of refreshment in the desert; Jesus’ promise, spoken in the face of death, is a sign of peace and restoration.  We are to look on his face, to hear his words, and find in the depths of our hearts that he loves us.  In humility he seeks us out; he knows the very depths of our being.  He speaks words of forgiveness and promise into our troubled, anxious, overburdened lives.

In the midst of the noise of mockery, scoffing and derision, Jesus speaks:

Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.

In the midst of fear, failure, abandonment and death, Jesus speaks:

Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.

For where God seems most hidden, most absent; God is most active.  Where creation seems most desolate and human frailty most stark, there is the promise of life.  God is where we least expect God to be found.  God speaks in the midst of suffering; God is with us.

far off where we are lost, desert dry

thunder begins its quiet roar

the first drops startle us alive

the cloud no bigger

than a man’s hand.

 

 

A Quiet Roar by V. Zundel

one

 

he lays his left hand along the beam

hand that moulded clay into fluttering birds

hand that cupped wild flowers to learn their peace

hand that stroked the bee’s soft back and touched death’s sting

 

two

 

he stretches his right hand across the grain

hand that blessed a dead corpse quick

hand that smeared blind spittle into sight

hand that burgeoned bread, smoothed down the rumpled sea

 

three

 

he stand laborious

sagging, split

homo erectus, poor bare forked thing

hung on nails like a picture

 

he is not beautiful

blood sweats from him in rain

 

far off where we are lost, desert dry

thunder begins its quiet roar

the first drops startle us alive

the cloud no bigger

than a man’s hand.

 

 

Christ resting

Let me go there, he said.  The world is overwhelmed with darkness: light fails and a curtain is rent in two. 

He cries with a loud voice.

The same voice that cried ‘Father forgive’ cries out ‘Father, into your hands I commend my Spirit.’

The one who knows we know not what we do, commends all that he is into his Father’s hands.

The one who did not cling to equality with God, entrusts himself to his Father when all he is has been spent for us.

He breathed his last.

Let me go there, he said. He comes to our agony and longing, he reaches out to our thin outstretched arms.  And in that final breath, there is rest. Let me go there, he said. Let me go to the tomb, he said.  He breathed his last.

Something stops.  Release. Ending. Everything stops.  Noise is shattered by breath. Silence. There, in that moment, God is praised; innocence is declared.  But this giving up of breath, this letting go of life, this moment of recognition passes.  Life goes on. It is relentless. The crowd disperses.  Those who had gathered return home.  In response to the spectacle they beat their breasts.  This is one more death; one more piece of brutality meted out on those condemned. 

Something stops. There is a moment when those who had followed him, stood at a distance; those who were acquainted with him, watched.  Transfixed? Shocked?  Returning home seems to be incongruous. Life ebbs away. The  quiet ugliness is as disturbing as the pain.

As he exhales that final breath, the centurion saw something that prompted praise.  He looked on the face of Christ and saw innocence. What do we see when we look on the face of Christ, silent and in repose?  Christ Rests, has a poise and elegance in its profile; yet the closed eyes, the lips pressed together; the closeness of unmoving air is shockingly final. The crown of thorns remains, piercing the flesh and refusing to allow us to forget the manner of this man’s life and death.  Are we brought up short by our own mortality?  There is no escaping the tragedy in this ending; but there is also waiting and hoping. 

The centurion saw innocence and praised God.  In the face, the love of God is made visible.   Jesus said, let me go there; to our outstretched arms, to bring sight and life, abundance and peace.  He restores human dignity encounter by encounter.  As he walked through the land, step by step, people followed; some deserted, some stood by.  As he spoke words of forgiveness and hope, people heard; some mocked, some clung to them. And now in his final breath, he rests:  God’s love is made visible to a broken world, in this face. 

As they watched, a good and righteous man acts.  One who had disagreed with the council, who waiting with an expectant spirit for God’s Kingdom, asks for the body.  There is a linen cloth and a rock-hewn tomb.  There is human tenderness in the practical acts of honouring a body that has breathed its last. And so we took him down (Or thought we did), Wiped off the sweat and spittle From his face, Washed the dried blood, Threw out the crown of thorns. And wrapped him once again in swaddling clothes. With us in birth and with us in final breath. That tapestry of life is played out over and over in our own lives. A father hears an infant daughter’s cry; a daughter hears a father’s final sigh.  The Word that cried out as a speechless infant now wordlessly enters into the depths of loss and death.

 

A tomb is a confined space. Claustrophobic; lifeless.  It is incomprehensible that the tomb is the infinite contained.  The Sabbath was beginning – a day of rest and preparation.  The women who had followed from Galilee watched, and returned home to prepare the spices for burial. The one whom they had followed is at rest.  At peace; in peace.  Pain is no more for this resting Jesus; yet death itself is being swallowed up.

On the Sabbath they rested according to the commandment; on the Sabbath it must have seemed like an ending.  Only the harsh realities Of death and stone Remained.

The cross that we venerate and look upon in horror and hope is a bare sad tree.  It is the tree of our salvation, where humility and sacrifice reveal the height and breadth and depth of God’s love. 

It leads us to a tomb, to a cool, enclosed and sealed space.  We cannot escape the reality of this death.  We by human inclination rail against it.  We count the length of years, yet are affected by the brevity of love we have known.

Christ rests: fight and pain are over.

He comes to the palace of our greatest fear – of annihilation of utter abandonment. And we wait.  A grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies; unless it does so, it remains but a single grain. 

Harsh realities of death and stone remain.

At an ending; on a day of rest; dearest friends depart;

We watch. We wait. Our eyes veiled with tears.

Dare we hope for sorrows to be forgotten or prepare for joy restored?

We watch and wait and rest.

 

Here we stand at the foot of the cross

We are not alone. Standing near the cross of Jesus were his mother, and his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene. 

What must they have felt, and longed for at that moment?  Witnessing such brutality against one whom they loved; one, whom they’d nurtured, followed and listened to.  What do we hope for in a world that feels bewildering, painful & despairing? 

Often we hope for a dramatic change, a radical intervention or a quick fix.  And now, in John’s passion, we look on the face of a God who does not provide instantaneous solutions.    In his brief earthly ministry, Jesus did reach out to those in need, responding to them through healing, providing food or by drawing them back into community.  The women standing with us today had heard Jesus’ challenging words when they sought to persuade him from the path he walked on; they had also heard words of healing and hope as he transformed their lives. 

The thrust of Jesus’ teaching wasn’t about temporary or short term help. It was far more radical – challenging the roots of suffering and evil. His message was about healing which involved hospitality, trust and compassion; it was about restoring our relationships with God and one another through love, forgiveness and inclusion.  Ultimately, the deep healing we long for and need, is costly.  It is painful.  It takes time. It demands patience.

In Jesus, we see the depth of God’s love for us, for all his creation.  Jesus does not play the part of sympathetic listener or unmoved observer.  He does not just speak up for those who are lost and confused or in pain.  His compassion goes beyond outward concern.  He suffers with us. He suffers for us.

When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple whom he loved standing beside her, he said to his mother, ‘Woman, here is your son.’ Then he said to the disciple, ‘Here is your mother.’ And from that hour the disciple took her into his own home.  

When he washes his disciples’ feet, Jesus enacts loving, generous and humble service.  When he suffers the humiliation of unjust imprisonment, mockery and abuse, he stands with all those who are tortured and bears the sin of those who despise humanity.   On the cross we see the power of love & self-sacrifice confronting the powers of darkness. The corrosive power of sin that separates us from one another, that cuts us off from God is destroyed.

And here, at the foot of the cross, we see a glimmer of a new reality breaking through.  Jesus, as he looks on his mother and beloved disciple, does not speak to them out of filial duty or necessary trust in a friend.  He speaks of the possibility of re-imagined and restored community.

That small, beleaguered, grief stricken group – arms outstretched towards a bare tree – are the first to glimpse the reconciled new creation; they sense its meaning in human form.  A mother adopts a son; a friend welcomes a woman. At that hour, grace breaks in.  In the midst of pain there is hope.

John’s passion narrative does not spare us the horror and pain, the ugliness of the violence; we look upon ourselves in our weakness and fear, in our vanity and collusion.  Nor does he hide from us the extraordinary and overwhelming love poured out in Jesus. Reality and cost are set alongside hope.  The promise of new life; trust in God’s faithfulness; the work of the Holy Spirit in restoring brokenness; the power of love to overcome sin.

John reminds us that suffering, evil and death do not have the last word.    In the midst of confusion, uncertainty and despair, there is still the presence of one who brings light, love and healing.   He is revealed to us in awful desolation of suffering; in the isolation of abandonment; in the simplicity of hospitality; in the joy of love.  And if we respond to his call, we allow him to expand our horizons; to discover our purpose and wholeness.  Grounded in the costly love, we begin to live differently.

At the foot of the cross, prefiguring new human community, is Mary who spent a life time pondering light and glory; sorrow and pain. She knew that a sword would pierce her soul. The beloved disciple rested against Jesus' chest at the last supper, and now offers that intimate dwelling place to Mary.  Here begins a people abiding in love, abiding in God.

That is the people we are called to be: a people who both find acceptance in God’s love, and uphold others in it.  At times of deepest sorrow, despondency and frustration; moments of profoundly overwhelming, uncontainable goodness can break in. It offers us comfort and assurance and cuts through the fear of abandonment. But to be held in such an embrace also means being let go.  It means making ourselves vulnerable and letting the other go.

After this, when Jesus knew that it was now finished, he said (in order to fulfill the scripture), ‘I am thirsty.’ A jar of sour wine was standing there. So they put a sponge full of the wine on a branch of hyssop and held it to his mouth. When Jesus had received the wine, he said, ‘It is finished.’ Then he bowed his head and gave up his spirit.

After agony and death, there is silence and darkness.  We wait.

We wait for a dawning light to pierce our gloom.

We wait for love to permeate the dark and silent places of our hearts and minds.

We wait for humanity to be healed, renewed, and restored.

God has drawn all people to himself in love.

We are to be drawn to each other in love: mother, son, father, daughter; as friends.

Together we share in love, in pain and in hope.

It is finished.

He bowed his head.

He gave up his Spirit.

We wait.