The First Reflection offered by the Rt. Rev. Kirk Stevan Smith, Bishop of Arizona, during the First Hour of the Good Friday liturgy on 21 March 2008, at St. Philip’s In The Hills Parish, Tucson, Arizona
One of the great blessings of this beautiful sanctuary
building are the works of art that it houses.
Over the years benefactors of this parish have contributed great works
of art from their own collections or purchased pieces to share with all who
worship here. I would tell you how much
all these works of art are worth, but that would make your rector very nervous,
so let me just say that it is one of the most important collections in the City
of
In thinking about what I might share with you during this three hour Good Friday vigil, it occurred to me that one of your works of art might provide us an excellent visual focal point to the words of the passion that we will hear read in the course of our time together.
I am referring to the figures you see on either side of the
altar rail. You may not know it, but these
figures—over 500 years old, were originally made, not for an altar rail but for
what is called a rood screen. The word rood
comes from the Saxon word for cross
and refers to the large piece of furniture that separated the nave from
the sanctuary altar. Every medieval
church in
his mother Mary and the beloved disciple John, kneeling at the foot of the cross. That is of course an arrangement familiar to us from countless works of religious art as well, as you can see from the cover of your program.
From Gail Carlsen, your priest associate, I learned the
story of these particular rood screen figures.
They were found in a gallery in
As we, like John and Mary, gather today at the foot of the cross, these figures, along with the cross itself can help to focus attention on the mystery of suffering that we mark today. The Passion Narrative, which we will hear from the Gospel of John, has been divided into three sections, and I have assigned one of the rood screen figures to go with each reading. I would like to suggest that the figure of Mary reminds us of the human suffering of Jesus, the figure of the disciple John invites us as Jesus’ modern disciples to share in his suffering on the cross, while the cross itself, the central symbol, not just of Good Friday but of our Christian faith generally, brings us to the most difficult aspect of our theology, Jesus’ saving action, his suffering and atoning death for us. And why that had to be.
Each of our meditations deals with some pretty complex and difficult theology—each meditation could probably be three hours long and not even begin to scratch the surface, so in each case I will try to link what I am going to say to a story, and following that leave you with some unanswered questions to think about in the moments of music and silence ahead.
I invite you then to join me at the foot of the cross as we, together with Mary and John keep watch during this solemn three- hour vigil, contemplating the mighty mystery of Christ’s passion.
Let’s begin then with Mary. Our ancient carving portrays her with a mix of emotions. Her face is downcast, and her body in the position of deep mourning, yet her hands are clasped in adoration and prayer, her veil thrown deeply over her head, blocking out the outside world as she turns her gaze inward, struggling to understand what is happening, and yet in a way resigning herself to the will of God, almost in an echo of
the events of the Annunciation when she was told that she was to conceive the savior of the world and her response to the Angel Gabriel was to bow her head and say, “Behold the handmaid of the Lord, be it unto me according to thy will.”
John’s Gospel is the only one of the four Gospels that makes reference to Mary being present at the crucifixion. In Matthew, Mark, and Luke, Jesus is completely forsaken with no one at his side when he dies, with the exception of some faithful women who watch “from a distance.” John however likes to cast his account of Jesus’ life as a series of encounters—we hear some of these during the Lenten readings, encounters with Nicodemus, with the Samaritan woman, later after the resurrection with Mary Magdalene in the Garden, and the Doubting Thomas. Each exchange models for us a highly personal, very powerful emotional encounter with Jesus.
The emotion with Mary is easy to recognize, it is complete
and utter grief, the kind of grief that can only come with losing a child. After almost 30 years as a pastor, I can tell
you from observation, if not from personal experience, there is nothing in the
range of human emotion that can compare with the devastation of losing children.
If you have experienced such a loss, you will know that it probably
nearly destroyed you. Those of us who
witness it cannot help but be deeply moved, even when we see it from
afar—whether it is the woman down the street whose teenage son has died in a
car accident, or the father who learns that his son is not coming home from
Iraq, or the Sudanese woman holding the body of her starved child in her arms,
these are images that we can never forget.
The same, by the way is true of art.
I can remember when I was about 13 years old; I stood in line at the New
York Worlds Fair in 1964 to see Michelangelo’s famous masterpiece sculpture,
the Pieta, which had been lent to the fair by the
What then does the presence of this grieving woman remind us of? Simply this: That is Jesus was fully human—born of a woman—then he experienced death fully and completely, not only with all its physical suffering, but also with the emotional pain and loss that comes when the primal bonds between a mother and son are shattered by death. Mary’s presence at the foot of the cross is a powerful reminder of the humanity of Jesus, and that his suffering and our suffering are one and the same. A theologian once put it like this: the wounds in Jesus’ hands, feet, and sides are his membership card in the human race.
This might seem pretty obvious, but one of the heresies the church has struggled with over its long history is a tendency to deny the suffering of Jesus—In the earliest days of the church this was called docetism, and its adherents claimed that Jesus just appeared to be suffering, but in a sense was simply play acting. Their reasoning was this: If Jesus were truly God, how could God suffer? If God felt the same things we do, then God couldn’t really be God. For them Jesus was only a spiritual being, not human.
This approach is well meaning, but it’s not really Biblical. All of the Biblical writers do their best to make us understand that Jesus’ physical pain was real, and the torture he went through can’t be prettied up or explained away. If you want a taste of this, go see
The Passion of Christ, which for all its faults does a pretty good job of portraying the almost superhuman suffering that Jesus endured. It forces us to look at something we would rather turn away from. But the physical suffering was not the end of it, the abandonment—the cry of the son of God, “My God my God, why have you abandoned me,” are perhaps the most heart wrenching words in the whole new testament, they carry a pain which is far more than physical, and they are words with which we all can identify.
And this is something that the early doceist overlooked, that if Jesus does not really suffer, then Jesus cannot really save. In order for him to rescue us, he has to fully and completely identify with us in all our joys and sorrows.
Those of you who are old enough to remember your WWII history will remember General Omar Bradley, the highest-ranking American General in history. Did you know what his nickname was? The GI General. Why? Because unlike other generals, he never stayed in the safety of headquarters, instead, he was always on the front line with his troops, sharing their rations, sleeping in trenches, and coming under fire. His soldiers followed him because they knew he was one of them—he had shared their danger and their suffering.
His mother weeping at the foot of the cross reminds us of human pain, the pain that Jesus took on as one of us. This brings me to my first story:
Many years ago I read a little article in Time Magazine that I will never forget. It told of a young woman who had been in a terrible car accident and as a result was now a quadriplegic. I wish I could remember her name, but I do remember that she had become a writer, and started her own newsletter as a support for people like herself who had lost use of their arms and legs. Every month she would type up her column for the newsletter using a pencil that she held between her teeth to hit the letters on the keyboard.
She wrote that the most frequent question she got from her fellow suffers was this—Why did God allow this to happen to me? What did I do to deserve this?
I will never forget her two- part answer: First, she wrote, I can’t answer your question, because if I did, I would be God and I am not. Secondly, although I can’t answer your question, I can tell you that I believe that God knows what you are going through and in fact suffers with you. And I don’t know about you, but that is my kind of a God.
Mary’s presence reminds us that a suffering God is our kind of God, and that fact can make all the difference. As the letter to the Hebrews reminds us: For we have not a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin.” In other words, because of Jesus there are no dark rooms left, no experience that we have suffered that he has not already experienced and conquered.
So as we join Jesus’ mother at the foot of the cross. I leave you with the following questions:
Let us pray:
Lord God, whose blessed Son our Savior gave his body to be whipped and his face to be spit upon, give us grace to accept joyfully the sufferings of the present time, confident of the glory that shall be revealed, through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen