On a weird Good Friday

Growing up I did not know what Good Friday was. For some reason, I did not correlate it at all with Easter. But then, Easter was a rather low-key affair that mostly revolved around receiving candy. Since, unlike today, candy was then a relatively rare thing, it was enough for me. I remember that we always had ham on Easter. Yes, I knew that Easter was the day Christ's resurrection is celebrated.

I still remember a few years after becoming Catholic, while still an undergraduate, going home to my parents' house late on Good Friday. I used to drive back home from Salt Lake on some weekends for the quiet to study. I think I had been fasting all day. I didn't arrive at my parents' house until around 9:00 PM.

About ten o'clock, I went in search of food. They'd had spare ribs for supper with rice and saved me some. And so, I ate. It's odd that remember this. I think the year was 1992. I also remember feeling a bit guilty, not only for eating but eating meat!. Hey, what's religion without a little neurosis? Maybe that's why the ribs tasted so damn good. And maybe the flavor of the ribs is what causes me to remember- that or the guilt.

Crucifixion, by Matthias Grünewald, from the Isenheim Altarpiece

Usually, the Triduum is pretty profound for me. This year, given the hectic pace of my life, not so much. Reflecting on it, that's okay. It's good news that we celebrate it no matter what. We even observed the Triduum last year when virtually nobody could participate, at least not in person. Perhaps a year that seemed like a long Lent also tamps down my fervor a bit.

This week, praying the psalmody for the Office of Readings on Wednesday, I was struck by verse fourteen of Psalm 39: "Turn your gaze from me, that I may smile before I depart to be no more."

This verse is preceded by

O Lord, turn your ear to my cry.
Do not be deaf to my tears.
In your house I am a passing guest,
a pilgrim, like all my fathers

One of the things I cherish about the Psalms is that they deal in reality. Reality is what makes them hopeful as opposed to merely optimistic- Psalm 39 has not one note of optimism in it!

Praying the Psalms day-after-day in the Liturgy of the Hours shapes and forms me. This is a great help when I am not "feeling it," as it were. This Good Friday, I am certainly not feeling it. That's okay. In fac, more than okay. Today I will fast, pray, and prepare for today's observance, which we're holding in the evening. I can say, I need resurrection. Well, at least I desire to be resurrected. That's a start, right?

Our traditio for this Good Friday is King's College (Cambridge) Choir & congregation singing "When I Survey the Wondrous Cross."

Year I: Wednesday of Holy Week

Readings: Isaiah 50:4-9a; Psalm 69:8-10.21-22.31.33-34; Matthew 26:14-25

In the days of Holy Week leading up to the Paschal Triduum, that is, during the final few days of Lent, Judas Iscariot is a central figure in the Church’s Gospel readings. This evening, we heard Matthew’s account of the same episode we heard about last evening from John’s Gospel.

According to Matthew, Judas had made a deal with chief priests prior to the Last Supper to betray Jesus for thirty pieces of silver. Based on this, the Wednesday of Holy Week is sometimes called “Spy Wednesday.” Judas is dubbed a “spy” because by his betrayal he became something of an inside informer for the authorities- the powers that opposed Jesus.

His betrayal, which, according to Matthew, was already a done deal, makes Judas’s reply to Jesus’s prediction that one of those at the Last Supper would betray home quite disingenuous. It was no mystery to Judas who would betray Jesus. It doesn’t appear that it was a mystery to Jesus either. But the rest of Twelve did not know who was going to betray their Master.

It’s tempting to ask the question, Have you ever been betrayed? And then to follow this up with the question, How did being betrayed make you feel? The answers would be hurt, angry, bitter, resentful, etc. What is important is what is signified by Jesus dipping a morsel and handing it to Judas: Jesus kept on loving Judas despite knowing about and then experiencing his betrayal.

The better question for today, I think, is Have you ever betrayed anyone? How did did you feel afterwards, when you realized what you had done? Ashamed? Remorseful? Embarrassed? Weak? If we follow the thread concerning Judas in Matthew’s Gospel to the end, we learn that Judas “deeply regretted what he had done.”¹ As a result, threw the thirty pieces of silver into the temple and then hanged himself.²

IN Monday's Gospel reading, calling to mind Judas’s rebuke of Mary, the sister of Martha and Lazarus, for anointing Jesus’s feet with costly oil, it seems clear that either Judas didn’t believe or simply did not grasp who Jesus was. And this despite his experiences as one of the Lord’s closest followers. Given the complexity of human motivations perhaps he didn’t believe Jesus is the resurrection and life because he didn’t grasp the Lord’s teaching and was unable to make sense of his experiences in the light of that teaching.

The Thirty Pieces of Silver, by János Pentelei Molnár, 1909

In Matthew’s account, Judas clearly knows that Jesus is innocent of that which he stands accused. Hence, he is horrified when he witnesses how brutally Jesus is treated. In other words, whatever else Judas might’ve thought or believed, he knew he was responsible for the death of an innocent person.

Because we grasp who Jesus is and believe him to be Lord, we can be pretty sure that Jesus, who was never angry with, bitter toward, or resentful of Judas or any of those who treated him cruelly and killed him, would gladly have extended him mercy and forgiven him. These words from 1 Peter amplify and clarify the message of our first reading, taken from the second of deutero-Isaiah’s four Servant Songs: Jesus

committed no sin, no deceit was found in his mouth.
When he was insulted,
He returned no insult.

When he was made to suffer,
he did not counter with threats.
Instead he delivered himself up
to the One who judges justly.

In his own body he brought your sins to the cross³

In suffering like this, the sacred writer insists, Christ “left you an example to have you follow in his footsteps.”⁴

Can there be any doubt that Jesus would have forgiven Judas despite his repentance coming too late to save him from an agonizing death? After all, he lavishly forgave Peter for his betrayal. But it is not Jesus who needs Judas’s salvation but Judas who needs Jesus’s salvation.

Like Judas, we need Jesus to save us, most especially from ourselves, given our propensity to inflict what we mistakenly believe to be divine punishment upon ourselves, as did Judas. The name of God is Mercy because the name of his Son is Jesus.

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1 Matthew 27:3.^↩
2 Matthew 27:5.^↩
3 1 Peter 2:22-24a.^↩
4 1 Peter 2:21.^↩

Year I: Monday of Holy Week

Readings: Isa 42:1-7; Ps 27:1-3; 13-14; John 12:1-11

According to John, Jesus went to Bethany, to the house of his dear friends, the siblings Mary, Martha, and Lazarus, six days before Passover. Of course, it was during Passover that Jesus underwent his passion and death.

John makes a point of telling us, twice, that Jesus’s visit to Bethany occurs after he raised Lazarus from the dead. We heard about this on the Fifth Sunday of Lent during the Mass at which we celebrated the Third Scrutiny. Jesus’s bringing Lazarus back from the dead is perhaps best described as a resuscitation rather than a resurrection. But it is no less marvelous for that distinction.

As a result of having been resuscitated after being dead for several days, long enough for his body to begin to decay, Lazarus was no doubt something of a curiosity to many people. Because many began to believe that Jesus was Messiah and perhaps even Lord because he raised Lazarus, many of the Jewish leaders (not all, at least not Nicodemus or Joseph of Arimathea) wanted to kill him as well as Jesus.

We see in our reading tonight the stirrings of Judas’s betrayal when he says about Mary anointing Jesus’s feet with costly oil, “Why was this oil not sold for three hundred days’ wages and given to the poor?”¹ His silence in response to Jesus’s words about the poor always being present but he would not be seem to indicate that Judas did not believe Jesus’s claim to be Messiah and Lord, despite what he had witnessed.

This brings us to the relevant question: Who do you think Jesus is? If you remember, before raising Lazarus from the dead, Jesus tells Martha that he is the resurrection and the life. He then asks her, “Do you believe this?”²

It’s clear that Mary, the one who sat and listened at Jesus’s feet while her sister, Martha, hurried about getting everything ready and complaining to Jesus about Mary just sitting there, believed Jesus to be the resurrection and the life.³ Messiah, in Greek Christos, means Anointed One. Mary anoints Jesus, taking no heed of the cost, because, unlike Judas, she believes.

Last week in a conversation about very brief homilies, Fr. Andrzej told me that a priest in Poland on Easter once gave a very short homily: “Christ is risen! But you don’t believe it.” The question early in this Holy Week, then, is, Do you believe that Christ is risen and alive? It is a question you can only credibly answer with your life. In other words, you can’t really believe this and remain unchanged. To repent is to convert and to convert means to change.

Our reading from Isaiah insists that the one to whom it refers, for us this is Jesus, was “formed and set… as a covenant of the people, a light to the nations.”⁴ “The people,” of course, refers to Israel, while “the nations” refers you, me, and the rest of the human race. More relevant to the point, he came to bring sight to the blind. The blindness Jesus seeks to cure, as we learned in the Gospel reading for the Second Scrutiny, is not physical. As he says to those who doubt him: “If you were blind you have no sin; but now you are saying, ‘We see,’ and so your sins remain.”⁵ Despite it happening right in front of their eyes, they remained blind to God’s salvation and so they remained unchanged.

It makes all the difference in the world whether you believe Jesus is a remote figure who lived some 2,000 years ago or believe that he is alive and present in a way more powerful than if he had remained on earth.

The way Christ is present not just to us but among us and even in us is none other than the holy Spirit. As Paul insisted: “no one can say ‘Jesus is Lord,’ except by the holy Spirit.”⁶ How else if not by the holy Spirit did the centurion in yesterday’s Passion, who stood watch at Jesus’s crucifixion, whose job it was to ensure he died, upon seeing him expire proclaim, “Truly this man was the Son of God!”?⁷

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1 John 12:5.^↩
2 John 11:25-26.^↩
3 See Luke 10:38-42.^↩
4 Isaiah 42:6-7.^↩
5 John 9:12.^↩
6 1 Corinthians 12:3.^↩
7 Mark 15:39.^↩

"Talk About the Passion"

Here we are, on the threshold of Holy Week. Passion Sunday is upon us. Ah, "Talk About the Passion," to borrow words from Michael Stipe. According to most New Testament scholars, the passion narrative, specifically Mark's, is the oldest part of the Gospels. In other words, fittingly, the story of the life of Jesus of Nazareth begins at the end.

I am excited that we will read Saint Mark's account of the Lord's Passion. Mark's narrative is not as smooth or stylistic as the accounts of the other two synoptic writers (i.e., Matthew and Luke), both of whom used the Gospel According to Saint Mark as a source. Surprisingly, for Mark, whose narrative can often seem a bit abrupt, this passion narrative is quite long.

Reading Mark's Passion account what we are hearing is very likely the oldest part of the first-written Gospel, making it, textually-speaking, the cornerstone of our uniquely Christian scriptures, which we call the New Testament.

Much is made of Jesus reciting the words of Psalm 22 as he hung on the cross: Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani? ("My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?"). In other words, like most of what Jesus says, his utterance is rooted in Israel's scriptures, not dredged up from some void or spoken off the cuff, as it were. It is more than a prayer or a plea. These words express hope.

The relevant passage from the twenty-second Psalm consists of the second and third verses:

My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?
Why so far from my call for help,
from my cries of anguish?
My God, I call by day, but you do not answer;
by night, but I have no relief

But beginning in verse four it is easy to see hope arising from beyond the horizon of optimism. Consider verses 4-5:

Yet you are enthroned as the Holy One;
you are the glory of Israel.
In you our fathers trusted;
they trusted and you rescued them

Hence, God is not a Deus ex machina, swooping in at the last minute, as all our superheroes do, and saving His Son before he dies. Rather, God meets us in our despair and accompanies us through it. This is made clear in the very next psalm, the much loved Psalm 23, which is only six verses long: "Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff comfort me" (v. 4).

Being truly human, Jesus really died. This is the whole point of chapter 9 of the Letter to the Hebrews. Given our human propensities, it is hardly surprising that docetism ("seemingism") emerged early on. Docetism holds that Jesus only seemed to die, or, in what is perhaps its most extreme form, it was body double who died in Jesus's place. It's difficult to get our minds around the idea that Jesus did not deem equality to God something to be grasped at, clung to, insisted upon, etc. Instead, acting out of the deepest depths of divine nature, he emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, subjecting himself not only death but death on the cross (see Philippians 2:5-11).

In the days of the Roman empire, among subjugated peoples, like the Jews, death on a cross was a shameful, humiliating death. Instead, on the cross the Lord despoiled "the principalities and the powers," making "a public spectacle of them," and "leading them away in triumph by it" (Colossians 2:15). You see, as a Christian you add by subtracting, you win by losing, you gain everything by claiming nothing but Christ and him crucified.

Being Christian means being kenotic- self-emptying- or it means nothing. Trinune life is kenosis, creation is kenosis, the Incarnation is kenosis, Christ's ministry, passion, death, and resurrection are kenosis. In not clinging to divine prerogatives that humanity too often attributes to God, acting instead perfectly in accord with divine nature, which is self-emptying self-giving, Jesus shows us what he means when he bids those who would follow him to take up our cross. As a friend once said in response to my assertion that God uses all things, especially our suffering, to draw us to himself: "Well, I don't like his methods." Who can blame her?

Perhaps the most telling sign of our fallenness is our tendency to think that God can and often does whatever he damn well pleases. Well, God does what he pleases, which is not for divine self-pleasure. The Father didn't kill his Son. I did. This is a difference between Abraham and Isaac and the Father and Jesus: in the latter case, the Father did not raise his hand against his Son. It is beyond idle to ask "Could God have prevented this from happening?" Asking why God "let" it happen, on the other hand, is the most human of questions, albeit one to which there is no truly satisfactory answer. Perhaps here as no place else we are confronted with mystery that cannot be explained away.

This past Thursday, the Church observed the Solemnity of the Annunciation. Rather than the Sorrowful Mysteries, which I pray virtually every day during Lent, I meditated on the Joyful Mysteries. The fourth Joyful Mystery is Mary and Joseph presenting Jesus in the Temple. Once in the Temple, according to Luke's account, the Holy Family encountered two elderly people, a man and a woman: the prophetess Anna and Simeon. Recognizing who this infant is, Simeon tells his Mother "and you yourself a sword will pierce" (Luke 2:35). Indeed, the Blessed Virgin is our Mater Dolorosa, our Mother of Sorrows. This is why we, Eve's poor banished children, cry to her.

Jesus leads you to the cross so that he can lead you beyond it. But the only way beyond the cross is through it. Nowhere does Jesus say that material wealth, comfort, hands-in-your waistband, lip-smacking, lazy ease is what he has in store for those who follow him. As a result, wealth is not a sign of divine favor- this is a pretty pagan, that is to say, very human notion. There is a lot to ponder as we enter the week Christians call "Holy."

As the lengthy introduction to the Mass for Passion Sunday bids:

with all faith and devotion,
let us commemorate
the Lord’s entry into the city of our salvation,
following in his footsteps,
so that, being made by his grace partakers of the Cross,
we may have a share also in his Resurrection and in his life

"And when the night is cloudy..."

Today is the Friday before Good Friday. It is the fifth and final Friday of Lent. I admit I am at a bit of a loss. I want to write about the role of faith in the novels of John Cheever, especially in Bullet Park and Falconer. During my silence this morning, as I looked at the candle I lit, it struck me that faith endures because the light shines in the darkness.

The light shines in the darkness because the darkness has not overcome it. Once this though came into my mind, prompted as it was by the chapter in Falconer in which the cardinal visits the prison, I immediately inserted the pronoun "my"- The light shines my darkness and my darkness has not overcome it. Jesus, [resent through the power his Spirit, is the inexhaustible candle shining in my darkness.

I don't think I could ever come close to describing my darkness. It's indescribable. I know there are some reading this who can relate. It's not a competition, Whose darkness it darker. We can agree that those of us who experience the darkness of depression experience more than enough darkness.

As typed the above, once again, my favorite song by The Beatles came to mind: Let It Be. When I was in diaconate formation, I wrote a short paper on what that song means to me. I am not sure I still have the paper but I remember writing it. I am fascinated by the various ways the three theological virtues pertain to each other. I am particularly interested in the various relationships that attain between faith and hope. It is never enough to view theological matters in a straight linear manner: faith-to hope-to love.

By now both of my readers are familiar with my tireless assertion that hope lies beyond optimism. One aspect of this is seeing that Jesus didn't die to "bless" me with a comfortable life of material abundance. Especially among Christians of all stripes in the U.S., this seems to be a core belief. "I am so blessed." On the contrary, Jesus constantly reminds us that wealth and material abundance are often the greatest obstacles to God's Kingdom!

What comes first, faith or hope? Does faith lead to/reinforce hope or does hope lead to/reinforce faith? The answer of course is both yes and no.

Given the above, it shouldn't be a great surprise that "Let It Be" is our last traditio for this Lent. I found this version by Alicia Keyes and John Legend that I found lovely to share. Besides, it's the day after the Solemnity of the Annunciation, which comes nine months to the day before the Lord's Nativity at Christmas:

Reflection for Morning Prayer with Diocesan Staff

Reading: Isaiah 54:10.14-15

“You are our sure defense, O God!”¹ As believers, how can we doubt this? But once in a while, when this reassurance runs into unyielding reality, we can tend to doubt if God is on our side.

Taken as it is from deutero- (or second) Isaiah, which was composed during Israel’s Babylonian exile, this confident statement is uttered in the midst of what was likely for many exiled Israelites a hopeless situation. In context, then, it can be taken more as an aspiration, as hope. Knowing the end of the story (that Israel returned from exile), we can take it as a true and reassuring statement.

Genuine hope begins where optimism ends. This what Saint Paul meant when he wrote about Abraham’s hope in God’s promise that he would be “the father of many nations.” At the time of God’s promise, Abraham was already an old man. He and his wife Sarah, who was also past child-bearing age, remained childless. Hence, the apostle wrote that “hoping against hope,” Abraham believed God’s promise.²

We all know through our experience that God does not typically function as a Deus ex machina, that is, as an unexpected power swooping in from nowhere to save a seemingly hopeless situation. There is a reason we find novels, stories, and plays that feature this plot device unsatisfying. The scriptures abundantly reaffirm that God works through, not over, above, around or under the sometime desperate circumstances in which we find ourselves.

The opening words of this morning’s hymn provides us a clue as to how God defends us, how God saves and heals us: Christ bore the weight of human need through humble service.³

As Jesus made his way from Roman praetorium to Calvary it was not intuitively obvious to the casual observer that he bore the weight of human need. Without a doubt, to most who witnessed this, he appeared to be just another unfortunate Jew who ran afoul of the Roman imperium.

Crucifixion, by El Greco, 1600

It is not so much that God accomplishes his purposes in hidden ways- though he does sometimes. Rather, it is that God accomplishes them in the most counterintuitive way. In other words, it’s not how I would’ve done it. Once I see and experience Christ’s humble service, I quickly grasp that his is not just a counterintuitive way but the only way given his purpose.

Leave it to the Director of the Office of Deacons to point out that the original Christian word for “service” is the Greek word diakonia. It’s easy to see how the word deacon, or servant, is derived from diakonia.

In Saint Luke’s account of the Last Supper, Jesus asks his companion a rhetorical question: “who is greater: the one seated at table or the one who serves?” Of course, as the Lord goes on to note, the correct answer is the one seated at table. Jesus then tells them, “I am among you as the one who serves.”⁴ Translated more literally, he tells them "I among you as a deacon." The service to which our hymn refers- his crucifixion- is the height of diakonia.

Just as there is a priesthood of all the baptized, there is also a diaconate of all the baptized. As Jesus shows us, service precedes sacrifice. Our call is both to receive the humble service Jesus renders and to serve others in his name for the sake of God’s kingdom. Believe it or not, especially when you are experiencing difficulties, this how you come to know that God is on your side. Saint Paul captures our diaconal vocation very well:

Called from worship into service/
Forth in your great name we go/
To the child, the youth, aged/
Love in living deeds to show/
Hope and health, good will and comfort/
Counsel, aide, and peace we give/
That your children, Lord, in freedom/
May your mercy know and live
⁵

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1 Isaiah 54:15.^↩
2 Romans 4:18.^↩
3 "Lord, Whose Love in Humble Service."^↩
4 Luke 22:27.^↩
5 "Lord, Whose Love in Humble Service," verse 4.^↩

Fifth Sunday of Lent: Third Scrutiny

Readings: Ezekiel 37:12-14; Ps 130:1-8; Romans 8:8-11; John 11:1-45

In the seemingly hectic swirl that ensued upon the Lord learning of the death of his friend Lazarus, at which news “Jesus wept,” he told Martha, Lazarus' sister, the most fundamental truth of the Christian faith: “I am the resurrection and the life; whoever believes in me, even if he dies, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.” He follows this revelation by asking her, “Do you believe this?”¹ My dear Elect, this is the question Jesus asks you today.

Beliefs are strange things. We all have well-founded beliefs and we all have unfounded beliefs. Belief does not preclude doubt. In fact, dealing with doubts is indispensable for clarifying what you believe. We probably face no greater uncertainty than contemplating resurrection and life eternal in the wake of the death of someone dear to us. This is why engaging in momento mori- remembering your own death- is a fruitful spiritual practice.

Sure, living forever sounds great, but is it true? Can it be possible, or is it merely a desperate wish? Woody Allen expressed this deepest of human longings well when he said, “I don't want to achieve immortality through my work. I want to achieve it through not dying.”

“Do you believe this?” This is the same question posed in our first reading from Ezekiel, the immediate context for which is Israel's return from exile. But how anyone and everyone comes to know that God is LORD is through Jesus Christ by the power of the Holy Spirit. God's Lordship is made manifest by Christ's victory over death, which is the power that opens graves and has us rise from them, both metaphorically and truly.²

It is easy, as Christians, to become so numb to this reality, this truth, that we lose sight of its audaciousness. In his Letter to the Romans, St. Paul fleshes this out more fully:

If the Spirit of the one who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, the one who raised Christ from the dead will give life to your mortal bodies also, through his Spirit that dwells in you³

My dear Elect, you are preparing for Baptism, Confirmation, and the Eucharist. These are the means Christ has instituted to impart to you, his Holy Spirit, who is also the Spirit of the Father. In other words, the Holy Spirit is the way Jesus remains present, not just to you, but in you and through you. But for this to happen, you must die.

Being infused with the Holy Spirit means being filled with new life, which is life eternal. Eternal life is not that life that begins after mortal death. Rather, eternal life begins when we die, are buried, and rise in Christ to new life through Baptism. A few chapters earlier in Romans, in the midst of a rather complicated exposition on sin and grace, the apostle makes an important point, one you will hear again at the upcoming Easter Vigil:

are you unaware that we who were baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death? We were indeed buried with him through baptism into death, so that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might live in newness of life⁴

Don't drive the Spirit out by continuing to live according to the flesh, which does not mean a rejection of the body but a rejection of sin: living according to the Spirit is something we are called to do now and, as the result of Christ's resurrection, forever with our bodies. This determination to cooperate with God's grace, which builds on our nature, is sung about by Old Crow Medicine Show in their song “Darius Rucker,” which is about a deep longing for home:

Oh, north country winters keep a-getting me down
Lost my money playing poker so I had to leave town
But I ain't turning back to live that old life no more⁵

How a wish turns into hope, an unfounded belief into a well-founded one, is through experience. Experience is how an event becomes an encounter. What does this mean? Pope Benedict, with his characteristic clarity, did about as good a job describing this with words as anyone: “Being Christian is not the result of an ethical choice or a lofty idea, but the encounter with an event, a person, which gives life a new horizon and a decisive direction.”⁶

The “person” whom the Christian encounters who changes her, makes her a Christian, is none other than Jesus Christ. It is Christ who asks you today, as you come nearer to the waters of Baptism: "Do you believe this?” This evening, in preparation for being dying and being buried with Christ in Baptism, Jesus directs you: “Take away the stone” from your heart so that he can raise you to new life.

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1 John 11:25-26a.35.^↩
2 Ezekiel 37:13.^↩
3 Romans 8:11.^↩
4 Romans 6:2-3.^↩
5 Old Crow Medicine Show, "Darius Rucker."^↩
6 Pope Benedict, Encyclical Letter, Deus caritas est, sec. 1.^↩