HOLY WEEK 1998 - LOVE SO AMAZING

Preacher: Father James Murray SSC

GOOD FRIDAY The Mystery of the Cross

"Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."

The dear Jesus is near exhaustion. He has been interrogated throughout the night. Sick at heart. No one has visited him. A prisoner. No one has taken pity on him. A stranger from Galilee. No one has taken him in. Hungry. No one has fed him. Thirsty. No one has given him drink.

His friends have run away. Simon Peter has used foul oaths to say he does not know him. The bitter, salt taste of Judas' kiss still burns upon his cheek.

He is human like us, he is vulnerable like us. He has been tempted to run away himself, even asked that the cup of suffering might pass him by, but he has been faithful, unlike us. There is a charitable group which attends crucifixions. They offer him wine mixed with myrrh to dull the coming pain, but he refuses it. His is the discipline of the heart which never avoids suffering if its purpose is to save others, and to take on their identity.

And now they lay him on the cross, they pinion his arms and legs, they take out great iron nails and begin to drive them in. They are real nails!

The two malefactors, workers of evil, to be crucified with him darken the air with profanities. The dear Jesus prays&emdash; strain your ears for that prayer. It is uttered quietly though the soldiers hear it. They are astounded.

The centurion, who commands a hundred men, has been at many a crucifixion; once, along the road to Samaria when Pontius Pilatus had ordered the execution of six hundred men, and had their mouths sewn up with gut because their hideous cries disturbed him, but the death of the dear Jesus disturbs him infinitely more.

What would the governor have felt had he heard this prayer? "Father, forgive them for they know not what they do." But the centurion hears it. This is no ordinary prisoner, he says to himself. We may be doing something dreadful, but we cannot stop it : we are under orders even though 'the King of the Jews' is praying to his God, "Father, forgive them for they know not what they do."

Father, forgive us. We have often run away or said we did not know your son. We have even been ashamed of knowing him by failing to give evidence for him, to be his daily martyrs, his witnesses, his reliable lovers.

We have been fragile friends. Forgive us, forgive us.

"Today you will be with me in paradise."

The crosses are raised from the ground. How cruel and appalling this way of death proves to be. A slow strangulation of body and soul, for the condemned must push themselves up on their nailed feet to expand their rib cages and snatch another painful breath, only to sag back again.

It can take days to die.

The thieves are terrified. They who have often struck fear into the hearts of their victims are now victims themselves.

The Romans have a word for them, they are 'hostia', but one of them realises he is dying, crucified next to someone who is thoroughly good, and he strains his head around to read the superscription which Pontius Pilatus has refused to change. Pilate has been brave enough to say "What I have written, I have written", but he is not courageous enough to confront evil, and submits to intimidation by a mob.

So the superscription remains unchanged. It is written in Hebrew and Latin and Greek. There is a language for everyone likely to be in Jerusalem.

It is as well for Dismas. The dying thief reads the words in Hebrew. He has no Latin, he has no Greek, but he has need of forgiveness. The whole kaleidoscope of his life runs before his eyes; robberies on the road down to Jericho, leaving the victims half dead; or running helter-skelter like a hare down the plunging ravines of the Judaean hills to escape capture and punishment. The two thieves, Dismas and Gestas, are tough. They do not whimper at hardship, but they never expected to finish up this way - soon to be crucified, dead and buried. They never even contemplated death and are not ready for it.

Gestas curses at it, even hurls abuse at the quiet figure of Jesus, but Dismas makes one last throw in a prayer of desperation. Twisting his head round to the cross beside him, his eyes can just make out the words 'Iesus Nazarenus, Rex Iudaeorum', Jesus of Nazareth King of the Jews.

Dismas has been brought up a Jew. He knows this name. The Romans have turned it into 'Jesus' from 'Jeshua' 'Joshua', the one who saves. So he cries out, "Jesus. Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom."

O what a mystery is here revealed. Never should we forget it. It is never too late to repent. Never too late to call upon the holy name. Never too late for the love and mercy of God.

"Jesus, remember me", Dismas cries. "Remember me as I go down to oblivion, as the rigour of death takes hold on me, as the darkness of my sins envelops me. Jesus, remember me, for, whatever your kingdom is, it must be better than my destiny as I go down into the pit."

And then he hears this wonderful promise. Can it be true? He knows he does not deserve it, but he hears it with hope and ineffable joy. "Today you shall be with me in paradise."

Dear Jesus, we too have been workers of evil, malefactors, unfriendly to those who needed us even within your body, the Church; quick with unkind words, stealing the reputations of others by judgmental remarks or scurrilous tales.

We have even used your name at times as a cheap expletive. We have made promises to you that we did not keep. We have been thieves of your gifts, using them on ourselves with impunity. Jesus, remember us when you come into your kingdom, remember us kindly though we do not deserve to be remembered, but we take heart because you are the victim for all of us.

You are 'hostia' the sacred host here among us even today in the shining white bread of your sacrifice. Jesus remember me, Jesus remember us.

"Woman, behold your son . . . behold your mother".

Through the mists of shock and trauma, the dear Jesus sees he is not entirely deserted. His devoted mother is there, and his soul-mate, the beloved John bar Zebedee. But the dear Jesus is human like us. His heart is broken at the sight of his mother, and he understands the shame his public punishment imposes on her here on the open highway where all may see.

Of course, he might have distressed her further by asking her not to come, not to stand there, not to watch his travail nor observe his nakedness, she who had dressed him when he was small and covered his body with modesty.

But he wants to comfort her, he wants to reassure her, so he says this beautiful thing "Woman, behold your son." John is to be 'son' to her, and she mother to him.

In their grief and helplessness, before the spectre of death, they are to be mother and son; and she, dear lady, precious to the dear Jesus, becomes precious to John and to all of us.

Dear Jesus, make your mother our mother. Let her embrace us when the travail of death comes upon us.

Let us be her sons and daughters, that we may learn faithfulness, respect for women and purity. Let us always have a prayer on our lips, 'Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.' Pray for us. Pray for us.

"My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"

There is now darkness over all the land. Great menacing clouds begin to block out the searing sun. It is a portent such as nature often gives mankind. It is a mercy too, and even those who stand around the crosses jeering at Jesus and mocking the thieves feel uneasy and then a cry in the darkness. It is an authentic cry, a cry from the human heart, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"

It was bad enough to have been deserted by your friends, friends who said they would die with you; but to be left alone by God himself may seem the ultimate betrayal, and the dear Jesus is human like us. Even though he has never sinned, he must experience what it is like to be separated from God, to know loneliness, like us; broken relationships, like us; vulnerability and weakness, like us; even injustice, like us.

"My God, my God why have you left me alone?"

But there is an intimate secret here, a touching subtlety, for the dear Jesus has known these words for most of his life. He learnt them at home and heard them in the synagogue, the twenty-second psalm from which they come, "My God, my God why have you forsaken me?"

So, as the dear Jesus recites the familiar words, he is reassured, for, most lovingly of all, he recalls how the psalm goes on, "For he has not despised, nor abhorred the low estate of the poor. He has not hidden his face from him, but when he called unto him he heard him."

Dear Jesus, hear us when we call; hear us when we are alone; hear us when you seem far away; hear us in sickness; hear us in sorrow; save us from the darkness of doubt and the dark clouds of despair; be with us in our penury and poverty; we are poor in spirit; we depend on you, bring us into the kingdom you have promised to those who love you. We are human like you; we love you.

"I thirst."

His lips are parched. Dry, he remembers the forty days of temptation in the desert. There was no water there. He could not slake his thirst. He was human like us, and knew our simple needs.

And now the spectators of his passion take pity on him. They push a sponge on a reed against his mouth. The vinegar trickles down his face for a moment. It invigorates him, and he summons all his remaining strength to shout across the world, 'Tetelestai', 'It is finished'.

For this death is no ordinary death. It was a death for all of us, an heroic act to bring death to an end.

If in our hearts there was one human fear, it was that death would spell oblivion, that the darkness on Calvary would also envelop us, that Jesus, human like us, would die like one of us.

Yet he was not only human, but divine. He has conquered death for all of us, but we must never diminish the reality of his death. The church has always insisted that he really died, otherwise the resurrection would be a mere pretence! Dear Jesus, take away our fears, be our eternal hope.