35th day of Lent
4th April 2017
SHADOWS AND GLORY
35th day of Lent
4th April 2017
SHADOWS AND GLORY
Tonight the sun set behind St Hilda's tower - as it does every night, I guess. The cross is silhouetted against its golden glory.
The day began with a reflection on the cross of Jesus and the nature of its glory. Sitting for morning prayer in front of the St Katherine's banner, we were reminded that the cross's glory is made possible through the beauty of the resurrection.
The death of Jesus was in and of itself an apparent defeat, a victory of brute power and violence over a stripped and humiliated man of truth and utter innocence. Victims of violence, especially, know something of the deep and sorrowful wounds of such terror. They understand what degradation and defeat really means. Where is the glory in such defeat?
I think the glory is always that the defeat does not have the last word and is not the event that defines the person. The greatest damage done to anyone is when their identity is entirely interpreted through the lens of some evil act (either perpetrated by them or on them). Jesus, had there been no resurrection, would have been forever remembered - if remembered at all - as simply just a good and perhaps naive man who died a death of savagery. The glory of the cross is that it was not the end. It was not the full-stop of Jesus' life. It did not have the last word.
In our age of terror, perhaps this apparent defeat of Jesus upon a weapon of torture, has power to speak volumes when words cease. It is readily acknowledged by this writer, that when we are lost for words it is then that we perhaps are able more naturally to enter into the suffering of another - because it is only when we cannot solve or brush away the sorrows that we begin to enter into the wisdom of the cross. We tend to run away from suffering most often because we want to solve someone else's (or our own) suffering with quick and easy solutions, and just can't. But the mystery and wisdom of the cross is that God entered directly into depth of suffering in order to defeat its hold over us. It seems foolishness, this kind of glory. Doesn't it?
Paul wrote about the foolishness of the cross being wiser than the wisdom of humans.
This blog is always a brief snapshot of thoughts, supplemented, sometimes, by images. It is not a platform for profound theological treatise. But brief does not mean simple. Brief does not mean it does not give us an opportunity to share truth. The glory of the cross stems from its identity with all who suffer and yet the suffering is not the last word. The glory of the cross is the light that streams from the empty tomb. The shadow of the cross is made possible because of the glory that lies behind it.
Glory which was beheld in the life, death and resurrection of Jesus. Glory which tonight was briefly seen by this writer as the golden globe sunk behind St Hilda's tower.
The day began with a reflection on the cross of Jesus and the nature of its glory. Sitting for morning prayer in front of the St Katherine's banner, we were reminded that the cross's glory is made possible through the beauty of the resurrection.
The death of Jesus was in and of itself an apparent defeat, a victory of brute power and violence over a stripped and humiliated man of truth and utter innocence. Victims of violence, especially, know something of the deep and sorrowful wounds of such terror. They understand what degradation and defeat really means. Where is the glory in such defeat?
I think the glory is always that the defeat does not have the last word and is not the event that defines the person. The greatest damage done to anyone is when their identity is entirely interpreted through the lens of some evil act (either perpetrated by them or on them). Jesus, had there been no resurrection, would have been forever remembered - if remembered at all - as simply just a good and perhaps naive man who died a death of savagery. The glory of the cross is that it was not the end. It was not the full-stop of Jesus' life. It did not have the last word.
In our age of terror, perhaps this apparent defeat of Jesus upon a weapon of torture, has power to speak volumes when words cease. It is readily acknowledged by this writer, that when we are lost for words it is then that we perhaps are able more naturally to enter into the suffering of another - because it is only when we cannot solve or brush away the sorrows that we begin to enter into the wisdom of the cross. We tend to run away from suffering most often because we want to solve someone else's (or our own) suffering with quick and easy solutions, and just can't. But the mystery and wisdom of the cross is that God entered directly into depth of suffering in order to defeat its hold over us. It seems foolishness, this kind of glory. Doesn't it?
Paul wrote about the foolishness of the cross being wiser than the wisdom of humans.
This blog is always a brief snapshot of thoughts, supplemented, sometimes, by images. It is not a platform for profound theological treatise. But brief does not mean simple. Brief does not mean it does not give us an opportunity to share truth. The glory of the cross stems from its identity with all who suffer and yet the suffering is not the last word. The glory of the cross is the light that streams from the empty tomb. The shadow of the cross is made possible because of the glory that lies behind it.
Glory which was beheld in the life, death and resurrection of Jesus. Glory which tonight was briefly seen by this writer as the golden globe sunk behind St Hilda's tower.
Suffering, glory and silence.
ReplyDeleteWhat is so profound about the Christian faith is Christ's suffering on the cross. Suffering is not avoided but endured. Christ suffers today with the people of Syria. The shocking news of the chemical "attack" reveals the depths of our inhumanity. Words fail to express our horror at what humans are capable of doing to one another. Suffering silences us as we shake our heads in sorrow. Yet suffering does not silence our resolve to work for peace and act for justice, to live our own daily lives at work and home in a more humane way and to build compassionate communities.
It is very hard to see glory in Syria although the many medical workers and those who bring aid in the most dangerous of place all point to the hope of glory.
But I've been reminded of an Ignatian spiritual exercise which I have used many times which has helped me to rest in God's glory even in times of suffering. When I have practised this exercise it leaves me in silence, in the presence of God's glory. I offer it to you to try if you wish. Imaginative exercises are not helpful to everyone, but if it is, receive it as a blessing.
"I imagine that I walk through a springtime field, riotous with wild flowers. As I top a rising hill, I come on a long mirror, standing in its pier. I see that the mirror faces the full sun. I walk around the mirror and note that it is a little old. It has lost pieces of its silvering. It is chipped in one place. I am surprised to find the mirror here and wonder what it means.
I walk around the front. I note that the mirror is liquid with light. It throws off so much light that I would go blind were I to look at it directly. Then I realise that the light is the sun's light. The sun pours its light down onto the mirror, holding nothing back of its power and brilliance. The mirror accepts the sun's light, as much as fits and as much as it can take. It does not let its little and large flaws matter; they are insignificant compared to the light the mirror accepts. Then the mirror throws back to the sun all the light that melts in its heart. It holds no light back. It throws all its light from its heart.
I am surprised by that. Wondering, I turn my face to the sun. I raise my face, and turn my hands outward. Now I am receiving the sun's light. I take as much as fits, as much as I can take. And I return its light to the sun, shifting in exquisite measure the balance of the universe. I would like to fling back to the sun all the light the sun pours into me, from my heart. I ignore the flaws in me that hinder it. I give all I can. I rest with the sun on my face.
Then I slowly realise how like all this is to God and me. God is the sun. I am the mirror. God pours out into me many, many gifts, all of them a partaking in God's own Self. I take into my self all the gifts that fit. I take in as much as I am able, refusing to let my flaws and sins and limitations dim this loving exchange. I am on fire with God's gift of love. I accept his love. I return to him all the love I can. I rest in this exchange of sunlight and love. I am content.
Then quietly I allow the fantasy to end. I say to God my Creator and Lord all the things that come from my heart."
The cross of suffering is different to each. I, once, was speaking to a friend who belonged to a religious order. She said,
ReplyDelete"Suffering hardens some, and softens others. People, can be
like wax which softens and can be moulded into God's image; or they can harden like cow dung, become brittle and break easily. The choice is in each person's heart."
I share what I post on the blog with my children. They were alarmed that I stated my faith so clearly, as well as some of my political views, on such a public a forum.
" In times like these, you cannot be too careful. This is how the Nazis hounded out political enemies", they warned me.
This was my reply:
"First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Socialist.
Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Trade Unionist.
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me."
Martin Niemoller
"Take up up your cross", the Saviour said, "if you want to follow me."
How willing are we to take up ours?