Good Friday

Jesus, remember me

/ Eric Mathews / Leave a comment
​The Thieves Legs Are Broken, James Tissot, Wikimedia Commons
 
Jesus, each of us is both the thief who blasphemes
    and the one who believes.
I have faith, Lord, help my lack of faith.
I am nailed to death, there is nothing I can do
    but cry out: ‘Jesus, remember me
        when you come with your kingdom.’

Jesus, I know nothing, I understand nothing,
    in this horrific world.
But you, you come to me, with open arms,
    with open heart,
    and your presence alone is my paradise.
Ah, remember me
    when you come with your kingdom.

Glory and praise to you, you who welcome
    not the healthy but the sick,
you whose unexpected friend is a criminal
    cut off by the justice of men.
Already you are going down to hell and setting free
    those who cry out to you:
“Remember us, Lord,
    when you come with your kingdom.

Ecumenical Patriarch Bartholomew, b. 1940, Archbishop of Constantinople
Prayers Encircling the World: An International Anthology
 
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Luke 23:39-43 

One of the criminals hanging beside him scoffed,
    “So you’re the Messiah, are you? Prove it by saving yourself—
      and us, too, while you’re at it!”
But the other criminal protested, 
    “Don’t you fear God even when you have been sentenced to die? 
     We deserve to die for our crimes, 
    but this man hasn’t done anything wrong.” 
Then he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your Kingdom.”
And Jesus replied, 
    “I assure you, today you will be with me in paradise.”

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Question

In what ways are you like both thieves who were crucified alongside Jesus?

Why have you forsaken me?

/ Eric Mathews / Leave a comment
Crucifixion, by Graham Sutherland, London 1963
 
Lord,
you were not only tempted for forty days down by the Jordan
but constantly all through your ministry.
 
Not to obvious blatant sins
but to the subtler deflections from the Father’s will;
to cunning compromise which would defeat the Father’s purpose.
 
As when the presence of the seeking Greeks
suggested the possibility of a wider mission
in which you might have been listened to and welcomed,
without the necessity of the cross.
 
As when in the Garden of Olives across the valley,
you wrestled with the doubt that death could be the Father’s will.
 
Or when, in the presence of Pilate
you might have pleaded your case with your accusers;
or in those fiercest moments of pain,
acquiesced to the mocking cry of the crowd to
    ‘Come down from the cross and we will believe,’
 
Until one temptation remained –
the final test, the last claim of love,
the fiercest attack of evil –
more subtle and shattering than the rest,
when, cloaked in a blanket of darkness
came the whispering doubt:
    What if God too has forsaken you?
 
And at last, the battle done, the last temptation met,
faith complete, the task finished, evil defeated,
love triumphant, you said:
    ‘Father into your hands I commend my spirit –
    the rest lies with you, Father, dear Father.’
 
And then it was that by the cross with its limp body
there must surely have sounded the voice from heaven
    once more:
    ‘This is my beloved Son.’
    Son in call,
    Son in obedience,
    Son in love
    Son in death and in triumphant life.
 
George Appleton, 1902 – 1993, Anglican Bishop in England and Jerusalem
The Oxford Book of Prayer

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Luke 23:44-46 
 
It was now about noon,
    and darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon,
    for the sun stopped shining.
And the curtain of the temple was torn in two.
Jesus called out with a loud voice,
    “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.”
When he had said this, he breathed his last.


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Questions

How can you see the crucifixion of Jesus as his ultimate triumph?

Prayer on Good Friday

/ Eric Mathews / Leave a comment
photo by Murilo Soares via pexels
 
Prayer on Good Friday.
Which isn’t good at all.
One of the great misnomers of all time.
It’s bleak, haunted, immensely sad.
It rivets and ravages me every year 
    as I sit hidden behind a post-beam
    in the balcony of the chapel,
    where no one can see me weeping
    at the poor broken Yeshua,
    betrayed by his best friends,
    beaten by sneering cops,
    blood dripping into His eyes,
    grilled by a police chief who couldn’t care less
        about justice and mercy and only wants to evade blame
        for a matter he considers minor at best.
 
Yet it wasn’t minor at all,
     and somehow it turns on that harrowing day long ago.
A mysterious young man from a country village,
    causing an epic political and civil ruckus in the city.
A murderous mob, angry religious Brahmins, potential colonial unrest
    that will not look good at headquarters.
Gnomic answers by the calm young man when interrogated.
Poor Peter bitterly berating himself for his cowardice,
    and which one of us would have done better?
The apostles frightened, the sound of hammers 
    nailing the young man to a cross,
    the lowering darkness, 
    the murmurs of fear through the city as the sun is blotted out.
Veronica’s veil and Simon’s shoulders, Simon the African,
    did compassion surge and make him step forth,
    or was he shoved into legend by a soldier?
 
The gaunt young man sagging toward death; 
    His quiet blessing of a thief;
    His last words to his mother;
        one last desperate cry;
    He thirsts, He prays, He dies.
 
And in the chapel not another word, not another sound;
    and soon we exit silently, and go our ways,
    for once without the tang of Euchaist on our tongues,
    for once without a cheerful chaff for friends and handshakes all round;
    and no matter how bright the rest of the day,
        how brilliant the late afternoon, 
        how redolent the new flowers,
        how wild the sunset over the river
    you shiver a little; not just for Him, but for all of us,
    His children, face to face with despair.
And so silently home to pray for light emerging miraculously
    where it seemed all dark.
And so: amen.
 
Brian Doyle, 1956 – 2017, Catholic author from Oregon
A Book of Uncommon Prayer
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It was now about noon, 
    and darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon,
    for the sun stopped shining. 
And the curtain of the temple was torn in two. 
Jesus called out with a loud voice, 
    “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.”
When he had said this, he breathed his last.
 

the last step of love

/ Eric Mathews / Leave a comment
Cristo crucificado, Titian via Wikimedia Commons
 
 
A few hours more,
A few minutes more,
A few instants more,
For thirty-three years it has been going on.
For thirty-three years you have lived fully minute after minute.
You can no longer escape, now; you are there, 
    at the end of your life, at the end of your road.
You are at the last extremity, at the edge of a precipice.
You must take the last step,
The last step of love,
The last step of life that ends in death.
 
You hesitate.
Three hours are long, three hours of agony;
Longer than three years of life,
Longer than thirty years of life.
 
You must decide, Lord, all is ready around you.
You are there, motionless, on your Cross.
You have renounced all activity other than embracing these 
    crossed planks for which you were made.
And yet, there is still life in your nailed body.
Let mortal flesh die, and make way for eternity.
Now, life slips from each limb, one by one, finding refuge in his 
    still beating heart.
Immeasurable heart,
Overflowing heart.
Heart heavy as the world, the world of sins and miseries that it bears.
 
Lord, one more effort.
Mankind is there, waiting unknowingly for the cry of its Saviour.
You brothers are there; they need you.
Your Father bends over you, already holding out his arms.
Lord, save us,
Save us.
 
See.
He has taken his heavy heart,
And,
Slowly,
Laboriously,
Alone between heaven and earth,
In the awesome night,
With passionate love,
He has gathered his life,
He has gathered the sin of the world,
And in a cry,
He has given all.
‘Father, into thy hands I commit my spirit.’
 
Christ has just died for us.
 
Michel Quoist, 1918 – 1997, French Catholic priest and writer 
 
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It was now about the sixth hour,
    and there was darkness over the whole land until the ninth hour, 
    while the sun’s light failed. And the curtain of the temple was torn in two. 
Then Jesus, calling out with a loud voice, said, 
    “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit!” 
And having said this he breathed his last.

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O Jesus, crucified, have mercy upon me

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image / Luca Giarelli, CC BY-SA 4.0 / Wikimedia Commons
 
O Jesus, poor and abject, unknown and despised,
    have mercy upon me, and let me not be ashamed to follow thee.
O Jesus, hated, calumniated, and persecuted,
    have mercy upon me, and make me content to be as my master.
O Jesus, blasphemed, accused, and wrongfully condemned,
    have mercy upon me, and teach me to endure the contradiction of sinners.
O Jesus, clothed with a habit of reproach and shame,
    have mercy upon me, and let me not seek my own glory.
O Jesus, insulted mocked, and spit upon,
    have mercy upon me, and let me not faint in the fiery trial.
O Jesus, crowned with thorns and hailed in derision;
O Jesus, burdened with our sins and the curses of the people;
O Jesus, affronted, outraged, buffeted,
    overwhelmed with injuries, griefs and humiliations;
O Jesus, hanging on the accursed tree, bowing the head, giving up the ghost,
    have mercy upon me,
    and conform my whole soul to thy holy, humble, suffering Spirit.
 
John Wesley, 1703-1791, English churchman and founder of Methodism
 
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It was now about the sixth hour,
    and there was darkness over the whole land until the ninth hour, 
    while the sun’s light failed. 
And the curtain of the temple was torn in two.
Then Jesus, calling out with a loud voice, said,
    “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit!” 
And having said this he breathed his last.

Continue reading →