April 5, 2009
Mark 15.1-39
The Gospel reading we just heard was a long reading (even in the slightly abbreviated form we heard this morning)—and a disturbing one to say the least. For us Christians, this story is doubly disturbing. This Jesus we are hearing about isn’t some stranger to any of us. We are forced to hear about the horrendous torture and brutal murder of a friend, a sibling, a parent. That’s the kind of relationship most of us has with the Jesus we encounter each Sunday in the Gospel readings and, hopefully, in our own daily spiritual lives. But more than that, this Gospel has a deeper meaning—a more personal meaning.
I’m especially glad this morning that we have had the opportunity to hear this Gospel read in parts by the congregation. It’s important that we, as the congregation, are given the part in these readings of the crowd. Because, let’s face it, it is uncomfortable to say those disturbing words, “Crucify him!” For some of us, maybe we do relate to the crowd. Some of us might feel closest to the anonymity of being part of a mass of people who can either sit quietly by while an innocent person is killed or we can be so taken by the crowd’s energy that we can shout, with at least some conviction, “crucify him. Others may relate to Peter in his denial or even Judas in his betrayal. Some of us are able to relate to the women who followed Jesus or to Jesus’ mother who must watch the torture and murder of her child.
But many of us relate—and all of us should relate—to Jesus in his suffering and death. Why shouldn’t we? When we hear this Gospel—this very disturbing reading—how can we not feel what he felt? How can we sit here passively and not react in some way to this violence done to him? How can we sit here and not feel, in some small way, the betrayal, the pain, the suffering? After all, none of us in this church this morning, has been able to get to this point unscathed in some way. We all carry our own passions—our own crucifixions—with us. We bear, in our own selves, the wounds of Christ.
Now most of us have heard stories of people who have borne the supposed actual wounds of Jesus in their bodies—actual nail holes in the hands and spear wounds in the side and wounds from the crown of thorns on their foreheads. This stigmata, as it’s called, is one of those strange and sometimes uncomfortable phenomena that occur among Christians every so often. Whether we believe in it or not—or whether we believe that it is miraculous or the product of a few overly pious people—the fact remains that stigmata, in some way, exists.
The first recorded stigmatic was our deeply beloved St. Francis of Assisi who supposedly received all the wounds of Christ in his body—on his hands, on his feet, in his side. Over the years, there are have many others who have claimed to have these wounds—many of whom were fanatics. Some of them, however, were not. The stigmata is not necessarily a singularly Roman Catholic phenomenon. There was an Anglican woman in England within the last forty years or so by the name of Jane Hunt who supposedly bore the wounds in her hands. She was not a fanatic by any means, nor did she consider herself a mystic. She was supposedly just as baffled as any of us that she bore the wounds she did.
But, stigmata, in another sense, continues on in our lives. If we believe that Jesus is not still suffering in us and among us then we are deceiving ourselves. If we believe that Jesus is not still suffering the insults, the whippings, and is being murdered in our world then we are blinding ourselves. If we believe that Jesus is not still being denied proper burial and is dependent on the kindness of others to bury him, then we are have not been paying attention.
The Gospel story we heard this morning is our story in a sense. We are the stigmatics of our day, but not in some mystical, metaphysical sense of that word. We are the ones carrying the wounds of Christ in our bodies and in our souls. Every time we hear the story of Jesus’ torture and death and can relate to it, every time we can hear that story and feel what Jesus felt because we too have been maligned, betrayed, insulted, spat upon, then we too are sharing in the story. Every time we hear about people turned away, betrayed, deceived, and we can feel their pain in some small way, we are sharing in Christ’s passion. When we can feel the wounds we carry around with us begin to bleed again when we hear the story of Jesus’ death, we too are the stigmatics.
But the greatest part about sharing in this story of Jesus is that we get to share in the whole story. Look what awaits us next Sunday. These sufferings we read about today and in our own lives, are ultimately temporary. But what we celebrate next Sunday is forever—it is unending. Easter morning awaits us all—that day in which we will rise from the ashes of this life and live anew in that unending dawn.
One of my favorite quotes is by one my spiritual heroes, the priest and poet George Herbert: “Jesus dries our tears with his abandoned grave clothes.”
Our tears are dried and our pains healed in the glorious light of Easter morning. This is our hope. This is what we are striving toward in case we might forget that fact. Our own Easter morning awaits us. So, as difficult as it might be to hear this morning’s gospel, just remember that in the darkness of Good Friday, the dawn of Easter morning is about to break. With it, the wounds disappear. The pains and the sufferings are forgotten. The tears are dried for good. The grave lies empty behind us. And before us lies life. Before us lies a life triumphant and glorious in ways we can only—here and now—just barely begin to comprehend.
Mark 15.1-39
The Gospel reading we just heard was a long reading (even in the slightly abbreviated form we heard this morning)—and a disturbing one to say the least. For us Christians, this story is doubly disturbing. This Jesus we are hearing about isn’t some stranger to any of us. We are forced to hear about the horrendous torture and brutal murder of a friend, a sibling, a parent. That’s the kind of relationship most of us has with the Jesus we encounter each Sunday in the Gospel readings and, hopefully, in our own daily spiritual lives. But more than that, this Gospel has a deeper meaning—a more personal meaning.
I’m especially glad this morning that we have had the opportunity to hear this Gospel read in parts by the congregation. It’s important that we, as the congregation, are given the part in these readings of the crowd. Because, let’s face it, it is uncomfortable to say those disturbing words, “Crucify him!” For some of us, maybe we do relate to the crowd. Some of us might feel closest to the anonymity of being part of a mass of people who can either sit quietly by while an innocent person is killed or we can be so taken by the crowd’s energy that we can shout, with at least some conviction, “crucify him. Others may relate to Peter in his denial or even Judas in his betrayal. Some of us are able to relate to the women who followed Jesus or to Jesus’ mother who must watch the torture and murder of her child.
But many of us relate—and all of us should relate—to Jesus in his suffering and death. Why shouldn’t we? When we hear this Gospel—this very disturbing reading—how can we not feel what he felt? How can we sit here passively and not react in some way to this violence done to him? How can we sit here and not feel, in some small way, the betrayal, the pain, the suffering? After all, none of us in this church this morning, has been able to get to this point unscathed in some way. We all carry our own passions—our own crucifixions—with us. We bear, in our own selves, the wounds of Christ.
Now most of us have heard stories of people who have borne the supposed actual wounds of Jesus in their bodies—actual nail holes in the hands and spear wounds in the side and wounds from the crown of thorns on their foreheads. This stigmata, as it’s called, is one of those strange and sometimes uncomfortable phenomena that occur among Christians every so often. Whether we believe in it or not—or whether we believe that it is miraculous or the product of a few overly pious people—the fact remains that stigmata, in some way, exists.
The first recorded stigmatic was our deeply beloved St. Francis of Assisi who supposedly received all the wounds of Christ in his body—on his hands, on his feet, in his side. Over the years, there are have many others who have claimed to have these wounds—many of whom were fanatics. Some of them, however, were not. The stigmata is not necessarily a singularly Roman Catholic phenomenon. There was an Anglican woman in England within the last forty years or so by the name of Jane Hunt who supposedly bore the wounds in her hands. She was not a fanatic by any means, nor did she consider herself a mystic. She was supposedly just as baffled as any of us that she bore the wounds she did.
But, stigmata, in another sense, continues on in our lives. If we believe that Jesus is not still suffering in us and among us then we are deceiving ourselves. If we believe that Jesus is not still suffering the insults, the whippings, and is being murdered in our world then we are blinding ourselves. If we believe that Jesus is not still being denied proper burial and is dependent on the kindness of others to bury him, then we are have not been paying attention.
The Gospel story we heard this morning is our story in a sense. We are the stigmatics of our day, but not in some mystical, metaphysical sense of that word. We are the ones carrying the wounds of Christ in our bodies and in our souls. Every time we hear the story of Jesus’ torture and death and can relate to it, every time we can hear that story and feel what Jesus felt because we too have been maligned, betrayed, insulted, spat upon, then we too are sharing in the story. Every time we hear about people turned away, betrayed, deceived, and we can feel their pain in some small way, we are sharing in Christ’s passion. When we can feel the wounds we carry around with us begin to bleed again when we hear the story of Jesus’ death, we too are the stigmatics.
But the greatest part about sharing in this story of Jesus is that we get to share in the whole story. Look what awaits us next Sunday. These sufferings we read about today and in our own lives, are ultimately temporary. But what we celebrate next Sunday is forever—it is unending. Easter morning awaits us all—that day in which we will rise from the ashes of this life and live anew in that unending dawn.
One of my favorite quotes is by one my spiritual heroes, the priest and poet George Herbert: “Jesus dries our tears with his abandoned grave clothes.”
Our tears are dried and our pains healed in the glorious light of Easter morning. This is our hope. This is what we are striving toward in case we might forget that fact. Our own Easter morning awaits us. So, as difficult as it might be to hear this morning’s gospel, just remember that in the darkness of Good Friday, the dawn of Easter morning is about to break. With it, the wounds disappear. The pains and the sufferings are forgotten. The tears are dried for good. The grave lies empty behind us. And before us lies life. Before us lies a life triumphant and glorious in ways we can only—here and now—just barely begin to comprehend.
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