Month: March 2021

“The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit: a broken and contrite heart, O God,
thou wilt not despise”

Wednesday in Holy Week sets before us “The Beginning of the Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ According to St. Luke.” In our liturgical customs, Wednesday in Holy Week also includes the service of Tenebrae. Tenebrae means shadows or darkness. It is essentially the Psalm offices of the Triduum Sacrum, the three great Holy Days of the Passion, prayed in anticipation of Maundy Thursday, Good Friday and Holy Saturday. Once again, we see something of the power and significance of the Psalms as belonging to the forms of our participation in the Passion. It all belongs to the intensification of the Passion in us and in the awareness of our brokenness. Tenebrae is the shadowing forth of the Passion.

Each account of the Passion has its own special voice and emphasis. Luke is perhaps the most literary of the evangelists and offers an especially intense, dramatic and intimate sense of Christ’s Passion. The beginning of his account of the Passion highlights the Passover meal of Christ with his disciples which becomes the institution of the Holy Eucharist. But there are two other scenes in this beginning of his Passion which are especially moving.

One is Luke’s account of what is known as the Agony of Christ in Gethsemane. His account of the prayer of Christ is graphic and intense. He withdraws about a stone’s cast from the others and kneels down and prays, “Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me: nevertheless, not my will, but thine be done.” That prayer highlights for us the underlying movement of Christ’s will for our salvation. He wills to undergo the Passion. His Passion is grounded in the interchange of prayer between the Father and the Son. In the continuation of the Passion on Maundy Thursday we will note that Luke alone of the four evangelists gives us the first and last word of Christ from the Cross. They are both words of prayer to the Father.

Here in anticipation of the Passion, he prays to the Father. But Luke gives us a graphic and poetic sense of the intensity of this prayer. “And being in agony, he prayed more earnestly; and his sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling down to the ground.” The agony in Gethsemane anticipates explicitly his Passion on the Cross. His prayer anticipates explicitly the outpouring of his blood on the Cross. It highlights for us the deeper meaning of the Passion. It cost the heart-blood of the Son of God to redeem us, as Jeremy Taylor reminds us. Luke shows us the heart of Christ.

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“The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit: a broken and contrite heart, O God,
thou wilt not despise”

We are never more the community of the broken-hearted than in our contemplation of Christ crucified in each of the four Gospels. There is something heart-rending in each of their accounts but especially in the one solitary word from the Cross which Matthew and Mark alone provide out of the seven last words of Christ. “My God, My God, why hast thou forsaken me?” It is the cry of dereliction, an agonizing and haunting cry from the heart of the son in his brokenness on the Cross. To hear it is to be broken in our own hearts. He voices the empty dereliction of own hearts and yet what he says is more than simply a quote from another psalm, Psalm 22. It is a prayer to God.

He cries out to God in the truest and deepest meaning of human sinfulness. It is the realization of our utter and complete separation from all that is good and true and holy. He voices the distress of our broken-hearts to God in the empty desolation of his aloneness. But it is addressed to God. Therein lies the great wonder of redemption. Everything is turned back to God, even and, perhaps, especially our sense of utter estrangement. “Out of the deep have I called unto thee, O Lord,” Psalm 130, another one of the Penitential Psalms, prays. Here in the heart of Christ’s Passion and agony in the continuation of Mark’s Passion is the truest and fullest meaning of human sin, the most complete expression of separation and alienation. As G.K. Chesterton astutely remarks, “it seems as if for a moment that Christ was an atheist.”

Christ calls out here not to his Father but to God. It is as if the personal relation has been eclipsed and hidden from view, even stripped away. Yet it is a cry to God as all prayer and thought really is. That is, I think, the real power of this word. It convicts us of the radical nature of sin more powerfully than any other word. It expresses the real meaning of the depth of sin, the real meaning of sin’s folly in its attempt to eclipse God. It is in the form of a question. The ‘why’ of the sense of desolation and abandonment highlights the nature of sin’s folly. Sin is the denial of God and yet it is a parody of God by us. We forsake God. Such is the power and pretense of human sin. We presume to be God, as it were, in forsaking God only to discover our alienation and separation from God. This troubling word confronts us with the ultimate form of our brokenness as complaint. The Psalmist’s complaint takes on a whole new force of meaning as voiced by the Crucified. Nothing can highlight more forcefully the profound sense of sin as alienation and denial.

Yet, as a prayer to God, even with the absence of the term Father, it signals the radical truth upon which our humanity depends even in its contradiction. The extreme form of broken-heartedness here is the sense of being God-forsaken. In calling out to God, there is the recognition of our separation, of our having forsaken God. It is the ultimate cry of the broken-hearted, the ultimate expression of human sinfulness. It is voiced by Christ who expresses here what belongs to the depths of our brokenness and its meaning. Our brokenness is our God-forsakenness. We have forsaken God. This prayer to God captures precisely that truth in all of its agonizing awareness. In joining this prayer to the Penitential Psalm prayer of Psalm 51, we glimpse something of the wonder and mystery of redemption. “A broken and a contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise.” That, too, is simply a prayer to God.

“The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit: a broken and contrite heart, O God,
thou wilt not despise”

Fr. David Curry
Tuesday in Holy Week, 2021

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“The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit: a broken and contrite heart, O God,
thou wilt not despise”

This Lenten mantra from Psalm 51, the great Penitential Psalm par excellence, provides the interpretative matrix for our Holy Week meditations on the Passion of Christ. In our Anglican tradition, we immerse ourselves in all four of the Gospel accounts of the Passion. It is intentionally intense. But why? To feel and know in ourselves our brokenness without which redemption is entirely meaningless.

The readings of Holy Week not only immerse us in the Passion; they intensify its force and feeling in us. We confront the sad and sorry spectacle of our humanity in its disorder and distress. We behold ourselves as sinners and thus as broken-hearted, as aware of our brokenness. For to know ourselves as sinners means contrition and confession. Contrition and brokenness are correlative terms. To be contrite is to be broken in our hearts. But what does it mean to say that the sacrifices of God are a broken spirit? It means that only in our brokenness can we turn to God. In the discovery of our brokenness is the realization of our wholeness as found in God. It is our awareness of God without whom we cannot know our brokenness.

We do not presume in any righteousness or moral rectitude in and of ourselves by which to offer unto God anything. That would be presumptuous; a bit like offering a gift which actually honours ourselves more than the one to whom it is given. It is in our brokenness that God beholds us without despite. The recognition of our brokenness is our recognition of God and our turning to him alone. We have to be broken before we can be made whole.

Holy Week is about our being broken by beholding the spectacle of ourselves in the Passion of Christ. In being broken-hearted, our hearts are opened to view both to ourselves and to God.

Palm Sunday has already presented us with the beginnings of the spectacle of our brokenness in the Palm Gospel and in the reading of the Passion according to St. Matthew. On Monday in Holy Week we begin with the reading of the Passion according to St. Mark. Each account of the Passion has its own special voice and emphasis as well as its own creative expression. This beginning of the Passion in Mark’s Gospel is especially significant. It begins with the breaking of the alabaster box of ointment of spikenard and the anointing of the head of Jesus by an unnamed woman. Her generous act is seen by others in Jesus’ company in the house of Simon the Leper in Bethany as an extravagant waste. Far more important to sell the ointment and give the proceeds to the poor, some said with “indignation within themselves” while murmuring against her. We should feel the weight of this perspective as well as seeing the problem. It is the failure to understand the radical meaning of the gesture and in our contemporary world it is the reduction of everything to the priority of the economic.

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“Behold thy king cometh unto thee”

The joy of this day is equally our pain. We wave branches of palms and sing “Hosanna to the Son of David.” We hail a king who enters his royal city. There is joy. Everyone loves a parade. Palm Sunday, we might say, is Christ’s parade. There is a sense of euphoria that belongs to the celebration of liberation or at least its anticipation.

And yet, the one before whom we wave branches of palm and to whom we sing “Hosanna to the king”, we also shout “Crucify, Crucify.” We nail him to a tree. The one whom we hail as king we mock and deny his rule in our souls and so deny our souls as well. We cast him out of his royal city and find ourselves the outcasts of all creation. In every way we make the parade of this day a parody of his way. We confront a contradiction, a contradiction within ourselves, a contradiction which we hardly know or see until it is pointed out to us, until we are made to see what we will not see. “They [we] shall look on him who they [we] have pierced.”

This is what we do. We make a parody of God’s way. Yet God makes something more. He makes a procession of redeeming love out of our parody of his parade. We shall find that our first notes of joy and euphoria are more true than at first we thought or knew. But only if we enter into the dark hell of Holy Week and into the heart-rending pain of the Passion. Only in passing through the parody of God’s parade can we even begin to hope to come into the procession of his endless love which bursts forth in the Resurrection. And only then might our joys more truly begin. We go from joy to sorrow and from greater sorrow to an even greater joy. Such is Passion and Resurrection.

Yet, perhaps, this must seem all a bit too much. How is it that you and I are present at all in these events, whether singing “Hosanna” or shouting “Crucify”, whether hailing or mocking one who is and who is not a king? The intent of our liturgy – and this week is really one long liturgy, from Palm Sunday to Easter Day – places us in these events, in the midst of these happenings. But again, what does that mean for you and for me and how can that be? Because these events confront us with ourselves. We confront something of ourselves in the presence of God.

We confront the mysteries of sin and death in the greater presence of the God who is love and life. But only through the parade of his Passion. The events of Holy Week compel us to look at ourselves anew, not simply with some greater degree of psychological insight but in the increased awareness of the presence of God. We are drawn into love by repentance. We are drawn into worship by holy fear. We are drawn into joy by sorrow. But why?

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