Category: Sermons

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

There is a sombre and holy quiet to Holy Saturday, a sense of peace and calm after the storms and chaos of the Passion. And yet we are and must be broken-hearted. Such will be the deep meaning of all of the comings of the disciples and, especially Mary Magdalene, to the tomb of Christ. We meet in the sombre quiet of Holy Saturday as mourners, meeting at the tomb of Christ.

All is done and finished. Consummatum est, as John has Christ say on the Cross. It is completed and finished. What is? All that belongs to human redemption. So then what is the meaning of this day? The readings for Matins and Ante-Communion make the theological point clear. Holy Saturday celebrates the fullest possible meaning of the concept of redemption. It highlights the idea of the radical redemption of all creation, of God drawing back to himself the whole of our broken-hearted humanity. Such is the meaning of the credal doctrine of Christ’s descending into hell, into the place of the dead; the Greek Hades, the Jewish Sheol, the Christian Hell.

This, too, reminds us of what belongs to the truth of human agency. Christ goes and preaches to the souls in prison. Our humanity is essentially rational. We are not utterly passive in the matters of redemption. We are meant to be engaged with Christ in the work of human redemption. It happens, after all, in his humanity, in what “he has now of his own although from us what to offer unto God for us,” as Hooker puts it (Lawes, V. LI.3). What is on view this day are the deeper mysteries of human redemption. It is captured best in the icons of Eastern Orthodoxy which depict Christ drawing Adam and Eve out of the grave. This symbolizes the radical nature of redemption. God seeks to be reconciled with the whole of sinful humanity, past, present, and future.

The quiet peacefulness of Holy Saturday has a paradisal quality to it but it marks only a moment, a transition to something greater than paradise. The Garden of Eden was only a starting point not the endpoint of creation. We meet as mourners but in the awareness of something greater in Christ’s descent into Hell. Our meeting as mourners will then turn to waiting and watching for something even greater, the greater mystery of undying divine life which makes resurrection out of our deaths. We will watch and wait.

In a way, this is the truth of human agency. It is about our watching and waiting upon God. That is the highest activity of our humanity, the activity of contemplation. It means to contemplate the extraordinary goodness of God. We do so as the broken-hearted on this quiet morning. There is a sense of peace, the peace that passes human knowing, the peace of God which reconciles all things to himself. Such is the radical peace of God, the peace which passeth all understanding. Such is the peace which speaks to the broken-hearted.

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

Fr. David Curry
Holy Saturday, 2021

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

Good Friday brings us to the Cross. Simply as spectators? As mere on-lookers? Is this a matter of curiosity? A spectacle? Something of passing interest? A matter indifferent?

Good Friday goes to the heart of the Christian Faith. What unfolds before us in Scripture and Liturgy on this day is utterly essential. No Good Friday, no Easter. Easter is meaningless without Good Friday. It is the tragedy of the contemporary churches to have downplayed the meaning and significance of Good Friday. So what is the real and essential good of Good Friday? That we confront the spectacle of human sin in all of its destructive force in the figure of the Crucified. The good is the love of God manifest in the terror of the Cross. The good is our sense of being utterly and completely broken-hearted because of what we do in our sins. Here is sin writ large. It is what we contemplate in the crucified Christ. We contemplate the utter folly and destructive nonsense of human sin.

What is that folly and nonsense? Our parody of God. We presume to kill God. Good Friday is the death of God because of the willingness of God in Christ to place himself in our hands. What we do is crucify him as if to annihilate God from the horizons of our minds. Such is the folly of our humanity in its disarray and disorder, in its destructive attitude to the world around us and towards one another. Good Friday challenges and counters all of the nonsense of our fallen humanity. The good of Good Friday is our being humbled and broken-hearted at the spectacle of human wickedness in the greater spectacle of divine love.

It has always been something of a shock to me about how little attention is paid to Good Friday in our Maritime world. The intensity and drama of Good Friday, as I have sometimes experienced it, included the three-hour service of preaching on the Seven Last Words as well as the Solemn Liturgy of Good Friday. The second is what we have in this service. The first is practically unknown, unthinkable and unwelcome. “Look on me all ye who pass by.” Indeed. Look and pass. Unaware and unmoved by the central doctrine and teaching of the Christian faith. No wonder our churches are empty. We are insensible to the truth of this day.

Good Friday is at once a workout for our hearts and minds. It counters the middle class presumption to life as all comfort and coziness and to the more deadly assumption of ourselves as the center of everything. In that sense, Good Friday calls us to account, to reality, to the reality of sin and suffering. Even more, the real good of Good Friday is nothing less than the greater spectacle of divine love. We behold sin and love but not in equal measure. Love is the greater power that makes out of our own awareness of sin the way of love in us. This is the wonder of Good Friday that makes it already the resurrection. Such is the radical nature of love.

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

Maundy Thursday marks the beginning of the Triduum Sacrum, the three great Holy days of Holy Week. It is a day of many events: Jesus washing of the feet of the disciples; the institution of the Holy Eucharist in the upper room; the later traditions of the King’s touch and gift of money to the afflicted; the stripping of the altar; the watching with Christ in Gethsemane; in short, a great cluster and confusion of events that belong to our participation in the Passion of Christ and to the ways in which we confront ourselves in our brokenness, on the one hand, and the ways in which we look upon Christ, on the other hand.

What unites all these events of Maundy Thursday? Simply the term which designates this day, maundy. It is the Englishing of the Latin term, mandatum, meaning commandment. “A new commandment, I give unto you,” Jesus says, “that you love one another; even as I have loved you, that you love one another” (Jn. 13.34). That word is given by John in his account of the Last Supper which focuses on the washing of the feet of the disciples and the betrayal of Judas and not on the words of institution at all, an interesting point about the Gospel which is, in other respects, the most sacramental in its theology. But it is that concept of a new commandment that is most crucial for this day. For it highlights the theme of sacrificial service. That is the theme that unites all of the disparate elements of the liturgies of Maundy Thursday.

The idea of sacrificial service is profoundly counter-culture and constitutes a profound ethical rebuke to our contemporary culture which is really about the pretense to privilege, prestige, and prominence; in short, the idea of getting ahead in the world which is always about putting others down or at least using others as means to our own ends. Such is the dog-eat-dog world of endless conflict and destruction; the world of the dominance of the few at the expense of the many. What is lost is precisely this ethical sense of the common good. Maundy Thursday provides the most radical picture of the ethical teaching and meaning of sacrificial service. Such is the true worth and dignity of our humanity. It is not found in the pursuit of power and privilege but in the dignity of service. This was the point of the Passion Sunday Gospel. “Whosoever would be great among you let him be your minister. Whosoever would be great among you let him be your servant,” literally your slave. This brings out the meaning of the famous Master-Slave dialectic of Hegel. It is not simply that the Master discovers his dependence upon the Slave and thus a kind of role reversal, but rather the more profound realization of mutual interdependence and mutuality that is the deeper truth of all forms of ordered life.

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“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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“For this cause he is the Mediator of the new covenant”

For centuries in the Western Churches, the Passion Sunday Gospel was from John 8. 46-59. That passage highlighted two things: the identity of Jesus with the revelation of God to Moses as “I am Who I am” (Ex. 3.14); and the rejection of Jesus by the Jews. “Jesus said to them, ‘Truly, truly, I say to you, before Abraham was, I am.’ So they took up stones to throw at him” (Jn. 8. 58,59). That conclusion of the chapter complements its beginning in the story of the woman taken in adultery which is a critique and an attack on Jesus through her. “He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her” (Jn. 8. 7). The images speak to the deeper realities of human sin. We are meant to see ourselves in the beginning and the end as those who condemn others and reject God; in short, as sinners. That ancient Gospel reading also complemented the Epistle reading from Hebrews to highlight the nature of Christ as the Mediator of the new covenant. As Mediator he is both God and Man.

The thematic idea that lies at the heart of the Passion is atonement, the idea, as Paul puts it in 2 Cor. 5, “that God was in Christ reconciling the world unto himself, not imputing their trespasses unto them; and hath committed unto us the word of reconciliation” (vs. 19). That idea continues in the Gospel reading which is the Matthean  account of the Gospel from Luke read on Quinquagesima Sunday about going up to Jerusalem. With Matthew the focus is on two things: our knowing and unknowing about what we truly seek and desire, on the one hand, and the sacrificial service of Christ who has come “not to be ministered unto, but to minister, and to give his life a ransom for many” (Mt. 20. 29), on the other hand.

Atonement belongs to the rich seam of reflection about human redemption. It concerns the relation of the divine and the human, of God and the world, of divine justice and mercy, of human sin and evil. Thus it belongs to the core elements of theological thinking. Passion Sunday inaugurates deep Lent which is our attempt to ponder the mystery of human redemption as divine love, the love which seeks the reconciliation of all things to God. But this can only even begin to make sense only if we take seriously the idea of sin which is really about taking seriously human agency and divine truth. The awareness of our separation from God belongs to a deeper reflection about the reality of the human experience in a world of uncertainty and confusion and of our own hearts in disarray. The radical nature of this separation is the infinity of sin, if I may put it this way. Sin creates an infinite barrier between us and God and between ourselves, our world and one another. By infinite I mean a chasm, an abyss, which we make and cannot unmake, a negative infinite.

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