I’ve been thinking these last few days about an ancient vison, a little piece of legend, the dream of a martyr we’ve mostly forgot.
It’s from the account of the martyrdom of St. Perpetua and St. Felicity and their companions—you should read it. Anyway, supposedly—at least as the story’s told—the Christians awaiting their deaths, they were given dreams and visions; Perpetua dreamed of her deceased little brother, of his healing in heaven, for instance. There’s something mystical about the story. It’s not just a record of torture and death.
The one vision, though, that I haven’t been able to shake is the one given to one of Perpetua’s friends; Saturus was his name. It was a vision of what was to happen to them after they died, what it would be like. Saturus wrote it down; he said that after they had died, they were carried east by four angels, gently up a hill. Finally free of the world, they saw “an intense light,” he said. He turned to Perpetua, in his vision, and he said her, “This is what the Lord promised us. We have received his promise.” Then they were taken into what seemed to be a garden; there, there were more angels, each more beautiful than the other. And they also saw their friends there, those who’d died with them. And then another angel said, “First come and enter and greet the Lord.”
Then, they were taken into a place made of walls of light. They were given white robes to wear as they heard voices singing, “Holy, holy, holy.” And then they were taken to see “an aged man with white hair and a youthful face.” He was surrounded by elders and other “aged men.” And then the angels lifted them up again, bringing them close to him. “[A]nd we kissed the aged man,” Saturus wrote, “and he touched our faces with his hand.” Like a father his child’s face; like drying a tear. And then they heard a voice, one of the elders, who said, “Go and play.” And so, they entered the playful childhood of heaven, happier there than they ever were in the flesh.[1]
Now, I don’t know why any of this matters: the fact that this odd ancient vision has been playing around in my head. I’m thinking of Nashville, of those children there. I’m thinking of other children we’ve let down; I’m thinking of my own. I’m thinking of Juarez, of the migrants who died; I’m thinking of so many others who’ve died. I don’t know, it’s just that here it is Palm Sunday, and I’m trying to make sense of the world and of our faith, our religion—how it makes sense, if it does. I’m working on that; we need to work on that. I don’t know, it’s just I hope those little children the other day experienced something like that: a kiss, the gentle touch of a hand, drying a tear; “Go and play.” It’s the only beauty I’ve been able to think about this week.
But how does it fit together? Our faith and the wicked world? Why bother about Palm Sunday and Holy Week, Judas’s betrayal, and Good Friday? Why pay attention to yet another death, yet another failure of justice? Why isn’t our religion pure positivity? Some have called religion an opiate, if only that was true. I’d love to turn away from all this news of death and hatred, but the Church doesn’t want us to do that. The Church instead wants us to think of yet another death. Why does the Church do that? Why does the Church insist you see this death, remember this death?
Not that I fully understand it, but it’s because Jesus asked that we mind his death, that we look at his death. Peter didn’t want to; “God forbid,” he said, when Jesus first started to talk about his death. But that fear of death, that avoidance of death: that was Satan’s way of thinking, Jesus shockingly suggested.[2] Instead, believers should look right at the death of Jesus and see something. “[S]o must the Son of Man be lifted up, so that everyone who believes in him may have eternal life.”[3] “When you lift up the Son of Man, then you will realize that I AM.”[4] This is the odd, difficult, mystical claim of Christianity: and that is, we must see this death; we can’t ignore it, can’t look away. Instead, in fact, we must adore it. Because—again, this is an almost incredible claim—in seeing Jesus’s death we’re invited to find our own death, to hide our death in his, whatever our death may look like whether it’s old age or tragedy. “[W]hen I am lifted up from the earth, I will draw everyone to myself.”[5] The invitation is to lay our deaths to rest in his death—little children in Nashville, migrants in Juarez, those I love, those you love, those you hate, those I hate, you, me. That’s the invitation, that we might see in Jesus’s death a safe place to hide our deaths. Until that eternal Easter when we’re all told, “Go and play.”
Now, I know I’m talking too deeply for some, about the mystical center of our faith, about something more than that shallow Christianity we easily understand, which put in our pockets and contentedly control. Sometimes I just must talk about genuine Christianity, forgive me. But please hear me: for the now two decades of my imperfect Christian ministry, each Palm Sunday I’ve done basically the same thing; I’ve begged whoever would listen simply to come to church this week, this Holy Week, to make the worship of God their priority this week, to come on Thursday and Good Friday. I’ve begged people to make Christianity their religion this week—not the religion of youth sports, not the religion of work, not the religion of distraction politics, distraction entertainment, but Christianity. I’ve begged simply that people mind the death of Jesus, that they come and watch him betrayed, come watch him die. Because, as I said, the Lord bids us, and because seeing his death changes us. And we need to change.
I don’t know if you have any other plans this week; I can’t force you, force you to pay attention to the death of Jesus. But I hope you want to see his death, I hope you can. Because for all this evil, all this noise and confusion—at least for me—I know of no other place better to hide than in the wounds of Jesus. Because I want the Father to dry my tears at some point too. I want to go and play, too. But I know death comes first—my Lord’s and then mine. Jesus is the one who’ll make it okay, and you can find him here. If you desire it; if you come. May this week be holy for you; that’s my prayer. Amen.
[1] The Martyrdom of Saints Perpetua and Felicitas 11-12
[2] Matthew 16:23
[3] John 3:14-15
[4] John 8:28
[5] John 12:32
© 2023 Rev. Joshua J. Whitfield
