There’s a story of a man who after his death found himself at the gate of heaven. Before him stood an angel staring at him silently.
Somehow the man got the notion he was supposed to say something about himself, to introduce himself or something, or perhaps give an account of his life. He couldn’t quite tell as the angel just stared at him and didn’t say a word. So the man awkwardly began to tell the story of his life to the angel: where he was born, where he went to school, what he had done for a living; he talked about his wife and children. He was a decent man for the most part, and his life had been a good one. He realized how good his life had been and how fortunate he had been. And it brought a smile to his face as he finished telling the story of his life, looking back at the angel with all his memories.
The angel, however, said nothing. He simply continued to stare at him. A few awkward moments passed before the man, frustrated, spoke to the angel: “What? Is there anything else? What do you want to know? Tell me!” The angel continued to look silently and only after another long awkward silence did the angel open his mouth to speak.
“Where are your scars?” he asked. The man was dumbfounded. He had no idea what it was the angel wanted. The man thought to himself, “My scars? Wasn’t this heaven, the place of reward for the good I have done with my life? Haven’t I qualified? My scars?” But the angel said nothing else. The man had to stand outside the gate and wait for his last lesson on grace. He had to learn that heaven was not a reward in the usual sense. He had to learn that heaven was not for heroes. Heaven was for saints.[1]
Having come into the house of God, at least in your hearts, and having encountered the story of the passion of Jesus, I hope to God that you have been given, by his invisible light, some wonderful glimpse, some illumination as to the secret of grace. My prayer is that you come to some encounter with grace that is something more than enthusiasm and sentiment, something more than an abstract concept. My prayer is that you come to understand grace in its wordless form, in its form as it rises above language and above music and into the uncreated light. This is the gift that is meant for us if we’ll only forsake what is not necessary. If you have entered into it already and received these mysterious gifts, then you know what I mean. If, however, you still remain outside the door of it, then see to it that your heart burns with desire. Your desire will be your best prayer.
It’s an unavoidable lesson on grace. Those who remain outside the gate of mysteries and divine glory, those who have yet to allow grace to penetrate their hearts, tend to have that slightly false notion of faith in Jesus Christ that manifests itself as a type of moral heroism. This is the religion of good living, the religion that traps so much of the redemptive transcendence of the gospel within the shallow confines of human value—the idea of the “prosperity gospel” or of “breakthrough” as it’s talked about on the television. This is the religion not just of television evangelists though. It’s also the religion of so many of us. Shallow talk of values or righteousness as it issues from the mouths of those who find it hard to stop and pray; those who fear silence and the silence of others. This is the religion that must have its constant activity and constant distinction. This is the religion that is too busy, the religion that seeks the false crown of the fake martyr who works so hard and gives so much up in either time or money so that others may pray. These are the heroes, and you can find them in every church in the world. And the only problem is that heroism is not a word you will find in the New Testament, nor will heroism win for you the mystic prize—not even salvation.
But if we are not to be heroes, then what are we to be? In October 1976 Fr. Patrick Rice, an Irish worker-priest in the slums outside Buenos Aires, was kidnapped off the street by plainclothes police. He was with a woman, Fátima Cabrera; Fr. Rice was taking her to get medicine for her sister who was very ill. They were arrested and “brutally mistreated.” And after being tortured by the police, Fr. Rice was taken to a cell by himself where he was told that he was going to be handed over to the military. And, just before he left, an officer told Fr. Rice that he was about to learn that “in comparison to the Argentine military,” the ancient Romans didn’t know a thing about persecuting Christians.[2] Fr. Rice was taken away to be tortured, scourged, in a modern day passion. Fr. Rice found himself the victim of senseless, totalitarian violence. He could do nothing. He was bound. He could only accept the place of the victim.
Is this what we are to be? A victim? Is this the gospel? In a sense, yes. The Church of God this day and this week re-presents and unfolds before you the suffering, death, and resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth. In this man, in his life, we find our example. He is the image set before us for our reflection. Jesus of Nazareth, a man of love and healing, the man willing to forgive the worst, the man to forgive you and I: we encounter his story, and if we don’t see that he was a victim, then we have yet to grasp even the barest meaning of his death. If we don’t see that has was a lamb led to the slaughter, who before his torturers was mute,[3] if we don’t see this, then what you think you see is not Jesus. Jesus of Nazareth, the victim, the victim of misunderstanding, betrayal and murder, the victim of everyone who cried out “Crucify him!”[4] He is the victim of sin. He is your victim, and he is my victim. We, the heroes, are the murderers of Jesus.
This is what we are to see as we hear of his betrayal and death. We must see that we too have kissed him in the twilight garden of our lives. We must see that we too have stood around the fire, like Peter, warming ourselves—denying Jesus as he stood cold and naked before his judges. We too, like Pilate, have asked Jesus “What is truth?” as we justified our comfortable lives and our little dishonesties.[5] We must own Jesus as our victim. We must not deny it but see our part. We must look this week, and hear again and again the story of this man’s torture and death. The Church sets the account of Jesus’ passion before her people over and over again this week as if to say, “Do not look away! Do not ignore what you have done! Look! Here is your dead man there on the cross! You brought the hammer down! You pierced his side! Look!” The Church shoves this story in our face forcefully and without regret, without compromise. You must look at it, or else you must completely shut down, waiting for the end of the service, leaving the church somehow feeling a little bit colder.
But why must we rehearse and relive and rehear this brutal story? Can’t we like many other Christians these days just celebrate Easter? Might we just celebrate the resurrection? After all, isn’t Jesus today the resurrected Jesus? Must we dwell on the past? Oh, how this misses the point! To speak of the resurrection without the passion is to wind up talking about something that is not resurrection. Even the angel in the empty tomb would not let the women that first Easter morning forget the crucifixion: “Do not be amazed! You seek Jesus of Nazareth, crucified,” he said.[6] To celebrate Easter without Holy Week is to celebrate the religion of heroism, the religion that fails to own our part in the death of Jesus. You cannot receive the resurrection until you have entered into to the victimhood of Jesus. You cannot rise with him without first receiving the gift of his death and of his victimhood. Jesus the victim must make you the victim. It is here that we enter the mystery.
In hearing the passion of Jesus, and when the gift of faith lights upon your heart, you do more than simply hear an account of some past tragedy, some historical event. In hearing with faith the story of Jesus the people of God enter into the present moment of his passion—time collapses and space evaporates and you find yourself standing before the man. “Behold the man!”[7] You hear this in the present moment. You follow Jesus and no longer just the story of Jesus. You see him and follow him and embrace him in the communion of your mind and body. You are with him: have you never been there? It is in this mystic present, this communion of Jesus’ passion which breaks in upon your life not as history but as something now: in this moment you not only have your example, you not only see what you have done to him—what your sins have done to him—you actually begin to find the grace of Jesus’ victimhood. In this mystical moment you find that Jesus has a place for you inside his wounds. He has a place for you beside himself as he is beaten to the ground, as he falls again and again on his way to Calvary. He has a place for you on the cross with him. You too can be the victim with him. Your scars and his scars can become the same wound of love upon the one offered body and victim. You can be there if you will embrace the victimhood of Jesus.
At the end of World War I, returning home from the carnage and vast death of that terrible conflict, Edward Shillito wrote his poem “Jesus of the Scars.” It bears reading:
If we have never sought, we seek Thee now;
Thine eyes burn through the dark, our only stars;
We must have sight of thorn-pricks on Thy brow,
We must have Thee, O Jesus of the Scars.
The heavens frighten us; they are too calm;
In all the universe we have no place.
Our wounds are hurting us; where is the balm?
Lord Jesus, by Thy Scars we claim Thy grace.
If when the doors are shut, Thou drawest near,
Only reveal those hands, that side of Thine;
We know to-day what wounds are, have no fear,
Show us Thy Scars, we know the countersign.
The other gods were strong; but Thou wast weak;
They rode, but Thou didst stumble to a throne;
But to our wounds only God’s wounds can speak,
And not a god has wounds, but Thou alone.[8]
“But to our wounds only God’s wound’s speak,/ And not a god has wounds, but Thou alone.” Jesus the victim, like an impassioned lover, embraces our wounds and our brokenness and our victimhood. He takes them to himself, and he, the man we have all killed by our sins, declares us not his murders but instead makes us victims with him. “Father, forgive them, they know not what they do.”[9] “[T]his is my blood of the covenant…for the forgiveness of sins.”[10]
This is the last lesson of grace. This is what the angel wants to hear. “Where are your scars?” By faith, by entering into the passion of Christ we discover by grace and light that when we point to our scars, for which we are no longer ashamed and no longer ignore, when we point to our wounds, we are pointing also to his, to the saving victim in whose wounds we now find comfort, strength, communion, and the vision of God. This is grace: to be a victim with and in the victim from Nazareth.
Years ago, in the younger days of my ministry, I told a parish full of people that they shouldn’t even dare come to the Easter celebration if they had not followed the way of the Holy Three Days—that they shouldn’t mock God with Easter praises if they had neglected Holy Thursday and Good Friday. I meant it then, and I could say the same thing now. Today, a little more gently, I simply say this: beware of your convenient praises. Sisters and Brothers, of all the weeks of the year and of all the weeks of your life, Christ begs you for these few days to listen to him, to watch him. Even locked from the churches and separated from each other, although it may be more difficult, it is no less possible. And so, make extra effort. Everything else that claims your time and energy will one day be consumed by fire, but what you will do here—reading and hearing God’s word, singing, praising, crying and communing: these things will remain and will carry you into the heart of the Jesus who loves you. All else will disappear, so please pay attention with your mind and press your heart against the pierced feet of Jesus and on the wood of his cross. Train your love for him who loves you, for when all is gone you will either know how to love Jesus or your will die forever. Learn to love him this week. Forsake the world this week. The angel broke her silence and asked, “Where are your scars?” Find them this week. Amen.
[1] This story has been taken and adapted from Charles Péguy. I can’t remember where I first came across this story.
[2] William Cavanaugh, Torture and Eucharist, 58
[3] Isaiah 53:7
[4] Mark 15:13
[5] John 18:38
[6] Mark 16:6
[7] John 19:5
[8] Edward Shillito, “Jesus of the Scars” (1919)
[9] Luke 23:34
[10] Matthew 26:28
© 2020 Rev. Joshua J. Whitfield
