And so we took him down
(Or thought we did),
Wiped off the sweat and spittle
From his face,
Washed the dried blood,
Threw out the crown of thorns,
And wrapped him once again in swaddling clothes.
A tomb can be a cramped,
Confining space,
Far smaller than a stable.
We laid him there
(Or thought we did).
We were not able
To comprehend
The infinite contained.
For us it was the end.
Only the harsh realities
Of death and stone
Remained.
Nic Fiddian-Green: Christ Rests (2013)
Let me go there, he said. The world is overwhelmed with darkness: light fails and a curtain is rent in two.
He cries with a loud voice.
The same voice that cried ‘Father forgive’ cries out ‘Father, into your hands I commend my Spirit.’
The one who knows we know not what we do, commends all that he is into his Father’s hands.
The one who did not cling to equality with God, entrusts himself to his Father when all he is has been spent for us.
Let me go there, he said. He comes to our agony and longing, he reaches out to our thin outstretched arms. And in that final breath, there is rest. Let me go there, he said. Let me go to the tomb, he said.
He breathed his last.
Something stops. Release. Ending. Everything stops. Noise is shattered by breath. Silence. There, in that moment, God is praised; innocence is declared. But this giving up of breath, this letting go of life, this moment of recognition passes. Life goes on. It is relentless. The crowd disperses. Those who had gathered return home. In response to the spectacle they beat their breasts. This is one more death; one more piece of brutality meted out on those condemned.
Something stops. There is a moment when those who had followed him, stood at a distance; those who were acquainted with him, watched. Transfixed? Shocked? Returning home seems to be incongruous. Life ebbs away. The quiet ugliness is as disturbing as the pain.
As he exhales that final breath, the centurion saw something that prompted praise. He looked on the face of Christ and saw innocence. What do we see when we look on the face of Christ, silent and in repose? In Christ rests, there a poise and elegance in its profile; yet the closed eyes, the lips pressed together; the closeness of unmoving air is shockingly final.
The crown of thorns remains, piercing the flesh and refusing to allow us to forget the manner of this man’s life and death. Are we brought up short by our own mortality? There is no escaping the tragedy in this ending; but there is also waiting and hoping.
The centurion saw innocence and praised God. In the face, the love of God is made visible. Jesus said, let me go there; to our outstretched arms, to bring sight and life, abundance and peace. He restores human dignity encounter by encounter. As he walked through the land, step by step, people followed; some deserted, some stood by. As he spoke words of forgiveness and hope, people heard; some mocked, some clung to them. And now in his final breath, he rests: God’s love is made visible to a broken world, in this face.
As they watched, a good and righteous man acts. One who had disagreed with the council, who waiting with an expectant spirit for God’s Kingdom, asks for the body. There is a linen cloth and a rock-hewn tomb. There is human tenderness in the practical acts of honouring a body that has breathed its last.
And so we took him down (Or thought we did), Wiped off the sweat and spittle From his face, Washed the dried blood, Threw out the crown of thorns. And wrapped him once again in swaddling clothes.
With us in birth and with us in final breath. That tapestry of life is played out over and over in our own lives. A father hears an infant daughter’s cry; a daughter hears a father’s final sigh. The Word that cried out as a speechless infant now wordlessly enters into the depths of loss and death.
A tomb is a confined space. Claustrophobic; lifeless. It is incomprehensible that the tomb is the infinite contained. The Sabbath was beginning – a day of rest and preparation. The women who had followed from Galilee watched, and returned home to prepare the spices for burial. The one whom they had followed is at rest. At peace; in peace. Pain is no more for this resting Jesus; yet death itself is being swallowed up.
On the Sabbath they rested according to the commandment; on the Sabbath it must have seemed like an ending. Only the harsh realities Of death and stone Remained.
The cross that we venerate and look upon in horror and hope is a bare sad tree. It is the tree of our salvation, where humility and sacrifice reveal the height and breadth and depth of God’s love.
It leads us to a tomb, to a cool, enclosed and sealed space. We cannot escape the reality of this death. We by human inclination rail against it. We count the length of years, yet are affected by the brevity of love we have known.
Christ rests: fight and pain are over.
He comes to the palace of our greatest fear – of annihilation of utter abandonment. And we wait. A grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies; unless it does so, it remains but a single grain.
Harsh realities of death and stone remain.
At an ending; on a day of rest; dearest friends depart;
We watch. We wait. Our eyes veiled with tears.
Dare we hope for sorrows to be forgotten or prepare for joy restored?
We watch and wait and rest.
© 2015 Julie Gittoes
