Here we stand at the foot of the cross
We are not alone. Standing near the cross of Jesus were his mother, and his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene.
What must they have felt, and longed for at that moment? Witnessing such brutality against one whom they loved; one, whom they’d nurtured, followed and listened to. What do we hope for in a world that feels bewildering, painful & despairing?
Often we hope for a dramatic change, a radical intervention or a quick fix. And now, in John’s passion, we look on the face of a God who does not provide instantaneous solutions. In his brief earthly ministry, Jesus did reach out to those in need, responding to them through healing, providing food or by drawing them back into community. The women standing with us today had heard Jesus’ challenging words when they sought to persuade him from the path he walked on; they had also heard words of healing and hope as he transformed their lives.
The thrust of Jesus’ teaching wasn’t about temporary or short term help. It was far more radical – challenging the roots of suffering and evil. His message was about healing which involved hospitality, trust and compassion; it was about restoring our relationships with God and one another through love, forgiveness and inclusion. Ultimately, the deep healing we long for and need, is costly.
It is painful. It takes time. It demands patience.
In Jesus, we see the depth of God’s love for us, for all his creation. Jesus does not play the part of sympathetic listener or unmoved observer. He does not just speak up for those who are lost and confused or in pain. His compassion goes beyond outward concern. He suffers with us. He suffers for us.
When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple whom he loved standing beside her, he said to his mother, ‘Woman, here is your son.’ Then he said to the disciple, ‘Here is your mother.’ And from that hour the disciple took her into his own home.
When he washes his disciples’ feet, Jesus enacts loving, generous and humble service. When he suffers the humiliation of unjust imprisonment, mockery and abuse, he stands with all those who are tortured and bears the sin of those who despise humanity. On the cross we see the power of love & self-sacrifice confronting the powers of darkness. The corrosive power of sin that separates us from one another, that cuts us off from God is destroyed.
And here, at the foot of the cross, we see a glimmer of a new reality breaking through. Jesus, as he looks on his mother and beloved disciple, does not speak to them out of filial duty or necessary trust in a friend. He speaks of the possibility of re-imagined and restored community.
That small, beleaguered, grief stricken group – arms outstretched towards a bare tree – are the first to glimpse the reconciled new creation; they sense its meaning in human form. A mother adopts a son; a friend welcomes a woman. At that hour, grace breaks in. In the midst of pain there is hope.
John’s passion narrative does not spare us the horror and pain, the ugliness of the violence; we look upon ourselves in our weakness and fear, in our vanity and collusion. Nor does he hide from us the extraordinary and overwhelming love poured out in Jesus. Reality and cost are set alongside hope. The promise of new life; trust in God’s faithfulness; the work of the Holy Spirit in restoring brokenness; the power of love to overcome sin.
John reminds us that suffering, evil and death do not have the last word. In the midst of confusion, uncertainty and despair, there is still the presence of one who brings light, love and healing. He is revealed to us in awful desolation of suffering; in the isolation of abandonment; in the simplicity of hospitality; in the joy of love. And if we respond to his call, we allow him to expand our horizons; to discover our purpose and wholeness. Grounded in the costly love, we begin to live differently.
At the foot of the cross, prefiguring new human community, is Mary who spent a life time pondering light and glory; sorrow and pain. She knew that a sword would pierce her soul. The beloved disciple rested against Jesus' chest at the last supper, and now offers that intimate dwelling place to Mary.
Here begins a people abiding in love, abiding in God.
That is the people we are called to be: a people who both find acceptance in God’s love, and uphold others in it. At times of deepest sorrow, despondency and frustration; moments of profoundly overwhelming, uncontainable goodness can break in. It offers us comfort and assurance and cuts through the fear of abandonment. But to be held in such an embrace also means being let go. It means making ourselves vulnerable and letting the other go.
After this, when Jesus knew that it was now finished, he said (in order to fulfill the scripture), ‘I am thirsty.’ A jar of sour wine was standing there. So they put a sponge full of the wine on a branch of hyssop and held it to his mouth. When Jesus had received the wine, he said, ‘It is finished.’ Then he bowed his head and gave up his spirit.
After agony and death, there is silence and darkness. We wait.
We wait for a dawning light to pierce our gloom.
We wait for love to permeate the dark and silent places of our hearts and minds.
We wait for humanity to be healed, renewed, and restored.
God has drawn all people to himself in love.
We are to be drawn to each other in love: mother, son, father, daughter; as friends.
Together we share in love, in pain and in hope.
It is finished.
He bowed his head.
He gave up his Spirit.
We wait.
© 2015 Julie Gittoes
We are not alone. Standing near the cross of Jesus were his mother, and his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene.
Chris Gollon: At the base of the crucifixion (2003)
What must they have felt, and longed for at that moment? Witnessing such brutality against one whom they loved; one, whom they’d nurtured, followed and listened to. What do we hope for in a world that feels bewildering, painful & despairing?
Often we hope for a dramatic change, a radical intervention or a quick fix. And now, in John’s passion, we look on the face of a God who does not provide instantaneous solutions. In his brief earthly ministry, Jesus did reach out to those in need, responding to them through healing, providing food or by drawing them back into community. The women standing with us today had heard Jesus’ challenging words when they sought to persuade him from the path he walked on; they had also heard words of healing and hope as he transformed their lives.
The thrust of Jesus’ teaching wasn’t about temporary or short term help. It was far more radical – challenging the roots of suffering and evil. His message was about healing which involved hospitality, trust and compassion; it was about restoring our relationships with God and one another through love, forgiveness and inclusion. Ultimately, the deep healing we long for and need, is costly.
It is painful. It takes time. It demands patience.
In Jesus, we see the depth of God’s love for us, for all his creation. Jesus does not play the part of sympathetic listener or unmoved observer. He does not just speak up for those who are lost and confused or in pain. His compassion goes beyond outward concern. He suffers with us. He suffers for us.
When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple whom he loved standing beside her, he said to his mother, ‘Woman, here is your son.’ Then he said to the disciple, ‘Here is your mother.’ And from that hour the disciple took her into his own home.
When he washes his disciples’ feet, Jesus enacts loving, generous and humble service. When he suffers the humiliation of unjust imprisonment, mockery and abuse, he stands with all those who are tortured and bears the sin of those who despise humanity. On the cross we see the power of love & self-sacrifice confronting the powers of darkness. The corrosive power of sin that separates us from one another, that cuts us off from God is destroyed.
And here, at the foot of the cross, we see a glimmer of a new reality breaking through. Jesus, as he looks on his mother and beloved disciple, does not speak to them out of filial duty or necessary trust in a friend. He speaks of the possibility of re-imagined and restored community.
That small, beleaguered, grief stricken group – arms outstretched towards a bare tree – are the first to glimpse the reconciled new creation; they sense its meaning in human form. A mother adopts a son; a friend welcomes a woman. At that hour, grace breaks in. In the midst of pain there is hope.
John’s passion narrative does not spare us the horror and pain, the ugliness of the violence; we look upon ourselves in our weakness and fear, in our vanity and collusion. Nor does he hide from us the extraordinary and overwhelming love poured out in Jesus. Reality and cost are set alongside hope. The promise of new life; trust in God’s faithfulness; the work of the Holy Spirit in restoring brokenness; the power of love to overcome sin.
John reminds us that suffering, evil and death do not have the last word. In the midst of confusion, uncertainty and despair, there is still the presence of one who brings light, love and healing. He is revealed to us in awful desolation of suffering; in the isolation of abandonment; in the simplicity of hospitality; in the joy of love. And if we respond to his call, we allow him to expand our horizons; to discover our purpose and wholeness. Grounded in the costly love, we begin to live differently.
At the foot of the cross, prefiguring new human community, is Mary who spent a life time pondering light and glory; sorrow and pain. She knew that a sword would pierce her soul. The beloved disciple rested against Jesus' chest at the last supper, and now offers that intimate dwelling place to Mary.
Here begins a people abiding in love, abiding in God.
That is the people we are called to be: a people who both find acceptance in God’s love, and uphold others in it. At times of deepest sorrow, despondency and frustration; moments of profoundly overwhelming, uncontainable goodness can break in. It offers us comfort and assurance and cuts through the fear of abandonment. But to be held in such an embrace also means being let go. It means making ourselves vulnerable and letting the other go.
After this, when Jesus knew that it was now finished, he said (in order to fulfill the scripture), ‘I am thirsty.’ A jar of sour wine was standing there. So they put a sponge full of the wine on a branch of hyssop and held it to his mouth. When Jesus had received the wine, he said, ‘It is finished.’ Then he bowed his head and gave up his spirit.
After agony and death, there is silence and darkness. We wait.
We wait for a dawning light to pierce our gloom.
We wait for love to permeate the dark and silent places of our hearts and minds.
We wait for humanity to be healed, renewed, and restored.
God has drawn all people to himself in love.
We are to be drawn to each other in love: mother, son, father, daughter; as friends.
Together we share in love, in pain and in hope.
It is finished.
He bowed his head.
He gave up his Spirit.
We wait.
© 2015 Julie Gittoes
