one
he lays his left hand along the beam
hand that moulded clay into fluttering birds
hand that cupped wild flowers to learn their peace
hand that stroked the bee's soft back and
touched death's sting
two
he stretches his right hand across the grain
hand that blessed a dead corpse quick
hand that smeared blind spittle into sight
hand that burgeoned bread, smoothed
down the rumpled sea
three
he stands laborious
sagging, split
homo erectus, poor bare forked thing
hung on nails like a picture
he is not beautiful
blood sweats from hin in rain
far off wher we are lost, desert dry
thunder begins its quiet roar
the first drops startle us alive
the cloud no bigger
than a man's hand
Chris Gollon: Jesus takes up his cross (first study) 1999
Let me go there, he said. The hand that cupped flowers, that stroked the bee’s soft back is stretched along a beam. The hand that brought life out of death, that restored with touch and spittle is nailed to the grain. The one who brought bread in abundance is the bread of life broken; broken that a fragmented world may be made whole. There is no beauty here. Laborious, sagging, split and nailed.
Zundel’s poem resonates with the hammering of nails: one... two... three. The sheer physical constraint and agony of being put to death. Everything that we cling to in order to define ourselves is stripped away. Jesus is led, with two criminals: they are led away. There is no autonomy or freedom in being “led away”.
There is no choice or trust. Led away to be put to death; life does not ebb away gently. It is taken, painfully. Every shred of clothing is divided by lot. What we wear, what we own, all that we possess defines us, shields us and cloaks our vulnerability. Here Jesus is laid bare. He is dispossessed.
Around him lies a simple robe; taken from our Lord as he gives up his life. The dice rest alongside it; the casual gambling to attain what? That which belongs to another? And there are nails and a hammer; not in the hands of a craftsman but of those caught up in a system of brutal punishment which brings no peace.
There was noise: a deafening, clamorous cacophony. The one, two, three of nails; the cries in agony; the indifferent banter of those casting lots; heckling voices and somewhere, far off, a deep quiet roar. There was noise and din but what is heard?
The voice of Jesus saying “Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.”
There is a plea to his Father to forgive those who taunt and torture, who mock and despise; who led him away to death and scorn the possibility of salvation. They know not what they do.
There are times when we know not what we do: the effect of our words or of our indifference; the consequences of selfish preoccupations; our collusion with agendas which, though seeming soft and harmless, have within them the sting of death. Father, forgive us. We know not what we do.
This is the complexity of our life: this is where our pain, pride, loss, ambition, betrayals and mockery collide. Our failures and selfishness coalesce around the cross; at the foot of the one who knows we do not know what we do. And on his lips we hear no longer a lament, but a gut wrenching plea for forgiveness.
And the crowd stands by, watching. Leaders scoff; soldiers mock; a criminal derides. Yet even in the callous words of victimisation and aggression reverberate with a glimmer of truth. Yes, he saved others. He restored relationships, brought peace, shared puzzlements, told stories; he burgeoned bread and smoothed down the rumpled sea.
Yes those words of derision and provocation also reveal misunderstanding. He cannot save others by saving himself. The paradox made manifest on the beams of a bare tree is that peace comes through death’s sting; touched, confronted and embraced. Far off, where we are lost, a distant roar of thunder prefigures the triumph of reconciliation.
Save yourself is not an imperative that Jesus can obey. Instead he empties himself, pours out his life in generous, costly, incomprehensible love. Let me go there, he said. Let me go to the furthest point of human alienation and abandonment; let me go to the depths of despair and condemnation; let me embrace the victim and bully. Let me go there. There is no longer any place where God’s love is not.
Under the weight of condemnation and in the face of death, one of the criminals derides Jesus, making a desperate plea for escape. Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us. It is the other criminal who rebukes him. He speaks under the weight of condemnation and in the face of death, in the light of his own culpability. He trusts in who Jesus is: he expresses deep longing and hope. Remember me. When you come into your kingdom, remember me.
Today, says Jesus, you will be with me in Paradise. All that we are is drawn into the heart of God. Far off where we are lost begins a quiet roar which startles us alive. A cloud no bigger than a man’s hand is a sign of refreshment in the desert; Jesus’ promise, spoken in the face of death, is a sign of peace and restoration. We are to look on his face, to hear his words, and find in the depths of our hearts that he loves us. In humility he seeks us out; he knows the very depths of our being. He speaks words of forgiveness and promise into our troubled, anxious, overburdened lives.
In the midst of the noise of mockery, scoffing and derision, Jesus speaks:
Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.
In the midst of fear, failure, abandonment and death, Jesus speaks:
Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.
For where God seems most hidden, most absent; God is most active. Where creation seems most desolate and human frailty most stark, there is the promise of life. God is where we least expect God to be found.
God speaks in the midst of suffering; God is with us.
far off where we are lost, desert dry
thunder begins its quiet roar
the first drops startle us alive
the cloud no bigger
than a man’s hand.
© 2015 Julie Gittoes
