1703012-fr-daniel-dries

A sermon preached by the Rev’d Dr Daniel Dries Lent 2 (Evensong) Christ Church St Laurence – 12 March 2017 May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be acceptable in your sight: O Lord, our strength and our Redeemer. Amen.

Jesus said, Whoever does not bear his own cross and come after me, cannot be my disciple.

The English poet W H Auden wrote that, “Christmas and Easter can be subjects for poetry, but Good Friday, like Auschwitz, cannot. The reality is so horrible it is not surprising that people should have found it a stumbling block to faith.” Good Friday certainly lacks the joy and exhilaration of Easter and Christmas. Perhaps, this day of defeat is a stumbling block to faith, at least for some. For others, the tree of defeat seems to generate some sense of morbid fascination.

Over the course of a typical year, we can expect certain news stories to appear with a slightly unnerving and predictable regularity. I have observed that, every year on Good Friday, the evening news bulletin will usually show a thirty second grab from the Good Friday service at St Andrew’s Cathedral, and a second diplomatic 30 second grab from St Mary’s Cathedral. The respective archbishops are depicted in their pulpits, although it all became rather exciting a year or two ago when the bulletin I watched somehow confused the identity of the two clergymen, no doubt generating some degree of concern for both.

On Good Friday, in addition to these token acknowledgments of Christian tradition, there will almost certainly be a brief story about some well-meaning person of faith (usually in a third world nation) who carries a large crude cross through a village and attaches himself to it (curiously, I think such people are always male). I would never criticise any person for living out their Christian faith in a slightly unusual way. No doubt, there are many in our world who consider it quite peculiar for grown men to walk around in a small black hat adorned with a pompom. However, we have to ask what Jesus really meant when he encouraged his disciples to carry their cross and to follow him. I suspect that whipping ourselves and tying ourselves to a piece of wood is almost certainly not what he intended.

There will always be people of faith (of all faith traditions) who are drawn to a literal interpretation of sacred texts. Despite W H Auden’s assertion, there are also people who will be drawn to the tragic aspects of a most brutal and humiliating execution. The morbid aspects of the crucifixion really do seem to strengthen the faith of some believers.  Jesus said, Whoever does not bear his own cross and come after me, cannot be my disciple.

In a more recent translation Luke, Chapter 14 reads, ‘Whoever does not bear the cross…’ while in the version we read this evening, Christ says that ‘Whoever does not bear his own cross and come after me cannot be my disciple.’ Gender-exclusive language aside, there is something very powerful in this minor variation – own cross.

It suggests that we all have a unique cross to bear. Slavishly imitating the cross of Christ, or even trying to carry the cross of another person, will almost certainly take our attention away from the unique cross that has been entrusted to us.

Having a cross to bear has become something of a cliché. We speak of bearing a cross if we have an illness, an ailment, or if something or someone in our life is not quite as we would have them be. Few of us would choose to experience a shocking toothache or living next door to difficult neighbours. We may think of these as heavy crosses to bear, but we would never choose them for ourselves.

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However, Christ makes it very clear to his would-be followers that, as for the cross of discipleship, they can take it or leave it. Nobody will force them to become disciples. But, most importantly, if they choose to take up the cross of discipleship, it will require total commitment and allegiance.  Our former regional bishop once remarked in a sermon that he had never seen a church that contained as many crosses as this one. This may be true, but what is even more significant is that, most of our crosses are in fact, crucifixes. They depict the broken body of a young man, who would have writhed in excruciating pain. W H Auden suggested that, like the horrors of Auschwitz, this is not the stuff of poetry. But, I disagree. The horrors of the concentration camp, or a detention centre for that matter, are not something to be chosen or rejected. Nobody would choose to be in a place where freedom, dignity and life itself will be taken away from them.

But as we look at the horror of the crucifixion, we must remember that this devastating scene was chosen.

We believe that this young man chose to offer himself to convince others of the boundless love of God. Just as you have chosen to come here this evening, this was a conscious decision for one human being to offer himself; to willingly take up his brutal cross for others.

This is all that we should see when we gaze upon Christ Crucified. St Teresa of Avila said, “Reflect carefully on this, for it is so important that I can hardly lay too much stress on it. Fix your eyes on the Crucified and nothing else will be of much importance to you.”

We must look beyond the horror and brutality of this scene, to see the love and selflessness at its core.

Whatever burdens weigh us down, this selfless love is the cross that we are all called to bear, in our unique vocation and situation in life. There is enough senseless violence and hatred in our world at this time; this is not the stuff of poetry. But love, wastefully poured out for others most certainly is.

This is the poetry that inspires our discipleship; it is the poetry that compels us to remain at the foot of the cross, desperately trying to live lives that reflect this same wasteful, selfless and divine love. As Samuel Crossman, the 17th Century English clergyman and hymn writer wrote so eloquently: Here might I stay and sing, No story so divine; Never was love, dear King, Never was grief like thine!

This is my friend, in whose sweet praise I all my days could gladly spend.

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