Christianity,  Nonfiction,  Poetry

Good Friday: a poem, a painting, and a passage

One of Wendell Berry’s Sabbaths poems from 1980:

What hard travail God does in death!
He strives in sleep, in our despair,
And all flesh shudders underneath
The nightmare of His sepulchre.

The rest of the poem is here, presented antiphonally.

Of the artistic renderings I was able to find of Good Friday, I like this one best: Jean-Léon Gérôme, Golgotha Consummatum est, 1867. Its contrasts are suggestive: the sky, half dark and half light; the people, tiny and flylike, in a vast, brooding natural setting; the apparent subject, human activity, rendered insignificant by the looming shadows off to the right.

Last but not least, here’s a passage from C.S. Lewis’ Letters to Malcolm: Chiefly on Prayer that meditates on the events of Good Friday:

Does not every movement in the Passion write large some common element in the sufferings of our race? First, the prayer of anguish; not granted. Then He turns to His friends. They are asleep — as ours, or we, are so often, or busy, or away, or preoccupied. Then He faces the Church; the very Church that He brought into existence. It condemns Him. This also is characteristic. In every Church, in every institution, there is something which sooner or later works against the very purpose for which it came into existence. But there seems to be another chance. There is the State; in this case, the Roman state. Its pretensions are far lower than those of the Jewish church, but for that very reason it may be free of local fanaticisms. It claims to be just on a rough, worldly level. Yes, but only so far as is consistent with political expediency and raison d’etat. One becomes a counter in a complicated game. But even now all is not lost. There is still an appeal to the People — the poor and simple whom He had blessed, whom He had healed and fed and taught, to whom He Himself belongs. But they have become over-night (it is nothing unusual) a murderous rabble shouting for His blood. There is, then, nothing left but God. And to God, God’s last words are “Why hast thou forsaken me?”

You see how characteristic, how representative, it all is. The human situation writ large. These are among the things it means to be a man. Every rope breaks when you seize it. Every door is slammed shut as you reach it…

As for the last dereliction of all, how can we either understand or endure it? Is it that God Himself cannot be man unless God seems to vanish at His greatest need? And if so, why? I sometimes wonder if we have even begun to understand what is involved in the very concept of creation. If God will create, He will make something to be, and yet to be not Himself. To be created is, in some sense, to be ejected or separated. Can it be that the more perfect the creature is, the further this separation must at some point be pushed? It is saints, not common people, who experience the “dark night.”

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