Passion
We’ve just gotten over the familiar ceremonies of Holy Week. We’ve heard stirring sermons explaining how we can invite God to draw nearer to us, how real Jesus can be in our lives, and why these are important. We’ve even heard how deeply personal the lessons of his passion can become in Fr. Michel Quoist’s immortal Good Friday prayers. And now we’re in the
resurrection season, with its wonder and joy and glory. But wait—did we miss something? What was this
“passion” all about?
The medical aspects of the final 18 hours of Jesus’s life on earth are almost too horrible to contemplate. Put yourself in his place: ignore, if you choose, the emotional trauma of being ridiculed by most of the people you know and whom you’ve been teaching for three years, rejected over and over by a close friend, and betrayed by another. Consider being sleep-deprived all night, then having your back muscles splayed open by multiple lashes with leather whips imbedded with chunks of iron, and blood streaming down your face from thorns tearing open your scalp. Add to that the fatigue which all this pain induced, then you’re handed a huge crossbeam and forced to carry it half a mile uphill. After collapsing a few times you finally make it, only to have iron spikes driven through your wrists onto that rough hunk of wood which is hoisted up onto a slot on top of a tree just high enough that your feet can’t touch the ground. Then your ankles are likewise nailed to the tree so that the only way you can get air into your lungs is to lift yourself by the arms to support your weight by the nails in your wrists. imagine the pain! Eventually your strength ebbs, and you die of shock and suffocation. How does that feel, folks?
“Passion” means “suffering.” Aptly named? And we DARE to be ho-hum about it?
resurrection season, with its wonder and joy and glory. But wait—did we miss something? What was this
“passion” all about?
The medical aspects of the final 18 hours of Jesus’s life on earth are almost too horrible to contemplate. Put yourself in his place: ignore, if you choose, the emotional trauma of being ridiculed by most of the people you know and whom you’ve been teaching for three years, rejected over and over by a close friend, and betrayed by another. Consider being sleep-deprived all night, then having your back muscles splayed open by multiple lashes with leather whips imbedded with chunks of iron, and blood streaming down your face from thorns tearing open your scalp. Add to that the fatigue which all this pain induced, then you’re handed a huge crossbeam and forced to carry it half a mile uphill. After collapsing a few times you finally make it, only to have iron spikes driven through your wrists onto that rough hunk of wood which is hoisted up onto a slot on top of a tree just high enough that your feet can’t touch the ground. Then your ankles are likewise nailed to the tree so that the only way you can get air into your lungs is to lift yourself by the arms to support your weight by the nails in your wrists. imagine the pain! Eventually your strength ebbs, and you die of shock and suffocation. How does that feel, folks?
“Passion” means “suffering.” Aptly named? And we DARE to be ho-hum about it?
posted by Bill Stecher at 8:08 PM
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