As we enter today into Holy Week and our communal participation in Christ’s Paschal mystery, I wonder: what does this mean for us? Is meditation on the passion just an old-fashioned devotion, a bit dreary and depressing and an excuse for self-absorption? Or is it a challenge to our accepted ways of going about things, our comfortable mediocrity? Is it a lifeline, drawing together and bestowing meaning on all human suffering? Is it a call to do as Christ has done, to be transformed and live the life of those who have been baptized into his death? In short, does Holy week depress us, challenge us, console us, or enliven us? How does it change us?
John Cassian speaks three times in his Conferences about the importance of remembering the passion, using the images of the plow, the rock and the yoke:
“Thus at every moment we should cultivate the earth of our heart with the gospel plow, that is, with the continual remembering of the Lord’s cross.” (Conf 1.22.2)
“Having become as it were a spiritual hedgehog, he is protected by the constant shelter of that gospel rock which is the recollection of the Lord’s passion.” (Conf 10.11.1)
“For what can be heavy or hard to the person who has taken up Christ’s yoke with his whole mind, is established in true humility, reflects constantly upon the Lord’s suffering, and rejoices in all the hardships that come upon him.” (Conf 24.23.2)
In Cassian’s first image, remembrance of the cross is a plow – a tool with which we cultivate the earth of our heart. What does this mean? It means that we measure our thoughts, our deeds and our lives against the full stature of Christ crucified. We allow ourselves to be disturbed and upset by what this reveals to us. Moved by his example, we seek to pull up and cast away all we find within us that is incompatible with our humble Savior. We ask: how can I not serve him who has made himself my servant?
Guerric of Igny performs such a plowing of the heart with his meditation on Christ the servant:
“‘I will not serve,’ man says to his Creator. ‘Then I will serve you,’ his Creator says to man. ‘You sit down, I will minister, I will wash your feet. You rest, I will bear your weariness, your infirmities. Use me as you like in all your needs, not only as your slave but also as your beast of burden and as your property. If you are tired or burdened I will carry both you and your burden…. If you are hungry or thirsty and have nothing better at hand perhaps, and no calf so well fattened is available, behold I am ready to be slaughtered that you may eat my flesh and drink my blood…. If you are led into captivity or sold, here I am, sell me and redeem yourself at my cost, or with myself as the price…. If you are ill and afraid to die I will die for you so that from my blood you may make yourself medicine that will restore life.’
…O detestable pride of man who scorns to serve, pride that could not be reduced to humility by any other example than the servitude, and such servitude, of its Lord….
You have conquered, Lord, you have conquered the rebel; behold I surrender to your bonds, I put my neck under your yoke. Only deign to let me serve you, suffer me to toil for you.” (Sermon 29)
In Cassian’s second image, remembrance of the cross is a rock – a place of refuge from our foes. What does this mean? It means that we are protected from anything that would harm us, from every temptation to fear, discouragement, cynicism or despair, by the self-emptying of the Son of God. We take comfort in his closeness, his drawing near to us, even unto death on a cross, even unto the depths of hell. In the clefts of his body, we find a place for all the troubles which beset us and our world. We ask: do I bring my sorrows and those of others to the One whose death gives us life?
Guerric of Igny describes the rock:
“Blessed is he who, in order that I might be able to build a nest in the clefts of the rock, allowed his hands, feet and side to be pierced and opened himself to me wholly that I might enter ‘the place of his wonderful tent’ and be protected in its recesses. The rock is a convenient refuge for the badgers, but it is also a welcome dwelling-place for the doves. These clefts, so many open wounds all over his body, offer pardon to the guilty and bestow grace on the just. Indeed it is a safe dwelling-place, my brethren, and a tower of strength in the face of the enemy, to linger in the wounds of Christ, the Lord, by devout and constant meditation.
… Go into the rock, then, man, hide in the dug ground. Make the Crucified your hiding-place. He is the rock, he is the ground, he who is God and man. He is the cleft rock, he is the dug ground, for ‘they have dug my hands and my feet.’” (Sermon 32)
Ten years ago, Sr Grace was asked to give a Lenten chapter talk on the Stations of the Cross. Her meditations on the fourteen stations were broad and deep with scriptural allusions and wisdom born of experience. The point that has stayed with me ever since is this: “The heart of Jesus is our wailing wall.” Like those who visit the great wall in Jerusalem to place petitions in its crevices and to weep and cry out for God’s mercy, we too have a place to go, a rock with clefts, a heart ready to receive our sorrows. Sr Grace says: “We weep for our sins, for the sins of others, for war, violence, famine, disease and for the suffering of children. We pray for and with the Jewish people. We mourn for the devastation wrought by the death-forces of the world. The heart of Jesus is our wailing wall.”
In Cassian’s third image, remembrance of the cross helps us to take up Christ’s yoke with our whole mind. What does this mean? It means that we recognize that our lives, our selves, our very bodies belong to another, to the One who has bought us at the price of his blood. We place our neck under the yoke of our Christian and monastic life with the joy of one who knows she is loved beyond measure. We ask: how can I express in my own life the death of Christ for the salvation of the world?
St Bernard calls the remembrance of the passion the “little bundle of myrrh that lies between my breasts?” (Sg 1:12). Like Cassian, he emphasizes that the bitterness of affliction, symbolized by myrrh, is carried lightly by one who is wholehearted in following Christ: “A bunch, surely, if its yoke is easy and its burden light. Not that it is of its nature light – there was nothing light about the cruel passion or the bitter death – only the lover finds it light” (Sermon 43.1). Only the lover finds it light. Christ is the Lover, “who for the sake of the joy that was set before him endured the cross, disregarding its shame” (Heb 12:2). We, too, are lovers. If we were not, our devotion to the passion of Christ would become a burden too heavy to bear. We do not rejoice in suffering for its own sake, but in that suffering which saves because of the great love of the One who suffered. We carry this suffering – Christ’s, our own and that of others – before us as a bundle of myrrh. St Bernard says:
“Dear brothers, you must gather this delectable bunch for yourselves, you must place it at the very center of your bosom where it will protect all the avenues to your heart. Let it abide between your breasts. Always make sure it is not behind you or on your shoulders, but ahead of you where your eyes can see it, for if you bear it without smelling it the burden will weigh you down and the fragrance will not lift you up.” (Sermon 43.5)
As we enter into the hour of Jesus’ suffering and death, let us allow the plow of Christ’s cross to shake up the earth of our hearts to greater fidelity. Let us hide in the clefts of the rock all the burdens and sorrows that afflict us and our world. Let us embrace his precious yoke with joy, lifted up by the fragrance of the Son who lays down his life for us.