Sermons from the Latins/Sermon 24
Good Friday.
The Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ.
"O all ye that pass by the way, come and see if there be woe like unto my woe." — Lam. i. 12.
SYNOPSIS.
Ex.: I. Lenten sequence. II. Close. III. Meditate, compassionate, be comforted.
I. Meditate: 1. Our Brother. 2. Betrayed, denied, scourged, crowned, rejected. 3. The crucifixion.
II. Compassionate: 1. Mother and Brother. 2. Suffered for us. 3. For our sins.
III. Find comfort: 1. Life's trials. 2. Light by contrast. 3. Effect of pity and love.
Per. : Salutary effect of meditation on the Passion.
SERMON.
Brethren, we have been trying during this Lent to bring our souls into a closer union with Our Lord and Saviour. With our crosses on our shoulders, we have been trying to faithfully follow Him. To spur ourselves on, we have reflected on the reward of perseverance — the eternal happiness of our immortal soul; we have reflected on the consequences of unfaithfulness — the misery of a sinner's life and sinner's death here, and of a sinner's hell hereafter; and we have reflected on penance and prayer, the means of following Our Lord closely and perseveringly. So, to-night, we find ourselves by His very side, prepared to go with Him through the last sad scene of our tragic Redemption; to assist Him with His cross, as did Simeon of Cyrene; to stand in speechless anguish with Mary and see Him die on the cross; to kneel with Magdalen and gaze in loving adoration on His dead body reposing in the arms of His poor afflicted Mother.
Our Lord extends a threefold invitation to us to meditate on His Passion. First, He asks us to consider how great were His sufferings, saying : " O all ye that pass by the way, come and see if there be woe like to My woe." Secondly, He invites us to compassionate His sufferings: " Have pity on Me, have pity on Me, at least you My friends." Thirdly, He asks for our love and promises love in return: " O all ye that labor and are burdened, come to Me and I will refresh you, and you shall find peace for your souls." God grant we may so meditate on Christ's Passion as to excite our pity for Him, and then our love, for pity is akin to love.
" O all ye that pass by the way, come and see if there be woe like unto My woe." Who is this who speaks? It is our elder Brother, our Saviour, our God. That Brother of ours, who, though born and reared in poverty, was still nurtured and brought up with all the care and tenderness of His young Mother, between whom and her Son there existed the fourfold love of a mother for her son, of a bride for her spouse, of a daughter for her father, of a saintly virgin for her God. That Brother, who, instead of harsh words and corporal punishments, received from His foster father naught but lowly homage. That Brother, who, up to a few months ago, had never passed from the gentle influence of His own family, His own village, into the rough world beyond. That Brother, the most beautiful among the sons of men — as fair and as tender as a maiden — pale and slender and strangely sad, but, withal, unspeakably commanding — kind and good to all, but especially the lover and the well-beloved of the little ones. That Brother, whose wondrous charity led Him to cure the demented boy; to take the ruler's little dead daughter in His arms and breathe new life into her; to shed tears with Mary and Martha and console them by raising their dead brother Lazarus to life; to stop the funeral of the widow's son and give back to the poor heartbroken mourner the sole hope and joy of her declining years. O my Jesus! when we think of all your goodness, we are not content with offering you the purest of all love — the love of a brother for a brother — we want to prove our love — we want to suffer that you may not suffer — we want to die that you may live. But no; Our Lord is too generous for that; He would sooner suffer Himself than see us suffer. All He asks of us is to come and see if there be woe like unto His woe. Come and see — and, oh ! my poor Brother, what do we see? We see Him in the midst of a vast crowd of soldiers— 'the most savage and brutal men, probably, God ever created. And why is He here? Why has He left Nazareth? He is here on account of His own goodness and the wickedness of men. For He went around the whole country, with His Apostles, doing good, but men took it ill of Him; they began to envy Him His supernatural power and hate Him for His very goodness. The more love and kindness He showed them the more they hated Him, until, finally, they decided it was expedient that one man, our innocent Brother, should die for the people. The more they hated Him the more He loved them, for even while they were plotting His death, He was giving His Apostles power to absolve His enemies, and to change bread and wine into His body and blood, to be food and drink for their souls. But they only hated Him all the more — aye, even in that little band of Apostles, from whom, of all men, He might expect gratitude and love, even among these was one who hated Him — Judas; who rushed from the room after a sacrilegious communion to sell and betray his Friend into the hands of His enemies. Oh! no wonder our poor Lord was weary of life, sorrowful, sad even unto death as, at nightfall, He strayed through the silent solitude of the Garden of Gethsemani! No wonder, I say, for after the institution of the Holy Eucharist He seemed to have put away His divinity, to have become our human, mortal Brother in very truth. Hence His poor human nature, finding itself abandoned by the Divinity, stood aghast at the wickedness and ingratitude of men, at the enormity of the sufferings He was about to endure, at the uselessness of these sufferings for millions of mankind; and, in a paroxysm of grief and fear, He turned to His Apostles for comfort, but found none, for they were asleep; and He turned to His Father and begged to be spared these sufferings, but His Father bade Him drink the bitter chalice to the dregs. Abandoned by God, abandoned by man, He sank down under His weight of woe, with not a sign of life left save the bloody sweat that oozed out at every pore. So long did He lie there that even heaven seemed to doubt of His reviving, for an angel came and recalled Him to life — recalled Him from the agony of death to begin a living agony — to receive the false kiss of Judas, to see His sworn followers desert Him, to be led away, bound, by the rabble, to be flung headlong into the brook Cedron as He passed it, to be dragged wet and bleeding from Annas to Caiphas, and from Caiphas to Pilate, and from Pilate to Herod, and from Herod back to the courtyard of Pilate. There we find Him now. Let us push through that jeering, scoffing, brutal crowd and look at Him. My poor Brother! Handcuffed and bruised, His breast heaving with emotion, His breath quick and short, the perspiration dripping from His face, and His eyes wildly searching among those around Him for a friendly face. Suddenly His countenance lights up, for He sees, by the door, the Apostle Peter, come, no doubt, to fulfil his oath, and die with Him. Ah! no, for Peter will not even look at Him; he turns away swearing he never knew Him; and now the drops of sweat that trickle down Our Saviour's face are mixed with scalding tears.
Now that He is alone, entirely alone, the full frenzy of His enemies breaks upon Him. We see them load Him with dishonor; subject His body to every kind of abuse and torture, and finally murder Him before our eyes. They ask Him what He has to say in selfdefence, and no sooner does He open His mouth to reply than a vile miscreant rushes at Him from the crowd, and deals Him a resounding, staggering blow in the face. Shame, not for Himself but for His assailant, sends the hot blood to His sacred face and out through the wound He has received, and He bows down His head, resolved, from that moment, to endure all in silence. But His silent submission only maddens them the more. They blindfold and buffet Him and spit in His face. One by one these brutal men come before Him, bowing low in mock reverence and haiKng Him, in tones of assumed homage, as their king; and then return to mingle with the crowd that stands around, and make the courtyard ring again with their laughter at the savage humor of the scene. While this fiendish jest is going on within, outside is heard the mighty roar of the surging mob calling on Pilate to pronounce the death-sentence. But Pilate hesitates; he knows the man is innocent; his wife has dreamed a dream of dire calamity to come should He be condemned; and as he looks down from his balcony into the courtyard, even his heart thrills with pity for the poor forlorn prisoner. " Friends," he cries, " this man is innocent." " No," they answer, " He is guilty and He is an apostate and a traitor, and unless you sentence Him we will denounce you to Caesar." " But," he insists, " I cannot be responsible for an innocent man's death." " His blood," they cry, " His blood be upon us and upon our children." "Take," he begs, "take the felon Barabbas and hang him but spare the Christ." But they roar back: "Not Barabbas — let him go free — but let the Christ be crucified." Look at our poor innocent Brother, as He stands there on that balcony before that immense throng — stands handcuffed to a highway robber, a red-handed murderer — stands there in mute appeal to the people for His life. Oh! His heart sickens, and His soul seems to die within Him, and a livid hue spreads over His already pale and ghastly countenance as He hears them cry: " Long live Barabbas; death to the Christ."
The solemn death-sentence has fallen from the judge's lips; the guilty judge washes his hands as though he would, thereby, remove the stain from his conscience— our poor Brother is hurried off to suffer unheard-of sufferings and to die a felon's death. He is hurried down into a cold, dismal dungeon in the midst of which stands a column three feet high with a ring at the top like a hitching-post, and, being stripped of His garments, He is bound thereto in a stooping position, and scourged. One by one each brawny savage grasps the leather thong, with its leaded ends, as it falls from the hand of his exhausted predecessor, and rains blows on the tender back and quivering sides and heaving breast of our poor Saviour. Oh! the horrible echo of those blows, and the panting of the executioner, and the shower of flesh and blood that strewed the ground, and the bones laid bare, and the convulsive writhing of that body, and the mute agony of those streaming eyes and that quivering countenance! Ah! Mary, the soldiers turned you roughly away when you tried to enter with your Son, but you linger by the door and you try to count the countless blows and your maternal heart sickens at the sounds, and half-fainting you lean against the wall, and your hot tears fall and your loud sobs reveal your unspeakable woe. Ah! that gentle, loving boy that, as an infant, lay smiling in your arms, that played as a child round your knee, that laid His boyish head on your lap and called you Mother; that, only the other day, held you in His arms and kissed you good-bye forever — Ah! look at Him now stripped of His garments, stripped of His skin, stripped of His flesh, with not a friend in all the wide world but yourself — standing in the midst of His barbarous persecutors, looking around, vainly, among them for one look or word of sympathy; sinking down for a moment under His load of mental and bodily torture — into the dense darkness of misery with not a ray of consolation. A moment only, for they soon rouse Him and put on His garments and hurry Him out past His poor Mother, up to the great courtyard again. She cannot follow Him in there, and, even if she could she could never get near Him with the crowd. For the place is filled with soldiers who seat Him on a stone bench and place on His head a platted crown of huge thorns and force them down and in until their sharp points penetrate the skin and grate on the bones of the skull. Oh! the anguish of the Mother's heart as she listens to those sounds! She cannot see Him, but she knows He is in the midst of that throng, silent and forlorn, the blood streaming down into His eyes and mouth, a scarlet fool garment on His shoulders, a fool's sceptre — a reed — in His hand. She sees the crowd sway hither and thither as the soldiers, in grim sport, struggle to reach Him, to mock Him, as a King whom she knows truly to be the King of kings; to spit on and buffet and load with dishonor Him whom she knows to be the soul of honor; to torture and torment Him who, she knows, was always good and kind to everybody, and feels even for His enemies naught but tenderness and love. Why, even the stony heart of Pilate is moved to pity as he looks on, and he is led to believe and hope that if that howling mob outside could only see the man now, they, too, would be moved to pity Him and let Him go. So once again he orders Him to be dragged up and out upon the balcony, with His hands bound, the crown on His head, the purple robe on His shoulders, the reed in His hand; and thinking to give them the full benefit of the piteous spectacle, Pilate suddenly presents Him to them and shouts out: " Behold the man! " Behold the man! Ah, if you have the smallest vein of sympathy in your nature; if your heart ever beat fast and swelled with pity for a poor fellow creature, for a poor Brother, — behold this man and shed one little tear over His deplorable condition. What more touching sight is there than to behold a strong man writhing in mute agony? There before me stands my poor, gentle, patient Brother; His knees trembling beneath Him with weakness, and every muscle of His mangled body shivering with torture; His head bowed down, and those pathetic eyes searching the crowd with a wild, imploring look. Oh, there were little children in that crowd whose young hearts, at a look from Him, burst with pity for Him, and sent the scalding tears to blind their eyes to the woeful sight. There were young women there who pitied Him for the sake of their own brothers and lovers. There were mothers there who thought of their own sons and bowed their heads in speechless sorrow when they heard the wail of His poor Mother. Aye, for Mary was there in the throng, and when her eyes met the eyes of her Son she shrieked aloud and sank back into the arms of Mary Magdalen and St. John. But there sympathy ended, — the vast majority of that crowd remained pitiless and cried all the louder: " Let Him be crucified! Let Him be crucified! " Pilate's last feeble attempt to save the innocent has failed, and so he gives Christ over to the mob to do with Him as they will. Eagerly they set to work to carry out their fiendish purpose. Willing hands procure and prepare the rough cross; the huge nails are brought and the heavy hammer, and the mournful procession starts up the hill of Calvary. There are three to be executed, Our Lord and two robbers; two culprits going to satisfy justice, one victim of religious fanaticism. And as the hatred of the religious fanatic is more relentless even than the strictest justice, so the robbers are allowed to walk free, while Our Lord is made to carry His cross. Was there ever a poor shattered frame more incapable of bearing a load ! was there ever a heavier load placed on human shoulders! was there ever a steeper or more uneven road trod by two poor mangled human feet! Poor Mary follows in the crowd, and, as she sees the bloody footprints His feet have made, her maternal heart can contain itself no longer. In a frenzy of despair and with a superhuman effort, she rushes frantic through the crowd. Men fall back in alarm before her fierce earnestness, and on she goes through the parted ranks until she stands face to face with her Son. " Mother," He sobs, " Mother," and at the word all her unnatural courage dies out, all the love and tenderness of her nature come back to her, and in a moment she is a helpless woman, a heartbroken mother again. Speechless with emotion, their eyes meet in one long, last look, and then the rough guard brushes her aside, and the gloomy procession moves on. Oh, how the great heart of that fondest of sons must have ached with sympathy for His poor Mother! What bitter tears He must have shed on that dreary march as He compared the happiness of their life long ago, in the little home of Nazareth, with the misery of their present condition! Aye, I feel as sure as if Christ Himself revealed it to me, that one of the bitterest of all the bitter pains He had to endure, was the thought of His poor Mother's grief and desolation; for His generous heart felt first for His Mother, then for mankind, and last of all for Himself. That is why, when He fell three times under the cross, He suffered more from the thought that His Mother was listening to His groans and the blows He received, than He did from the blows themselves. That is why, also, He honored His Mother by honoring the whole race of womankind in making them His only comforters; by allowing Veronica to wipe the blood and sweat from His sacred face, and stopping to sympathize with the women of Jerusalem. I say, to sympathize with them, for when they would have consoled Him, He, with a sublime forgetfulness of self, said: "Weep not for Me, but for yourselves and for your children." Aye, and He remembered His fond, dead foster-father, St. Joseph, and though no man in all that throng showed Him a single kindness by word or deed, yet did He honor the male sex by allowing Simon of Cyrene to help Him carry His cross. So He moved on to His death, tenderly solicitous about every one but Himself; thinking of, and in His heart weeping for, you and me, His brothers and sisters, and for our sins. On He goes, more dead than alive, stopping now and then from sheer exhaustion; on and on, up to the top of Calvary, where the three holes are already dug. There He throws down His cross and waits while the vast throng struggle for the best positions from which to view the scene.
The three prisoners are left alone with the executioners and a small guard. The condemned are now stripped — a small matter for the two who had not been scourged, but for Our Lord a renewal of all His agony, an opening up of every wound He bears. Then two rough hangmen seize on each arm, and fling) them rudely down upon their crosses and jumping on them with fierce haste, set the enormous nails and ply the ponderous hammers. Oh my poor Lord! my blood freezes at the sound of those hammers. Let my soul be convulsed with pain as is your body; let my tears flow as freely as does your blood. Oh, look at Him now, hoisted on His cross between earth and heaven — incarnate modesty exposed naked to the sight and vile scoffs and jests of a libidinous throng; swayed unsteadily to and fro as they move the foot of the cross to the pit prepared for it; torn with all anguish as, with a rude jerk, they drop it in. The shock were enough to tear His soul from His body, but still it could not draw a word of complaint from His lips. The crucified thieves fill the air with their cries and one calls loudly on the Christ to use now His boasted power and blast their executioners and save all three. But lo! the thorn-crowned head is raised, and the eyes glance heavenward, and in a trembling voice He cries: " Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." He taught mankind: " Love your enemies, do good to them that hate you, pray for them that persecute you;" and here He proves He well knows how to practice what He preached. They have hung Him as a criminal, they have put an insulting inscription over His head, they have robbed- Him of His last and only possessions,, His garments — and after all He prays for them: " Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." Ah, no wonder one thief forgot his torture to admire this sublime charity; no wonder he believed in Our Lord's divinity and received then and there the promise of the reward of faith: "This day thou shalt be with Me in paradise." His thirst for souls being thus sated by one sinner saved. He then, and only then, becomes conscious of the bodily thirst that consumes Him. " I thirst," He moans, and two forms spring forward at the word — a soldier who dips a sponge in vinegar and presses it to His lips — and Mary, unable, poor soul, to relieve His thirst unless by her tears or, if need be, with her heart's blood. Ah, how the tender heart of Jesus throbs with pity for His poor Mother Mary! What will become of her when He is gone! Will she go back heartbroken and alone to the deserted home in Nazareth and pine away and die of very grief? Oh for some one to be her comforter, some one to entrust her to! His eyes search the crowd beneath and He sees there the beloved disciple John, and He calls to him: " John, as thou lovest Me be a son to My Mother; Mother, for My sake be a mother to him." Then John takes her by the hand and calls her Mother, and at the tender word she sobs and moans as if her heart would break. And Jesus sobs too, — moans in utter desolation of spirit. He has given up all, even His own beloved Mother! Nailed on His cross, abandoned by all on earth, His humanity cries out to heaven: " My God, My God, have you too abandoned Me? 99 At that awful sound a hush falls upon the noisy throng, Nature herself seems to hold her breath, the midday sun grows dim, as though night, with a veil of darkness, would fain shut out from mortal eyes the horrible scene. Darkness and silence over all, and the weird horror of the scene is intensified by the wails of Magdalen, the sobs of Mary, and the dreary moans of the dying Christ. " It is finished," He cries, and soon again through the darkness comes a long, last, loud scream of pain: " Father, into Thy hands I commend My spirit" The earth trembles and the storm-cloud bursts, and men. fly for their lives, only to run into the arms of the newly risen dead. The thunder booms and the lightning flashes through the darkness, and lights up, with a ghastly glare, the mount and the cross and the white limp figure of the dead Saviour. Nature is convulsed at the death of Nature's God; all men cry out as I cry out here to-night: " Brother, Saviour, God, we have come and we have seen and we own there never was and never can be woe like unto Thy woe."
" Have pity on Me, have pity on Me, at least you,t My friends." O Brethren, is there a heart here tonight so stony as to refuse Him that pity which the Saviour begs? He is our Brother and Mary is our Mother. In their blessed company we have spent the happiest days of our lives. He toiled for us little ones with all the great love of an elder Brother. He prepared us the choicest food — His sacred body; and the choicest drink — His precious blood; and kept us clothed constantly in the royal garment of His precious grace. Mary, too, watched over us and cared for us with all the infinite love which only a fond mother's heart can feel. And can we, her younger children, His younger brothers and sisters —can we stand around that cross unmoved, and refuse our dying Brother and our martyred Mother, Mary the tenderest pity of our hearts? Especially when we know that her anguish and His agony are undergone for us; that, of every pang she feels, we are the cause; that every suffering of His soul is the result of our sinful thoughts and desires; every torture of His body the result of the sins we have committed with our five senses. Oh! God help the poor soul that cannot sympathize with its suffering Brother and Lord. God help the poor heart that does not melt with compassion in response to His feeble cry: " Have pity on Me, have pity on Me, at least you, My friends.,,
Pity will be not only akin to love, but will become love itself if we listen to His third and last invitation: " Oh all ye that labor and are burdened, come to Me and I will refresh you, and you shall find peace for your souls." Who of us can afford to reject that blessed invitation? Who of us does not, at times, find his cross lie heavy upon him and the enemies of his soul persecute and torment him, and his life devoid of all but desolation of spirit and misery of mind and body? Who of us who does not, at times, find the work of salvation hard labor, and the yoke of God a heavy burden? No; in all the world there is not one who does not need frequent spiritual refreshment to bring peace to his soul. This refreshment and this peace he must seek for, in meditating on, and comparing Christ's sufferings with his own. The thought of these sufferings will make his own seem light; he will forget his own trials out of pity for his Saviour. When he remembers that his Saviour suffered all that for him, love will take possession of his heart; and since the effect of love is to unite the lover with the beloved, he will climb the height of Calvary or approach the second Calvary — the altar, and he will take into his arms, aye, into his breast, that precious body of his brother, and he will touch his lips to the sacred side and taste the saving blood of his Redeemer; and he shall come away, his soul refreshed into new life and the blessed peace of Christ in his heart
Then, having followed his Lord along the bloody way of His cross in this life, having been united to Him in His awful sufferings and death, he will be eternally united to Him hereafter, to enjoy Christ's unspeakable consolation in the happy kingdom of the blessed.