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In the Heart of the Church |
The
Divine Romance: The Pulpit Of The Cross
Archbishop Fulton Sheen
Our Blessed Lord during His mortal life chose many varied and
picturesque pulpits from which to deliver His sermons, the Words of
Eternal Life. Sometimes His pulpit was Peter's bark pushed out into
the sea; at other times, it was the crowded streets of Jericho; on
another occasion, the golden gate of the Temple; and on still
another Jacob's well. It seemed as if almost any pulpit pleased Him,
until the day came for Him to deliver His last and farewell address
to the world. Then He would not be content with any pulpit; then He
would demand a pulpit, which, like the words He was uttering, would
be remembered down through the arches of the years. And on that Good
Friday morning, as He stood on the sunlit portico of Pontius Pilate,
perhaps He thought of making that portico the pulpit of His last and
farewell address to the world. There was a vast sea of faces before
Him and hearts hungering for the Bread of Eternal Life; there was an
audience like unto which any one would have loved to open his heart.
But, no, He would not make that portico the pulpit of His last and
farewell address. He would wait for a few hours, for another pulpit,
which would be given Him at the foot of the steps of Pilate's
palace; and that pulpit He would put upon His shoulders and carry to
Golgotha. That pulpit would be — the Cross. Once on those heights He
offered Himself to His executioners. Hands of the Carpenter hardened
by toil; hands from which the world's graces flow; feet of the
Miracle Worker that went about doing good and that trod the
Everlasting Hills — now had the rough nails applied to them. The
first knock of the hammer is heard in silence; blow follows blow and
is faintly reechoed over the city walls beneath. Mary and John hold
their ears. The sound is unendurable; each echo sounds as another
stroke. The cross is lifted slowly off the ground, staggers for a
moment in mid-air, and then, with a thud that seemed to shake even
hell itself, it sinks into the pit prepared for it. Our Blessed Lord
has mounted His pulpit for the last time — and what a majestic
pulpit it is! In itself the Cross is a sermon. How much more
eloquently it speaks now when adorned with the Word of Eternal Life!
Like all who mount their pulpits, He o'erlooks His audience. Far off
in the distance, down over the Valley of Jehosaphat and over on the
other side of the valley, He could see the gilded roof of the Temple
reflecting its rays against the sun, which was soon to hide its face
in shame. Here and there on Temple walls He caught glimpses of
figures straining their eyes to catch the last view of Him whom the
darkness knew not. Nearer the pulpit, but off at the border of the
crowd, stood some of His own timid disciples ready to flee in case
of danger. Greeks and Romans were there, too, as well as Scribes and
Pharisees from Jerusalem. There were Temple priests in the crowd
asking Him to come down and prove His Divinity. There were the
Deity-blind, mocking and spitting at Him. There were some who had
followed Him for an hour, taunting Him that others He saved but
Himself He could not save. There were Roman soldiers throwing dice
for the garments of a God. And there at the foot of the cross stood
that wounded flower, that broken thing, Magdalen, forgiven because
she loved much. And there, with a face like a cast moulded out of
love, was John. And there, God pity her, was His own Mother. Mary,
Magdalen, and John. Innocence, penitence, and priesthood — the three
types of souls forever to be found beneath the Cross of Christ.
All is silence now. The Scribes and Pharisees cease their raillery,
the Roman soldiers put away their dice. The sky is darkened and men
grow fearful. They are awaiting the farewell address of the Son of
God. He begins to speak, but like all men who die, He thinks of
those whom He loves most. His first word was a word about His
enemies: "Father forgive them, for they know not what they do." His
second word was about sinners as He spoke to a thief: "This day thou
shalt be with Me in Paradise." And the thief died a thief, for he
stole Paradise! His third word was to His saints. It was the new
Annunciation: "Woman, behold thy son." As the sermon went on, it
seemed to gain in emphasis about the love of God for man; and at
this particular point that we are now considering, when He began to
speak, it was not a curse upon those who crucified Him; it was not a
word of reproach to the timid disciples off at the border of the
crowd; it was not a word of withering scorn to those who taunted and
mocked Him; it was not a proud prophetic word of power to those who
taunted His weakness; it was not a word of hate to the Roman
soldiers; it was not a word of hope to Magdalen; it was not a word
of love to John; it was not a word of farewell to His own Mother; it
was not even to God at this moment — it was to man; and out from the
abundance of the Sacred Heart there welled the cry of cries: "I
thirst."
He, the God-man, He who holds the earth in the palm of His hand, He
from whose fingertips have tumbled planets and worlds, He who threw
the stars into their orbits, and spheres into space — now asks man,
a piece of His own handiwork, to help Him. He asks man for a drink.
Not a drink of earthly water — that is not what He wants — but a
drink of love: ‘I thirst for love.'
There is perhaps no word in the English language that is more often
used and more often misunderstood than the word that rang out from
the Pulpit of the Cross on that day: The simple word, love. Love as
the world understands it means to have, to own, to possess: To have
that object, to own that thing, to possess that person, for the
particular pleasure which it will give. That is not love; that is
selfishness; that is sin. Love is not the desire to have, to own, to
possess. Love is the desire to be had, to be owned, to be possessed.
Love is the giving of oneself for the sake of another. Love as the
world understands it, is symbolized by a circle, which is always
circumscribed by self. Love as our Lord understands it, is
symbolized by the Cross with its arms outstretched even unto
infinity to embrace all humanity within its grasp. As long as we
have a body, then love can never mean anything else but sacrifice.
That is why we speak of "arrows" and "darts" of love — something
that wounds.
But if love, in its highest reaches, means sacrifice, then these
words of Our Blessed Lord from the Cross are the climax of Love's
ways with unloving men. Love did not keep the secret of Its goodness
— that was creation. Love became one with the one loved — and that
was the Incarnation. But if Love had merely stopped with God
becoming man, we might say that God did not do everything He could
do to show His love; we might say that He was like the heathen gods
that sat indifferent to the woes and ills and heartaches of the
world and hence never drew from the heart of man a beat of love. If
Divine Love stopped after merely appearing amongst us, man might say
that God could never understand the sufferings and the loneliness of
a human heart; that a God could not love as men do, namely, to the
point of sacrifice. If, therefore, Love was to give of its fullness,
it must express Itself even to the point of sacrificing Itself for
the salvation and redemption of mankind. If, therefore, He who
suffered on Calvary, He who was now preaching from the Pulpit of the
Cross, were not God but a mere creature or a mere man, then there
must be creatures in this world better and nobler than God. Shall
man who toils for his fellowman, suffers for him, and if needs be
dies for him, be capable of doing that which God cannot do? Should
this noblest form of love, which is sacrifice, be possible to sinful
man, and yet impossible to a perfectly good God? Shall we say that
the martyr sprinkling the sands of the Colosseum with his blood, the
soldier dying for his country, the missionary spending himself and
being spent for the good of heathens — aye, and more, shall we say
that those women, martyrs by pain, who in little hovels and lowly
cottages have sacrificed all the joys of life for the sake of simple
duties and little charities, unnoticed and unknown by all save God —
shall we say that all those, who from the beginning of the world
have shown forth the beauty of sacrifice, have no Divine prototype
in heaven? That they have been capable of displaying a nobler form
of love than He who made them? That they have shown greater love
than Love Itself? Shall we say this? Or shall we say with John and
Paul, that if man can be so good, God must be infinitely better;
that if man can love so much, God can love infinitely more? Shall we
not say this, and find in the Cross of Calvary the perfect
expression of love by an All-Perfect Being, of whom perfect
condescension and sacrifice were required by naught in heaven or
earth save by His own perfect and inconceivable love which He now
preaches from the Pulpit of the Cross? If we do say this, that He is
very God of very God, and love is now reaching its climax in the
redemption of mankind, then no longer can men say, "Why does God
send men into the world to be miserable when He is happy?" — for the
God-man is miserable now. No longer can men say, "God makes me
suffer pain while He goes through none" — for the God-man is now
enduring pain to the utmost. No longer can men say that God has a
heart that cannot understand, for now His own Sacred Heart
understands what it is to be abandoned by God and man as He suffers
— suspended between the kingdoms of both, between heaven and earth,
rejected by one and abandoned by the other. Now it is true to say of
Love Itself that It is really dying for us, for greater love than
this no man hath that a man lay down his life for his friend.
The drama of that day is an abiding one. For Calvary is not just a
mere historical incident, like the battle of Waterloo; it is not
something, which has happened — it is something, which is also
happening. Christ is still on the cross.
"Whenever there is silence around me
By day or by night —
I am startled by a cry.
It came down from the cross —
The first time I heard it.
I went out and searched —
And found a man in the throes of crucifixion
And I said, 'I will take you down',
And I tried to take the nails out of his feet.
But He said, 'Let them be
For I cannot be taken down
Until every man, every woman, and every child
Come together to take me down.'
And I said, 'But I cannot bear your cry,
What can I do?'
And He said, 'Go about the world —
Tell every one that you meet —
That there is a man on the cross.'"
Because of sin Christ dies again; for as St. Paul reminds us, as
often as we sin we "are crucifying again to [ourselves] the Son of
God." The scars are still open. "Earth's pain still stands deified";
and still, like falling stars, Christ's blood-drops crimson the
robes of other Johns and the hair of other Magdalens. As long as
earth wears wounds, still must Christ's wounds remain; for each new
sin draws aside the curtain of another crucifixion. Christ is still
on trial in the hearts of men, and every sin is another act by which
Barrabas is preferred to Christ. There still are other Judases who
blister His lips with a kiss, there still are other Pilates who
condemn Him as an enemy of Caesar, there still are other Herods who
robe Him in the garment of a fool, there still are gambling idlers
who cast their dice, gambling away the riches of eternity for the
baubles of time, there still are other Calvaries — for sin is the
crucifixion over again. Arms that are outstretched to bless, we nail
fast. Feet that would seek us in the devious ways of sin, we dig
with steel. Eyes that would look longingly after us as we set out
for foreign countries, like other prodigals, we fill with dust. Lips
that would speak to us words of tender pleading and forgiveness, we
burn with gall. A heart that would pant for us as if we were
fountains of living waters, we pierce with a lance. And when the
last nail has been driven and Christ, like a wounded eagle, is
unfurled upon His banner of salvation, we begin to say in our own
heart of hearts that after all He could not be God, for if He were
God how could we have crucified Him? With the job of sinning done,
which means the crucifixion, we make our way down the hill of
Calvary and then there comes, not the quake of earth but the quake
of conscience, which makes us say in our soul with the Centurion:
"Indeed this man was the Son of God." As uneasiness and remorse
creep upon us, we look back to Calvary and wonder why He does not
come after us. Why, if He is the Good Shepherd, does He not pursue
His sheep? Why, if He is the Lord of all good gifts, does He not
raise His hands to bless? Why, if He is the Lord of sinners, does He
not bid us return to the foot of the Cross?
Oh! tell me, how can hands bless that are nailed fast? How can lips
that are bruised and parched with desolation preach the tidings of
Divine Love? How can feet that are dug with steel go after souls
that are lost? They cannot. And if we are to undo the harm that we
have done, we must make our way up the penitential slope of Calvary,
up to the chalice of all common miseries, and cast ourselves at the
foot of the Cross. We must kneel there at the foot of that Pulpit of
Love and confess that when we stabbed His Heart it was our own we
slew. But, oh, it is such a difficult thing to climb up the hill of
Calvary. It is such a humiliating thing to be seen at the foot of
the Cross. It is such a painful thing to be with one in pain and to
be seen with one condemned by the world. It is such a hard thing to
kneel at the foot of the Cross and admit that one is wrong. It is
hard — but it is harder to hang there!
Excerpted from the Divine Romance, pages 56-63
This page is the work of the Servants of the Pierced Hearts of Jesus and
Mary
