Happy St. George’s Day, which (at least in the Catholic Church — I think!) has been transferred to today, Monday 24th, as yesterday was a Sunday. Whether yesterday or today, wishing a very happy feast to all who cherish England.
.jpg) |
| The view south-west from Risby in the Lincolnshire Wolds, 10th August 2021. Lincoln Cathedral is visible on the horizon, seventeen miles away. |
Every Holy Week I find myself noticing a new detail in the readings — one year it was Pilate’s ‘astonishment’ at Jesus’ answers in the Temple; another it was Christ’s line, ‘All who are on the side of truth listen to my voice’. This year, amid the irresistible drama of the Easter Vigil, two things struck me about St. Matthew’s account of the Resurrection: firstly, the curious detail that, having rolled the stone away from the tomb and frightened the guardsmen almost to death (is it irony, even an outright joke, to say that they ‘looked like dead men’?), the angel is specifically described as ‘sitting’ on the stone — in my mind’s eye I see quite a casual pose. Then, having delivered his Universe-inverting message to the dumbfounded women — ‘He has risen, as he said he would’ — he directs them to Galilee: ‘It is there you will see him.’ But in fact Jesus comes to meet them almost straightaway, before they have even had a chance to tell the other disciples.
Crossed wires on the angel’s part, the first of millions of church muddles over the centuries? Or is Jesus so eager to reveal himself that He makes a last-minute change of plan for the sake of the women, even if the others must wait? Either way, on this third day, in this third garden, all has come miraculously right. The Devil is defeated, and comfortably, emphatically enough that the mighty stone, yesterday a sound and silent seal on death, is now demoted to a convenient park bench for his former, unfallen, fellow.
Happy Easter to one and all!
A setting of the Easter plainchant ‘Christus vincit’ by Martin Baker (until 2019 Master of Music of Westminster Cathedral) sung here by the choristers of King’s College Cambridge and the King’s Singers under Daniel Hyde. An enticing blend of sound-worlds, in that Westminster Cathedral choir has a harder, purer, more Latinate sound, whereas King’s is typically softer and warmer and more Anglican. The chant itself is a rather subversive repurposing of an acclamation originally sung for Roman generals or emperors, but now sung by Christians for the true general, the true emperor, Christ.
It is three o’clock, and the world comes to a stop. All Holy Week we have been watching the final disaster draw near; on Palm Sunday, having sung our King into Jerusalem with palms and hosannas, we filled our mouths with barbs and jeers and the unctuous solicitations of the Pharisees (‘Your Excellency, we recall that this imposter said...’) Now the sentence is passed, on the sentencers as much as the sentenced, and we have come to the place of execution. Bone-dry silence falls. Surely there is some mistake... surely God will not permit…? But the Devil is allowed to see the victory he has so long desired; all, to his own astonishment, has gone entirely to plan; his triumph is within his grasp. Has he done it? Has he not only destroyed God’s son but, better, caused humanity to destroy God’s son? Surely he has; he has driven his opponent out of the world, and humanity is his; if has also pleased God to accept the sacrifice, so much the better. What now stands in his way? Only a few things unsettle him: those sharp observant glances among the scattered remnants, their mutterings of recognition and realisation. And the mother; always the mother; this second Eve whom he cannot bring to ruin.
Ah, holy Jesus, how hast thou offended,That we to judge thee have in hate pretended?By foes derided, by thine own rejected,O most afflicted!Who was the guilty? Who brought this upon thee?Alas, my treason, Jesus, hath undone thee!’Twas I, Lord Jesus, I it was denied thee;I crucified thee.Lo, the Good Shepherd for the sheep is offered;The slave hath sinned, and the Son hath suffered.For our atonement, while we nothing heeded,God interceded.For me, kind Jesus, was thy incarnation,Thy mortal sorrow, and thy life’s oblation;Thy death of anguish and thy bitter passion,For my salvation.Therefore, kind Jesus, since I cannot pay thee,I do adore thee, and will ever pray thee,Think on thy pity and thy love unswerving,Not my deserving.
On the day before he was to suffer
for our salvation and the salvation of all —
that is, today —
He took bread in his holy and venerable hands,
and with eyes raised to heaven
to you, O God, his almighty Father,
giving you thanks, he said the blessing,
broke the bread
and gave it to his disciples, saying:
TAKE THIS, ALL OF YOU, AND EAT OF IT,
FOR THIS IS MY BODY,
WHICH WILL BE GIVEN UP FOR YOU.— from Eucharistic Prayer I on Maundy Thursday.
 |
| Fresco of the Last Supper by Slavko Pengov (1908–1966) in the church of St. Martin, Bled, Upper Carniola, Slovenia. The striking resemblance of Judas to one Vladimir Lenin is not coincidental. My thanks to M. S. for showing me this place. |
