The Crucifixion of the Word

The church of the Holy Name in Jesmond, Newcastle-upon-Tyne, has an unusual crucifix above its sanctuary.  Where we are used to seeing the figure of Christ Himself, here we find, appropriately enough, but still to our initial surprise, the letters of the Holy Name itself, ‘JESUS’, arranged vertically from head to foot.  Above the ‘J’ of ‘Jesus’ the Greek letter Alpha is entwined with an Omega, and below the ‘S’ two icthyses swim around (if I am reading it properly) yet a third Christogram, a stylised IHS.  Across the two arms of the Cross are written the words ‘Every knee shall bow’, which, as the parish priest, Fr. Michael Campion, pointed out on Palm Sunday last week, paraphrases St Paul’s second letter to the Philippians, verses 10–11: ‘Therefore God exalted him to the highest place and gave him the name that is above every name, that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow […] and every tongue acknowledge that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.’  So the whole crucifix is a meditation on the Holy Name to which the church is consecrated.

I don’t have a photograph of it, but it can be seen reasonably clearly fourteen minutes into the live-stream below:

As Fr. Michael gestured to the Cross, it struck me that, unlike all other figures and images in church during Passiontide, this crucifix had not been veiled — though whether for the sake of practicality or for the more thought-provoking reason that this was not an image, but a word, I could not be sure.  And, as so often in this season, my thoughts turned to language, and to the ways it is used, or abused, or seems to prove both crucial and inadequate, throughout the events of the Passion, and more powerfully than any other scenario, historical or literary or mythological, that I can think of.

For throughout Jesus’ trial and execution, the conversation is fraught, disjointed, futile.  Nobody except Jesus quite says what they mean, or answers questions directly.  Even our Lord’s words are often cryptic, or not immediately helpful, or avoid a straightforward answer.  Or else things are only too straightforward: the crowds want Barabbas, and the chief priests want Christ crucified.  Nothing seems to resolve itself by language; language even seems to makes everything worse; accusations are slung around, misunderstandings worsen, and there are unpleasant surprises and unexpected reactions.  Everything is irrational; there is no solid ground.  Peter insists that he will never deny His Lord, yet that is exactly what he does, three times, later that same night.  Pilate asks the Jews, “What charges are you bringing against this man?” only to be met with tautology: “If he were not a criminal, we would not have handed him over to you.”  Pilate’s own bewildered attempt at interrogation gets him nowhere, except to the exasperated question “What is truth?” — which is of course the crucial one.  But his mind is elsewhere; his priority is to avoid the imminent riot.  He brings Jesus out of the Praetorium before the crowd and says simply “Behold the man” in hope that his obvious innocence will pacify them, but this only sends them crazier with bloodlust.  They want Barabbas freed, and Christ crucified, and this they repeat at the tops of their voices, so that there should be no mistake.  As in our own time, there is an obsession with precision in language on one hand, as in the Pharisees’ prevarication about inverted commas (“You should not write ‘King of the Jews’, but ‘This man said, “I am King of the Jews”’” — a typographical nightmare if ever there was one); on the other, a wild, crazed irresponsibility with language: “His blood be on us and on our children!” roars the crowd, out of its mind with rage.

But language, or the spoken and written word, is at the heart of it all.  There is a clue to this earlier on, when Jesus is being cross-examined by Annas, as a prelude to His interrogation by the high priest Caiaphas.  

The high priest questioned Jesus about his disciples and his teaching.  “I have spoken openly to the world,” Jesus replied. “I always taught in synagogues or at the temple, where all the Jews come together.  I said nothing in secret.  Why question me? Ask those who heard me. Surely they know what I said.”  When Jesus said this, one of the officials nearby slapped him in the face. “Is this the way you answer the high priest?” he demanded.  “If I said something wrong,” Jesus replied, “testify as to what is wrong. But if I spoke the truth, why did you strike me?”

Yet there is no answer.  We next read simply, ‘Then Annas sent him bound to Caiaphas the high priest.’  Why is this?  Why is the response to Jesus’ words either violence, or silence?  It is because they (which, alas, means we) did not want to hear what He had to say.  Never mind whether or not they had an answer; never mind whether or not it was the truth — they did not want to hear it.  And crucifixion was the best way to make sure that they did not have to.

But what Jesus had to say was more than the words he spoke.  What he had to say was beyond human language or comprehension.  What he had to say was Himself.  “I am the way, the truth and the life”; “I am the living bread which has come down from Heaven”; “I am the light of the world” — even these stretch our language beyond its limits.  He is, as we have known from the very beginning of John’s Gospel, and which is so powerfully conveyed in the Holy Name crucifix, the Word of God made flesh.  His body is the same thing as is name.  And His name is the only word we have for the inexpressible love of God for man.

So, ultimately, Jesus was crucified not so much because of what he said, but because of who He was.  And yet who He was is something God the Father says.  Thus, in order that we should not hear the supreme loving word uttered by God to us, his people, in our predicament, Jesus had to be not only silenced, but destroyed.  And so — alas — one way of summarising the Passion may be as one blind but emphatic “Shut up!” yelled at God the Father and the Saviour He sent, and one enforced by murderous violence.  Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.