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| Fresco in Rome near the Capitoline Hill, ca. 14th century |
One sees many such things in Rome. This is unusual mostly in
that one can draw quite close to this piece of ancient art and see in vivid
detail something that centuries ago was probably quite far removed from the
viewer. But there is something eerie about seeing so holy a moment not in an
actual church but on a sidewalk to be either noticed or ignored by anyone
walking past. People of Christian faith might or might not take any notice of
it as anything particularly interesting or unusual. And persons uninterested in
the subject matter might look at it mostly out of intrigue with a very ancient
painting having no particular regard for what the painting tries to
communicate.
How very like the actual crucifixion and death of the Savior
is this lone little fresco. Suppose for a moment it came to life, and instead
of being a painting it became a contemporary street scene. Would anybody pay attention more than to snap
a photo, as I did? Would anyone care? I think of a line from the Prophet
Jeremiah in the Lamentations: “Is it nothing to you, all you that pass by? Look
and see if there is any sorrow like my sorrow, which was brought upon me….”[1]
You and I know that the importance of Jesus’ death is not dependent upon who
notices it nor who understands it (as if anyone could) or who pays any
attention. He simply does what he does on the cross not for an audience but
because it is his work. You might
call it his mission. Or you might call it the culmination of his ministry. Or
you might think of it as a necessary consequence of all that his life included:
a demonstration of extreme love, sacrifice, service. Whether or not anyone
noticed, his death was an offering. It was
and is a gift. And, looked at that way, his death is of a piece with his life. Because
his life was from beginning to end an offering, a gift, whether that gift was
feeding or healing or teaching or praying or liberating the poor or forgiving a
sinner. At the end, when he had nothing else left to give he literally gave
himself.
It was a custom in the ancient world of Greece and Rome for
wealthy citizens to give something out of their largesse to the public. There
are records and monuments here and there testifying that citizens gave to the
public gifts much as they do today honoring or memorializing loved ones or
maybe taking hefty tax deduction or to see their names on walls or perhaps just
out of the goodness of their hearts. One such inscription that survives notes
that Quintus Poppaeus and
Gaius Poppaeus, sons of Quintus, protector of the borough and settlement [at
Interamna], [gave] out of their own money a permanent bathing-room to their
townsmen, settlers, other residents, strangers, and visitors.[2] This
was a public work and the name given to it in Greek is leitourgia, from which
we get our word liturgy. Liturgy is often said to be “the work of the people,”
and well it is. But it is also a “public work,” a work for the people, the public. And that is what Jesus’ death was, a
work given to the people and for the people.
Interestingly,
sometimes—maybe even frequently—it is the human ego’s need for recognition and
congratulations that prompts people like the Poppaeus brothers to give a public
work. In Jesus’ case it was the opposite, for one is rarely congratulated for
being crucified. It was not to acquire fame or fortune or praise or recognition
that informed his death or his life. For whoever would save his life will lose
it and whoever would lose his life “for my sake” will save it. The pattern of
true giving is the downward path, the giving up of self, as Jesus modeled. Incidentally,
the point of Jesus’ liturgy was not for people to worship him but to follow him.
There is a difference. It is fine to worship Jesus, but true worship of Jesus
entails following his example.
What
is so offensive about Peter’s defensive outburst, “God forbid that this
(suffering and death) should ever happen to you!” is that it is precisely the
ego’s defense against being summarily deflated. And yet it is exactly that
“being handed over” that is both the gift and the meaning of life. “Those who
would lose their lives for Christ’s sake will find their lives.”
So,
on this Labor Day weekend, let’s ask ourselves, “What is your work? What is mine?” It is easy enough to identify
that work with whatever job we do. That’s fine until we run up against the hard
truth that the jobs many of us are stuck in are anything but life-giving. What
then? Somehow we have to find an alternative route to our true liturgy. Maybe
we can find a way to redeem the distasteful features of our daily work by
offering ourselves through it to others and thus to God. George Herbert wrote
in “The Elixir:”
Teach me, my God and King
In all things thee to see
And what I do in anything
To do it as for thee.
All may of thee partake,
Nothing can be so mean,
Which with this tincture, “for thy
sake,”
Will not grow bright and clean.
A servant with this clause
Makes drudgery divine:
Who sweeps a room as for thy laws
Makes that and the action fine.[3]
It
really all boils down to one question. What are you giving your life for? You
might or might not be able to answer that in terms of job, vocation, or work in
the ordinary sense. But you are indeed giving your life for something. Does it
have anything to do with trying to get ahead, getting or staying comfortable,
avoiding mistakes? Or does it have to do with taking the downward path and becoming
ever more real? Does whatever you are doing bring you into deeper touch with
humanity, its suffering, its woes, its aspirations and hopes? Or is your life
fundamentally all about you—making your mark, having your way, gathering awards
and rewards that validate you?
Gain
the whole world, if you want. Some have and some will. But you can’t do that
except at the price of your own deep nature, your soul. Maybe that is what the
best liturgy is: an expression of the deep soul of a person or community. Maybe
that is why Jesus’ liturgy was the saving work it was for the whole world—exactly
because there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that was not real about it
because it came out of his very nature and expressed what he was at his core. Maybe
your work and mine is ultimately to follow his path and be just that real, that
honest, that true. Maybe that is why finding ourselves through taking the
downward path is really the only liturgy that matters.
Based on Matthew 16:21-28
©
Frank Gasque Dunn. 2017
[1]
Lamentations 1:12 (NRSV).
[2]https://www.loebclassics.com/view/archaic_latin_inscriptions_i_inscriptions_proper_inscriptions_public_works/1940/pb_LCL359.149.xml,
accessed September 2, 2017, by Joseph A. Casazza.
[3]
George Herbert, “The Elixir,” used as “Teach me, my God and King,” The Hymnal
1982 (New York: Church Hymnal Corporation, 1982), 592.
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