Lord, uphold me that I may uplift Thee.

 

Jesus said: Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will, but yours be done [Lk. 22:42].

 

Perhaps it’s only depressives like me that ever dream counter-nightmares. Some­times I dream that certain things have never happened. In my dream, I can still visit my par­ents, sit with them, and get their view of people and events, their counsel about what to do and think. Or I find that nobody was ever put to death by crucifixion, taking days to die on his cross unless scourged so that he had lost too much blood. Then I wake up, and realise that of course it really was so: human beings did and do indeed inflict such unspeakable cruelties on one another, and God so to speak ‘al­lows’ it. Behind such dreams is of course both the knowledge that cruelty and death, even so-called natural death, ought not to be, and my sometimes over­whelming sense that the whole experiment, making people with freedom while knowing that they would go wrong, was not worthwhile, for me or anyone. In other words, if all-power­ful, not all-loving; if all-loving, not all-powerful, God. What is the remedy for this dark vision? There is only one, to know that GOD so loved the world, that He came to our rescue in person [II Cor. 5:19]. He the Creator took the responsibility, let Himself be ac­cused, tried, con­victed and executed by angry sinners, sinners who were angry with Him. He gave to save us from sin and death [Jn. 3:16], not an angel, disem­bodied, rational and per­fect, nor an irrational animal, without imagination or anticip­ation, but Himself, and Himself made man, a Man, warm, witty, thinking, feeling, creative and physical. This Man was fully alive, felt love, joy and gladness, grief, pain and fear, and was ‘by God’s grace’ represent­ative of us even to the point of ‘tasting death for everyman’ [Heb. 2:9]. Jesus had to die, not because God was angry, but because He is love [I Jn. 4:16].

 

As great a theologian as John Stott has said that the Lord cannot have been afraid of the Cross itself, for that would make Him a coward. He was afraid, Stott thinks, only of the separation from His Father, as He was ‘made to be sin for us’ [II Cor. 5:21]. I think that a mistake. Surely He was afraid of the whole experience? Male theologians have never any of them been a not-so-young woman, thousands of miles from home, going into labour with her first child. One knew it would come to this, as Our Lord knew how He, member with slave status of a subject people, would be executed; one accepted that this was the only way of getting a baby; one em­braced it; but still when it came to it, one wished that there was some other less costly way. Isn’t Jesus saying, with His prayer, that as an embodied person He would prefer not to go through it? If He had desired such pain and sorrow, He would have been, not the only truly normal human being that He was, but a pervert who was not just willing, but wanted, to suffer. The temptations in the wilderness, the Devil’s subsequent at­tempts to divert Him, this the penultimate attempt, would have been unreal. He would not have been making real human choices, as we must. He would not have ‘learned obedience by the things which He suffered and experienced’ [Heb. 5:8]. He would not have been ‘tempted’ and tested just as we are [Heb. 4:15]. He would not have consciously chosen to endure the Cross for the sake of the ‘joy which was set before Him’ [Heb. 12:2]. We too feel fear and shrink from pain and sor­row. We shrink from what is, and from what we imagine may be. We too must go through pain and sorrow, not because it is holier and more Christ­ian to find some way of suffering every day, but as part of the cost of obedience. Our God is a God Who suffers, not just for us, but with us. He understands at first hand what we are going through. Perhaps we long for marriage, but it is incompatible with our vocation; or we long for a particular person whom we may not have; or duties at home keep us from what we long to do; or we long for a loved person to repent, and he does not; or we suffer civil dis­abilities, public contempt and disgrace, the betrayal of trusted friends, harsh and unjust pun­ishment, even the felt absence of our heavenly father, once so near. All these things, or something analogous, our Jesus went through for us, and goes through with us.

 

At the same time, the core of the black horror for Him must have been that when He was made sin for us His Father now looked on Him with such horror that He no longer looked at Him at all. The heart of God was broken in two. To think of this as like someone who had always lived in the sunshine being dropped to the bottom of a black oubliette, to die there alone, is a weak comparison only. We who never, as sinners used to, even often pre­ferring, the semi-darkness, pray quite whole-heartedly, ‘Turn not thou thy face from us, O Lord’, can never fully enter into His experience of the total absence of His Father. He had lived in the sunshine of His Father’s love from all eternity. We never do drink His cup, in the sense of the wrath of God [Jer. 25:15] poured out on the wholly sinless [I Pet. 2:22]. We are as sinners much more centred on our ease and pleasure, comfort and fulfilment, the avoid­ance of pain and grief, and much less on our standing with our Creator, than Jesus ever was. Our priorities are often the reverse of His. Unreconstructed, don’t we think that the very worst thing that can happen to a human being is to die a hideously painful and premature unjust physical death? We ask what we think of God much more of­ten than we ask what He thinks of us. Our love for Him is frequently a form of thinly-dis­guised cupboard-love, or not much more. We learn but slowly and painfully that He is not our butler, that His love is not a soft thing [Rom. 1-4]. It sometimes takes us thirty years to say of particular experiences, ‘It is good for me that I have been af­flicted’ [Ps. 119:71]. He is not a West Coaster: He is not only more interested in our character and fruit­fulness than in our satisfaction, He is infinitely more so. The Lord does not even pro­mise to help us towards the realisation of our existing ideals, how­ever fine. He died so that we should be happy, yes, but in His way. ‘Not my will, but yours be done’.

 

I used to believe that we may not think of Jesus as suffering with us in the ordinary pains and sorrows, the death of parents who were always there, even the great irrevocable losses like blindness, loss of spouse or child, broken hopes which will never be mended in this world. I believe now that we may indeed think of Him as suffering with us, and ourselves as suffering with Him, even when our pain is not suffered for Him. We should ‘count it all joy’ [Jas. 1:2]. In the light of His Cross, we too may presume to pray, ‘Father’, and to speak plainly and honestly to Him of our anger, pain and sorrow, knowing that the hard and bitter things all come to us, not out of His anger, but out of His love [Jn. 15:1-2]. The bottommost reality in the uni­verse is personal, relational, loving and good.

 

No more than the agony having been the last word in Jesus’ life is it the last word in ours. The sensual, life-loving Victorian poet who wrote, ‘Thou hast conquer­ed, O pale Galilaean/The world is grown gray with thy breath’, had it all wrong. It is not wrong to be happy in Christ, it is not wrong to have something for ourselves. Joy is what He promises us, the joy which is His [Jn 15:11]. In the Resurrection, because of Him, we shall have bodies as glorious as His [Phil.3:21], a life many times as rich in col­our and beauty as anything we can imagine [I Cor. 2:9].

 

 

 

 

 

 

ANGEL’S SONG

I know not, I,

   What the men together say,

How lovers, lovers die

   And youth passes away.

Cannot understand

   Love that mortal bears

To native, native land,

   All lands are theirs;

 

Why at grave they grieve

   For one voice and face,

And not, and not receive

   Another in its place.

 

I above the cone

   Of the circling night

Flying, never have known

   Less or greater light.

 

Sorrow it is they call

   This cup whence my lip

(Woe’s me!) never in all

   My endless days can sip.

 

[C.S. Lewis Poems]