The Marks of the Cross
A sermon for the Feast of the Stigmata of St Francis.
I’ve
been asked if in my reflections tonight I can reflect a little upon the Stigmata
of Francis. The strange gift given him
when, about two years before his death praying and mediating on Mount Alverno,
Francis had a vision of a six-winged seraph in the form of a crucified man with
the face of Jesus. As the vision ended,
Francis himself had received wounds on his hands and his feet and in his side –
the wounds of the crucified Jesus, nailed to the cross and pierced in his side
by a lance. It is, if you like, a very
particular and graphic way of fulfilling our Gospel reading: ‘if anyone would
come after me, let them deny themselves and take up their cross daily and
follow me’ (Luke 9.23).
Francis was a man who tried to
pattern his life on Jesus, who tried to deny himself, take up his cross each
day and follow Jesus. Francis’ ministry
began with the cross of San Damiano, the cross that spoke to him saying ‘build
my church’. His life and ministry ended
bearing the stigmata, the wounds of Jesus.
Francis’ first instinct was to hide them, of course, this was not about
glorifying himself. But his brothers
caught glimpses – he had to bandage his hands, wear slippers instead of going
barefoot, and he bled from his side. He
could barely walk, and needed the care of his brothers for the final two years
of his life. We speak of the gift of the
stigmata, but it was a costly gift indeed.
It was a gift of wounds, real wounds, with real pain and real cost. Wounds that needed bandaging, wounds that
needed care, wounds that weakened Francis and which quite probably hastened his
death. This is the gift we celebrate
tonight – the gift of wounds.
As we celebrate and reflect upon
Francis’ stigmata, I want also to suggest five ways in which we in our
discipleship, bear the wounds of the cross.
Five marks by which we too take up our cross and follow Jesus each
day. They too are wounds. I’ll outline them now, and then later we will
have a chance to discuss more deeply what they might mean for us.
The first way in which we are marked
by the cross, the first wound that we carry, is the wound of justice. This wound comes from the Jesus crucified
after a mockery of a trial, Jesus condemned to a tortuous death, Jesus executed
by a state more interested in order than in justice. At the heart of our faith is this injustice,
that wounds us and makes us cry out for justice. It is no accident that
Christians throughout the ages have opposed the death penalty, have opposed
torture, have worked for the human rights of all. Think of Francis beginning his ‘penance’ by
giving gifts to lepers and kissing their hands, and then receiving the kiss of
peace in return. Or the Fransiscan order’s
long history of redeeming slaves in the holy land. Jesus himself talked of those who hunger and
thirst for justice – justice for Christians is a longing, a thirst, a
wound. It is a mark of the cross that we
carry.
The second way in which we are marked
by the cross is through Scripture. I
notice that nowhere in Francis’ rule does he tell his brothers to read the
scriptures (with the exception of providing a Psalter for those who can read, Rule of 1221, III.7-8). Yet the rule is
soaked in scripture from beginning to end.
We, like Francis and like Jesus are to be people marked by, immersed in,
or at the very least readers of Scripture. The cross of Jesus is both only
understood through the scriptures and also transforms the way in which we read
the scriptures. The cross of Jesus, in
all four of the Gospels, is written about in a way that is highly allusive of
other parts of the Bible. From the
exodus stories, to the Psalms, to the Servant of Isaiah’s prophecy and more
besides, the scriptures permeate and underlie the way in which the story of the
cross is told. But think also of the
story of the road to Emmaus, when Jesus walks alongside the two disciples and,
starting with Moses, explains the Scriptures to them. The cross transforms the way we read the
scriptures, finding the focal point in the death of Jesus on a rubbish dump
outside Jerusalem. The disciples on the
Emmaus road felt their hearts burn within them as they listened to Jesus
explain the scriptures. The scriptures
should burn us too, wounding us as they draw us in to find ourselves within
their pages.
The wound of justice; the wound of
scripture and the wound of obedience. A
very Franciscan wound, one might say.
The Mirror of Perfection has
Francis describing obedience in this way: “Take up a dead body and lay it where
you will. It does not resist being moved, complain of its position, or ask to
be left alone. If lifted onto a chair it does not look up but down; if clothed
in purple it appears paler than before” (Mirror 48). Francis here offers an
uncompromising account of obedience, but it is no less than that St Paul speaks
about in Philippians chapter 2, when he speaks of Christ being “obedient unto
death, even death on the cross”.
Christ’s obedience, seen on the cross, shows us the self-giving,
self-emptying nature of God. It is this
that we are called to follow. Perhaps we are better looking at the times when we
have been emptied, rather than when we heroically emptied ourselves. The times when we have encountered death, or
illness, or loss. These are times which
can embitter us. They are also times
when we can be most honest and most open to God because we are empty and not
filled with the things that distract and pull us away from God. These are the times when we are most like
God, because we are empty. They are
times of paradoxical obedience, but no less wounds for that.
Justice,
scripture, obedience: these are ways in which we are marked by the cross. They are wounds that we carry. And the fourth that I want to speak of is the
wound of forgiveness. Forgiveness is
tied up with the cross of Jesus. From
the last supper when Jesus passes the cup of wine around and says, ‘this is my
blood which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins’, to the words
Jesus says as he is crucified, ‘Father forgive them, they know not what they
do’, forgiveness and the cross are inseparable.
Forgiveness is rarely an easy subject to deal with, except perhaps in
the abstract. It is all very well
talking about forgiveness as a matter of general principle, but when there is
something concrete that needs to be forgiven, it is always much harder. To forgive involves a giving up, a giving up
of my position as the victim, a giving up of the claim that I have over you, a
giving up of anger and pain. Francis
knew of the wound of forgiveness, and the Canticle of Brother Sun says this:
“Praised be my Lord, through those who give pardon for love of you, and suffer
infirmity and tribulation. Blessed are they who endure all in peace, for they,
O God most high, will be crowned by you” (Cant.
10-11). Forgiveness is at the heart of Christian faith, but it is costly and
wounding. It is a mark of the cross that
we carry.
Given to the Derby branch of the Third Order of the Society of St Francis, Chapel of St Mary on the Bridge, 19.9.12. (The Feast of the Stigmata is the 17th September.)
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