Good Friday

Canon Tim Schofield, Canon Emeritus of Chichester Cathedral

The Prodigal Son by Pompeo Batoni is a painting about reconciliation. And for me, it is a very powerful picture because it also reveals the cost of reconciliation – of what happens when we embrace what we might call the otherness, the difference of others. To show you what I mean I want to look briefly at the way the painting portrays this dynamic of difference.

Our eyes are drawn, in the first place, to the way Batoni clothes the father and his son. The Father is richly attired with a fur-trimmed mantle which is in sharp contrast to the son, who is virtually naked and whose poverty is symbolised in the empty bowl hanging from his side. The father wears a turban that reminds me of the description of the turban worn by Aaron, the priest of Israel. Compare that to the son who had ended up feeding pigs, unclean creatures to Jews, and now has nothing on his head or perhaps in his heart. Then there is the contrast of light and dark.

Light shines from the father’s face, the image of divinity, and his heavenly light illuminates the son. The background to the picture, though, is unrelieved darkness, mirroring the history of his son, who hides his face in shame at the memory of what he has done.

But the point I think Batoni is making in this picture is that for reconciliation to occur the father has to embrace the otherness of his son. That begins with the father allowing his son to grab his inheritance and leave home with all its duties and obligations. Even though he knows the son’s actions will be destructive, he doesn’t try to control or own his son. Yet bearing the cost of his son’s otherness, his difference, is agonising. In fact, Batoni’s painting suggests that the cost is crucifying. Look at the father’s arms stretched wide, like the arms of Jesus on the cross; look at the green tunic beneath the fur mantle, which is in the T shape of the cross. The father’s compassion, though, is not dimmed by these wounds of love. On the return of the prodigal, he continues to embrace the otherness of his child. The light of his love clothes his son’s poverty and nakedness.

Rowan Williams has talked very movingly about embracing the otherness of others. And, significantly, one of the examples he gives is that of parenting. We love our children passionately, beyond words, but then suddenly they emerge as real people with ideas, preferences, and lifestyle choices of their own. And as parents we are presented with a challenge. Either we grow by loosening the grip and embracing their otherness or we shrink as we seek to exert control and ownership of the relationship. By embracing their otherness, we allow some form of salvation to occur. By attempting to take control and possess the relationship on our terms, we sow the seeds of alienation between parent and child - the most painful kind of bitterness imaginable.  Jesus’ parable of the Prodigal Son shows us how the free, uncontrolling love of our Father in heaven embraces the otherness of his children – and Batoni’s picture shows us the cost of that love.

Now I have reminded you of this parable of the Prodigal Son because its portrayal of embracing the otherness of others is a pre-echo of something that happens on Calvary. Luke tells us that, as Jesus hung on the cross, two criminals were crucified with him, one on his right and one on his left. And once again the dynamic of difference is at work here. One of the criminals keeps on mocking Jesus saying, “Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us.” And Jesus absorbs the bitterness and abuse of the criminal who mocks him in silence. This is not a silence of indifference. Rather it is a silence of love that soaks up the abusive hatred not only of the criminal but also of the religious leaders, the crowds, and the soldiers. But the toxic hatred that is directed towards Jesus points to a profound alienation from the love of God. And even this otherness of spiritual dysfunction is embraced by Jesus in a death that leaves him accursed under the Jewish law and forsaken by his heavenly Father – he experienced to the full the alienation of humanity.  Yet as Jesus embraces this extreme otherness, the hatred and alienation are detoxified by his love – space is created for reconciliation and healing.

And we see this played out with the other criminal who was crucified alongside him. This second criminal recognises something in Jesus which leads him to say, “This man has done nothing wrong”. And, in an extraordinary moment, he adds: “Jesus remember me when you come into your kingdom.”  And Jesus embraces his request by saying to him: “Today you will be with me in paradise.” The word “paradise” is a Persian word meaning “walled garden”. When a Persian king wanted to honour one of his subjects, he called them to walk with him in this most beautiful of gardens. Since we have become a nation of gardeners, rather than shopkeepers, we tend to focus on the beauty of the garden, seeing it as a way of describing the joy and beauty of life in the nearer presence of God.

But the significant point for us on this Good Friday is that the concept of paradise was about the King honouring and walking with one of his subjects. It spoke of oneness, of reconciliation between the King and his people. As the crucified Jesus embraces all the alienation between humanity and God, the otherness, he makes it possible for us to be reconciled and to enter into the glory of the Lord. And the sign of this reality is Jesus’ promise to the penitent criminal: “Today you will be with me in Paradise.”

There is, though, one further point about engaging with otherness that we need to reflect on. In the early centuries of Christianity, the Fathers of the church diagnosed that the human heart contains many selves and many voices within it. One sign of this is the way we find ourselves feeling and acting in ways that stem from past experiences. It’s as if selves we once were, linger on within us and have power to make us feel angry or threatened or humiliated. And part of the growing to maturity in Christ is the need to embrace the otherness within ourselves. However, it is not something we can do alone. Only Jesus can fully integrate and reconcile. So, the prayer of the penitent criminal has to be made our own in some shape or form.

There is a textual variant of the criminal’s request which is used in the old AV. It says: “Lord, remember me when you come into your kingdom”. I have to say that I much prefer modern translations that use the text “Jesus remember me”. “Jesus remember me” is to be our prayer or perhaps, following a long spiritual tradition, we might say “Jesus have mercy on me”. For the name of Jesus has power to reconcile and integrate us inwardly. Jesus means “the Lord saves” but a name in scripture also reflects character. And we have seen that the character of Jesus is to reconcile and heal. He embraces the otherness of humanity, and the otherness within each one of us, and harmonises it in a love of which the length, depth, height and breadth cannot be measured.