San Diomani is a short walk from Assisi through olive groves, the place where St Francis heard Jesus tell him to rebuild the church. As I walk through the buildings, I am a (tourist) pilgrim – in awe at the historical significance of this place – imagining the life and call of St Francis and St Clare.
I walk through a second time, this time as a (spiritual) pilgrim and get no further than the first room where the crucifix hangs. As I sit on the hard wooden bench, I am struck how the cross disables his hands and feet. Without hands, how can Jesus heal the blind man, cast out demons and evil spirits, raise Lazarus from the dead, feed the multitudes, calm the sea, wash the disciples feet, and break bread with his disciples?
Without feet, how can Jesus walk to the well and offer living water to the Samaritan woman? How can he walk to the village where he gathered the small children on his lap to bless them?
I am drawn to the crown of thorns encircling his head. How humiliating! Is this what he deserved after healing people? After setting people free from sin and evil? After offering the world nothing but compassion, love, peace, and joy? How cruel and unfair! What pain, suffering and humiliation! Does he not deserve a crown of glory rather than sharp thorns piercing his head?
Finally, I am drawn to the large wound on his side where the spear pierces his heart and lungs. As I sit alone in this ancient small chapel, I am overcome with emotion – the body of Christ wounded and disabled – his hands and feet made useless, his head covered with thorns, and his heart pierced with a sword. I find myself weeping.
Jesus could have resisted, but he chose to be completely obedient and fully surrendered to his Father’s will even though he knew it would cost him his life. He humbled himself and endured the cross to set us an example of humility, obedience, and servant hood.
I move to the foot of the cross and kneel. I look up. The feet of Jesus are directly above me nailed to the cross. The wound in his side is further up. His arms outstretched and hands nailed to the cross are even higher. And then I see his face. His head hangs on his shoulder looking down at me. His eyes are closed. I notice the blood dripping off of his hands and feet. Blood gushes forth from the gaping hole in his side. It is as though all of his blood is being poured out on me. It falls on my face and shoulders. It washes over me – the blood of a human being who faithfully endured horrific pain, suffering and humiliation – the blood of the divine Son of God.
As it flows over me, I find it both challenging and refreshing. The blood mixes with my tears, now flowing down my cheeks. I receive God’s gift again – the gift of grace and forgiveness – the gift of Christ’s example of humiliation, obedience, surrender and servant hood – the gift of God’s love extravagantly poured out as I place my trust in God.
Later in the day, when I see the actual crucifix that St Francis was kneeling before as he heard Jesus tell him to rebuild the church, I am disappointed. There is no blood flowing from his side. In place of the crown of thorns is a halo of glory. His eyes are open, not closed. His lips are turned down in an expression of deep sadness. It’s easy to imagine this image of a living but saddened Jesus telling Francis to rebuild the church.
As I sit and meditate on this crucifix I hear God’s call to love and forgive as Christ loved and forgave. I hear God’s call to rebuild the church today – not with stones and mortar but with living stones – to build it with even more grandeur and stunning beauty than even the magnificent basilicas.
May this call of God be reborn in each of us during this season of Lent.
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