Imperative, Interrogative, or Declarative.

A Reflection on the Second Reading for Sunday, March 3rd, 2024:
Third Sunday of Lent

---

1 Corinthians
1:18, 22-25

Brothers and sisters: The message about the Cross is foolishness to those who’re perishing, but to us, who are being saved it is the power of God. 

​For Jews demand signs 
and Greeks desire wisdom, 
    but we proclaim Christ crucified, 

a stumbling block to Jews 
and foolishness to Gentiles, 
    but to those who are the called,
    both Jews and Greeks,
        Christ the power of God 
        and the wisdom of God. 

For God’s foolishness
    is wiser than human wisdom, 
and God’s weakness
    is stronger than human strength.

Pause. Pray. Reflect.

Why does this poem that St. Paul gives to his brothers and sisters make me cry?

I’m very good at hiding. One of my adult kids recently helped me see that I can quite effectively put up a screen that lets me see only what’s good, or what’s beautiful, and not what’s hard, or what’s ugly. And that this is not a virtue, it’s a vice. It’s a roadblock to things getting better. And God helped me see it’s a matter of trust. “You can look at it, you can feel it, the pain really is there,” He says, “but so am I."

The opening part of the poem has three actors, three actions, three results. 

Jews, Greeks, us. 
Demand, desire, declare.
Miracles, reasons, the Cross.

Look at it. Not the empty cross, but Christ crucified. 
Here is the dynamism of God.
Here is the clarity of God.

“This is the display of authority?” say the Jews. “This is the reasoned answer?" say the Greeks. “Where’s my screen or pillar?” say I.

I started off loving Jesus, His mission, and His ecclesia—His called-out-ones—in churches with empty crosses. Then a few years ago He called me home to the church of my baptism, where the cross is not empty. And I didn’t know where to look. Why would we commemorate His suffering over his victory? Singing alto in the choir meant I had a structural pillar that I could hide behind. I had no clear line of sight of Him hanging there, until I came up to receive Him. 

And then there He is. No screen. No pillar. I start with eyes down and a voice says, “Body of Christ,” and there He is, in my hand. His image of suffering, hanging on the wall, visible over the shoulder of the person to whom I lift my head and say, “Amen.” And then I bring Him in. I receive. All of Him. All of this.

When I’m confronted with pain—my own or someone else’s—I want a reason. I want a resolution. I meet the problem of pain with the interrogative, ‘WHY?” Or the imperative, “MAKE IT STOP!’ My God meets me with the declarative, “I AM HERE.” Period. Full stop. Look at the Cross. 

One of the songs we sing in the choir is called "Silence." It’s based on a Charlie Hayden jazz instrumental, a slow progression of chords changing only one note at a time—an effect that communicates so much space to exist in. We sing with the pulses of the chords these simple syllables, added by musician Peter Togni:

I am with you.
I am with you.
He is with you.
Says the Lord.

One pulse for each word, except “Lord”. He gets two. Makes sense. It’s all about Him. Joining us. In it all.

Here’s a Lenten invitation to take some time to pray with the pulses, and hear when He says, “I am with you.”


Silence.




Noreen Smith

---