I think at some point every Christian goes through this a year or few after their new birth: the initial hoopla has died down, you’ve started walking faithfully with God and his people, you’ve faced the fire of trial and persecution from friends, family, and other non-Christians. Unshakable roots in the truth feed your identity, supply purpose and meaning, and grow your love for Jesus. You’re reading theology and supplementary Christian books by Christian authors and understanding more about what exactly happened that made you want to give up your various obsessions and vices (which, if you’re honest, didn’t really make you happy anyway) to love and serve other people.
But.
There comes a point when we – I – need fresh eyes. When, for whatever reason, my heart beats out of tune with Jesus’ drum and I forget, in the midst of all this talk about morality and suffering, that the work has already been done for me at the cross. That I, a newly born, freed slave, should use whatever gifts God has given me to rejoice in it and Him.
Rainer Maria Rilke
So permit me, for one brief paragraph, to commend to you – as most aspiring artists must, at some point – Rainer Maria Rilke’s Letters To A Young Poet. I read the translated Duino Elegies for a poetry class a couple of years ago but never took the chance to open this painter’s palette of a book. Rilke, himself an established writer, pens ten letters to one Mr. Kappus – an amateur poet seeking literary criticism of his own work. The book contains only Rilke’s half of the correspondence, so we readers must infer the nature of Kappus’s letters. Rilke’s advice then takes centre stage and transforms “just another conversation between a student and teacher” (think C.S. Lewis’s The Screwtape Letters) into a veritable Owner’s Manual of Creative Talent.
Rilke claims to keep a select few books with him: the Bible, and the collected works of Jens Peter Jacobsen (a Danish poet and scientist from Rilke’s parents’ generation.) Eager to hone my craft, I picked up Mogens and Other Stories, as encouraged by Rainer.
The bulk of this pastoral, flowery work disinterested me. (Dear Jens: At some point, it seems barbaric to read a beautiful-but-plotless description of a tree on material made from the tree itself, instead of simply enjoying the tree.) Not that Jacobsen didn’t wax insightful on matters such as sexual attraction, parental obligation, and the mundane-ness of beauty and charm. Prudent editing goes a long way, that’s all.
Jens Peter Jacobsen
However, “The Plague in Bergamo” redeemed the book for me and revealed why Rilke passed it along to Kappus.
In the story, a fictional plague ripped through two towns, Old and New Bergamo – actual communities in Venetian Italy known for their musical history.
As time progressed and the cleansing, prayers and offerings of the people did nothing to hinder the plague’s destruction,
“[t]he most unnatural vices flourished among them, and even such rare sins as necromancy, magic, and exorcism were familiar to them, for there were many who hoped to obtain from the powers of evil the protection which heaven had not vouchsafed them.” (p.26)
Instead of persevering in faith, the people – former believers, Jacobsen seems to imply – used their suffering to abandon God, turn to Satan and become self-focused: “Whatever had to do with mutual assistance or pity had vanished from their minds; each one had thoughts only for himself.”
Then through Old Bergamo came a “strange procession wind” of six hundred or more men and women, old and young, carrying big black crosses and singing a miserere. The townsfolk recognized the singers as former residents of both New and Old Bergamo who had fled from the sickness and death and began following them in their march towards the cathedral. But as they marched and listened to the songs of the strangers, “[t]hey understood very well, that those shoemakers and tailors had come here to … pray for them, and to utter the words which they did not wish to hear.” A call to repentance, perhaps (which they needed) or maybe, as is common among the proud, ignorant judgments and condemnation (which they did not).
The townsfolk responded as any rebellious nonbelievers and mocked the procession right into the long-abandoned cathedral
“so that they might know what the people thought of their God, here in old Bergamo. For it was not so much their wish to insult God that made them rejoice in the tumult; but they felt satisfaction in knowing that each of their blasphemies was a sting in the hearts of these holy people.” (p.28)
The strangers silence the mockers by scourging themselves to the point of humiliation, bringing to mind for the mockers the embarrassment they deserved before a “harsh and powerful deity.” Then a young monk from the scourging party rose to speak on “the law and the power of the law, that its every title must be fulfilled, and that every transgression of which they were guilty would be counted against them by grain and ounce. But – ” and here’s where the story turned – “Christ died for our sins.”
Jacobsen then recounted Matthew 27:32 – 43 but explored what would have happened if there had been no crucifixion or resurrection:
“Then He, the only begotten Son of God was taken with anger, and saw that they were not worthy of salvation, these mobs that fill the earth. He tore free His feet over the heads of the nails, and He clenched His hands round the nails and tore them out, so that the arms of the cross bent like a bow. Then He leaped down upon the earth and snatched up His garment so that the dice rolled down the slope of Golgotha, and flung it round himself with the wrath of a king and ascended into heaven. And the cross stood empty, and the great work of redemption was never fulfilled. There is no mediator between God and us… there is no Jesus who died for us on the cross!” (p.29)
What if that were true? Jacobsen’s butcher answers our question: ” ‘Monk, monk, you must nail Him on the cross again, you must!” And the crowd (of believers) began to chant “Crucify Him!” like the one (of unbelievers) before Pilate. The story wrapped up quickly with the monk, who sensed his duty complete, leading the singers and strangers out of the cathedral and away into a “sun-lit plain.”
Jacobsen’s story gave me a whole new appreciation for the planning of the work of the cross. Jesus, in Matthew 26:31 , restates a prophecy given in Zechariah that “God will strike the shepherd and the sheep of the flock will scatter,” referring to himself and the disciples. Could you imagine if instead of asking them to pray with Him in Gethsemane, Jesus had brought a cross and some nails to the garden and said,”So, guys, here’s what I need you to do…” Or worse yet, based salvation – as Jacobsen writes – on whether we’re worthy or not?
He knew there needed to be a mediator. He knew the cost of sin. And He knew the disciples couldn’t be the ones to even yell “Crucify Him!” even though they needed salvation just as much as everyone else. Amazing, no?
In looking for a break from “Christian” literature, I found the fresh perspective on Christ I needed; a gentle reminder that even when we are faithless, God is faithful. He carries the burden we cannot carry and pays the price we cannot pay. And our salvation depends on HIS character, not ours.
Coram deo,
mknz
