“The Suffering Servant, who has the guilt of all laid upon him (53:6),
giving up his life as a sin-offering (53:10) and bearing the sins of many (53:12), thereby carries out the ministry of the high priest, fulfilling the figure of the priesthood from deep within. He is both priest and victim, and in this way
he achieves reconciliation”.
Pope Benedict XVI
“Suffering Servant” prefigures Jesus Christ
Richard B. Hays, writing a review of Pope Benedict XVI’s book, Jesus of Nazareth Holy Week From the Entrance Into Jerusalem To The Resurrection (2011), acknowledges an outstanding feature of Benedict’s book: how the Old Testament prefigures and leads to the New Testament:
From beginning to end, Benedict grounds his interpretation of Jesus in the Old as well as the New Testament. The significance of the gospel stories is consistently explicated in relation to the Old Testament’s typological prefiguration of Jesus, and Jesus is shown to be the flowering or consummation of all that God had promised Israel in many and various ways. The resulting intercanonical conversation offers many arresting insights into Jesus’ identity and significance. Many of the connections that Benedict discerns are traditional in patristic exegesis, but his explication of them is artful and effective. ….
[End of quote]
On p. 81, Pope Benedict credits French priest André Feuillet with pointing out how well Isaiah’s Suffering Servant Songs throw light upon the high-priestly prayer of Jesus (John 17):
….
Before we consider the individual themes contained in Jesus’ high-priestly prayer, one further Old Testament allusion should be mentioned, one that has again been studied by André Feuillet. He shows that the renewed and deepened spiritual understanding of the priesthood found in John 17 is already prefigured in Isaiah’s Suffering Servant Songs, especially in Isaiah 53. The Suffering Servant, who has the guilt of all laid upon him (53:6), giving up his life as a sin-offering (53:10) and bearing the sins of many (53:12), thereby carries out the ministry of the high priest, fulfilling the figure of the priesthood from deep within. He is both priest and victim, and in this way he achieves reconciliation. Thus the Suffering Servant Songs continue along the whole path of exploring the deeper meaning of the priesthood and worship, in harmony with the prophetic tradition ….
On p. 136, Benedict returns to this theme:
For we have yet to consider Jesus’ fundamental interpretation of his mission in Mark 10:45, which likewise features the word “many”; “For the Son of [Man] also came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many”. Here he is clearly speaking of the sacrifice of his life, and so it is obvious that Jesus is taking up the Suffering Servant prophecy from Isaiah 53 and linking it to the mission of the Son of Man, giving it a new interpretation.
And then, on pp. 173 and 199, he broadens it:
This idea of vicarious atonement is fully developed in the figure of the Suffering Servant in Isaiah 53, who takes the guilt of many upon himself and thereby makes them just (53:11). In Isaiah, this figure remains mysterious: the Song of the Suffering Servant is like a gaze into the future in search of the one who is to come.
…. The history of religions knows the figure of the mock king — related to the figure of the “scapegoat”. Whatever may be afflicting the people is offloaded onto him: in this way it is to be driven out of the world. Without realizing it, the soldiers were actually accomplishing what those rites and ceremonies were unable to achieve: “Upon him was the chastisement that made us whole, and with his stripes we are healed” (Is 53:5). Thus caricatured, Jesus is led to Pilate, and Pilate presents him to the crowd — to all mankind: “Ecce homo”, “Here is the man!” (Jn 19:5).
Before concluding his treatment of the subject on pp. 252-253:
A pointer towards a deeper understanding of the fundamental relationship with the word is given by the earlier qualification: Christ died “for our sins”. Because his death has to do with the word of God, it has to do with us, it is a dying “for”. In the chapter of Jesus’ death on the Cross, we saw what an enormous wealth of tradition in the form of scriptural allusions feeds into the background here, chief among them the fourth Song of the Suffering Servant (Isaiah 53). Insofar as Jesus’ death can be located within this context of God’s word and God’s love, it is differentiated from the kind of death resulting from Man’s original sin as a consequence of his presumption in seeking to be like God, a presumption that could only lead to man’s plunge into wretchedness, into the destiny of death. ….
“The entire sequence from the death of Jesus on Good Friday
to his resurrection on Easter Sunday is not only unique in history,
it is unique in its conception in the entire experience of human sensibility”.
Taken from The Weekend Australian (April 16-17, 2022, pp. 20-21):
Union of Heaven and earth
Greg Sheridan
“This may be a wicked age, but your lives should redeem it”.
Ephesians 5:16
….
The lessons of Ukraine are many and terrible. They demonstrate the changeless essence of human nature – people are called to glory and yet every one of us is capable of monstrous evil.
The Russian government is behaving exactly as the Roman Empire did in the time of Jesus, seeking conquest and subjugation with methods of remorseless brutality. We thought we had abolished that, in Europe at least.
If you want to see what Christian hope looks like, google Ukrainians singing hymns. See the solace and courage and inspiration there. Christianity is also evident in Poland’s generosity to Ukrainians fleeing the terror of the Russian military. Poles and Ukrainians don’t have an untroubled past, or an untroubled relationship generally. They are not, typically, best friends. Yet Poland, even today, not an especially rich country, has taken in more than two million Ukrainians so far and the efforts of individual Poles in this crisis are magnificent.
Yet Christianity is dishonoured in Ukraine too. The backing of the invasion given by the leadership of the Russian Orthodox Church is a crime, the most shocking misuse of Christian religious authority, to justify murder and cruelty and dreadful destruction, in many decades. We thought we had abolished that, too.
….
There is simply no way at all that Moscow’s invasion of Ukraine is a just cause, a last resort or being waged by proportionate or moral means. Therefore, every Christian, including Russian Christians, are obliged to oppose it, or at the very least not to participate in it.
But the tragedy of the Ukraine war engages Christian belief at a more personal, existential level. Every Ukrainian, deciding whether to fight or flee, to stay or go, how to help their family, how to help others, what the war means for their whole life project, for their very human existence, will confront their own mortality, their own human quest for meaning.
Every human being faces, ultimately, the four last things: death, judgment, heaven, hell.
Easter provides hope because it shows us that death does not have the final victory. But this works for a person, helps them, only if they understand something of the whole supernatural quality of human life. Modern Christians make a tremendous mistake in underplaying the essential supernatural claims of Jesus and the Christian tradition.
It is understandable that modern Christians in sceptical Western societies – phobic about the transcendent, scared of death and trained to mock belief at every turn – tend to emphasise Christianity’s good works, its hospitals, schools and shelters for the homeless. You might not like Mother Teresa’s theology, but how many homeless, diseased people did you personally try to help on the streets of Kolkata?
But, in truth, Christianity stripped of its supernatural claims is not just an attractive ethical system or a picturesque and benign myth. It is literally nothing at all.
Without its supernatural claims it is at best delusional, and really a system of lies. Nothing of lasting good can come from a system of lies. As St Paul says in Ephesians: “If Christ is not risen, our preaching is useless, your faith is useless … we are of all people the most to be pitied”.
There is nice debate among Christians as to whether Western societies such as ours have become so post-Christian that they are in a sense pre-Christian, so removed from their Christian roots that they are wholly innocent of any knowledge of what Christianity is all about.
Easter is a good time therefore to remind ourselves just how absolutely weird and radical Christianity is, how unlike any prevailing social orthodoxy or ethos, how radically challenging it is to the zeitgeist, even though the good things in Western society, such as universal human rights and equality of the sexes, to name just two, derive directly from Christianity.
It’s unclear, at best, that these good things can be sustained in the absence of transcendent belief, at least among a sizeable portion of the society.
But the good things in Christianity in any event are entirely dependent on the supernatural claims it makes, and these should never be watered down, or put to one side by Christianity’s friends.
The entire sequence from the death of Jesus on Good Friday to his resurrection on Easter Sunday is not only unique in history, it is unique in its conception in the entire experience of human sensibility. It teaches, among other things, that resurrection is part of death. But even that is not its most radical claim. The most radical and distinctive claim of Christianity is not after all the resurrection of Jesus on Easter Sunday but the death of Jesus on Good Friday.
Many religious traditions involve the interaction of God with humanity. Many polytheistic traditions even involve the idea of one of the gods walking the earth, sometimes disguised as a human being, and dealing with people. Sometimes the gods fall out. Sometimes they go to war. But true polytheism is, I think, much rarer than is generally claimed. For many seemingly polytheistic traditions have the idea that behind the lesser gods there is a Great Spirit, the author of all things.
The similarity of other religious traditions to elements of the Christian tradition does not suggest that all religions are just man-made artefacts and interchangeable. It suggests instead that profound religious hunger, and equally an instinctive religious knowledge, is part of the human condition, written in our spiritual DNA.
Any religious tradition that believes in any kind of God would hold that the gods can conquer death, or transcend death or not be subject to death.
But in all human sensibility, there is no equivalent, nothing even roughly similar, to the idea of Good Friday, that the eternal, all powerful, all knowing, everlasting God could become a human being, preach the truth, yet be mocked and vilified, be subject to all the limitations of the human condition, be defeated and humiliated, be tortured and killed, physically killed, Suffer, in other words, in earthly terms, comprehensive defeat. That God could die. That is Christianity’s most astonishing claim. That God in moments could need our compassion. It tells us a great deal about distinctive [?] the character of God as understood in Christianity.
First, in Jesus, God didn’t just take on human form, like a disguise; he became a man, a human being, in an act of supreme solidarity with all human beings. Solidarity indeed with all human suffering, and with all the limitations and pains and frustrations of being a person.
In doing this, Jesus uniquely elevated the status of human nature. The ancient world’s first great pro-human rights statement came in the Book of Genesis, where it is declared that God created humanity in the image of God. This is not how humanity was seen before that. The experience of Jesus further elevates human nature. It declares that human nature is worthy of carrying the personality of God himself.
This human nature is not to be trifled with, this human dignity demands respect.
The experience of Jesus also produces the most radical inversion of power in all history, then or now. Until Jesus came along, being weak, being defeated, being humble – these were not considered virtues. At best, you might temporarily endure defeat but hope for revenge. The idea of denying yourself power, making yourself weak to serve others, was revolutionary. It’s still revolutionary.
Jesus is absolutely clear about his divine status and supernatural claims. On the cross, enduring the most savage, extended, agonising death, he is concerned not only for the welfare of his mother and his disciple John, the only one of his male followers brave enough to stand with him at the foot of the cross.
He dies praying, in dialogue with God the father, and he exercises divine authority in offering heaven to the good thief: “Amen, I say to you, today you will be with me in paradise”.
After the resurrection, the early Christians were in no doubt about who Jesus was. Many endured violent death rather than deny that he had risen from the dead, or that he was the son of God.
In his letter to the Philippians, Paul offers his own answer to the central question of the New Testament: who is Jesus? Paul wrote: “His state was divine, yet he did not cling to his equality with God but emptied himself to assume the condition of a slave, and become as men are; and being as all men are, he was humbler yet, even to accepting death, death on a cross. But God raised him high and gave him a name which is above all other names so that all beings in the heavens, on earth and in the underworld should bend the knee at the name of Jesus and that every tongue should acclaim Jesus Christ as Lord, to the glory of God the Father”.
At the start of his breathtaking gospel, John, referring to Jesus as “the Word”, writes: “In the beginning was the Word: the word was with God and the Word was God”.
There is really no halfway house with Christianity. Either Jesus is God and we are immortal beings filled with eternal destiny, moral choice, divine status, irreducible human dignity and irreducible moral responsibility, and loved as though an only child by God, or it’s all lies and I’d rather be at the races. No halfway house works.
Several times in the gospels, Jesus talks of heaven. He doesn’t give us much detail but he certainly confirms its existence. He tells the good thief he will be in paradise that day, he talks several times of the eternal reward prepared by God the father, he explains that in heaven the saints, like the angels, don’t marry.
Yet heaven is a central part of Christianity. You can’t do away with it, and why would you want to? When they stop talking about the supernatural claims of Christianity, you wonder if Christians continue to believe in them.
One of the most enthralling contemplations of heaven is to be found in Marilynne Robinson’s 2004 Pulitzer prize-winning novel, Gilead. This is the best, most important Christian novel so far of the 21st century. Robinson is a liberal Calvinist and Gilead, a novel of sublime transcendence and hypnotic power, concerns the life of a Congregationalist minister, John Ames, aged 77 in 1956. He is likely to die soon of heart disease and writes an account of himself for his seven-year-old son.
Being an actually believing Christian, Ames is much exercised by what heaven will be like and the relationship between life and in heaven and life on earth, especially life with his wife and son. He knows heaven will not be a disappointment.
But how will he meet the people he loves? The idea of everyone meeting as a vigorous young adult appeals to him. But then he’d love once more to have his son as a toddler to jump into his arms. And what will be the relationship in heaven with this life, with all its beauty?
He reflects: “I can’t believe that, when we’ve all been changed and put on incorruptibility, we will forget our fantastic condition of mortality and impermanence, the great bright dream of procreating and perishing that means the whole world to us. … I don’t imagine any reality putting this one in the shade entirely, and I think piety forbids me to try”.
In other words, in heaven we won’t lose the connection with our life on earth.
One of the great Christian philosophers of the 20th century, Jacques Maritain, a key figure in the drafting of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, as long ago as 1963 lamented the lack of dialogue about and with heaven among Christians.
He wrote: “It seems to me that an extreme negligence prevails among Christians concerning the Church of Heaven …”. He went on to describe a bit of what we might know of heaven: “Just as the Word incarnate had on earth a life divine and human at one and the same time, so also the blessed in Heaven have entered into the divine life through the vision, but they also lead there, outside of the vision although penetrated by its radiance, a glorious and transfigured human life”.
We might all have our visions of heaven, and these might be domestic and quotidian: the family nearby, the Bulldogs winning the grand final in golden point time, chicken curry for dinner. For it is not to trivialise the terrible and the evil, to counterpose the domestic and the good against it.
Christianity is a power for good, because it is true. If it’s not true, it’s not a power for anything. Bu happily it is true. Ukrainians singing Easter hymns in the shadow of war might know this better than we do.
On Palm Sunday, hundreds of priests, bishops, cardinals, and laypeople solemnly carried large palm branches in procession through St. Peter’s Square to begin the first liturgy of Holy Week.
“Dear brothers and sisters, since the beginning of Lent until now we have prepared our hearts by penance and charitable works,” Pope Francis said in a soft voice at the beginning of Palm Sunday Mass on March 24.
“Today we gather together to herald with the whole Church the beginning of the celebration of our Lord’s paschal mystery, that is to say, of his passion and resurrection.”
Speaking in St. Peter’s Square adorned with palms and greenery, the pope invited the crowd to follow in Jesus’ footsteps as he entered Jerusalem “so that being made by his grace partakers of the cross, we may have a share also in his resurrection and in his life.”
Pope Francis chose not to read the homily prepared for Palm Sunday Mass at the last minute without explanation. The 87-year-old pope, who arrived at the Mass in a wheelchair, has had aides read some of his speeches for him in recent weeks.
….
The pope did read the prayers for the Mass and spoke at the end of the liturgy, offering an appeal for peace in Ukraine and prayers for the victims of the terrorist attack in Moscow.
In his peace appeal, Pope Francis gave a brief reflection on the Gospel account of Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem on a donkey as the Prince of Peace.
“Dear brothers and sisters, Jesus entered Jerusalem as a humble and peaceful king. Let us open our hearts to him. Only he can deliver us from enmity, hatred, violence, because he is mercy and the forgiveness of sins,” the pope said.
Palm Sunday is the only Mass of the year in which two Gospels are proclaimed. The Gospel of Mark’s account of Jesus entering Jerusalem on a donkey was read aloud at the beginning of the Mass and later the Passion of the Lord was solemnly proclaimed with a choir singing the words of the crowd.
An estimated 60,000 people were at the papal Mass, according to the Vatican Gendarmes.
At the conclusion of the liturgy, Pope Francis rode through St. Peter’s Square on the popemobile greeting enthusiastic pilgrims who waved flags and cheered.
Pope Francis has a busy schedule for Holy Week. He will preside over a chrism Mass in St. Peter’s Basilica on Thursday morning before going to a women’s prison in Rome to offer Holy Thursday’s Mass of the Lord’s Supper.
At the end of Palm Sunday Mass, Pope Francis said: “And now we turn in prayer to the Virgin Mary. Let us learn from her to stay close to Jesus during the days of Holy Week, in order to arrive at the joy of the Resurrection.”