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THE FUHRER AND GOOD FRIDAY

One of the things that strike me about Bonhoeffer is his
deep spirituality, based on constant daily reflection on Sacred Scripture. For
him, theology that did not result in a conversion of heart was an empty
exercise. The rise of Hitler forced him to rely ever more deeply on Scripture
for strength and guidance. He is a remarkable Christian.
A PAINFUL WALK

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Then we met the Roman soldiers, from all over the empire, who were just carrying out one more Friday afternoon detail they’d been assigned. They knew the routine by heart: Strip the person, lay him flat on the ground, nail his hands to a crossbeam, hoist him up and fit the crossbeam into the slot on the upright post that remained permanently in place. Nail the feet, secure the criminal with ropes around the arms and abdomen to prevent him from tearing free of the nails, and then sit back and watch. They seemed quite bored with the whole thing. I thought of the thousands of men around the world who mindlessly go about their assigned tasks of torturing, mistreating and killing their fellow human beings as part of their daily routine. At the thirteenth station I saw Mary, the Pieta, holding her dead son in her arms, and thought of how many bereaved mothers never get the chance to even do that because their sons were killed in war or were kidnapped or arrested and never heard from again.
Then we met the Roman soldiers, from all over the empire, who were just carrying out one more Friday afternoon detail they’d been assigned. They knew the routine by heart: Strip the person, lay him flat on the ground, nail his hands to a crossbeam, hoist him up and fit the crossbeam into the slot on the upright post that remained permanently in place. Nail the feet, secure the criminal with ropes around the arms and abdomen to prevent him from tearing free of the nails, and then sit back and watch. They seemed quite bored with the whole thing. I thought of the thousands of men around the world who mindlessly go about their assigned tasks of torturing, mistreating and killing their fellow human beings as part of their daily routine. At the thirteenth station I saw Mary, the Pieta, holding her dead son in her arms, and thought of how many bereaved mothers never get the chance to even do that because their sons were killed in war or were kidnapped or arrested and never heard from again.
THE LAST WORD
It was a grim exercise. Then I got to the fourteenth station
in which Jesus’ body is laid in the tomb. At that point a glimmer of light
began to shine in the darkness: This is the tomb that is going to lie empty on
Easter morning. I thought of a passage from the final chapter of my book of Lenten reflections:
I hear
the deafening blast of a trumpet; before my eyes every grave that ever was
bursts open in an instant, in the twinkling of an eye. Every unmarked trench on
every battlefield on earth suddenly lies open and empty in the bright sunshine.
Every little child's grave, every ditch ever dug in a pauper's field now lies
open and empty in the bright sunshine.
Every tomb, every burial mound, every mausoleum, suddenly lies open and
empty in the bright sunshine. I see the graves of my mother and father, of my
sister and brother and of all my relatives, all suddenly lying open and empty
in the bright sunshine. And, best of all, I can see my own grave in St. Mary's
Cemetery suddenly lying open and empty in the bright sunshine…
Easter this year will seem more triumphant thanks to
Dietrich Bonhoeffer and this terrible Friday night walk with Jesus to Calvary
and the tomb.
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