In my “Spirituality of the Priesthood” class today, we discussed the benchmark identity of the Catholic priest as head and shepherd. While in the course of discussion, the idea of apathy among Catholics, both religious and lay, was brought up.
The following poem, shared by our wonderful professor, Fr. James Shea (who happens also to be the current president of the University of Mary in Bismarck ND), encapsulates poignantly the state of affairs that we will face as ordained ministers in the world:
When Jesus came to Golgotha, they hanged Him on a tree,
They drove great nails through hands and feet, and made a Calvary;
They crowned Him with a crown of thorns, red were His wounds and deep,
For those were crude and cruel days, and human flesh was cheap.
When Jesus came to Birmingham, they simply passed Him by.
They would not hurt a hair of Him, they only let Him die;
For men had grown more tender, and they would not give Him pain,
They only just passed down the street, and left Him in the rain.
Still Jesus cried, 'Forgive them, for they know not what they do, '
And still it rained the winter rain that drenched Him through and through;
The crowds went home and left the streets without a soul to see,
And Jesus crouched against a wall, and cried for Calvary.
G. A. Studdert-Kennedy
I believe the second stanza, the last two lines, are meant to be ironic. The last stanza supports this when Jesus "cried for Calvary." Our killings, our crucifixions, in our civilized societies are much more hidden. In the first stanza we see what we are, right out in the open, in the flesh as it were. By the last stanza, we have become so sophisticatedly barbaric, that we simply kill souls with our cold, cold hearts, which pretend to be "more tender" now. When in reality, we have become far more barbarian. The blood and pain is only preferable in that then, at least, we could not simply pass by, simply dismiss what we are doing, on a daily basis, not in some far away land of suffering and death, but right here, right now, in our very own cities, our very own streets, our very own churches, in fact, right in front of Him as we feign tenderness toward His Flesh which is being frozen by the winter coldness of our hearts. Just look around you. See the killing. See and feel the coldness and the killing. Hidden in abortion, hidden in euthanasia, hidden in sins of the flesh, hidden in simply isolating and without and word, but simply the evil judgmental eye, we look down and condemn the suffering to die. We leave them in that cold, cold rain to die. They give their lives for us, and unlike the crowd who vocally shouted "crucify Him", we are tender and quiet and sophisticated and barbaric as we tear souls who love us, spiritual limb from spiritual limb.
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