The following was written by the Rev. Canon C. Russell Elliott who lives in Wolfville, N.S. He has had a long and creative ministry; nearing his 99th birthday, he is still active and sharing his faith and love with all he meets. He has had a long association with the Sisterhood. His wife bore his first two children – boy and girl twins – at the hospital in Springhill, N.S. in the 1940s under the capable management of Sister Anna, SSJD. He has been a faithful Associate of SSJD for over 70 years.
We
print the following with Fr. Elliott’s permission and with
thanksgiving to him.
AT
THE FOOT OF THE CROSS
Whatever
else Lent may include it is inevitable that eventually I stand at the
foot of the Cross. The Book of Common Prayer indicates that from the
fifth Sunday onwards is Passiontide, fixing attention upon the Cross,
its pain and promise, the Collect or daily prayer asking simply that
God may “mercifully look upon thy people”. On Good Friday I am
still standing at the foot of the Cross in profound prayer. I feel
those eyes looking down upon me, now from the Cross. There are no
words, there are no names, there are no reproaches, there are no
promises. Yet I hear them all, I know what they tell me. I listen
with my heart, I hear deep in my soul, I feel in my inmost being. I
am shattered and torn apart, I am burned and battered, I cannot die
and I dare not live.
That
Man on the Cross, I once saw him weeping over the city – Jerusalem,
Jerusalem, how I tried to draw you safely, like a hen gathers her
brood under her wings, but you would not come. He once told
disciples, like me, that he is the first in a new kingdom, though
there is no first there, all are free to care for everyone else –
he even told Pilate that the kingdom is not of this sinful world. I
heard him rebuke Peter, and me, for superficial loyalty. I saw him
weep again when the death of Lazarus so deeply touched the heart of
the sister. This morning I heard him promise to a thief – to me
too? – ‘thou shalt be with me’. As the eyes closed and the head
dropped, I heard a voice, from somewhere, maybe from my own throat:
Make no mistake, this man is the Son of God.
From
wherever my own today’s personal Golgatha is, I find my quiet way
to my home. The original Lent measured forty hours from death on the
Cross to life at first Easter appearance. My soul counts quietly from
darkness to light, from death to life. In the Garden, if I hear a
voice call my name, as He once spoke to Mary, I know that all is well
between us once more.
Alleluia! Alleluia!
