O Sacred Head, Now Wounded
A Brief Good Friday Reflection
O sacred Head, now wounded,
with grief and shame weighed down,
now scornfully surrounded
with thorns, Thine only crown.
O sacred Head, what glory,
what bliss till now was Thine!
Yet, though despised and gory,
I joy to call Thee mine.
- Bernard of Clairvaux
Today, on Good Friday, I decided to go to the Cathedral Basilica to pray, meditate, and perhaps attempt to write some poetry. This is a fairly normal rhythm for me—I find the ineffable beauty of that place to be a profound motivator for both prayer and creativity. But, the events of this visit proved to be anything but ordinary.
As I lightly stepped through the giant wooden doors, I quickly realized there was a difference in the atmosphere. The space, which is usually bright, vibrant, and brimming with life, was hushed and dim. Today, the lights were all off, and the mosaic beauty1 was lit only by the soft glow of the stained glass. A solemn stillness crept over me as I slowly walked into the heart of the sanctuary through the aisles of hand-carved wooden pews. I found a seat directly at the center, before the great altarpiece.
As I readied my mind for prayer, I intended to reflect on the large, ornate crucifix at the heart of the altar, but the scene directly before me was not what I could have predicted. The Christ figure pictured on the cross is normally lit in such a way to attract every gaze. Today, it was blanketed in shadow and shrouded in an enormous crimson curtain. Unfamiliar with Catholic Holy Week traditions, I was caught off guard by what I was witnessing. Utterly overwhelmed, I wept.
I had the immediate and haunting sense that my sin caused Christ to be covered in darkness—that somehow, I was the reason the lights were extinguished in this sacred space. There was a deep awareness of my fallen condition that preceded redemption. The fascinating truth is that there was no one there to prompt me towards these thoughts. It was produced in me through symbolism alone. Yes, God teaches through word, but clearly, also through image.
My tears turned to praise and my sorrow to joy, as the great alloy of life, contained in the Christ figure, began to shift my disposition. Before me, the dawn of destruction—yes—but also the symbol of my salvation. How can the dark and the light both hold together in union? Why is it that the brightest possible world is one that contains this moment of greatest midnight?2 A paradoxical reality expressed in the Apostle Paul’s instruction to be “sorrowful yet always rejoicing” (2 Corinthians 6:10). I am redeemed, and to be redeemed is somehow better than a steady state of perfection—evidenced by the longing look of the angels (1 Peter 1:11-13). Self-sacrifice is a great good, richly embedded into the fabric of our world. Yet, sacrifice necessarily implies that an object has fallen and is in need of saving. Christ, robed in scarlet, descended into darkness in order to wash us white as snow and deliver us into marvelous light. In my visit to the Cathedral Basilica, I experienced the dual reality that makes Good Friday a day of mourning—but also, a day of Goodness.
There are more than 41 million mosaic tile pieces in the Cathedral, making it one of the largest mosaic collections in the world.
See Alvin Plantinga, Supralapsarianism, or 'O Felix Culpa'