God's Voice, My Voice, and My Tears: Why I can't seem to read the passion stories out loud without crying.
Before becoming a pastor I hardly read Scripture out loud, and without knowing it I neglected a way for God to speak afresh through his Word. For most of the church’s history, and Israel’s before it, God spoke through his Word read out loud. Few people owned copies of the Holy Scriptures and not many people could have read them anyway. Most human authors of the Bible wrote with a literal audience in mind. The Bible was designed to be heard, not just read.
In ancient times most people would read out loud, even when they were alone. Augustine shares in his Confessions that he found one of his former pastors, Ambrose, to be odd because he read silently to himself. Perhaps Ambrose found other people reading out loud annoying. I know I do sometimes. But when I rehearse for our church’s Sunday worship service, I read both our Scripture reading text and sermon text out loud. And I find that my ears are often attuned to different aspects of God’s speech than my eyes are. I also find God’s words to be more powerful as I read them aloud, especially in front of others.
2015 marks the fourth time I will be a pastor during Lent and Eastertide. Our church has a tradition of Good Friday services, and when I have a hand in planning them I focus much on the public reading of the passion texts. I usually do not include a sermon on top of them. These past few years whenever I read the passion texts of Jesus’ final days I end up crying. Tears well up in my eyes. I take deeper breaths. I purposely include longer pauses, sometimes in awkward places, just so I can gather myself a little and force the words on the page out of my mouth. Of all the challenges I face in serving as a pastor, few are more difficult than this annual occurrence. I feel out of control during those moments, but I’m never embarrassed about it. I’d be more worried if I could coolly read Jesus’ passion stories out loud as if I were reciting a newspaper article on the opening of a new cheese factory in our county.
Our evening prayer service last week accidentally became a preview for Good Friday. I had crafted a handout for our group to pray through, which was simple enough. We had one person read aloud a passage from the Gospels on Jesus’ last day before his death and then a space on the page for us to write a personal prayer using a prompt from the text. There were six passages in all, and I volunteered to read Mark 15:22-34, which talks about Jesus’ crucifixion. Whoops. Tears welled up in my eyes. I took long, deep breaths. I paused often, sometimes after a couple words. Eventually, all the tears started strolling down my cheeks. I should’ve known all of that would happen, but I forgot.
That night our final prayer was to write about our experience of reading all the passages together, walking from Jesus' garden prayer to his corpse’s burial in a new tomb. As I wrote, I reflected on why reading these texts out loud always makes me cry. Whenever I read them silently to myself it’s never the same. It’s always…easier. To my delight and dread my written prayer gave the answer. The Gospels report not only Jesus’ actions and words, but the behavior of others as well. When I read the Gospels out loud I hear my voice say things such as “crucify him” or “save yourself.” I hear with my own voice Peter’s cowardly betrayal, Pilate’s spineless politicking, the crowd’s thirst for blood, the soldiers’ mockery, and the shocking grief of Jesus’ mother and a mere handful of supporters at the time of his death. I also hear in my own voice Jesus’ groans from the cross, even when he asks why God abandoned him. I cry reading all these words not just because I know the answer to Jesus’ question. I cry because I am the answer. I betray. I crave blood. I mock. And I abandon.
We can pretend otherwise all we want, but our ears and hearts know when our voices are speaking the truth. We are all desperate sinners in need of a savior. And, make no mistake, our sins rack up a disgusting price. Usually, I would share more here about how Jesus’ passion and death are only part of the great and beautiful gospel story, but in Good Friday fashion I won’t. I want it to linger. That’s what Lent is all about.
In ancient times most people would read out loud, even when they were alone. Augustine shares in his Confessions that he found one of his former pastors, Ambrose, to be odd because he read silently to himself. Perhaps Ambrose found other people reading out loud annoying. I know I do sometimes. But when I rehearse for our church’s Sunday worship service, I read both our Scripture reading text and sermon text out loud. And I find that my ears are often attuned to different aspects of God’s speech than my eyes are. I also find God’s words to be more powerful as I read them aloud, especially in front of others.
2015 marks the fourth time I will be a pastor during Lent and Eastertide. Our church has a tradition of Good Friday services, and when I have a hand in planning them I focus much on the public reading of the passion texts. I usually do not include a sermon on top of them. These past few years whenever I read the passion texts of Jesus’ final days I end up crying. Tears well up in my eyes. I take deeper breaths. I purposely include longer pauses, sometimes in awkward places, just so I can gather myself a little and force the words on the page out of my mouth. Of all the challenges I face in serving as a pastor, few are more difficult than this annual occurrence. I feel out of control during those moments, but I’m never embarrassed about it. I’d be more worried if I could coolly read Jesus’ passion stories out loud as if I were reciting a newspaper article on the opening of a new cheese factory in our county.
Our evening prayer service last week accidentally became a preview for Good Friday. I had crafted a handout for our group to pray through, which was simple enough. We had one person read aloud a passage from the Gospels on Jesus’ last day before his death and then a space on the page for us to write a personal prayer using a prompt from the text. There were six passages in all, and I volunteered to read Mark 15:22-34, which talks about Jesus’ crucifixion. Whoops. Tears welled up in my eyes. I took long, deep breaths. I paused often, sometimes after a couple words. Eventually, all the tears started strolling down my cheeks. I should’ve known all of that would happen, but I forgot.
That night our final prayer was to write about our experience of reading all the passages together, walking from Jesus' garden prayer to his corpse’s burial in a new tomb. As I wrote, I reflected on why reading these texts out loud always makes me cry. Whenever I read them silently to myself it’s never the same. It’s always…easier. To my delight and dread my written prayer gave the answer. The Gospels report not only Jesus’ actions and words, but the behavior of others as well. When I read the Gospels out loud I hear my voice say things such as “crucify him” or “save yourself.” I hear with my own voice Peter’s cowardly betrayal, Pilate’s spineless politicking, the crowd’s thirst for blood, the soldiers’ mockery, and the shocking grief of Jesus’ mother and a mere handful of supporters at the time of his death. I also hear in my own voice Jesus’ groans from the cross, even when he asks why God abandoned him. I cry reading all these words not just because I know the answer to Jesus’ question. I cry because I am the answer. I betray. I crave blood. I mock. And I abandon.
We can pretend otherwise all we want, but our ears and hearts know when our voices are speaking the truth. We are all desperate sinners in need of a savior. And, make no mistake, our sins rack up a disgusting price. Usually, I would share more here about how Jesus’ passion and death are only part of the great and beautiful gospel story, but in Good Friday fashion I won’t. I want it to linger. That’s what Lent is all about.
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