When I heard this passage read at Mass one time, when I was young, I laughed inside myself, because it sounds funny to a teenage brain, and anyone can see how it does sound funny, that turn of phrase. The point, however, is that God does not want us to be moderate or lukewarm in faith. He wants us to have zeal.
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When I used the word “lukewarm,” a couple entries ago, I thought of this passage from the Book of Revelation:
“And to the angel of the church at Laodicea write thus: A message to thee from the Truth, the faithful and unerring witness, the source from which God’s creation began: I know of thy doings, and find thee neither cold nor hot; cold or hot, I would thou wert one or the other. Being what thou art, lukewarm, neither cold nor hot, thou wilt make me vomit thee out of my mouth.”
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In other words, our souls could resemble that of either thief, so we should live in such a way that, were our lives to end tomorrow, we resemble only the ‘good’ one.
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On the other hand, neither should we be certain of our salvation, at least not to the point that we become lukewarm or indolent in our faith. I’m reminded of a quote that is attributed to Saint Augustine, and that pertains to the two thieves who were crucified with Jesus, one on either side: “There was one thief saved and no more, therefore presume not, and there was one saved, and therefore despair not.”
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It should be understood, I think, that Dante’s vision of Hell (as well as his vision of Purgatory and Heaven) while intended to communicate a spiritual reality, does not require, and indeed does not wish for, a conforming of the reader’s imagination to that of his own. Moreover, any reader who approaches Dante’s work should remember that God alone, shrouded in mystery, knows the fate of any soul, that we are not privy to the shape of his mercy, and that no sinner can be so far from his providence as to certainly be damned, at least not from our limited perspective.
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Although, I use the word “flung” here somewhat heedlessly, for Hell (in the spiritual sense, as separation from God) is always self-chosen, so it would be better to say, of these souls, that they have “flung themselves.”
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I sometimes see Satan huge and half-frozen, stuck in the lake of ice, as Dante portrayed him, three-faced, his three mouths chewing on the worst of those whose particular sin was that they were traitors, and who have been flung down to the ninth circle of Hell, to be with him.
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Although, of course, Satan too is a creature, so even his rage has bounds. Whereas the love of God is boundless, for God is uncreated.
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Imagine the rage that belongs to Satan when he realizes the lengths to which God will go in pursuit of his lost creatures, the very creatures who will put the Son to a torturous death when that Son appears in the Father’s creation. It is unfathomable, both the rage of Satan and the love of God.
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Although certainly what he had accomplished begins with his death, for by going to it willingly (while not inviting it, or encouraging it, but allowing himself to be led to it, like a lamb), he reverses the victory Satan had won over humanity through the sin of Adam. This is why Christ is sometimes referred to as the Second Adam. His obedience undoes the consequence of our disobedience. It reorders the cosmic economy.
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These words of Jesus were not a brag, but an explanation. Though I imagine they could’ve been mystifying to many who were standing at the foot of the cross, or near enough to it that they could hear what he had said. For the accomplishment he spoke of would come into relief only through his resurrection, and the light of scripture.
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The cup that Jesus mentions is a metaphor for his Passion — the trial and death that he is soon to undergo. Here the word ‘passion’ takes its meaning from the Latin ‘pati,’ to suffer or endure, especially with patience. And for him to drink of that cup, down to the dregs, is to submit to the will of the Father, and to accomplish his purpose, his redemptive work.
Hence, his final words from the cross: “It is accomplished.”
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Here is an excerpt from Mark, Chapter 14:
“They went to a place called Gethsemane, and Jesus said to his disciples, ‘Sit here while I pray.’ He took Peter, James and John along with him, and he began to be deeply distressed and troubled. ‘My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death,’ he said to them. ‘Stay here and keep watch.’ Going a little farther, he fell to the ground and prayed that if possible the hour might pass from him. ‘Abba, Father,’ he said, ‘everything is possible for you. Take this cup from me. Yet not what I will, but what you will.’”
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But so, yes…Jesus uses the name “Abba” to address God the Father, which is understandable, when you picture it, for at that moment he is sorrowful, afraid, on the verge of tears.
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And, subsequent to that, there is an enormous difference between the unjust death of a person, and the unjust death of God incarnate as a person. Though it is true that every instance of the former does echo or recollect the latter, and so has a special connection to it.
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For there is an enormous difference between a person who is holy, but who still is only a person — a saint or bodhisattva or sage or prophet — and a person who is begotten of God, and who thus in fact is God.
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I do not mean to sound technical here, but neither do I wish to be imprecise. The implications are too important.
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When I say that Jesus was “addressing God in prayer,” I mean that, as the second person of the Trinity, he was addressing the first person of the Trinity.
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In the Gospel of Mark, when Jesus is in the Garden of Gethsemane, he is said to have used the word “Abba,” which is Aramaic for “Father,” when addressing God in prayer. In this context the word assumes a childlike quality, similar to the way we might use the word “Papa.”
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The language that Jesus is said to have spoken in everyday life is Aramaic, although, as a Jewish man of devout family, he likely would have been literate in Hebrew, and probably understood some Greek and Latin too. It sounds funny or unusual to describe his learning this way, but I mean within his capacities as a human, to which the divine part of his nature always would have yielded, whenever the circumstances were appropriate.