Office Of Readings | Tuesday, Lent Week 2 | A Commentary Of Saint Augustine On Psalm 140
‘The passion of the whole body of Christ.’
Saint Augustine
Saint Augustine’s commentary on Psalm 141 presents the suffering of Christ as inseparable from the suffering of the Church. Saint Augustine interprets the Psalmist’s plea—“Lord, I have cried to you, hear me”—as the voice of Christ in his human nature, but also as the voice of his body, the Church. This identification between Christ and the Church is fundamental to Saint Augustine’s theology. The trials of the faithful are not isolated events; they are part of the ongoing participation in the passion of Christ. Just as Christ prayed in anguish in Gethsemane, sweating drops of blood, so too does the Church continue to suffer until the end of time. The martyrdom of believers, both literal and spiritual, is an extension of Christ’s own sacrifice.
Saint Augustine’s meditation on the “evening sacrifice” expands this idea further. Christ’s crucifixion, occurring as the day fades, is understood as the ultimate offering—the moment when Christ, in assuming the burden of human sin, allows himself to be “nailed to the cross” on behalf of all. Yet for Saint Augustine, the cross is not the conclusion; it is a passage to something greater. The evening sacrifice becomes a morning sacrifice in the resurrection, transforming suffering into the promise of new life. This movement from death to life defines the Christian experience.
In interpreting Christ’s cry from the cross—“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”—Saint Augustine rejects the notion that Christ was abandoned by the Father. Instead, Saint Augustine sees these words as an expression of human frailty that Christ willingly takes upon himself. Christ speaks not only for himself but for humanity, giving voice to the suffering of all who experience alienation and distress. Saint Augustine connects this to Saint Paul’s teaching in Romans 6:6: “Our old nature was crucified with him, so that we should no longer be slaves to sin.” The cross, then, is not merely an event of suffering but an instrument of transformation. Through it, the faithful are drawn into Christ’s victory over sin and death.
Saint Augustine’s reflections are deeply shaped by his own journey. Born in 354 in Thagaste, North Africa, Saint Augustine was raised in a divided household, with a Christian mother, Saint Monica, and a pagan father. He spent much of his early life pursuing philosophy and worldly ambitions, but after a long period of inner turmoil, he experienced a dramatic conversion. Baptized by Saint Ambrose in 387, Saint Augustine became a priest and later the Bishop of Hippo. His theological writings, including Confessions and The City of God, would go on to shape Western Christianity. As bishop, Saint Augustine faced the collapse of Roman order, heretical divisions, and the suffering of his people. His reflections on suffering were not merely intellectual but born out of pastoral experience. He understood that the Christian life was marked by struggle but was ultimately directed toward redemption.
A Commentary Of Saint Augustine On Psalm 140
Lord, I have cried to you, hear me. This is a prayer we can all say. This is not my prayer, but that of the whole Christ. Rather, it is said in the name of his body. When Christ was on earth he prayed in his human nature, and prayed to the Father in the name of his body, and when he prayed drops of blood flowed from his whole body. So it is written in the Gospel: Jesus prayed with earnest prayer, and sweated blood. What is this blood streaming from his whole body but the martyrdom of the whole Church?
Lord, I have cried to you, hear me; listen to the sound of my prayer, when I call upon you. Did you imagine that crying was over when you said: I have cried to you? You have cried out, but do not as yet feel free from care. If anguish is at an end, crying is at an end; but if the Church, the body of Christ, must suffer anguish until the end of time, it must not say only: I have cried to you, hear me; it must also say: Listen to the sound of my prayer, when I call upon you.
Let my prayer rise like incense in your sight; let the raising of my hands be an evening sacrifice.
This is generally understood of Christ, the head, as every Christian acknowledges. When day was fading into evening, the Lord laid down his life on the cross, to take it up again; he did not lose his life against his will. Here, too, we are symbolised. What part of him hung on the cross if not the part he had received from us? How could God the Father ever cast off and abandon his only Son, who is indeed one God with him? Yet Christ, nailing our weakness to the cross (where, as the Apostle says: Our old nature was nailed to the cross with him), cried out with the very voice of humanity: My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
The evening sacrifice is then the passion of the Lord, the cross of the Lord, the oblation of the victim that brings salvation, the holocaust acceptable to God. In his resurrection he made this evening sacrifice a morning sacrifice. Prayer offered in holiness from a faithful heart rises like incense from a holy altar. Nothing is more fragrant than the fragrance of the Lord. May all who believe share in this fragrance.
Therefore, our old nature in the words of the Apostle, was nailed to the cross with him, in order, as he says, to destroy our sinful body, so that we may be slaves to sin no longer.
‘Death,’ says His Grace, ‘throws it all apart. For we are not as we should be. Faith requires our adjustment to God’s truth. God’s triumph in a very real sense requires in us the loss of our everything. Which, as with Mary at the other end of Jesus’s life, is God’s truth.’ The Gospel reading is of John 11: 1-45, which is a long passage, and His Grace’s homiletic theme commences in textual wilderness. Our brokenness – in this place – a family home. Our faith, our doubt, our death… The irruption – death, doubt, fear – within our precious scenes and our most intimate places. Our domesticity. His Grace speaks from the chair, as is a bishop’s prerogative, and says: ‘So much is obscure in the Gospels. We’re always reaching through them. We’re never there. Really, we never are. Our knowledge, our understanding, of the Gospels is never complete, and with each reading comes a new revelation. There are always new riches there. Just as there are between all of us, between myself and you. The Gospels are living texts. This is a part of the conversation we have with our own Christianity. It is a part of who we are in our relationship with Jesus. We are in this sense always on the brink. ‘So yes, there is plenty that doesn’t seem to make sense. As one of the order of bishops, we would be lying if we said that weren’t the case. They are not easy texts to encounter, if by that word we may signify something more than a superficial glancing off against, but rather a profound search for the word of God. The Gospels are written by people who had their own ideas, and often didn’t know what had really happened. Luke is quite explicit on this point. His is an investigation, from the explicitly claimed point of view of an historian, rather than that of a first-hand witness, who attempts, so he says, to set out an orderly account, out of the chaos, the sheer muddle, that has been handed down to him. It is possible to imagine Luke researching and composing his account after many years, when there has arisen a desire to know what exactly happened, and this implies a certain call to faith and certain demands of historicity, to historical exactitude. So in these different ways, the people of the first years of Christian faith are in the dark. There is also a decisive need to define the life of Jesus. And people didn’t get Jesus. The whole meaning of Christianity is only now beginning to take root throughout the composition. So much needs to be evangelized. The light shines almost in tentative fashion like that first star, which drew the wise men from the east to our Lord’s cradle. ‘John’s is widely held to be a very late Gospel. There are others who say that John’s Gospel might have been the first to acquire its true shape, because it most fully expresses Jesus, as we know him to be, as members of the Catholic Church. We don’t really know when any of this is being written, but we get a feel in John of a Gospel refined over many years, through a community. So there’s a lot going on there that I’d like you to think about. ‘What I would like to suggest to you is that, while within the Gospels we are often confronted with clues, guesswork, stories that have been handed down through so many people, and so in this sense we might find ourselves to be in the wilderness, this is the very desolate space itself to which we must give ourselves in order to experience Christ’s full redemption in our lives. I suggest it is for God’s glory that we do so. ‘As we become aware of ourselves, in this seminary, we find ourselves in a very secure, comfortable setting, and there are signs of Easter everywhere. Within the very fabric of these buildings, our Lord is risen; our Lord lives. But now this is our Lenten journey, where death enters, where death breaks us. We are to ride into Jerusalem in triumph, and then we are to be utterly broken, all hope gone, our hope extinguished. And really, I suggest to you, it is only by inhabiting this thought, as if we don’t know Easter is there, that our new life can follow, just when we have given up all hope, when every promise that Jesus made to us seems to have been cancelled. ‘And here now we have the story of Lazarus. I should like to suggest to you that we have a very powerful call now. In our very comfortable space, our domesticity, with all this comfort, where so very little might seem to happen each day, so it might seem to you, there is a disturbance within all of this comfort, and that is a disturbance within ourselves, and that is our call to Jesus. I think it is correct to say that our most comfortable places break in the light of Jesus from the inside, in order that we may take the necessary steps to be with Jesus. ‘Faith is not comfortable. I think that we can all receive the message of the rolling away of the rock from the tomb of Lazarus to say something of vital importance to ourselves concerning our openness to God’s love. The rock we roll away can come in all sorts of guises, but we know when we are blocked, and I firmly believe if we are truthful then we know where those blocks might be. ‘Next Sunday, which will be Palm Sunday, we process as it were to Jerusalem, to begin our Holy Week. Now as I speak to you we are on the brink. Even now, I suggest it might be very good for all of us to lay aside what we think we know, to fall apart a little, and so […]
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