IF YOU know anything about Iran, you will know that it is a vast country, roughly eight times the size of Great Britain. Its 636,000 square miles include an extensive central desert region, and formidable mountain ranges that separate towns and cities on every side — an inhospitable environment where very little survives in the extreme temperatures and arid climate.
I remember well the long car journeys as a child — seven or eight hours in any direction from Isfahan, where we lived, towards Tehran, Shiraz, Yazd, and other places. Long before the days of mobile phones, we would leave early in the morning — at 3 or 4 a.m. — to ensure that we were well on the way before the worst of the heat.
You could drive for miles and miles and see nothing but a brown landscape and the long road stretching out ahead — sometimes cut through the sheer rock face, with what was left towering on either side; other times with the level wilderness all around, as far as the eye could see.
Stops had to be planned carefully at the few watering holes or caravanserais along the way. Cups of sweet black tea, flat bread with cheese and walnuts; slices of watermelon always tasted better on these journeys. Punctures were a serious hazard, and the risk of running out of was water a real one.
I was oblivious of the dangers as a child, and remember only the sense of excitement, expectation, and, after we’d been on the road for a few hours, boredom; but now I realise how vulnerable we were and how exposed to the potential risks all around.
As we enter the final stages of our vigil at the foot of the cross, we hear Jesus utter the two simple words “I thirst”, thereby exposing his vulnerability and ultimately his humanity. If we have any doubt that the Son of God came down to earth and took human form, then here that doubt is expelled. Jesus is thirsty.
Here, the story of the cross becomes our story; for the terrible story of the one who is falsely accused, abandoned by friends, stripped, and humiliated, and who cries out in pain and desolation, is also the beautiful story of God, who came to earth to share our humanity. Just a few hours earlier in the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus had prayed to the Father — had implored him to let this cup pass from him.
But now, here on the cross, he’s ready to embrace the calling at the heart of his ministry — he claims the cup that the Father has given him. “I thirst,” he says, and reaches out towards what lies ahead. In this “I thirst,” Jesus’s resistance ends — he surrenders and accepts his vocation, which is to overcome the power of evil and hatred by giving himself in love.
THIS poses a question — and, indeed, a challenge for us all. What is your vocation, and have you embraced it? Are you doing and being what you are called to do and be? Are you able to say, “I thirst,” knowing that it may be costly and painful, but also that drinking the cup is the only way to fulfil your particular vocation — the only way to true fulfilment and to being the person God intends you to be?
As Jesus clasps the cup, it seems that he is totally alone, but, in acknowledging his humanity, he is also indicating his reliance on those around him. Alone, he cannot quench his thirst — he needs others to put the sponge to his lips. Even the Son of Man requires assistance. And underlying this is the extraordinary truth that God needs our co-operation: without us, God’s plans for the world cannot come to fruition.
If God’s Kingdom is to come on earth, we must play our part in both smaller and larger ways, working for peace and justice in our homes, churches, communities, our country, and our world. And not one of us is self-sufficient.
Despite the illusion of control, despite both our reluctance to admit to weakness and frailty and our desire to seem omni-competent, none of us — even the strongest — can survive alone. We need one another. There are times when we must ask for help and admit to failure and brokenness. Some are better at recognising this than others, better at modelling our interconnectedness and reliance on one another.
And it has been my experience that, when we are able to expose our weaknesses and frailties, rather than limiting or diminishing us, those very imperfections become the means by which we connect with others at a deeper level, allowing them in turn to recognise their frailty.
Each link forged in this way adds to the chain that is the bond of our humanity; each link drives us towards greater compassion and gentleness for one another. We haven’t dwelt too much yet on the sheer physicality of the crucifixion, on the brutality of death on a cross, the unimaginable strain that it puts on the body, the long, slow, and agonising death.
BUT let’s make no bones about it: it was a cruel and truly dreadful way to die. The simple cry of “I thirst” doesn’t begin to capture the full extent of the horror, but it does contain within it something of the frailty of the human condition and our need of others’ support.
When we first arrived in England in May of 1980, we had very little by way of worldly goods — just one suitcase each, which we had packed in the few days between my brother’s murder, his funeral, and our departure. We were totally reliant on the good will and generosity of others. But we were fortunate: we had family who took us in, and, in time, the Church structures kicked in to provide us with a base from which to rebuild our lives.
I never heard my parents complain, and I know they felt deep gratitude, but I also remember sensing that it wasn’t always easy for them to accept charity, to admit they were no longer self-sufficient but at the mercy of others.
AlamyGuli Francis-Dehqani (left in photo) was aged 14 when her father, the Anglican Bishop in Iran, the Rt Revd Hassan Dehqani-Tafti, was forced to flee Iran. The family left earlier, and were reunited with Bishop Dehqani-Tafti at Heathrow Airport in May 1980
For some reason, the memory of a blunt potato peeler has remained with me. It was in a box along with various other kitchen utensils that someone had cleared out of their home and brought round as a gift. As we struggled to peel vegetables later that day, my mother, in her gentle way, wondered what use someone imagined she might have for a blunt peeler that really needed throwing out.
In his hour of need, when Jesus cried out “I thirst,” it was sour wine he was offered on a sponge — hardly a drink to quench his thirst, I imagine, though perhaps it made the person offering it feel a little better. At least they were doing something. But charity shouldn’t just be about doing anything to salve our conscience.
It should be a gracious offering — costly, even — coming from the best of what we have.
My mind turns once more to those who are refugees today: the hundreds and thousands who have been displaced and forced to leave their homelands, many having faced untold dangers getting here and perhaps lost loved ones along the way; those professionals who have left good jobs and spent their life savings to reach safety; those who had nothing in the first place, arriving here destitute and alone; those held in detention centres, whose cases take months or years to be heard, who aren’t allowed to work and who receive meagre benefits that aren’t enough to live on; those stripped of their dignity.
Each one has a story to tell, each echoing Christ’s “I thirst,” which, in the end, is the cry of all humanity. For, ultimately, very little separates us from one another. Very little lies between those who have and those who have not, those who belong and those who feel they don’t: a handful of unforeseen circumstances, the odd bit of bad luck.
HOW would I respond to another’s cry of “I thirst” if I truly understood that what unites us is far greater than what divide us; that we all thirst and all need help to quench that thirst? That is what I see demonstrated in social-action projects that work with refugees.
Not so long ago, I visited Leicester City of Sanctuary, which seeks to offer a warm welcome and practical support for asylum-seekers and refugees — there are many Cities of Sanctuary across the UK. I spent several hours talking with those who work there, providing everything from a cooked meal, and sewing and English classes, to massages and football for the children.
I also listened to the stories of those seeking asylum in this country — several were from Iran, delighted to meet someone they could talk to in their own language.
But what struck me wasn’t so much that some people had come for help and others were offering it, but that together they were co-operating and collaborating — refugees, asylum-seekers, and British citizens all contributing through cooking, running stalls, playing with the children, all giving of their time, and, crucially, all gaining something through their encounter with one another.
Several volunteers told me how much they enjoyed being there and how much they benefited from the experience.
This is a model that has very little to do with some people giving from a place of abundance to others who come empty-handed, and much more to do with getting alongside one another, each recognising the worth of the other, each contributing to, and benefiting from, the other. And, in the process, each discovers that all of us thirst and all of us need to help quench the thirst of others.
This is at the core of our humanity, and it is a recognition that to belong we need to feel we are contributing. And, when we truly feel we belong — that we are both contributing to and being cared for by others — then we also have a sense of purpose, which, in turn, gives hope and the possibility to imagine a better future.
IN JESUS’s cry of “I thirst,” I detect something of the deep human instinct for choosing life over death. He was so near the end, and yet he hadn’t given up — he longs for change; even at this late stage, he believes in the possibility of transformation.
When we reach that point in life when all seems hopeless and we are totally overwhelmed — when we are burdened by anxiety, guilt, loss, shame, fear, pain, or anger — then the cry of “I thirst” prevents our reaching the point of no return.
It is an acknowledgement that I may need the help of others, but that I long for change and transformation.
The denial of emptiness within us will not do. Our brokenness cannot be buried, erased, or forgotten, but it can, with help and by God’s grace, be transformed. Desolation can turn to consolation, and even the most difficult of situations can be turned to good. For that is the power of the cross, turning violence to gentleness, hatred to love, and death to life.
Shortly, a soldier will pierce Jesus’s side to make sure he’s dead before his body is removed from the cross. As the sword penetrates his body, we are told, blood and water gush out. This has been no ordinary death, the crucifixion of some unfortunate criminal. This is the Son of God, an innocent man, fulfilling his vocation and turning all the norms of the world upside down. This is the thirsty one who is also the bearer of life-giving water; whose broken body becomes the bread of life, whose blood becomes the cup of salvation.
This is the wounded healer whose suffering shows us the extent of God’s love for us. He embraces pain not because it is good in itself, but as a means of absorbing the suffering that is part of the way of the world.
And he beckons us to follow his example — to use our wounds to become those who are not bowed down, bitter, and angry, but those who reach out in compassion to others. For our suffering takes us closer to the heart of God, who knows and understands the pain and who gives us strength to become life-bearers, as well as being those who thirst.
Dr Guli Francis-Dehqani is Bishop of Chelmsford. This is an edited extract from her book Cries from a Lost Homeland: Reflections on Jesus’ sayings from the cross published by Canterbury Press at £10.99 (Church Times Bookshop £9.89); 978-1-78622-383-8.