THE ‘PASSION’ OF FRANK GRISWOLD

News Analysis

By David W. Virtue

The Episcopal Church’s Presiding Bishop, Frank T. Griswold, recently viewed Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ and reflected on it in the April 2004 issue of Episcopal Life:

“Having heard so much about the film, I was quite curious to see what my own reaction would be. I wondered if I would be moved, or repelled by the violence. I also wondered if I would find myself seeing the film at variance with my own understanding of the Passion. What was clearest to me as I left the theater was how much my understanding of the Cross derives from a sense of its life-givingness rather than the extremity of Jesus’ suffering.”

A conservative observer quipped:

“I figured that’s where it came from. The scene is Golgotha. At the foot of Christ’s Cross circles Frank Griswold like an art instructor, stroking his chin in faux thoughtfulness, saying ‘Hmmm’ every so often—then finally looking up and saying, ‘Interesting approach. And I think I see where you’re going with it. But don’t you think you could have been a whole lot more, you know… upbeat?’”

Griswold continues:

“This life-givingness is made clear in the film when the centurion who pierces Jesus’ side with a spear is bathed in the torrent of water that issues forth. The baptismal imagery at this point is unmistakable.”

This moment, however, exists only in Gibson’s cinematic vision—not in Scripture. No Gospel account describes the outflowing water as baptismal imagery, and no theological commentator (to date) has interpreted it as such. Griswold’s reading is a theological extrapolation far beyond the text.

In truth, baptism in parts of the Episcopal Church has become heavily politicized—its original theological grounding obscured or abandoned.

Griswold contrasts Gibson’s portrayal with the 12th-century San Damiano Cross—the icon before which St. Francis of Assisi reportedly heard Christ say, “Rebuild my Church”:

“The image itself is devoid of suffering, though Jesus is clearly crucified. His arms are extended in such a way as to suggest an embrace in which he is gathering to himself all that lies before him… Beneath the arms of Christ are panels depicting the Blessed Virgin Mary, John the Beloved Disciple, and Mary Magdalene.”

For Griswold, this “passionless” Christ—eschatological, open-armed, non-penal—is central to his mystical vision of Christianity. Notably absent is any notion of substitutionary atonement: the idea that Christ bore God’s wrath in our place finds no resonance in his theology.

Indeed, Griswold appears to reject suffering—not only for himself or the institutional church, but even for Christ—preferring what one wag called a “Pinot Grigio Christ”: passionless, inclusive, mildly fruity.

He quotes the Book of Common Prayer:

“Lord Jesus Christ, you stretched out your arms of love on the hard wood of the cross that everyone might come within the reach of your saving embrace…”

Then adds:

“As I pray this, I know that I too am caught up in that saving embrace, as indeed is the whole of humanity.”

But here lies a critical divergence from classical orthodoxy: the efficacy of Christ’s “saving embrace” depends on personal response. One thief was saved; the other was not. If Griswold means all humanity is saved regardless of faith or repentance, he has departed from the exclusivity of the Gospel.

He elaborates:

“To be enfolded in Christ’s embrace is both consoling and challenging… Left to my own devices, my capacity to embrace is partial and incomplete. It is beyond my ability to embrace everyone. But, as Christ’s Spirit moves within me, I am enabled to extend my arms and welcome all that stands before me… I am only able to embrace all others when I allow myself to be drawn into Christ’s embrace and then ask Christ to embrace the others through me.”

Note: he uses the word embrace eight times in that paragraph. As another observer remarked:

“Here Frank gets in touch with his inner Leo Buscaglia.”

Later, Griswold cites Jesus’ words:

“And I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all things to myself.”

He interprets this as evidence that the Cross is ultimately about divine magnetism—“a transforming and deathless love which reorders all things… makes all things new.” He speaks of “the triumphant Christ drawing the world to himself.”

Yet he seems embarrassed by the suffering Christ—eager to rush past the cross to the crown. But Scripture insists: glory follows suffering. Griswold’s “reordering” has, in fact, produced chaos: 18 provinces have declared broken or impaired communion with him over the consecration of Gene Robinson and the revision of sexual ethics.

Finally, he concludes:

“Beyond dispute the Cross was an instrument of torture and death. But Christ, by his death and resurrection, has transformed an instrument of death into a tree of life… We must never forget that the Cross is the enduring sign of abundant life.”

Yet his framing suggests the Cross’s violence was optional—perhaps avoidable, had God (or Frank) preferred a gentler path. His vision risks relocating redemption to a rarified plain “beyond good and evil”—a place clean of blood, nails, or sin’s gravity.

In the end, Griswold’s ‘Passion’ is less than Gibson’s—and far less than the biblical one. It is a passion drained of penalty, a cross emptied of atonement. A Christ who saves no one concretely—only vaguely, aspirationally—is no Savior at all.

END