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One of my friends is truly a classy act. She stays on top of all the latest fashions and is very generous in sharing her knowledge and advice with others. Once in a while she even contributes to the stylistic improvements of her friends. To that end she recently gifted me with a new pair of reading glasses. They are nothing fancy yet they are elegant in an almost over-the-top European way.
When I did not immediately wear them my friend inquired about my hesitation. Did I not like them? Were they too much? Had I become a conservative dresser? I told her that I would wait till the following Sunday to wear them. Somewhat bemused she asked me why. Not knowing if she would understand I told her that it was simply something I did, despite the fact I had my clear reasons for doing this.
Growing up it was instilled in us that whenever we received a new article of clothing or an accessory they had to be worn on a Sunday first. The same held for new tables cloths, crockery, cutlery, etc. No reason was ever given. We just knew that new items were first worn or used on Sundays. And “Sunday best” was our shopping norm. When we saw something we liked we would not buy it unless it passed the “Sunday best” test. I remember my grandfather’s disapproving reaction vividly when I appeared at Sunday dinner in my first pair of store bought corduroys.
I truly loved Sundays. The anticipation actually began on Friday when the whole house was readied for Sunday. On Saturday my mom had her weekly appointment at the beauty parlor. In the afternoon we went to the market where we bought all the ingredients for the next day’s meals.
I loved Sundays. Dressing up has never been a hassle for me, on the contrary. Also, we did not do any work on Sunday, not even homework. Stores were closed except for the bakery as one just had to have freshly baked bread on Sunday. There was hardly any traffic. The streets were quiet. There was a deep sense of peace.
I loved Sundays. Even as a young boy I enjoyed Sunday Mass. That was a good thing since there was absolutely no excuse for missing Sunday Mass safe maybe for an emergency trip to the hospital. I can almost hear our church bells calling us to worship. We left our home as soon as the bells started to ring. As we walked there we were joined by our neighbors who also made their way to church. From a young age I got involved in the ministries, first as a server then as a lector..
I loved Sundays. After Mass we went home for a family breakfast followed by a visit to my one grandmother. Then it was on to lunch at my other grandmother’s home where we dined with the aunts, uncles and cousins. The afternoon was spent playing in the garden or inside, always careful not to soil our “Sunday best.”
Things are very different today, even in my small hometown. Stores are open, the streets are filled with cars, one can barely hear the tower bells and hardly anyone goes to Mass anymore. Our Catholic customs are competing with many, many distractions. But maybe the greatest impediment of all is our inability to simply stop and rest for a moment, either physically or spiritually. We are the victims of our obsession with doing things and getting things done.
Though I love Sundays, I neither want to glorify my pious past nor give in to a boost of nostalgia, yet I do think we can take something away from this cherished memory of celebrating Sunday in ages past. I will leave it up to you to decide what that might be. By now you may have noted that I truly love Sundays and I hope you do too.
Now I wish I had told my friend the reason why I wanted to premier my new glasses on Sunday. Maybe I will send her this blog or better yet, sit her down for a conversation proudly sporting my new glasses.
Three weeks ago I was in Belgium for a Mass celebrated on the one year anniversary of my beloved auntie’s passing. As I was not able to attend her funeral I was grateful to be with my family for this Mass. My auntie was quite extra-ordinary. As is somewhat the norm in my family she was an incredibly strong willed woman. And though it might sound cliché, she really did things her own way.
By the grace of God I spent some time with her mere weeks before her unexpected death. No-one would have ever guessed her to be 80 when seeing the two of us dancing the night away at my niece’s wedding. She rode her bike every day. She attended choir rehearsal every week. She loved to travel. And most importantly she loved her faith and was quite outspoken about it, ruffling feathers on more than one occasion. That is how I remember her: a beautiful, intelligent, sweet troublemaker.
Everyone called her Maddy. Her full name, however was Mary Magdalene. When I first learned her full name I was surprised that any mother would name her daughter after a notorious prostitute, albeit a repentant one. Being a nosy teenager I bluntly asked her about her name. She simply suggested I research the life of Mary of Magdala beyond what I was taught to believe.
I quickly discovered two schools of thought about Mary of Magdala. The churches in the East have always honored her as a great follower of Jesus and refer to her as the Apostle to the Apostles. The churches in the West have traditionally portrayed her as a repentant sinner. And to my youthful surprise both schools claimed biblical proof for their position.
The churches in the East base their belief on several important scriptural passages. Mary of Magdala stayed by Jesus even as he was dying on the cross (Matthew 27:55–56; Mark 15:40–41; John 19:25). She was also present when he was laid in the tomb (Matthew 27:61; Mark 15:47). Even more importantly, she was the first (John 20:1–10) or at least among the first (Matthew 28:1–8; Mark 16:1–8; Luke 24:1–12) to arrive at the empty tomb. And, she was the first (Mark 16:9-11; John 20:14–18) or at least among the first (Matthew 28:9) to meet the risen Christ. Finally, it was Mary of Magdala who announced the resurrection to the apostles (John 20: 18).
The churches in the West have based their traditional understanding on four other Gospel passages. The unnamed sinner who anointed Jesus’ feet was said to be Mary of Magdala (Luke 7:36–50). She was also thought to be the unnamed adulteress who was saved by Jesus from stoning (John 8:3–11). The other two passages do name her and mention that she was healed by Jesus of seven demons (Luke 8:1–3 and Mark 16:9). These demons were believed to be the seven deadly sins, with lust being one of them. Though none of these theological conjectures are supported by current biblical scholarship, they sealed the fate of Mary of Magdala as a repentant sinner for centuries. Today, the churches in the West have joined those in the East in celebrating Mary of Magdala as a woman of strong faith, first witness to the resurrection and Apostle to the Apostles.
This week we celebrate the feast of Mary of Magdala, Apostle to the Apostles and with her we celebrate all the women who make up our church. Most especially those who ruffle the occasional feather as they carry on in the tradition of Mary of Magdala as the Apostle to the Apostles.
After my research I sat down with my aunt to share my findings. She smiled and simply said “good.” I knew exactly what she meant.
As prime travel season is upon us, I am reminded of a trip I took many years ago to Santiago de Compostella in Spain. Santiago is Spanish for Saint James, one of the 12 disciples. Compostella is a derivation of the Latin: Campus Stellae or ‘field of stars.’ The origin of the name for Santiago de Compostella goes back to the middle ages. Legend has it that after his death, the disciples of St. James brought his body to Spain for burial. When the location of his burial site was lost to history, some shepherds noticed strange lights or stars in a field. Upon further investigation they discovered that the stars pointed to the place of burial of St. James. A church was erected over his tomb. As the news of the miraculous discovery and the many miracles worked there spread throughout Europe, Santiago de Compostella quickly became an important place of pilgrimage and the original church was replaced with the current monumental Cathedral.
During the Middle Ages, people made their way to Compostella from all over Europe. Dozens quickly became hundreds and hundreds became thousands. Pilgrims came from Italy, France, Northern Europe and the British Isles. Soon, paths were formed like walking trails in forests. Those paths became the official route to take and refuges and churches were built along the road. These were mostly tended by religious communities who provided pilgrims with food, water, rest, and spiritual care if needed.
A pilgrim coming from Great Britain started out by walking to the crossing at Dover. Once in France, he or she picked up the French pilgrims’ way, which went to the French-Spanish border in the Pyrenees. There the pilgrim connected with the Spanish portion of the route. These pilgrimages could take many months depending on one’s place of departure. Regardless of its length, the journey was never easy. Bad weather, hunger, sickness, and burglary were all part of the course. It took extraordinary dedication or even an ecclesiastical obligation such as a penance for committed sins to go on this kind of pilgrimage.
Today the pilgrimage is popular, again. True pilgrims still walk to Santiago. And though the circumstances are better, bad weather, occasional hunger, thirst, sleeplessness, illness, and even burglary make the journey very real. Less dedicated pilgrims may take to riding a horse or a bike, driving a car, riding in a bus or even taking the plane. I am sad to say that we took the easy route and rode in a luxury coach. Yet regardless of one’s mode of transportation, everyone’s goal is to make it to Compostella—the Field of Stars.
This pilgrimage is a metaphor for our entire Christian journey. Some of us get to Compostella, the place of light, with the speed of an airplane, maybe even sitting in first class seats. Others take a slower, yet still direct route to Compostella. And some are rather circuitous about their journey. They may start in England, make it to France, take a detour through Italy and finally arrive at the gates of Compostella.
Similarly, our journey to oneness with Christ may take a long time and a less than direct path. Others take a more direct and quicker route. We all make this journey on our own terms and according to our own spiritual compass, though we share the same goal: getting to the field of stars; touching the light; becoming one with Christ.
Most of us will never make the trip to Compostella, but many of us have our own Compostella, our own field of stars, our own place of pilgrimage. For Minnesotans this is often a favorite place by a lake or in the woods where we can find rest and peace and reconnect with God and one another. Should you find yourself there on a rainy day and wanting to watch a movie I recommend “The Way.” This film tells the story of Santiago de Compostella beautifully. It also speaks to the journey each one of us is taking. May this summer’s journey bring renewal of body, mind, and soul to all of us.
As prime travel season is upon us I am reminded of trip I took many years ago to Santiago de Compostella in Spain. Santiago is Spanish for Saint James, one of the 12 disciples. Compostella is a derivation of the Latin: Campus Stellae or field of stars. The origin of the name for Santiago de Compostella goes back to the middle ages. Legend has it that after his death the disciples of St. James brought his body to Spain for burial. When the location of his burial site was lost to history some shepherds noticed strange lights or stars in a field. Upon further investigation they discovered that the stars pointed to the place of burial of St. James. A church was erected over his tomb. As the news of the miraculous discovery and the many miracles worked there spread throughout Europe Santiago de Compostella quickly became an important place of pilgrimage and the original church was replaced with the current monumental Cathedral.
During the Middle Ages people made their way to Compostella from all over Europe. Dozens quickly became hundreds and hundreds became thousands. Pilgrims came from Italy, France, Northern Europe and the British Isles. Soon, paths were formed like walking trails in forests. Those paths became the official route to take and refuges and churches were built along the road. These were mostly tended by religious communities who provided pilgrims with food, water, rest and sprititual care if needed.
A pilgrim coming from Great Britain started out by walking to the crossing at Dover. Once in France he or she picked up the French pilgrims’ way which went to the French-Spanish border in the Pyrenees. There the pilgrim connected with the Spanish portion of the route. These pilgrimages could take many months depending on one’s place of departure. Regardless of its length, the journey was never easy. Bad weather, hunger, sickness and burglary were all part of the course. It took extraordinary dedication or even an ecclesiastical obligation such as a penance for committed sins to go on this kind of pilgrimage.
Today the pilgrimage is popular, again. True pilgrims still walk to Santiago. And though the circumstances are better; bad weather, occasional hunger, thirst, sleeplessness, illness and even burglary make the journey very real. Less dedicated pilgrims may take to riding a horse or a bike, driving a car, riding in a bus or even taking the plane. I am sad to say that we took the easy route and rode in a luxury coach. Yet regardless of one’s mode of transportation, everyone’s goal is to make it to Compostella, the Field of Stars.
This pilgrimage is a metaphor for our entire Christian Journey. Some of us get to Compostella, the place of light with the speed of an airplane, maybe even sitting in first class seats. Others take a slower, yet still direct route to Compostella. And some are rather circuitous about their journey. They may start in England, make it to France, take a detour through Italy and finally arrive at the tomb of the saint.
Similarly, for some, our journey to oneness with Christ may take a long time and a less than direct path. Others take a more direct and quicker route. We all make this journey on our own terms and according to our own spiritual compass, though we share the same goal: getting to the field of stars; touching the light; becoming one with Christ.
Most of us will never make the trip to Compostella, but many of us have our own Compostella, our own field of stars, our own place of pilgrimage. For Minnesotans this is often a favorite place by a lake or in the woods where we can find rest and peace and reconnect with God and one another. Should you find yourself there on a rainy day and wanting to watch a movie I recommend “The Way.” This film tells the story of Santiago de Compostella beautifully. It also speaks to the journey each one of us is taking. May this summer’s journey bring renewal of body, mind and soul to all of us.
Some years ago I was asked to give a tour of The Basilica to a group of lawyers, physicians, reporters and university professors from the Middle East. Most of them were Muslim with the exception of one or two Christians. They had been invited by the State Department to experience our country first-hand. My task was to show them the building and while doing that answer any questions they might have about Christianity. Given the many images and symbols around our building it was rather easy to offer a quick introduction to our catholic faith.
Toward the end of the tour a journalist from Yemen asked me how we could consider ourselves monotheists or believers in one God as we seemingly worshipped three Gods. As fate or better yet, Divine Providence would have it we were standing by the chapel of St. Anthony. Carved in the wall leading to this chapel is a representation of a snake and a clover, the symbolic representation of St. Patrick. The snake refers to the belief that Patrick chased all snakes out of Ireland. The clover was used by Patrick to explain the mystery of the Trinity. Pointing out that a three lobed clover leaf has indeed three lobes but constitutes one leaf he explained that the Holy Trinity is one God but three persons.
I pointed out the carving of the clover in the wall and told the story of St. Patrick. I told them that we have a threefold experience of the one God as Creator, Redeemer and Sanctifier. I spoke of our God we call Father who created all that is. I spoke of our God we know as Son who redeemed us from our sinfulness and death. And I spoke of our God as Spirit who inspires us to live according to the Gospel.
Hesitatingly admitting that on some level this made sense, the journalist then told me of a picture she saw of the Christian God in the form of three men. How was she to deduce that this actually was an image of one God? I asked her if the three men looked alike.” Indeed they did”, she said, “they looked exactly alike”. There, of course is a reason for that as the three are actually the one and the same.
Nevertheless, the representation of God as three men, more than likely old and long bearded white men does not necessarily enhance the understanding of the Trinity. In the end, God only became human in Jesus Christ. Depicting the other two persons of the Holy Trinity in human terms may be too much of an anthropomorphic approach to the Trinity. This actually may impede the understanding of our God by Christians and non-Christians alike.
The mystery of our Tri-une God is in essence the mystery of an intimate relationship. In the same way as two humans who love one another are one in their love but separate individuals so the persons of the Trinity are one in their relationship but distinct in their personhood.
As our visitors left The Basilica they thanked me profusely for giving them a better understanding of Christianity. The Yemini journalist said nothing, but just smiled. To this day I am not sure what she ended up thinking about our faith. Of course, thinking is probably the wrong verb as it really is all about believing. After all, as the little boy by the sea told St. Augustine, it is no more difficult to move all the water of the ocean using a seashell than it is to comprehend the Holy Trinity.
Many, many years ago I was asked to proclaim the first reading on the solemnity of Pentecost. I was about 12 years old and was extremely excited to be asked. Little did I know that this is one of the most difficult readings to proclaim. My dear great-aunt, sister Hildegard worked with me on the pronunciation of the words. I was quite intrigued by the people I had never heard about: who were the Parthians, the Medes or the Elamites? My great-aunt seized the opportunity and enlightened me about all of them. Ever since, I have had a great love for the Acts of the Apostles. And in the spirit of full disclosure, despite my careful preparation, I stumbled. It was Phrygia and Pamphilia that did me in. Embarrassed I solemnly declared I would never proclaim in church again.
Despite the embarrassment, I will always be grateful for the experience and especially for my great-aunt’s introduction to the early church. It allowed me to imagine Jerusalem some 2000 years ago. I likened it to the Sunday Market in Brussels, the capital of Belgium and Europe. When my grandmother took me there for the first time I could not believe my eyes. Coming from a small and traditional town in Flanders, the sight of people from all over the world made me dizzy with excitement. I could not believe the exuberant and colorful clothes. Competing music in unknown languages blared from the different booths. I saw vegetables I had never seen before and to this day I remember being overcome with the scent of the many different spices. It was an absolute delight and it felt like I was traveling from country to country in a matter of moments. This is how I imagined Jerusalem in the time of the apostles.
Having a vivid imagination I knew exactly where the apostles were. I saw them hiding in the upper room. In stark contrast to the festive market outside, the apostles were laden with angst and burdened by uncertainty. I could see the fear in their eyes and feel the weight on their shoulders. And then, in an instant everything changed. Aflame with the Holy Sprit they threw open the doors and windows, burst into the streets and started speaking of the marvelous deeds of God.
This happened with so much energy that it quieted the market gathering. And miraculously, everyone could understand what the apostles were saying, no matter their native tongue. By the power of the Holy Spirit, all the sudden the differences between all these people were overcome as they all received the same Good News.
Our world today is very complex and extremely diverse. Yet, unlike my image of the Jerusalem market where there was a certain harmony within the diversity a dangerous fog of fear and anger seems to linger over our world today. These days, diversity of any kind often leads to division and rather than experiencing it as something exciting and enriching diversity is met with suspicion and apprehension while the gap between the many groups and factions is widening at an alarming pace.
The political world is particularly affected by this. Yet, our church is not immune to this either. Rather than welcoming the richness that comes from respectful dialogue between diverse opinions we seek safety in uniformity. And rather than listening to one another it seems like we just speak louder and louder in a desperate attempt to be heard and to win whichever battle we are waging. Sadly, we lack the inner peace and the mutual respect needed to listen intently to one another and learn from one another and together, under the guidance of the Holy Spirit continue to weave the richly diverse tapestry of Christianity and humanity.
I look forward to the day when it will be said: “We are republicans, democrats and independents; rich and poor; liberals, conservatives and moderates; women and men and children; gay and straight; Africans, Asians and Americans; Australians and Europeans yet we hear them speaking in our own tongue of the mighty acts of God.” We are very different, and yet, we are one. What a great market place that will be. May that day come soon!
“Ask Mother Mary for help.” With these words my grandmother always sent me along, either to school or camp or just on my way home. At first I thought she was telling me I could always ask her for help as her name was Mary. It was not until she was more explicit about it that I learned she was referring to the Blessed Mother.
From that day on whenever my grandmother suggested I “ask Mother Mary for help” I obliged. Without much thought, I usually just repeated what my grandmother told me and prayed: “Mother Mary, help me.” Most of the time, there was no specific need. And while this interaction seemed somewhat perfunctory and almost mindless it was comforting.
One time I remember asking my grandmother how it was that I should request Mary’s help? I clearly had never met her. And since we did not know one another how could I be assured that she would help me? Without saying a word, my grandmother stopped me in my tracks and walked me to the Lourdes grotto in her garden. She told me to “look at her face.” We stood there for a long while without saying anything. At first I thought it strange but as I continued to look at Mary’s face it was as if I no longer saw the plaster statue of Our Lady of Lourdes. I actually had a strong sense that I was gazing into the eyes of Mary herself. I had a veritable “Visio Divina” or “Seeing the Divine” moment before it was named thus.
Mary looked remarkably like my grandmother, though maybe a bit younger and darker skinned. And sounding like my grandmother she assured me that I could always “Ask Mother Mary for help.” I am not sure how long the experience lasted. Suddenly, I felt my grandmother’s hand on my shoulder. I looked at her. She nodded and walked me back to the front door. As we said our goodbyes I told her that Mary looked and sounded just like her. My grandmother smiled, waved me out and said “Ask Mother Mary for help.”
As I am writing this column I am looking into the face of the many statues of Mary that grace my office: Our Lady of Lourdes, Our Lady Queen of Heaven, Our Lady of Fatima, Our Lady of Sorrows, Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception, the Immaculate Heart of Mary, Our Lady of LaVang, Our Lady of Africa, Our Lady of Guadalupe. They all look different. They appear as they were described by those who had a vision of them. And they all remind me of that one moment filled with grace so many years ago and I can hear my grandmother’s voice inviting me to: “Ask Mother Mary for help.”
My response to this invitation is no longer as quick, automatic or evident as it was when I was a young boy. I guess I have become a bit tainted by age and I may have lost some of my ability for spiritual seeing and hearing. Sometimes I wish for that uncomplicated time when I could just ask for help. I also wish for the amazing sense of Mary’s presence I had so many years ago. Maybe I don’t listen well enough? Or maybe I look in all the wrong places?
As we celebrate Mary during the month of May I will be looking for her, not only in the face of the many statues I have in my office but also in the faces of the many women who surround me. They have nourished my faith from the very beginning and they continue to do so until today. Some of them do this from the other side of this life while others do it here and now. And I will ponder the question whether Mary took on my grandmother’s face when she appeared to me or whether my grandmother looked like Mary? In either case, it is an affirmation that all of us are called—not only to become like Christ—but also to become like Mary, this strong Jewish women who dared to say yes to the greatest mystery of all: bearing God to the world.
On Mother’s day I will light a candle for my mother, my grandmother and for all the women who surround me as I think of them and honor them and pray for them. I will ponder their face in that of Mary and Mary’s face in theirs and I will “ask Mother Mary for help.”
He is Risen
One of my most treasured memories of the Easter Season goes all the way back to my years as an altar server. On Easter Monday, after celebrating the many Holy Week Liturgies, our 30 or so servers were separated in groups of four and assigned sections of our parish. We were to go from home to home, ring the door bell and wish whoever opened the door a Happy Easter. Since most everyone in our town was Catholic we were blissfully unaware of the potential interfaith implications of our actions. Most people were expecting us and returned our greeting with a gift of chocolate Easter eggs. At the end of the day we all returned to our parish church and divvied up what was left of the chocolate loot, having indulged in some of it before making it back to church.
Though I did not realize it at the time, this was an important evangelization tool. Our mission really was to bring Easter Greetings to those people who had not celebrated Easter in church. This kind of living-out of our faith in the market place has lost much of its luster as we have become an increasingly pluralistic society with accompanying demands of political correctness. Much of what I took for granted, from processions through our streets, to the ubiquitous Marian chapels and saints’ shrines, to this Easter Monday activity has disappeared. Thus we have lost some of the concrete expressions of our faith outside of our churches.
Though, of course, it is not our desire to insult people with our outward expressions of faith. We always need to respect where people are at in their own faith journey even as proclaim to the world what we believe and in whom we believe. If our church is to be healthy and thrive our faith must be celebrated in our churches as well as in the market place.
So, what do you think, should we have our servers and by extension all our liturgical ministers knock on doors to wish people Happy Easter? In our days, a good alternative might be to do this via social media. So, lets tweet and post away that Jesus Christ is Risen. He is risen indeed!
In the garden of olives,
among the ancient trees with their gnarled bark and twisted branches
the apostles have fallen asleep,
blissfully unaware of what is about to happen.
By contrast, Jesus became increasingly restless and almost desperate.
Could he really go through with this?
Did he have the strength to endure the agony of a dreadful death?
Though fear threatened to darken his soul;
to crush his will;
and even to end his mission,
he rose above it,
uttering quietly at first,
but then stronger and stronger again:
"Not my will, but your will be done."
As he rose from prayer, Judas approached him.
He had shared Jesus’ life for some three years.
They talked together, ate together, traveled together.
That night, he came to Jesus and kissed him one last time.
This was no kiss of love, rather, a kiss of rejection and betrayal.
Though they all cheered him on just days before, on that night
Judas betrayed him, his disciples abandoned him and the soldiers arrested him as if he were a criminal.
Standing the Sanhedrin he appeared helpless, frail, vulnerably human,
not unlike the many defenseless people he set out to help.
He spent his life preaching and teaching,
blessing and healing,
choosing the side of the oppressed,
now he is waiting to be judged
joining the fate of all those who are oppressed,
of those who are suffering,
and ultimately, those condemned to death .
His fate, like that of many others,
was decided based on fear, envy and jealousy:
“You are not like us.”
Having abandoned Jesus in The Garden Peter returned quietly and probably somewhat sheepishly.
He warmed himself at the campfire
near the place where Jesus was held captive.
Jesus and Peter had a strong,
while at times tumultuous relationship.
Peter seems to have been prone to grandstanding.
Yet, he also suffered great doubts, he was afraid,
and he ran away when Jesus was arrested.
Like Peter, we are well-meaning and loving, yet, we are weak.
"I am never going to betray you." And yet we do!
We love and try to live according to the Gospel, but we fail.
Jesus never condemned Peter, neither does he condemn us.
Rather, Jesus invites us to acknowledge our failings, accept our weaknesses, know our limits, ask forgiveness and try again.
In turn, we are asked to accept the failings of others, to show mercy to those who hurt us, and to never disregard anyone.
This kind of mercy is not shown to him, though.
The same people who sang Hosannas mere days ago,
now cry out: “Crucify.”
Prejudice, insinuation, gossip, instigation, mob-mentality,
-none of which are foreign to our world today-
seal Jesus’ fate as Pilate condemns him to death.
Even when facing death Jesus did not waver in His love of God
in His commitment to God’s people,
and in His condemnation of injustice, religious and civic alike.
The cross is Jesus’ decisive stance against hatred and his ever-lasting banner of love.
The cross of Jesus is a permanent reminder that like Him, we are to love unconditionally and speak out against all injustice.
His cross is our stance against hatred,
and our banner for love even unto death.
Then the soldiers stripped off his clothes.
They threatened and mocked him.
They tied his body to a pillar and whipped him.
They placed a purple cape over his bleeding shoulders and
pressed a crown of thorns into his skull.
They utterly humiliated him.
Like Jesus, people are imprisoned today and they are abused,
Some of them are Christians who are suffering for their faith
Some of them will die for Christ.
Others are not Christian and they too suffer
and they too might die, for their faith.
Jesus endured this profound humiliation to expose all abuse;
to show that God is on the side of all victims;
and that violence is never of God.
bent under the weight of the wood,
arduous step after arduous step,
Jesus carries his cross.
The cross of Jesus is heavy,
weighed down by all the misery and evil in our world.
He staggers under this burden.
He falls and gets up, falls and gets up, falls and gets up,
never giving up on even one of us.
Gazing upon Jesus carrying the cross,
may we be inspired to mend our sinful ways,
and turn from deeds of darkness to acts of light,
and so lift the burdens that not only weigh down Jesus,
but weigh down so many people around us.
Shouldering the cross, Jesus teaches us to reject all sin and injustice,
and to struggle for solidarity and hope,
arduous step after arduous step.
Simon of Cyrene is a passer-by, an on-looker,
whose curiosity is peeked by all that is happening?
A stranger, he is pressed into helping Jesus,
buttressing the weight of the cross.
Like Simon was asked to help Jesus carry his cross,
we are called to carry one another's cross.
Women accompanied Jesus from the very beginning.
They ministered to the needy with him;
They spread the Good News alongside him;
They were faith-filled, courageous, and committed to his mission.
Seeing how Jesus struggled to carry his cross,
how he had been abandoned by all but one of his disciples,
the women ignored the soldiers and walked up to him,
They embraced him.
They wiped his face.
They offered him solace, even but for a moment.
Jesus’ suffering continues unto today,
for he suffers with all those who suffer;
their suffering is his suffering;
and his suffering is our suffering,
we must be courageous like the women of Jerusalem.
We must stand up to those who cause and perpetuate injustices.
And we must console and help those in need.
Having arrived at Golgotha they laid his body on a cross,
they stretched his arms and legs over the wood,
they pounded nails into his hands and feet
and raised the cross.
Naked, humiliated, tortured, disfigured,
the Son of God hangs on a cross:
a sign of foolishness to many,
the way to salvation for us.
Hanging on the cross,
Jesus, an innocent victim,
embodied all victims,
thus unmistakably stating
that God is on the side of those
who are marginalized, ignored, avoided, deserted .
Like Jesus we are called to stand by those in need,
drawing them near, treating them with respect,
comforting them, accompanying them,
raising them up and offering them hope and new life.
Next to the cross of Jesus we see two other crosses,
one is bathed in light and anticipation,
the other is engulfed in darkness and dread.
The God of love reaches out to those who repent
and showers them with love.
How wonderful to know that we who are sinners
are worthy of God's love,
are deserving of God's forgiveness.
Aware of our sinfulness,
we are invited to ask God to forgives us our sins,
as we forgive those who have sinned against us,
so that one day we may all share in Paradise
By the shadows of loneliness and confusion are crowding the scene.
Only a few people remained with Jesus,
among the women, there was Mary, the mother of Jesus,
and there was also John, his beloved disciple.
Jesus instructed them to find solace with one another,
to take care of one another.
In the midst of sadness and confusion
there is a glimmer of light:
“behold your mother, behold your son.”
These words, Jesus not only addressed to Mary and John,
but to all his followers.
Thus, Mary became not only the mother of Jesus
but also the mother of John and the mother of all of us.
Having the same heavenly mother
makes us brothers and sisters to one another.
And like John cared for Mary we are to care for one another.
Very little light was left.
The darkness was nearly all-consuming.
Death seemed to have conquered life.
The fires of hell rushed toward the cross.
At the depth of anguish
and at the height of pain
Jesus cried out "My God, why have you forsaken me?"
This is the spoken or unspoken cry of so many, struck by hardship.
It may have been our cry in the past.
Maybe it even is our cry today.
“why have you forsaken me?"
Yet God seems silent, both then and now.
In this apparent silence
we behold God’s mysterious response to our cry for help,
hanging on the Cross,
Jesus, the Son of God
who accepted death so we might live.
All of creation is still now.
After lowering Jesus from the cross,
His lifeless body is placed in his mother’s arms.
Cradling his body, Mary is bound to him in a heart-wrenching embrace.
She is the icon of the broken hearted.
She is the icon of boundless love.
She is the icon of self-sacrifice.
This scene is played out, over and over again
all over the world.
Too many people, like Mary,
have cradled the lifeless and tortured body of an innocent,
loved one in their arms?
Then the body of Jesus was placed in the tomb
and a heavy stone was rolled in front of the entrance.
Another Triduum is about to start. In two hours we will begin the Celebration of the Lord’s Supper. Enjoying some quiet time I am pondering the mysteries which we are about to celebrate. Not surprisingly, my mind wondered and I tookme back to that one Holy Thursday I will never forget. It happened some 25 years ago. I was a young liturgy student at the University of Notre Dame. That year I had decided to celebrate the Sacred Triduum at the motherhouse of a religious community. Having arrived early I spent some quiet time in the monastery chapel in preparation for the Mass of the Lord’s Supper. From my chair in the back row, I watched the sisters arrive for the service. Most of them were elderly. They used wheelchairs, walkers or another sister’s arm to make their way into the chapel. As I looked around I noticed that apart from the priest I was the only man in the chapel. This was of some concern to me as I did not know how they were going to orchestrate the washing of the feet. As one of the sisters put it to me later, did I really expect the sisters to "import" twelve men so the "imported" priest could wash their feet?
The service was simple, yet very beautiful. During the homily the priest explained the importance of the washing of the feet . I could not have agreed more. He went on to say that after he had washed the feet of twelve of the sisters we were invited to wash one another’s feet. As a liturgical purist, I was simply mortified at this. My first concern was that he was washing the feet of twelve women as apposed to the prescribed twelve men. Second, what did he mean by all of us were going to wash feet? Why were we straying from the custom of the priest washing the feet of twelve men symbolizing Christ washing the feet of the apostles?
After resisting the temptation to walk out, mostly because I had nowhere to walk to, I swallowed my liturgical pride and decided to stay. Reluctantly I watched the priest wash the feet of twelve sisters. Then I saw how the sisters started washing one another’s feet. As I was trying to make sense out of all this, I noticed one of the sisters making her way to one of her sisters who was sitting in a wheelchair. There she was helped to her knees. Gently and with great difficulty, she took the slippers off her sister’s gnarled feet. A bowl with water was brought to them. She placed her sister’s feet in the water and tenderly washed them. Then she dried them and kissed them.
This simple, yet profound interaction moved me profoundly. Never before had I been so deeply touched by this ritual. These feet, which had walked in the service of the church for more than seventy years, were tenderly washed by these hands, which had served the church for more than sixty years. I quickly slipped off my shoes and waited in line to have my feet washed so I could wash someone else’s feet.
As I reflected upon my experience later that night I finally grasped why Jesus told us to wash one another’s feet. The washing of the feet is not a superfluous ritual gesture or a simple reenactment of what Jesus did 2000 years ago. Rather it is an efficacious ritual rehearsal of what all of us are called to do every day of our life: to serve one another as he served us.