Through the cross, "it is finished".

Homily: Commemoration of our Lord’s Passion

Although it may seem obvious to many of you, I don’t think that it is a bad idea to take a step back today and to ask ourselves, “Why do we celebrate the Passion of our Lord?”  There is, of course, the obvious reason: that, as believers, we have an obligation to commemorate this event through which we have all been redeemed—that is, the event through which our sins find the possibility of forgiveness.  An obligation so that we “never forget” that it is in and through Jesus Christ and his self-sacrifice that the possibility of a life beyond the suffering of this world is made possible for us.  Just as, for us citizens of the United States, we can “never forget” the events of 9/11, or Pearl Harbor, or the signing of the Declaration of Independence, and thus we must commemorate them, Christians can “never forget” the events of Good Friday through our yearly commemoration.

Perhaps a less-obvious reason, but one particularly poignant this year, is that we often need a reminder that suffering, embraced and endured for a good end, is never meaningless.  This year, through no fault of our own, we have been ordered to make sacrifices and, thus, to suffer, for the good of others (and, ultimately, ourselves).  This should give us a sense of solidarity with Christ who, Isaiah prophesied, would be one who had done no wrong but who nonetheless suffered as if he was a great sinner.  This same one who, the author of the Letter to the Hebrews testified, learned obedience from what he suffered and was made perfect, so as to become the source of eternal salvation.  On the surface, Christ’s suffering appeared meaningless: a cruel abuse perpetuated by authorities who wrongly convicted him.  Christ knew the good end for which he was suffering, however, and so he could persevere and even find strength to endure it to the end.  Although it may seem that we are suffering unjustly these days, I pray that we can see the good end for which we are suffering—saving lives—and thus find strength in knowing that our suffering has value so as to persevere in it until the threat of this pandemic ends.

After these two more practical reasons, there is still another reason why we celebrate the Passion of our Lord.  This is to remind ourselves of the truth that Jesus proclaimed from the cross: “It is finished.”  Here’s what I mean: There is so much anxiety among the faithful—all of you and myself included—for being separated from the sacraments.  I’m grateful for this anxiety as it shows a great longing in you to be free of this world and so untied to God.  There’s an anxiety, in particular, to be able to confess our sins and receive absolution (and, again, I feel that anxiety with you!).  Because of this, we perhaps feel a particular anxiety and a desire to weep in sorrow for our sins before the cross: the instrument of torture on which our Savior suffered precisely because of our sins.  While such a desire is completely appropriate to this day, I don’t think that this weeping is what we are called to do today (at least, not exclusively).  Rather, I think that we are called to acknowledge and to celebrate that “It is finished” and, thus, to make deep acts of faith in the truth that we proclaim during the Stations of the Cross: that is, that “by his holy cross, he has redeemed the world”.  These acts should give us consolation that, while God has given us the sacraments as our surety of his grace, he, nonetheless, is not bound by them.  Rather, he is "bound" by the perfect obedience of his Son, which won redemption for all who, in turn, obey him.

Friends, the Passion of our Lord is presented to us in narrative form so as to remind us that God worked out our salvation in the thick of our human messiness, so as to remind us that it is not by making our lives some idyllic perfection of piety and devotion that we come to salvation (as good as that would be), but rather that it is by embracing the cross—that is, taking up our daily sacrifices in the midst of our daily messes for the good of those around us—that salvation comes to us.  Today, in a special way, we unite the "mess" of this pandemic—and all of the sufferings that have come with it—to the cross of Christ: asking for its swift end, of course, but also that the redemption he won for us might be found and accepted in the midst of it.

May our veneration of the cross today remind us that the work of our redemption truly is finished; and, thus, give us hope to persevere through this trial and every trial still to come.

Given at Saint Mary’s Cathedral: Lafayette, IN – April 10^th, 2020

The terror of the cross

Homily: Friday of the Passion of the Lord

Homilía: Viernes de la Pasión del Señor

          Terrorism is something with which, sadly, we are all familiar and terrorists are those who seek to intimidate people into conformance with their group’s ideology.  For example, the playground bully uses taunts and physical violence to force the other kids to recognize him as “king of the playground”.  The other kids don’t like him, but they are so afraid of him that they conform so as to avoid his verbal and physical assaults.  On a larger scale, the videos published by ISIS are true “acts of terror” meant to instill fear into the hearts of whomever views or even hears about them so that no one will resist them for fear of suffering the same fate.

          In the ancient Roman Empire, the cross was meant to terrify people.  As a form of execution, it wasn’t meant solely to punish the criminal.  Rather, it was also a public display of cruelty meant to instill fear into the heart of every other person: a form of intimidation meant to eliminate any resistance to the Roman authorities.  Thus, the charge against the crucified person was posted above their head as a way of saying “Don’t even think about doing this, because this is how you’ll end up.”  So effective was this method of intimidation that people of that time wouldn’t speak about the cross in polite conversation: it was disturbing even to think about it because, for them, the cross was equated with a horrific death: a death that was humiliating, agonizingly painful, and, ultimately, dehumanizing.

          Today, however, it seems like we have sanitized the cross.  We have made it nothing more than an expression of our personal style or a pious thing about which to talk.  In other words, we’ve lost the “fear factor” that originally came with it.  As part of the Easter Triduum, Good Friday invites us once again to recognize that truly it is a fearful thing to hold up the cross as the symbol of our victory; because in doing so we proclaim not only that we are a follower of Jesus, but that we, too, would be gladly crucified with him and for him, because of our faith that one day he will raise us up again.

          My brothers and sisters, events happening around the world, and even those happening here in the United States, demonstrate that this type of witness is not far from being demanded of us.  Therefore, as we come forward to venerate the cross, let us keep this in mind: that Christ suffered for our sins—yours and mine—and so we must constantly plead for his mercy; and that the cross, symbol of our victory in Christ, should be fearfully embraced: for one day what it demanded of Christ may be demanded of us, too.  Nonetheless we have hope: because in Christ the cross no longer means certain and irrevocable death, but it means life: the eternal life that dawns on Easter Sunday.

          El terrorismo es algo con lo que, tristemente, todos somos familiares y los terroristas son aquellos que intentan intimidar a las personas para que se ajusten a la ideología de su grupo. Por ejemplo, el matón del patio de recreo utiliza burlas y violencia física para obligar a los otros niños a reconocerlo como "rey del patio de recreo". A los otros niños no les gusta, pero tienen tanto miedo de él que se conforman para evitar sus agresiones verbales y físicas. En una escala más grande, los videos publicados por ISIS son verdaderos "actos de terror" destinados a infundir miedo en los corazones de quienquiera que vean o incluso escuchar sobre ellos para que nadie se resista a ellos por temor a sufrir el mismo destino.

          En el antiguo Imperio Romano, la cruz estaba destinada a aterrorizar a la gente. Como una forma de ejecución, no fue solo para castigar al criminal. Más bien, era también una muestra pública de crueldad destinada a infundir temor en el corazón de todas las demás personas: una forma de intimidación destinada a eliminar cualquier resistencia a las autoridades romanas. Por lo tanto, la acusación contra la persona crucificada se publicó sobre su cabeza como una forma de decir "Ni siquiera pienses en hacer esto, porque así es como terminarás". Tan efectivo era este método de intimidación que la gente de ese tiempo no hablaría de la cruz en una conversación educada: era inquietante incluso pensar en ello porque, para ellos, la cruz se equiparaba con una muerte horrible: una muerte que era humillante, angustiosamente dolorosa y, en última instancia, deshumanizante.

          Hoy, sin embargo, parece que hemos desinfectado la cruz. La hemos hecho nada más que una expresión de nuestro estilo personal o algo piadoso de lo que hablar. En otras palabras, hemos perdido el "factor de miedo" que originalmente vino con la cruz. Como parte del Triduo Pascual, el Viernes Santo nos invita una vez más a reconocer que verdaderamente es algo espantoso sostener la cruz como el símbolo de nuestra victoria; porque al hacerlo, proclamamos no solo que somos seguidores de Jesús, sino que también nosotros, con gusto, seríamos crucificados con él y por él, debido a nuestra fe en que algún día nos resucitará.

          Mis hermanos y hermanas, los eventos que suceden en todo el mundo, e incluso los que suceden aquí en los Estados Unidos, demuestran que este tipo de testimonio no está lejos de exigirse a nosotros. Por lo tanto, cuando avancemos para venerar la cruz, tengamos esto en mente: que Cristo sufrió por nuestros pecados, el suyo y el mío, y así debemos constantemente rogar por su misericordia; y que la cruz, símbolo de nuestra victoria en Cristo, debe ser abrazada con miedo; porque un día también se nos exigirá lo que exigió a Cristo. Sin embargo, tenemos esperanza: porque en Cristo la cruz ya no significa una muerte cierto e irrevocable, sino la vida: la vida eterna que amanece el domingo de Pascua.

Dado en la parroquia Todos los Santos: Logansport, IN – 30 de marzo, 2018

Given at All Saints Parish: Logansport, IN – March 30^th, 2018

It is finished.

Homily: Good Friday of the Lord’s Passion – Cycle C

          It is finished.  Although it’s difficult for us to forget something that we already know, let’s imagine for a moment that we are hearing these words for the first time.  Let’s imagine that we don’t know, as Paul Harvey would say, “the rest of the story.”

          Imagine a mother and a friend, looking up on the one they love so dear now horribly disfigured—and how their own countenances have been disfigured by their sorrow.  Intense fear and agony overwhelm them, yet we can imagine that there was still hope: hope that in spite of all the mocking and jeering he may yet work a miracle that would save him from this death. /// “It is finished.” /// Even for these, the ones who were closest to Christ’s heart, as the resurrection was yet unknown to them, these words must have cast a shadow of doubt on their hope in the fulfillment of all that God had promised them throughout the ages.

          Imagine also a crowd of priests and soldiers, looking with anxiety to ensure the execution is completed.  As the intensity of their fervor diminishes—as the intensity of their mocking and jeering subsides—imagine that a certain uneasiness crept into their hearts. /// “It is finished.” /// Outwardly, they agree and are satisfied; yet inwardly their consciences continue to question.

          Imagine the disciples who didn’t follow their master to that hill, those who were afraid and hid away.  Imagine their questions to those who returned.  “What happened?”  “Did they kill him?”  “Did he say anything before he died?” /// “It is finished.” /// The intensity of their fear spikes as they hear these words.  Immediately they are flooded with confusion and doubt about their future, about what it will mean to be a follower of his way.  In the days following, fishermen will return to their nets, women will prepare the final burial spices, and pilgrims will walk the long road back to their homes questioning how this could have been the end.

          It is only the light of the resurrection, however, that can reveal that what is finished—that is, what has ended—is not our hope in one who can save, but rather our slavery to sin.  Christ proclaimed these words from the cross as a definitive statement to the evil one that his reign had ended and that death—Satan’s last power over man—had been forever destroyed.

          Today, we recall these words as a reminder to each of us that what Christ accomplished on the cross wasn’t just for a few people in a specific place and at a specific time, but rather that it was for all people of all places in all times… including right here and right now.  Therefore, my friends, let us listen closely to these words of Christ: for in them he says to each of us, “Your life of sin is over.  It is finished.”  May this end that we remember today lead us to begin our lives in Christ anew.

Given at All Saints Parish: Logansport, IN – March 25^th, 2016

The terrifying cross / La cruz aterrador

Homily: Friday of the Passion of the Lord

Homilía: Viernes de la Pasión del Señor

          Terrorism is something with which, sadly, we are all very familiar and terrorists are those who seek to intimidate people into conformance with their group’s ideology.  For example, the playground bully uses taunts and physical violence to force the other kids to recognize him as “king of the playground”.  The other kids don’t like him, but they are so afraid of him that they conform so as to avoid his verbal and physical assaults.  On a larger scale, the videos published by ISIS are true “acts of terror” meant to instill fear into the hearts of whomever views or even hears about them so that no one will resist them for fear of suffering the same fate.

          In the ancient Roman Empire, the cross was meant to terrify people.  As a form of execution, it wasn’t meant solely to punish the criminal.  Rather, it was also a public display of cruelty meant to instill fear into the heart of every other person: a form of intimidation meant to eliminate any resistance to the Roman authorities.  Thus, the charge against the crucified person was posted above their head as a way of saying “Don’t even think about doing this, because this is how you’ll end up.”  So effective was this method of intimidation that people of that time wouldn’t speak about the cross in polite conversation: it was disturbing even to think about it because, for them, the cross was equated with a horrific death: a death that was humiliating, agonizingly painful, and, ultimately, dehumanizing.

          Today, however, it seems like we have sanitized the cross.  We have made it nothing more than an expression of our personal style or a pious thing to talk about.  In other words, we’ve lost the “fear factor” that originally came with it.  As part of the Easter Triduum, Good Friday invites us once again to recognize that truly it is a fearful thing to hold up the cross as the symbol of our victory; because in doing so we proclaim not only that we are a follower of Jesus, but that we, too, would be gladly crucified with him and for him, because of our faith that one day he will raise us up again.

          My brothers and sisters, events happening around the world and even those happening here in Indiana over the past two weeks demonstrate that this type of witness is not far from being demanded of us.  Therefore, as we come forward to venerate the cross, let us keep this in mind: that Christ suffered for our sins—yours and mine—and so we must constantly plead for his mercy, and that the cross, symbol of our victory in Christ, should be fearfully embraced; for one day what it demanded of Christ may be demanded of us, too.  Nonetheless we have hope: because in Christ the cross no longer means certain and irrevocable death, but it means life: the eternal life that dawns on Easter Sunday.

          El terrorismo es algo con lo que, por desgracia, todos somos muy familiares y los terroristas son los que tratan de intimidar a la gente en la conformidad con la ideología de su grupo. Por ejemplo, el matón del patio utiliza insultos y violencia física para obligar a los otros niños a reconocerlo como "el rey del patio". A los otros niños él no les gusta, pero ellos tienen tanto miedo de él que se ajusten a fin de evitar sus ataques verbales y físicos. En una escala mayor, los videos publicados por ISIS son "actos de terrorismo" verdaderos destinadas a infundir miedo en los corazones de quien vistas o incluso oye acerca de ellos para que nadie se resistirá a ellos por miedo a sufrir el mismo destino.

          En el antiguo Imperio Romano, la cruz estaba destinada a aterrorizar a la gente. Como una forma de ejecución, que no estaba destinado exclusivamente para castigar al criminal. Más bien, fue también una demostración pública de la crueldad destinada a infundir miedo en el corazón de cada persona: una forma de intimidación destinada a eliminar cualquier resistencia a las autoridades romanas. Por lo tanto, la acusación contra la persona crucificada fue publicada por encima de su cabeza, como una manera de decir "Ni siquiera pensar en hacer esto, porque esta es cómo va a terminar." Tan eficaz fue este método de intimidación que la gente de esa época no hablaría acerca de la cruz en una conversación cortés: era inquietante incluso para pensar en ello, ya que, para ellos, la cruz fue equiparado con una muerte horrible: una muerte que fue humillante, angustiosamente doloroso, y, en última instancia, deshumanizante.

          Hoy, sin embargo, parece que hemos saneado la cruz. Lo hemos hecho nada más que una expresión de nuestro estilo personal o una cosa piadosa que hablar. En otras palabras, hemos perdido el "factor de miedo" que originalmente venía con ella. Como parte del Triduo Pascual, Viernes Santo nos invita una vez más a reconocer que verdaderamente es una cosa terrible para sostener la cruz como el símbolo de nuestra victoria; porque al hacerlo proclamamos no sólo que somos un seguidor de Jesús, sino que también nosotros, con mucho gusto ser crucificados con él y por él, a causa de nuestra fe que un día nos resucitará de nuevo.

          Mis hermanos y hermanas, los acontecimientos que suceden en todo el mundo e incluso los que pasa aquí en Indiana durante las últimas dos semanas demostrar que este tipo de testigo no está lejos de ser exigido de nosotros. Por lo tanto, a medida que nos acercamos a la cruz para venerarla, quedamos esto en mente: que Cristo sufrió por nuestros pecados—el tuyo y el mío—y por eso debemos rogar constantemente por su misericordia, y que la cruz, símbolo de nuestra victoria en Cristo, debe ser terriblemente abrazado; por un día lo que exigía de Cristo puede ser exigido de nosotros, también. No obstante tenemos esperanza: porque en Cristo la cruz ya no significa cierto e irrevocable muerte, sino que significa la vida: la vida eterna que amanece el domingo de Pascua.

Dado en la parroquia Todos los Santos: Logansport, IN – 3º de abril, 2015

Given at All Saints Parish: Logansport, IN – April 3^rd, 2015

The wood of the cross, the throne of grace...

Here is my homily for the Good Friday commemoration of the Lord's Passion that we celebrated today.  Now, I need to get to work on my Easter homily!

A blessed Triduum to all!

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Homily: Good Friday – Cycle C

For those of you who have seen it, you know that Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ is a powerful film.  It’s a work of art, really, in that it truly draws out the reality of Christ’s Passion and presents it in a way that provides an authentic experience of the events it depicts for its viewers.  If any of you are like me, you remember a lot about your first experience of viewing this film.

What drove me to see the film was, I must admit, a sense of Catholic duty.  Here was a big-budget movie produced by a Catholic artist attempting to evangelize through this medium.  Thus, I felt like it was my duty to support it by purchasing a ticket.  I was unprepared, however, for what the experience of the film would be like and, simply stated, I was blown away by it.

While I could pick out something from just about every scene that had an impact on me, I would say that the scene of the scourging at the pillar sticks out as one of the most memorable.  Probably because, quite frankly, it is the most brutal.  Probably also because the Scriptures don’t give us much description of what a scourging entailed.  In the Gospel of John it says simply that “Pilate had him scourged.”  People of the first century probably didn’t need much more description of that: they probably had first-hand knowledge of what a scourging entailed.  We are left to imagine it, however.  That is, until this film.

The scene begins with Jesus receiving the standard Jewish punishment: 40 lashes minus one (“minus one” because to receive 41 lashes would go beyond the Law of Moses and so to prevent that they always stopped at 39).  We know that this is what he received first because you could hear the Roman soldier counting them off, one by one, as the soldiers inflicted them upon Jesus.  Then the Romans have their way with him.  Jesus’ punishers begin by looking over a table of whips and clubs and one of them selects a whip with multiple “tails”, each having a sharp metal hook on the end.  The soldier previews the device’s pain-inflicting capacity by whipping it down on the table in front of the supervising officer: the metal hooks digging into the wood and ripping off chunks when the soldier pulls it off.

I won’t describe what this device did to Jesus’ body.  But I will say that there was no pre-ordained limit to the Romans’ cruelty.  The scene is gruesome, and then it gets worse.  After the soldiers have had their way with the back side of Jesus’ body, the supervising officer stops them, puts his hand out palm facing down, and then turns it up: indicating that he wanted them to do the same to the front side of his body.  I will never forget that scene: its images are emblazoned permanently in my memory.

And yet, the film continues.  The final condemnation from Pilate, the Way of the Cross winding through the streets of Jerusalem, the Crucifixion, all the way to the penultimate scene—which depicts the Pieta with Mary holding the lifeless body of Jesus in her arms and staring directly out of the screen towards the viewers.  This film so vividly portrays the drama of Christ’s Passion that it is nearly impossible not to be affected in some deep way after watching it.

When the film ended and the lights in the theater went up no one in the theater said a word.  After a few moments there were a few people who began making comments, but overall people walked out of the theater speechless.  I saw it with my friend Ann and neither of us spoke as we exited the theater.  We made it all of the way back to the car without exchanging a word.  Finally, after I started the car, I looked at her and all I could say was: “We should go and pray.”

We made our way over to the Our Lady of Mount Carmel adoration chapel—still mostly speechless—and, after we entered, I knelt down and buried my face in my hands.  I was so ashamed of myself.  In part because I knew that it was my sins that added to the suffering Christ endured.   More so, however, I was ashamed because of my “lukewarmness” to all that Christ suffered on account of my sins: that instead of feeling a deep compunction for my sins, I confessed them more out of duty: not acknowledging that each sin, no matter how small, added another blow to his body from that horrific device.  I’m not sure how much time we spent there, but before we left I begged Christ for forgiveness and for the grace to live more consciously aware of all that he had endured for me.

My brothers and sisters, every year we come together on Good Friday to commemorate the Lord’s Passion and yes, in a very real way, it is meant to stir up within us some shame for our sins.  More than that, however, it is meant to stir up a flame within us that shakes us from our lukewarmness and reminds us of our need to run to the Throne of Grace—this altar… the wood of the cross that we will venerate…—and to beg to be forgiven that we have for so long been apathetic to what Christ suffered for us, so as to receive anew the cleansing power of the blood and water that flowed out from his side.

The Good News, my brothers and sisters, is that today isn’t the end: just as the Pieta scene wasn’t the end of the film.  The film, rather, ended depicting Christ’s Resurrection—that is, his ultimate victory over death.  For us the same exists.  In fact, the reason why we commemorate Christ’s Passion on Good Friday is precisely because we look towards the same ending: our joyful celebration of his Resurrection on Easter Sunday.

What a truly merciful God we have who would look on our sin and count it as the merit for sending us his Only Begotten Son to suffer and die for us so that we could be redeemed.  We truly do adore you, O Christ, and we praise you, because by your Holy Cross we have been redeemed.

Given at All Saints Parish: Logansport, IN – March 29th, 2013

Good Friday of the Holy Triduum

7 Last Words: "It is finished."

Here is my reflection on one of what is traditionally known as "the seven last words of Christ".  This reflection is on his last words, "It is finished."

______________________________________

            Although it’s difficult for us to forget something that we already know, let’s imagine for a moment that we are hearing these words for the first time.  Let’s imagine that we don’t know, as Paul Harvey would say, “the rest of the story.”

            Imagine a mother and a friend, looking up on the one they love so dear now horribly disfigured—and how their own countenances have been disfigured by their sorrow.  Intense fear and agony overwhelm them, yet we can imagine that there was still hope: hope that in spite of all the mocking and jeering he may yet work a miracle that would save him from this death.  “It is finished.”  Even for these, the ones who were closest to Christ’s heart, as the resurrection was yet unknown to them, these words must have cast a shadow of doubt on their hope in the fulfillment of all that God had promised them throughout the ages.

            Imagine also a crowd of priests and soldiers, looking with anxiety to ensure the execution is completed.  As the intensity of their fervor diminishes—as the intensity of their mocking and jeering subsides— imagine that a certain uneasiness crept into their hearts.  “It is finished.”  Outwardly, they agree and are satisfied; yet inwardly their consciences continue to question.

            Imagine the disciples who didn’t follow their master to that hill, those who were afraid and hid away.  Imagine their questions to those who returned.  “What happened?”  “Did they kill him?”  “Did he say anything before he died?”  “It is finished.”  The intensity of their fear spikes as they hear these words.  Immediately they are flooded with confusion and doubt about their future, about what it will mean to be a follower of his way.  In the days following, fishermen will return to their nets, women will prepare the final burial spices, and pilgrims will walk the long road back to their homes questioning how this could have been the end.

            It is only the light of the resurrection, however, that can reveal that what is finished—that is, what has ended—is not our hope in one who can save, but rather our slavery to sin.  Christ proclaimed these words as a definitive statement to the evil one that his reign had ended and that death—Satan’s last power over man—had been forever destroyed.

            Friends, listen closely to these words of Christ.  In these words he says to each of us, “Your life of sin is over.  It is finished.”  May this end that we remember today lead us to begin anew our lives in Christ.

 

~ Given at Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church, Carmel, IN - April 6, 2012

Good Friday Reflection

Here is a reflection that I gave at my parish in Carmel today. It is on one of the traditional "seven last words of Christ." May it help you rejoice more fully in the Resurrection come Sunday morning.


Luke 23:39-43: “Today you will be with me in paradise.”

Although the image presented in this passage of Luke’s Gospel might be somewhat unsettling to us—Christ our King crucified between two heinous criminals—it seems that he is right where he is supposed to be: the Redeemer in the middle of two men desperately in need of redemption.

On one side, a man dying in his sin is nonetheless blind to his redeemer hanging next to him on a cross. His hope is in this world and he is so completely blinded by his pride that he cannot acknowledge that it is his own sinfulness that has brought him to this condition. He cannot recognize that the one who was hanging next to him and was suffering with him came not to take away all his suffering, but rather to save him from his sinful condition. Today, this man represents all of those who are quick to say, “Where was God” when they experience suffering in this world. “Where was God when my mother was dying from cancer?” “Where was God when my son was shot and killed?” “Where was God when my sister was being raped?” “If he is such a powerful God, then why didn’t he save them and me from our suffering?” “Are you not the Messiah?” the unrepentant thief says, “save yourself and us” (Lk 23:39). This one could not see that his Redeemer would be more than a divine dose of pain killers. He could not see that he, like his Redeemer, would be made perfect in suffering (Heb. 2:10). And so he misses his chance to live.

On the other side, we see the opposite. A man, also dying in his sin, sees in the man hanging next to him his Redeemer. He can do this because he first recognizes his own emptiness, his own need of redemption. In his sinfulness he is now nailed to the cross with no hope of being removed until after he has breathed his last breath and he can acknowledge—he chooses to acknowledge—that he is left now with nothing. He recognizes his nothingness. As soon as he can recognize his nothingness, he can turn to Jesus and see clearly the fullness of him sent to suffer with him and for him. He has no need to ask, “Where is God?” He knows where he is. He is on the cross next to him, suffering with him. Renouncing all of his pride, he can then turn to Jesus with the eyes of faith and say not “save me,” but rather “remember me.” He resigned himself to his own death in his sinfulness and asked only that he be remembered by the one who—mysteriously to him—would somehow come to reign in spite of this seemingly desperate condition.

Jesus gives no words to the man who remains blind to his sin. To the man who recognizes and acknowledges his own nothingness, however, Jesus gives those words of hope: “Amen, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise” (Lk 23:43).

Archbishop Fulton Sheen once said that the blind man who does not know he is blind cannot hope to see, but there is hope for him when he recognizes his need to see. The only thing worse than sin, he continues, is denying that we are sinners. There is hope, however, for the one who can acknowledge his or her sinfulness: “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for the kingdom of God is theirs” (Mt 5:3). Perhaps today we can recognize our own poverty of spirit, our own sinfulness that has crucified us, so that we might recognize Christ our Redeemer, crucified with us and for us, and say: “Remember me, Lord….” Then, in the silence of our nothingness we can hope to hear our Savior say, “Amen, I say to you….”

Given at Our Lady of Mount Carmel, Church – Carmel, Indiana
Good Friday, April 22, 2011

Seven Last Words of Christ: "I Thirst."

Happy and blessed Easter to all!

Below is a reflection that I recently wrote for Good Friday on one of the seven last "words" (phrases, really) of Christ and I thought that I would share.

A couple of weeks ago, I had an opportunity to visit my family in Illinois to celebrate my sister’s birthday, a rare treat for me since entering the seminary. Although it wasn’t an official three-day weekend, it worked out that my classes for Monday were cancelled, which allowed me an extra day before returning to the seminary. Prompted by the amount of work I had waiting for me at the seminary, but moved by an interior conviction that felt strangely outside of myself, I decided to leave on Sunday instead. Throughout the six-hour drive back to southern Indiana, I sat with an aching in my heart, a longing for that denied opportunity to spend more time with my family. I had every reason, it seemed, to stay at home and enjoy them for another day. As the miles rolled away I came to see that it was God that had asked me to leave, and in doing so to feel a great longing for more. As I prayed the rosary while driving, I began to see the connection between my longing for my family and Christ’s longing on the Cross when he said, “I thirst.” It was then that I could connect this very tangible sense of longing for my family to the longing that my soul feels for God, and I began to understand what the Psalmist means when he says, “As the deer longs for streams of water, so my soul longs for you, O God” (Ps 42:2)

In Lent we purposely make a hole in our lives – we leave an urge unfulfilled. In other words, we thirst. We allow ourselves a tiny bit of suffering not to punish ourselves, but rather to awaken in us an awareness of the spiritual thirst that is constantly raging in our souls.

When we cover up our physical thirsts by satisfying them, we cover up our inner emptiness, and pursuing worldly satisfaction becomes our never-ending concern. When we subject ourselves to fasts for the sole purpose of penance, it seems senseless because it doesn’t point to the spiritual thirst that arrests each of our souls. However, if we allow our fasting and abstinences to point to the longing that our souls have for God, then we learn to tolerate, what spiritual writer Henri Nouwen calls, the sweet pain of that longing because our inner emptiness becomes filled with promise.

Jesus, in His physical agony on the Cross, did not long to satisfy his physical thirst, even though it was immeasurable. Rather, the thirst that he proclaimed from the Cross was a spiritual one. His thirst was that in and through his agony humanity might be made new, and that his prayer that we may all be made one might be fulfilled.

Today we have a great opportunity to come to a deeper understanding of this thirst of Christ. As we sit with our physical thirsts throughout the day, let us allow them to draw us to recognize the deep groaning inside each of us that echoes the words of the Psalmist when he says, “My being thirsts for God, the living God” (Ps 42:3), for it is when we acknowledge our inner emptiness that we also find the promise that fills it. Then we will be able to say with the Psalmist, “Why are you cast down my soul? Why do you groan within me? Wait for God, whom I shall praise again, my savior and my God” (Ps 42:12).

Given at Our Lady of Mount Carmel, Church – Carmel, Indiana
Good Friday, April 2, 2010