Celebration of the Passion of the Lord

Today we come face to face with the primary Christian symbol, and that symbol is… a cross.

I begin with five facts.  First, God died.  On that drab afternoon 2,000 years ago, God did indeed die.  Second fact: Jesus really suffered.  Those were real thorns; it was spit that spattered his face; a tough whip; sharp nails that pierced his hands and feet; that blood was his.  Little wonder he called out in the garden: “Father, take this cup away from me!”  God, don’t let me die!

Third fact: Jesus suffered and died for me.  There are two protagonists in that passion: Jesus is one; the other is me.  It is St. Paul’s unbelieving whisper: “The Son of God… gave himself for me.”  He died for me, as if Christ and his cross had arms only for me.  He died for Adam and every single person until his final coming. 

Fourth fact: Jesus died for me because he loved me.  He did not have to die because he had no other choice: “No one takes my life from me; I lay it down of my own free will.”  St. Paul has no doubt about the reason why: “The Son of God… loved me.”  Fifth fact: by his death Jesus gave me life.  Easter without the cross is superficial.  The cross without Easter is despair.

But what does this say to me?  The cross!  Not outside Jerusalem; here and now.  Not now and then: always.  The words of Jesus are raw, rough, uncompromising: if you want to follow him, if you would be his disciple, you take up your cross daily.  If you want to save your life, you must lose it… for Christ’s sake.

The point is: the cross of Christ has to be touched to me personally.  It is touched to me in several ways: through the death that is baptism; through the Eucharist that recaptures the death of Christ till he comes again; but in a special way through my own cross, without which I cannot be his disciple.

What is this cross I must take up daily?  It’s easy enough to find the cross elsewhere: in the poverty of other Americans, on the streets of downtown Seattle, the emergency room at Harborview Hospital, immigrants from Mexico and Central America, in the Middle East’s new graves.

But where is your sharing in the passion of Christ?  I’m afraid I cannot tell you.  You are, each of you, the unique authority on your own Calvary.  I dare not lay a cross on you.  I can only provoke you into thinking.  What do you usually avoid?  And whom?  Are you built only for comfort?  What keeps you from being a saint? 

Who matters most in your life?  Where does the crucified Jesus rank?  How do you handle illness?  What are you afraid of?  Death?  Life?  In whom do you see Christ?  When did you last give bread and drink to the hungry and thirsty?

On this Good Friday, at this point in your existence, whom are you like?  Mary?  John?  Pilate?  Herod?  Joseph of Arimathea?  Peter?  The disciples looking on from a safe distance?

What imperils Christianity is our lukewarmness.  God dies on a cross for us.  Life goes on as normal.  We’re challenged to live our Christian commitment, to live day after day the dying-rising we experience during Holy Week.  The liturgies of Triduum ritualize the human journey.  But do they?  Where, my friends, where is your Good Friday?

Paul A. Magnano

Pastor