Good Friday: Morning Prayer

When was the last time you wept bitterly? Have you ever sobbed so hard that your body shook and you feared your heart might break through your chest? If there is one day that we might allow ourselves to weep openly, Good Friday would be the day.

If you think about it, there are many kinds of tears: tears of grief and sadness, tears of anger and disbelief, tears of shame, exasperated tears. The tears of quiet resignation and acceptance of having to swallow the bitterness of a situation beyond our control. I imagine Jesus cried all of these tears and more. ¹ 

The passion narrative tells us that Peter wept bitterly when he heard the cock crow, as he remembered Jesus’ prediction that Peter would deny Jesus three time. Jesus meets the women of Jerusalem who are weeping, and says to them, “do not weep for me, weep for yourselves, and for your children” – which is to say that it is no use to lament the sufferings of this world if our life goes on as usual.  On Sunday, we will hear the story of Mary Magdalene who stood outside the tomb weeping for her friend, before she understood that Jesus had risen from the dead.

The ability to cry openly in the presence of another requires a special kind of intimacy.  What a blessing here at St. Mary of the Lake & Our Lady of Lourdes to belong to a community that holds space for one another’s tears.

As I listened to Michael (Ruzicki) preach yesterday, I wondered if our tears are the waters of baptism pouring out of our eyes when we are met with the awesome responsibility and inconvenient demands of a life anointed into the priestly, prophetic, and kingly mission Christ.

Saint Oscar Romero, the martyred Salvadoran Archbishop once said, “there are many things that can only be seen through eyes that have cried.”

The last time I sobbed uncontrollably was a few weeks ago, the first week of February.  I remember because it was a Wednesday, and I had just dropped off sandwiches at the soup kitchen.  It was the week that the recent threats of mass deportations began in earnest. It was around the same time that the administration put an immediate halt to all US international assistance programs – life-saving distributions of food and medicines – including those implemented by Catholic Relief Services, where I work to support our education and advocacy efforts. 

As I dropped off sandwiches, I ran into a family in the parking lot, who asked me in Spanish where they could find the hamburgers. I pointed them toward the soup kitchen, and watched to make sure they found their way.  Before they turned the corner, they stopped in front of the church and took turns taking photos. I imagined a worrisome uncle or grandparent living a thousand miles away receiving this photo greeting card. A snapshot of their loved ones, happy and safe, standing in front of our church – our big, beautiful, bilingual, diverse, inclusive – church.

I have known my entire life that God has called me to minister in the church and to stand in service with people impacted by poverty. Never has that call seemed more urgent – or more threatened.  As I drove home, I began to weep uncontrollably.  I sobbed so hard that I could barely catch my breath. 

Whose cross do you stand under and weep?

We gather on Good Friday to recall the story of the Passion. We recall the unjust execution of an innocent man, a man who committed no crime. Rather, his care for the poor, the hungry, the sick, and the outcast were considered a threat to those in power. So, they brutally beat him and interrogated him, and then hung him on a cross.

We recall the passion so that we might weep, not only for our crucified Lord and Savior, but for the people of today, who like Jesus, bear the weight of injustice and violence.  For Jesus said, “whatever you do to the least of these you have done to me.” (Matthew 25:40)  We stand under the cross and weep – for those deported without due process, for people living under the horrors of war, for our unhoused neighbors, for those excluded among our LGBTQ friends and family.  The cross is more than historical memory, the body of Christ is crucified anyplace where human life is degraded or dehumanized.  

A very wise priest recently said to me, “the work of justice requires an intimate relationship with Jesus.”  The kind of intimacy that comes from being vulnerable enough to cry with one another.  Through our tears we recognize the face of Jesus in the face of those who are suffering and persecuted.  To stand and weep at the foot of the cross takes tremendous courage. To witness the pain of another, and then act to ease their suffering, is to trust that love will carry us – even in the face of fear, ridicule, and rejection. 

What more can I say about the cross without weeping? Jesus weeps with us. Jesus, hanging on the cross, reaches out to dry our tears. Love will overcome. Death will not have the final word. The cross is not the end of the story, but we cannot rush past it. On this Good Friday, may the recollection of the passion and death of Jesus open our eyes to weep, and then renew our commitment to love, as He loved us.