Tonight we participate in the beginning of the one liturgy that comprises the ritualization of the dying and rising of Jesus Christ. The three liturgies of Holy Thursday, Good Friday, and Easter Vigil are three but one, distinct but the same. All three make tangibly present the death and resurrection of Jesus. In each we partake of the Body and Blood of Christ and we ourselves became the Body of Christ. The reality is present at every Mass throughout the year and in every place, but it somehow seems that this night is the most special, the most precious. For me it’s the “extras,” the sung “Glory to God” absent for weeks, washing of feet, the annual hymns like “Pange Lingua,” the once-a-year solemnity, the altar of repose, the color and pageantry that conclude with stripping the altar and the feeling of emptiness and longing.
“Ah, Gethsemani, my favorite garden, my place of prayer. A garden that my disciples have also grown to love as a place to rest, to pray, to decide. This will be the last time I come. I will soon know the crush of the olive press. I will miss your fragrance, your gnarled trunks, your rocks. In my great need, let me agonize upon my favorite rock. Support me as I pray: “Abba! If it is possible, let this cup pass me by. But not as I will. Let your will be mine.”
“Go quickly, Judas. I have dipped the food and offered it to you—just a morsel. You didn’t understand that I was about to give you a meal, a banquet of my Body. Perhaps my Father will bring you to the heavenly banquet. If that is my Father’s will, know that I want you to be with me in paradise. Go quickly, Judas. Shalom.”
Perhaps we’ve all experienced huge misunderstandings. Maybe we’ve been accused of acts we never performed. Or our life has taken a sharp turn in a direction we would never have chosen to go.
We in our darkness, fettered by forces beyond our control, have lost the gift of choice. Incapable of following our own will, we take the shape of wherever we are—even in battered, chipped vessels of clay—forced to take the confining shape of suffering, of acceptance, of twisted thorns. No other way. We must accept—as disciples of Jesus in Agony.
“Please, God, do not chip off a piece of this clay. But give me the grace to view it as that elegant vase until I have suffered enough to know that this vessel is the monstrance.”
Compassion might be called the fullness of divine and human perfection. Whatever God does, God does with compassion founded upon humility. That’s the way God works. How do we know? We see compassion in Jesus. As you read the Passion Narrative of Mark on Palm Sunday or that of John on Good Friday, pay attention to God’s compassion. Jesus doesn’t embarrass Judas who exits the Last Supper. Jesus lets the sleeping apostles in Gethsemane rest. Jesus forgives the denial of Peter, the treachery of Judas, the abandonment of his apostles. He replaces the severed ear of the soldier. Jesus takes care of his mother from the cross. And always with humility, accepting the persons, accepting the situations, accepting the cross.
Be humble enough to clear your calendar to make room for the Holy Week services. If you cannot attend, read the Passion Narratives. Take time to learn by heart the sentences that make your heart skip a beat.
“Who is that guy riding on a donkey?” The town gossips said they knew: he was the fanatical preacher who talked about eating his body and drinking his blood. “Come on. Let’s join the crowd. Just yell ‘Hosanna!’”
And so, they walked the streets behind a donkey. They heard shouts of “God save the Son of David!” Narrow streets carried the echoes: “Hosanna!” “Blessed!” Looking for distraction, people called to by-standers, “Come along. Join the crowd. Shout ‘God save him!’”
“Yes,” the man on the colt thought, “God save him.”
It’s too early to get serious about spring cleaning, unless the cleaning is for your heart. We all have spots in our personalities that could use some scouring. We might also attend to the good we do to make sure it’s from the best motives. A little dusting, a little polishing of our character is always in order. If you haven’t been to the Sacrament of Reconciliation, you might look for a Day of Grace or a Penance Service. Take heart that God understands our weakness. Set your heart on God’s infinite forgiveness.
The prophet Isaiah claims that our light will break forth like the dawn when we perform the fasting God requires: “setting free the oppressed…sharing your bread with the hungry, sheltering the oppressed and the homeless, clothing the naked.” The dawn will break forth in new possibilities when the “just man justices” (Gerard Manley Hopkins). Lent may be a time to renew our involvement in issues of peace and justice. We need to “justice” our nation, our family, our workplaces. What we do will “peace” together any divisions our injustices have caused. Don’t be half-hearted. Ask God to enlighten your heart so that you, too, like the Father may “so love the world that he gave his only Son.”
You’ve been obeying Church laws since Ash Wednesday; that is, no meat on Fridays, no eating between meals on Ash Wednesday, attending Mass every weekend. But there’s a lot more to obedience than following the rules. The word “obedience” comes from a Latin word meaning “to listen.” Halfway through Lent, it’s a good time to listen. Set your heart on spending ten minutes a day listening to God. Just sit quietly, and let God tell you “I love you.” Perhaps you’ll feel your heart skip a beat.
Peter, James, and John fell on their faces in terror before the dazzling sight of Jesus, Moses, and Elijah. After hearing a voice, the three cautiously looked up. “They no longer saw anyone but Jesus alone.” “Jesus alone.” What a beautiful phrase to keep in our hearts this week! May our journey through Lent bring us to Jesus alone. Get close to Jesus in a heart-to-heart talk, and let his virtues rub off on you. For which virtue will you ask the Lord? Put on the virtue you need most, and let your heart be transfigured.