In our
opening prayer, we prayed that we might “hasten toward the solemn celebrations
to come.” Now, ‘solemn’ might jump out at us a little; but ‘solemn’ here is the
older form of solemn, meaning dignified, grand, exuberant, joyous (not grey and
drab). The celebrations we’re talking about, first and foremost, is Easter.
Now, depending on what we’ve given up for Lent, we might really want time to
hasten on towards Easter. And that’s a good thing. Part of point of those basic
individual penances we take on (as well as what the Church asks us to take on
together, like abstaining from meat on Fridays) is to help take our natural
human attachments (not the sinful ones, but not the ones that stand at the
height of our virtue either) and use those as tools to make us anticipate
Easter more eagerly. So, if it’s wanting to return to dessert, a drink, a
favorite parking space or social media site, or if it’s get rid of that prickly
hair shirt on your face (that one might just be me…), the spiritual benefit of
those things is that they make us more naturally, more bodily look forward to
Easter. And where we want to go with that, how those perfectly natural
inoffensive yearnings can really help our walk with God is when we pray about
them, about our wishing that Easter would hurry up, and use that to try to long
more whole-heartedly for what Easter celebrates, for resurrection, for heavenly
life, for life in which we live perfect lives of unwavering love for God, for
each other and for ourselves.
Because,
the prayer didn’t actually ask the coming celebrations to hasten towards us,
but for us to hasten towards them. Our first reading talked about another an
invitation to hasten, and invitation that came over 2,500 years ago. It spoke
of the exile. The 70 years when the Israelites were captive in Babylon, after
the Temple (and all Jerusalem) had been destroyed. It ends with an invitation
from Cyrus, the Persian king who conquered Babylon, and didn’t just allow the
Israelites to go home, but gave them what they needed to rebuild the Temple.
The end of that reading (and actually the end of the two books of Chronicles,
which are actually the last two books of a Jewish Bible) are an invitation to
go to the Temple being rebuilt. To come home. Imagine released captives
hastening to come home to the Temple, the place they could truly worship again.
God
responded to the cries of his people in exile. God dealt with their physical
distance and the physical destruction of the Temple by empowering Cyrus, a
pagan king, to win battles and inspiring him to do the right thing by the peoples
his enemies had conquered. But for us, the distance we feel from lives of pure
worship, of unwavering love, that’s not a distance that’s physical, that’s not
an impairment that’s to do with a building having been destroyed. No, that’s
something much deeper in our hearts. And God hears our cries. And God responds
not with military might or Pagan kings, but with his own Son, who would go to
the Cross to show us love looks like, and show us that that love is stronger
than death.
He bids
us come home and he bids us hasten. In our Gospel, he tells us to look to the
Cross, that’s how we hasten. He bids us do that in liturgy, in prayer, and in
our whole lives, loving the world in ways that begin to approach how God does,
which (in this beautiful but fallen world) means consenting to carry our cross,
and aiding others as best we can with theirs. Because it’s through that cross,
that we find our hope, we find eternal life.
I’d like
to close with a reflection and two prayers from a version of the Stations of
the Cross that was prepared by priests and brothers from my religious family,
the Congregation of Holy Cross, working together with sisters from our sister
communities. For each station, one religious (priest, brother or sister)
offered a reflection of something they’ve experienced that made that moment in
Christ’s Passion real for them, and then gives us words to turn and address our
loving Savior. This is from the 11th Station (Jesus is nailed to the
cross), followed by the prayer which concludes the celebration of Stations:
A
wayward soul, searching for meaning, enters the church and kneels. Like the
Israelites (who looked to Moses’ staff and bronze serpent for hope and healing)
the searcher looks upon the image of the crucified. The image comforts, as if
to say that life’s present sufferings are not in vain. It mysteriously and
eternally points to a God who heals, redeems, and brings life in the midst of
death. In the Cross, we find not only life but hope in life eternal.
Jesus,
the physical torment you endured was excruciating, but perhaps more painful for
you was having to see the anguished face of your mother. In that moment, you
united your hearts in love and sorrow as you offered your mutual sufferings for
our redemption. Lord Jesus, when swords of suffering and loneliness pierce out
hearts, may we have the eyes of faith to see you and your mother gazing upon us
compassionately. Unite your Sacred Heart and her sorrowful Heart with ours.
Help us embrace the crosses we bear with your response of love and acceptance.
Hail the
Cross, our only hope.
Lord
Jesus, your Cross is our only hope. The love that compelled you to take the
steps to Calvary is the very love that conquered sin and death forever through
your glorious redemption. Each time we follow the way of your passion, we learn
again that you redeem our steps, pick us up from our falls, and unite our
sacrifices and sufferings with yours in the transforming power of your Cross.
Led and redeemed by you, our Savior, may we die only to rise with you in glory.
We adore
you, O Christ, and we praise you. Because by your Holy Cross you have redeemed
the world!
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