When the
fire broke out at Notre Dame earlier this week, I was actually rather surprised
by how many people seemed to be touched, moved, grieved by it. My facebook feed
was full of people who felt a need to share something about it; Catholics, but
also non-Catholic Christians, people of other faiths, and people with no
religious commitments at all. I think there’s just something basically human
about grieving the loss or potential loss of beauty like that. I’m reminded of
the rallying cry of the early 20th Century American Labor movement: “give
us bread, but give us roses too.” Stomachs can hunger, but so can hearts.
Beautiful places of worship can often be among the few places of beauty where
people in poverty are actually welcomed.
I dwell
on this moment, because I want to honor that grief, but I don’t want us to stay
there. When Paul wrote to the Christians in Thessalonica, he didn’t tell them
not to grieve, but he told them not to grieve as if they had no hope. Because
when I saw the footage from Paris on Monday, I saw some wonderful sources of
hope. Now, we’ve gotten various pieces of good news since then: that no-one was
hurt; that various things in the church were saved; that people have been moved
to generosity, not just to donate to Notre Dame, but to American churches that
had been torched by white supremacists. But, I’m not talking about the good
news we’ve gotten since; I want to talk about what gave me hope on Monday. And
that was the people gathered around Notre Dame. There was a large crowd, men
and women, young and old (though more young than old, I think), multi-racial,
many of them on their knees, many praying the rosary or singing the Hail Mary.
We saw a beautiful 800-year-old church on fire, and that’s saddening. But,
gathered around it, we saw the Church on fire; aflame in a more
brilliant way yet, with fervor, with prayer.
We hear
so much doom and gloom about the Church in Europe, about the Church in France
in particular. And I’m sure the statisticians aren’t lying to us, and they’re probably
not horribly mistaken either, at least in what they report about Mass
attendance and the like. But I also know that on Monday I saw the Church on
fire with fervor, with prayer. And that gives us hope. And we wouldn’t have
seen that without the more crudely physical fire in the church.
Our Lady’s
church, Notre Dame, was being damaged, but Our Lady was there, outside, with
those people on their knees. At the cross her station keeping, Mary stood in
sorrow weeping, as her son was crucified. Our Lady was there, because the
Mother of our Lord is always there, standing by the cross, letting her heart be
pierced. Whenever we are weighed down by our cross, we find Mary by our side,
and we find Jesus carrying it with us, and we find Jesus acting.
Jesus
acted on the cross to bring about new family. “Woman, behold your son… behold
your mother.” And the disciple took her into his home. The world has started to
become a world in which people receive one another. And the world has started
to become that because of Jesus’ action. It’s odd to call this a Passion
narrative, as if it were mainly about Jesus being passive, about what was done
to Jesus. No, John narrates not the Passion of the Christ, but the Action of
the Christ. And Christ still acts, to bring about new family, communion,
fellowship, Church, from the cross.
That’s
how come we get to call this Friday, Good. It’s not because suffering is
good. Make no mistake; it’s not. It’s not because betraying or denying Jesus or
nailing him to the cross was good; it was, variously, cowardly or wicked. The
Passion of the Christ, what was done to him, was not good. But, the Action of
the Christ, that’s how come we get to call this Friday, Good. On this
Friday, Jesus forged new communion, forged Church, from the cross. Jesus handed
over the Spirit. And from his pierced side flowed forth blood and water. Water
to wash away our sins, and his own blood to nourish us that we might become
what we receive. That gift, that gift freely, actively given, is good. So good.
That
image of blood and water powerfully speaks to us of the sacraments, but it
speaks more basically of something else too. From a woman giving birth flows
forth blood and water, and she knows real pain, and new life comes. Psalm 90
talks of God giving birth to the mountains (ValLimar made reference to that at
our concert on Sunday if you were there). The God who labored to bring to birth
the mountains is fully revealed in Christ on the Cross who labors to bring to
birth the Church, to inspire the Church with his own breath, his Spirit. In
this world, new life is not brought to birth without pain. It was not always
so, Genesis tells us. Pain will come to an end, Revelation assures us. But now,
in between the Fall and the End of all things, new life is not brought to birth
without suffering.
It is unchristian
and inhumane to not recognize suffering as suffering and pain as pain. But at
the same time it is unchristian to fail to marvel and wonder when new life is
brought to birth and so call it Good. What was born in those people gathered
around Notre Dame on Monday? As we touch, embrace, kiss that cross, as we
receive the body of our Lord in Eucharist, and as we go forth to dare to stand
by the crosses of our sisters and brothers and carry our own, we must recognize
pain as pain and sacrifice as sacrifice, especially as we confess with Isaiah, “it
was our sins he bore.” But we must also marvel and wonder at new life
being brought to birth. What is being born around this cross? Whatever it is,
it is good.
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