John 18, 33b-37
November 25, 2012
The throne of Christ our King was a crude, wooden
cross.
But
that sacred cross we solemnly venerate has become a popular piece of costume
jewelry.
Everybody
seems to wear one.
Even
people who couldn't pick Jesus out of a lineup — they him dangling from a cross
on their necks.
Jesus must be thinking, “I died for this?!”
Yes, you did.
You wanted to tell people how to live, how to deal
with God, how to be fully human.
Maybe you thought they would be
grateful, maybe even give you a Nobel Prize or at least the Humanitarian Award.
But being new to humankind, perhaps
you hadn't yet learned its limits:
Humankind
can stand only a little bit of reality.
Other people have tried to succeed where Jesus failed.
There is a priest who rises early to pray, labors in the vineyard until
late, falls into bed exhausted and twists through the sleepless night.
For all his effort, the parish still has members complaining about
schedules and programs, people still come late and leave early from mass,
still
has over half of them are riding on the coattails of the others when it comes
being good stewards, and parents grab their children when he walks by because
of suspicions about priests.
Through a hole in his stomach he groans, “I gave up a family of my own
and money for this?!”
Yes, you did.
You
wanted to help people, be part of their intimate lives, be close to them in
their crises, support them in trouble.
You
expected to be thanked, or at least quietly appreciated.
But, very often, all they notice is
what you don’t or can’t do for them.
during those years in the seminary,
you forgot that people prefer to be loners.
They
want closeness – but not too close,
help – but not too much,
guidance
– but as little as possible and especially not to be made aware that their
lives might need to change if they are to be disciples of Jesus Christ
There
are mothers and fathers who wanted to raise the best children who ever lived:
kind, compassionate, Catholic.
They
expected them to learn from their mistakes and successes, hoped they would be
active ministers of the church and responsible citizens.
And
these parents were devastated when their children turned their backs on their
faith, burned the flag, became addicted to various substances and generally despised
everything the parents held dear. the parents sigh,
“I wore out my only life for them?
Yes, you did.
You
were so convinced you had found the secret of the good life that you forgot
everyone has to find their own way,
formulate their own values, carve out an
individual existence.
The unbearable thing about the cross is that it is often not
the one we expected.
Jesus must have expected people would show some resistance to God’s will
— but surely not actual crucifixion.
Every priest expects a little reluctance from others — but not hostility.
All
parents must know that children need their own space — but not to the point of
hatred and rejection.
When the cross becomes too heavy, we think, “I could manage any cross but
this particular one.”
And that’s another bad thing about crosses.
The one we piously carve for ourselves is always
bearable.
Because no matter how awkward or cruel it is, we shape it to our own
personality, so it always fits, if painfully.
The
cross we take up is bearable.
It
is the cross that falls on us that crushes us.
Some of us were in Haiti this past
summer.
All
around us, in the orphanage, in the streets of Port-au-Prince and Hinche and
along the roads between, we witnessed the cross of poverty that threatens to
crush the people of that great nations.
We
witnessed what the cross of cruelty has done when leaders cannot or will not
listen to the needs of their people.
We
witnessed what the cross of ignorance and blindness can do when others with more who were fortunate to be born in a nation
with much
turn
their backs on those in need, not because of what they have done or not done,
but because of where they were born.
And
we also witnessed what the miracle of care can do to help lift at least part of
that cross fot a few helpless children
For
them the cross that threatens to slam them to the ground seems to come from
nowhere.
It
doesn’t fit well; it chafes them, because it is not of their own doing.
But it is shaping them.
They
are a strong people;
a
joyful people, perhaps, because they have so little, they can rejoice in what
little they do have.
Perhaps
they believe in resurrection, and a new Haiti, because it is the only thing
they have left to hope in.
No
matter!
It
is plain as day to anyone who looks into their eyes that they have taken up
their cross and believe in Christ as savior and redeemer,
one
who has not turned his back on them.
None
of us can plan the perfect scenario that would fulfill us.
We
have no way of discovering on our own what makes for our happiness, because we
cannot ever know our deepest self.
That
is hidden in the mind of God, who created us as this unique person.
Only that God knows precisely the
cross that can shape us into our true self.
And
only we can take it up, no matter how painfully, and help shape it into our
resurrection.
People often ask me why I keep
returning to Haiti.
I say I love the children, the land.
I hate the heat and the sweat and the
dust, but I keep returning.
The truth is, I return because it
gives me hope.
It strengthens my faith.
I
look into the faces of the children and the people on the streets and roads,
and I gain strength to bear my own crosses.
I
return home each time renewed in my determination to do all that I can to
convince everyone here to give even more so that we can help those children, make
their crosses less heavy.
So,
take some time today to stop in the Social Hall and look at the pictures we
have returned with.
Look
into the faces of those who have taken up their cross and still can laugh and
smile and play,
all the time believing in a God who
has not abandoned them.
