Crosses
Lent is passing quickly, and I thought I should get this up well before Good Friday. This short homily is by the future Pope John Paul I; he gave it at the Good Friday Liturgy he celebrated as Patriarch of Venice in 1974. Short and well, pungent rather than sweet, it provides good material for meditation for us all. I can even imagine him thinking these same things at the moment he had to accept his election as Pope. And he too said his Fiat then.
During the reading of John’s deeply compassionate account, I have contemplated him together with you: full of sorrows, nailed in his hands and suspended; nailed in his feet and immobilized. There I was, facing him: I who cannot bear obstacles, I who shrug off every annoyance, I who am drowning in ease. And yet I profess to be his disciple. I have a beautiful crucifix hanging on the wall of my study; another crucifix at the end of the rosary that I carry in my pocket; I make the sign of the Cross I don’t know how many times a day; every day I celebrate the Mass, the sacrifice of the Cross represented on the altar. In spite of all this, I am so afraid of crosses.
Reflecting on crosses, I have made a distinction. There are some that do not make us tremble. For example: the pain that is heavy, but which you have the strength to bear. Competition, which exhausts you and leaves you breathless, which makes you thirsty and wears you out, but at the same time, stimulates you to overcome your opponent and reach the finish line in glory. These are very small crosses.
The cross is a beam fastened to a crossbeam. It is, therefore, the road blocked in front of me. I thought I would be able to go on and someone stops me, unjustly blocking all of my hopes. I cherished legitimate desires and I see them destroyed from beginning to end. I wanted to keep my feet on the ground and I find myself separated from the earth, lifted up and nailed where I really didn’t want to be. And without any glory; the same people who sympathize with me outwardly for propriety’s sake, deep down are laughing at me. This really is a cross, this wounds the depths of the heart, it twists the soul, and makes this cry rise spontaneously to the lips: This I really didn’t want, Lord! Let this cup pass from me, Lord! Transeat, Lord!
Jesus too experienced this; in the garden he felt prostrated, annihilated, sorrowful unto death. He too, said: “Father, if it is possible let this cup pass from me.” Afterward, however, he accepted it heroically. Afterward, he said: “let not my will, but yours be done” (Luke 22:42).
My brothers and sisters! Let us also try to say our Fiat and carry our daily cross. To us too, as to Christ, a little bit of strength will come from the Father. On our painful journey, there will also be some Simon of Cyrene to help us; a mother to suffer along with us and console us.
In any case, every cross is a passing thing; it is the road, not the goal. And no crosses without heaven in view. St. Peter wrote: “Rejoice in the measure that you share Christ’s sufferings. When he glory is revealed, you will rejoice exultantly” (1 Peter 4:13).
