Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
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Both Spring and Fall Triduums deal with the Paschal Mystery, the passage from death to life which is at the heart of all mystical paths. They do so, however, with a different emotional and spiritual character and experience. In the Spring the days are lengthening, resurrection energy is moving through the earth as it bursts with new life. In the Fall the movement is inward. The days are shortening, the leaves are dying and falling, and the earth draws into itself. The fall season confronts us with reminders of our own mortality.
Like the Spring Triduum, the Fall Triduum offers us a journey. It begins with All Hallows Eve. Unlike the consumerism and excess of Halloween, All Hallows Eve can be an occasion for facing our shadow self and becoming aware of the tricks our ego tries to play on us when it doesn’t get what it wants.
Having faced our shadow self, we then move to today’s feast of All Saints, the celebration of the Communion of Saints, that glorious band of those like stars appearing, of dazzling brightness, golden crowns wearing, as the offertory hymn we will sing so beautifully and poetically describes it. Communion is what they’re doing- communing- dissolving in gratitude at that great banquet, where there is no more tears, no more weeping, no more pain, but only rejoicing in the heart of God for eternity. It is the way the Church honors the deep interconnectedness of God’s family across time, culture, and history.
And during the whole Communion Rite, we are joined with the whole Communion of Saints, with angels and archangels, with cherubim and seraphim. We are joined with the church on earth and the church in heaven, now divided only by the narrow stream of death. The whole host of heaven crowds the very air we breathe, and all becomes the Kairos of intimacy. Imagine that! That’s what we are about to do in a few minutes. What if we all became truly aware of that reality today?!
Tomorrow we are invited to acknowledge grief in remembrance, gratitude, and hope, as we celebrate the loved ones who are no longer with us. It is a reminder of the finality of death that challenges us to be fully present here and now, and so begin eternal life, that overcoming of time by the now that does not pass away. Yes, in the midst of life, we are in death. But the Fall Triduum reminds us of a deeper truth: in the midst of death, we are promised life.
I have to admit that when I read the Gospel story assigned for today, my reaction was: “The story of the raising of Lazarus, what?? No! Why?” I think it is one of the strangest and most difficult stories to grasp in Scripture. I find it strange that Jesus takes his time when he first hears of Lazarus’ illness? I find it very strange that he tells his disciples that Lazarus is “asleep,” instead of saying he is dead. And the whole business of bringing Lazarus back to life… weird. Does a person who’s been dead for four days even want to come back? And we never hear about Lazarus again in the Gospel narrative. He virtually disappears after he comes out of the tomb. Talk about mysterious!
And yet, there was a phrase that touched my heart from the beginning and has continued to nag at me during my lectio. A phrase that isn’t strange or mysterious. A phrase I can understand because of its humanity; because of its incarnated nature: “Jesus began to weep.” Perhaps that’s the deepest meaning of this strange story, that grief takes hold of the Word of God incarnate and breaks him down. Jesus, who is the most accurate and fully human revelation of the divine we will ever have, stands at the grave of his friend and cries.
Why does he cry when he knew that Lazarus was about to come back to life? Why does he cry after intentionally staying away from Bethany during Lazarus’s illness? The why does not matter to me because Jesus’ tears legitimize human grief and negate any form of Christianity that leaves no room for lament. Jesus’ tears honor the complexity of our sorrows and joys. Joy does not cancel out the essential work of grief.
When I read that Jesus wept, I feel assured that it is okay for my faith to be nuanced. I am assured that it is okay for my expressions of belief and trust to come with emotional baggage. Martha, after all, expresses resentment and reproach at Jesus’s delay, and in the next breath voices her trust in his power. And Mary blames Jesus for Lazarus’ death, but she does so on her knees, in a posture of belief and humility. And Jesus’s face is full of tears when he prays to God and raises his friend from the dead. These are the expressions of faith of the human person fully alive; a faith that embraces the full spectrum of human psychology.
When I read that Jesus cried, I feel assured that it is okay to yearn for life. It is okay to feel a sense of wrongness and injustice in the face of death. It is okay to mourn the loss of vitality and longevity. It is okay to love and cherish the gift of life here and now.
Three years ago, I decided to create an “altar de muertos” in my cell. I have been doing so ever since, including this year. I believe it is a beautiful Mexican tradition. Now, I’m not Mexican. I’m from Puerto Rico, (which is a beautiful island on the Caribbean and not a “floating pile of garbage in the middle of the ocean,”) but I love this tradition which has its origins in pre-hispanic Aztec believes that with time were syncretized with Christian beliefs.
The tradition consists of creating an altar colorfully decorated that has photos of loved ones who have died and where one presents to them offerings of food, flowers, candles and other things. Now, I already have a prayer altar in my cell. As a visual and creative type with, perhaps, some flair for the theatrical, I’ve always benefited from creating a dramatic space with images and objects that inspire and ground my prayer. No, I’m not offering food to the dead since I don’t share those beliefs. All the food and flowers on my altar are artificial. But my “altar de muertos” is something tangible that helps me remember, celebrate, honor and mourn those significant souls who were part of my life and I will never see again in the flesh. Every year, as I get older, more and more people join my “altar de muertos,” reminding me of my own mortality.
This year I had the very emotional experience of adding my younger blood brother’s photo to the altar. I didn’t cry when he died in August. I was relieved. My brother had given up on life some years ago and was very unhappy, self-destructing and consumed by alcohol. While the news is always shocking, even when one knows it will come at some point, I saw it as a mercy. I was also trying to hold it together so I could be present for my elderly and frail mother who was inconsolable. But adding his photo to my “altar de muertos” felt so very wrong and devastating. My younger brother was not supposed to die before me. So, I cried, and it was okay, because Jesus cried.
In the Gospel story, it is because Jesus experiences the devastation of death that he recognizes the immediate need to restore life. Can Jesus’ tears provoke us in the same way? What breaks your heart right now? I’m personally heartbroken about what is happening in Ukraine, and Gaza, and Israel. I am heartbroken about the political landscape of this country, which makes it almost unrecognizable from the land I’ve lived in and so loved since I was sixteen years old. I experience this sorrow even as I live in absolute faith and hope that God’s hand is still at work in the world because through his tears, Jesus calls us into the holy vocation of empathy. Sorrow is a powerful catalyst for change, and shared lament can lead to transformation.
As we take
time today and tomorrow to remember, to mourn, and to celebrate those who have
gone on before us, may Jesus’s tears be our guide. May his honest
expression of sorrow give us the permission and impulse, not only to do the
work of grief and healing, but to move with compassion into a world that so
much needs our empathy and love right now. May we remember that our
journey is not to the grave, but through it. May we remember
that the Lord who weeps is also the Lord who resurrects. And may
we mourn always in hope. ¡Que así sea en el nombre del
Padre, del Hijo y del Espíritu Santo! ~Amen+
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