03/04/2026
AT THE FOOT OF THE CROSS
Good Friday of the Lord's Passion
Last night, we entered into the quiet intimacy of the Last Supper, where Jesus gave not only bread and wine, but himself. In the simple yet profound gesture of washing his disciples’ feet, he revealed the heart of his commandment: “Love one another as I have loved you.” And before they could fully understand, he transformed the Passover into something eternal—the gift of the Eucharist, a love that would remain, abiding through time.
Today, we come to the cross—not to explain it, but to stand before it. Here, words begin to fall silent. We are drawn into the depth of a love that is almost too much to comprehend: a Father who gives his Son, a Son who pours himself out completely. And yet, as we gaze upon Christ crucified, we cannot help but see reflected in him the suffering of our own world. The wounded of our time—the victims of war, especially in the troubled lands of the Middle East; the silenced and forgotten dead of extrajudicial killings; the poor, the displaced, the unseen—somehow gather beneath this same cross. It is no longer only his suffering we behold, but theirs… and perhaps, even our own.
And still, we profess that this is love. Not a love that explains suffering away, nor one that glorifies it, but a love that enters into it. In Christ, God does not remain distant from human pain—he chooses to dwell within it. As Saint Paul writes, Jesus “emptied himself… becoming obedient to death, even death on a cross.” There is a quietness in this self-emptying, a surrender that does not resist, does not retaliate, does not turn away. It is a love that absorbs violence without returning it, that bears injustice without surrendering to it.
On the cross, we see both the frailty and the mystery of Christ. He who could have acted with power chose instead to remain. He does not argue, does not defend himself, does not come down. Before human judgment—before Herod, before Pontius Pilate—he stands in silence. And in that silence, something deeper is spoken: that love does not always conquer by force, but often by enduring.
The cross stretches before us as a meeting place—of heaven and earth, of divine mercy and human brokenness. It reaches into the realities we know all too well: where dignity is denied, where truth is obscured, where violence is justified. And somehow, in ways we cannot fully grasp, Christ is there. Not distant, not indifferent—but present, suffering within his people. Yet even here, there is a quiet hope: that suffering and injustice do not have the final word.
We often speak of finding God in the human experience. But the cross reminds us that this experience includes even the darkest moments. And it is precisely here that grace is at work—hidden, perhaps, but real. For Jesus does not lose his life; he gives it. And in giving it, he transforms even death into a passage toward life. “No one takes it from me,” he says, “but I lay it down on my own.”
Perhaps this is why the world struggles to understand such love. It asks something of us. It unsettles us. It calls us to let go of our certainties, our need for control, our quiet complicity in the ways of violence and indifference. And yet, it also draws us—gently, persistently—into something deeper.
So we remain here, at the foot of the cross. Not with answers, but with presence. Not with certainty, but with trust. We listen again to his words: “When I am lifted up from the earth, I will draw everyone to myself.” And we begin to sense that this drawing is happening even now—in our longing, in our questions, in our desire for something more.
If we turn away, we may remain where we are—safe, perhaps, but unchanged. But if we allow ourselves to stay, to be drawn, to be loved in this way, then something within us begins to shift. Slowly, quietly, the cross shapes us—teaching us to love a little more like Christ: with patience, with mercy, with a willingness to remain.
And so we do not rush away from this moment. We linger. We behold. We pray.
We adore you, O Christ, and we praise you, because by your holy cross, you have redeemed the world.
