The Darkest Week

It is Holy Week, the week of Christ’s Passion, the darkest week of Lent which precedes the Easter dawn. And though I have hope—though I know the end of the story is near—I find myself wishing I could skip over this most difficult part of the year, this week of pain and betrayal, of commands and rebukes, of suffering and death, of loneliness and silence.

And yet, I know I cannot. I know that I am a character in this plot of Christ’s Passion. But who am I, Lord?

Am I Simon Peter, the one who insists he loves Christ, then hides and denies even knowing Him, just hours later? Or am I the other Simon, of Cyrene, forced under the cross, confused, faced with the choice to grumble and resist, to kick up dirt in the Savior’s face with each step—or to accept its weight, its humiliation, its owner, with a quiet honor? Am I mourning at Christ’s feet like His Blessed Mother, like John the Beloved, like Mary Magdalene the repentant? Or am I unrepentant—driving a stake into His feet, stony as a soldier? Am I a falsely pious Pharisee, a smug Sadducee, in no need of a Savior? Am I Pilate, apathetic, moved not by God, but by the opinion of the crowd? Am I in the crowd, raging and spitting, throwing rocks, yelling, “Crucify Him! Crucify Him!” Am I Veronica, using my veil to mop the sweat and blood from His face, desperate to relieve His suffering in even the smallest way? God forbid I be Judas the sell-out, Love’s betrayer, the man who refused heaven.  

Or perhaps this year I am a child who has been trailing Him these cold weeks, quiet and curious, watching from a child’s angle as He plucks the shrapnel of human sin from the hearts of the repentant, tucking it silently into His own heart, between the welcoming layers of mercy. Perhaps I am the child—sensitive, afraid to look, eyes still keen to innocence and injustice—watching Jesus fall to the ground under the cross, and knowing, somehow, that it is not the dead weight of the wood or even the torn flesh which topples Him, but an interior wound, a sharp and hidden sorrow, a heart heavy and tearing with the world’s sin that crushes Him to the ground.

And if I am brave enough, I will step closer. I will stretch out my fist to touch His hand, with tearful, pleading eyes. Will He take this, my sin, too? With a faint smile, He closes His bleeding palm around my hand. I release the shards I’ve been carrying, and He pats them into an open gash on His chest.

And then I will watch Jesus get up. For me—for every weak and wounded soul—He gets up, and with the shrapnel still concealed in His heart, He marches up the hill to the cross. There, His arms stretched open in love, He dissolves every sliver of sin in His blood and eternity, and a soft, cleansing rain falls on my contrite and waiting soul.