by Mike Hughes, Assistant Vice Provost, Graduate Enrollment
As I write, Easter is two weeks away, and Spring is a day away. The last two days of rain have given way to sunshine. I went to mass at St. Agnes last weekend, and masks aside, it was a wonderful breath of normalcy. The darkness of Golgotha is still some time away.
Among the few positive things I’ve experienced as a result of a year away from mass inside St. Ignatius, St. Agnes, or St. Vincent De Paul’s has been attending “Mass on Demand” on Sundays – actually the Saturday vigil – with Our Lady of the Way parish in North Sydney, Australia. I couldn’t tell you how I found it to begin with, but the weekly message of the Jesuits there, the lovely sincerity and obvious depth of devotion of the lay ministers, the guests at mass who encourage parish support of those most in need, remind me of home.
I guess because Australia has been more successfully vigilant dealing with COVID, there has been limited attendance in the church of St. Francis Xavier each week. The church interior always appears bright as day as parishioners sit appropriately distanced and the celebrant and ministers sanitize their hands and everyone takes masks on and off as the Eucharist is distributed and received.
So I’ve been living vicariously through their real experience, but from the lens of a different country, a different hemisphere. They talk about stifling heat before Christmas, the cold in August, and pay respect to the original owners of their land, the Guringai peoples, instead of the Ohlone, as we do. They pray for those affected by wildfires, as we do. They pray for us! For our national leadership in times of turmoil!
This week, as I said, Lent has brought Spring and the sun out. But this week’s “Note from the Pulpit” in the North Sydney Catholics bulletin drew me forward to Golgotha on Good Friday, and also back in time.
Friday
This Friday was no different from any other.
The usual criminals, after due process somewhat bent, underwent the proscribed punishments: torture, whatever degradation came their way, death.
The rabble roared and spat.
Families and friends wailed and went silent.
The soldiers, I am glad to report, did their duty and returned to barracks, according to the Friday routine.
Offering
Father, we bring you the body of Jesus; this is all we have; his blood is everywhere.
Sorry.
Here I am at my desk. A Friday no different from any other. For whom does this day bring violence, degradation, death? Whose families and friends wail, then go silent? Who thinks they are doing their duty? How has this not changed since Golgotha? Where would I be in this scene? What do I do now?
I honestly don’t know. At the very least, this ordinary Friday in Lent leads me to think hard about the blood of Jesus’s sacrifice for all of us, and the terrible sacrifices others make each day. This is all I have.
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