God Friday

Dear family and friends,

Even though the sun was shining brightly, there were the thick, dark, invisible clouds of evil overhead, mocking both the light of day, and the light of God.

This was true both for him and for HIM.

There were expressed threats to kill both HIM and him, uttered in public and private places.

Bad words can pierce ones body worse than a bullet, which at least finishes you off in a matter of minutes. The words of hate linger in the mind and heart, they brood and multiply, spreading like cancer, and they twist joys into anxieties and confidence into dread.

For HIM the words caused no less than the sweating of blood.

For him, the words caused both fear and a furor.

As for the onlookers, they had lived with killings and threats for so long, that one more violent death could not possibly interfere with finishing the rest of the sandwich in their hands, or with delivering the punchline of a joke they were in the middle of telling.

The onlookers had seen many crucifixions on the hill, they were all the same.
They had seen many gunshot dead in the streets, they were all the same.

Been there, done that. Next.

But this is not true for little onlookers, children for whom violence sets their gaze, and their hearts, rigid.

How can we soften them?

It was the hour of first vespers, Palm Sunday 2021.
I was at his funeral, and preparing for HIS week of Holy Memory.

For HIM, the hammer set to the nail was an announcement. Those closest would hear it. Some would shiver- would you have shivered?

For him, the announcement was a thunderous crack, when the small metal lever struck the bullet. I was near enough to hear it, but I couldn't. I was lifting a box of medicines, in front of a large, screeching fan.

But as chickens scatter at any blow, some towards and some away, and since our eyes are more finely tuned to movement than to acuity, the sight of the our staff running in all directions dropped my heart to my feet. And I ran, heart-footed, toward, and not away.

For HIM, a lance in the side was the grand finale, the outflow of the remaining life blood.
For him, the side was torn open wide by a ballistic mini spear..

"We need to cover him. GET A SHEET!"
The children on the street would then see a red spotted cloth, rather than his empty eyes and generous entrails.

Long ago, there was nothing to cover HIM, high on the cross.

Two of us preach.
Fr Fitho speaks first, and my eyes wander.
Not for lack of interest is his moving exhortation away from revenge and toward placing confidence in God's justice, but because it was impossible not to lock my eyes on the faces of his four small children in their grief, of his wife on the floor, of his white haired mother lamenting in heart wrenching rythm.

My turn to preach came.
Full heart, useless tongue.

For him there were two priests, each a one-time preach.
For HIM, preachers have spanned twenty centuries and counting.

My words came out as they wished, my eyes spoke more to the eyes of others, well known to me, whose presence at the funeral prayers was a tortured reliving of that day, many or few years ago, when they lost their mother or father, daughter or brother, in this dreadful, public way.

Pie, Jesu.

My eyes locked with all of these eyes, looking for viridans (greenness) deep within- known from ancient times as the very first vital sign. It is there, but dimly lit.

"Lead kindly light amid encircling doom, lead though me on."

For HIM, there were few eyes to look into.
Most were not there to pay any respects, but to be amused.
If they had iphones they would have filmed and posted, with smiling selfies.

Others present were functionaries. Like the doorkeeper in NY, who recently closed the door on the elderly woman being beaten at the very portal, for being a foreigner.

But present there for HIM, most beautifully and meaningfully, were three Marys and a John.
They radiated viridans through the deepest sorrow and grief, as HIS viridans receded.

Yes, I do see it in their eyes. Alleluia! Strange how I can be happy for a minute, at such a time.

I sent for his family today and met them in Tabarre, in the name of HIM who, as Isaiah promised, "will not quench a dimly lit flame."

We will become friends. I renewed our sincere condolences and shared pain, shared some home made chocolates, promised help with schooling. After a while, they went home with some Easter tilapia from our ponds, and some small cash for help over the holidays.

When we start by protecting the failing flame in each other through friendship, we prepare the way for God to do a great work. Lightening the load, enlightening the heart, and lighting the way is holy and luminous work.

About HIM, there was a motive-minded posting on the Cross
"The King of the Jews"
When this was challenged, Pilate retorted, "Quod scripsi, scripsi."

About him, there was a motive-minded posting on facebook by his killer "Old men don't strike old men" which was challenged by "Old men don’t kill old men!", answered with silence.

(But in fact, neither are old.)

Ironically, at this point of writing this reflection, I just ran out and delivered a baby in the hallway, having heard the screams. Enter, stage right, a new baby overflowing with viridans, and lungs full of the cry of life. It's an early Easter gift of stark contrast.

Joseph and Nicodemus took down HIS body, bathed and anointed it with wonderful oils, to prepared it for burial.

Another Fitho and I lifted his body, and sutured his ragged wound edges back together. As I held his hand away from his own wound and we pushed and sutured, it was still warm in mine.
Viridans departs slowly, but finally.

HIS was Calvary.
So was his.

And so has Calvary marked ours lives in the strongest of ways, from COVID, cancers, car wrecks and chaos. The overcrowding of Calvary is the mark of our recent years.
On Calvary, we are in blessed company.

And the looking into the eyes lately has been through tablets and phone screens, on facetime and zoom.
We have been impoverished by the necessity of standing by the cross virtually, of being there by proxy.
Such has been the lonely and necessary isolation.

But virtual light is better than none. And we have much more richness to share than virtual light.

This prayer is from the 10th verse of the 700 year-old Good Friday Hymn, "Stabat Mater":

Make me feel as thou hast felt, make my soul to glow and melt, with the love of Christ my Lord.

The multitudes of dimly lit lights on the many Calvarys of today, joined with HIS great light, outshine any supernova of stars.

Our hope and our joy is this:

"The light shines in the darkness and the darkness cannot overcome it."

May the Light of Jesus strengthen the God-light in your heart, and may we recommit to the continual enlightenment of each other, in HIS name.

Happy Easter and wishes for all the blessings and graces of this Holy Season, for you and your families!

Fr Richard Frechette CP DO, March 31, 2021, Port au Prince