Simon

JMJ. I was looking forward to another Passover, this year in Jerusalem. I can't afford the travel often but the crops were good this year. But the whole city is a-buzz with the foment of revolution. Just a week ago the latest of our "deliverers" rode into Jerusalem on the back of an ass. The crowd strewed palm branches before Him and acclaimed that He was our messiah. Now they want to crucify Him.

Who is this poor man, this Jesus? For heaven's sake, they've scourged Him within an inch of His life as it is! I can't believe He's even able to walk. I know what the cat does with its sharp claws. It's stoked Him bloody raw, how can He even walk? And they expect Him to carry that cross all the way to Calvary? How could God allow this to happen, though?

Poor fellow. That circlet of thorns bites so deeply into His brow I can't believe He can see through the blood that clouds His eyes.

Rufus and Alexander think He's the Son of God. I don't see how that can be. How could God allow His Son to be so mistreated? I wouldn't do this to the lowliest cur of the alleys, for heaven's sake! And the damned Romans expect He's to carry that heavy cross more than a mile? It'll be a miracle if He takes more than a dozen steps before He drops over.

What? Oh, no. I'm not going to help Him carry that! I have nothing to do with Him. I won't be associated with His crimes! I'm a law-abiding citizen, God knows. I won't help Him, however innocent He might be. He can carry that cross by Himself for all of me. Hell, people will think I have something to do with Him. Alright, alright, leave me be.

He can barely breath, let alone carry this thing. Poor man. How dangerous can He be, bleeding and broken as He is? Alexander believes. Rufus believes. I can't see that He's anything special. Except His eyes! I've never seen eyes as eloquent as His. Maybe there's something to His message after all. Okay. "Take hold of my waist. Hold tight. I'll carry this thing and You just follow as best You can."

One step. One step and then another. We'll get there, ok? Hold tight and I'll help. But what do you have to look forward to but an agonising death? Look at those guys behind us. Whimpering. The Romans say that they're thieves. If so, they ought to be here. But not You. It's a shame that you should leave this earth in their company. Come on, hold tight. We're almost there now. You know, this cross is a lot lighter than I thought it would ever be. I'm sorry it was meant for you. You don't deserve it.

It was meant for me, wasn't it? Oh, God! it was meant for me! And He's taking it up instead. I'm so sorry! Forgive me. It was mine all along, wasn't it? Jesus forgive me.

Lent, A Continuation

JMJ. Today is Sunday. I fulfilled my Sunday duty and assisted at Mass. I did so, not because I had to but because I wanted to do so. At the culmination, I made my altar call. (Yes, Catholics have true altar calls, true because we still have altars in our churches.) I approached the altar following the consecration of the bread and wine. I bowed before my glorified Lord in the Blessed Sacrament and answered, "Amen" in response to the priest's statement, "The Body of Christ."

But this Lent has not been the time of rejoicing that I had looked forward to. I have let myself become distracted, by physicians with whom I work who are well-nigh unlovable (to me), by financial concerns that are trying our meagre pocket-book, and care for my dear wife who is struggling with health problems beyond my power to assuage. My shame is that the Lord whom I received this morning does not shine through me. My actions do not proclaim my catholicity. I feel like I am letting Him down when He needs me the most.

I feel like calling out (like He did,) "Father, why hast Thou forsaken Me?" But then I realise that I am His tabernacle and that He carries me when the going is hardest. And I have weeks to go before I am honoured to shoulder a small part of His cross as St. Simon of Cyrene did so many centuries ago. I am nothing only when I have forsaken Him. And that I WILL NOT allow myself to do! Gloria Deo.

Confederate

JMJ. I have written so much about what it means to be Catholic and how being so colours our thoughts and words and deeds. But as yet, so many months after starting this blog, I have not yet written about what it means to be Confederate. There is Truth and there is truth. The first exists, as does God. The second exists only in relation to our surroundings, our thoughts, the world around us, what we have been taught.

I grew up in the north. I was schooled in the north. My values were those of the north. Until I was 45, I never would have guessed that my truth was falsehood and that the Truth existed outside my ken. Just as I never would have guessed that Truth existed only in the Holy Catholic Church. I was taught that the north was right, that Lincoln freed the slaves, and yadda, yadda, yadda.

The Truth is that that the South was right, that she fought to preserve that which was given to us by the Constitution, and that what we have now we can ascribe to the arch-fiend, Lincoln. He it was who plotted the demise of the Confederacy before he was sworn into office, he it was who invaded a legally-seceded South, he it was who betrayed our founding fathers. Of this I am as convinced as I am as that the Catholic Church is true Christianity. This has been proven to me and I am happy to proclaim it. Gloria Deo!

Responsibility

JMJ. I was looking at a crucifix yesterday. It was hand-made by an artisan in Mexico and stands about three feet high and Christ's body is probably a foot and a half tall. It is extremely life-like with flaxen hair and a miniature crown of thorns. There are far more lash marks on His body with all the attendant gore flowing from them than one normally sees. When I first saw this crucifix I thought it was one of the more gruesome artifacts I'd ever come across.

But the older I grow the (somewhat) wiser I become. The longer I gazed on His lowered, dead face the more I came to appreciate the beauty of the image in general and this crucifix in particular. There were peace and serenity in the marks of His suffering. One could see His weight supported by the cruel nails piercing His hands and His feet. It's almost like a lifting of the veil separating our time from that of 2,000 years ago next month.

I'm glad that Catholics use the crucifix instead of the empty cross. (What is there to contemplate in two pieces of wood without the context of His sacrificed body?) Anyway, there I was looking up at Him thinking to myself, "My sins helped put You there, Lord. Forgive me." He (or more likely my holy guardian angel, Cornelius) said, "Whoa. Wait a minute, Jimmy. You helped put Me there?"

Isn't that just like Americans? We are a committee-type society. We use the adage of safety in numbers to spread the responsibility around. I put Him there. That was the message I'd been given. My sins were sufficient to crucify Him. Mine alone! He was scourged, he was crowned with thorns, and His flesh was pierced just for me! To save Jimmy, He had to die. What a sacrifice it is that would serve not just for one lowly creature but for all the billions who have and are and will live. You just can't get that from an empty cross. Forgive me, precious Lord, for putting You there. That's the REAL message of Lent and I finally got it.