In the Catholic tradition, there is an ancient liturgy for those who have died. It is called a Requiem Mass. It is in Latin, usually sung, and resembles a regular Mass except that it doesn’t have a few sections and adds a few more parts. One part that is added is DIES IRAE. A section of that is a small motet called PIE JESU.
The translation of the Pie Jesu is: “Pious or gentle Jesus, who takes away the sins of the world, give us peace.”
[Sing: Pie Jesu, Qui tollis peccata mundi. Dona eis requiem]
It’s a unique song because it occurs on sad occasions. Yet it is often highlighted by beautiful melodies. Like this one from Andrew Lloyd Weber. One could say it is a paradox: two things, which seem opposite, occurring at the same time . . . sadness and hopefulness.
Today we recognize one of the great paradoxes of faith . . .
Jesus, the innocent one, dying for us.
Jesus, the carpenter’s son, who is the king.
Jesus, fully human and fully divine.
Jesus, the miracle worker, who chooses to take up the cross.
The cross, itself is a paradox. For it has become for us . . . an item for jewelry, a wall decoration, a tattoo mark or a gesture that we make without thinking. The cross itself was an instrument of torture. Just like a guillotine or electric chair. The cross was specific to the Romans as a method to publically humiliate a criminal with a long, drawn out, agonizing death . . . as one is nailed totally naked, bleeding and slowly dying of suffocation (i.e. not being able to inhale anymore).
And yet this cross, as awful as it was meant to be, has become for us . . . the symbol of our salvation. The blessed cross on which hung the savior of the world is our doorway to heaven.
Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, give us rest.
[Sing: Angus Die, Qui tollis peccata mundi. Dona eis requiem]
Give us rest. For we come today, and every day, looking for some rest from our own sufferings. We come trying to make sense of the many trials and pains that each of us face. Maybe we won’t hang on a cross, but many of us feel like we are being crucified. And each day is a walk of carrying a might burden, a heavy cross.
A common phrase in our faith . . . is that Jesus died for our sins. That is true, but another way to understand his agony . . is that Jesus died for our sufferings. Jesus died, aligning himself with all the hurts (physically, emotionally, psychologically or spiritually) that any of us carry, so that we know that in the midst of our pain, our suffering, our woundedness . . . we are not alone.
And this become our paradox . . . for through this passion of Jesus willing to die on the cross, the cross meant as “and end” becomes “our beginning.” The cross which holds all the pain of our grieving, our fears, our woundedness becomes the symbol of our hopefulness.
The place of your greatest pain, can become the place of your greatest joy.
It is not our doing, but it is the gift we are given because of the cross that Jesus embraced. Because of the cross, which led to resurrection, we are given the invitation to arise from our agonies and pain and embrac hopefulness. The story of Jesus does not end on the cross, nor will your story end with your pain.
We come before the cross, to venerate the cross, because this is our symbol of hope, of goodness, of a promise that whatever wounds we carry . . . it shall pass. We shall find peace, not because we have it figured out or have it all together . . . because of Christ who died to take away our sins, our sufferings and give us peace.
[Sing: Pie Jesu, Qui tollis peccata mundi. Dona eis requiem]