The Terrible Humanity of Christ

Holy Week is the perfect time to reflect on the humanity of Christ. Not just that he was made human, but what that means for us. He sanctified all aspects of human experience from birth to death, joy to sorrow. He is the perfect advocate because He lived and struggled as we do. And I think many of us talk about it, but I, at least, didn't often meditate on what that meant in regards to my daily life. "Pick up your cross, and follow me," sure. "Love others as I have loved you," sure. But to embrace the weakness that Christ suffered, that's harder. To embrace that even Jesus needed people in his last days.... not so much.

I have always been the strong one, the one with the answers, the helper, healer, and fixer. And yet, Christ asks me -- asks us -- to recognize that He never said that we had to do these things in isolation, and he never modeled an isolative ministry. Even his very nature as Second Person of the Trinity is not in isolation. He did not come into the world in isolation either: He entered into a family. His mission was with no less than 12 friends. And even in His death, He was not alone. And we are not supposed to be either. But sometimes that means accepting aid, accepting that we cannot do it.

Several years ago, I was struggling with this greatly. I had put walls between myself and others, and I discovered I had even distanced myself from relying on God as I should because I believed the lie that I should be able to do everything myself. And, in that moment of exhausted darkness, Christ brought me to Calvary and spoke the following to me. As we enter into the Passiontide, I invite you to also meditate on the side of Christ we don't often like to see. To reflect on how we are asked to unite ourselves to Christ's passion. To remember that this is the path to Easter. If your year has been a time of struggle, I invite you to find solace in the journey to the Golgatha and remember that you are not alone -- and that's okay.

My Child, Dearest Sister, I know it is hard to walk this journey. To feel racing emotions and absolute terror at what is coming and to be alone. To see your faithful friends, those who promised to be by you no matter what sleeping, unable to understand your journey, your struggles, fears, or path. To ask for help and not get it. I know the pain it causes when your people aren't there for you. To beg for those around you to see you and be with you. But my people did not, and at times, yours have not either. But instead of allowing me to walk it alone when their weakness kept them away, My Father knew what I needed, even when I did not, and he sent me an Angel to do what my brothers could not: to whisper truth into my heart and balance the fear. To weep with me, hold me close, remind me of the upcoming resurrection and the souls I was dying for. The Angel sang my song to me, reminded me of my story. I did not ask for the Angel, but God provided him because My Father did not want me to be alone with my fear and sorrow. 

That allowed me to stand firm when my body was torn, beaten, and mocked. Knowing my journey would save souls allowed me to embrace my cross and begin the long climb to my death. I saw the faces of those I would save, those I had saved, and I could go. 

But, as I walked, my body failed me. I had my mission, I knew my purpose, and yet, my body was only human. 

Hands that once had carved intricate designs into wood, and healed a leper were full of slivers and shaking so badly I could not hold the beam on my shoulders. Shoulders that could help haul fishing nets full of fish into boats, that carried children upon their heights, and hefted much heavier burdens than this wooden beam were stooped, bowed low, and crumpling. 

The eyes that had sparkled with boyish mischief as I grew, wept with sorrow for Lazarus, and blazed with righteous fury when I saw my Father's Temple misused were now swollen, bloodshot, weary and so raw I could not even see where I was placing my feet. Feet that walked miles as I traveled, splashed in the waves at Galilee, walked the shores of Jordan, and bathed by a woman's tears were now broken, bleeding, and stumbling. 

The body that had served so many others was failing. It had survived 40 days of fasting, endured the torments of Satan, travelled hundreds of miles and navigated stormy seas. And it was failing when I could see the end. My body was crushed by the weight of my cross, weakened by the lash meant to shame, overwhelmed by the journey to come.

And I fell.

I knew I could not make it. Had I overestimated my strength? No. I had underestimated my body's need for other people. But My Father knew. Even the guards knew. So, My Father, in His love, used the malice in their hearts to bring me Simon. It was fitting that my Simon had fallen, cracked under the pressure as I knew he would. So, bereft of him, My Father sent me another Simon. Another rock. He carried my cross with me, guided me when I could not see, and kept the cross from crushing me when - even with his help - I fell again. He couldn't die for mankind, only I could do that. But he could carry me. He was one of the first to join his sufferings with mine.

My Father didn't abandon me on the road; He brought me people along my journey that would give me moments of relief. Veronica, who wiped the blood from my face so I could see for a little longer. My mother, who's sorrow was as great as my pain, but who had believed in me from my conception. I wanted to spare her the pain even more than my own, but I knew, as she did, that this was always the path for us. That this lonely, painful road of mockery, shame, pain, and abandonment was the only way for us to fully enter into your pain and weakness. She allowed me to be pulled away and put back on the path, and I accepted that she, at least, would be with me to the bitter end. She shared her strength with me even if I would have spared her the pain of seeing me die.

You don't like to think of me needing aid. You like to focus on Simon or Veronica and what it means to be the helper. Focus instead on me. On how intensely, how intimately, I am acquainted with the limits of the human body and mind. I know the agony of seeing what is to come and wondering if you are strong enough for it. I know what it's like to be face down on the ground, being told to get up and get going, but no amount of screaming at myself or others screaming at me could make me move. I know what it's like to try anyways, to even be pulled up, but still be unable to stand, much less move forward. I know the exquisitely painful pleasure of feeling gentle hands on a battered face. Of the painful relief that comes with a gentle touch, and the overwhelming gratitude when someone comes to help you when you do not expect it. 

It is because of this that I can walk with you in a way that your angel cannot. Your angel can, like mine did, help sing your story to strengthen your heart. But he cannot calm your terror with a wave of his hand or carry your cross for you. He can hold you as your mind threatens to shatter, he can wipe the tears on your heart away, and can even bring you companions. But he cannot know the reality like I can.

I know what it's like to be beaten, battered, at the end of what my body can do, with no strength left and to look at the cross and know I have to lay down on it. To wonder if I can take one more thing. To know I can't, but to also know I cannot stop now. I know the blinding pain that consumes the mind, body, and soul until nothing else exists. To know that the person inflicting it has no true idea what they are doing. They may know it's wrong, or may know it will kill, but they cannot know the damage it brings to them as well. And I know the agony of using my broken voice to beg for forgiveness for my unrepentant tormentor. 

I know the shame of hanging naked in front of my tormentors, unable to defend or cover myself. I know also the shame of hanging naked in front of those I love, those I swore to protect. My body was flayed open, my muscles quivered and spasmed, and my essence bled into the coarse unforgiving wood and wet the ground around the cross. My eyes may have been blurred with agony, blood, and tears, but I could still see them. 

I could see Magdalene, whom I had saved once before, my sister, staring in shock at the way my body had been ravaged. I could see John, my friend, looking in horror at the friend he had embraced less than a day before. I could see my mother, and I knew her heart was feeling every lash, bruise, and strike. I, who had always been strong, who spoke of the resurrection, of life, who had worked miracles, was weak, naked, and exposed. 

My life was leaving my body rapidly, and there was nothing I could do to shield them from the horrors. To stop the mocking of the guards, or the way they took even my possessions and did not give my family even those. I watched the sky darken, and I knew I had nothing left except to give my mother to the friend I loved as a brother, to release her, even if it meant John took her to protect her. 

But, he didn't. He gave me his company, his faithful vigil. He held my mother as I could not, offering her comfort he could not give to me, sharing his strength with her, allowing my heart one measure of peace. They stayed by me and watched as each breath I drew turned to agony, as my lungs slowly filled with water and blood and I suffocated. They stayed by me as my body entered the final stages before death, and they were with me when I gave my life over. 

We are invited to join our sufferings to the sufferings of Christ on the Cross. We are not asked to suffer in isolation. We were created for community, not for isolation. And Christ's passion gives us two gifts to cling to when we are suffering through our Calvary.

First, an Advocate and Companion that knows our pain intimately. Jesus doesn't just wave a magic wand and make everything better. He enters into our pain with us. He walks with us through the darkest times, and He can do that because he has already done it. Between Jesus and Mary, almost every major suffering of the human race was experienced on that day. And all of those sufferings were not the end of the story. So, whatever your story is, whatever your struggle, your cross, your mountain to climb.... you are not alone. Jesus doesn't wait for us at the finish line, cheering us on without any skin in the game. He runs with us, sweats with us, aches with us. And he shows us that it can be done because he's done it before.

Second, we have permission not to always be strong and do it on our own. The world, especially the western world, wants us to be individualistic, heroes who conquer all odds. They see relationships as forms of weakness, and the new trend in stories is to explain why the person is stronger alone (Yes, I'm looking at you Marvel). Even when they work in teams, it's a professional relationship, not personal. But here, we see the need for both. Simon helped because he was forced. Mary stayed because she loved him. The story of the Passion would be incomplete without both. What the Passion of Christ models for us is a way of suffering that is not isolated. You may think you are doing what "has" to be done, sparing pain from those you love, or that you just are not allowed to need people.... but all of that is lies. We are asked to share our sorrows. Heaven will be full of those who sat with the afflicted, the imprisoned, the sick. It is the Christian duty -- the Christian privilege -- to be with those who are suffering or sorrowing. Denying others the ability to journey with us removes their ability to receive graces for being our supports, but it also takes us away from the true journey of Christian suffering and resurrection.

So, to my fellow strong friends, to the ones who always feel they have to go at it alone, who feel more in control when you do it alone.... As we enter into the Holy Triduum, as we begin to walk the Passion of Christ, and as we prepare for the Easter Season, remember that you are human. That you were made for people, for community, for help. You are not less because you feel overwhelmed or like the world is hard. You are not wrong to yearn for someone to journey with. And if you have pushed away the people who would help, or if you feel guilty accepting that help, I ask you to take it to prayer, take it to the cross, to remember the Humanity of Christ and those who journeyed with him.