IN EXILE
By Father Ron Rolheiser, OMI
They shall look upon the one whom they have pierced! A phrase that names the voice that’s left behind on Good Friday.

In 1981, an anonymous young girl was brutally raped and murdered by the military at an obscure location in El Salvador, fittingly called La Cruz (the Cross). Her story was reported by a journalist named Mark Danner. In his account of this, Danner describes how after a particular massacre some soldiers shared how one of their victims haunted them and how they could not get her out of their minds long after her death.

They had plundered a village and raped many of the women. One of these was a young girl, an evangelical Christian, whom they had raped many times in a single afternoon and tortured. However, throughout it all, this young girl, clinging to her belief in Christ, had sung hymns. The soldiers who had violated and eventually executed her were haunted by that. Here are Danner’s words:

“She kept right on singing, too, even after they had done what had to be done and shot her in the chest. She had lain there on La Cruz with the blood flowing from her chest and had kept on singing – a bit weaker than before, but still singing. And the soldiers, stupefied, had watched and pointed. Then they had grown tired of the game and shot her again, and she sang still, and their wonder began to turn to fear – until finally they had unsheathed their machetes and hacked her neck, and at last the singing had stopped.” (The Massacre at El Mozote, N.Y., Vintage Books, 1994, pp. 78-79.)

They shall look upon her whom they have pierced! Notice the feminine pronoun here because in this instance the one who is looked upon after being pierced is a woman. Dying such a violent, unjust, and humiliating death with faith in her heart and on her lips makes her the crucified Christ, and not just because she (like all Christians) is a member of the Body of Christ. Rather because at this moment, in this manner of death, with this kind of faith overt in her person, like Jesus, she is leaving behind a voice that cannot be silenced and which will haunt those who have done violence to her and all the rest of us who hear about it.

What haunted those soldiers? The haunting here is not that of some wounded spirit that now seeks retribution by frightening us and forever unsettling our dreams. Nor is it the haunting we feel in bitter regret, when we recognize a huge, unredeemable mistake which had we foreseen the consequences of, we would never have made. Rather, this is the voice that haunts us whenever we silence, violate, or kill innocence. It’s a voice which we then know can never be silenced and which irrespective of the immediate emotions it evokes in us, we realize we can never be free from, and which paradoxically invites us not to fear and self-hatred but to what it embodies.

Gil Bailie, who makes this story a corner-piece in his monumental book on the cross and non-violence, notes not just the remarkable similarity between her manner of death and Jesus’, but also the fact that, in both cases, part of the resurrection is that their voices live on.

In Jesus’ case, nobody witnessing his humiliating death on a lonely hillside, with his followers absent, would have predicted that this would be the most remembered death in history. The same is true for this young girl. Her rape and murder occurred in a very remote place and all of those who might have wanted to immortalize her story were also killed. Yet her voice survives, and will no doubt continue to grow in history long after all those who violated her are forgotten. A death of this kind morally scars the conscience and leaves behind a permanent echo that nobody can ever silence.

When we parse out all that’s contained in that echo, when we take a reflective look at Jesus on the cross or at the death of this young evangelical, we cannot but feel a wound at a gut level. To gaze upon the one whom we have pierced, Jesus or any innocent victim, is to know (in a way that undercuts all culpable and invincible ignorance) that the voice of self-interest, injustice, violence, brutality, and rape will ultimately be silenced in favor of the voice of innocence, graciousness and gentleness. Yes, faith is true.

A critic reviewing Danner’s book in the New York Times tells how, after reading this story, he kept “straining hopelessly to hear the sound of that singing.”

In our churches on Good Friday, we read aloud the Gospel account of Jesus’ death. Listening to that story, like the soldiers who brutally murdered an innocent young, faith-filled woman, we are made to look upon the one whom we have pierced. We need to strain to hear more consciously the sound of that singing.

(Oblate Father Ron Rolheiser is a theologian, teacher and award-winning author. He can be contacted through his website www.ronrolheiser.com.)

On Ordinary Times
By Lucia A. Silecchia

It is likely that, for many, a significant number of favorite family photos are snapped around a dinner table.

Among the most joyful of those photos are the ones in which there are new faces around that table – when marriages, births, engagements, adoptions, friendships, and the bonds of neighborliness draw more people, with love, into the family circle.

Some of the saddest of those photos are the ones in which loved ones are missing. Perhaps death parted them from their families. Perhaps ill health, travel difficulties, competing obligations, work responsibilities, military deployments, canceled flights, limited funds, divorce or other estrangements kept others away. Whatever the reasons, absence brings sadness or emptiness in its wake.

Then, there are the bittersweet family photos. These are the ones in which there are both new faces and missing loved ones. These are the ones when there are new people drawn into the heart of the family’s love at the same time that others, also beloved, are not there.

I have been thinking about this as I anticipate the Easter season, soon to be upon us.

At the great Vigil of Easter, new sisters and brothers in Christ will join us, fully, around the table of the Lord when we will worship together with that special joy that comes when new members of the family are with us. For months, we have prayed for our catechumens and candidates; for weeks we have met them through the scrutinies of Lent; for much of the past year they have joined us in our parish life, in eager anticipation of the Baptisms, Confirmations and First Holy Communions of Eastertide. As is true of any family, the joy of welcoming new members and gathering to celebrate the Eucharist with them for the first time and after is a source of great happiness and celebration.

Yet, this joy may be a bit bittersweet if there are also loved ones missing from our celebrations – loved ones who will not be with their parish families for the great celebrations of Easter and beyond.
Some, certainly, have been separated by death. The realities of this have been particularly painful these past two years as the shadow of mortality has been on the minds of many. For those who have passed from this life, may God bless you as you journey on your way to your true home.

But so many others are missing from our parish communities for myriad reasons that are as unique as they are. It may be that they cannot physically come to Mass – or can only come with the assistance of others that may be hard to find. It may be that they are burdened by the exhausting challenges of demanding jobs, young children, long hours, or over commitments to other things – even other things that are good. It may be a hurt, pain or bad memory that keeps some afar. For others it may be a single time when a lack of hospitality or an unkind word was just enough to turn them away.

It may be that because our fast-paced world does not value Sabbath rest as it once did, there is pressure to use Sunday as a catch-up day before a new week begins. It may be a lack of opportunities to learn about the faith – and the difficulty that it is to love what is unknown or misunderstood. It may be the deep struggle of wrestling with a challenging teaching or practice of the Church. It may be guilt about a past mistake, the convenience of viewing Mass on-line, fear of close contacts, or a language barrier that makes participation difficult. It may be disillusionment engendered by scandal or bad example. It may be pressure from friends or family hostile to or skeptical about faith. It may be grief about something so deep it has shaken faith to its core. It may be a million other things known only to God.

But, the gatherings of our faith communities are poorer whenever someone, anyone, is missing – just as our own families are poorer in the absence of a loved one.

Maybe, as the Easter season comes, it can beckon each of us to think of one person we know who might be missing from our parish celebrations. We may know that person well, or casually; we may know why he or she is away, or we may not; we may have wise words of wisdom to share, or, more than likely, we may not.

But, as spring comes, as Covid-19 wanes, and as the greatest celebration of the Christian year arrives, this may be the perfect opportunity to invite someone to join us – not just for the Easter season, but also for the ordinary times to follow. There is no substitute for a personal invitation. Christ, after all, called each of His apostles, individually, by name. This Easter season may give us the chance to call someone by name to join us as our family gathers again to celebrate the Resurrection of Christ.
The joy of welcoming our new brothers and sisters will be so much sweeter if our churches are filled with the whole family that welcomes them.

To my new sisters and brothers in Christ – welcome! To my returning sisters and brothers in Christ – welcome back! May God bless us all as we journey together through the joys of Easter, as a family together now and in ordinary times.

God bless you and yours as Lent gives way to Easter.

(Lucia A. Silecchia is a Professor of Law at the Columbus School of Law at the Catholic University of America.)