Every time I walk into church and spot my friend Jamey Moses, I can count on him to ask me the same question: What day is it? No matter if it’s Saturday, Sunday, or a random weekday, I always reply, This is the day the Lord has made!
At Easter Mass yesterday, I sang Psalm 118: This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad! And this morning, like the rest of you, I woke up to the heartbreaking news that Pope Francis has gone home to God.
Not feeling very Eastery anymore, I must confess.
And yet. And yet and yet and yet.
The paschal mystery is no respecter of human or even liturgical calendars. Some people’s hearts are awash in gladness, even on Good Friday—as the vibrant music in our parish during the ecumenical Seven Last Words service demonstrated. For others, the “descent into hell” lasts much longer than three days. As Caedemon’s Call sings in their beautiful Valleys Fill First, “It’s like that long Saturday between Your death and the rising day, when no one wrote a word, wondering is this the end.”
In what now appears prescient, my friend Ann Garrido posted a reflection on Good Friday, recognizing in the crucifixion the aching sorrow of our whole world at this political moment. She suggests that, at least for a time, our best response may be silence, “acknowledging that the Word has been taken from us.” I encourage you to read her whole reflection:
THIS GOOD FRIDAY | Ann Garrido
As I try to get my mind and soul around the reality of a world without Pope Francis, I’m praying with his Easter message from yesterday—literally, Francis’ final word on many subjects.
More importantly, I’m holding onto this seven-word prayer taught to him by his grandmother: “Jesus, make my heart more like yours.”
This is the day the Lord has made. Whatever day it feels like in your soul, may the blessings of Francis’ witness of life and love carry you along.
Christine Marie Eberle 