Jon reminded us at the beginning of last night's liturgy that as we began the triduum, we should remember that these three days form one liturgical movement. We are brought, through these liturgies, on a journey. It is a journey of spirit and a journey of emotion, taking us to places of both indescribable light and overwhelming darkness, knowing that it is at the heights of awe and the depths of despair, when we have passed beyond our own abilities to balance and make sense, that we are most open to God's presence.

Tonight, we come face to face with the stark reality of the love of God and the totality of God's commitment to love us. It is a love that began to fully communicate itself that night in Bethlehem when Jesus was born as one of us. It slowly discovered itself through the years while Jesus grew as one of us. And it reached its full realization that dark Friday when Jesus, full of uncertainty, grief, and pain, died as one of us. This is the simple, naked truth of the cross. When words failed to communicate the depth of God's love, the Word became flesh so that infinite love could be embodied and pay whatever price was required so that the message could be spoken to human ears by human lips.

There is no beautiful ritual tonight, no transcendent melodies, no readings about sweeping divine power. Tonight is the night of wood and stone, when we remember the darkness that overwhelmed the disciples of Jesus when the body that entered our world in one cave that served as a stable had finally been left in another cave that served as a grave. This is the night of the barren, wooden cross.

That Friday, centuries ago, had been a day in which a couple of pieces of cold, gnarled timber became the focal point for many, whether by their presence or by their absence. I have found myself, the past few Good Fridays, spending more and more time with them.

There were the close and dear friends, who had overcome their fear and dread to remain Jesus' companions even in those last bitter hours. I have had people I love go through struggles that I am powerless to change and I understand how difficult it is to remain present when I am overwhelmed with a sense of personal futility. How incredibly crushing it can be when all the caring and love I can muster seems to be totally useless. Yet that is what Mary, John, and some of the women disciples took on to stand under that cross.

There were the self-righteous religious authorities who stood there, convinced that they had made the only choice possible, the choice dictated by expediency. And, I am sure, they were convinced that Jesus had really brought this on himself. I have stood with them, too, and I understand the relief that can come when I am sure that someone's suffering is simply the end result of their own bad choices.

There were the soldiers, who were, after all, only doing their job. They didn't make the decisions about what happened and, whether they enjoyed it or detested it, this type of thing was just part of the package. I have been with them, too. I have turned my back on pain and anguish because they aren't my responsibility; I have turned a blind eye to need at times when someone else's authority has given me a semblance of moral neutrality.

And there are those who, terrified by the events of the night before, expressed themselves by their absence. They were the disciples who were so crushed by confusion and fear that they could not bring themselves to be at the cross. They had spent many days at Jesus' feet, hearing him speak, watching him touch others, but they did not dare be at his feet as he suffered torment, ridicule, and death. I have also been with them. I have encountered need and pain that have so frightened and disoriented me that I can't stand to be in their presence, that I have expressed myself by withdrawing to a more comfortable space.

I have begun to know all of these people better as I have become more aware of a simple fact. I used to think that we are called to stand by the cross, but I don't think that anymore. Because we have no choice about whether or not we stand by the cross. We each stand at the foot of the cross countless times every day of our lives, whenever we encounter another in pain or need or uncertainty or fear. Being at the cross is not optional. Our only choice is in how we choose to be there.

The cross is, for me, a place of revelation. On it becomes clear how completely God loves us, not in some perfect life in a far-away and far-removed Eden, but as we are, in our lives of struggle and imperfection. Nailed to that wood is the ultimate declaration of love without bounds, without remorse, and without shame; love for us. Standing in the presence of that love we discover another revelation Æ the revelation of ourselves, of all that we choose and all that we are.

Every day we stand here, even when we're ignorant of the fact. We all have daily encounters with grief, pain, fear, uncertainty. Coworkers who struggle with personal or professional issues we don't understand. People who live without security, crushed by circumstance or an indifferent economy. Friends who confront personal disaster we cannot alleviate. The kook on the T who wanders around talking to himself. The woman who is trying to retain some dignity when her life is packed in a few shopping bags. The kids who don't see any point to life.

We do all stand at the foot of the cross, and the love we discover on this one should free us to realize where we are standing at all those others. I don't always stand in the same group. Sometimes I am the faithful companion, sometimes I am the self-righteous prig, sometimes I am the indifferent automaton going through the motions, and sometimes I am scared senseless by what I see. But I am always me, and the liberating love flowing out from that first Good Friday makes one space where I can be fully revealed.

Luke tells us that after Jesus was put on the cross, he prayed, "Abba, forgive them, they don't know what they're doing." How many times I have needed to hear those words, when I have realized belatedly how I have walked past the cross without even a glance, indifferent, completely consumed in some triviality that seemed to be terribly important. They aren't words of condemnation, but words of disappointment and a call to live my life with a bit more awareness and a bit more intentionality. "They don't know what they're doing." These are words that ask me to be more conscious of where I am standing when I find myself beside those everyday crosses. They are words that summon me to live less by default and more by choice.

In a few minutes, we will have the opportunity to venerate the cross, calling to mind through this symbol the price that God's love was willing to pay to be present in our world. As we do, I ask that we all reflect upon the fact that in this act, we express our awareness of the challenge given to us to be that presence to each other and to the community around us. That in this act, we commit ourselves to live with more awareness and intentionality to venerate the cross that we encounter in many forms as we make our way through our days.

This symbol is the reminder that we are fully loved and fully accepted. As we find ourselves confronted by it's reality in our daily lives, when we hear the words being whispered, "My God, my God; why have you abandoned me?" let us be present to become God's response, "I am with you; you are not alone."

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