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Wood is an unforgiving substance. Think about the last time you stubbed your toe on that wooden door or chair or received a splinter from grabbing a loose board. But the hardness and stiffness of wood also makes it stable and permanent. A good piece of wood can be made into many things—including a cross.

The Church mourns the death of Jesus Christ on the cross. Christ’s humanity is put to death by the nailing of his human flesh to the bitter wood. It inflicts pain without remorse. It is the means by which Christ breathes his last breath. 

Yet Trinitarian love transcends the pain and stiffness of the cross. It pours forth onto the world in the form of blood and water from Christ’s body: “But when they came to Jesus and saw that he was already dead, they did not break his legs. But one of the soldiers pierced his side with a spear, and at once there came out blood and water” (Jn 19:33–34). From the rigid and painful wood flows Christ’s perfect act of charity—blood and water are the fruit which forever change man’s fate. Now, death is not the end. While we mourn on Good Friday, we know that Christ’s death is the means to victory over sin and punishment. 

The cross leads to conversion and freedom from temptation and sin. The German Dominican John Tauler articulates this well in his Spiritual Conferences when he says,

Men who are beginners in the spiritual life, when they first turn away from the world, are hunted by temptations, just as the hart is hunted by hounds; in particular, they are hunted by their great and foul sins…The harder and more fiercely we are hunted, the more intense our thirst for God, and the more ardent our longing. It will happen sometimes that one of the hounds will overtake the hart and seize him by the belly with its teeth. The hart, unable to shake itself free of the hound, will drag it to a tree, dash it against the trunk, break its neck and so be free of it. This is what we ought to do… We should run with all haste to the tree of the Cross and Passion of our Lord Jesus Christ, and so break the neck of our hound, our temptation.

Tauler shows us that true conversion happens by clinging to the wood of the cross. The Crucifixion reminds us both of the frailty of human nature and man’s choice to take the life of his Savior. We see the capacity for human destruction in every image of the Crucifixion. We’re reminded of the brutal effects that sin has on human nature. We cry, “Not me Lord! I could never do that.” But the cross is a mirror into the soul of man—we won’t like what we see, but that doesn’t change who we are. The running from sin stops on the wood of the cross. Here, sin and mercy meet, and Christ’s love is outpoured for us. Real conversion begins in accepting this reality, and it’s at the cross that we rest with our Lord.

The wood of the Cross leads us to conversion and freedom when we cling to it with our whole self. The more we nail ourselves to it, the more we are animated by the blood and water which pour fourth from the side of Christ. This is the way of the Christian life. The road to love is paved by the wood of the cross. Nail me to the wood, my Lord. Give me the grace to persevere in this life so that I may see you in the next. 

This article was originally published in dominicanajournal.org and was written by Fr. Cornelius Avaritt, O.P.

This reflection is part of our Holy Week guide, designed to help you walk with Christ in prayer through these sacred days. View the full guide here.

The antagonists in the story of salvation history rarely receive recognition in the Christian calendar. No holy day is named for Cain or Jezebel, Herod or Diocletian, Topcliffe or Calles. Judas, however, is the exception. Today is popularly known as Spy Wednesday, named for the renegade disciple who, as today’s Gospel explains, was spying on Jesus, looking for “an opportunity to betray him.” Spy Wednesday, consequently, constitutes something like an anti-feast, a day to remember not a virgin, martyr, or confessor, but a traitor.

But why draw attention to Judas? Is it simply to explain how the arrest and trial of Jesus came about, or is there more we can learn from reflecting on the person of Judas and his disastrous fall?

Judas was truly a disciple of Jesus. Indeed, he was his trusted friend (cf. Ps 41:10; Matt 26:50). He was also an apostle, one of the twelve chosen by the Lord himself “to be with him, and to be sent out to proclaim the message, and to have authority to cast out demons” (Mark 3:14-15).

As such, Judas witnessed Christ’s life and ministry from a privileged vantage point, not as a mere spectator but as an active participant. With his own ears, Judas heard the grunts and squeals of the pigs into whom Christ sent the possessed man’s demons (Luke 8:26-39). With his own hands, he touched the miraculously multiplied bread and fish (Matt 15:32-39). With his own eyes, he looked through the stormy mist to see Jesus and Peter walking on water (Matt 14:22-33).

And yet, after all this, with his own lips, Judas kissed the God-man’s cheek to single him out for his unmerited arrest (Matt 26:47–50).

Judas’s story is tragic, to be sure, but our provident God wastes nothing, not even sins. Saint Thomas Aquinas explains:

Even when God punishes men by permitting them to fall into sin, this is directed to the good of virtue. Sometimes indeed it is for the good of those who are punished, that is to say, when men arise from sin more humble and more cautious. But it is always for the amendment of others, who seeing some men fall from sin to sin, are the more fearful of sinning. (ST I-II, q. 87, a. 2)

Judas could have repented of his sin and arisen more humble and more cautious, but he did not. We, however, seeing how he cascaded from sin to sin, from theft and greed to treachery and despair, can learn from his fall. Judas shows us that it really is possible to be an intimate companion of Christ and to turn away from him, to receive grace, and then reject the gift.

Yet the warning of Spy Wednesday is by no means the last word. Our anti-feast comes just before the Sacred Triduum, the holiest days of the year, when we direct our focus once again to those very mysteries by which we have hope. As Spy Wednesday reminds us that it is possible for us to fall, the Triduum reminds us of the more astonishing truth that it really is possible for us, poor sinners though we are, to be forgiven of all our sins—even the worst transgressions—and to share abundant life with God forever.

May our reflecting on Judas today help us to be ever vigilant in the struggle against sin and ever dependent on Christ and the victory he won for us. By God’s grace, may we persevere to the end and one day be welcomed into heaven by the saints—those with proper feasts.

This article was originally published in dominicanajournal.org and was written by Br. Samuel Trecost, O.P.

This reflection is part of our Holy Week guide, designed to help you walk with Christ in prayer through these sacred days. View the full guide here.

What if Jesus were to win? What if Pilate were to be convinced, wash his hands of the crowd, and release Christ to complete his kingly mission? Even with the Resurrection a week away, I find the prospect tempting. Two thousand years later, John’s Gospel has us on the edge of our seats. Just 20 minutes ago, we were standing in the crowd, crying Hosanna. Surely we will not crucify our king.

The crowd cries out, “Hosanna,” both a cry for salvation and a song of praise. But this is not the praise of the Lord—this is a blessing for a king. The crowd, “in their blindness, have lessened his praise, for the Psalm praises our Lord as God, but they praised him as a temporal king” (Aquinas’ Commentary on John). And should they not? For a battered and oppressed people, this is a sign of hope. After all, the Lord has promised a king on the throne forever (Jer 33:17). Even the disciples, who hung on Christ’s every word, join with the crowd in great expectation. Be it prophecy, piety, or just plain human justice, I’m ready for Pilate to give in. 

Palm Sunday sets a new pitch: in with a bang, and out with a whimper. Holy Week is salvation history, unfolding at a glance. We know the way our God usually works. The barren wife. The humble and lame. The weak shaming the strong. These are our heroes. Our God serves the best wine last. He turns jars of water into wine, a purification rite into merriment (John 2:6). But, as if to try our patience and persistence, Christ presents himself as an earthly king—in with a bang, and out with a whimper. He serves the best wine first, saving the bitter dregs for last. Christ comes clothed in the raiment, as the world would have him—crowned to the satisfaction of Jews, robed in the wisdom of the Gentiles. The Gospel has been calling us to forget our worldly expectations, but now Christ seems to fulfill them. 

Ah, but we know the full story—Christ’s true victory is still to come. But the liturgy demands we stand in the crowd. It demands we cry out for an earthly king. Christ’s entry into Jerusalem is more than dramatic foreshadowing. Palm Sunday brings us back to the early days of our faith when the Lord was our strength. No cross. Just loaves and fish. Yet how quickly it brings us to the cross, as if for the first time. Like the other disciples, Christ continues to set, break, and renew our expectations. Today we regain our earthly hope, only to lose it. 

Palm Sunday takes us on a new turn, but where it is leading us is no mystery. Despite the outward show, we’re making our way to an empty tomb. Christ renews our worldly hope, only to shatter it. We’re reminded that Christ transcends not only death, but even the old life. He calls us to something more than earthly victory. He points us to his true glory—not in the thunder, or the fire. Not with the crowds and courtiers. But in the still small voice. No longer a dying whimper, but the whisper of new life. No longer of agony, but consolation. The hope of a king, not as the world would have it, but as the Lord himself gives it.

This article was originally published in dominicanajournal.org and was written by Br. Augustine Buckner, O.P.

Salve, radix, salve, porta
Ex qua mundo lux est orta

During the solemn months of Lent, the Church honors Mary after Compline with the words above from the Ave Regina Caelorum. They translate to “Hail, root—hail, gate, from which the light of the world has risen.” They honor Mary as the root from which grows Christ, the Fruit of the Tree of Life. She is like a gate, through which shines the first dawn of the Light of the World. The Solemnity of the Annunciation is our worship of the mystery of the Incarnation.

Jesus tells us “I am the Light of the World” (John 8:12). But what is this Light? Inspired by the Church Fathers, Saint Thomas Aquinas says that this Light is the knowledge of God. “By the mystery of the Incarnation are made known at once the goodness, the wisdom, the justice, and the power of God” (ST III, q. 1, a. 1). The Annunciation is the dawning of that Light on earth—the first glimmer of sunrise over dark hills. After years of separation, of flight from before his face, “the people that have walked in darkness have seen a great light” (Isa 9:2).

But at first, this Light shines in one alone. Only in a lowly, lovely maiden, upon whom the Holy Spirit has spread his power.

After the dawn of the Annunciation, only a single, radiant soul has received the Word of God. Like the sunrise of nature, the sunrise of the knowledge of God is gradual. The Word, as of yet, does not use words. He only dwells deep in Mary, and rests, and grows. She who was called “full of grace” has the Author of Grace within. Dawn breaks, but the sun is still below the horizon. God first comes in quiet: present, but hidden. 

After some years, after the wonders of the Nativity, the Word would speak—the sun is lighting up the world. In the bubbly murmurs of a babe, he would speak “mama” to his mother. As he grew and played, his words of love and wisdom would grow longer. Perhaps the boy Jesus would look up with Mary to a night sky riddled with stars. He would tug her sleeve and point up, whispering to her their secret names from when he determined their number (Ps 147:4). The stars are wonderful, says he, and yet—how much more does he love her?

After many years, the Word becomes a preacher. His words are strong and dazzling, leading some to wonder: “Is this not the carpenter’s son?” (Matt 13:55). There is something different here. Jesus has “a new teaching with authority” (Mark 1:22). He is no mere speculator, theologian, or prophet, but an eyewitness of the inner life of God. To the crowds, he speaks in parables about the Kingdom—which is like a mustard seed, or like yeast. His works are a sign as well. He heals the sick, and after speaks revelatory words of his identity—“even though you do not believe me, believe the works, that you may know and understand that the Father is in me and I am in the Father” (John 10:38).

Finally, the Light of the World shines brightly. Just before the Word’s final trial, he shares the paschal lamb with his disciples. He speaks plainly and says to them “this is eternal life, that they know thee the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom thou hast sent” (John 17:3). God, through Jesus, has revealed his goodness, wisdom, power, and might to a world far from him. He shows power and might such that “he who believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live” (John 11:25). In his light, we find life. 

Today, on the Solemnity of the Annunciation, we turn our gaze once more to a small home in Nazareth and recall the first light of a brilliant dawn. The light will rise slowly, and at the start, it will shine in one alone. With an angel we hail the root, the gate, the Queen of Heaven from whom that light dawns, and marvel that the child’s name will be Emmanuel—God with us.

This article was originally published in dominicanajournal.org and was written by Br. Barnabas Wilson, O.P.