There is a wound at the heart of these high holy days, a scarlet
thread binding both the divine and the human in an experience
of deep love and great suffering.
On Holy Thursday, we celebrate in a particular way the
outflowing love of God present in the Eucharist, in Christ
who is broken open and poured out in self-emptying love.
This sacrifice also overflows into loving care and concern for
others, as we encounter Christ’s presence in both the Eucharist
and in the least of our brothers and sisters.
We gaze upon the wounds of Christ crucified on Good
Friday, and even adore the wood of the cross on which he
hung. On the cross we encounter the God who submits to
being broken out of a deep love for us in our brokenness, the
God who becomes wounded to heal our wounds, the God
who chooses to walk with us even though that walk ends
brutally on Calvary. We also contemplate the great silence of
God in the midst of suffering.
On Holy Saturday, we enter into solidarity with all who
are bereaved. We contemplate the disorienting stillness of the
garden, the unnerving sense of absence, the crushing pain of
a future denied. Before the world-shaking irruption of the
resurrection, there is only the earth-shattering reality of grief,
of knowing some wounds may not be healed this side of
eternity.

Into this darkness, the first lights of the Easter Vigil flicker:
“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not
overcome it” (John 1:5). Here, on this holy cusp of liminality,
between deep sorrow and great joy, we may be tempted to
think Easter is simply a big electric blanket thrown over the
brutality of the previous days. We may even experience this Holy
orientation or discouragement. Perhaps this season of our
lives feels like a long Lent, and Easter seems a bit premature.
Perhaps there is dissonance between Easter joy and our own
experience of life, of the brokenness we encounter in ourselves,
in others, and in the world.

And yet when Jesus is risen, he still has his wounds:
pierced hands, pierced side, a pierced heart. The horrible
torture he endured, the trauma inflicted upon him by callous
people, remains imprinted upon his glorified body. The
wounds of Jesus remain, and yet they become a source of
healing. For when those who loved him see his wounds, they
recognize him. And the wounds, once a cause of tremendous
pain for both redeemer and redeemed, have now become
fonts of healing, conversion, gratitude, and joy.

The Holy Triduum holds all these mysteries within it, reminding
us that where there is great love, there has often been
great suffering. And yet, in celebrating these holy mysteries,
we encounter a wholeness bigger than all the brokenness the
world could ever muster, and a goodness greater than all the
suffering we may experience. And most importantly, we
begin to know the Love that is stronger than death, and to
learn that this Love has a face, and a name, and is holding
us with hands that have known suffering. And we begin to
believe this Love will always hold us, whatever wounds may
come.

Michael J. Sanem ministers in Kansas City, where he lives with
his wife and three sons. Author of Becoming the Good News:
A New Approach to Parish Evangelization, he writes at
incarnationiseverywhere.com.