Memorial of Our Lady of Sorrows

http://www.usccb.org/bible/readings/091512.cfm

A fallen tree by
a Station of the Cross
in  the Valley of Saint Francis at MSF

When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple there whom he loved
he said to his mother, "Woman, behold, your son."
Then he said to the disciple,
"Behold, your mother."
And from that hour the disciple took her into his home.

This memorial of Our Lady of Sorrows follows the Feast of the Exaltation of the Cross. A memorial is less solemn than a feast but it has its own weight.

Of the three persons who appear in today's gospel only Jesus is named. The "disciple whom Jesus loved" has been slowly emerging in the narrative. He may have been the unnamed disciple, one of the two disciples of John the Baptist, who came with "Andrew, the brother of Simon Peter." I think of him like Horatio to Jesus' Hamlet; he is one who witnesses the story and lives to tell others. He is also you, the hearer of the gospel, "whom he loved."

The woman, everyone knows, is Mary; but the Fourth Evangelist never names her, for she is also the witness/hearer/disciple who knows the Lord from the outset. She is the Church who signals the Lord, "They have no wine!" and instructs her children, "Do whatever he tells you." 

The disciple and the woman are joined at Calvary in a holy union of mother and son. They are joined by the water of Baptism and the Blood of Eucharist which flow from his pierced chest.

This memorial is called "Our Lady of Sorrows" and reminds us there is enormous blessing in sorrow. It should never be neglected or dismissed.

Recently I sat with a Vietnam Veteran who told me of the horror he saw and experienced during the undeclared, hugely unpopular war. Forty years later he is still haunted by his memories. He suffers from recurring nightmares and, though he hates to go to bed, he can hardly get up in the morning. His wife, family and friends witness his suffering but feel helpless to relieve him. A cloud of gloom hangs over him wherever he goes, though he is by nature a cheerful, generous man.

I suggested he might enter a Catholic Church and walk through the Stations of the Cross. We have a tradition of honoring sorrow. We do not flee from it as if it should not exist.

Recently I heard an interview on the radio of the late Phyllis Diller. That great comedienne told the reporter she would not accept sorrow in her life. It has no place. "Cheerful, always cheerful!" she declared. But it doesn't take a psychiatrist to recognize the sadness that followed her like Hamlet's ghost. She sounded so desperate as she made her statement. It was fearful, horror-stricken and slightly mad. She sounded like everyone's worse mother-in-law. Great comediennes make a living that way, but it's not recommended for the follower of Christ.

Our way is much simpler. We allow sorrow when it comes. We allow it to possess us for its time, until it passes. When it's upon us we fear it might never pass. It seems to occupy every room in the house. It hangs like a shade over our eyes.

Catholics practice welcoming sorrow. On Friday we remember the death of the Lord. During Lent we call one another to church to sit with it. Most Catholic Churches celebrate the Fourteen Stations on the Fridays of Lent. On Palm Sunday we hear the Passion of the Lord as we enter Holy Week; and each day of that week we contemplate its majesty. On Good Friday we stand with the Woman and the Beloved Disciple and witness once again Jesus' painful, sacrificial death. Finally, on Saturday, the Sabbath Day of Rest, we let it pass into silent waiting.

But this I will call to mind;

therefore I will hope:

The Lord's acts of mercy are not exhausted,

his compassion is not spent;

They are renewed each morning—

great is your faithfulness!

The Lord is my portion, I tell myself,

therefore I will hope in him.

Lamentations 3: 21-24