Full text: Good Friday homily of Fr Raniero Cantalamessa, OFMCap
Below, please find the full text of Fr. Raniero Cantalamessa, OFMCap, Preacher of
the Papal Household, delivered Good Friday, April 6th, 2012, in St. Peter's Basilica,
during the Passion liturgy.
**************************** Father Raniero
Cantalamessa, ofmcap “I DIED, AND BEHOLD I AM ALIVE FOR EVERMORE” (Revelation
1:18) Homily of Good Friday 2012 in Saint Peter’s Basilica Some ancient Fathers
of the Church enclosed in an image the whole mystery of the redemption. Imagine, they
said, that an epic fight took place in the stadium. A courageous man confronted a
cruel tyrant who had the city enslaved and, with enormous effort and suffering, defeated
him. You were on the terraces; you did not fight, or make an effort or get wounded.
However, if you admire the courageous man, if you rejoice with him over his victory,
if you intertwine crowns, arouse and stir the assembly for him, if you kneel joyfully
before the triumphant one, kiss his head and shake his right hand; in a word, if you
rave so much as to consider his victory yours, I tell you that you will certainly
have part of the victor’s prize. However, there is more: imagine that the victor
had himself no need of the prize he had won, but wished more than anything to see
his supporter honored and considers as the prize of his combat the crowning of his
friend, in that case, perhaps, will that man not obtain the crown also though he has
not toiled on been wounded? He certainly will obtain it![1] It happens thus, say
the Fathers, between Christ and us. On the cross, he defeated the ancient enemy. “Our
swords – exclaims Saint John Chrysostom – were not bloodied, we were not in agony,
we were not wounded, we did not even see the battle and yet we obtain the victory.
His was the fight, ours the crown. And because we are also the conquerors, let us
imitate what soldiers do in such cases: with joyful voices let us exalt the victory,
let us intone hymns of praise to the Lord!”[2] It is not possible to explain better
the meaning of the liturgy we are celebrating. * * * However, is what we are
doing itself an image, a representation of a reality of the past, or is it the reality
itself? It is both things! “We – said Saint Augustine to the people – know and believe
with very certain faith that Christ died only once for us […]. You know perfectly
that all that happened only once, and yet the solemnity renews it periodically […].
Historical truth and liturgical solemnity are not opposed to one another, as if the
second is fallacious and the first alone corresponds to the truth. In fact, of what
history says occurred only once in reality, the solemnity repeatedly renews the celebration
in the hearts of the faithful.”[3] The liturgy “renews” the event: how many discussions
have taken place for the past five centuries on the meaning of this word, especially
when it is applied to the sacrifice of the cross and to the Mass! Paul VI used a verb
that could smooth the way to an ecumenical agreement on such an argument: the verb
“to represent,” understood in the strong sense of re-presenting, namely to render
what happened again present and operative.[4] There is an essential difference
between the representation of Christ’s death and that, for example, of the death of
Julius Caesar in Shakespeare’s tragedy of the same name. No one celebrates as a living
person the anniversary of his own death; Christ does because he is risen. Only he
can say, as he does in Revelation: “I died, and behold I am alive ever more” (Revelation
1:18). We must be careful on this day, visiting the so-called sepulchers or taking
part in processions of the dead Christ, not to merit the reproach that the Risen One
addressed to the pious women on Easter morning: “Why do you seek the living among
the dead?” (Luke 24:5). The affirmation of certain Orthodox authors is bold but
true. The anamnesis, namely the liturgical memorial, “renders the event truer than
when it happened historically the first time.” In other words, it is more true and
real for us who relive it “according to the Spirit,” than it was for those who lived
it “according to the flesh,” before the Holy Spirit revealed the full meaning to the
Church. We are not only celebrating an anniversary but a mystery. Again, it is
Saint Augustine who explains the difference between the two things. In the celebration
“by way of anniversary,” nothing else is required – he says – than to “indicate with
a religious solemnity the day of the year in which the recollection of the event itself
takes place;” in the celebration by way of mystery (“in sacrament”), “not only is
an event commemorated but it is also done in a way in which its meaning is understood
and it is received devoutly.”[5] This changes everything. It is not just a question
of attending a representation, but of “accepting” the significance, of passing from
spectators to actors. It is up to us therefore to choose what part we want to play
in the drama, who we wish to be: Peter, Judas, Pilate, the crowd, the Cyrenean, John,
Mary … No one can remain neutral; not take a position, means to take a very precise
one: Pilate’s who washes his hands or the crowd “standing by, watching” (Luke 23:35).
If when going home this evening, someone asks us “Where are you coming from? Where
have you been?” We must also answer, at least in our heart: “on Calvary!” * * * However,
all this does not happen automatically, just because we have taken part in this liturgy.
It is a question of “accepting” the meaning of the mystery. This happens with faith.
There is no music where there is no ear to hear it, no matter how loud the orchestra
sounds; there is no grace where there is no faith to receive it. In an Easter
homily of the 4th century, the bishop pronounced these extraordinarily
modern, and one could say existentialist, words: “For every man, the beginning of
life is when Christ was immolated for him. However, Christ is immolated for him at
the moment he recognizes the grace and becomes conscious of the life procured for
him by that immolation.”[6] However, let us stay on the safe side; let us listen
to a doctor of the Church. “What I cannot obtain by myself – writes Saint Bernard
--, I appropriate (literally, I usurp!) with confidence from the pierced side of the
Lord., because he is full of mercy. Hence my merit is the mercy of God. I am certainly
not poor in merits, as long as he is rich in mercy. If the mercies of the Lord are
many (Psalm 119:156), I will also abound in merits. And what about my own righteousness?
O Lord, I will remember only your righteousness. In fact, it is also mine, because
you are righteousness for me on behalf of God” (cf. 1 Corinthians 1:30).[7] Did
this way of conceiving holiness make Saint Bernard, perhaps, less zealous in good
works, less committed to the acquisition of virtues? Did perhaps the apostle Paul
neglect to mortify his body and reduce it to slavery (cf. 1 Corinthians 9:27), he
who, before all and more than all, had made of this appropriation of Christ’s righteousness
the purpose of his life and of his preaching (cf. Philippians 3:7-9)? In Rome,
as unfortunately in all big cities, there are so many homeless people, human persons
who only have a few rags upon their body and some poor belongings that they carry
along in a plastic bag. Let us imagine that one day this voice spreads: on Via Condotti
(everyone knows what Via Condotti represents in Rome!) there is the owner of a fashion
boutique who, for some unknown reason, whether out of interest or generosity, invites
all the homeless of Termini rail way station to come to her shop; she invites them
to take off their soiled rags, to have a good shower and then choose the garment they
want among those displayed and take it away free of charge. All say in their heart:
“This is a fairy-tale, it never happens!” Very true, but what never happens among
men is what can happen every day between men and God, because, before Him, we are
those homeless people! This is what happens in a good confession: you take off your
dirty rags, your sins, receive the bath of mercy and rise “clothed in the garments
of salvation, covered with the robe of righteousness” (Isaiah 61:10). The tax
collector of the parable went up into the temple to pray; he said simply but from
the depth of his heart: “God, be merciful to me a sinner!”, and “he went down to his
house justified” (Luke 18:14), reconciled, made new, innocent. The same could be said
of us, if we have his same faith and repentance, when we go home after this liturgy.
* * * Among the personages of the Passion with whom we can identify, I realize
that I have neglected to name one that more than all awaits those who will follow
his example: the good thief. The good thief made a complete confession of sin;
he says to his companion who insults Jesus: “Do you not fear God, since you are under
the same sentence of condemnation? And we indeed justly, for we are receiving the
due reward of our deeds; but this man has done nothing wrong” (Luke 23:40f.). Here
the good thief shows himself an excellent theologian. Only God in fact, if he suffers,
suffers absolutely as innocent; every other being who suffers should say: “I suffer
justly,” because even if he is not responsible for the action imputed to him, he is
never altogether without fault. Only the pain of innocent children is similar to God’s
and because of this it is so mysterious and so sacred. How many atrocious crimes
in recent times remained anonymous, how many unresolved cases exist! The good thief
launches an appeal to those responsible: do like me, come out into the open, confess
your fault; you also will experience the joy I had when I heard Jesus’ word: “”today
you will be with me in Paradise!” (Luke 23:43). How many confessed offenders can confirm
that it was also like this for them: that they passed from hell to heaven the day
that they had the courage to repent and confess their fault. I have known some myself.
The paradise promised is peace of conscience, the possibility of looking at oneself
in the mirror or of looking at one’s children without having to have contempt for
oneself. Do not take your secret to your grave; it would procure for you a far
more fearful condemnation than the human. Our people are not merciless with one who
has made a mistake but recognizes the evil done, sincerely, not just for some calculation.
On the contrary! They are ready to be merciful and to accompany the repentant one
on his journey of redemption (which in every case becomes shorter). “God forgives
many things, for a good work,” says Lucia to the Unnamed in Manzoni’s novel “The Betrothed”;
with greater truth we can say, he forgives many things by one act of repentance. He
promised it solemnly: “though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as
snow; though they are red like crimson, they shall become like wool” (Isaiah 1:18). Let
us take up now and do what we heard at the beginning, it is our task this day: with
joyful voices let us exalt the victory of the cross, intone hymns of praise to the
Lord. “O Redemptor, sume carmen temet concinentium”[8]: And you, O our Redeemer, receive
the song we raise to you.
1. Nicholas Cabasilas, Vita in Christo, I. 9 (PG
150, 517) 2. Saint John Chrysostom, De coemeterio et de cruce (PG, 49, 596). 3.
Saint Augustine, Sermon 220 (PL 38, 1089). 4. Cf. Paul VI, Mysterium fidei (AAS
57, 1965, p. 753 ff). 5. Augustine, Epistle 55, 1, 2 (CSEL 34, 1, p. 170). 6.
Paschal Homily of the year 387 (SCh 36, p. 59 f.). 7. Saint Bernard of Clairvaux,
Sermons on the Canticle, 61, 4-5 (PL 183, 1072). 8. Hymn of Palm Sunday and of
the Chrism Mass of Maundy Thursday.