My dear brothers and sisters in Christ, peace be with you. When we look at the cross, we see an instrument of torture. When we read the Beat...
My dear brothers and sisters in Christ, peace be with you.
When we look at the cross, we see an instrument of torture. When we read the Beatitudes, we see a beautiful poem about peace, humility, and justice. At first glance, the bloody wood of Calvary and the grassy slopes of the Mount of Beatitudes seem worlds apart.
But today, I want to invite you to look closer. Because the man preaching on the mount is the same man dying on the cross. The Beatitudes are the blueprint of the Kingdom of Heaven, but the Seven Last Words are how that Kingdom was actually built. Jesus did not just preach the Beatitudes; He lived them, and He died by them.
When we weave the Beatitudes and the Seven Last Words together, we find the very meaning of our own lives, especially the parts of our lives that hurt the most. I want to summarize this divine connection using three words today: Scars, Solidarity, and Surrender.
Let us begin with the first word: Scars. Jesus said, "Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted." And on the cross, He showed us what divine mourning looks like. He cried out, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" He felt the absolute crushing weight of human sorrow. He said, "I thirst." This wasn’t just a thirst for water; it was an agonizing thirst for love, for justice, for a broken world to be made whole.
Look around us. The world is covered in scars. We see it so vividly on the evening news. We look at the unending violence in the Middle East. We see the horrific images of families displaced, homes reduced to rubble, mothers weeping over the bodies of their children. From the dust of those war zones, we hear the echo of Christ’s cry: My God, why have you forsaken us? But we don't have to look across the globe to see scars. We see them right here, in the streets of Quezon City. Think of the father who wakes up at 3:00 AM, braving the endless, suffocating traffic of Commonwealth Avenue, working minimum wage just to put a little rice on the table. He is the poor in spirit. He is the one hungering and thirsting for righteousness, for fairness, for a break in life that never seems to come.
And think of the hidden scars in the quiet bedrooms of our own homes. Our aging population—our Lolos and Lolas. How many of our elderly sit by the window all day, feeling that their prime has passed, feeling irrelevant, feeling forgotten by a fast-paced world? Their bodies ache, their memories fade, and in the silence of their loneliness, they too whisper, I thirst. I thirst for a visit. I thirst for a phone call. I thirst to be seen.
Christ on the cross tells us: Your scars are not ignored. God does not look away from your pain. He entered into it.
Which brings us to our second word: Solidarity. Jesus said, "Blessed are the merciful," and "Blessed are the peacemakers." From the cross, in the climax of human cruelty, Jesus practiced this ultimate solidarity. He looked at the soldiers driving nails into His flesh and said, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." He looked at the dying thief next to Him—a convicted criminal—and promised, "Today you will be with me in Paradise." And then, looking down at His grieving mother and His beloved disciple, He forged a new family. "Woman, behold your son. Son, behold your mother." This is the call of the Beatitudes! We are not meant to carry our crosses alone. Solidarity means we look at the elderly man or woman in our neighborhood and say, "Behold your mother, behold your father," bringing them back into the warmth of our community. Solidarity means looking at the exhausted mother in the urban poor communities of QC and saying, "How can I help you carry your load?" Solidarity means that even when we look at the geopolitical nightmares in the Middle East, we do not surrender to hatred. We pray for peace, we advocate for human dignity, and in our own small circles, we refuse to perpetuate violence. We become the peacemakers. We forgive those who have hurt us, because a God who was tortured forgave the ones who tortured Him. If He can forgive, how can we withhold mercy from our neighbor?
Finally, my friends, we arrive at our third word: Surrender.
Jesus said, "Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth." Meekness is not weakness. Meekness is strength under control; it is trusting God’s power over our own.
As the sky turned dark on Good Friday, Jesus breathed heavily. He had fulfilled the Beatitudes. He had poured out every drop of His blood. And He declared, "It is finished." And with His final breath, He prayed, "Father, into your hands I commit my spirit."
Ultimate surrender. Total trust.
We spend so much of our lives trying to be in control. We worry about our finances, we worry about our children's future, we worry about our health as we grow older, we worry about the state of the world. We build walls, we hoard money, we hold grudges, all in a desperate attempt to protect ourselves.
But the Sermon on the Mount and the Cross of Calvary both teach us the exact same truth: You cannot save yourself. True peace, true happiness—true blessedness—only comes when we finally open our tightly clenched fists and surrender.
Are you carrying a heavy burden today? Are you tired of fighting a battle that feels hopeless? Are you mourning a loss that has shattered your heart?
Hear the words of Jesus. Look at His outstretched arms on the cross. He is not pointing an accusing finger at you; His arms are open wide to embrace you.
Bring your scars to Him, because He bears scars too. Stand in solidarity with Him, by loving the broken people around you. And finally, surrender. Say it with Him today, whatever your struggle is: Father, into your hands, I commit my family. Into your hands, I commit my worries. Into your hands, I commit my spirit.
Amen.
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