By Orlando Hernandez                                                                                                                  

    Every Lent, my wife and I watch the religious movie “The Shack”. This year I was especially drawn to a scene where the man is weeping bitterly over his unspeakable tragedy. Sarayu (“a Wind that goes where It wills”), a female representation of the Holy Spirit, takes this beautiful “tear flask” and carefully puts it to his face. She says, “This is one thing I do, I collect your tears.” She sure does this! And I venture to say, quite often she is the One that inspires them. Lately folks have been telling me how their greatest prayer moments are when they are driven to tears. 

    Later in the film, Sarayu (the Spirit) sprinkles those tears upon the ground and a beautiful tree, symbolic of love, forgiveness, life and joy, grows miraculously. I am reminded of psalm 126. This psalm, which was read on the 5th Sunday of Lent says:
 When the Lord brought back the captives of Zion, we were like men dreaming.
 Then our mouths were filled with laughter, and our tongue with rejoicing.
 Then they said among the nations, “The Lord has done great things for them.”
 The Lord has done great things for us; we’re glad indeed.
 …..Those that sow in tears shall reap rejoicing.
  Although they go forth weeping, carrying the seeds to be sown,
   they shall come back rejoicing, carrying their sheaves. 

    On April 6, Fr. Rogie Castellano, CP spoke to our group about the “paradox of the Cross”, how strength can be found in weakness, how our God can bring joy and healing out of the greatest sorrow. Fr. Rogie courageously shared with us his own story, his own cross, which had just about everyone in the place shedding tears. To really “finish us off” he played a short video of a Catholic wedding ceremony taking place in a hospital. The lovely bride held the hand of her emaciated, dying groom, who, in his bed would drift in and out of consciousness. A Sacrament was taking place. The bridesmaids, the family, sang and cried and laughed. Children ran around and danced by themselves. The bride tenderly stroked the hair of her new husband. He opened his eyes and smiled at her and then looked straight into the camera. I knew in my very heart that his beautiful smile was the smile of our Beloved Jesus, filling us with His love, right there in that church hall. I walked out drying my face, feeling peace, and well, I don’t know what else. I was “like men dreaming.”

    It has felt like this all Lent, a jumble of emotions and attitudes, joy and sorrow, love and anger, guilt and peace, intense prayer and bone-dryness. The only thing that has held steady has been the obsession with what I used to call “my cross”, you know, the one I wrote about two weeks ago. I might have built this cross, but it is no longer mine. It belongs to the many people who have written their prayers all over it, on both sides. It belongs to the ones who have carried it in prayer, who have embraced it and kissed it. I am in awe of them. My wife Berta and I have stood in front of churches and chapels and invited people to write their prayers with the Sharpees that we would offer them. Some people have passed us right by, looking the other way. Others simply said “No”. But many were so enthusiastic to do this, so grateful.  

    A young man had walked into Mass to get the keys to his apartment from his uncle. He had not gone to Mass in years, but he asked us “Do you feel Him? Do you feel God? You must, if you are doing this. I went to Catholic school all the way to high school. I used to feel Him, but things happened to me in college, and now I don’t.”  He wrote at the very top of the cross, “Please God , help me find my way back to You.” 

    A fast-walking man passed me by. When I asked him if he wold like to write a prayer on the cross he said, “Naa, I don’t do that.” He started walking up the stairs and suddenly turned around and asked me, “Give me one of those pens.” After he finished writing his prayer he started telling me about how worried he was about his grandson who is being bullied in school. We spoke for a while. The story has stuck to my mind. There are so many others.
    A child wrote, “God bless America and every person in the whole world.” So many people wrote about their love and gratitude for God. Others wrote names of people in need. Many wrote about the need for peace and forgiveness. A group of priests, deacons, and ministers of faith formation wrote such beautiful things. I read these prayers and feel like going down on my knees before the beauty of God’s people. These prayers seem like signs of His Mystical Body on this rough, home-made cross. Wow! Does He love me! 

    We brought the cross for our small Wednesday evening prayer group ( 15 people). It was standing over us. It seemed that day everyone was feeling down for some reason. Most of them have demanding jobs. We started singing the songs in a way that made me think this was going to be a rather dreary prayer meeting. I really did not want to be there, just go home and forget about everyone and everything, even God. I closed my eyes and tried to ignore everyone and just look for God “within me”. Of course He was there. I opened my eyes and to my surprise just about everyone was standing up, moving their bodies and singing with joy. I remained sitting and closed my eyes again, but then I heard a man’s deep voice singing behind me. The thought came, “Jesus, is that You?” I turned around and it was actually Matthew, a young energetic member of our group, who had snuck in late. I started laughing, got up, and told him what had just happened to me. We laughed together and sang together with everyone. It turned out to be one of the finest prayer meetings we have had in a long time.  Sarayu not only collects tears. She revels in our joy. 

    We took a picture around the wooden cross where they too had written their prayers, and we looked like fun people at a party. How could we feel so good around this wooden symbol of suffering and death? We all know why. This is, more than anything, the symbol of God’s wonderful love for us. The next Sunday the same group carried this cross, and we prayed the Stations outside of the Passionist Monastery in Jamaica, Queens. They did not look so happy then. They were remembering His suffering. The intensity of their reverence was overwhelming to me. They love God so much! They are such a source of hope and faith in my life. I find myself asking , “How did my life turn into this incredible dream? Who are these people? Why are they in my life?  Who are You? Why do You love me so? Why am I on my knees before You? What is this mystery that I live in You?

Orlando Hernandez