Friday of the Passion of the Lord
On
Tuesday,
Balal was scheduled to die.
A
citizen of Iran,
his
homeland executes more criminals each year
than
any other country on the planet except China.
(His
would already be the 200th this year alone.)
He
was convicted of murder,
having
stabbed to death another man—Abdollah—
in
a street brawl seven years ago.
No
one has ever claimed he was innocent—
Now,
Iran does not execute criminals
like
we do here in the West:
discreetly,
in antiseptic conditions.
No,
Iran executes the guilty in public by hanging.
A
scaffold of rusty pipes was set up in an open square,
a
curious crowd gathered ’round it.
A
tattered noose was tossed over it
and,
placed beneath it, was an old wooden chair.
Balal
was escorted into this scene blindfolded.
He
was made to stand atop the chair
His
victim’s parents were brought forward;
in
Iran, they have the right by law
to knock the chair away.
Still grieving over the killing of her 18-year-old son
to knock the chair away.
Still grieving over the killing of her 18-year-old son
(the
second son she’s lost),
Abdollah’s
mother slapped Balal across the face.
And
then she did the unexpected:
with
her husband’s help,
she
removed the noose from Balal’s neck.
A
right also granted her by law: she chose to spare his life.
in
which Abdollah assured her
that
both of her boys were in a good place.
He
told her not to retaliate.
And
so she forgave this man.
Which
is when Balal’s mother came forward:
she
embraced the sorrowful mother
of
the man her own son had killed.
The
two women sobbed in each other’s arms:
one
because her son had been lost,
the
other, because her son had been saved.
Today, we stand beneath the gallows—
what
more, we bow before them,
touch
the wood and kiss it.
And
here, we behold two mothers weeping:
the
Blessed Mother, Mary,
because
her Son has been lost,
and
our Holy Mother, the Church,
because
her children have been saved.
Mary
weeps, because it his her own flesh and blood
hanging
there upon the tree.
Sharing
like none other in his suffering,
she
is a sort of living martyr,
as
was foretold when her Son was but a little boy:
“and
you yourself a sword shall pierce” (Luke 2:35).
Is there one who would not weep,
Whelmed in miseries so deep,
Christ’s dear Mother to behold?
Saint Paul once wrote to the Romans:
“Only with difficulty does one die for a just man,
although
perhaps even for a good man
one
might find the courage to die.
But
God proves his love for us
in
that while we were still sinners
Christ
died for us” (5:7-8).
Mother
Church looks though her tears
to
witness the death of one which means life for the many,
the
innocent offering himself to save the guilty,
the
noble King who is sacrificed
for
the sake of sin’s wretched slaves.
Just
the night before—
after
supper, while they remained at table—
Jesus
had told his disciples that there can be no greater love
than
to lay down one’s life for one’s friends (John 15:13).
But
could he have been wrong about this?
Might
not that love be still greater
which
lays down it’s life for a stranger, or even an enemy,
and
so—through the unsurpassed power
of
compassion and forgiveness—
makes
of them a friend?
Yes,
we stand between two weeping mothers today—
we
who had been justly sentenced for our crimes,
we
who have been inexplicably pardoned,
we
who live because Christ came for us to die.
Can the human heart refrain
In that Mother’s pain untold?
And yet, our tears are not purely shed out of sorrow.
Even
now, on Calvary, they are tears of joy.
Out
of the most wondrous love
poured
forth from his Sacred Heart
together
with his Precious Blood,
because
of a mercy which could only be divine,
his
life has been lost
that
our life might be saved.
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