How Embarassing

TERESITA TANSECO-CRUZ

Many years ago, as I walked distractedly on a small, busy street outside a school in Baguio, my foot got caught in a tiny pothole. I tripped forward and landed flat on the pavement. My right cheek was plastered to the ground where vehicles passed, people walked, dropped litter, and spat. How grateful I was to two solicitous students who helped me up, addressing me with the deferential name “Nanay” ( mother). I suffered scrapes on my right temple, right cheek, right knee, and my unrighteous ego. I used up my ever-handy “baby wipes” to clean all affected spots repeatedly. For my ever-available ego, I had a doting balm. “What a pitiful sight I was! How embarrassing! All those germs! Gross! And my new flat shoes ruined!”

It is Holy Week, long after that cozy encounter with the dirty pavement. I am contemplating the image of Jesus falling under the weight of his Cross. I face him eyeball to eyeball on the ground, saying I know exactly how it feels to be in that position. Wait…did I just pronounce “been there done that” to Jesus? During his Passion, no less?! Even more heedlessly, I proceed to complain of my disappointments, losses, resentments, unfairness inflicted on me by others.

I am now crying tears of self-pity, of self-indulgence. I have just dumped a mound of woes before Jesus, who is not complaining. He gazes at me, calmly bearing the excruciating burden on his weakened shoulders. Then I see the entire pile of my troubles being lifted onto that Cross until nothing remains on the terrain but the vital red drops of his offering. While I shed tears for myself, Christ sheds blood for me.

Jesus is leading me in the journey he has traveled, no matter the price. I watch the mess he’s in for my sake. The spit is not on the ground but freshly hurled at his face. The names they call him are mocking, an absolute departure from respectful. He has no ruined footwear; just bare feet dragged, step after stabbing step. He does not have a scrape on his right temple; his whole face drips with blood from all the thorns piercing his head. He does not walk away, cleaning up some minor inconvenience. He was lanced, nailed, hung on a Cross. HE DIED. From love. For love. In love. Meanwhile, I am busy squawking with self-absorption.

I believe that in his mercy, God welcomes humble, human groaning in our struggles. “Whoa! This is no picnic, Lord! But I know you have my back, so please – HELP!”

However, if I whine with an arrogant sense of entitlement, it turns cringeworthy. “Life is so unfair! I don’t deserve this! Nonstop problems! I need a long vacation! Now! I hate stress!”

What a pitiful sight. Gross. Embarrassing, beyond all telling.

Lord, bless my reverent moans and in your mercy, let me turn any shameful grumbling into thanksgiving. Please grant me the grace to feel in humble sorrow even a minuscule splinter from your Cross, so I may joyfully, gratefully live the Easter life you have paved for me!