Days to Weep, Days to Grieve

Being Human During Holy Week 2025

Every year, when Holy Week comes around, the current year folds itself over on top of an ancient one, in which an innocent man was tortured and killed. And God help us if we cannot see that same torture and killing happening all around us, right here and now, 2,000 years later.

This week, like so many of you, I’ve been closely following the cases of so many people who have been wrongfully arrested, detained, imprisoned, deported, and likely tortured, possibly killed.

And in this holiest week, when we journey together into the lowest depths of what human beings can do to each other, I have this question to ask:

If we can’t see our present history as a double-exposed photograph of Holy Week, is there any point in having Holy Week?

Image of Izalco Prison in El Salvador via AP News. Painting is Christ Crucified by Diego Velázquez (1632).

I wish that the lessons of the original Good Friday had been different. I wish that on the day when the veil tore and the sun went dark, we would have all realized: yes, this must be the end of violence, forever. This must be the end of torture. This must be the end of empires crushing people under their bloodthirsty might. This must be the end of any state believing it has the authority to murder its own citizens.

What a different day Good Friday could be.

This isn’t the first Holy Week during which atrocities have taken place. It grieves me to say that it will not be the last.

But until all violence and injustice cease, I am wildly grateful that we have these days of sorrowful remembrance, these days when we descend into the cold, dark tomb, to remind ourselves that we should venture into these depths not only once a year, but every day, until our fellow humans cease to suffer.

What can we do but weep? What can we do but grieve?

To be human during Holy Week 2025 is to walk the Via Dolorosa with all of our sisters and brothers who are being forced to carry crosses and wear crowns of thorns, who are being subjected to mockery and beatings, who are stumbling and falling under the weight of false allegations and wrongful charges.

Who is Veronica, wiping the face of Jesus in 2025? Every person who forms a human chain around their threatened neighbor.

Who is Simon, helping Jesus carry his cross in 2025? Every person who tugs with all their might on the heavy instrument of injustice that is crushing their friend.

Who are the women weeping at the foot of the cross in 2025? Every person who raises their voice in protest against human rights violations and dehumanization.

I learned to read the world this way from St. Óscar Romero, who preached again and again that all of sacred history is not some far-distant historical event, but rather something that is happening right here, right now. He loved to cite paragraph 102 of the Vatican II document Sacrosanctum Concilium on this, which speaks of the way the church makes present the events of the liturgical year with every turn of the calendar page.

Holy Week reminds us of this: we need to look the lowest lows of being human straight in the eye. And we need to tell the truth about them.

Weeping with you, grieving with you,
Cameron