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Below is the full text of Via Crucis 2020, chaired by the Holy Father Francis in the Plaza de San Pedro. At the foot of the Basilica, in the center of Christianity, an empty square, adorned with some torches to light the way of the Cross.
introduction
This year’s Via Crucis meditations are proposed by the chaplaincy of the “Due Palazzi” prison in Padua. Collecting the invitation of Pope FrancisFourteen people meditated on the Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ making it current in their lives. Among them are five people arrested, a family victim of a murder crime, the daughter of a man sentenced to life imprisonment, a prison educator, a supervising magistrate, the mother of a detained person, a catechist, a volunteer friar, a prison officer and a priest accused and then definitively acquitted of justice after eight years of ordinary trial. Accompanying Christ on the way of the crossWith the hoarse voice of people living in the world of prisons, it is an opportunity to witness the prodigious duel between life and death, discovering how the threads of good are inevitably intertwined with the threads of evil. To contemplate Calvary from behind bars is to believe that you can play a lifetime in a few moments, as happened to the good thief.
It will be enough to fill those moments with truth: repentance for the guilt committed, the belief that death is not forever, the certainty that Christ is the innocent unjustly mocked. Everything is possible for those who believe., because even in the darkness of the prisons resounds the hopeful proclamation: “Nothing is impossible for God” (Lk 1:37). If someone shakes hands, the man who was capable of the most horrendous crime will be the protagonist of the most unexpected resurrection. It is true that even when evil and suffering are narrated, a space can be made for redemption, recognizing the dynamism of good in the midst of evil and giving it space (see the Holy Father’s Message for World Communications Day 2020). This is how the Via Crucis becomes a Via Lucis. The texts, compiled by the chaplain Don Marco Pozza and the volunteer Tatiana Mario, were written in the first person, but it was decided not to put the name: those who participated in this meditation wanted to give their voice to all those who, in the world, share the same condition. Tonight, in the silence of the prisons, the voice of one wishes to become the voice of all.
Sentence
Let us pray, O God, Almighty Father, that in Jesus Christ your Son you have assumed the wounds and sufferings of humanity, today I have the courage to beg you, like the repentant thief: “Remember me!” I am here, alone in front of you, in the darkness of this prison, poor, naked, hungry and despised, and I ask you to pour on my wounds the oil of forgiveness and consolation and the wine of a brotherhood that strengthens the heart. Heal me with your grace and teach me to hope in despair. My Lord and my God, I believe, help me in my unbelief. Continue, merciful Father, to trust me, to give me an ever new opportunity, to embrace me in your infinite love. With your help and the gift of the Holy Spirit, I too will be able to recognize you and serve you in my brothers. Amen.
Meditations and prayers.
I put Jesus condemned to death * (Meditation of an inmate sentenced to life imprisonment)
Pilate spoke to them again, because he wanted to free Jesus, but they shouted: “Crucify him! crucify him. “And for the third time he said to them:” What harm has he done? I have found nothing in him worthy of death. Therefore, I will punish and release him. “But they insisted out loud, demanding that he be crucified, and their cries grew louder. Pilate decided that his request would be carried out. He released the one who had been imprisoned for rebellion and murder. , and to whom they asked, and delivered Jesus to his will (Lk 23,20-25).
Many times, in the courts and newspapers, the cry echoes: “Crucify him, crucify him!” It is a cry that I also heard about myself: I was sentenced, along with my father, to life in prison. My crucifixion started when I was a child: if I think about it, I find myself huddled in the bus that took me to school, marginalized by my stutter, without any relationship. I started working as a child, unable to study: ignorance brought out the best in my naivety. Then the bullying stole glimpses of childhood from that boy born in Calabria in the 1970s. I am more like Barabbas than Christ, but the fiercest condemnation remains that of my conscience: at night I open my eyes and desperately look for a light to illuminate my story. 8 When, re-locked in my cell, I reread the pages of the Passion of Christ, I began to cry: after twenty-nine years in prison I still have not lost the ability to cry, to be ashamed of my past history, of the wrong done. I feel like Barabbas, Pedro and Judas in one person. The past is something I feel creepy about, even though I know it’s my story. I have lived years under the restrictive regime of 41 bis and my father died restricted in the same condition. Many times at night I heard him cry in his cell. He did it in secret, but I realized. We were both in deep darkness. In that non-life, however, I always looked for something that was life: it is strange to say it, but prison was my salvation. If I am still Barabbas for someone, I am not angry: I feel in my heart that that innocent man, condemned like me, came looking for me in prison to educate me about life.
Lord Jesus, despite the loud shouts that distract us, we see you among the crowd of those who shout that you must be crucified; and perhaps we too are among them, without realizing the evil of which we may be capable. From our cells we want to pray to your Father for those who are condemned to death like you and for those who still want to replace his supreme judgment. Let us pray, O God, lover of life, that in reconciliation he always offers us a new opportunity to savor his infinite mercy, we ask him to instill in us the gift of wisdom to consider each man and each woman as a temple of his Spirit and respect them in their inviolable dignity. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.
The station of Jesus is loaded with the cross. * (Meditation of two parents who killed a daughter)
The soldiers took him to the patio, that is, to the Praetorium, and summoned all the troops. They dressed him in purple, wove a crown of thorns, and put it around his head. Then they greeted him: “Hail, King of the Jews!” And they struck him on the head with a reed, spat on him, and, bowing their knees, prostrated themselves before him. After making fun of him, they stripped him of the purple and forced him to put on his robe, then they took him to crucify him (Mk 15, 16-20).
In that horrible summer, our life as parents died along with that of our two daughters. One was killed with a close friend for the blind violence of a ruthless man; the other, who survived by a miracle, was deprived of her smile forever. Ours has been a life of sacrifice, based on work and family. We have taught our children respect for others and the value of service to the poorest. We often ask ourselves, “Why exactly is this evil overwhelming us?” We don’t find peace. Not even justice, in which we have always believed, has been able to alleviate the deepest wounds: our condemnation of suffering will remain until the end. Time has not lightened the weight of the cross that they put on our shoulders: we cannot forget who is no longer there today. We are elderly, increasingly helpless, and we are experiencing the worst pain there is: surviving the death of a daughter. It’s hard to say, but the moment despair seems to take over, the Lord, in different ways, comes to meet us, giving us the grace to love each other as husbands, supporting each other, albeit with difficulty. He invites us to keep the door of our house open for the weakest, the desperate, welcoming those who touch even for a bowl of soup. Having made charity our commandment is for us a form of salvation: we do not want to surrender to evil. The love of God, in fact, is capable of regenerating life because, before us, his Son Jesus experienced human pain to feel adequate compassion for him.
Lord Jesus, it hurts us so much to see you beaten, mocked and stripped, an innocent victim of inhuman cruelty. In this night of pain, we turn to his Father to entrust to all those who have suffered violence and iniquity. Let us pray, God, our justice and redemption, that you have given us your only Son by glorifying him on the throne of the Cross, instill your hope in our hearts to recognize yourself present in the dark moments of our lives. Comfort us in every affliction and support us in trials, waiting for your Kingdom. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.
III station Jesus falls for the first time * (Meditation of a detained person)
However, he assumed our sufferings, he assumed our pains; and we judge him punished, beaten by God and humiliated. He was pierced for our sins, crushed for our iniquities. The punishment that salvation gives us has fallen on him; by his wounds we have been healed. We were all lost as a flock, each of us followed his own path; the Lord caused the iniquity of us all to fall on him (Is 53: 4-6).
It was the first time I fell, but that fall was death for me: I took a person’s life. One day was enough to go from an irreproachable life to make a gesture that includes the violation of all the commandments. I feel the modern version of the thief imploring Christ: “Remember me!”. More than sorry, I imagine him as someone who is aware of being on the wrong path. I remember the cold and hostile environment in which I grew up from my childhood: it was enough to find a fragility in the other to translate it into a form of fun. He was looking for sincere friends, he wanted to be accepted as he was, without success. I suffered for the happiness of others, I felt the sticks on the wheels, they only asked me for sacrifices and rules to respect: I felt like a stranger to everyone and sought, at all costs, my revenge. I hadn’t realized that evil was slowly growing inside me. Until, one afternoon, my hour of darkness came: in 12 seconds, like an avalanche, the memories of all the injustices suffered in life unleashed me. Anger has killed kindness, I have committed an immeasurably greater evil than all I had received. In prison, then, the injury of others has turned into self-loathing: It didn’t take long to finish, I was on the edge. I had also taken my family to the ravine: for my sake, they lost their last name, good reputation, they only became the family of the murderer. I am not looking for excuses or discounts, I will expire my sentence until the last day because in prison I found people who gave me back my lost confidence. Don’t think that goodness existed in the world was my first fall. The second, the murder, was almost a consequence: he was already dead inside.
Lord Jesus, you also ended up on earth. The first time is perhaps the most difficult because everything is new: the blow is strong and the confusion prevails. We entrust to your Father those who confine themselves to their own motives and do not recognize the mistakes committed. Let us pray, O God, who raised the man from his fall, we beg you: come to our aid and give us eyes to contemplate the signs of your love scattered in our daily life. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.
IV station Jesus meets the Mother * (Meditation of the mother of a detained person)
His mother, his mother’s sister, Mary, the mother of Cleopia and Mary of Magdala, were on the cross of Jesus. Then Jesus, seeing the mother and the disciple whom he loved by his side, said to the mother: “Woman, here is your son!” Then he said to the disciple, “Here is your mother!” And from that moment the disciple received him with him (Jn 19.25-27).
“Not even for a moment was I tempted to abandon my son in the face of his sentence. On the day of his arrest, our whole lives changed: the whole family went to prison with him. Even today, the judgment of the people does not yield, it is a sharp blade: the fingers that point us all weigh the suffering that we already carry in our hearts. The wounds grow with each passing day, they even take our breath away. I feel the closeness of the Virgin: it helps me not to be crushed by despair, to bear the bad things. I have entrusted my son: only Maria can I confide my fears, since she has experienced them when she went up to Calvary. In his heart he knew that the Son would not have escaped the evil of man, but he has not abandoned him. He was there, sharing his pain, keeping him company with her presence. I imagine that Jesus, looking up, crossed his eyes full of love and never felt alone. So I also want to do. 14 I took on my son’s sins, I also asked for forgiveness for my responsibilities. I implore the mercy that only a mother can feel, so that my son can return to life after having atoned for his punishment. I pray for him continually so that, day after day, he can become a different man, capable of loving himself and others again. “
Lord Jesus, the encounter with your Mother, on the way to the cross, is perhaps the most moving and painful. Between their gaze and yours we place that of all family members and friends who feel heartbreaking and helpless for the fate of their loved ones. Let us pray, Mary, mother of God and of the Church, faithful disciple of your Son, we turn to you, so that we entrust to your attentive gaze and the custody of your maternal heart, the cry of humanity that groans and suffers in anticipation of the day. in which every tear on our faces will dry. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.
V station Jesus is helped by Cyreneus * (Meditation of a detained person)
While they were taking him away, they arrested a certain Simon of Cyrene, who was returning from the field, and they put the cross on him to take him after Jesus (Lk 23:26).
“With my work I have helped generations of children to walk with a straight back. Then one day I found myself on the ground. It was as if my back had been broken: my work became the fulcrum for a defamatory sentence. I entered the prison: the prison entered my house. Since then I have become a city stray: I have lost my name, they call me with the crime that justice accuses me of, I am no longer the owner of my life. When I think about it, that child with broken shoes, wet feet, used clothes comes to mind: it was me, once, that child. Then, one day, the arrest: three uniformed men, a rigid protocol, the prison that swallows me alive in its concrete. The cross they carried on my shoulders is heavy. Over time I learned to live with it, to look at her face, to call her by name: we spent whole nights keeping company. Inside the prisons, Simone di Cirene is known by everyone: it is the middle name of the volunteers, of those who climb this test to help carry a cross; they are people who reject the law of the pack by listening to their conscience. Simone di Cirene, then, is my cellmate: I met him the first night I was in prison. He was a man who had lived in a bank for years, without affection or income. Their only wealth was a bundle of brioches. He, greedy for sweets, insisted that I take her with my wife the first time he came to see me: he began to cry for that unexpected and thoughtful gesture. I’m getting old in prison: I dream of returning to trust the man someday. Becoming a Cyrene of joy for someone. “
Lord Jesus, from the moment of your birth to the meeting with a stranger who brought you the cross, you wanted to need our help. We too, like Cyreneus, want to draw closer to our brothers and sisters and collaborate with the Father’s mercy to ease the yoke of evil that oppresses them. Let us pray, O God, defender of the poor and consolation of the afflicted, restore us with your presence and help us bring the sweet yoke of your commandment of love every day. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.
VI station Veronica cleans the face of Jesus * (Meditation of a parish catechist)
“My heart repeats your invitation: Find my face!” Your face, Lord, I look for it. Do not hide your face from me, do not anger your servant. You are my help, do not leave me, do not abandon me, God of my salvation (Psalm 27, 8-9).
“As a catechist, I wipe away many tears, letting them flow: the floods of heartbreaking hearts cannot be stopped. Many times I meet desperate men who, in the darkness of the prison, look for a reason for the evil that seems infinite. These tears have the taste of defeat and loneliness, of remorse and lack of understanding. I often imagine Jesus in prison for me: how would those tears dry up? How would you calm the anguish of these men who do not find a way out of what they have become by succumbing to evil? Finding an answer is an arduous exercise, often incomprehensible to our small and limited human logics. The way Christ suggested to me is to contemplate those faces disfigured by suffering, without feeling fear. They ask me to stay there, next to them, respecting their silences, listening to the pain, trying to look beyond prejudice. Just as Christ looks at our weaknesses and limitations with eyes full of love. Every day, even for inmates, every day the opportunity to become new people is offered thanks to that gaze that does not judge, but gives life and hope. And in this way the fallen tears can become the outbreak of a beauty that was difficult to imagine. “
Lord Jesus, Veronica took pity on you: she met a suffering man and discovered the face of God. In prayer we entrust to your Father the men and women of our times who continue to wipe away the tears of many of our brothers. Let us pray, oh God, true light and source of light, that in weakness reveals the omnipotence and the extremism of love, imprints your face on our hearts, so that we can recognize you in the sufferings of humanity. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.
VII station Jesus falls the second time * (Meditation of a detained person)
Jesus said, “Father, forgive them because they don’t know what they are doing.” Then, dividing their garments, they cast lots (Lk 23:34).
When I went through a prison, I turned to the other side: “I will never end there anyway,” I said to myself. The times she looked at him, she breathed melancholy and darkness: she seemed to pass through a cemetery of the living dead. One day, then, I ended up behind bars, along with my brother. As if that wasn’t enough, I also brought my father and mother there. Since it was a foreign country, the prison has become our home: the men were in one cell, our mother in another. I looked at them, I felt ashamed of myself: I don’t feel like calling myself a man anymore. They are aging in prison because of me. I fell to the ground twice. The first time that evil fascinated me and I gave in: selling drugs, in my eyes, was worth more than the work of my father, who divided his back ten hours a day. The second was when, after ruining the family, I began to ask myself, “Who am I because Christ died for me?” Jesus’ cry: “Father, forgive them because they don’t know what they are doing”, I read it in my mother’s eyes: she assumed the shame of all the men in the house to save the family. And she has the face of my father who secretly despaired in his cell. Only today I can admit it: in those years I didn’t know what I was doing. Now that I know, with God’s help, I am trying to rebuild my life. I owe it to my parents: years ago they auctioned off our dearest things because they didn’t want me to live on the street. I owe it especially to myself: the idea that evil continues to drive my life is unbearable. This has become my way of the cross.
Lord Jesus, you are on the ground again: overwhelmed by my attachment to evil, by my fear of not being a better person. In faith we turn to his Father and pray for all those who have not yet been able to escape the power of Satan, all the charm of his works and his thousand forms of seduction. Let us pray, O God, that you do not leave us in the darkness and shadow of death, support our weakness, free us from the chains of evil and protect us with the shield of your power, so that we can sing your mercy forever. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.
VIII station Jesus meets the women of Jerusalem * (Meditation of the daughter of a man sentenced to life in prison)
A large crowd of people and women followed him, who beat their breasts and complained about him. But Jesus, turning to them, said: «Daughters of Jerusalem, do not cry for me, but cry for yourself and your children. Behold, the days will come when it will be said: “Blessed are the barren, the wombs that have not generated and the breasts that have not breastfed.” Then they will begin to say to the mountains, “Fall on us!” And to the mountains, “Cover us!” (Lc 23,27-30).
How many times, as the daughter of a detainee, did she ask me a question: “You are fond of Dad: do you ever think about the pain your father has caused victims?” In all these years I have never escaped the answer: “Of course, it is impossible for me not to think about it,” I say. Then I also ask them a question: “Did you ever think that I was the first of all the victims of my father’s actions? For twenty-eight years I have been serving the penalty of growing up without a father.” For all these years I have lived with anger, restlessness, melancholy: his absence is always heavier to bear. I crossed Italy from south to north to stay with him: I know the cities not by their monuments but by the prisons I have visited. It seems that I am like Telemachus when he searches for his Father Ulysses: mine is a tour of Italy through prisons and affections. Years ago I lost love because I am the daughter of a prisoner, my mother was a victim of depression, the family fell apart. I was left with my small salary, to bear the weight of this story. Life forced me to be a woman without leaving time to be a girl. In our house everything is via crucis: Dad is one of those sentenced to life imprisonment. The day I married, I dreamed of having him one thousand ado: even then he thought of me hundreds of miles away. “It is life!”, I repeat to take courage. It is true: there are parents who, out of love, learn to wait for their children to mature. For me, for love, it happens to wait for Dad’s return. For those like us, hope is an obligation.
Lord Jesus, we feel the rebuke of the women of Jerusalem as a warning to each one of us. He invites us to conversion, going from a sentimental religion to a faith rooted in his Word. We pray for those who are forced to bear the weight of shame, the suffering of abandonment, the emptiness of a presence. And for each one of us, so that the sins of the parents do not fall on their children. Let us pray, O God, Father of all goodness, who will not abandon your children in the trials of life, give us the grace to be able to rest in your love and always enjoy the comfort of your presence. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.
IX station Jesus falls the third time * (Meditation of a detained person)
It is good for man to bring a yoke in his youth. Let him feel alone and remain silent, because he imposes it on himself. Put your mouth in the dust, maybe there is still hope. Give to the one who hits your cheek, be satisfied with the humiliations. Because the Lord does not reject forever. But if he afflicts, he will also have mercy according to his great love (Lamentations 3: 27-32).
Falling to the ground is never pleasant: falling again and again, in addition to not being beautiful, also becomes a kind of condemnation, as if one could no longer stand. As a man, I have fallen too many times: I have risen so many times. In prison, I often think about how many times a child falls to the ground before learning to walk: I am convinced that these are the general rehearsals for when he will fall once we grow up. As a child he lived in prison inside the house: he lived in the anguish of punishment, the sadness of adults alternated with the carefreeness of children. I remember Sister Gabriella from those years, the only festive image: she was the only one to glimpse the best of the worst. Like Pietro, I have searched and found a thousand excuses for my mistakes: the strange fact is that a fragment of good has always remained burning within me. In prison I became a grandfather: I lost my daughter’s pregnancy. One day, I will not tell my granddaughter the evil that I have committed, but only the good that I have found. I will tell you who, when I was on the ground, brought me the mercy of God. In prison, the real despair is to feel that nothing in your life already makes sense: it is the pinnacle of suffering, you feel the loneliest of all. lonely in the world It is true that I went to a thousand pieces, but the good thing is that those pieces can still be put together. It is not easy: it is the only thing, however, that still has a meaning here.
Lord Jesus, for the third time you fall to the ground and, when everyone thinks it is the end, once again you get up. We place ourselves confidently in the hands of his Father and we entrust those who feel imprisoned in the depths of their mistakes, so that they have the strength to get up and the courage to allow themselves to be helped. Let us pray, O God, strength of those who hope in you, who grant to those who follow your teachings to live in peace, to support our fearful steps, to be resurrected from the falls of our infidelities, to pour the oil of consolation and the wine of hope. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.
X station Jesus is stripped of his garments * (Meditation of a prison educator)
The soldiers then, when they crucified Jesus, took his clothes, made four parts, one for each soldier, and the robe. But that robe was perfect, woven in one piece from top to bottom. Then they said to each other: “Let’s not break it, but we will cast lots for whoever it is.” Thus the Scripture was fulfilled, which says: My clothes have been divided among them and they have put destiny in my robe (Jn 19: 23-24).
As a prison teacher, I see the man deprived of everything entering the prison: he is stripped of all dignity due to sins committed, of all respect for himself and for others. Every day I realize that his autonomy is less behind bars: he also needs me to write a letter. These are the suspended creatures that are entrusted to me: helpless men, exasperated by their fragility, often deprived of what is necessary to understand the wrong done. Sometimes, however, they resemble newborn babies who can still be molded. I perceive that his life may start again in another direction, turning away from evil definitively. However, my strength fades day by day. Being a funnel of anger, pain and melancholy ends up wearing down even the most prepared man and woman. I chose this job after my mother was killed in a head-on accident by a child in the midst of drugs: I decided to immediately respond to that evil with good. But although I love this job, sometimes I find it hard to find the strength to continue. In this delicate service, we should not feel abandoned, to be able to support the many existences that are entrusted to us and that run the risk of sinking every day.
Lord Jesus, looking at you stripped of your clothes we feel ashamed and ashamed. In fact, starting with the first man, facing the naked truth, we began to flee. We hide behind masks of respectability and weave false clothes, often with the spent remains of the poor, used by our greedy thirst for money and power. May your Father have mercy on us and patiently help us to be simpler, more transparent, truer: capable of definitively abandoning the weapons of hypocrisy. Let us pray, O God, who will liberate us with your truth, strips us of the old man who resists us and turns on your light to be the reflection of your glory in the world. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.
XI station Jesus is nailed to the cross * (Meditation of a priest accused and then acquitted)
When they reached the place called Cranio, he and the criminals crucified you, one on the right and the other on the left. Jesus said, “Father, forgive them because they don’t know what they are doing.” Then, dividing their clothes, they cast lots. People watched; the bosses instead laughed at him saying: “He saved others! Salvi se stesso, se è lui il Cristo di Dio, l’eletto ». Anche i soldati lo deridevano, gli si accostavano per porgergli dell’aceto e dicevano: “Be your sei il re dei Giudei, save you stesso.” Sopra di lui c’era anche una scritta: “Costui è il re dei Giudei”. One of the malfattori appesi alla croce insulted him: «Non sei tu il Cristo? Salva te stesso e noi! ». L’altro invece rimproverava saying: «Non hai alcun timore di Dio, tu che sei condannato alla stessa pena? Noi, rightly, I perched riceviamo quello che abbiamo meritato per le nostre azioni; egli invece non ha fatto nulla di male ». And he said: “Gesù, ricòrdati di me quando entrerai nel tuo regno”. Gli rispose: «In verità io ti dico: oggi con me sarai nel paradiso» (Lc 23,33-43).
Cristo inchiodato alla croce. Quante volte, da prete, ho meditato su questa pagina di Vangelo. Quando poi, un giorno, mi hanno messo in croce, ho sentito tutto il peso di quel legno: l’accusa era fatta di parole dure come chiodi, la salita si è fatta ripida, il patimento si è inciso nella pelle. Il momento più buio è stato vedere il mio nome appeso fuori dall’aula del tribunale: in quell’attimo ho capito di essere un uomo costretto a dimostrare la sua innocenza, senza essere un colpevole. Sono rimasto appeso in croce per dieci anni: è stata la mia via crucis popolata di faldoni, sospetti, accuse, ingiurie. Ogni volta, nei tribunali, cercavo il Crocifisso appeso: lo fissavo mentre la legge investigava sulla mia storia. La vergogna, per un istante, mi ha condotto al pensiero che sarebbe stato meglio farla finita. Poi, però, ho deciso di rimanere il prete che sono sempre stato. Non ho mai pensato di accorciare la croce, nemmeno quando la legge me lo concedeva. Ho scelto di sottopormi al giudizio ordinario: lo dovevo a me, ai ragazzi che ho educato negli anni del Seminario, alle loro famiglie. Mentre salivo il mio calvario, li ho trovati tutti lungo la strada: son diventati i miei cirenei, hanno sopportato con me il peso della croce, mi hanno asciugato tante lacrime. Assieme a me tanti di loro hanno pregato per il ragazzo che mi ha accusato: non smetteremo mai di farlo. Il giorno in cui sono stato assolto con formula piena, ho scoperto di essere più felice di dieci anni fa: ho toccato con mano l’azione di Dio nella mia vita. Appeso in croce, il mio sacerdozio si è illuminato.
Signore Gesù, il tuo amarci fino alla fine ti ha portato sulla Croce. Stai morendo, ma non ti stanchi di perdonarci e di darci vita. Affidiamo al Padre tuo gli innocenti della storia che hanno sofferto un’ingiusta condanna. Risuoni nei loro cuori l’eco della tua parola: «Oggi sarai con me in Paradiso». 29 Preghiamo O Dio, fonte di misericordia e di perdono, che ti riveli nelle sofferenze dell’umanità, illuminaci con la grazia che sgorga dalle piaghe del Crocifisso e donaci di perseverare nella fede durante la notte oscura della prova. Per Cristo nostro Signore. Amen.
XII stazione Gesù muore in croce * (Meditazione di un magistrato di sorveglianza)
Era già verso mezzogiorno e si fece buio su tutta la terra fino alle tre del pomeriggio, perché il sole si era eclissato. Il velo del tempio si squarciò a metà. Gesù, gridando a gran voce, disse: «Padre, nelle tue mani consegno il mio spirito». Detto questo, spirò (Lc 23, 44-46).
Come magistrato di sorveglianza, non posso inchiodare un uomo, qualsiasi uomo, alla sua condanna: vorrebbe dire condannarlo una seconda volta. È necessario che l’uomo espii il male che ha commesso: non farlo significherebbe banalizzare i suoi reati, giustificare le azioni intollerabili da lui compiute che hanno arrecato ad altri sofferenza fisica e morale. Una vera giustizia, però, è possibile solo attraverso la misericordia che non inchioda per sempre l’uomo in croce: si offre come guida nell’aiutarlo a rialzarsi, insegnandogli a cogliere quel bene che, nonostante il male compiuto, non si spegne mai completamente nel suo cuore. Solo ritrovando la sua umanità, la persona condannata potrà riconoscerla nell’altro, nella vittima a cui ha provocato dolore. Per quanto il suo percorso di rinascita possa essere tortuoso e il rischio di ricadere nel male resti sempre in agguato, non esistono altre strade per cercare di ricostruire una storia personale e collettiva. La rigidità del giudizio mette a dura prova la speranza nell’uomo: aiutarlo a riflettere e a chiedersi le motivazioni delle sue azioni potrebbe diventare l’occasione per guardarsi da un’altra 31 prospettiva. Per fare questo, però, è necessario imparare a riconoscere la persona nascosta dietro la colpa commessa. Così facendo, a volte si riesce ad intravedere un orizzonte che può infondere speranza alle persone condannate e, una volta espiata la pena, riconsegnarle alla società, invitando gli uomini a riaccoglierli dopo averli un tempo, magari, respinti. Perché tutti, anche da condannati, siamo figli della stessa umanità.
Signore Gesù, muori per una sentenza corrotta, pronunciata da giudici iniqui e terrorizzati dalla prorompente forza della Verità. Affidiamo al Padre tuo i magistrati, i giudici e gli avvocati, perché si mantengano retti nell’esercizio del loro servizio a favore dello Stato e dei suoi cittadini, soprattutto di quelli che soffrono per una situazione di povertà. Preghiamo O Dio, re di giustizia e di pace, che hai accolto nel grido del Figlio tuo quello dell’intera umanità, insegnaci a non identificare la persona con il male commesso e aiutaci a scorgere in ciascuno la fiamma viva del tuo Spirito. Per Cristo nostro Signore. Amen.
XIII stazione Gesù è deposto dalla croce * (Meditazione di un frate volontario)
Ed ecco, vi era un uomo di nome Giuseppe, membro del sinedrio, buono e giusto. Egli non aveva aderito alla decisione e all’operato degli altri. Era di Arimatea, una città della Giudea, e aspettava il regno di Dio. Egli si presentò a Pilato e chiese il corpo di Gesù. Lo depose dalla croce, lo avvolse con un lenzuolo e lo mise in un sepolcro scavato nella roccia, nel quale nessuno era stato ancora sepolto (Lc 23, 50-53).
Le persone detenute sono, da sempre, i miei maestri. Da sessant’anni entro nelle carceri come frate volontario e ho sempre benedetto il giorno in cui, per la prima volta, ho incontrato questo mondo nascosto. In quegli sguardi ho compreso con chiarezza che avrei potuto esserci io al posto loro, qualora la mia vita avesse preso una direzione diversa. Noi cristiani cadiamo spesso nella lusinga di sentirci migliori degli altri, come se essere nella condizione di poterci occupare dei poveri ci permettesse una superiorità tale da ergerci a giudici degli altri, condannandoli tutte le volte che vogliamo, senza nessun appello. Cristo, nella sua vita, ha scelto e voluto stare con gli ultimi: ha percorso le periferie dimenticate del mondo in mezzo a ladri, lebbrosi, prostitute, imbroglioni. Ha voluto condividere miseria, solitudine, turbamento. Ho sempre pensato fosse questo il vero senso di quelle sue parole: «Ero in carcere e siete venuti a trovarmi» (Mt 25,36). Passando da una cella all’altra vedo la morte che vi abita dentro. Il carcere continua a seppellire uomini vivi: sono storie che non vuole più nessuno. A me Cristo ogni volta ripete: “Continua, non fermarti. Prendili in braccio ancora”. Non posso non ascoltarlo: anche dentro al peggiore degli uomini c’è sempre Lui, per quanto infangato sia il suo ricordo. Devo solo porre un argine alla mia frenesia, fermarmi in silenzio davanti a quei volti devastati dal male e ascoltarli con misericordia. È l’unica maniera che conosco per accogliere l’uomo, spostando dal mio sguardo l’errore che ha commesso. Solamente così potrà fidarsi e ritrovare la forza di arrendersi al Bene, immaginandosi diverso da come ora si vede.
Signore Gesù, il tuo corpo deformato da tanto male, adesso, è avvolto in un lenzuolo e consegnato alla nuda terra: ecco la nuova creazione. Affidiamo al Padre tuo la Chiesa, che nasce dal tuo fianco squarciato, perché non si arrenda mai davanti all’insuccesso e all’apparenza, ma continui a uscire per portare a tutti il lieto annuncio della salvezza. Preghiamo O Dio, principio e fine di tutte le cose, che nella Pasqua di Cristo hai redento l’umanità intera, donaci la sapienza della Croce per poterci abbandonare alla tua volontà, accettandola con animo lieto e riconoscente. Per Cristo nostro Signore. Amen.
XIV stazione Gesù è sepolto * (Meditazione di un agente di Polizia Penitenziaria)
Era il giorno della Parasceve e già splendevano le luci del sabato. Le donne che erano venute con Gesù dalla Galilea seguivano Giuseppe; esse osservarono il sepolcro e come era stato posto il corpo di Gesù, poi tornarono indietro e prepararono aromi e oli profumati. Il giorno di sabato osservarono il riposo come era prescritto (Lc 23,54-56).
Nella mia missione di agente di Polizia Penitenziaria, ogni giorno tocco con mano la sofferenza di chi vive recluso. Non è facile confrontarsi con chi è stato vinto dal male e ha inferto ferite enormi ad altri uomini, complicando le loro esistenze. Eppure, in carcere, l’indifferenza crea ulteriori danni nella storia di chi ha fallito e sta pagando il proprio conto alla giustizia. Un collega, che mi è stato maestro, ripeteva spesso: “Il carcere ti trasforma: un uomo buono può diventare un uomo sadico. Un malvagio potrebbe diventare migliore”. Il risultato dipende anche da me e stringere i denti è essenziale per raggiungere l’obiettivo del nostro lavoro: dare un’altra possibilità a chi ha favorito il male. Per tentare questo, non posso limitarmi ad aprire e chiudere una cella, senza farlo con un pizzico di umanità. Rispettando i tempi di ciascuno, le relazioni umane possono rifiorire piano piano anche dentro questo mondo pesante. Si traducono in gesti, attenzioni e parole capaci di fare la differenza, anche se pronunciate a bassa voce. Non mi vergogno di esercitare il diaconato permanente vestendo la divisa della quale vado orgoglioso. Conosco la sofferenza e la disperazione: le ho provate da bambino su di me. Il mio piccolo desidero è essere un punto di riferimento per chi incontro tra le sbarre. Ce la metto tutta per difendere la speranza di gente rassegnata a se stessa, spaventata al pensiero di quando un giorno uscirà e rischierà di essere rifiutata ancora una volta dalla società. In carcere ricordo loro che, con Dio, nessun peccato avrà mai l’ultima parola.
Signore Gesù, ancora una volta sei consegnato alle mani dell’uomo, questa volta però, ad accoglierti sono le mani amorevoli di Giuseppe d’Arimatea e di alcune pie donne venute dalla Galilea, che sanno che il tuo corpo è prezioso. Queste mani rappresentano le mani di tutti coloro che non si stancano mai di servirti e che rendono visibile quell’amore di cui l’uomo è capace. è proprio questo amore che ci fa sperare nella possibilità di un mondo migliore: basta soltanto che l’uomo sia disposto a lasciarsi raggiungere dalla grazia che viene da Te. Nella preghiera, affidiamo al Padre tuo, in modo particolare, tutti gli agenti della Polizia Penitenziaria e quanti collaborano a diverso titolo nelle carceri. Preghiamo O Dio, eterna luce e giorno senza tramonto, ricolma dei tuoi beni coloro che si dedicano alla tua lode e al servizio di chi soffre, negli innumerevoli luoghi di dolore dell’umanità. Per Cristo nostro Signore. Amen.
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