By: Chad Hyatt
Reflection—v. 4, ‘God who is rich in mercy…’
In a simple chapel, Mother Teresa’s Missionaries of Charity pray each day. Just around the corner from our daily chaos, the little room is dominated by a large, dark crucifix. Beside it, the words ‘I thirst,’ as if falling through time from the lips of a dying Savior, are printed in block letters. The tender, haunting melody the sisters sang today still echoes in my ears: ‘What wondrous love is this…’ And I must confess, this poor sinner is undone. The cross makes no sense. There is no logic to it. It overwhelms our senses, until numbed by it, we are left with nothing but the utter senselessness of it. No preacher can explain it; we can only tell it. Even then, we know our most eloquent words are no more than the stammering of fools. There is no theology before the cross; there is only silence. Only this can rightly be said, only this which we can scarcely grasp: only love, only mercy could hang on the cross for us. Only mercy can make sense of what makes no sense and somehow fill the universe with a deeper meaning than our hearts can hold.
Prayer What wondrous love is this, my God, that you give your life for mine?