During Holy Week we are invited to enter into the events leading up to the death of Jesus. It’s not easy, of course, to enter into the experience of suffering and to be confronted by the darkness of the world and the limits of our own hearts.
This Holy Week, I find myself thinking of Mary. She was no stranger to fear, uncertainty, or suffering. A mother’s heart is always wondering, praying, and hoping for the well-being and safety of her children. What must it have been like for her to walk with Jesus on those last days? To see her son unjustly accused and crucified? A sword piercing her heart, no doubt (Luke 2:35).
To witness the suffering of someone we love is one of the most difficult human experiences. To respond in fear is human. To flinch or turn away is understandable. Peter denied Jesus three times (Luke 22:61); the disciples fled and hid (Mark 14:50). Their response makes sense.
What is more difficult to understand is that they chose to return.
What happened in the gap — in that quiet, hidden space between fear and courage? How did Peter and the disciples move from the darkness of that moment to sharing, with anyone who would listen, what they had seen and heard?
It would be tempting to say it was only about the Resurrection. Certainly, the experience of the risen Christ filled them with hope (John 20:19–20). And yet, we know something about our human experience: even when we are given signs of great hope, we tend to quickly forget, explain away, or rationalize what we have experienced. I think that might be why Jesus said, “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe” (John 20:29). We are called to something deeper than mere seeing. I suspect it was that deeper seeing that carried Peter and the disciples through those difficult days and transformed them into disciples.
During these sacred days, we are invited not only to remember and recount the events that unfolded long ago, but to continue to see and encounter what they reveal about the very identity of God, now.
Jesus tells us in the Gospel of John, “Whoever has seen me has seen the Father” (John 14:9). Holy Week then, is not only something we remember — it is Someone we behold, here and now.
Holy Week gives us an opportunity to glimpse into the very nature of God and God’s deepest hope for our world. We hear this hope in Jesus’ prayer to the Father when he said, “Father, I pray not only for them, but for all who are to come … that we may all be one, just as you and I are one” (John 17:20–21).
In a world marked by suffering, division, and pain, we are invited not to look away — but to look again. To see in Christ not only the revelation of who God is, but also of who we are called to be in and through Christ. And yet, I am drawn to ask: In our daily lives, in the world today, what does it look like to “look again”? Not in a general sense, but in the specific faces andstories of the most vulnerable in the world in this present moment.
In my work at the Center for Religion and Spirituality, I have had the privilege of walking with members of the Latino community as they face the very real threats of racial profiling, violence, and deportation. It is hard to hear these stories. It is painful to witness suffering.
The stories are many: families afraid of going to the supermarket; young people having to drop out of school to support their families; parents having to speak with their young children about the possibility of being separated. At a recent multi-site gathering, we heard about a woman who was too afraid to bury her child for fear of deportation. It made me think of Mary — was she afraid, too, to go to the tomb and grieve for her own son (John 19:25)?
I also see incredible great signs of hope and courage. I see people carrying their crosses with love. I see pain transformed into compassion. I see small acts of generosity become moments of communion. I see that community heals—and that when each of us brings our offerings, what seems small becomes abundance. This is the way of Christ. This is His vision of heaven on earth.
Yet, sometimes I wonder if we are missing the Gospel message altogether. Jesus not only identifies with the poor and the brokenhearted, He was part of a vulnerable community; His family had to flee (Matthew 2:13–15); He, too, was persecuted. Could it be that, in God’s divine plan, God wanted us to recognize Him there, in the most vulnerable?
I wish I could ask Peter: What gave you courage? How did you know you were on the right path? And I imagine him responding:
You are asking the wrong questions.
It is not about how or what —
but with Whom, and in Whom.
I wish I could ask Mary: What gave you hope? How did you carry on? And I imagine that she might say something about her deep and abiding love for Jesus— a love that transcended her fears, doubts, as well as time and space. Her love and example guides us today.
Only love can carry us through the darkest nights.
Only love can transcend darkness.
Only love can guide us home.
Mary, pray for us.
St. Peter, give us courage.
Jesus, teach us to abide in your love.
Elsy Arévalo ’97, director of the Center for Religion and Spirituality, is dedicated to cultivating spaces of encounter, reflection, and interfaith dialogue at LMU. Through her leadership, she supports students in exploring their spiritual lives while advancing a culture rooted in dignity, justice, and belonging.