Capture of Christ
Meister der Karlsruher Passion, 1450
My dear friends,
On this Good Friday, the words of Psalm 22 resound through the centuries as both lament and revelation. They are the cry of one who feels utterly abandoned yet refuses to relinquish trust in the Holy. On the Cross, Jesus gives voice to this psalm not as a sign of despair but as a total offering of the human condition to divine compassion. In the Bodhisattva path, this same cry is the sound of awakening through suffering, the recognition that even anguish can be transformed into boundless compassion for all beings.
Why are you so far from helping me,
from the words of my groaning?
O my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer;
and by night but find no rest.
Yet you are holy, enthroned on the praises of Israel.
- Psalm 22:1-3
The psalm begins with the raw cry of separation. This is the human voice at its most exposed, crying into apparent silence. For the Christian, this is the Word made flesh entering the deepest night of the soul; for the Bodhisattva, it is the compassionate identification with all beings who experience suffering and abandonment. In that abyss, the illusion of a separate self begins to crack. The one who cries out discovers, paradoxically, the holiness that pervades even absence.
To you they cried and were saved; in you they trusted and were not put to shame.
But I am a worm and not human, scorned by others and despised by the people.
- Psalm 22:4-6
Here memory sustains faith. The sufferer recalls the deliverance of others yet feels excluded from that mercy. This contrast between divine fidelity and human humiliation mirrors the Bodhisattva’s vow to bear the world’s pain without resentment. The self is humbled, "a worm and not human," but humility becomes the ground of transformation. To descend so far is to begin to see with the eyes of those whom society despises.
"Commit your cause to the LORD; let him deliver-- let him rescue the one in whom he delights!"
Yet it was you who took me from the womb; you kept me safe on my mother's breast.
On you I was cast from my birth, and since my mother bore me you have been my God.
- Psalm 22:7-10
The ridicule of the crowd echoes the mockery Jesus endured at Golgotha. In both traditions, ridicule becomes a crucible of patience. The Bodhisattva and the Christ alike endure scorn without retaliation, returning hate with forgiveness. The psalmist’s recollection of divine care from birth reaffirms that even in suffering, the relationship remains unbroken: loving kindness (metta, Chesed) never ceases, even when it is hidden by pain.
Many bulls encircle me; strong bulls of Bashan surround me;
they open wide their mouths at me, like a ravening and roaring lion.
- Psalm 22:11-13
Here the violence of the world presses close. The bulls and lions are symbols of overpowering forces—anger, fear, greed, and cruelty—that besiege the heart. On the cross and in meditation alike, the practitioner learns to meet these forces without hatred. This is the perfection of patience: to remain steadfast and compassionate even when surrounded by aggression.
my heart is like wax; it is melted within my breast;
my mouth is dried up like a potsherd, and my tongue sticks to my jaws; you lay me in the dust of death.
For dogs are all around me; a company of evildoers encircles me; they bound my hands and feet.
- Psalm 22:14-16
The imagery of physical collapse is startlingly prophetic of the crucifixion. Yet on the Bodhisattva path, this "poured-out" condition also describes the dissolution of the ego’s boundaries. When one’s identity melts like wax before the fire of compassion, a deeper consciousness awakens. The body of pain becomes the body of wisdom, laid in the dust but radiant with love.
they divide my clothes among themselves, and for my clothing they cast lots.
- Psalm 22:17-18
Even in despoilment, dignity abides. The stripping of clothes represents the final surrender of possession and pretense. The Cross and the Bodhisattva’s vow both point to this naked truth: that nothing truly belongs to us, and freedom lies in the complete offering of self for the sake of others.
Deliver my soul from the sword, my life from the power of the dog!
Save me from the mouth of the lion! From the horns of the wild oxen you have rescued me.
- Psalm 22:19-21
This is the turning point: the plea becomes confidence. The psalmist speaks as though already rescued, for faith sees beyond circumstance. In both Gospel and Dharma, salvation is not the removal of suffering but the awakening that transforms it. The cry for help becomes the song of liberation.
in the midst of the congregation I will praise you:
You who fear the LORD, praise him!
All you offspring of Jacob, glorify him;
stand in awe of him, all you offspring of Israel!
For he did not despise or abhor the affliction of the afflicted;
he did not hide his face from me but heard when I cried to him.
From you comes my praise in the great congregation;
my vows I will pay before those who fear him.
- Psalm 22:22-25
The psalm that began in isolation now blossoms into community. Out of suffering arises the power to proclaim hope. For the Bodhisattva, the awakening of compassion is never private—it is shared with all beings. Likewise, Christ’s resurrection is not a solitary triumph but the renewal of the human family in divine mercy.
those who seek him shall praise the LORD.
May your hearts live forever!
- Psalm 22:26
The psalmist’s joy overflows into compassion for the poor and hungry. The fulfillment of spiritual longing manifests as nourishment for others. In the Eucharist and in the Bodhisattva’s act of giving, self-offering becomes sustenance: bread for the hungry, hope for the broken, and life for the world.
and all the families of the nations shall worship before him.
For dominion belongs to the LORD, and he rules over the nations.
- Psalm 22:27-28
The psalm expands to a universal horizon. What began as the anguish of one soul becomes the redemption of all creation. This is the cosmic compassion of the Bodhisattva and the universal reign of Christ’s love. Suffering transmuted into praise becomes the song that unites all peoples in one heart.
before him shall bow all who go down to the dust,
and I shall live for him.
- Psalm 22:29
Even death is drawn into the circle of praise. The psalmist’s affirmation, "I shall live for him," mirrors the Bodhisattva’s vow to return again and again for the liberation of beings. Death does not end this song; it deepens it into the stillness from which eternal life arises.
and proclaim his deliverance to a people yet unborn, saying that he has done it.
- Psalm 22:30-31
The final words, "he has done it," anticipate Jesus’ last cry, "It is finished." The work of love is complete, yet it is also endless, handed on to future generations. The Bodhisattva’s vow and the Christian Gospel converge here: the realization of compassion is not a single act but an ever-renewing commitment to awaken and serve, until all beings are free.
Thus the psalm that begins in forsakenness ends in praise. On Good Friday we hear in it both the agony of the Cross and the timeless resolve of the Bodhisattva. Out of the depths of human suffering rises the vow to love without limit. This is the mystery of redemptive compassion: the cry of one becomes the salvation of all. May we hear it, and may we live it.