The Sorrowful Mysteries: Concupiscence, Choice, and Transformation Through Grace
A Friday Morning Reflection — November 6, 2026
Dear God,
Thank You for this morning.
A Friday morning, at that.
As I begin my day, my thoughts turn to the Sorrowful Mysteries of the Rosary. I thought perhaps I might write a simple reflection. But there is nothing simple about the Paschal Mystery.
In prayer, I find myself walking through Jerusalem.
Jerusalem, the ancient city where Solomon’s Temple once stood, where generations gathered to worship God. The First Temple was destroyed; another Temple rose, and it too was eventually destroyed. The stones and buildings have changed, yet the longing for God remains.
It was here that Jesus walked among us. Fully human and fully divine: the Son of God entering His own creation. I cannot explain that mystery away. I can only approach it in faith.
Jesus, the New Adam, came not merely to teach humanity but to redeem it. I imagine Him entering Jerusalem on a donkey as people spread cloaks and branches before Him, crying out in welcome (Matthew 21:1–11; Mark 11:1–10; Luke 19:28–40; John 12:12–15). And I know that, within days, Jerusalem would become the setting of His suffering and death.
We should not assume the welcoming crowd and the crowd calling for His crucifixion consisted of exactly the same people. Yet the contrast makes me consider how changeable the human heart can be.
The people of the Passion are not simply distant figures in an ancient story. Their fears, hopes, loyalties, failures, and acts of courage reveal something of ourselves.
And one question begins to form in my prayer:
If I had stood among those people in Jerusalem, which part of humanity would I have revealed?
THE FIRST SORROWFUL MYSTERY: THE AGONY IN THE GARDEN
I follow Jesus to Gethsemane. He knows what awaits Him, and His anguish is real. He asks His disciples to stay awake with Him, yet they sleep. In His loneliness, He prays:
“Father, if you are willing, take this cup away from me; still, not my will but yours be done” (Luke 22:42, NABRE).
How often have I prayed for difficulties to be removed? How often have I wanted God to change my circumstances rather than teach me how to walk through them?
Jesus shows me that surrender is not the absence of fear. Trust can exist in the very midst of anguish. His humanity is not a disguise. He knows sorrow, loneliness, pain, and the dread of what lies ahead. Yet His love remains steadfast.
Then comes Judas.
He was not a stranger to Jesus. He was one of the Twelve, a companion who had listened to His teaching, eaten with Him, and witnessed His works. That is what makes the betrayal so painful to contemplate. A kiss, a gesture of closeness, becomes the signal of betrayal (Luke 22:47–48).
Thirty pieces of silver (Matthew 26:14–16).
What was happening in Judas’s heart? Was it greed, disappointment, resentment, confusion, or a crisis of faith? Some in Israel hoped for a Messiah who would deliver them politically. Could Judas have struggled with the difference between the Messiah he expected and the one Jesus revealed Himself to be? I can ask these questions, but I cannot present them as facts. Scripture does not disclose the whole interior story of Judas.
Luke tells us that Satan entered Judas (Luke 22:3); John also describes Satan entering him (John 13:27). Yet the presence of temptation does not erase the seriousness of human choice. Temptation is not itself sin. We may be pulled toward greed, pride, anger, fear, or despair, but we are still called to respond.
I cannot imagine all the challenges Judas faced. I can recognize, however, that the human heart is capable of turning against what it has known to be good.
Later, Judas returned the silver and confessed that he had betrayed innocent blood (Matthew 27:3–5). His story ends tragically. I will not presume to pronounce God’s final judgment upon his soul. That belongs to God alone.
But I cannot leave Judas at a safe distance. The more unsettling question is whether I recognize smaller betrayals in my own life: the times I choose convenience over truth, protect my pride rather than apologize, or withdraw my love when someone fails to meet my expectations.
Do I follow Christ as He is, or only as I wish Him to be?
PETER: THE CHOICE TO RETURN
Then there is Peter.
Peter loved Jesus. He spoke with confidence about his loyalty. Yet when fear overtook him, he denied knowing his Lord three times. When he remembered Jesus’ words, he went out and wept bitterly (Luke 22:54–62).
How human those tears are. We may sincerely believe we will be brave until the moment comes when courage is costly. We discover a weakness we did not want to acknowledge.
But Peter’s story does not end with his denial.
After the Resurrection, Jesus asks Peter three times whether he loves Him and entrusts His sheep to his care (John 21:15–17). Jesus had already named him Peter, the rock, before the denial (Matthew 16:18). Peter’s failure did not make his calling disappear. Through repentance and the Lord’s restoring love, he could begin again.
Judas and Peter both failed Jesus, though in different ways. The Gospels do not give us permission to reduce either man to a convenient moral label. Yet Peter’s return shows something essential about grace: failure need not have the last word.
Grace does not pretend that betrayal or denial never happened. It makes conversion possible. It calls us to face what we have done, to receive mercy, and to become different.
THE SECOND SORROWFUL MYSTERY: THE SCOURGING AT THE PILLAR
Now I imagine Jesus before Pilate.
The governor sees the accusations and the pressure surrounding him. The Gospels portray Pilate as finding no sufficient basis for the sentence demanded, yet he ultimately hands Jesus over (Luke 23:13–25; John 18:38–19:16).
Pilate represents another painful possibility within humanity: knowing something is wrong and failing to act accordingly.
How often does fear of consequences silence conscience? How often do we remain quiet because speaking would cost us approval, security, or comfort?
The crowd is also difficult to contemplate. Crowds can become places where responsibility is dispersed, where people say and do things they might hesitate to do alone. The innocent can become vulnerable to the anger or fear of many.
Barabbas is released while Jesus is condemned (Matthew 27:15–26). I cannot ignore the unsettling exchange: the innocent suffers while another goes free.
Jesus is scourged (John 19:1). His body bears the violence of human cruelty.
In this mystery, I am confronted not only with the suffering of Christ but with the ease with which people can justify causing suffering to another person. We can turn someone into a problem to be removed rather than a person to be seen.
And still, Jesus does not stop loving humanity.
THE THIRD SORROWFUL MYSTERY: THE CROWNING WITH THORNS
The soldiers dress Jesus in a purple cloak, place a crown of thorns upon His head, and mock Him as king (Mark 15:16–20; John 19:2–3).
There is something particularly cruel about humiliation. It is not enough to inflict pain; the soldiers make a spectacle of His vulnerability.
I think of the ways human beings ridicule what they do not understand, or join in mockery because everyone else is doing so. I think of the temptation to feel powerful by making another person small.
Jesus, the one who taught that the greatest must become the servant, is mocked as a king.
And yet His kingship is revealed precisely through a love that refuses to imitate the cruelty directed toward Him.
This is not weakness in the sense of helplessness. It is a different kind of strength.
I ask myself whether I can recognize dignity when it appears without worldly power. Do I honour people only when they command respect, or also when they are powerless, exposed, or rejected?
THE FOURTH SORROWFUL MYSTERY: THE CARRYING OF THE CROSS
Jesus walks toward Golgotha.
I imagine the narrow streets, the noise, the exhaustion, the weight of the cross, and the faces of those watching. Some may have mocked; others may have grieved; some may simply have stood aside.
Simon of Cyrene is compelled to carry the cross behind Jesus (Luke 23:26). Scripture does not tell us what Simon first felt about this interruption. We need not imagine him instantly heroic. Yet he becomes part of the story of bearing another’s burden.
And then I think of Veronica.
Her act of wiping the face of Jesus belongs to the devotional tradition of the Stations of the Cross; it is not narrated in the canonical Gospels. Still, the image speaks powerfully to me. In the middle of violence and humiliation, a woman steps forward with a simple gesture of tenderness.
She cannot stop the procession. She cannot undo the sentence. She cannot take away the suffering.
But she can respond to the person before her.
Here, I find hope in humanity.
All is not lost.
Even when cruelty appears to dominate, compassion can still emerge. It may appear in the smallest gesture: offering a cloth, helping carry a burden, remaining near someone who suffers.
I think of the people I encounter in ordinary life. How often does love ask for something grand? More often, perhaps, it asks me to notice who is standing in front of me.
To recognize another person’s pain.
To respond rather than look away.
Simon and Veronica remind me that we are not only capable of betrayal, cowardice, and cruelty. We are also capable of mercy.
Grace can be present in an ordinary act of love.
THE FIFTH SORROWFUL MYSTERY: THE CRUCIFIXION
At last, I arrive at the foot of the cross.
Mary is there, and the beloved disciple stands nearby (John 19:25–27). The women who followed Jesus remain part of the Gospel witness to His suffering and death.
I cannot imagine a mother’s sorrow as she watches her son die. Mary’s faithful presence does not remove her grief. Love does not make suffering unreal.
Jesus, even while suffering, entrusts His mother and the beloved disciple to one another (John 19:26–27). In a moment of profound pain, He still cares for those before Him.
Then come the words from the cross:
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Psalm 22:2; Matthew 27:46; Mark 15:34, NABRE).
If I hear only that opening cry, I may mistake it for the whole story.
But Psalm 22 is not merely a cry of abandonment. It is a prayer that moves through lament and pleading toward remembrance, praise, and the proclamation of God’s faithfulness. The suffering voice does not stop addressing God. The psalm ultimately looks beyond anguish to the Lord’s saving action (Psalm 22:23–32).
This is why the context matters.
Pope Benedict XVI, in his general audience of September 14, 2011, reflected on Psalm 22 as a prayer that moves from the apparent absence of God toward trust and praise. Christ’s cry expresses the real depths of human suffering; it should not be read as a rupture within the Trinity.
I also think of St. John of the Cross and his teaching on the dark night. The experience of spiritual darkness is not necessarily proof that God has withdrawn His love. Sometimes the soul cannot feel what grace is doing. God may be at work beyond what our senses can grasp.
These are not easy explanations for suffering. They do not make pain pleasant or grief trivial. They remind me not to mistake the limits of my perception for the limits of God’s presence.
Even when God seems silent, prayer remains possible.
Even when I cannot see the path, grace has not ceased to exist.
After Jesus dies, a soldier pierces His side, and blood and water flow out (John 19:33–34). Catholic tradition has long contemplated the blood and water in relation to the sacramental life of the Church, particularly the Eucharist and Baptism.
What appears to be the end opens onto a mystery of life.
A HUMAN DRAMA, BUT NOT THE END OF THE STORY
As I contemplate the Passion, I find myself thinking of a Greek tragedy.
There are so many human characters, each revealing something about our nature. Judas betrays. Peter denies and weeps. Pilate yields to pressure. Soldiers mock. The crowd cries out. Simon carries a burden. Veronica, in the Church’s devotional memory, offers tenderness. Mary remains present in sorrow.
I recognize human weakness, conflict, fear, loyalty, and compassion in all these scenes.
Yet the Passion is not simply a tragedy in which suffering and death have the final word.
The cross leads us to the Resurrection.
The Paschal Mystery encompasses Christ’s Passion, death, Resurrection, and glorification. Without the Resurrection, I would be left at the foot of the cross with grief alone. But the Christian story does not end there.
Christ is risen.
And that changes how I understand every scene that came before.
CONCUPISCENCE, FREEDOM, AND GRACE
The Church speaks of concupiscence: the wounded human inclination toward sin that remains part of our struggle. Concupiscence itself is not the same as committing a sin. It reminds us that the human heart is often divided, pulled between what is good and what seems easier or more immediately satisfying (Catechism of the Catholic Church, 405, 1264, 2515).
We are not simply villains or heroes.
We are people who must make choices, often under pressure, often without understanding ourselves as clearly as we think we do.
The Passion exposes our capacity for cruelty, fear, and betrayal. But it also reveals our capacity to love, repent, remain faithful, and help one another.
And at the centre is Jesus, who does not abandon humanity because humanity has failed Him.
Peter’s life shows the possibility of transformation. Simon and Veronica remind me of compassion. Mary shows faithful love in sorrow. The risen Christ reveals that suffering and death do not have ultimate power.
Grace is not something I have to manufacture.
It was always there.
Sometimes I may fail to recognize it. Sometimes I resist it. Sometimes I may feel that God is far away. But His love is not measured by the strength of my feelings.
Grace invites a response.
I must still choose whether to turn toward it.
WHERE WOULD I HAVE STOOD?
So I return to the question that arose as I began praying this morning:
If I had stood among those people in Jerusalem, which part of humanity would I have revealed?
Would I have remained silent with Pilate?
Would I have followed the crowd?
Would fear have made me deny what I knew to be true?
Would I have betrayed a friend through disappointment or self-interest?
Or would I have found the courage to remain near someone who was suffering?
Would I have carried a burden, offered a small act of kindness, or stood faithfully at the foot of the cross?
I cannot confidently say what I would have done then.
But I can ask what I am doing now.
Every day presents smaller versions of these choices. In my family, my work, my community, and the ordinary encounters that fill my life, I am asked to choose how I will respond to others.
Do I turn away?
Do I judge too quickly?
Do I protect my comfort?
Or do I allow God’s grace to teach me to love?
The Sorrowful Mysteries do not merely invite me to observe what happened to Jesus. They invite me to examine who I am becoming.
That, perhaps, is what makes them so profound.
I began this Friday simply wanting to pray. Yet as I walked through Jerusalem in my imagination, I found myself looking not only at the people around the cross but into my own heart.
And there, too, I need Christ’s mercy.
A FRIDAY MORNING PRAYER
Lord Jesus,
As I contemplate Your Sorrowful Mysteries, help me to see both the weakness and the goodness within our humanity.
When I am afraid, give me courage.
When I fail, give me the humility to repent.
When I am tempted to follow the crowd, awaken my conscience.
When another person suffers, open my eyes and move my heart toward compassion.
Teach me to recognize Your presence even when I cannot feel it.
May I never confuse my darkness with Your absence.
May I remember that Your grace is always offered, and may I freely respond to it.
As I walk through the ordinary moments of this day, help me to choose love.
Through Your Passion, death, and Resurrection, transform my heart.
Amen.
SCRIPTURE AND CATHOLIC REFERENCES
Scripture references follow the New American Bible, Revised Edition (NABRE), a Catholic translation.
Entry into Jerusalem: Matthew 21:1–11; Mark 11:1–10; Luke 19:28–40; John 12:12–15.
Agony in the Garden: Matthew 26:36–46; Mark 14:32–42; Luke 22:39–46.
Judas and betrayal: Matthew 26:14–16, 47–50; 27:3–5; Luke 22:3–6, 47–48; John 13:21–30.
Peter’s denial and restoration: Luke 22:54–62; Matthew 16:18; John 21:15–17.
Pilate, Barabbas, and the condemnation: Matthew 27:15–26; Luke 23:13–25; John 18:38–19:16.
Scourging and crowning with thorns: John 19:1–3; Mark 15:16–20.
Simon of Cyrene: Luke 23:26.
Crucifixion, Mary, and the beloved disciple: John 19:25–27.
Christ’s cry and Psalm 22: Psalm 22:2–32; Matthew 27:46; Mark 15:34.
Blood and water from Christ’s side: John 19:33–34.
Concupiscence: Catechism of the Catholic Church, 405, 1264, 2515.
Pope Benedict XVI: General Audience, September 14, 2011, on Psalm 22.
St. John of the Cross: The Dark Night and The Ascent of Mount Carmel.
Editorial note: Veronica’s encounter is a cherished Catholic devotional tradition associated with the Stations of the Cross, not an episode recorded in the canonical Gospels. Questions about Judas’s inner motives are reflections, not claims of historical certainty; his ultimate judgment belongs to God.
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