I remember enjoying Holy Week as a kid. While the readings were long, I actually looked forward to them, especially waiting for the bolded lines in the missal so I could jump in with everyone else. I got to speak with the crowd. I remember so clearly saying:“Crucify him, crucify him.”

I said it loudly; almost proudly. I felt like I was part of something bigger, part of the crowd, part of the story. We all said it together:crucify him.

As a child, I don’t think I really understood what I was saying.

Looking back now, I’m certain that I didn’t understand. I knew the story ended with Jesus on the cross, but I didn’t grasp my role in it. I didn’t understand the weight of my complicity, my participation in the death of our Lord — nor did I realize that this was something that still happens today.

In my work with Catholic Mobilizing Network, seeking to end the death penalty and advance justice and healing through restorative practices, the cry of ‘Crucify him!’, becomes not only an ancient cry, but the current call of our own day.

The details today look different: orange jumpsuits instead of purple robes, leather straps instead of nails, but the human weight remains. A person condemned. A person declared beyond redemption. A person killed by the state.

As I reflect on the Passion today, I imagine myself in the story once again. I wonder, would I still be the person in the crowd calling for Jesus’ crucifixion like when I was a child? Or would I find myself elsewhere in the Passion story, like some of the brave individuals we hear about when we pray the Stations of the Cross?

Those who Jesus met on the road to Cavalry are still with us. I think of Simon of Cyrene, pulled from the roadside to help carry the cross when the weight became too much. Today, there are still Simons who help carry the cross: the spiritual advisor who sits with people on death row, the lawyer who refuses to give up, and the advocate who dignifies the condemned. They all help carry the cross.

Then there is Veronica,  moved by compassion to wipe Jesus’ face. A small, tender act in the middle of Jesus’ horrific journey. I think of those who walk alongside families — those on death row and victim’s families — who offer mercy where the world expects indifference. Even corrections staff who treat those in their care with dignity.

I think of the women who weep, who meet Jesus on his journey and mourn the suffering he endures. The weeping women are still present at every execution today. They are the people praying outside prison walls, holding vigil, grieving what the state is about to do.

Yes, the Simons, the Veronicas, the weeping women are all still present in the face of executions today. But at the same time, we continue to see people today who echo the call of the crowd, like those bolded words in the misal. The phrasing has changed, but the spirit feels hauntingly familiar:

“They should get the death penalty.”
“We’re seeking the death penalty.”
“We will pursue the death penalty.”

We hear our political leaders say it. We hear our justice department say it. We hear it in courtrooms. And sometimes we hear it around our own dinner tables.

I often hear, “We’re just following the law.” But the story of Jesus reminds me how easy it is to pass responsibility. Religious leaders appealed to Pilate. Pilate appealed to the crowd. Each person had a role. Each person could say, “It wasn’t really me.”

And yet, it was all of them. And in ways I think we would rather not admit, it is all of us too.

So the question lingers for me: Who will we be? Will we be part of the crowd, swept up in fear or anger or even ignorance, crying out for death? Or will we step onto the road; shouldering weight, offering mercy, daring to weep?

In 2015, Pope Francis invited us into this contemplation during the Way of the Cross on Good Friday. He said, “We gaze at you, Jesus, as you are nailed to the cross, [...] And our conscience is troubled.”

He says, “We anxiously ask: When will the death penalty, still practiced in many states, be abolished? [...] When will every form of torture and the violent killing of innocent persons come to an end? Your Gospel is the surest defense of the human person, of every human being.”

On this Good Friday, as we gaze at Jesus nailed to the cross, our conscience should be troubled. Because now we know what we once did not. We know what it means to join the crowd, to speak those bolded words aloud, "Crucify him."

There is an invitation in this discomfort: not simply to remember the story or blindly speak the words, but to recognize our place within it.

With open eyes and awakened hearts, we ask: Who will you be this Good Friday?