Editor’s Note: For more than 20 years, Father Raymond de Souza has preached the Seven Last Words devotion, a traditional meditation on the seven times Jesus speaks from the Cross on Good Friday. Made famous in recent times by the Venerable Fulton J. Sheen, the meditations are usually organized around a particular theme. For 2025, Father de Souza chose the Nicene Creed as his theme, as the Catholic Church marks this year the 1,700th anniversary of the Council of Nicaea. This first of seven meditations were preached at Holy Cross parish in Kemptville, Ontario, where Father de Souza is the pastor.

“Two others also, who were criminals, were led away to be put to death with him. And when they came to the place which is called The Skull, there they crucified him, and the criminals, one on the right and one on the left. And Jesus said, ‘Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do’” (Luke 23:32-34).

It is noon and in Jerusalem darkness falls upon the land, for the Son of Man has been lifted up and is now hanging upon the Cross (Mark 15:33).

Elsewhere, the sun no doubt shone that first Good Friday, as it normally does. Then, as now, the day does not appear different from other days. Then, as now, people went about their business, for a holiday was at hand, and the final preparations had to be attended to. But the Gospels tell us that the sun did not shine in Jerusalem from noon until three that first Good Friday. Many then, as now, did not know what was happening, but the God who set the sun and the stars in their places knew what was happening. And so darkness fell across the land.

It is noon and the Son of Man has been lifted up. During these hours hangs not only Jesus on the Cross, but the whole of history on its hinge. The Cross on Calvary stands at the focal point of history. The whole world turns around the Cross. And from this Cross, the High Priest of the New and Eternal Covenant — lifted into the most painful pulpit ever built — speaks.

You have to draw close to hear the words, for a crucified man struggles to speak, his lungs crushed under the pressure of his own weight, even as his body screams to him in pain. The body screams, the voice is quiet. We listen to those words, the seven times that Jesus speaks from the Cross. 

As we listen to Jesus speak from the Cross, we place before our hearts the Nicene Creed because this year, 2025, marks the 1,700th anniversary of the Council of Nicaea in 325, the first of the great ecumenical councils of the Church. The Nicene Creed takes its name from that first council in 325. We profess it together at Sunday Mass. On Good Friday we don’t profess the Nicene Creed. We listen to the Seven Last Words.

The first word from the Cross is “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” 

The first word from the Cross is addressed to the Father. The Son speaks to his Father and likewise, the Nicene Creed begins by a profession of faith in the Father. The first words of the Creed are, “I believe in one God, the Father almighty, maker of heaven and earth. And all things visible and invisible.” 

We call it a creed. The word “creed,” an English word we use for a set of beliefs, comes from credo, the Latin word for “I believe.” The Nicene Creed begins, Credo in unum Deum — “I believe in one God.”

The Creed is a statement and a summary of faith. Faith is a way of knowing. I know things by faith; it is an operation of my intellect.

There are things that we know from direct observation and measurement. We generally call that natural knowledge or science. I know something because I can observe it and measure it. I then apply logic to what I have observed and measured. I repeat that to gain and test my knowledge; we call that the scientific method.

That is not the only way to know things. There are those we know by faith, and we really do know them. Faith is not knowledge that comes from my observations; it comes from trust. I trust the one who is telling me something, so I believe it to be true. That too is a way of knowing. Actually, it’s the more common way of knowing. Most of what we know comes by faith, as we don’t have the resources, or time, to observe and measure directly. 

It’s possible for me to measure the distance say from my home to the local shrine. I could measure it and then I would know the distance by my observation. But I don’t know anybody who has ever done that. We look at a map, produced by some trustworthy source, and then we know what the distance is. Or we use our GPS now. It’s an act of faith. The map could be wrong, the GPS could be wrongly calibrated. Yet I make an act of trust. When I make the trip, I then know by observation what I first knew by faith. Faith most often comes first.

Most of what we know comes by faith, as we have neither the time nor resources to observe and measure everything. Daily life is impossible without faith. I want to meet a friend, and the friend says that he will meet me at 6 p.m. How do I know that he will be there? I trust him. I could hire someone to observe and monitor him, but I don’t. If several times he does not turn up, then I learn no longer to trust his word and when trust erodes, knowledge erodes.

I imagine that everything that you know about your great-grandparents you did not observe or verify, but you were told. And because your grandparents and parents are trustworthy, you have faith in them. It is the only way of knowing about the past. Faith is necessary for life — ordinary, everyday life. Just to get through the day, we need to make many acts of faith. 

It is even more necessary for eternal life, because that is a world — “heaven and earth,” as we say in the Creed — beyond what we can measure. It is essential to know about that world and we can gain that knowledge only from one who can reveal it to us. Thus we begin the Creed, “I believe in one God.” He is the trustworthy revealer. 

The Creed insists that this God is “one God.” We then say immediately “the Father almighty.” The “one God” is a “Father.” 

It is not possible to be a father by oneself. A father can be a father only in relation to a son, a child. Already in those first few words of the Creed, we acknowledge that God is one, but also plural — only one but not one alone. That will be explicated in the rest of the Creed. 

To say “the Father almighty” means that there is some kind of communion, a communion of persons. This God is some kind of community. The Nicene Creed is trinitarian. We profess right at the beginning that the one in whom we trust, the one from whom our trust gives rise to our faith, is the Father — which requires that there be a Son.

Then we profess that this God is “the maker of heaven and earth, all things visible and invisible.” There is a world that we can see — the visible world. More broadly, that is the world we can measure. Today, with our more advanced instruments, we no longer rely only on our natural eyes; the instruments can measure things that are either very small or very far away. The visible world is all those things that we can observe and measure. 

No matter how powerful our instruments are, no matter how powerful the telescope or microscope, there are certain things that cannot be measured. That is the world of the invisible, the world beyond our observation and measurement. In our very technological age, we have great confidence in those things that we can measure and manipulate and thus we are tempted to neglect or forget about those things that we cannot see. 

Science and technology can answer a great many questions, some of them very important, but there are also other important questions that cannot be answered by measurement. For example, do my parents love me? It’s a very important question and upon the answer to that question can depend the whole course of someone’s life. It cannot be measured; there is no instrument that calibrates love. Love belongs to the invisible world.

The first word from the Cross speaks about the forgiveness of sins: “Father, forgive them.” Forgiveness is also invisible; there is no measuring tape for that. Father Frederick Faber’s hymn says that “there is a wideness in God’s mercy like the wideness of the sea.” It would be difficult to measure the wideness of an ocean, but it could be done. Measuring mercy simply can’t be done.

Sin is invisible, too; there is no telescope for that. We cannot measure the distance that sin puts between us and God, but it is real. 

Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do. Those who know not what they do, who know not the sin that they are committing — that might well describe all those people in every age and every place who live as if the world of sin and forgiveness do not exist. They know not the invisible world that God has made. 

Many years ago, Pope Pius XII said that “one of the great weaknesses of our time was a loss of the sense of sin.” Because it can’t be measured, we can think it doesn’t exist. If sin doesn’t exist then the whole world of forgiveness and salvation becomes unnecessary, even incomprehensible. 

But if sin does exist, then we need salvation, we need forgiveness. If we have forgotten about the sin, then we can more tragically forget about the mercy and salvation. C.S. Lewis was just one of many spiritual masters who said:

“The greatest success of the devil is to persuade people he doesn’t exist just because they cannot see him.”

What does Jesus do? Jesus makes the invisible visible. God is invisible. The Eternal Son of the Father is invisible. Jesus, the Incarnate Son of the Father, Son of Mary, is visible. He makes the invisible world of God, of the spirit, visible to us. 

More than all the signs and wonders that He works, He brings to us a God that we can see. He reveals to us the face of the Father. St. John tells us in the prologue of his gospel, that no one has ever seen God, except the Son and those to whom the Son chooses to reveal him (John 1:18). 

On the Cross, Jesus makes visible two realities — sin and love — that we cannot see in and of themselves, but we can observe in their effects. 

He makes visible the reality of sin. St. Paul writes that Christ Jesus was made to be sin for our sake (2 Corinthians 5:21). We know that sin invisibly degrades and destroys, and we see it explicitly in what it has done to Jesus hanging on the Cross. That is what sin looks like. 

We might ask ourselves: Why did Jesus come when he did? Perhaps He came at a time and place where it was possible to be crucified. The Romans perfected that form of execution, which was designed not only to bring death but also dishonor and degradation; crucifixion disfigured the very humanity of the one being crucified. The invisible reality of sin is made vividly visible in Christ Jesus, in Christ crucified.

The other reality is the reality of love, merciful love, sacrificial love. We cannot measure love, but we know it. I know when I am truly loved and I know when I love truly. 

The measure of love is sacrifice. How do I know that someone loves me? Because that person sacrifices for me. A child, a little child, thinks that his parents exist simply to facilitate his needs. As he grows up, he realizes the sacrifices that his parents make for him. If he should wonder if he is loved, those sacrifices make it clear that he is. 

The sacrifice of the Cross makes love visible, makes forgiveness visible, makes mercy visible. Perhaps there is an instrument that can measure the invisible world. Not the microscope, nor the telescope, neither the seismograph nor the stethoscope. The Cross is the instrument that measures the invisible.

Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.