After this Jesus, knowing that all was now finished,
said (to fulfill the scripture), “I thirst.”
John 19:28
In his last words, Christ makes a number of very bold, very consequential declarations. To the good thief, today, you will be with me in Paradise. To John, behold your mother, and to Mary, behold your son. To the Father, on behalf of all of us, forgive them, for they know not what they do.
But unlike the overtly eschatological and ecclesiological sayings which precede it, this saying of our Lord is overwhelmingly and uniquely human… I thirst.
We hear echoes of this phrase in the psalms… in my thirst you gave me vinegar to drink… my tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth… I am parched… These Old Testament prophecies are not some anticipation of the Kingdom or a prayer for our forgiveness. They resound Christ’s plea for drink… his plea for a most basic and vital bodily need. One author puts it this way: that before Christ could cry out in a loud voice, tetelestai—it is finished—he had first to beg quietly for hydration, since in his thirst he could hardly speak. Knowing all things were accomplished, he asked of us one thing that he might declare his accomplishment with solemnity. He wanted to cry out, but having not drunk anything since the night before, he asked us for a drink of water.
On the cross, Christ asked for consolation, and instead received our taunting. He gave us his face to gaze on, and instead we plucked his beard. He gave us his hands to receive us, and instead we bound them to the cross. He gave us his feet that he might walk beside us, and we nailed them to the tree. He gave us his heart, and we pierced it with a lance. He asked for water, and in defiance we gave him vinegar. These words, I thirst, point to the harsh reality of Christ’s vulnerability and our relentlessness.
But these last words are also mystical. St. Augustine writes that in pleading I thirst, it was “as if to say, you have not done all… give me yourselves.” He asked for something to drink, and we gave him a sponge soaked with the vinegar that flowed from our bitterness. And he did not disdain to receive our bitterness, for he healed that which he received.
These words, I thirst, are a testimony to the truth of the incarnation—a stark reminder of the humanity he received. Truly did he take on our nature; truly did he take on our sufferings; truly did he take on our offenses.
Consider how he desires our friendship and we wound him with our sins, putting so great a chasm between us. How often does he desire our attention in the Eucharist and we do not give it him? How often does he yearn for acts of love and we give our love instead to earthly delights? How often does he beg in the person of the poor and we do not help him? When I consider the manifold ways I have not given to Christ what is due him—and the many offenses I have heaped upon him in the weight of the cross—I am filled with sorrow and regret. And yet still he calls out to us, I thirst. When I consider that he desired to receive these offenses and omissions for the sake of binding them to the cross, I am reminded of his infinite mercies, and of the infinite debt of gratitude I owe to such a wonderful savior.
Truly does he thirst for our souls. Truly does he want to receive our sorrows, our fears, our cares, our contrition, our selves. Cast all your cares on him, for he cares for you. Entrust yourself to him that he might bring you to perfection. Come unto me, all you who weary and are heavy laden… I thirst… It is finished.
Thoroughly revised from a reflection for my Seminary Apostolate
Crucifixion, by Bl. Fra Angelico
Ryan P. Both 