The Cost of Indifference

I have always believed I would not have been like them. Not the crowd that shouted, not the voices that called for His crucifixion. I tell myself I would have stood by Jesus, that I would have chosen differently.

But the more I reflect on this Holy Week, the more uncomfortable the truth becomes.

Maybe I would not have shouted. Maybe I would have stayed silent. And somehow, that feels just as heavy.

Indifference is quieter than cruelty, yet it allows the same wound to happen. It does not oppose Jesus, but it does not stand for Him either. It watches, hesitates, and chooses not to act.

I begin to recognize that silence in myself. There are moments when my faith becomes something I keep private because it is easier that way. Times when I see what is wrong, yet convince myself it is not my place to speak—not because I do not care, but because it is inconvenient, uncomfortable, or might cost me something.

But Jesus did not choose comfort. He did not remain neutral in the face of suffering. He entered it fully, carrying the weight, the pain, the humiliation, without turning away.

And I realize how often I do the opposite. I do not deny Him openly, but I keep my distance when following Him becomes difficult. I choose silence when I should speak, safety when I should stand firm.

The crowd that day was not made up only of those who hated Him. It was also made up of those who watched, those who knew, but did nothing. How many times have I been part of that crowd? How many times have I stayed silent when something needed to be said? How often have I reduced my faith to something quiet, personal, and safe when it was meant to be lived, even when it is hard?

This is the cost of indifference. It slowly distances me from Jesus, not all at once, but in small, quiet choices. It makes faith comfortable, but shallow. Present, but not alive.

And that is not the kind of relationship I want with Him. Following Him was never meant to be easy. It asks me to speak when it is easier to stay silent, to stand when it is safer to blend in, to care even when caring costs something.

So this Holy Week, I do not just want to remember. I want to choose. Not the comfort of silence, but the courage to stand even when it costs me something. (Rysan Dolor Macaranas)