This is the one where I put up my hands and said, “No. Enough.”
With every lesson, we have deconstructed each point of view with what felt like pros and cons. However, I cannot do this deconstruction to the cross. I have allowed holes to be poked into many of my ways of thinking, knowing that I was unsettled by it, and I tried to re-patch many of them.
If I want to look at the cross as a symbol of salvific work, I hear that it is really a symbol of torture. Women and children have been told their suffering is sacred, so they must continue suffering – at the hands of men. Being crucified was a horrific way to die. I have watched the specials on the History Channel, with enough horrific wonder, to know that it was a cruel way to die, like being buried alive or drowning. You have enough time to contemplate your death and pain.
If I want to look at the cross as empty because Jesus has been raised, I am denying what happened on Friday. I fear James Cone would sweep in and tell me, “You mustn’t forget Friday!” Celebrating Sunday does not mean I forget Friday. I don’t even forget Saturday. I’m not asked, I’m told that I must gaze at horror of what befell Jesus. If I don’t, I want things too clean and pretty.
If I want to wear a cross around my neck, I have made it a piece of fashion. I have brought it low and made it small. It’s not this looming sight on Calvary in the barely lit hours of the day. It no longer casts a shadow upon the landscape. It’s now a shiny piece of silver, decorated with twists and turns while being small enough around my neck.
Here is where I get upset – just because I am white and middle class does not mean I don’t get the cross and how it can hurt. I do understand. I have met people who are very wounded by what the church, and the symbol of the cross, has done to them. I do not deny or belittle their pain. It’s real, and it is worthy of consideration. I try very hard to understand, and it may come out in ways that seem naive, but I can only start with where I am.
However, the cross is something more than mere symbol to me. When I am hurt, and feeling low, I can gaze up at it and see the outstretched arms of Jesus beckoning me to come close. The scars, wounds and blood beg me to look closer and not judge by what I see. Things are not always what they seem to be. Jesus beat death, and I have hope that I can beat whatever trial comes my way. The cross around my neck is not just a decoration. If I ever have to take it off, I feel naked. It has become such a part of me that I don’t notice when it’s there, but I notice when it is gone.
The Father is in heaven, and He has never come down. I cannot embrace Him or feel Him near me. He does not hold me when I am wounded. The Holy Spirit is ever present. I feel touched by it in the oddest times, but even those seem like fleeting moments. I am left with a longing and desire after each time the veil between corporeal and divine thins. While the Spirit lives within my heart, my mind from time to time drowns it out. Jesus came down through emptying himself into human flesh, but he went back. He’s not here anymore. I love that, through his sacrifice, I will be able to transcend this body and this world to rest with him someday, but someday is not today. All I have left to embrace is the cross he left behind, and I will not surrender it. I want desperately to share it, but I cannot bear to watch it be chipped away like an ordinary tree – each person claiming a piece as his or her own and telling me why that piece is better that a part another person holds.
And this is why I throw my hands in the air and say, “Enough.”
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