What did you see?

Holy Cross 2008
(Isaiah 45: 21-25; Ps 98: 1-4; Gal 6: 14-18; John 12: 31-36a)


“What did you see?” The old man asks the question. The question brings you back to that strange, haunting night.

You were led into a dark room. You took off your clothes. You were led into dark waters. “The mystery” a voice chanted. “The mystery...” You stood still while a robed figure waded towards you. “Water only,” said a voice. “Water only, but now changed.” The robed figure held up a large object, difficult to see in detail. It is plunged into the water, then is held dripping before your eyes. “Water made sweet by God.” You gazed with wonder. Your eyes adjust to the dark, and you stare. “What did you see?” the old man gently asks again.

You answer, “I saw a rough piece of wood.” You saw, and you will always remember.

That’s an old story: St. Ambrose, talking about Baptism rites in the 4th Century. Now THAT’S extreme Baptism! We’ve become far too tame.

Today we also remember our Baptism, and on this Feast of the Holy Cross we remember the wood. A hunk of wood. It was a hunk of wood that Moses threw into the foul and bitter water in the desert to make it sweet. And it is the wood of the cross of Jesus, thrown into the foulness of the world and the bitterness of our lives. that re-claims us and the world from all that poisons, all that kills. “What did you see?” when you embraced faith over and over again through all the seasons and struggles of your life? Did you see the roughness of the wood? The wood: the sign of rejection and death which has become the instrument of life. Here, friends, is God’s answer to the cruelty of the world and the struggle of our lives.

Many of us were raised with dysfunctional religious backgrounds, and we are tempted to think of the cross as a message of masochism, of capricious pain that a capricious God demands we bear. This is not the scandal of the cross as the Gospel presents it, as old Ambrose taught it. Think astounding, searing love. Think outrageous gift. Think harrowing gateway to indescribable life.

We stare in wonder. We shudder at the blunt truth of it. Our hearts open in silent gratitude. And we boast.

Boast? That’s an odd thing to do about wood that expresses execution and shame and death. I’ve always wondered about Paul “boasting” about the cross of Jesus, as he says today.

When we boast, we name something that gives us a sense of worth. When we boast, we name our victories. When we boast, we name something that is unique about us, that makes us stand out from everyone else.

When Paul wrote today’s letter, he had already lived a despised life. He had been cast out of the Judaism he knew and loved. He had been rejected and beaten and stoned. Paul wasn’t even treated well by many in the early Church—he was too outrageous, he spoke too boldly about Christ representing a radical break from all history and even all previous faith. And he was way too liberal about letting in all those Gentiles!

But Paul wanted to boast in the Cross of Jesus. He wanted the insults of the world to be his praise. He wanted the rejection of the world, even the rejection of those who felt themselves religious and devout, to be his reason for pride. He wanted the humiliation of Jesus to be his victory.

Do we boast of the Cross? How do we do that? I’m still figuring that out. But here are some incomplete thoughts.

If we boast of the Cross, then our lives are meant to look and feel different. If we boast of the Cross, then we do not buy into what the world calls victory, what the world calls worthwhile, and WHO the world calls worthwhile.

If we boast of the Cross, then we stare in wonder each day at the rough wood of the mad, upside-down logic of God who declared the poor blessed, the rich sad, and those who come last as those who really come first.

If we boast of the Cross, then our very lives proclaim the outrageous hope of an outrageous God.