I still remember my first real necklace. This wasn’t the plastic, dress-up kind that got lost in the attic, but a real, gold cross that came in a box with a silk cushion. My parents gave it to me when I was eight, on my baptism day. Having been raised on a steady diet of Adventures and Odyssey, Veggie Tales, and other Christian programming, I had decided to be baptized after an episode of Story Keepers. A cartoon had showed John neatly baptizing an ever-serene Jesus, a pretty white bird fluttering down through the sky, gilded in light. The commentary at the end of this episode explained that people were baptized because they wanted to show the world they followed God—and this was how. I knew right away, more than anything, that I wanted to be baptized (I did wish, though, that they’d let you wear goggles when the pastor dunked you under).
When I think back to my baptism, I can remember snippets of the event, but always a precious object—a slender, golden chain and delicate cross with a diamond in the center, small enough to fit smoothly into my palm. I would take it out sometimes, twirl it around in the light, let that golden-dove feeling seep through me. As I got older, I continued to cherish the symbol of the cross. I started decorating my room with crosses: a silver cross, a foam cross, a sun-catcher cross, cross earrings, a Michael’s decoupaged cross. I began, though, to value the cross for more than just its aesthetic qualities. As my soul was stretched throughout the years, I grew to cherish this symbol for the hope and peace it represented. Perhaps that is why crosses continue to adorn throats and homes everywhere: this beautiful figure captivates us—embodies that for which we hope and long.
I was recently reminded, however, that the cross was not always thought of in this way. This Good Friday, my sister invited some of her friends over to watch The Passion of the Christ. I’d never seen it before, so I stopped in for the last half an hour. Maybe it’s because it was my first R-rated movie, but I was sobbing in minutes. Every lash that tore through his back seemed to rock my own body. It wasn’t really the gore that got me, though, but the depths of anguish in His eyes, the blood on Mary’s face as her trembling lips kissed the crushed feet of her Son.
The cross did not always mean what it does to us now. In Jesus’ day, it was well-known as a Roman tool for ruthless torture, engineered with the twisted design to inflict as much pain as possible. One only needed to look up at the mangled bodies hanging outside the city walls to know what a cross was. Surely, the shape of a cross would have struck terror into their hearts: it would speak not of peace and hope, but anguish and horror; shame and despair; unspeakable, relentless agony. The cross was a rough wood that splintered into torn flesh. The mere suggestion that a cross could be used as jewelry, as art, would have seemed sick, twisted, revolting.
The way that the cross as a symbol has been so utterly transformed is a symbol unto itself, representing the powerful transformations that occur to all who meet God there. The cross, this icon of our faith, was an instrument of torture. Yet, out of the love shown there—that bloody, gaping love—we are renewed. Our gasping, smoldering souls are transformed. And we live
When I think back to my baptism, I can remember snippets of the event, but always a precious object—a slender, golden chain and delicate cross with a diamond in the center, small enough to fit smoothly into my palm. I would take it out sometimes, twirl it around in the light, let that golden-dove feeling seep through me. As I got older, I continued to cherish the symbol of the cross. I started decorating my room with crosses: a silver cross, a foam cross, a sun-catcher cross, cross earrings, a Michael’s decoupaged cross. I began, though, to value the cross for more than just its aesthetic qualities. As my soul was stretched throughout the years, I grew to cherish this symbol for the hope and peace it represented. Perhaps that is why crosses continue to adorn throats and homes everywhere: this beautiful figure captivates us—embodies that for which we hope and long.
I was recently reminded, however, that the cross was not always thought of in this way. This Good Friday, my sister invited some of her friends over to watch The Passion of the Christ. I’d never seen it before, so I stopped in for the last half an hour. Maybe it’s because it was my first R-rated movie, but I was sobbing in minutes. Every lash that tore through his back seemed to rock my own body. It wasn’t really the gore that got me, though, but the depths of anguish in His eyes, the blood on Mary’s face as her trembling lips kissed the crushed feet of her Son.
The cross did not always mean what it does to us now. In Jesus’ day, it was well-known as a Roman tool for ruthless torture, engineered with the twisted design to inflict as much pain as possible. One only needed to look up at the mangled bodies hanging outside the city walls to know what a cross was. Surely, the shape of a cross would have struck terror into their hearts: it would speak not of peace and hope, but anguish and horror; shame and despair; unspeakable, relentless agony. The cross was a rough wood that splintered into torn flesh. The mere suggestion that a cross could be used as jewelry, as art, would have seemed sick, twisted, revolting.
The way that the cross as a symbol has been so utterly transformed is a symbol unto itself, representing the powerful transformations that occur to all who meet God there. The cross, this icon of our faith, was an instrument of torture. Yet, out of the love shown there—that bloody, gaping love—we are renewed. Our gasping, smoldering souls are transformed. And we live
