hilltop cross
There's something about a big cross on a hill that moves the soul. There are two big crosses here at LTS. One in the seminary, one in the retreat centre. I was astounded by their monolithic whiteness when I first visited the seminary, but now, after 8 months of walking up the 121 stone steps to reach the campus marked by this cross, I've grown blinded to its testimony.
I discovered another majestic big cross recently on my travels in Italy. I was on a bus, winding around the hill road from Sorrento to Positano, deep in thought and mulling over the events of recent days. And there before my glazed eyes rose the familiar crossed beams of ancient Roman torture. It was the only structure on the flat mountain top which the next turn of the road brought to view. It was a lonely structure, on a lonely hilltop raised on vertical rocky cliffs. The columned plateau of vertical rocks jutted out like a sore limestone thumb. And the cross was right at the edge, overlooking past the severe drop to the gentle lush valleys dotted with bright scarlet shingles and white-washed walls. The villages and towns were lively with lights and colours, vibrant with music and laughter. And they covered the gentle valley like happy cobblestones on a giant's path.
I'm not sure when the cross on the hilltop was constructed. Had it been there for centuries? For a millenium? Was it placed there for special commemoration? Did a saint die in that area? Was it a symbol of the townsfolks' allegiance to their Christian heritage? Did it witness all the ups and downs of the towns' happenings? The perennial tufts of yellow zucchini blossoms and clusters of baby green figs? The ebb and flow of the Mediterranean tide that brought livelihood in the dancing nets of fishermen? How many generations of newly christened babies grew, married, lived and died under the persistent gaze of the cross? I have no answers to these questions.
The cross stands as witness, not only to life all around it, but to itself--a symbol of an eternal truth for anyone who dares to believe its message. The cross testifies to the unchanging in the midst of constant change. And for those who believe, the truth is astounding, powerful enough to shatter all falsities in life, powerful enough to re-invent life itself, and eliminate death and its smell wherever it is in the world. Yet, with all that power, it chooses to be just a cross on a hilltop...to be gazed at, wondered at, laughed at, and perhaps to leave behind. So much power yet in such humble vestments.
I looked at it, and kept searching for it after every bend, to see if I could catch a glimpse from some other angle. From all angles, the cross remained the cross. No surprises. Just two beams juxtaposed in acute angles. Nothing fancy. Is it all real, what happened 2000 years ago? It seemed so banal, this structure. The world seems so bad, people so fallen, even (dare I say especially?) people bearing the sign of the cross, and evidences of a good God seem only convincingly real in the imagination. Tears brim. Sometimes it's easier not to believe. And even then, the cross holds to its duty of silence--a brutal silence for one who wants an audible answer... but perhaps with a welcome within, when one listens to the silence:
a gentle welcome to come to the foot of the cross,
and a generous invitation to see majestic humility for myself.
I discovered another majestic big cross recently on my travels in Italy. I was on a bus, winding around the hill road from Sorrento to Positano, deep in thought and mulling over the events of recent days. And there before my glazed eyes rose the familiar crossed beams of ancient Roman torture. It was the only structure on the flat mountain top which the next turn of the road brought to view. It was a lonely structure, on a lonely hilltop raised on vertical rocky cliffs. The columned plateau of vertical rocks jutted out like a sore limestone thumb. And the cross was right at the edge, overlooking past the severe drop to the gentle lush valleys dotted with bright scarlet shingles and white-washed walls. The villages and towns were lively with lights and colours, vibrant with music and laughter. And they covered the gentle valley like happy cobblestones on a giant's path.
I'm not sure when the cross on the hilltop was constructed. Had it been there for centuries? For a millenium? Was it placed there for special commemoration? Did a saint die in that area? Was it a symbol of the townsfolks' allegiance to their Christian heritage? Did it witness all the ups and downs of the towns' happenings? The perennial tufts of yellow zucchini blossoms and clusters of baby green figs? The ebb and flow of the Mediterranean tide that brought livelihood in the dancing nets of fishermen? How many generations of newly christened babies grew, married, lived and died under the persistent gaze of the cross? I have no answers to these questions.
The cross stands as witness, not only to life all around it, but to itself--a symbol of an eternal truth for anyone who dares to believe its message. The cross testifies to the unchanging in the midst of constant change. And for those who believe, the truth is astounding, powerful enough to shatter all falsities in life, powerful enough to re-invent life itself, and eliminate death and its smell wherever it is in the world. Yet, with all that power, it chooses to be just a cross on a hilltop...to be gazed at, wondered at, laughed at, and perhaps to leave behind. So much power yet in such humble vestments.
I looked at it, and kept searching for it after every bend, to see if I could catch a glimpse from some other angle. From all angles, the cross remained the cross. No surprises. Just two beams juxtaposed in acute angles. Nothing fancy. Is it all real, what happened 2000 years ago? It seemed so banal, this structure. The world seems so bad, people so fallen, even (dare I say especially?) people bearing the sign of the cross, and evidences of a good God seem only convincingly real in the imagination. Tears brim. Sometimes it's easier not to believe. And even then, the cross holds to its duty of silence--a brutal silence for one who wants an audible answer... but perhaps with a welcome within, when one listens to the silence:
a gentle welcome to come to the foot of the cross,
and a generous invitation to see majestic humility for myself.
posted by thmooj at 6:27 PM
3 Comments:
Your reflections are again a blessing to me.
The cross is a symbol of the violent horror of sin and the price demanded for it. On the one hand, Christians should be shaken and discomforted by it because we ought to be hanged on it. On the other hand, it reassures and infuses hope because the demand has been met on it. Either way, the cross must be right there in our consciousness and everyday reality.
Thank you, hiddenvalleyman. Again, your insight and the succinct expression of it have blessed me in return. Looking forward to reading your next entry on your blog as well.
God bless!
I have rather different experience of the LTS cross. I couldn't notice the cross, no matter how hugh it is, when I had a "dyspnea" (what a great word I learned from you, haha) after ckimbling up the 121 steps. However, when I was "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills" (cf Psalm 121) irregardless how my breath is, I saw the cross!
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