The cross is weird to me, if I’m honest.
I’ve heard the explanations a thousand times. I know the stories. I’m familiar with the symbolism. I’ve sung the songs, worn the necklaces, had the Hobby Lobby art plastered to my walls.
But if I’m honest, I don’t really know what to do with the cross.
Do I mourn? Do I attempt to relive the dark moments of the death of my Lord and weep with Mary? Should the cross leave me in anguish?
Do I gaze? Dare I ask the deepest questions so profound the words fail to form in my throat? Should the cross leave me speechless?
Do I bow? Does the glory and weight of it all compel me to worship? Should the cross leave me with my face to the ground?
Do I celebrate? What if songs burst from my body unhindered? Should the cross leave me rejoicing?
Should the cross be precious to me? Should it be prized and revered? Should it be printed on my body? Constructed atop church buildings? Animated and sanitized for the eyes of children?
Should it be a symbol of death or life? Darkness or light? Judgment or hope?
Is it really a wondrous beauty and attraction for me? Should I cherish and cling to it? Will I exchange it someday for a crown?
I don’t know. I just don’t know what to do with the cross. My head and my heart are at war with it all, and my sighings give way to tears.
And for now, that’s okay. For in the wrestling, I find that the cross is everything to me, if I’m honest.
For the word of the cross is folly to those who are perishing, but us who are being saved it is the power of God. 1 Corinthians 1:18
[photo credit: pixabay.com]