On September 14th, for centuries, when the feast of the Exaltation of the Cross was celebrated in cathedrals, the bishop would take his place in the center of the church and, surrounded by a great assembly of clergy, would majestically raise the cross high over the crowd and bless the worshippers on all four sides of the church while the choir thundered in response, “Lord have mercy!” This was the celebration of Christian empire, an empire born under the sign of the Cross on that day when Emperor Constantine saw a vision of the Cross high in the sky and heard the words “In this sign conquer…” This is the feast of Christianity’s triumph over kingdoms, cultures and civilizations, the feast of that Christian world which now lies in ruins, still crumbling before our very eyes.
Yes, the solemn, ancient rite will once again be
celebrated this year. The choir will still be joyfully singing that “the Cross
is the strength of kings, the Cross is the beauty of the universe.” But today,
the tumultuous metropolis surrounding the church does not participate in that
hidden triumph and is completely unconnected to it. Its millions of inhabitants
will go on with their normal lives and their usual ups and downs, interests,
joys, and sorrows, with no reference whatsoever to the goings-on within the
church building. Why then do we keep repeating words about universal triumph,
and singing over and over again that the Cross is unconquerable? Sadly, we have
to admit that many, many Christians are unable to answer this question. They
are accustomed to seeing the church in exile and on the margins of life, exiled
from culture, life, schools and from everywhere. Many Christians are content
and undisturbed when the authorities contemptuously allow them to ‘observe
their rites” as long as they are quiet and obedient, and do not interfere in
the building of a world where there is no Christ, no faith, and no prayer.
Those tired Christians have almost forgotten what Christ said on the night he
went to the Cross: “In the world you have tribulation, but take courage, I have
overcome the world” (Jn 16:33).
It seems to me that we continue to celebrate the
Elevation of the Cross and repeat ancient words of victory not simply to
commemorate an old battle that was won, or to recall the past that no longer
exists, but in order to reflect more deeply on the meaning of the word
“victory” for Christian faith. It may be that only now, stripped as we are of
outward power and glory, government support, untold wealth, and of all apparent
symbols of victory, are we capable of understanding that all of this was,
perhaps, not genuine victory. Yes, the cross raised above the crowds was in
those days covered with gold and silver and adorned with precious stones. Yet
neither gold, nor silver, nor precious stones can erase the original meaning of
the Cross as an instrument of humiliation, torture, and execution on which a
man was nailed, a man rejected by all, gasping from pain and thirst. Do we have
the courage to ask ourselves: if all those Christian kingdoms and cultures
died, if victory was replaced by defeat, was it not because we Christians
became blind to the ultimate meaning and genuine content of Christianity’s most
important symbol? We decided that gold and silver would be allowed to eclipse
this meaning. And we decided as well that God desires our worship of the past.
To honor the Cross, to raise it up, to sing of
Christ’s victory: does this not mean, above all, to believe in the Crucified
One and to believe that the Cross is a sign of staggering defeat? For only
because it is a defeat, and only to the measure it is accepted as defeat, does
the Cross become victory and triumph. No, Christ did not enter the world to win
outward victories. He was offered a kingdom, but refused. And at the very
moment of his betrayal to death, He said: “Do you think that I cannot appeal to
my Father, and he will at once send me more than twelve legions of angels?” (Mt
26:53). Yet, Christ was never more a king than when He walked to Golgotha
carrying his own cross on his shoulders while the hate-filled and mocking crowd
surrounded him. His kingship and power were never more obvious than when Pilate
brought him before the crowd, dressed in purple, condemned to a criminal’s
death, a crown of thorns on his head, and Pilate telling the raging mob:
“Behold your king”. Only here can the whole mystery of Christianity be seen,
for Christianity’s victory resides within the joyful faith that here, through
this rejected, crucified and condemned man, God’s love began to illumine the
world and a Kingdom was opened which no one has power to shut.
Each of us, however, must accept Christ and
receive him with all our heart, all our soul, and all our hope. Otherwise,
outward victories are all meaningless. Perhaps we needed this outward defeat of
the Christian world. Perhaps we needed poverty and rejection to purge our faith
of its earthly pride and of its trust in outward power and victory, to purify
our vision of the Cross of Christ, which is raised high above us even when
neither we nor the world can see it. In spite of everything, the Cross is still
elevated, exalted and triumphant. ‘The Cross is the beauty of the universe.”
For in whatever darkness people find themselves, and however great the outward
triumph of evil in this world, the heart still knows and hears the words, “Take
courage, I have overcome the world.”
[Taken from,
“Celebration of Faith” Sermons, Vol. 2, “The Church Year” by Protopresbyter
Alexander Schmemann, 1994.]
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