Out of the corner of my eye I saw an older woman quickly
stand to reach up and touch the cross as it came crowd-surfing overhead.
Everyone wanted a piece of it. To touch it. To do our part, if even for a
moment, to keep it lifted, and then pass it forward to the worshippers who
stood directly in front of us. It was the
least we could do—dare we say, for Jesus?—who 2000 years ago had carried a much
rougher and heavier tree-like cross all the way through the crowd-lined streets
of Jerusalem, for heaven’s sake.
None of us wanted to let the others down. So we each stood tall, reached up and grabbed
the cross as it came surfing overhead, and did our part to keep it surfing on
ahead. I couldn’t help but notice the
old woman again, now that I had turned around to receive the cross as it
swiftly advanced from the back. I didn’t think she would make it before the cross
had passed us by. But she twisted and strained
to quickly move a body that clearly preferred slower movements. And in one last burst
of desperation she helped to carry one of the cross-arms for a split second on
the tips of her three longest fingers.
Success!
I stood in awe as I turned back around and watched the
cross continue to sail overhead all the way to the front, held up and passed on
only by the hands of ordinary people.
People for whom the Jesus who had carried it originally had been later
put to death. For their sake. To give them a 2nd chance, and a new
lease on life.
The cross was gently laid to rest upon pillows, placed
carefully on the marble stone steps of the altar area as if the cross was the
body of Jesus himself. The last three candles
were extinguished, except for one. Then
even that one soon disappeared with its bearer down the aisle with the great
hall growing darker with each step. An “earthquake”
quickly filled the whole cathedral with a loud, chaotic roar, punctuated by
timpani and cymbals. On and on it
rumbled and roared and thundered and crashed until those assembled just wished
it would stop!
When the candle was finally returned, the air was filled
with the feel of death. Stuffy. Quiet.
Dark. Like the funeral home where
I went at age five to visit my grandmother, the first dead person I had ever
seen.
We all stood, hesitating… waiting for the next movement
in this world drama. Yes—there would be
one final scene. A subtle moment of joy,
and perhaps… humor. At least I
interpreted it that way. Out of the
heavens, above where the cross had been gently laid, tumbled down a waterfall of
bright red rose petals. Dozens of
them. Hundreds of them. Fluttering down like red butterflies. A sight to behold! Like one “last smile” out of the corner of the Father’s mouth, as a Final
Statement to the scene that had just unfolded. A Final Statement that was
revealing the deeper truth about what we had just witnessed. A foreshadowing of the magnanimous love that was
about to awaken the world. A Final Word
by the One who really had the Final Word about this whole ignominy. In another three days time.
