GAZED UPON, LIFTED UP

There is something quietly unsettling about how we observe the Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross. It invites us to look up at something ancient people used to avoid: a cross which has been (and still is) used for punishment. How could something meant for shame become a symbol of hope?

In the First Reading, the Israelites are worn down by their journey. Disillusioned, they complain (Nm 21:4-5). The desert reveals their restlessness. When serpents begin to strike, they plead for deliverance. God tells Moses to fashion a bronze serpent and mount it on a pole. Those who gaze upon it are healed (Nm 21:8-9). Strangely, the very image that reminds them of suffering becomes a channel of life.

We hear Jesus draw on this moment in his conversation with Nicodemus in the Gospel. He says the Son of Man, too, must be lifted up so that whoever believes in him may have eternal life (Jn 3:14-15). Here, a pattern begins to emerge: life comes through death, healing through trust, salvation through surrender. It is not the removal of pain, but a redirection of our gaze that brings new life.

In the Second Reading, Paul deepens this paradox in his letter to the Philippians. Though Christ was in the form of God, he did not cling to his status. He emptied himself (kenosis), taking on our humanity and becoming obedient unto death—even death on a cross (Phil 2:6-8). This self-emptying, this humble descent, was the necessary path to his exaltation. From that downward path, God lifted him up and gave him the name above all names (Phil 2:9-11). In being lifted up, Christ first had to descend. Kenosis, then, teaches us that true glory is found not in grasping or asserting power, but in letting go and giving of oneself.

I remember a song from my time in CFC-Youth, during a season when I felt the need to always be in control, always appearing strong. The lyrics went: I found my life / When I laid it down / Upward falling / Spirit soaring / I touch the sky / When my knees hit the ground. It helped me name something I was only beginning to understand: surrender is not weakness. Falling can lead to flight. The lowest places might be where grace quietly begins to rise.

Maybe this is what the Cross continues to reveal. Not a demand for perfection, but an invitation to come as we are. In our tiredness and disillusionment, we are not asked to climb our way up. We are simply asked to look. To fix our eyes on the One who chose to descend, who did not turn away from suffering, and who shows us what love looks like when it chooses to stay.

The Cross does not impose. It waits. And when we are ready, it lifts us—not by force, but by drawing us to mercy. That may be where true healing begins.