There is something wonderfully strange about today’s feast. We call it the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, and yet the Cross was never meant to exalt anyone. Rome designed it to humiliate, expose, and crush. And yet we Christians take that very instrument and raise it above the altar. If a first century Roman executioner walked into a church today and saw a crucifix hanging over the sanctuary, he might think we had developed a very unusual sense of interior decoration. But we raise the Cross because God has completely changed its meaning. What was meant to reduce humanity has become the place where humanity is lifted up.
In the first reading the Israelites are bitten by serpents, and Moses is told to raise up a bronze serpent so that the wounded may look upon it and live. It reminds me of the way antivenom is made. To create many antivenoms, small controlled amounts of snake venom are introduced into animals such as horses and sheep. Their immune systems produce antibodies against the poison, and those antibodies are then purified and used to save people who have been bitten. There is something almost paradoxical about it: the poison itself becomes involved in producing the medicine that defeats the poison.
That is very close to what happens on the Cross. Humanity pours its poison into Christ: betrayal, violence, hatred, cowardice, cruelty, selfishness, fear. Jesus takes it all into Himself, but He does not return poison for poison. The venom reaches Him, and there the cycle stops.
But the Cross does something even more. It is raised up in order to be planted, almost like a seed. Jesus had said that unless a grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies, it remains only a grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. The Cross is planted into the soil of human history, and one of its greatest fruits is this: it frees us from the exhausting illusion that we must somehow save ourselves.
Much of our unhappiness comes from living as though everything depends on us. We must control the outcome, defend our image, prove our worth, correct every misunderstanding, secure the future, and make sure everyone recognizes that we were right. It is exhausting work being one’s own messiah.
The Cross tells us to look up. That is what the Israelites had to do. They had been looking at themselves, their hunger, their frustration, their complaints, their wounds, and the serpents around their feet. Healing began when they lifted their eyes. Jesus says that He too must be lifted up so that whoever believes in Him may have eternal life. The movement of faith is therefore not simply inward. At some point, grace says, “Look up.”
Perhaps that is why the exaltation of the Cross is also, in a profound sense, the exaltation of our humanity. On the Cross, God reveals how valuable human life is. He does not abandon wounded humanity. He enters it, carries it, and raises it with Himself. We are not saved merely from some future punishment. We are saved even now from becoming prisoners of our own bitterness, selfishness, fear and endless self-preoccupation.
The Cross stands over us today like a great declaration from God: you do not have to save yourself. You do not have to remain staring at the poison. You do not have to let the wound determine the rest of your life. Lift your eyes and look up.
From that raised Cross, Christ still says what He came to say from the beginning: “I came so that they might have life.” The Cross, then, is not God’s monument to death. It is His throne of life. And perhaps the deepest invitation of this feast is simply this: stop looking only at what has bitten you, wounded you, disappointed you, or frightened you. Look up. And our healing may begin there.