Τον σταυρον σου προσκυνουμεν, Δεσποτα

Ton stavrón sou proskinoúmen, Dhéspota, "we venerate your cross, O Master," is the first line of one of the two hymns of this third kyriakí (Sunday) of the "forty days" fast before Pascha. The rest of the hymn, kai tín aghían sou anástasin dhoxazómen, "and we glorify your holy resurrection," reminds us of the inseparability of suffering and resurrection.

Notice, I didn't say "death and resurrection," because Christ our passover has been sacrificed for us (1 Corinthians 5:7), has tasted death for all mankind (Hebrews 2:9), He suffered and was buried, on the third day He rose from the dead (Symbol of Nicæa) and so His work is finished, for us. We may have to suffer, but He has taken our place by His death. Now, for us who keep His Word, we will not see death (John 8:51).

I've always considered the procession of the cross on this day visually anti-climactic. We Greeks place a small brass hand cross in the center of what looks like a pizza pan heaped with daffodils, with three white candles around the cross, dwarfing it. One of the priests carries this display aloft above his head, while the priests, deacons and servers process around the inside perimeter of the temple. Meanwhile, we are kneeling and singing, Aghios o Theós… (Holy God…). This time, the procession moved very quickly and arrived at the small table in front of the icon wall before I had time to even take 40 winks on my knees. When they laid the display on the table, the priests performed prostrations in front of it, while we sang the hymn that is the title of this post. These ceremonies are definitely out of the deep past. Somehow, the theme of the service was lost for me in the ceremony, swallowed up in floral irrelevance. Thankfully, Fr. Jerry preached a straight and strong word that cut through the spiritual materialism of the ritual.

The cross.
I used to wear a cross once.
All Orthodox are supposed to wear the cross they received at baptism.
That original cross of mine is packed away among my memorabilia, I hope.
I did wear a cross for at least 20 years of my adult Christian life—the cross of San Damiano, an ancient icon painted by Serbian Orthodox monks that found its way into a small church in central Italy, dating from the days when Italy was still an Orthodox land.
The cross of San Damiano was the icon from which Christ spoke to Francesco of Assisi, "Repair My Church which, as you can see, is lying in ruins."
I stopped wearing my cross because it was worn out, and because at some point, my cross changed from something metallic and detachable, to being a part of me, something others can't see, something I can never take off. When I knew that for sure, that I was bearing my cross, then I didn't have to wear it.

The cross is something you can't really talk about, when it's the reality of your life. All the jabber and blab about the cross, however eloquent, is still just words. To enter into the reality of the cross is a gift of God. When He grants it to you to suffer, and to suffer in ways you never knew existed, then there is no longer an image outside yourself that really stands for anything much. The whole panoply of Orthodox iconography, in fact, dies away into mere imagery, when the cross is your life. I know I wanted to communicate something in this post, but it isn't really possible, I know that now.

But crossbearers know each other.
Their sanctuary is the time and place where in this world they meet for even a moment, their communion is feeding each other with the broken fragments of their lives that Christ has taken to Himself and returned to them, "This is My Body broken for you."

So, the Greek service seems anti-climactic to me? What did I expect? Arthur Blessitt dragging a big wooden cross on wheels from city to city across the world, to drop by at my church this day?
No matter how big the visual cross, whether it's empty, plain wood, or has an icon of Jesus on it, whether the ceremony were slow and awe-inspiring, or the quick, efficient march that we actually experienced today, it would be the same. It can never compare to the reality of being pressed like raw dough with the seal of the true cross, so as to be baked in the oven of tribulations, to come out as pure communion bread. That's our life in Christ, broken but not divided, eaten but not consumed. Christ is in our midst. He is, and ever shall be.

Καλο Πασχα! Kaló Páscha! See you at Pascha!