A sermon on Holy Cross Day delivered on September 14, 2005, by the Rev. Mary Vano, ETSS Class of 2003 and Associate Priest at St. David's Church, Austin, in Christ Chapel

John 12:31-36

In my lifetime, September has always carried with it certain happy themes… the start to the school year, the beginning of fall activities, new teachers, new challenges, new friends. But in the past few years, it seems that September has begun to carry a significant burden of our nation's grief. I was here on September 11, 2001, when together we watched the World Trade Center fall. In that September, we were confronted by the destructive powers of evil. This September, the nature of the event is different, but the result is the same: the loss of thousands of lives. In the wake of Hurricane Katrina, we find our efforts exhausted by the threat of chaos on the world. These are events and losses that will not soon be forgotten. But whether it's September 2001 or 2005, or 5005, for that matter, September still brings us to the 14th: Holy Cross Day.

The origins of this feast day go back to the year 335, when Helena, the mother of the Emperor Constantine dedicated the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which had been erected on the site believed to be the place of Jesus' death on the cross. Since that very first Good Friday, followers of Christ have been keenly interested in a theology of the cross -- for what did it mean that the Messiah had been publicly executed in such a shameful way? And yet, in imagery and art, the cross did not become a prominent symbol for the Christian community until Constantine. Ironically enough, it was Constantine -- a brutal Roman emperor -- who would claim the cross as a sign of victory. Popular images of a fish and a shepherd would be replaced by a cross -- an instrument of capital punishment -- as the principal symbol of our faith.

For the author of the Gospel of John, this seems perfectly fitting. For John, the revelation of God and the salvation of God's people are borne upon that cross. In his book titled, John: the Maverick Gospel, Robert Kysar describes the passion of John as the story of a King going to his coronation. I can almost see the red carpet, the flowing white cope, and glittering crown when we listen to the words of Jesus in today's Gospel, "And I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all people to myself." But the actual picture is a stark contrast to the scene of a regal coronation. The path is hard and rocky, the man is stripped of his clothing and beaten, and the crown that awaits him is a crown of thorns. Jesus is lifted up upon the cross to die; he is also lifted up upon the cross to be glorified -- for this is the moment of revelation. It's the moment when we know Christ; the moment when we see the love of God for all humanity; and the moment when the pathway to God is laid down before us. Yes, the cross of Christ is not only his glorification, but also our call to discipleship.

I think it was in my undergraduate studies when I first learned a valuable lesson about symbols. The definition distinguished symbols from signs -- a sign simply points to something, providing information. A symbol not only points to something, but also participates in that to which it points. As a symbol of our faith, the cross points to the glorious. It points to the unsurpassed love of God. It points to the God who would draw all the world to Him, and to the God who conquers the powers that enslave and destroy us so that all may have life. But death is the pathway of the cross. As 21st century Christians, sometimes we have to remind ourselves of this very simple truth. The cross symbolizes death first, then resurrection. To participate in this symbol is to die, so that you may have life.

Of course, what we're talking about here is paradox. The cross always stands as a stark contrast between the barren landscape of death and the realm of life. Perhaps that's why it seems most powerful amidst the ruins. As we survey the damage done to our Gulf Coast neighbors in Hurricane Katrina, the cross meets us there. Christ is revealed in the hopeful faces of those who have lost everything. God is glorified by the aid workers and volunteers who risk themselves in order to help another. And we can see that all are being drawn to God -- it is in the new-found compassion of people who simply watch the news from miles away and offer their prayers and loving support. Where there is death, there is also life, and we are called to celebrate that victory.

On September 1st, my friend and seminary classmate, Morgan Allen, was installed as rector of St. Barnabas Episcopal Church in Lafayette, Louisiana. Even after the hurricane hit, I had planned to go with my two-year old son, to be present for the event. I was sorrowed when it became clear that my presence in Louisiana at that time would probably only add to the burden of that community, and we changed our plans. But the service went on as scheduled without us -- despite the tremendous influx of evacuees, the need to provide food and shelter, and the shortage of gas and other supplies. Even in the midst of grief and turmoil, together that community was called to celebrate a new ministry and a new partnership, even if the vision of that ministry has been permanently altered. The celebration was appropriately altered, too -- the collection was bottled water, and the food for the reception was brought to a shelter instead. Again, in between death and life, stands the cross, challenging us to brave the pathway of loss, that we may gain the victory of Christ.

That cross is ever before us, and it stands before us here. Actually, it stands out there. The seminary chapel is a unique space in many ways, but my favorite thing about it is that the cross stands outside the building. It is visible from within, and actually, the whole building seems to take our attention outside. The disruptive angles and lines, the presence of nature all around in this space -- well, it does remind me of yet another image I have seen this week. This time it is a picture of a church worshipping in the Diocese of Mississippi. The walls around them are gone. A few wood beams stand in distorted angles, and they are surrounded only by God's creation. And yet they worship. They take a picture of the cross that survived, and together they share the sacrament of Christ's Body and Blood. Their community no longer has walls, but they have life. The building in which we stand now is a reflection of our calling -- the calling to go beyond the walls of our community. That is where we must go, because that is where the cross leads us. It is pathway that necessarily draws us beyond ourselves. It is a pathway that leads us through pain and strife, turmoil, and death. But the path before us is well-traveled. Christ meets us in pain and strife, Christ takes our hand in turmoil and death. And Christ leads us to the promise of new life. So whatever September may bring, or any other month for that matter, the cross stands before us always. And though it is a difficult path to follow, we remember the words of Christ, "When I am lifted up from the earth, I will draw all people to myself." Amen.