The Cross of our Lord is heavy. The Cross is a terrible burden. The Cross is brutal. The Cross is torture. The Cross is about human failure. The Cross is the end of Christ. But the Cross is also the beginning of Christ—the loosing of our chains, the beginning of hope, and the end of despair and fear. The Cross is the end of death and the beginning of our salvation. It is, in the end, the ultimate symbol of God’s love for us.

And there’s one more fact about the Cross: without going through the Passion, without facing the Cross, we can’t make it to the Resurrection. Without somehow touching and experiencing His last days, we can’t appreciate the glory and the sweetness of what has been done for us. We need to be cold to appreciate warmth; we need to see ultimate darkness to see ultimate light. We need to drink from His cup, taste what He tasted, and feel what He felt. We need to be there with Him. It’s not pretty and it’s not pleasant, but we need to face the Cross.

It’s a long and difficult journey; it’s a fearful journey, but it is a worthwhile journey. It’s the journey into true love—why else would the Lord have done what He did for us? This is the love of a Father for his sons, for his daughters. Blood of His blood, flesh of His flesh. We are His, and He loves us more than we can ever know.

And this Lent, knowing these things, how will we respond? How do we answer the love of the Man-God who hung on the Cross for us hour after hour by His own free will? Will we simply keep mumbling through the Trisagion week after week, making our crosses at the speed of light—but never really contemplating the weight of the Cross? Will we lecture others about fasting and alms but never really know what it is like to be a sacrificer, to be a giver? Will we respond to the murder of this sweet, innocent Healer and Teacher with indifference and complacency? If so, then we crucify Him over and over again—the humiliation, the degradation, the mocking, the spitting, the awful bellowing of the hammer and the nails—every time we remain blind to what’s been done for us.

Or will you be moved? Will you walk with Him through His last days? Will you run alongside Him, laying palms at His feet, during the triumphant entry into Jerusalem—and will you sense the foreboding of betrayal at the Last Supper? Will you pray next to Him and shed tears with Him in the Garden, and feel His heart break at the moment of the betrayal? Will you share in His courage during the accusations and the questionings; will you share His crown of thorns and accept the mocking degradation of the reed and purple cloak? Will you help Him bear the weight of the Cross as He carries it to the place of His death? When you are offered a taste of water, will you forget your own needs and instead place the cup to His parched, dusty and blistered lips? Will you dare to hold His head in your arms at the pounding of the nails, absorbing His pain with your own pure love? Will you hang there with Him, hour after mind-bending hour, holding His hand in this time of unthinkable suffering?

Then, you are there. You are with Him in all things: from the Passion to the Resurrection. You are finally close to Him. You finally get it. You’ve emerged from the tomb of your fear, illusion, frustration, indifference, anger and hatred. The ice is melted. You appreciate the warmth for the cold. You know the weight of the Cross, and Pascha has at last come to your heart. You made it. You are finally home.

With prayers for an unforgettable Holy Week and Easter,

Fr. Alex

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