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Crosses and Resurrections
Wednesday April 12, 2006
Religious metaphors are not as common
as they once were. But sometimes I still hear people referring to the crosses
they have to bear.
The original metaphor, of course, was not a metaphor at all. It was a
literal description of a great rough wooden beam that Jesus of Nazareth had to
carry on his shoulders to his execution, the beam to which his wrists would be
nailed.
In the climate of martyrdom in the next few centuries, the cross became
more figurative – any kind of suffering, from being mauled by lions in the arena
to living with a chronic disease or disability.
If “crosses” have to be taken literally, then I've known very few.
As I've written before, I've led an astonishingly protected life. I've
never faced war. I've had few physical ailments. I have never been framed by
unscrupulous enemies for things I didn't do. I have never been convicted of a
serious crime.
I've lost some people I loved deeply, but who hasn't?
So I can say that I haven't had to bear many physical crosses.
Why me?
My crosses tend to be
people. People with one-track minds. People who prejudge an issue based on
subjective reactions about the person proposing it. People who whine. People who
are crashing bores. People who… well, you get the picture.
I sometimes wonder why they choose me. They sit beside me on a plane.
They single me out at a party. Sometimes I think it's on the same principle that
every cat knows instinctively exactly which member of a group is allergic to cat
hair (or is wearing black slacks) and immediately heads for that person.
But if crosses don't need to be literal, then neither do resurrections.
My resurrections are those times when I feel my spirits suddenly lifted,
when a fresh breath blows away the boredom of routine, when a chance
acquaintance unexpectedly turns into a lasting friend. When we meet, a face
lights up with a smile. On the telephone, I hear delight in someone's voice. A
long-forgotten friend takes the trouble to write.
Crosses drain life; resurrections restore it.
An enduring pattern
Those who give me my
resurrections generally have a joy of life. They sing. They laugh. They lie in
the sun and stretch. They breathe deeply of mountain air, and they probe deeply
with their minds. They do things, and they invite me to join them.
The once-and-for-all-time Resurrection that Christians celebrate on
Easter Morning doesn't mean much to me. Nothing I do can affect it – I am
essentially irrelevant.
But the little daily resurrections assure me that renewal and
transformation are possible. I've been through enough deep and shadowed valleys,
and emerged to sunlight green pastures on the other side, to feel confident that
this pattern will endure, even to the end of life as I know it.
There's only one problem. My resurrections come through other people. I
hope I'm not one of the crosses they have to bear.
Copyright © by Jim Taylor. Non-profit use in congregations and study
groups permitted; all other rights reserved.
To send comments on this column, email
Jim Taylor
directly. You can also receive Jim's column by email. Contact him at
jimt@quixotic.ca
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