Icon Crucifix based on the San Damiano Cross by Deacon Charles Rohrbacher. Currently on display at the Alaska State Museum. |
It’s Good Friday morning in Juneau, Alaska. The sky is a clear
baby blue with sun that glints off the piles of old snow heaped at the edges of
parking lots and clinging to the grasses of the wetlands in front of my
parents’ house. Today we’ll go to the Shrine of St. Therese for Stations of the
Cross, out where it’s not uncommon to see whales breaching or hear the bellows
of sea lions in the distance. It’s good to be home.
If I was in Boise, and it wasn’t Spring Break, I would be
making my way down to the Cathedral of St. John the Evangelist to meet with a
small group of 3, 4 and 5 year-olds in their atrium. This is the first year for
St. John’s to host an atrium, and it’s the first year since beginning Juneau’s
Cathedral atrium in 2010 that I’ve had the opportunity to be part of building an atrium and to see it grow from the smallest seed to a thriving community of work and prayer.
It hasn’t all been smooth, but the bumps have been
beautiful, too, in their own way. Most of the children entered into this new
space with quiet curiosity. When we first made our way around the room, hands
clasped behind our backs to make sure that we would “look only with our eyes,”
I asked the children, “Did anyone see something particularly beautiful in our
atrium?” One little girl silently walked over to the prayer table and pointed
to the small, ceramic San Damiano Crucifix lying there. Since this moment, the
cross has been the focal point of our atrium. At prayer time the children take
turns silently holding it before passing it on to the next child. Sometimes the
children will wander over and stroke it on their way from one work to another.
Of the children within the Friday morning group, one was not
so certain about spending time in the atrium. For the first few weeks, Robert
would only remain within the room if one of his parents stayed by his side.
Gradually they moved farther and farther away, first sitting just outside the
door, and then slowly taking places farther down the hall. Robert would choose
a work rug and then one of the many practical life activities and position
himself in the doorway, sometimes halfway in and halfway out, to work on
sponging, cutting up small pieces of paper, or matching keys with locks where
he could see his parents out of the corner of his eye.
Then one day in early February, Robert looked up from his
place in the doorway and told me, “I want to go to the prayer table.” Kneeling
together in front of the table, I lit the candle for him. “How would you like
to pray?” I asked. Robert began listing the things he was thankful for: people,
mom and dad, the church, the atrium . . . Then he paused and picked up the San
Damiano cross, closed his eyes and clutched it tightly to his chest. After
several seconds he passed it to me and gestured for me to do the same. Closing
my eyes I pressed the cross over my own heart, holding it for a few moments
before passing it back to Robert. We established a rhythm of prayer. Robert
would take the cross, hug it tightly to himself, scrunch his eyes and smile
and then pass it back to me. Each time his smile seemed to grow bigger. His
arms wrapped tighter as if he was embracing the cross with all his strength.
Finally, he let out a big sigh placed the cross back on the table and snuffed
the prayer candle.
Every Friday since, Robert will at some point stop his work
in the doorway and announce in a loud whisper, “I want to go to the prayer
table!” My co-catechist, Emily, or I will accompany him to light the candle and
pray with Robert. He leads the way, telling us what he is thankful for, letting
us know which songs he wants to sing, and then, when the moment is just right,
taking up the cross in his hands, embracing it and passing it to us. This last
Friday, Robert kept his eyes closed as we reverenced the cross. He held it out
to me and waited for my hands to take it from his, and then when I gently
touched it to his shoulder when I was done, he would take it carefully back.
His smile again growing wider and wider.
Today, during the Good Friday service we are all invited to reverence the cross of
Christ. The gesture itself is left up to the believer, whether we touch the
wood with our fingers, kneel before it or even bend to kiss this symbol of love
conquering hate and life stronger than death. And I know that when it is my
turn I will think of Robert, and if I dared I would wrap up the cross in a bear
hug, eyes scrunched tight, smile growing wider and wider, amazed at the God of
transformation who can take a vehicle of torture, pain and hatred, and turn it
into pure love.
Yesterday, my teen daughters sat with a good friend and
talked about the problems of the world. They are manifold, it’s true, but I
wanted to show them what Robert’s shown me, love is greater, we just need to
hang on tightly.
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