Reflection for September 11, 2025

Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross (C)

Numbers 21:4b-9 | Psalm 78:1bc-2, 34-35, 36-37, 38 | Philippians 2:6-11 | John 3:13-17

The Holy Crucifix of San Marcello al Corso

Today we celebrate the Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross. This day reminds us that the Cross, once a symbol of shame and death, has become for us the greatest sign of Christ’s victory over sin and death. In the old calendar, the Church actually kept two feasts: one on May 3, called the Invention of the Cross, remembering when St. Helena discovered the True Cross in Jerusalem, and later when it was returned by Emperor Heraclius after being taken away. Then on September 14, the Triumph of the Cross was celebrated, recalling the dedication of the Basilica of the Holy Sepulchre and honoring the Cross as the sign of Christ’s glory. After Vatican II, these were brought together into one Roodmas feast, which we now celebrate today—the Exaltation of the Cross. Our readings invite us to look at the Cross not as a defeat, but as the very heart of our faith: the place where Christ’s suffering becomes our healing, where His death brings us life, and where His love is revealed most fully.

​One rainy afternoon, little Mia sat by the window with her father, Ramon. “Papa,” she said softly, “we learned in school that typhoons are so devastating. They destroy homes, wash away crops, cause floods that leave families hungry and sick, and even take lives. Communities lose schools, roads, and power.” Ramon nodded, his face heavy. “You’re right, anak. Flooding brings terrible suffering. But never forget—God is sovereign. Even in the storm, His hand is at work.” He paused, then added, “Do you remember the typhoons Crising, Dante, and Emong? They caused pain, yes, but they also revealed the truth—that billions of pesos meant for flood control were being stolen. Those storms uncovered corruption, showing us where we must demand justice and change. In a strange way, they became blessings.” Mia leaned against her father, thoughtful. Ramon whispered, “That is how God works. Even what looks like death and destruction, He can turn into a sign of redemption and new life.”

In the desert, the people of Israel found healing when they looked at the bronze serpent raised by Moses. What once caused fear and death became, by God’s command, a source of relief and life. In the same way, the Cross of Christ—once a symbol of humiliation, suffering, and defeat—has become for us the very source of salvation. God often transforms our own struggles in this way. He allows our sickness, pain, failures, and even moments of shame to become places where His healing grace enters. Just as the serpent lifted on a pole brought life to the dying, so the Cross lifted on Calvary brings eternal life to all who believe. The Cross teaches us that no suffering is wasted, no defeat is final, and no death has the last word. In Christ, what appears to be weakness becomes triumph, and what appears to be loss becomes our greatest gain.

I have a friend who, during the pandemic, lost almost everything—his work, his wealth, his home. As if that weren’t enough, his wife left him too. All he had left was his faith, and he clung to it with all his strength. One afternoon, while wandering in search of a job, he stopped by a church where men were carving stones. He noticed one worker chiseling a rough, triangular piece. “Where will that fit?” he asked. The man pointed to a small opening high in the belfry and said, “I’m shaping this stone down here so it will fit up there.” My friend’s eyes filled with tears. In that simple answer, he realized his own trials were shaping him too. His losses, his pain, his loneliness—God was using them to carve his heart for something greater. What seemed like humiliation and emptiness was not the end, but the very way God was preparing him for glory. 

St. Paul reminds us in Philippians 2:6–11 that though Jesus was in the form of God, He did not cling to His equality with God. Instead, He emptied Himself—embracing humility, poverty, and even death on a cross. This self-emptying, or kenosis, became the path to His exaltation, as God raised Him high and gave Him the name above every name. The mystery here is that fullness comes only through emptiness. When we cling too tightly to pride, comfort, or control, we leave little space for God’s grace. But when we let go—when we allow ourselves to be poured out in humility and service—God fills us with His own life. You may be at your lowest point right now, feeling broken, overlooked, or weak. Yet it is in those very places of emptiness that God’s power can shine most brightly, transforming your lowliness into a living witness of His glory. In self-emptying, we make room for God to reign.

One evening in Santuario de San Antonio in Makati, Fr. Adame, a Franciscan friar, promised to preach on just one verse: John 3:16. As night settled and the church grew dim, the people gathered in silence. From the darkness of the altar, he lit a single candle and slowly walked to the crucifix. He raised the light to the crown of thorns, then to the hands pierced by nails, and finally to the wound in Christ’s side. The flame flickered, casting shadows that spoke more loudly than words ever could. Then, without saying a thing, he gently blew out the candle and stepped away. The silence was heavy, but the message was clear: God so loved the world that He gave His only Son. In that moment, the congregation felt the depth of love that cannot be explained, only shown—love written not in sermons, but in the suffering and sacrifice of the Cross. Nothing more needed to be said.

Our Gospel today gives us what many call “the gospel in a nutshell”: God so loved the world that He gave His only Son, so that everyone who believes in Him may not perish but may have eternal life. This verse reveals the heart of Jesus’ mission—not to condemn, but to save. The Cross is the clearest sign of this mission. By freely offering His life, Jesus embraced suffering and death so that we might share in His victory and life. His sacrifice was not a tragic end but a deliberate act of love, carried out with the Father and in the Spirit. On the wood of the Cross, He redeemed the world—turning a symbol of punishment into the sign of salvation. When we gaze upon the Cross, we see not judgment but mercy, not rejection but welcome, not death but life. In the Cross, love has the final word, and through it, we are invited into eternal communion with God.

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