True Strength

A strength taken to an extreme becomes a weakness.

This adage isn’t new to me but I experienced it in a different way on my latest pilgrimage to the Middle East. For the first time, Jordan was included in my itinerary. I’d wanted to visit this country for years, mainly because of Petra (a “wonder of the world” that first caught my attention back in 1989 when I saw Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade). My style, on these pilgrimages, is not only to tell the stories associated with each site, but to include at least one additional pedagogical element that ties in that particular experience with others of the day as well as those of the overall journey. It was especially important for me to establish this pattern of expectation on our first full day, which happened to be in Petra.

Not being aware of a biblical story that occurred at Petra, I chose instead to tell the story of Jesus giving Simon, one of his first disciples, the new name of Peter, or “Petra” (i.e. “rock”), because apparently Jesus intended to build his church on the firm, rock foundation of Simon Peter. When I finished telling that story, I encouraged everyone to be on the lookout while at Petra for a rock that would fit into their pocket. This would serve as a talisman or kinesthetic reminder throughout our pilgrimage that we, as spiritual descendants of Peter, are still expected to provide a firm foundation for the work of the Church in the world.

What I hadn’t planned on was how many stories I ended up telling in the next eight days that had rocks or stones in them. And each time I’d get to that point in the story, I’d reach into my pocket and pull out the rock I’d chosen for myself that first day in Petra. That frequent reminder allowed me to ponder the role that stones/rocks played in these various stories … and it wasn’t always as positive and heart-warming as “a firm foundation.” The woman caught in adultery, for example, is almost stoned to death. So the very characteristics (strength, impermeability, durability) that make rocks a good choice for a foundation are the very things that can cause damage, pain, and death. A strength taken to an extreme can become a weakness.

And then there was the story of Joshua, Rahab, and Jericho. The stone wall, which was strong enough to support a living space for Rahab and her family and to—under normal conditions—protect an entire city, was no match for Joshua’s trumpeters and the apparent God-sanctioned annihilation of its residents. This was a different kind of strength taken to an extreme that, in my mind, became a weakness, and it tapped into another epiphany I experienced on this trip.

A couple of years ago while leading my first such pilgrimage, I found that the ubiquitous Jerusalem Cross appeared to be speaking to me. I had no idea what it was telling me but it sure got my attention, jumping out at me every time I turned around, it seemed, and begging for its picture to be taken. I obliged, taking picture after picture of Jerusalem Crosses on flags, carved in stone, lit up with lights and forged in metal. I didn’t know what it all meant or what I’d do, if anything, with those pictures but I knew I had to keep snapping away so I did. I eventually made a poster collage with several of these images, which I’ve sold for a little extra spending money. That was nice but I still hadn’t really gotten a satisfactory answer to the greater question of what it was all about.

There are several traditions associated with the five crosses that make up a Jerusalem Cross: Jesus and the four Gospels; the five wounds of Christ from the crucifixion; the Gospel being spread from Jerusalem to the four corners of the earth … as a vocational and world-traveling biblical storyteller, this is the one that resonated with me the most. But it was this very interpretation that was the most potentially problematic.

The Jerusalem Cross is also known as the Crusaders’ Cross, being the primary image emblazoned on shields, flags, and military vestments when Christians literally went to war to “spread the good news to the four corners of the earth.” I’d always known this darker side of its story but was reminded of it more blatantly while in Jordan, where over 90% if the population is Muslim and whose ancestors were on the receiving end of the Crusaders’ efforts to spread this “good” news. I didn’t see any Jerusalem Crosses in Jordan, except worn around the necks of Christians. And the few times I saw the fleetingly troubled look in the eyes of our gracious Jordanian hosts when they caught sight of those necklaces and were ever so briefly reminded of what that particular cross had symbolized, I was saddened. [I’m guessing it’s perhaps a bit like how African Americans feel when they see the Confederate flag.] As a Christian, I do have a strong, beautiful message to share with the world—and I’ve devoted my life to doing just that. But any strength taken to an extreme can become a weakness, and that’s certainly been part of the Jerusalem Cross—and Christian—story, unfortunately.

I suppose one could say that this adage is really just a problem of imbalance. Strengths are good—that’s why they’re called strengths!—but only in moderation, somewhat regulated, checked and balanced. Well, this is a problem I know a little something about. I’ve said for years that if I were a Buddhist, I’m convinced that my lesson to learn this time around is balance.

I’m reminded of this on an almost daily basis but I was hit between the eyes with it a few months ago at a gig (consisting entirely of female military chaplains, interestingly enough). I happened to be wearing my Jerusalem Cross necklace and had several of my posters on hand to sell. An African American participant cornered me at one point to ask about my apparent fascination with the Jerusalem Cross. I told her about how they had jumped out at me a few years ago, begging for my attention, and so I had obliged, not really understanding why or what it was all about. I confessed to her that I still hadn’t figured it out. She paused and then offered this piece of wisdom: “Well, the thing that strikes me most about the Jerusalem Cross is its equality, its symmetry, its balance. Each of the individual crosses is not a traditional cross shape but more like a plus sign, which is even, equal, and balanced. And the whole composition is, too. Fold it along any axis and the one side perfectly mirrors the other. Could that kind of thing be why you were attracted to it?”

DUH! If that’s not why, it should have been! But I think on some level it actually was. I’ve now been to the Holy Land six times. The first three trips I don’t even remember seeing Jerusalem Crosses. The fourth trip occurred at a time when my life’s imbalance had gotten particularly out of hand and that’s when the crosses “assaulted my senses.” (I’ve also said for years that I often have to be hit between the eyes with a 2×4 to really get a BIG message.) This past trip happened immediately after I’d intentionally made some major shifts in my life and, while I’m certainly not as balanced as I’d like, I’m MUCH better than I’ve been. As a result, I barely noticed the Jerusalem Crosses. Made a lot of sense to me.

And talk about redemption! I’ll never forget or ignore the Jerusalem Cross’s ugly past—nor should I—but what a beautiful reclamation of a symbol. Would that all who wear this emblem be about perpetuating opportunities of dialogue between differing sides, the kind of sharing that mirrors back to us more about our similarities than our differences. What if the Jerusalem Cross, rather than pushing a powerful message to the point it becomes a weakness, stood for experiences of balance and equality where give and take and compromise were not seen as diluting one side’s strength but empowering the whole?

Now that’s the kind of solid foundation the Church should be built upon. And, if perpetually practiced, could be as enduring as Petra.