The Cross is Only Crowded at Easter

“And I, if I be lifted up, will draw all men to myself.” Words of Jesus, John 12:32


This is Holy Week in the Christian world. Through all the passion and pageantry, the cross takes center stage. But for most of the other 364 days, it stands naked and alone, suspended on pedestals in public and ecclesiastical venues, quietly minding its own business and waiting for opportunities to share its secrets.

The cross is a silent Sentinel with an observant eye, a kindly and ever-patient Doorman-in-waiting. From its lofty height it gazes down in mute amazement at the incessant motions of mankind, a beleaguered humanity mired in the busyness of living. It waits, waits for hungry souls to approach, waits to open the doors of heaven to anyone who will simply stop long enough and ask to be admitted.

Holy Week closes in on Friday and the mood of the cross turns dark and ugly. It becomes a visceral portent of the pending crucifixion of Jesus. It culminates on Resurrection Sunday when the cross is transformed from a cruel instrument of death to a vibrant symbol of life. Crowds gather around crosses adorned with brilliant Spring flowers upon the lawns of churches. They become, at least for the day, a symbolic focal point of new life.

But it must be lonely being a cross after Easter. Its preeminence has faded, and it blends into the hours of the common day. It’s now simply a reliable symbol, something seen in casual observation but not taken seriously, something glimpsed, but its redemptive powers largely ignored.

Never take the cross lightly. It’s no idle icon simply taking up space in homes or on grounds. It has latent powers, powers that can discern and affect the affairs of the world and can reach into the very soul and nature of humanity. Scripture records these revelations on the day of Jesus’ crucifixion:

Spectators beheld in stolid indifference;
Rulers mocked, being threatened
Religious leaders ridiculed
Brutal humanity railed
Penitent sinners prayed last-minute pleas
The Covetous sat and played their sordid game

The cross also has a strange power to trouble us. Like a stone cast into a placid pond, it creates ripples. It can open the door to questions, uncomfortable questions, questions that can disrupt our carefully structured status quo. We live in worlds of constant indecision; we dance around issues, avoid unpleasant situations. The cross has the power to bring us face to face with our procrastinations and to encourage us to confront overdue decisions. Bunyan wrote Pilgrim’s Progress. It’s an insightful Christian allegory that reveals the power of the cross:

“Now I saw in my dream, that the highway up which Christian was to go was fenced on either side with a wall, and that wall was called Salvation. Up this way therefore did burdened Christian run, but with great difficulty, because of the load on his back.

He ran thus till he came at a pace somewhat ascending; and upon that place stood a cross, and a little below, in the bottom, a sepulcher. So I saw in my dream that just as Christian came up with the cross, his burden loosed from off his shoulders, and fell from off his back, and began to tumble, and so continued to do till it came to the mouth of the sepulcher, where it fell in, and I saw it no more.”

Such is the redemptive quality of the cross, a power to unburden anyone willing to accept its standing offer of reconciliation.

This Friday the crosses at most churches will be draped in black in observance of Jesus’ death. Such somber scenes draw no crowds but remind us that we often find ourselves walking alone through dark valleys in this life.

But as we, the Christian community, gather around the flowered cross on Easter Sunday and listen closely, we might hear the cross whisper, “Look unto Me and be ye saved.” It’s a reminder that every day reconciliation and redemption are available for all believers, just for the asking.

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The cross is only crowded at Easter. Why not every day?


Bud Hearn
April 17, 2019

Body Language...a Cloak of Many Colors

Women talk. Men don’t listen. Or won’t. Or can’t. There’s a gender disconnect. Why? Because men can’t read between the lines and are unschooled in discerning the subtlety of a message.

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Age is instructive as well as destructive. We learn even as we forget. Sometimes we have to re-learn what we’ve supposedly already learned. Particularly with men, like how to interpret what women are saying, or in many cases, what they’re not verbalizing, but their bodies are transmitting loud and clear.

I’m having lunch alone one day, tucked nicely into a quiet corner table. Without warning, a parade of ladies (aren’t all women ladies?) march in, all twelve of them, and take residence at the table adjacent to mine. They no sooner sit before the conversation begins.

Not that I’m interested in what they’re saying, and even if I were, there would be no way to decipher the cacophony or follow the incoherent sequence the conversations are taking. Twelve women, all talking, is anyone listening? No algorithm can decode the stream of babble emitted by twelve tongues all moving at the same time. Subtle discussions are out of the question. It’s an instructive moment. And it got me to thinking of the many ways women speak.

Besides tongues, they can speak in other languages, particularly body languages so subtle they could be a model dressed in a cloak of many colors. A chameleon. It changes with the situation. It’s a covert language where gestures replace words. It’s a didactic Esperanto, incomprehensible to the uninitiated. Understood by women, but hopelessly lost on men.

Subtlety speaks without sound. The eyes and hands never lie. The old ‘cross your arms’ construct erects an impenetrable fortress. Only fools attempt to assault that compound. Same with the ‘hands on the hips’ posture. Men are less afraid of rattlesnakes than this gesture.

Men, imagine you’re having an amorous evening in a dark bistro with a beautiful woman. Your wife, perhaps. You feel romantic. You’re quoting Keats, or something out of The Rubaiyat, strange words, meanings beyond your comprehension.

Across the table she’s fixating on her red nail polish. You don’t get it. You’re confused. But, like the buffoon you are, the drivel continues to drip profusely from your lips. She swallows a Zantac and asks for the check. The message? Do you really have to ask?

Research hints that men’s auditory nerve may not actually be connected to the ear. It’s coupled elsewhere and responds to other stimuli, things like the mention of food, or sports, or other more primordial urges. Women are forced to resort to more dramatic means of communication.

Men tend to rant on their exploits and ego. Women have perfected the ‘zip-of-the-lip’ response. The meaning? Shut up! Or leave. Or die. Picture a large nail. A hammer. A wooden coffin. Your coffin. You’re inside. You hear the steel-to-steel pounding. Your sounds are silenced. You’ll soon be dust.

Oh, the ‘look-away’ eyes. You know, those eyes that constantly glance at something or someone beyond you. They search in the distance for relief. Or a mirror. The message? She wishes to be elsewhere, anywhere, except with you.

The ‘doodling-with-the-pen’ sends a less-than-subtle dismissal. The obsessive clicking of the ballpoint is a dead giveaway. Same is true with the constant glance at her watch. She’s totally written you off, buddy. Meeting over.

Men, now pay attention. Observe closely when she begins to trace the lines in her palm. She’s wondering what garbage scow you showed up on. Leave quickly before becoming the twerp she thinks you are. She smiles, looking at the short line, envisioning a future without you.

Then there’s the ‘sideways hug.’ It says, “Beat it, buster.” If you’re getting this, please preserve the last scintilla of your shattered pride and ‘slip out the back, Jack.’ She’s moved on…without you. And oh, the ‘silent treatment.’ It reduces one to a giant shrinking slug, sliding through the cracks in the floor.

Alas, a man’s worst nightmare might be the message sent by the ‘wedding ring removal.’ You won’t have to read between the lines on this one!

Some speculate that God might be female. It’s just not so. God only whispers or speaks in silence or heavy thunder. I wonder if God might even be married?

The twelve ladies finish their lunch, ask for their checks. Separate checks. I exit quickly before the queue begins.

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Body language…it’s all too much for me to comprehend. Good luck on your interpretation.



Bud Hearn
April 10, 2019

What's Important?

It’s Saturday morning. I retrieve the newspapers, all three of them. The local fish wrapper, The New York Times and the Wall Street Journal. Balanced perspectives are important.

I know what you’re thinking, no one can reconcile such disparate opinions into a cohesive consensus of what’s important today. It’s like trying to get harmony from the inpatients of an insane asylum. You’d have to be nuts to try.

But judging from the sheer number of words contained in these papers, one thing is clear: something’s important. Maybe not the same thing, but there’s something bugging a lot of people and they’re anxious to share their opinions with whomever will read them.

I ignore the bulk of newsprint and turn my attention to what’s really important to me at the moment. That would be breaking an egg on the side of the frying pan, gently, no shells in the pan, and taking pains to keep the tender yolk from breaking.

Broken yolks make for a bad egg breakfast. I consider the effort analogous to breaking the yolk of someone’s important opinion. I take pains with the cracking of the egg, but to be honest, it gives pleasure to break the yolk of some journalist’s opinion of what’s important.

Besides, caution is advised before swallowing someone else’s half-baked opinion. Nobody sees the whole truth, just shards of the whole, despite all the surveys, polls and scientific findings used to give credence to opinions. I glance at the stack of newspapers and envision volumes of half-cooked yokes littered with shells.

But outside of my house, someone has found something important to them. They’re pumping air into the bike tires for a morning ride. Symbolism is everywhere, just look around. For example consider today’s news … nothing but air pumped into something that goes round and round.

Such are opinions. Like bike tires, they cover a lot of ground, spinning round and round, stirring up dust and shedding some off along the way. And in due time, same as bike tires, they come home to roost, resting quietly where they began or in a dusty repository of has-been archives.

They’ve traveled far and wide, but really, what have they accomplished? Not much more than providing some exercise and enjoyment as the world passes by and life goes on. Such are opinions…they make the rounds, but sooner or later lose their momentum, their now-mute voices having once been fodder for discussion, or for entertainment or for sheer comedy.

One thing is common to both bike tires and opinions. If they sit long enough their air oozes out and they end up flat again. How many deflated opinions lay lifeless in the dust bin of disinterest or irrelevance, ideas and opinions that once held great promise, brimming with life and light, only to have flamed out in obsolescence and in the dead air of entropy?

Over in the corner our dog, Mr. Bogey, is ransacking his basket of toys, looking for today’s important play-pretty to occupy his time. He chooses a gray teddy bear whose ears are chewed off, its arms missing and its stitched-on thread smile hanging loosely, giving the ragdoll bear a look of utmost resignation.

What’s important is not necessarily measured by size, or value, or maybe even utility or need. It can be as profound as issues of health or finances, or as soulful as a mockingbird’s morning serenade. There are no rules to what’s important to us at any given time. And who are we to judge what’s important to anyone else?

Ah, the condescending voice of a philosophic cynic someone says. Not so. I have great respect for all journalists who’re willing to lay naked their thoughts and opinions, risking harsh critique or absolute public malignity and utter disgrace. It takes fortitude and guts to publish an opinion, from simple letters to the editor to profound treatises on the anything, controversial or otherwise. Still, I just reserve my right to accept or reject their opinions.

My egg is now done. Not a perfect yolk but acceptable. Not too runny, not too hard in the center. Ok, so the edges are a bit crusty, such are the edges of many opinions. Sometimes it takes a crusty edge to goad us into forming our own ideas of what’s important.

Whatever is important to you today, enjoy it. Good luck cooking up your own yolks but remember…no yolk is perfect.


Bud Hearn
April 3, 2019