The Towel

The Towel

The cross was real—bloody, heartbreaking. It was the symbol of man exalted and man degraded. Now, however, we have covered the blood and hidden the heartbreak with gold. Instead of getting on the cross we now put it on a chain and wear it. The symbolism is not of what happened then, but of "look at me now."

A cross I can live with. It doesn't intrude into my insulated life of three bedrooms, education, money and church. The cross is a story, an ornament around my neck, a song, an ambiguous reference to a sentimental part of my life I call religion. I can relate to that. The cross was a wonderful sacrifice for my sins and the sins of the world. However, once  was enough; since I needn't die for the sins of the world, I'll thank you for the cross, Lord, and remain uninvolved.

But the towel. Why did you have to use a towel? Why didn't you let them wash your feet? I can understand that. But you washed their feet.

A towel is dirty, common, so daily, so secular. The cross is religious, almost glamorous today. It is even part of the fashion scene. I want to worship you through a gilded cross, not a dirty towel.

But the towel is there, still. It taunts me with its statement, "I came to serve and not be served." I can hide in the church building and kneel before the cross, but you went into the world with a towel kneeling before people. I want the cross, but you gave me the towel.