The Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross isn’t sentimental. It’s a field order. The Church bids us lift high the wood that broke the back of hell and realign our lives under its standard. Historically, the commemoration reaches to Jerusalem: on September 13, 335, the Constantinian basilica over the Holy Sepulchre was consecrated, and the following day the faithful exalted the True Cross. But the point has always been more than a date; it’s a demand: take up the Cross—and be found under it.
The Fathers speak of the Cross in the language of victory and discipline. St. John Chrysostom calls it “the trophy of Christ’s victory.” St. Augustine is blunt: “God had one Son on earth without sin, but none without suffering.” St. Cyril of Jerusalem urges, “Let us not be ashamed to confess the Crucified,” and to sign ourselves boldly. St. Leo the Great insists that the devil yields only to the faith of the Cross. St. Athanasius notes that at its sign, the illusions of the enemy scatter. The Cross is not an ornament. It’s a weapon, a yoke, and a banner.
Exaltation is not exalting pain for its own sake. It is the public recognition of the love that obeyed unto death and the power that flowed from that obedience. The wood raised up in the desert with the bronze serpent prefigured this; what healed Israel then was not technique but trust. So too now: the Cross reorganizes a man’s loyalties. Under it, comfort becomes a tool, not a master; time becomes a stewarded resource; the body returns to its role as servant of the soul.
For men, this means concrete sacrifice. Fast on Fridays like it matters—because it does. Keep custody of the eyes and of your schedule. Choose the difficult good at home: carry the unseen loads, initiate prayer, apologize first, and be the last to complain. In your work, let the Cross set your ethic: honest, punctual, thorough, unbribed by flattery or fear. In your parish, serve where no applause is found—stack chairs, teach boys to pray, visit the sick, and anchor your week with confession and Sunday Mass. None of this is glamorous. All of it is priestly in the broad sense: offering yourself as a living sacrifice.
Devotionally, let the Cross train your reflexes. Make the Sign of the Cross slowly and like you mean it. Keep a crucifix in your pocket and on your desk; touch it when tempted. Pray the Stations—fifteen minutes of spiritual calisthenics that form steel in a man. When you fail, don’t dramatize it; report back to the King in the confessional and rejoin the line.
The Cross also instructs a man’s speech. Bless, don’t curse. Speak the truth without rancor. Refuse the cowardice of euphemism where clarity is required, and the cruelty of bluntness where charity is due. The Cross aligns courage with mercy: strong enough to stand, humble enough to kneel.
Today, the Church lifts high the Cross so that men can see their rally point. Not a trinket. Not a memory. A standard. Take your place beneath it. Let Chrysostom’s “trophy,” Augustine’s realism, Cyril’s boldness, Leo’s clarity, and Athanasius’s confidence become your daily kit. Then go—into your home, your work, your city—carrying the only sign that finally matters. Lift it high. Live beneath it. Die clinging to it. And by God’s grace, rise because of it.
