May I share a parable with you, not one out of the Gospels, but a parable none the less? It is a story in which we might catch a glimpse of ourselves, provided we are willing to do that. You will have heard it before as a children’s story, but there is meat in it for adults too. It is entitled ‘Beauty and the Beast’.
As the story begins, we see a beautiful young woman who has undertaken a solitary journey. As she travels along, she is overtaken by a violent storm. She struggles forward through the tempest and comes upon a large manor house where she hopes to find shelter. As she raises her hand to the knocker, the door opens seemingly of its own accord, and she hears a polite voice bidding her welcome. She steps inside, exhausted, grateful, and mildly surprised that her kind host is not to be seen. He speaks to her from the shadows and invites her to accept his hospitality. And, as she soon discovers, every needful thing has been provided for her. A warm and soothing bath has been drawn for her in her own private bed chamber, and a wholesome meal has been laid for her at the table. Yet still her host remains an ominous, though not outwardly threatening, presence in the shadows.
The storm rages on for days, extending her stay in the Manor house, and for days she does not set eyes upon her host. But one day, as she explores the house, she inadvertently enters his private quarters and sees him for the hideous beast he is. He is horribly deformed, with a pig’s snout for a nose and swine’s hoofs for feet, and the table manners to match. Yet still he remains kind and considerate of her.
Weeks pass, the storm continues to rage unabated, and out of sheer loneliness the woman finds herself interacting pleasantly with the beast. As she converses with him and plays chess with him, she comes to know he is a refined, kind, and intelligent soul. Her revulsion is such that she never approaches him closely, or touches him, but she does develop a genuine fondness for him and for his admirable qualities. And in the quiet hours of the night, she hears him as he walks the corridors of the house and roars for the very torment of his heart.
The day comes when the storm finally abates, and the young woman prepares to resume her journey. But the Beast’s health is failing rapidly, and he entreats her to stay and to care for him. How could she refuse, after all his kindness?
As the beast’s life is at the point of slipping away, his suffering is manifest, and the woman’s heart goes out to him. Finally, she can hold herself aloof from him no longer, and she feels compelled to reach out to him, embrace him, and kiss him. And that kiss by a beautiful young woman shatters the evil spell that has held her noble host captive in a hideous body for so long. Instantly he is transformed before her very eyes, and he stands there as he truly is, a handsome and dashing prince. Whereupon, as you will have anticipated, the two are married and live happily ever after.
Now, you will be wondering why I am insulting your intelligence by telling you a fairy tale. Well in truth, the story I have shared is not a fairy tale. It is a true story. It is the story of my own life, and of yours.
You see, you and I are the young woman in the story. Each of us, on our personal journey through life, is at some time overtaken by a terrible storm … the tragic loss of a child, a terminal diagnosis, a life-long struggle with addiction, or a heart-breaking tragedy of some other kind. There are as many storms as there are people, and they are all devastating.
As we struggled forward through our storms, we find ourselves seeking shelter in a Manor house called ‘the Church’. As we approach the open door, we hear a voice saying, “Come to me, all who labour and are heavily burdened, and I will refresh you”. We step inside to discover that all things needful have been prepared for us. A cleansing bath has been drawn for us at the font, and a wholesome meal is set out for us on the altar.
The only disconcerting thing about the Church is the ominous presence of a cross suspended on the wall. It is not outwardly threatening, but it is an unsettling sight none the less. It is an instrument of execution like a hangman’s noose or an electric chair, but far worse than either of those because the cross is specifically used not just to kill, but to prolong the victim’s dying agony. It is the very epitome of cruel and unusual punishment. No mortal wounds are inflicted in a crucifixion. The victim is simply gang-beaten mercilessly, cruelly mocked, humiliated, and shamed by being paraded helpless and naked through the streets. Then he is nailed spread eagle to a cross and left to languish for hours in the blistering sun, to the amusement and unrelenting derision of passers by. If death does not take him before the guards’ work shift ends, then his legs are broken so that his body slumps and suffocates. And if it is still not obvious he is dead, he is summarily dispatched by the callous thrust of a spear and then is left to hang as a spectacle. And now, however incongruous it may seem, that hideous cross is a pervasive presence in this otherwise welcoming Church, and it asks us to take it seriously.
But now let me share with you a poorly kept secret that has become known by millions of faithful souls throughout the centuries. The secret is that if we can conquer our revulsion and bring ourselves to embrace the cross and kiss it, it is instantly transformed, and we see it for what it truly is … a thing of surpassing beauty. But you need not take my word for that. You need only to open your hymn book and read the lyrics of some of the hymns we sing,
On a hill far away stood an old rugged cross, the emblem of suffering and shame.
And I love that old cross, where the dearest and best for a world of lost sinners was slain.
When I survey the wondrous cross on which the Prince of glory died,
My richest gain I count but loss, and pour contempt on all my pride.
Jesus, keep me near the cross; There a precious fountain,
Free for all – a healing stream – flows from Calvary’s mountain.
In the cross of Christ I glory. Towering o’er the wrecks of time;
All the light of sacred story gathers round it’s head sublime.
Faithful Cross, thou sign of triumph, now for us the noblest tree,
None in foliage, none in blossom, none in fruit thy peer may be;
Symbol of the world’s redemption, for the weight that hung on thee.
And so forth. So you see, what I have shared with you is not a fairy tale. It is a capsule of sublime truth. In this world there really are some hideous things that become transformed into things of surpassing beauty if we embrace them and kiss them, and the holy cross of Jesus is preeminent among them.
In our life-long, monogamous, committed relationship with that Cross, we may all live happily ever after.
Dale