Homily for the Exaltation of the Cross

September 14, 2025

There is an old tale about an unusual tree that grew outside the gates of a desert city. It was an ancient tree, a landmark, as a matter of fact. It seemed to have been touched by the finger of God, for it bore fruit perpetually. Despite its old age, its limbs were constantly laden with fruit. Hundreds of passersby refreshed themselves from the tree, as it never failed to give freely of its fruit.

But then a greedy merchant purchased the property on which the tree grew. He saw hundreds of travelers picking the fruit from his tree, so he built a huge fence around it. Travelers pleaded and pleaded with the new owner, “Share the fruit with us.”

The miserly merchant scoffed. “It’s my tree, my fruit, and bought with my money.”

And then an astonishing thing happened—suddenly, the ancient tree died! What could have happened? The law of giving, as predictable as the law of gravity, expresses the immutable principle: when giving stops, bearing fruit ceases, and death follows inevitably.

Today, I want to focus on our second reading from Paul’s Letter to the Philippians. Scholars say that what is contained here is actually an ancient hymn that predates Paul. But consider these beautiful words:

Brothers and sisters:

Christ Jesus, though he was in the form of God,

did not regard equality with God

something to be grasped.

Rather, he emptied himself,

taking the form of a slave,

coming in human likeness;

and found human in appearance,

he humbled himself,

becoming obedient to the point of death,

even death on a cross.

Because of this, God greatly exalted him

and bestowed on him the name

which is above every name,

that at the name of Jesus

every knee should bend,

of those in heaven and on earth and under the earth,

and every tongue confess that

Jesus Christ is Lord,

to the glory of God the Father.

Now, over the years, I seldom have thrown Greek words at you, but in this case, I think I will. The word is kenois: emptying oneself. There are a lot of early Christian writers who found this concept central to their understanding of who Jesus is, and therefore who we, his followers are.

What this means is that Jesus on the cross is a lot like the fruit tree in the story. He constantly lays down his life out of love. He constantly gives himself that we might have new life. That’s been going on for some 2,000 years, and the font of Jesus’ love has never run dry. He has never stopped loving, and so, those who turn to him can find refreshment when they are running dry, hope when they’re feeling overwhelmed, reassurance when they are in doubt, and reason to go on when they’re ready to give up.

That’s what we do each time we come to Mass: to pick some fruit form the tree of life. To receive nourishment for our weariness, courage for our fear, and hope for something better, something to hang onto when we feel dry, overcome by the challenges of the day, at the end of our rope.

Near the side entrance to our church, we have an image of the Divine Mercy, as revealed to Sr. Faustina, the Polish nun. There are rays coming forth, depicting the water and the blood that flowed from Jesus’ side when the soldier pierced him with a lance. The Church has taught that this reveals how we are formed into a community of faith. The water stands for baptism, and the blood for the Eucharist. The Church is formed from Christ’s wounded heart. We receive God’s mercy through our Lord’s total gift of self—emptying himself that we might be raised up, giving himself that we might learn the lesson of humility and service, bleeding for us that we never forget or question the depth of his love.

One final thought. Jesus’ life-giving love flows to us that we might share in his life. But it is not meant to form a big puddle of love to which we hang on selfishly. The love is meant to flow both to us and through us. If the love doesn’t go out to others, we will, like the old fruit tree, dry up and die. Love is meant to be shared, or it’s not real love at all.