There are moments in Scripture which, like doors slightly ajar, invite us into rooms far deeper than we first imagined. One such moment occurs in the Gospel of John, where Christ says: “Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up” (John 3:14). At first glance, the comparison may seem almost grotesque; our Saviour is likened to a serpent, an emblem of death and sin. And yet, here lies one of the profoundest truths in all of Christian thought: that God redeems not merely through might, but through our deepest pain.

Recall the scene in the book of Numbers. The Israelites, having once again rebelled against God, are plagued by fiery serpents. They cry out for mercy, and Moses is instructed not to remove the serpents, but to lift up a bronze image of one on a pole. All who looked upon it were healed. They were not told to pretend the serpents weren't real, nor were they told to earn their healing. They had only to look. The very image of their suffering became the conduit for their salvation.

And so it is with the Cross.

Christ was lifted up, not as a mere martyr, nor as a teacher, but as the one who became sin for us (2 Corinthians 5:21). The Cross is no mere symbol; it is the divine paradox. There, the Innocent bore guilt. The Holy bore shame. The Immortal embraced death. And in that darkest moment, the door to light was thrown open.

But let us not rush too quickly to the light. For many of us, the problem is not believing in Christ’s victory – it is believing that our pain, our guilt, our most unmentionable failures, could possibly be included in it. We imagine the Cross as something above us, clean and exalted. But in truth, the Cross descends. It is God stooping down into the filth of our humanity. If Christ is lifted up, He is lifted up with all the sins of the world pressing down upon Him – mine and yours.

This is the invitation: not to hide your wounds, but to bring them into the light of the Cross. To look upon the Crucified One and see not only the cost of love, but its healing. Your deepest pain is not too deep for Him. In fact, it is precisely where He means to meet you.

Lift your eyes, then, not in despair, but in hope. The Cross does not demand perfection; it only asks you to look. And in looking, you may find not only healing, but yourself. There are no more facades, or masks, or games pretending to be okay. Beholding the crucified one, we find the power and meaning behind our suffering. Jesus can use it for our salvation. Once we stop running from our pain, we can exclaim like the legendary 5th century bishop, St. Augustine – “In my deepest wound, I saw your glory and it dazzled me.”