For many years, I have believed that as Christians we must read the Gospels, as we must read our own lives, in the light of the resurrection. We are called to return to every moment in the life of Jesus, no matter how small: his walks along the shore of the Sea of Galilee, the bread he broke amongst friends, his prayers whispered beneath the olive trees – and see within them a hidden hope, waiting to be revealed. That is what it means to find the joy hidden among ordinary things. That knowledge of resurrection has served as my source of strength in many times of difficulty.

Yet it is only now, after so many years of living in proximity to war, violence, and displacement, that I have come to believe that we might also learn to read the Gospels, and so our own lives, in the light of the crucifixion. This also is a source of strength.

We can return to every moment in the ministry of Jesus – the Sermon on the Mount, the calming of the storm – carrying within our hearts the certainty of Jesus, crucified. And this knowledge will give us not only pain, but also solace, and the fortitude to live.

Yes, it is only in these most difficult years that I have come to know the solace of the cross, the solace of God who never stops loving us. It is in the moments of exhaustion, on more occasions than I can count, that I have remembered Jesus in his last moments, hung in agony, with his arms outstretched and nailed to wooden beams. In this moment he is only love. Deeply himself. Jesus, fully human and fully divine, who sees us.

That is the Jesus I have come to seek, a man of absolute tenderness. I have watched him, in his last hours, quietly making choices. Attentive, present, steady, a witness to the constancy of love.

He notices everyone around him. Even as he suffers and dies, he keeps offering his life in love.

Jesus on the cross, who forgives those who crucified him, calling out: “Forgive them Father, for they know not what they do.” Not only remembering them, but loving them, watching out for them.

Jesus, who speaks tenderly to the thief hanging beside him: “Truly, I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.” And in doing so not only hears him, but accompanies him, offering encouragement in his greatest hour of agony.

Jesus, who says to John: “Behold your mother.” And to his mother: “Here is your son.”

Jesus, who prays the psalms.

Jesus, who cries out. Who is thirsty.

Jesus, who says simply: “Into your hands I commend my spirit.”

It is this Jesus on the cross who comes to me in these dark times. All compassion. All goodness. Jesus, who in his torment remains fully available, connected. Who reads the hearts of those around him, as he reads ours.

Starting from there, I can return and re-read the Gospels in a new way, for I know that his teachings, even the most difficult ones, are not only true in quiet times. For isn’t it easy to speak of hunger when we have food, of forgiveness when no one has wounded us? But Jesus teaches everything again by living it on the cross, simply in being himself, in that place, at that hour.

Love your enemy. Do good to those who hate you.

Bless those who curse you. Pray for those who abuse you.

Turn the other cheek. Love your neighbor as yourself.

Do good to others as you would have them do unto you.

His words remain true. And in being true, they are not only solace. They are also miracle.

Truly, this was the son of God.

Watching him, I know that this is how I want to attempt to live in the world, strengthened with the love of God. Carrying the knowledge that cruelty and violence have lost their power. Even in wartime. Even if everything else should be destroyed. I want to remember that it is possible to still be kind. It is possible to love. It is possible to forgive. It is possible to remain present to the needs of others.

And so, knowing this solace of the cross, the urge comes to live in the world with a little bit more compassion. To offer to lift someone else’s heavy bags. To open a door. To bandage a wound. To smile. To call someone by name. To place one’s head at the foot of a child’s bed after an exhausting day, and sing a lullaby. The urge comes to love not only in response to the violence of the world, but as an end in and of itself. Because that is God loving with us and in us. And I can notice those around me, living this kindness against gravity, day after day, largely unnoticed, and I can recognize the miracle in it.

This is my prayer, that in carrying the solace of the crucifixion, it might be possible to move in the world with a little less fear. The freedom of the cross is in this – that God has made it possible to love, even in the face of violence and war and hatred, and death itself. In this knowledge, darkness, at least for a moment, loses its power, for it cannot destroy what is dearest to us. What is true is true and will always be true.

So we return to the beginning of the Gospels and read the words again in the light of the cross, strengthened in trust that it will guide us.

Forgive, and you will be forgiven
   (And this is true, even on the cross)
Give and it will be given to you
   (And this is true, even on the cross)
Do not worry about your life
   (And this is true, even on the cross)
Love one another, as I have loved you.