The Lampedusa Cross
“One Sunday in 2011, at the height of the Arab spring, a carpenter from the Sicilian island of Lampedusa made a decision to stop making furniture. Francesco Tuccio was at Mass in his local church and among the congregation were bedraggled groups of newly arrived Eritrean migrants, weeping for loved ones who had drowned during the Mediterranean crossing.
“After the service Lampedusa’s carpenter went to the beach and began collecting the blistered, brightly coloured driftwood from the wreckage of migrant boats that had washed up on Lampedusa’s shores. Alone in his workshop, Francesco carved crosses from the timber, shivering at the wood’s strange touch which he said made him think of holy relics and which smelt “of salt, sea and suffering”. He asked his parish priest to display a big, rough cross above the altar to remind the congregation of the migrants’ desperate plight and he offered every migrant he saw a small cross as a symbol of their rescue and of hope for a new life.” [Emma Jane Kirby, BBC News website].
Even today, in our cynical western world, the cross still speaks of “rescue” and “hope for a new life”. In fact – dare we say it? – it speaks of a rescue that is even deeper, a hope that is sure and certain, and a life we can barely dream of: a world where God has wiped away the last tear.