An exorcist cleansed a local house of oppressive spirits, some time ago. A friend of the priest who exorcised it told me that he had remarked that there were no crucifixes hung anywhere on the walls, even though the family was Catholic.
No crosses, no icons, no devotional pictures, no holy cards, no tin Sacred Hearts, no dried-up palm branches stuffed behind a family photo. No Bible, decorative or otherwise. But especially, no crucifix.
I only heard his comment second-hand, so I’m not sure if there was any follow-up, or how much importance he attached to it. Still, he thought it was worth remarking on, and so it’s something I’ve been thinking about. Why should we hang crucifixes in our house, if not to ward off demons?
Well, warding off demons isn’t actually a bad motivation. The cross, and specifically the crucifix, does have a certain amount of power just because of what it is, and (just purely speculating as a layman). I can imagine an unclean spirit at very least feeling uncomfortable around it, and less willing to settle in.
But of course, the crucifix isn’t a magic charm or a lucky horseshoe. What I can more easily imagine is an unclean spirit feeling uncomfortable in a house where a crucifix is not only hung, but noticed and revered.
But let’s say you hung up a crucifix, and that was the end of it. You did it because you always had one growing up, or because you wanted to make your grandmother happy, or because it just looks pretty. You don’t especially revere it or even notice it after a while. Is it still worthwhile?
Read the rest of my latest for The Catholic Weekly.
Wow, what a great piece. I am going to have my kids read it, too, and spend some time reflecting.
Thanks for writing!
I have a crucifix hanging on my wall in my bedroom.
Simcha, your penultimate paragraph is exactly why I, though formally Protestant (and a Presbyterian one, no less), own a crucifix. I got it at Gethsemane Abbey when I was in the depths of despair – chronic pain, severe depression, infertility, etc. – and it reminded me every day that Jesus didn’t leave me alone in pain. I looked at it every time some not-so-well-meaning protestant told me that if I was upset about infertility, it meant I didn’t love Jesus enough. I looked at it every morning when I didn’t think I had the strength to get out of bed. I looked at it every evening when I wasn’t sure I wanted to live through the night. I didn’t have the emotional energy to read the right Scriptures; I’m deaf so I couldn’t listen to uplifting songs; and I desperately needed that graphic reminder that Christ was a human, just like me, and understood weakness and suffering.