The Cross and the Cushion

I never expected a meditation cushion to teach me about the Cross.

But the longer I sit, the more I understand what it means to stay, with pain, with fear, with not knowing. Not to fix it. Not to escape it. Just to remain, open and present, as it rises and passes through.

Zen doesn’t glamorize suffering. Neither does Christ.

But both invite us to meet it without flinching.

When I first came to meditation, I thought it would bring peace, and it did. But not the kind I imagined. Not a soft, glowing bliss. More like a steady presence in the middle of discomfort. The kind of peace that sits with you through the storm, not above it.

And that’s the Cross.

Not a symbol of defeat.

A doorway into transformation.

Jesus didn’t fight his pain. He didn’t spiritually bypass it.

He stayed. He breathed. He forgave.

He felt it all, and kept his heart open anyway.

Every time I sit on the cushion and refuse to run from what hurts, I feel a flicker of that same courage.

It’s not about martyrdom.

It’s about intimacy.

With suffering. With self. With the brokenness we’d rather hide from.

Christian Zen teaches that we don’t awaken by avoiding pain, we awaken by being with it, completely, with love.

That doesn’t mean sitting in silence cures trauma.

It means the cushion can become a crucible, a space where the ego breaks down and the soul remembers how to breathe again.

And sometimes, I imagine Jesus sitting beside me, not teaching, not healing, just… sitting. Watching the wind move through the trees. Holding space. Being present to what is.

That’s what the Cross and the cushion have in common:

They both ask us to stay.

To bear witness.

To open our hearts without demand for escape or reward.

Because resurrection doesn’t come after you skip the pain.

It comes through it.