I don't wear a cross. I find it a bit cheesy. I grew up in the south and wearing crosses was what girls from the mill hill did. It's a classist thing. Though I renounce much of my southern upbringing, there are some things that are so much of part of the marrow of my bones that it is hard to see the utter stupidity of them.
A group of clergywomen met yesterday to begin a group. We went off in a direction totally different from what I had expected, planned and hoped. But it was really good. We decided that only one of us likes our current city. And so we decided that we would witness (see, not proclaim) the holy in our city.
And I woke up with the idea that I am a bearer of the holy. I feel this when I serve the bread and tell someone as I look her in the eye: this is the bread of life. But, I can/should be a bearer of the holy in all that I do.
Then this afternoon, I began to think that maybe, just maybe, I should wear a cross. Or perhaps I'll just start with my triquetra and ease in slowly.