Signs pointing beyond themselves

The first thing that strikes you on entering the public church of the Monastery of the Holy Cross is the water font immediately to the left of the entrance. Above it hangs a simple metal sign inscribed with the words: “One Lord, One Faith, One Baptism”—a direct quotation from Ephesians 4:5. Before a single word is spoken, the church proclaims the fundamental unity of Christian life grounded in baptism.

Moving into the body of the church, your eye is drawn in an unbroken line toward the altar, the true centre and focal point of the entire space. As you approach, you notice that the altar rises a little from a large circular base, solidly grounded and yet visually expansive. What immediately struck me was its resemblance to the Eucharistic host—one form composed of many parts. It called to mind Saint Paul’s words:

“Because there is one bread, we who are many are one body, for we all partake of the one bread.” (1 Corinthians 10:17)

In the Eucharist, we are not merely gathered together; we are drawn into communion with Christ and with one another. It is here that our divisions are healed and our dignity as members of one Body is revealed. There is one table, and it belongs to the Lord.

The altar’s circular base is especially eloquent in this regard. Circular, open, and unbroken, it suggests a table extended to all, without exclusion. There is no altar rail, rood screen, or sharply demarcated space. The monks’ choir blends naturally into the wider assembly, expressing the shared participation of the monastic community and the faithful in the one sacrifice of Christ – while still respecting the distinct liturgical roles proper to each.

A significant detail rests upon the altar itself: the Book of the Scriptures or the Gospel. When you lift your eyes, you see directly behind the altar the icon of the Cross, aligned in a single visual axis. The Word of God rests on the same altar where bread and wine are consecrated and become the Body and Blood of Christ. Word and Sacrament are inseparable: the Word is proclaimed from the lectern at the foot of the Cross, and the Sacrament is offered upon the altar directly in front of it.

Looking again at the base of the altar, the tiled, stone-like design evokes another scriptural image:

“Like living stones, let yourselves be built into a spiritual house, to be a holy priesthood, to offer spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God through Jesus Christ.” (1 Peter 2:5)

We are those living stones. Christ is the cornerstone, and in him we are built together into a dwelling place for God. At the altar, Christ’s once-for-all sacrifice is made present, and our own lives—our joys, labours, and sufferings—are united to his offering.

This imagery of living stones continues beyond the church walls. In the surrounding fields and monastic landscape, large boulders have been deliberately arranged, quietly echoing the same symbolism. Each visit reveals something new, something previously unnoticed—a reminder that sacred spaces reward attentive eyes and patient contemplation.

Beyond the signs of altar and cross lies the deeper reality they signify: the Mystical Body of Christ—the Church militant, suffering, and triumphant—mysteriously united. Heaven and earth touch one another here. Looking straight upward, a long, narrow glass window runs the length of the nave, bathing the space in descending light.

Above the apse, the roof structure suggests a ladder-like pattern. It is hard not to think of Christ’s words to Nathanael:

“Very truly, I tell you, you will see heaven opened and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of Man.” (John 1:51)

This image resonates deeply with the vision traditionally attributed to SaintBernard of Tolomei, founder of the Olivetan Benedictines. In prayer, he saw monks clothed in white ascending a ladder toward heaven, aided by angels and welcomed by Christ and his mother. The vision speaks not merely of monastic life, but of the universal Christian vocation: we are all called upward, toward holiness and wholeness.

Christ himself is the true ladder between heaven and earth; the sacraments and the Word are the means by which we ascend, sustained by grace.

On the northern side of the church, the Blessed Sacrament is reverently reserved in the tabernacle. While the altar rightly remains the architectural heart of the building, the tabernacle quietly anchors the space in Christ’s abiding Eucharistic presence—a presence visible from every part of the church.

Finally, icons are used sparingly yet deliberately throughout the building, including an image of the Blessed Virgin Mary, before which the community gathers each evening to sing the final Marian antiphon at the close of Compline.

Everything in this church—its materials, geometry, and ordered simplicity—points beyond itself, directing the heart toward heavenly realities.