Day 3: Cross Mountain and other graces

Day three in Medjugorje dawned bright and still, the sun rising behind Cross Mountain—Krizevac, as the locals call it. Even from the village below, you can see the great white cross standing guard over the valley, like a silent sentinel of faith. Draga led us along the detour to the foot of the mountain, where the climb begins. Can you see the cross on the top of this mountain? That's where we set out to head.

Cross Mountain was built through the faith of this village. In 1933, Pope Pius XI wanted every parish to put up a cross outside to mark the 1,900th anniversary of the crucifixion of Jesus. In Medjugorje, the villagers carried heavy materials up by hand and erected the enormous concrete cross that still crowns the summit. Inside that cross are sealed relics of the True Cross from Jerusalem. It has stood through war and peace, rain and fire, a beacon pointing heavenward. Every pilgrim who climbs it retraces, in a way, the steps of Calvary.

As we climbed, we could hear faintly from below the chant from St. James Church—the morning liturgies echoing up through the valley. It felt as though the whole town was praying with us. The wind carried the sound of song and bells, mingling with the rhythm of our own voices as we prayed the Stations of the Cross, written by Fr. Slavko Barbarić.

Fr. Slavko is one of Medjugorje’s great heroes. He has become a friend of mine in heaven! Draga knew him, of course! A Franciscan priest, he devoted his life to the spiritual care of pilgrims and the young people of this village. He wrote deeply about prayer, peace, and the inner life—books like Pray with the Heart, Give Me Your Wounded Heart, Adore My Son with Your Heart, Fast with the Heart, and In the School of Love. That phrase—“with the heart”—was the key to everything he taught. Prayer wasn’t to be said by rote; it was to be lived from the core of one’s being, offered with total sincerity and love.

In 2000, on a Friday at 3 p.m., Fr. Slavko died suddenly of a heart attack—right here on this mountain, moments after finishing the 12th Station of the Cross, where Jesus dies on the Cross. It was no coincidence. The man who had spent his life teaching people to pray “with the heart” and walk the way of the Cross was called home at the Hour of Mercy, on Cross Mountain, at the foot of the Cross, at the hour and on the day of Christ's death, his own heart surrendered to the One he loved. His death wasn’t tragic—it was providential. To die in the place of prayer, in the act of contemplation, at the very hour of Christ’s death… there’s no better way for a priest to go.

At the top of the mountain, near the base of the cross, there’s a massive concrete block—placed there by the young men of the Cenacolo Community. They carried it up in gratitude for Fr. Slavko’s love and care for them. Cenacolo is a community for young men and women recovering from addiction, not through therapy or medication, but through hard work, prayer, and rediscovering the dignity of being children of God. It’s a place of resurrection, and we’ll be visiting there in two days. But today, standing before that block they carried, we felt the weight of their gratitude and the power of transformation.

At the summit, we prayed in silence for a long time. The wind was gentle; the whole mountain seemed wrapped in a kind of sacred hush. I prayed again for all the intentions entrusted to me—the same ones I had offered on Apparition Hill—and for all the priests who long to serve with hearts like Fr. Slavko’s. There’s a peace on Cross Mountain that’s unlike anything else: raw, deep, steady. It feels like being inside the heartbeat of God.

Draga told us how there was one priest, Fr. Bernardin Smoljan, who had his first Mass on top of Cross Mountain in 1934. He had helped quite a bit in the building of the enormous cross up there. The cross is about 20 tons.  When the cross was completed in March of 1934, Fr. Bernardin was about to become a priest. Once ordained, he asked permission to celebrate his first Holy Mass right there, at the base of that newly built cross, rather than inside the church. He wanted to offer the Eucharist literally beneath the Cross, uniting his own priesthood and the offering of the Mass to Christ’s sacrifice on Calvary.

For a priest, there’s deep symbolism in that: every Mass is the renewal of the one sacrifice of Christ on the Cross, made present again on the altar. By celebrating his first Mass there, Fr. Bernardin was reminding everyone: when you to to Mass, you go to Calvalry! 

It also set a tone for Medjugorje itself. Before there were apparitions, before pilgrims arrived, before the world ever knew the name “Medjugorje,” the people here had already lifted up a cross over their village and placed the Eucharist beneath it. The entire story of this place—decades later, the apparitions, the conversions, the call to peace and prayer—all flow from that act of faith.

As I stood up there on Cross Mountain, I realized: I'm not just looking at a monument; I'm standing where a young priest once offered his first Mass, dedicating his whole vocation to the mystery of the Cross. I must do the same. 

Draga told a story that lingers in the mind long after you hear it—a story from the days when the borders shifted, and with them, the soul of a nation. The region that had once been part of Italy was absorbed into Yugoslavia after the Second World War, when Communist rule began to dominate every corner of life. Under Italy, hospitals, schools, and public buildings bore crucifixes in each room—a simple, public witness to faith. But when the Communists took control, the crucifixes were torn down and portraits of Marshal Tito went up in their place. Yet in one particular hospital by the border, the doctors, though outwardly compliant, could not bring themselves to remove the crucifixes. Perhaps it was a remnant of childhood faith, or perhaps simply reverence for what that cross had seen through years of war and suffering. One day, a woman came in to give birth—a staunch Communist, proud of her ideology and bitter toward religion. As she was led into the delivery room, she saw the crucifix still hanging there and became furious. “Remove that!” she demanded. “I don’t want my daughter ever to see that sign!” The doctors hesitated; they knew what was expected of them politically, but something deep inside prevented them from taking it down. They refused, quietly, respectfully. The woman insisted, but the child came before her words could finish. After the birth, the doctor approached her, holding the newborn in his arms, and said with solemnity, “Your request has been granted—but not by our will. Your child was born blind.” The room fell silent. It was as though the cross itself had spoken. Draga said the story became a parable whispered through the villages: how many people, even today, do not want to see the Cross, and in closing their hearts to it, they lose sight of the very light that could have given them life.

I thought of a very simple thought. No one could ever climb this mountain the same way—just as no one makes the same journey to heaven. Each step, each heart, each story is different. Yet we all go together, helping one another along the way. The paths may twist and turn, but Our Lord and Our Lady walk them all, meeting each of us right where we are.

Eventually we began our descent, the rocks slippery from so many feet over so many years. The rhythm of the rosary guided us down, our voices blending with the rustle of wind in the olive trees. Later, we concelebrated Mass together—a sea of priests and pilgrims once again, the Gospel alive in every word. It was so beautiful, so filled with presence.

After the Mass came adoration, the square glowing with candlelight, the monstrance gleaming beneath the stars. Pilgrims knelt in silence, the only sound a soft hymn of praise. And then, after benediction—almost unbelievably—the little boy from yesterday found me again. The same one who had handed me the rock on Apparition Hill. He smiled and waved shyly. I couldn’t help but think: Our Lady sends her reminders. 

As I knelt in the stillness, I thought again of Fr. Slavko’s words: “Pray with the heart.” Here, on this mountain, with the Cross towering above and the prayers of the world rising like incense, that’s exactly what happens. Hearts pray. Hearts are healed. Hearts are made new.