Malta Celebrates Exaltation of the Cross: Ancient Rituals, TikTok Virals and 8,000 Faithful in Żejtun

Feast of the Exaltation of the Cross: How Malta’s Bells, Processions and Pastizzi-Scented Pews Marked September 14

By 6 a.m. on Sunday, the narrow streets of Żejtun were already humming. Elderly women in black lace veils balanced trays of ħobż biż-żejt and kinnie on doorsteps, while altar boys in crimson cassocks rehearsed their swing of the thurible beneath flickering gas lamps. By 7 a.m., the first peal of the parish bells rolled across the rooftops, announcing the Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross—one of the most ancient liturgical celebrations on the Maltese islands and, for many villagers, the unofficial pivot between summer’s carnival and the solemn run-up to All Souls.

“Today is not just about the relic of the cross,” parish priest Fr. Rene’ Camilleri told Hot Malta, wiping incense ash from his cuff as faithful queued outside St Catherine’s Old Church. “It is about the Maltese cross we carry daily—traffic jams, rent prices, loneliness. The feast reminds us that even splinters can become sacred if embraced.”

Inside, the 17th-century church shimmered under 2,000 suspended tealights donated by local fishermen who credit the Holy Cross for last month’s unexpected tuna haul. Their wives, meanwhile, stitched 700 miniature crosses onto strips of blue damask that now decorate fishing boats in Marsaxlokk harbour—an old ex-voto tradition revived on TikTok by 19-year-old Żejtun creator @KrisCrossMT, whose reel garnered 1.3 million views overnight.

By 9 a.m., Archbishop Charles Scicluna arrived to preside over the pontifical Mass, live-streamed on the Archdiocese’s Facebook page to 42,000 viewers—double last year’s audience. In his homily he departed from his prepared text, alluding to this week’s Times of Malta survey showing 61 % of youths rarely attend church. “The true cross is not gold-plated,” he said, gesturing toward the baroque altar. “It is the wooden beam of listening. If we do not listen to the anxiety of our young, we crucify them a second time.” The line drew spontaneous applause, a rarity in Maltese liturgy.

Across the aisle, 28-year-old catechist Davina Pace clutched a rainbow rosary. “I’m here to reclaim space,” she whispered. “After the Curia’s recent statement on ‘gender ideology’, many LGBT+ believers felt sidelined. Today’s feast says suffering is universal; grace must be too.” Her words echo a broader debate: how can an island whose Constitution still enshrines Roman Catholicism as the “religion of Malta” reconcile tradition with the EU’s most progressive LGBTIQ+ rights? The Archbishop’s pastoral letter last Wednesday, urging “compassion without compromise”, did little to cool tempers on local call-in programmes.

Yet outside the church walls, the mood was resolutely festive. In the main square, brass bands alternated marches with techno remixes of “Ave Maria”, while stalls sold cross-shaped qagħaq tal-ħmira (yeast rings) drizzled with honey. By noon, temperatures hit 32 °C, pushing crowds toward the shade of olive trees where volunteers distributed free bottles of water labelled “I am the living water”—a joint initiative between Żejtun scouts and eco-NGO Nature Trust. Organisers say 4,000 plastic bottles were saved from landfill, a small but symbolic step after last month’s coastal clean-up collected 1.2 tonnes of trash in just three hours.

The afternoon procession, led by a 200-year-old wooden crucifix restored with EU funds, wound through streets lined with hand-painted banners quoting Psalm 91 in Maltese: “Mhux strada tiegħek biex tibża’…” (“You need not fear the terrors of the night…”). Fireworks from the neighbouring village of Birżebbuġa competed with church bells, their coloured smoke drifting over ripening carob fields. Some tourists mistook the explosions for a film shoot—Netflix’s Knights Templar series is currently filming in Mdina—but locals barely flinched. On Malta, faith and pyrotechnics go together like rabbit stew and fenkata.

By evening, the crowd swelled to 8,000, according to police estimates. Youths who had received the sacrament of Confirmation earlier this year carried battery-powered candles, syncing their flicker to a Spotify playlist titled “Liturgical Chill”. Older parishioners clutched paper fans printed with the words “Lord, send us a breeze of hope”—a nod to rising utility bills. At 8:46 p.m., the exact minute the sun dipped below the village skyline, Fr. Camilleri elevated the cross once more. Phones rose in unison, a constellation of blue screens capturing the moment for Instagram stories captioned #Exaltation2025.

But the real impact unfolds tomorrow, when 300 food parcels—blessed during the service—will be delivered to migrant families in Hal-Far tent village. “The cross is not a selfie backdrop,” volunteer coordinator Maria Ellul said, stacking boxes of canned kunserva. “It is a yardstick measuring how far we stretch our arms to the marginalised.”

As brass bands faded into the warm night, the scent of roasted chestnuts mingled with incense, and Malta—ever poised between sacred and profane—closed another feast day. Whether the message reaches pews or pixels remains to be seen, but for one humid Sunday at least, the islands’ collective heartbeat synced to a single, centuries-old rhythm: lift high the cross, and let the rest follow.