About six years ago, not long after I arrived at Second,
we convened some conversations about upgrading our
roadside sign situation. At the time, I learned that some
among us refer to the current sign by the driveway
as the tombstone. Not exactly the best symbol for a
vibrant, lively congregation! Well, the rigors of zoning
boards and local jurisdictions can be daunting, and
we’re still at it. But, in the meantime, I’ve made myself a
student of church signs.
I want to offer for you the preliminary results of my
research. Church signs fall into three distinct categories.
The first are event announcements. “Organ Concert: This
Sunday, 4 pm” (that’s true; please come). The second
category are short biblical verses or pithy proverbs.
“God is Love.” “For God so loved the world.” And the
final category takes up cheesy church jokes. “Seven
Days without Prayer Makes One Weak.” (I’m sorry.) Most
church signs, despite those zoning boards and local
jurisdictions, are harmless, but not long ago I read one
that I confess irritated me. I won’t say which church, but
the sign read, “Apply Here: Advancement Guaranteed.”
Maybe I should lighten up and appreciate the humor,
but when I read those words, I thought of the Apostle
Paul. What would he think of this message? I thought
of the Christians living in Corinth and the tensions that
divided them. I thought of the cross.
Recall that the Corinthian church is in trouble. There is
division. There are factions. And I bet there were debates
over what the church sign should say. Some argued:
“Corinth Presbyterian Church, the most intelligent
congregation in town.” How about, “Corinth Methodist
Church, where the power people pray.” Or perhaps,
“Corinth Baptist Church, worship each Sunday with
a who’s who of Corinthian high society.” Others, you
recall, were arguing over whose name should appear on
the sign. Some wanted to engrave the congregation’s
founder, the Apostle Paul. Others preferred Apollos, that
silver-tongued young preacher. Still others Peter, the
rock on which the whole movement was built.
And it is getting heated in the Corinth Session meeting.
So, Paul drafts a letter to the church, and according
to Paul, here’s what belongs on the church sign. Are
you ready? “We proclaim Christ crucified. Only fools
apply here.” Paul insists that there is only one symbol
appropriate for the church—a cross. While others
debate who is most important, intelligent, impressive, or
impactful, Paul reminds the Corinthian Christians that
their salvation stands on a scandalous sign of suffering.
We worship a crucified savior. We find the presence of
God on a cross.
The message has been controversial from the very
beginning. From the outset, some sought ways to
smooth over this unseemly symbol. They were creative
in their approaches. Some claimed that only the
human part of Jesus suffered or died on the cross while
the divine part suffered no pain. Others ignored the
Apostle’s focus on Christ crucified and suggested that
the resurrection had nullified that unfortunate detail
about a detour through death. Concerned about the
optics, some early Christians tried to cancel the cross,
remove it from their roadside sign. And who can blame
them? After all, it’s a symbol of weakness. It represents
Jesus at his lowest point, makes us look like losers, no
way to attract or influence.
And the same tactics of denial and erasure are still
being employed. The late theologian and Wabash
College professor William Placher suggests that “our
culture massively resists a theology of the cross.”
The way of costly discipleship is replaced by the gospel
of easy success. Apply Here: Advancement Guaranteed.
Preachers of prosperity gospels insist that the cross was
merely a temporary setback on the way to total triumph,
and what’s more, that this same success is promised to
you if you truly believe. There is no cross to bear.
It’s not difficult to understand the appeal. We want, we
crave, a victory story. We love a hero’s journey. “We
proclaim Christ crucified,” Paul wrote, “a stumbling
block to some and to others utter foolishness.” Still
true. We shout, “Give us the God from the ceiling of
the Sistine Chapel—muscular, potent, intimidating, the
Christian answer to Zeus. That’s what we need.”
But then tragedy strikes. The unthinkable loss of a loved
one far too soon. Or the test comes back positive. A
dream is shattered. A relationship is ended. We watch
those we cherish fade. Violence unleashed on the
innocent. The world spins ceaselessly in a series of
senseless suffering. There is a cross to bear. And then
only the Gospel truth of a crucified savior makes any
sense at all. Bill Placher again: “God did not stand by
and watch someone else die on the cross. God was
there. We see how much God loves us.”
This weakness is the power of God. This risky,
vulnerable power. The most transformative truth the
world has ever heard. God’s power in human weakness.
All our expectations turned upside down.
What if it is true? What if our preoccupation with power
and our inflexible insistence on intelligence only serve to
separate us from the source of our strength and the path
to true wisdom?
The cross confronts us with a choice. A crossroads.
We can accept a definition of power as domination. We
can do whatever needs done to get ahead despite all
collateral damage. We can make the understandable
assumption that this world is divided between winners
and losers and then work to be sure that we’re on the
winning side. We can twist the gospel into convoluted
knots to justify our actions. And you don’t have to look
far to find examples. I hear the preachers. God wants a
powerful church. I’ve been reprimanded by those who
say the way of Jesus has no place in the contemporary
context, all this mercy and sacrifice, compassion and
selflessness. No, Christians must seek authority in every
arena. Dominionism, they call it. A mandate to rule.
Forget the cross. Seize the throne.
The crossroads question is crystal clear—what kind
of people will we be? Or perhaps more directly—what
depiction of divinity deserves our devotion? If we
worship power, we will be content to claim it no matter
the method. Ends justify the means. We could sell our
soul for the perceived success and end up emptier than
we began. Somewhere someone said there is no profit
in gaining the whole world when you lose your moral
courage and your conscience in the process. Friends, no
amount of power is worth selling your soul.
And so, in place of this tortured take on discipleship, we
proclaim Christ crucified. The costliest of love. The most
selfless of sacrifice. A call to serve that comes with a
warning: the paradox of wisdom is that it often appears
foolish. The paradox of divine power is that it is weak by
our standards. And yet, this foolishness, this weakness,
they offer the only path to life worth living, the only
comfort when tragedy strikes.
Next month, our family will spend a few days in
Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, where we will visit
my grandmother who recently turned 95 and other
members of our extended family two miles away
from the tiny hamlet of Nickel Mines. Eighteen years
ago, in that peaceful Amish community, a one-room
schoolhouse became the scene of a terrible crime,
five young children murdered by a troubled man who
then took his own life. It was a story of immense and
seemingly irreparable pain in such a tranquil community
committed to nonviolence.
Evil invaded those sacred spaces, and the story
might have ended there, in tragedy and senseless
violence. It could have caused a cycle of retribution
and vengeance. An eye for an eye. But that’s not what
happened. Days after the attack we learned what
did happen. The grandfather of one victim said to a
reporter, “We must not think evil of this man; he had a
mother and a soul.”
Thirty members of the Amish community attended the
shooter’s funeral, and the man’s widow was invited to
attend the service for the children. In response, she
wrote a letter to her Amish neighbors. It was published
in the local newspaper. My grandmother cut it out and
mailed it to me. She wrote, “The gifts you’ve given have
moved our hearts in a way no words can describe. Your
compassion has reached beyond my family, beyond
our community, and is changing our world, and for this
we sincerely thank you.”
Now you might remember that some were offended by
that swift and complete attempt at reconciliation offered
by the Amish community. Too much. Too soon. It seemed
outrageous, unthinkable, madness. Foolishness.
Perhaps. Perhaps it was. Or perhaps it simply exposed
the madness we call normal: obsession with vengeance,
violent retribution, an eye for an eye. Perhaps, by faith,
they knew something most of us cannot comprehend.
Perhaps those simple words of forgiveness, those acts
of compassion, displayed the wisdom and power of God
in ways the world will never embrace.
But we, who proclaim Christ crucified, may we pray for
the courage to be so wise. Forget the throne. Cling to
the cross. Amen