Sermon by Reverend Dr. John W. Mann | September 3, 2023

Matthew 16:21-28

How long does it take to write a sermon? I ponder that question every Monday morning when I sit down in front of my computer. It’s like asking, how long is a piece of string? The answer being, it depends. In one sense I started working on this sermon the day I was born. In another sense, I started writing it around 30 years ago. I’ve re-written it many times since then. I’ve preached it a few times. You might call it a re-run, but it’s never exactly the same as before.

Jesus said that to be his follower, you must pick up your cross and follow him. Not only that, you must deny yourself. Does that mean we struggling along under the weight of a heavy burden? Sometimes people will say, “God never gives you more than you can carry.” But I think about people struggling not to starve or living in a war zone or in an abusive relationship – are they supposed to see that as God’s choice for their lot in life?

Did he mean perhaps the willingness to face losing it all, even your life, because if worse comes to worse, resurrection awaits you? What did he mean, “Take up your cross?” Do we each have our own custom made cross to carry? What if that was the case? Where would we find it? Let’s imagine – Once upon a time …

I wanted a cross and had heard about a store that sells them. It was located in a mall, across the way from the Apple store. I went in. The place was filled with crosses. This would take some time. A well-dressed young man greeted me as soon as I crossed the threshold of the store. “Can I help you find anything today?” he asked.

“I’m looking for a cross,” I told him.

“We have crosses,” he said. “What kind of cross are you looking for?”

“Well, I was thinking about the one Jesus told me to carry. I don’t really know what it looks like. I figure I’ll know it when I see it. Maybe you can show me a few to help me decide.”

“I’d be happy to,” he said, “Let’s start with something practical.” As he lifted a small item off the rack, he went to say, “This is our Swiss Army Cross. This is the cross for those who want to be prepared. It’s easily concealed until you really need it. And look here, it has about thirty attachments, including scissors and a toothpick.”

“Wow,” I said, “what else do you have?”

“Over here,” he went on, “we have a selection of stainless-steel crosses; guaranteed never to stain, rust or corrode. And this one is our Dr. Scholl’s Posturepedic cross. It won’t give you a backache when you carry it. Notice the foam padding. Here we have our Precious Moments Cross. This is the one you keep in the closet until the pastor or your more religious friends and relatives stop by. “

He pointed to an aisle and said, “Over here we have our political section.” There were a number of crosses on the shelves, but they were all the same, a sort of dull grey color. I pointed that out and he said, “Of course they’re all the same. What you need to do is get a ‘cross cover’ to put on yours. We have different colors for your political preferences, the slogans that suit you, various flag renditions, pictures of your favorite politicians. You carry one of these and people are going to know where you stand.”

He went on to say, “If you’re not into politics, we have crosses with your favorite sports team logos. There’s some with celebrity branding and even some Tik-Tok influencer crosses.”

“So much to choose from,” I said.

He really wanted to make a sale it seemed. He added, “All of our crosses come with a 90-day unconditional guarantee. You can also buy an extended warranty that includes a full-service plan.”

“A service plan? What could possibly go wrong with a cross?” I asked. “Oh, you’d be surprised,” he said.

“Thanks for showing me around,” I said. “Nothing here really grabs me.”

I left the mall and wandered downtown, where I noticed a pawn shop. Thinking they might have a cross, I went inside.

A tinkling bell over the threshold announced my arrival. The place was dark and dusty. Junk was piled up everywhere. It was a small space and there were no crosses in sight. A guy sat behind the one counter in the shop. He looked to be around thirty years old; somewhat rough around the edges. He looked up and greeted me. I told him I was looking for a cross and he said, “We just got one in last week. It’s in the back. Follow me.”

We went down a narrow hallway and off to the side there was a room. We went in. The only light was from a bare bulb hanging by a wire from the ceiling.  There in the corner was a canvas tarp that the man pulled aside, to reveal a rather large wooden cross.

“This is certainly a cross, but I’m not sure it’s really what I’m looking for.” I told him. “For one thing, it’s too big to be practical. I’m not really looking for a garden ornament. I want something I can carry. This looks fairly old and beat up.”

“It is old,” he offered. “It might even be ancient. I’m pretty sureit’s been around a long time.”

“As for beat up,” he said, “It has been well used. By how many or by whom, I can’t tell you for certain. Just hear me out. Let’s take a closer look at this cross.”

The cross was worn smooth in places, and there were holes and gouges in it. It was mottled in places by dark stains. I said, “I might be interested in this cross. What can you tell me about it?”

He thought for a moment and said, “It has been said that many people have carried this cross. You can see how in places it has been worn smooth. Many nails have been driven into this cross. Look at all the holes. Take this one for example. This is actually a bullet hole. Oscar Romero was carrying this cross when he was gunned down by right wing death squad while serving communion at the altar of his church in El Salvador.”

“Or this gouge here. The priest Maximillian Kolbe was carrying the cross when he took the place of a condemned man at a Nazi death camp. And that dent there is from a police baton. Martin Luther King carried this cross down to Birmingham, Alabama in 1963.”

“And the many stains? Those are blood, sweat and tears. Layer upon layer, worn off, washed off and reapplied. Africans wept upon this cross during their transatlantic journey into slavery. Parents who lost their children to violence have wept here. That dried mud there is from the trenches at Passchendaele. Those burn marks are from the ovens at Auschwitz. Grief upon grief has been spilled on this cross.”

“It must be very heavy,” I said.

“It can be quite a burden,” he replied, “but I’ve heard that those willing to bear it, don’t seem to notice the weight.”

“Why is that?” I asked. It looked like it must weigh a ton.

The fellow ran his hand along the underside of the cross beam. “Notice how it’s worn here,” he said. I looked and it seemed worn in one place over a long time. “If it ever gets too heavy to bear, it’s as if someone comes along to hold it right about here.”

“You mean . . . .” He just nodded. He didn’t have to say more.

He stood waiting. He never asked if I would take it. “I have just one more question,” I said. “With everything you’ve said about this cross, how do I know if I’m worthy to carry this cross?”

“Worthy?” he said with chuckle. “Who is worthy? If you ever think you are worthy to bear this load, my friend, then you’d be better off setting it down for a while. The strength to bear it comes not from your own strength, or the strength of your pride, but from the power of your humility. Perhaps only Christ himself can say who is worthy to carry this cross. But if you feel in your heart his call to bear it, then it is yours to bear. The choice to bear it is yours and yours alone.”

“I guess I’ll take it,” I said. I reached for my credit card as I asked, “How much is it, anyway?”

“That’s an interesting question,” he said.

And I thought, “Here we go – I knew there had to be a catch.”

He continued, “This cross is priceless. In fact, there is no amount of money in the world that can buy this cross. If there is a price to pay, then you will discover what that is when you carry it. Other than that, it’s free. Put your card away. If you want it, it’s yours for the taking.”

As he helped me lift it up on my shoulders, he said, “There’s just one more thing. You may find that this cross has a mind of its own. You can put it down anytime you please, but if you do, it may not be where you left it. If you lose it, you may not find it again. When you carry it, it may take you places you never thought you would go. Even frightening places and uncomfortable situations; you may think it’s more trouble than it’s worth, but in its trouble, you will find your true worth. I’ve never known anyone who has regretted carrying this cross.”

He opened the front door of the shop for me and I struggled through with the heavy cross. Once through I turned around to thank him, saying, “I can’t thank you enough, and by the way, I never got your name.” But as I turned, the door I had just passed through was instead a boarded-up store front.

The weight of the cross was gone too. I knew then that the cross I was called to carry was not a thing made of wood or metal, but a heart and soul reality made of humility, obedience and trust. The cross was no longer in sight, but the cross remained with me, for I realized that to carry my cross, I must carry it in my heart. Amen.