The Interruption of the "Come Up"

I've heard the sermons and seen the movies about what happened on the cross. Sometimes cinematic portrayals make us feel sentimental; sometimes they just make us feel sick. But what really happened beyond the twenty-four frames per second? We have a tendency to be what you might call "come up" Christians. We love a good success story. We love the miracles. We want the part of the story where the success is accumulating, the benefits are accruing, and the blessings are flowing. Jesus taught with so much power and authority that the crowds loved Him—until He got to the part they couldn't stomach. Until He pointed to an executioner's wooden beam.

When Jesus began to speak of His impending death, Peter tried to rebuke Him. Peter was experiencing the "come up" of walking with the Messiah, and the cross felt like the ultimate betrayal of that success. But the cross wasn't an interruption of God's plan; it was the entire point. If you want to understand why Jesus died, you have to look past the physical agony and see the spiritual transaction. He was deliberately stepping into the way of suffering because it was the only way to our salvation. We want a King who conquers by force and fixes our earthly problems; God gave us a King who conquered death by surrendering to it.

The invitation Jesus offers isn't a promise of endless earthly comfort. It is an invitation to lay down our self-sufficiency. We come to Him carrying the heavy luggage of our own ambitions, our own plans, and our own wealth—whether that wealth is financial, relational, or just our stubborn pride. And He looks at us, with deep, piercing love, and asks us to trade it all for something far heavier, yet infinitely more freeing. The cross interrupts our "come up" so that God can bring us into true, eternal elevation.

Then Jesus beholding him loved him, and said unto him, One thing thou lackest: go thy way, sell whatsoever thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven: and come, take up the cross, and follow me.— Mark 10:21, KJV

The Mockery That Declared the Truth

There is a profound, heartbreaking irony in the way humanity treated its Creator at Golgotha, the place of a skull. Pilate hung a sign over His head: THE KING OF THE JEWS. He meant it as a mockery, a political jab at the religious leaders who wanted Jesus dead. But sometimes the insults people hurl at you are the greatest compliments they can give, and the mockery of Pilate was actually a divine announcement. He was the King. He is the King. And yet, the chief priests, the scribes, and even the thieves crucified beside Him wagged their heads and hurled the same accusation: "If thou be the Son of God, come down from the cross."

"He saved others; himself he cannot save." In their spiritual blindness, they spoke the most beautiful, staggering truth of the gospel. He could not save Himself and save you at the same time. He had to choose. And hanging there, suspended between heaven and earth, stripped of His garments and His dignity, He chose you. It wasn't the iron nails that held the Creator of the universe to those wooden beams; it was His relentless, unstoppable love for a broken world. This is the raw, bleeding reality of Romans 5:8—that God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us. He didn't wait for us to clean ourselves up. He died for us while we were the ones standing in the crowd, mocking Him, or running away in fear.

What really happened on the cross? That is where my shackles fell off. That is where my deepest shame was nailed to the beams. On the cross, that's where my sin is. On the cross, that's where my mistakes are. All of my second-guessings, my spectacular failures, and my agonizing regrets are redeemed right there. He absorbed the chastisement that brought my peace. He refused to come down so that we could be lifted up.

Likewise also the chief priests mocking said among themselves with the scribes, He saved others; himself he cannot save. Let Christ the King of Israel descend now from the cross, that we may see and believe.— Mark 15:31-32, KJV

The Cry in the Darkness

From the sixth hour to the ninth hour, a suffocating darkness fell over the whole land. This wasn't just a meteorological anomaly; it was the physical manifestation of a terrifying spiritual reality. For the first and only time in eternity, the perfect fellowship of the Trinity was ruptured. Jesus bore the concentrated weight of human depravity—every secret addiction, every bitter betrayal, every act of violence, and every quiet moment of despair you have ever experienced or ever will. He drank the cup of God's righteous wrath down to the dregs so that our cup could overflow with grace.

Have you ever felt entirely abandoned? Have you ever cried out in the middle of the night, feeling like your prayers are bouncing off a brass ceiling, wondering if God has forgotten your address? Jesus knows that darkness intimately. When He screamed into the void, He was experiencing the ultimate isolation of hell so that you could experience the eternal embrace of heaven. He was forsaken so that you could be found. Your darkest, most terrifying moments have already been absorbed by the Son of God.

And then, He yielded up the ghost. In that very moment, the veil of the temple—the massive, heavy curtain that separated a holy God from a sinful people—was violently torn in two from top to bottom. Not from the bottom up, as if a man had ripped it, but from heaven down. The barrier was destroyed. The debt was paid in full. The way into the holy of holies was thrown wide open for anyone bruised and broken enough to walk through it. The cross is the release of the freedom that God wants to produce in your life.

And at the ninth hour Jesus cried with a loud voice, saying, Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani? which is, being interpreted, My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?— Mark 15:34, KJV

Leaving the Shallows for the Deep

So where does that leave us today? We cannot simply stand afar off and look at the cross as a historical artifact. We cannot be fair-weather followers who only want the blessings without the surrender. The cross changes everything because it demands a response. It asks us to look at our own hands, at our own lives, and realize that we bring absolutely nothing to the table but the sin that made the cross necessary. And yet, in our complete spiritual bankruptcy, we are met with a grace so profound it defies human logic.

To the person reading this right now who feels entirely out of options—whose life feels like a Friday afternoon in Jerusalem, dark, terrifying, and seemingly defeated—I want you to look to the cross. Jesus didn't bypass the pain; He went straight through it. If you are trusting in your own riches, your own goodness, or your own ability to fix your life, you will find it impossible to enter into the true peace of God's kingdom. You have to let go. You have to let the cross interrupt your carefully laid plans.

We experience the cross today in the glorious knowledge that Jesus isn't there anymore. The tomb is empty. But the power of what happened on that Friday still echoes through eternity. It is the only place where true healing begins. When we finally admit that we cannot save ourselves, we discover the God who can do the impossible. We lay down our heavy burdens at the foot of the cross, and we pick up the promise of eternal life.

And Jesus looking upon them saith, With men it is impossible, but not with God: for with God all things are possible.— Mark 10:27, KJV

The cross still changes everything because it stands as the ultimate, unshakeable proof that you are loved beyond measure and forgiven beyond reason. Whenever the enemy tries to drag you back into the prison of your past, point him to Golgotha. Your debt is canceled. Your shame is dead. Walk forward today in the fierce, beautiful freedom of a soul that has been bought by the blood of the King.