The Interruption of the 'Come Up'
We love the parts of the Gospel where the miracles are flowing. When Jesus was healing the sick, opening blind eyes, and feeding thousands with a few fish and loaves, the crowds pressed in. He taught with so much power and authority that the masses loved Him—until He got to the part they couldn't stomach. Until the message shifted from a crown of glory to a cross of wood. It forces a deeply uncomfortable question that we must let resonate in our hearts: Are you a 'come up' Christian only? In our modern culture, the 'come up' is that season where success is accumulating, the benefits are accruing, and God feels like a personal assistant making our paths perfectly smooth.
It seems that the disciple Peter, as he followed Jesus through that season of miracles, was experiencing the ultimate 'come up.' He was in the inner circle of the most popular rabbi in Israel. That is what made it feel like a profound betrayal to Peter when Jesus announced He was going to suffer and die. When Jesus pointed toward the cross, Peter essentially said, 'No, Lord, not You.' Peter wanted the glory without the groaning. The cross interrupted the 'come up.' It shattered the illusion that following God was simply a ticket to an easier earthly life. We aren't so different today. We pray for God to remove our pain, bypass our struggles, and deliver us directly into the promised land. But true freedom is rarely found by going around the dark valleys; it is found by walking directly through them behind a Savior who knows the way.
Jesus is not interested in merely giving us a sanitized, comfortable life; He is relentlessly pursuing the resurrection of our souls. And resurrection always requires a death. When Jesus encountered a young man who had successfully curated a life of immense wealth, morality, and public standing, He didn't applaud his earthly accomplishments. He saw right through the polished veneer to the terrifying poverty of the man's soul. Jesus looked at him, loved him deeply, and called him to let go of the very things he was using to save himself. He called him to the heavy, splintered reality of surrender.
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 Seduction of 'Save Thyself'
To get a clear picture of what happened on that Friday, you have to look beyond the cinematic presentations we've all seen. Sometimes movies make the crucifixion feel sentimental; sometimes they just make you feel sick. But what happened at Golgotha went infinitely beyond physical agony. As Jesus hung suspended between heaven and earth, the people who walked by wagged their heads in disgust. The religious elite—the chief priests and scribes—mocked Him with a deeply profound irony. They looked at the Savior of the world and demanded that He prove His divinity by escaping His pain.
"Save thyself," they sneered. It is the oldest, most seductive temptation in the human experience: the demand to preserve ourselves, to protect our own interests, to avoid suffering at all costs. We live in a culture that preaches this exact same gospel of self-preservation daily. Hustle harder. Build higher walls. Protect your image. Save yourself. The crowd told Him that if He would just come down from the cross, they would finally believe Him. But the profound mystery of why Jesus died is bound up in His absolute refusal to step down from that wood. He possessed the authority to summon legions of angels, to unmake the universe with a single word, to obliterate the men who were casting lots for His bloody garments. Yet He stayed.
He didn't stay on the cross because the iron nails were strong enough to hold the Creator of the universe. He stayed because His love for you was stronger than His desire for self-preservation. If Jesus had saved Himself, He would have lost us forever. He endured the mocking, the shame, and the spit of the very humanity He breathed into existence. They stripped Him of His earthly raiment so that He could clothe us in eternal righteousness. He allowed Himself to be broken completely, refusing the intoxicating lure of self-rescue, so that He could rescue a humanity that had absolutely no power to save itself.
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. And they that were crucified with him reviled him.— Mark 15:31-32, KJV
The Echo of the Forsaken
At the sixth hour, the mocking voices were suddenly swallowed by an unnatural, suffocating darkness that fell over the entire land. This wasn't merely a solar eclipse; it was the physical, terrifying manifestation of the wrath of God being poured out upon human sin. For three agonizing hours, the Light of the World was submerged in absolute darkness. In that blackness, a spiritual transaction was taking place that no human eye could fully comprehend. The sins of every generation—your darkest regrets, your hidden shames, your deepest betrayals—were violently and completely placed upon the spotless Lamb of God.
And then came the cry that fractured the cosmos. Out of the darkness, Jesus screamed with a loud voice, crying out to the Father. These are the most devastating words ever recorded in human history. For the first and only time in all of eternity, the perfect fellowship of the Godhead was ruptured. Jesus was cut off. He experienced the terrifying, crushing silence of heaven so that God would never, ever be silent to your cries. The people standing by thought He was calling for Elias, completely misunderstanding the agony of the Savior. The world almost always misunderstands the cross, viewing it as a tragedy rather than a triumph.
When the enemy whispers in the dark of night that you are too far gone, that your mistakes have permanently disqualified you from grace, you must point your own soul back to this exact moment. The forsakenness of Christ is the absolute, blood-bought guarantee of your permanent acceptance. He drank the cup of ultimate separation to its bitter dregs so that you would never have to taste it. He was forsaken in your place. He was abandoned so that you could be adopted.
And about the ninth hour Jesus cried with a loud voice, saying, Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani? that is to say, My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?— Matthew 27:46, KJV
The Veil, The Verdict, and the Victory
What really happened beyond the crown of thorns that marked His brow? Beyond the sign Pilate hung above Him to mock Him—a sign that was actually announcing His true identity to the world? What happened down in my soul when my shackles finally fell off? On the cross, that's where my sin is completely absorbed. On the cross, that's where my deepest, most shameful mistakes are buried. On the cross, that's where all of my second-guessings and endless regrets are permanently redeemed. The cross isn't just a symbol to wear around our necks; it is the brutal, beautiful site of our total liberation.
The moment Jesus yielded up the ghost, something monumental happened in the temple miles away. The thick, heavy veil that separated the Holy of Holies from the rest of the world—the massive woven barrier that screamed "keep out" to sinful humanity—was violently torn in two from top to bottom. God Himself ripped it apart with His own hands. The barrier was gone. The way was opened. The massive, unpayable debt was settled forever. Even the hardened Roman centurion standing guard, a man who had undoubtedly overseen countless executions, looked at how Jesus died and realized he was standing in the presence of the divine.
The truth of Romans 5:8 was written in crimson across the hills of Golgotha: God commended His love toward us in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. He didn't wait for you to clean yourself up. He didn't demand that you fix your life before He would give His. He met you in the absolute mess of your rebellion and paid the price anyway. The torn veil is God's ultimate invitation. It declares that you are welcome to approach the throne of grace, not because of your own fragile righteousness, but because you are entirely covered by His.
And Jesus cried with a loud voice, and gave up the ghost. And the veil of the temple was rent in twain from the top to the bottom. And when the centurion, which stood over against him, saw that he so cried out, and gave up the ghost, he said, Truly this man was the Son of God.— Mark 15:37-39, KJV
The cross is not merely a historical tragedy to be remembered; it is a living, breathing reality to be experienced every single day of your life. When the crushing weight of your past tries to pull you under, look back to the place of the skull. Look to the place where the King of Kings allowed Himself to be broken open so that your shattered pieces could be put back together. The blood still speaks a better word. The veil remains permanently torn. And the relentless, scandalous love that held Him to that tree is the exact same love that is holding you right now. You are forgiven, you are profoundly known, and because of the cross, you are finally, truly free.