The Sharp Edges of the Cross

“Sad”? Is that the word I’d use? I’ve come to view Jesus’ act on the cross as the most beautiful gesture of poured-out solace I’ve ever taken in. What did she mean exactly—“so sad”?
I backed away in my mind and looked again at her response.

Then it hit me. My friend was still considering Jesus.

When we were finally seated at our corner table for two, we scanned the menu and struggled with pronunciations. Our lunch arrived and we picked up forks and speared into our helpings—hers, “quenelles” (fish dumplings), mine a “safer” salad. The French café set in a Denver strip mall was charming and popular. As a result, we’d already covered our “catch up” topics before even being seated and now it was on to the deeper.

She wanted to know about what I was studying, reading, and learning. And so, I told her. About pain and grief, death and dying, and the transformation made possible through aging. I’m not personally on the verge of a serious illness—I’m just processing the experience of aging as I like to be “prepared.” 

Regardless, the topics weren’t really French café lunch stuff.

But she’d asked.

As I shared my handholds for hope in my layers of living, I mentioned Jesus’ death on the cross and all that he must have suffered. His crucifixion brought my life meaning, so it naturally flowed out for me. I hadn’t thought about how the topic might sound over lunch. My friend’s face screwed up in concern. Her auburn hair outlined a vague pain. “Oh, that’s so sad,” she murmured. She looked stricken, bereft.

“Sad”? Is that the word I’d use? I’ve come to view Jesus’ act on the cross as the most beautiful gesture of poured-out solace I’ve ever taken in. What did she mean exactly—“so sad”?

I backed away in my mind and looked again at her response.

Then it hit me. My friend was still considering Jesus. She knew bits and pieces about him and self-admittedly, that was it. This death-on-the-cross-stuff was foreign to her. Even horrific. As strange to her as her lunch of “quenelles” was to me.

Without thinking, I had dropped the crucifixion into our conversation, and its sharp edges sliced into her heart. My friend had experienced the moment as if suddenly seeing a bloodied murder weapon plunked down between our plates on our bright lunch table. The offense of the cross was never more evident to me. My soul twisted as I realized I had been unnecessarily abrupt in the connection to the cross. The familiarity of the cross in my life had left me immune to its painful strangeness in the life of my friend.

In an effort to ease her pain at seeing such raw suffering, I gently placed soft words of covering over the exposed body of my crucified Savior. Deftly, I guided our conversation away from the bloody mess of his sacrifice back onto the jacquard tablecloth of our lunch. And we moved on.

Why didn’t I say more that day? Why didn’t I explain that while Jesus’ death on the cross seems sad, it really is beautiful? I’ve been studying this question in my heart. And I’ve come to the conclusion that by carelessly dragging the scalpel of the crucifixion into our conversation that day, it cut my friend. Not her desperate humanity, the same shared by us all. But rather it cut into her personal wounds and losses and vulnerable neediness. The ones she held in her heart and had yet to reveal to me. Such surgery wasn’t mine to perform.

I realized that my familiarity (complacency?) with the symbol of hope may have made me immune to its dramatic power to slice through defense, penetrate need, and release despair in others. When exercised by the hand of the Great Resurrected. Not by me.

I think back to her words and sit with them. Yes, Jesus’ death on the cross seems sad. So sad. His abandonment by friends and followers. His painful endurance of torture and beatings. His absorption of wrongful accusations. His separation from the Father. The ultimate nailing of his very being to a crossbar—to die while the sun was extinguished into indigo inkiness. Unimaginable awfulness. So sad.

Especially if you cannot see the even deeper sadness of the “why” behind the cross. The messiness of our wayward world. The evil licking at our days. The great hole of need in our souls. But so much sadder still to have no hope. No way out. To be left alone in our sad predicament of today with no door to tomorrow.

Jesus’ “so sad” death on the cross becomes a beautiful gift of life when we receive the hope he died to give. Let us use care—great care—as we unsheathe the crucifixion. We need not apologize for the discomfort it creates. But oh, to wisely wield its sharp edges, relinquishing the execution of any necessary surgery only to the Healer of our beings, trusting the Spirit to communicate when we stumble over our words. And let us live in such a way that we lift that very cross high—so that others can see its hope even as they take in its impossible suffering.

 –Written by Elisa Morgan. Used by permission from the author. Click here to connect with Elisa.

10 Responses

  1. Thanks to all of you, dear friends, for sharing your thoughts and feelings here. Your words humble me and honor our risen Lord.

  2. I still mourn my Savior’s suffering and death on the cross. I cannot quell the tears that come and the feeling of remorse when the story is told, played out on the screen or I ponder the pain Father God felt while his Son hung for my sin. I will let the tears flow freely during communion, not as a show but as my deep unrelenting love for my Savior. Although my sin was great His love is greater. Until He heals my heart of this, I will shed tears for Jesus and not be ashamed.

  3. When I finally realized the humility of Jesus shedding his blood for me, I was awestruck!! Who else could do this, but Jesus? A perfect Jesus, who had no sin, yet took on the sins of humanity. What an Awesome God we serve!!!

  4. Yes, it is Sad and Beautiful. A great topic to unfold and you shared it well. Thank you for opening truth for us seeking the Trinity Father, Son and Holy Spirit. What a mighty God we serve to give His very life to save us sinners. Thank you God for sacrificing your only Begotten Son Jesus. Thank you God for salvation. Thank you God for the Beautiful inspired word of God to live out our lives pleasing to you. Lord help us all come to the realization of truth in Jesus Christ.

  5. The sacrifice of Jesus is very raw and cruel. We must stress the boundless love given to us so that believers find comfort in an eternal life with a love we cannot find on earth.

  6. I was sad for a long time even when I know Christ and it was a
    Wonderful gift I felt pangs of guilt and remorse and sadness.

  7. I cannot watch scenes of the crucifixion because of my own sins that were laid on Him. I am filled with grief over my part in His suffering.

    Yes, I am grateful for my sins being washed away. I understand the end result of forgiveness, but I am filled with remorse over my part in Jesus suffering.

  8. This was very eye opening to me. I’ve always struggled with how to share Christ with others, sometimes walking away thinking I failed God. But understanding that sharing my testimonies and experiences are enough sometimes, allowing God to do the rest. Jesus was relatively new to me, although he was The Saviour, I, a self taught Christian, knew God the Father. A few years ago, I started looking at Jesus in diety and reading the crucifixion story always brings sorrow to me, imagining every thing he must have felt and endured, especially when he cried out to His Father in loneliness….. it is sad but then it reminds me not to take His great sacrifice for granted. The Bible says many are called, chosen are few so I’m truly blessed to be a part of the chosen few and grateful that Christ endured it all for me 🙏🏿

  9. This is a beautifully written reminder of the love of Christ and how its awareness changes everything it touches.

  10. Thanks for sharing this story, Elisa. My first response to the Gospel was grief. During communion, I would sob as I considered all Jesus had suffered for me. I focused on His sacrifice, His pain, His heartache and my sin that He too upon Himself. I don’t remember when His blessed assurance of hope replaced that grief. I appreciate your reminder to be compassionate when sharing the "sharp edges of the cross."

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