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