STORY OF THE WEEK: The Sermon That Shaped My Life

A Sermon, a Cross, and the Unexpected Journey That Followed

Image by Roman Stasiuk on iStock

I have a confession to make.

I have listened to ten thousand or more sermons in my life, but — truth be told — I remember very few of them. Most of the words preached at me have vanished like a vapor in the wind, leaving no discernible mark on my life.

It’s sad, but true.

It really takes something special for a sermon to be remembered, which is why it is remarkable that I can still hear the echoes of one particular message in my mind almost thirty years on. This sermon was one of those rare gems that turned my teenage world upside down.

I was seventeen years old.

And in the throes of my formative years, when I was desperately trying to find a faith to hang my spiritual hat on, I found myself at a massive Christian youth conference. The preacher preached on the famous words of Jesus Christ found in Matthew 16:24: “If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me.”

For forty-five minutes straight, he told stories of Christians who, through incredible acts of sacrifice, had done heroic things. “This Christian was killed for trying to translate the Bible into English, and that Christian was killed for being the first to take the Gospel to a far-flung tribe in some distant corner of the globe.” Story after story of young people who had literally and figurately “taken up their cross” for Jesus and, like Jesus, paid the price in blood.

It was as inspirational as it was manipulative.

By the end of the sermon, I’m fairly certain that everyone in the room was somehow longing to be a hero in their own right, ready to embrace a life of radical sacrifice and unwavering commitment. The preacher’s powerful stories of martyrdom and selflessness felt like a clarion call, beckoning us to rise to an impossible standard. He had us in the palm of his hand.

The worship band eased onto the stage as the preacher neared the glorious climax of his message, which would not be complete without some kind of response from the crowd.

“Now,” said the preacher, “I’m going to close in prayer, and here is what I want you to do. When I say “Amen,” if you are ready to answer the call to take up your cross and follow Jesus, I want you to jump out of your chair and yell at the top of your lungs, “I want the cross!”

A hush fell over the crowd — a charged silence pregnant with anticipation. My heart raced. I could feel the electric tension in the air. It was as if we were on the cusp of something monumental — a collective moment of decision that would forever alter our lives. The worship band began to play softly, the notes weaving through the room like a gentle whisper, beckoning us to respond.

As the preacher lifted his voice in prayer, I watched the faces around me. Some were already glistening with tears. Others had their eyes closed tightly as if searching for divine confirmation.

When the preacher finally uttered the climactic “Amen,” the auditorium erupted in a frenzy. Chairs scraped across the floor as young people leaped to their feet, voices shouting, “I want the cross!” I felt a powerful urge surging within me. I wanted to be part of that exhilarating moment, to declare my commitment with the same fervor.

As I joined the chorus of voices, shouting, “I want the cross!” I felt a rush of adrenaline and then tears. I was swept up in the collective passion, my heart pounding in rhythm with the music that surrounded us. As the final chords of the song echoed through the auditorium, I was filled with an overwhelming sense of purpose. In that moment, it felt like I had taken the first step on a heroic journey, one that promised to be filled with meaning and significance.

Of course, life had other plans.

Looking back on that night

As the years went by, the fervor of that night began to fade into the background, replaced by the complexities of adulthood.

As I look back on that night now, I feel both nostalgia and skepticism. I wondered if what I had experienced was merely mass hysteria, a carefully orchestrated spectacle designed to elicit emotional responses rather than genuine transformation.

I started to question the narratives I had embraced so eagerly. Were we simply swept up in a wave of fervor, responding to the emotional cues of the preacher and the music rather than truly connecting with something deeper? The stories of martyrdom and sacrifice that once inspired me began to feel distant, almost theatrical, as if they had been scripted to tug at our heartstrings.

Yet, beneath my skepticism, a flicker of something remained — a longing for meaning that hasn’t been extinguished. I can’t shake the feeling that that night had meant something profound, even if the execution felt a bit manufactured.

I cried out to God, saying, “I want the cross!” and with every fiber of my being, I meant every word! And in a strange way, I believe God has given me exactly what I asked for.

This is one prayer that has been answered, but not in the way that I imagined — not even close.

Let me explain.