You know those moments that, even in the midst of them happening, you know will make for an epic story?

One such moment happened at the Palm Sunday evening service at the church I attended in college. The service was planned to be quite the production: a recreation of Jesus’ crucifixion. I had been asked to play the role of Jesus, either a high compliment or a disturbing insult, given that I was being crucified. Either way, it was a role I was seriously underqualified for, but one I humbly accepted.

I wanted to give this role my best effort and the church wanted this to be a meaningful service. I was wrapped in a simple cloth, fake blood splattered on my body, and the “guards” dragging me up the aisle were in replica centurion outfits.

After an hour of practicing and makeup, the congregation began trickling in. After songs and a homily, my cue came. I was dragged down the aisle, whips cracking in the hands of my Roman oppressors as I endured rug burns for the sake of my Savior. The sanctuary was reverberating with blood-curdling screams I didn’t know I had in me. I could already see the headlines: “Man wins Oscar for Church Performance.”

Everything was going as planned—better than planned, really. I was laid upon the 11 foot cross as the Roman guards drove nails through the cross, uncomfortably close to my fingers. They raised the cross up to lock it into the near 100-pound base… and that’s when things stopped going as planned.

I heard wood scraping against metal. We had practiced this part of the reenactment the most (after all, I was a bit scared of being lifted up on a top-heavy cross 11 feet off the ground). In all the times we practiced it, I never heard wood scraping.

By the time I realized what was happening, I (with the cross quickly following) was headed towards the front two rows of the congregation. I realized what was about to happen: My face was going to smack the front pew while the cross was going to smack me in the back of the head.

So I did what anybody in my predicament would have done (as if others have been in similar predicaments). I jumped off the cross, diving into the empty front pew, bouncing off and landing, face-up, on the floor.

At the time, it wasn’t a laughing moment. But every Lent, I think back to that story and laugh all over again.

This year, though, I realized something about that story: I did something Jesus didn’t do. When Jesus was hanging on the cross, passersby mocked him, challenging him to jump off the cross. Though He could have, He didn’t. When things weren’t going well for me on my cross, I jumped off.

Thankfully, that’s the only time I’ve jumped off of a wooden cross. I’m hoping it’s the last.

But as I’ve reflected on the contrast between Jesus staying on the cross and me jumping off, I’ve realized that, metaphorically speaking, I frequently jump off the cross. Allow me to explain.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer said, “When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die.”

Come and die? I don’t like that idea. I prefer the quote, “When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and take the easy road.” Yet I’ve never known a serious disciple of Jesus to say those words.

Except for me. I’ve said those words. Not out loud, but in the way I live my life.

I’ll follow Jesus anywhere… at least that’s what I tell myself. I’ll follow Him down to the wedding banquet, out of the empty tomb, and on to the glory of Heaven. But to Calvary? Golgotha? The place known as “The Skull”? Somehow, I’ve convinced myself that following Jesus there isn’t for me. And yet, Jesus doesn’t say, “Pick up your wedding garment and follow me.” He says, “Pick up your cross and follow me.”

I’ll be honest, I entered Lent this year with a lot of grief. Innocent people in Ukraine fleeing their homes. My denomination months away from a split. Past pains and experiences haunting me as I continue to push them deeper into my soul. It would be easy to jump off of those crosses, to skirt around Calvary, expecting to find an empty tomb.

I’m slowly learning that the only way to the empty tomb is to go to Calvary. To pick up my cross. To follow Jesus.

If I skirt around Calvary, I don’t find the empty tomb where my Savior rose, defeating death and all of its devices. I come to a tomb crammed full with all of the unaddressed grief and pain I wasn’t willing to address. I come to the tomb where my joy, my hope, and my freedom come to die.

If I journey with Jesus through these days of Lent, I begin to see that the only way to the empty tomb is through a wooden cross. So each day in these 40 days, I open myself up to feel the grief and pain of the world and in my life. I sit with it. I walk with it. Knowing all along that I don’t go through these alone. Rather, I travel this road next to One who has scars on His hands and His feet, reminding me that to get to the empty tomb, we go first to the cross.

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After bouncing off the first pew and landing face-up, I expected to see the face of Jesus or an angel, welcoming me to the pearly gates.

Rather, I saw the face of my associate pastor, the one who had the brilliant idea of putting me on an eleven foot cross. I, in fact, did not die, but only had a badly scratched and bloody ankle (though we didn’t know what was real blood until we spent 5 minutes washing off all the fake blood).

As I looked up at my pastor, I said, “What do I do now?” He responded, “Can you get back on the cross?”

I could. So I did. I got back on the cross. It’s my prayer that each time I find myself wandering away from the cross, each time I find myself avoiding the grief and pain of the Christian life, I’ll hear that voice, “Can you get back on the cross?”

It’s where our crucified Christ bids us. So we follow Him. Even to the cross.

Throughout Lent, I’ll be exploring a few ways I think we jump off the cross in our personal lives and in our churches. I hope you’ll join me as we journey together.