Not long ago, a hard-rock singer reknowned for his notorious over indulgence in mind-altering drugs appeared on television to scream, lunge, and gyrate through one of his bestselling songs. Inasmuch as the rather badly garbled words were totally incomprehensible to me, I turned my attention to the bizarre, uninhibited attire of this widely heralded "artist." Not to dwell on the flamboyance of his appearance, I wish only to point out that dangling from an expensive chain around his neck was a large cross. Perhaps it was there as a counterstatement, a message of rebellion to institutional religion, or perhaps he simply counted it as an attractive piece of jewelry. I do not know. But more and more, the cross is appearing on necklaces, earrings, bracelets, and the like as fashionable symbols, which is all right, I suppose, except that the behavior of those brandishing them is not always consistent with what the cross represents. If a person in ancient Rome had adorned himself with a cross, it would have been the equivalent of someone today wearing the likeness of the electric chair around his neck. The cross was originally not considered to be a thing of beauty. It conveyed pain, humiliation, and death. It still does, except in the Christian context. Another dimension was added to Calvary ... victory.

Jesus issued a call to discipleship, but the invitation contained an inherent inhibitor: "If any man would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me." A cross of adornment or embellishment was not what Jesus had in mind. Self-denial and risking the consequences of following the way of Christ are at the heart of the call to discipleship.

In the eighteenth century, a German artist, Stenberg, was walking through the market place of his home town when he was attracted to the face of a dancing gypsy girl. He invited her to sit for him in his studio as a model. Accepting his invitation, she enabled Stenberg to paint his famous "Dancing Gypsy Girl." There is more. The young girl was greatly impressed by what she saw in the artist’s studio, particularly a painting in progress titled "Crucifixion." Arrested by the painting, she said one day to Stenberg, "He must have been a very bad man to have been nailed to a cross like that." Stenberg replied, "No, he was a good man. The best man who ever lived. Indeed, he died for all men." The girl asked, "Did he die for you?" Stenberg had never really made such a personal application of his explanation. He was led to search the Scriptures, and in a few short weeks, he discovered the answer and surrendered himself to Christ. Returning to his painting of the "Crucifixion," he added these words beneath the likeness of Christ on the cross: "This I did for thee; what hast thou done for me?" There is more. A young aristocratic count, Zinzendorf by name, chanced to observe the painting, paused to meditate at both the depiction and the words, and was so moved that he went on to found the Moravians.

There are elements of power and attraction about the cross. There also is an inaudible appeal: "This I did for thee; what hast thou done for me?" Have we denied ourselves and taken up our cross, whatever it may be, and followed him?