Losing Lives

Losing Lives

He called the crowd with his disciples and said to them, “If any wish to come after me, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it …” [Mark 8:34-35].

Some years ago, at a Divinity School conference on church communication, we spent considerable time discussing how to make churches more appealing and accessible to newcomers, especially young families. We debated everything from signage to parking lots, noting the growth in non-denominational congregations, and how some traditional churches were even removing denominational labels to appear more inviting.

We chuckled at clever church signs like “God Wants Full Custody, Not Just Weekend Visits” and “Adam and Eve Didn’t Read the Apple Terms & Conditions.” But then, a curmudgeon in the group wondered aloud what might happen if a church simply displayed Jesus’ own words from Mark 8:

Deny yourself. Take up your cross. Follow me.

The gap between our well-intentioned efforts to attract people to church and Jesus’ uncompromising call to discipleship is striking. While we debate fonts on church signs, Jesus speaks of self-denial and cross-bearing. This isn’t exactly the kind of message that fills pews or grows megachurches.

Let’s consider what Jesus is actually saying here. “Deny yourself” is not just a suggestion to occasionally skip dessert, but a call to radical self-renunciation. “Take up your cross” — in Jesus’ time, this wasn’t a metaphor for minor inconveniences, but a vivid image of execution and shame. “Follow me” is not a casual invitation to add Jesus to our list of interests, but a demand for total allegiance.

Yet, we often want to domesticate these challenging words. We reduce His profound call to a suggestion that we merely endure minor inconveniences—dealing with chronic back pain, tolerating a difficult coworker, or putting up with an annoying in-law. But the cross Jesus speaks of is far more demanding than these everyday trials.

In our age of self-promotion and personal branding, of comfort-seeking and risk-aversion, Jesus’ words are more countercultural than ever. They cut against not just our secular culture, but much of our church culture as well. How many of our church growth strategies, our sermon series, our ministry programs, truly reflect His radical call?

We must ask ourselves: Have we softened the gospel’s hard edges? Have we turned the way of the cross into a path of self-fulfillment? What would our churches look like if we took Jesus’ words here as seriously as we take our marketing strategies?

These are challenging questions, to be sure. But even as we grapple with them, we must remember that in this demanding call, Jesus also offers a profound promise—that in losing our lives for his sake, we will find them. The path of self-denial, cross-bearing, and following Jesus isn’t just about sacrifice; it’s about discovering true life, purpose, and freedom.

A story from a friend, Will Willimon, comes to mind. More than 45 years ago, in his first parish, Will found himself discouraged. His newly introduced programs had fallen flat, leaving him bewildered and afraid. Seeking guidance, he turned to his mentor, an experienced and wise pastor.

Will poured out his heart, expressing his fears and doubts. His mentor listened patiently, then responded with words that have resonated for decades:

Son, God will never let anything happen to you worse than that which happened to His own Son.

Will allows that the old pastor’s words—stark and unsettling as they were — captured the essence of Jesus’ call. They remind us that the path of discipleship is not about success as the world defines it, but about faithful obedience, even in the face of apparent failure or suffering. They echo Jesus’ promise that in losing our lives for His sake, we will find them.

I’m reminded of my cousin Jan, born about a year before Todd and me. Stricken with a severe case of cerebral palsy shortly after birth, doctors advised my aunt and uncle to let nature take its course. “Nature, they advised, “tended to resolve these sorts of problems.”

Their response was immediate and unwavering: “Our daughter isn’t a ‘problem;’ she’s a gift from God.”

Jan never developed. She never weighed more than 40 pounds. She was never able to talk, or walk, or even hold her head erected on her own. And yet, she lived for more than 24 years—24 years in which Aunt Betty and Uncle Harold fed her baby food, 24 years during which they changed her diapers. For 24 years, they would periodically sit up with her for most of the night when she had difficulty breathing.

To Harold and Betty, Jan was a special daughter, a child with tremendous and long-term needs, yes, but a daughter who could respond to their love with a smile, someone whose face brightened when she saw her younger brother. That’s the reality that Betty and Harold saw.

And so, Jan was always a special part of our growing up, a special part of our family’s Thanksgiving and Christmas celebrations, a special cousin for my three brothers and me. And, since Jan went to church every Sunday of her life, she was a special part of Olney, the small Presbyterian congregation in South Gastonia within which I was raised.

After her funeral service, we drove from the church in a pouring rain. As the procession of cars turned through the gates of the cemetery, Buck Dixon, long-time friend of the family, fellow Olney Church member, and police officer, stood by his squad car, rain and tears pouring down his face, his hat not covering his head, but held instead over his heart in strong and deep respect for the passing of tender Jan.

Buck and so many others knew from their hearts that, years before, Betty and Harold had gladly taken up their cross. Their care for Jan had not been a burden to be endured, but rather a divine vocation embraced with love.

Friends, this is what taking up one’s cross looks like. It’s not about minor discomforts or temporary setbacks. It’s about a radical reorientation of life, a willingness to pour ourselves out in love and service, even when—especially when—the cost is high.

The crosses we’re called to bear most often come in forms we don’t expect. They rarely align with our plans or preferences. But in embracing these crosses, we paradoxically find life in its fullest sense.

As we wrestle with Jesus’ challenging words, let us remember this truth: Only the life you lose for the sake of Christ is the life that God saves.