Category: Foundations

Few symbols in human history carry as much meaning as the cross.

Today it appears on church steeples, necklaces, paintings, gravesites, and in quiet corners of prayer. I even have one as a vinyl decal on the rear window of my truck. But the cross wasn’t always a religious symbol or a fashion choice. It was originally an execution device.

The cross was an instrument of humiliation and death used by the Roman Empire to make examples of the condemned. Designed to prolong suffering as publicly as possible, it represented shame, agony, and final defeat in the first-century world.

And yet Christians adopted it as their central symbol.

That alone should make us stop for a moment.

Over time, Christians have expressed this symbol in different ways. Some display an empty cross. Others use a crucifix—a cross bearing the image of Jesus on it. For some, one feels deeply meaningful while the other feels uncomfortable, even unsettling.

Instead of seeing these differences as conflict, maybe we can look at them as different parts of the same story. And that story can’t be understood without remembering what happened both before and after.

The Gospel moves through a sequence: Jesus was crucified, died, was taken down and entombed. On the third day, he rose again. That progression matters.

Christian faith doesn’t center on an ongoing sacrifice, but on a completed one. Jesus’ last words from the cross are as clear as they come:

“It is finished.”
(John 19:30)

The New Testament makes this clear: Christ’s sacrifice was once for all. Hebrews describes Him as having completed His work and then “sat down at the right hand of God”—a picture of something finished, not something continuing. (Hebrews 10:12–14)

For many Christians, this is why the empty cross holds such power. It quietly proclaims that Jesus is no longer there. Death happened, but death didn’t win. The cross stands as evidence of a finished work—a place where sacrifice occurred, not where Christ remains. The empty cross points toward resurrection.

Yet other Christians intentionally preserve the image of Jesus on the cross. To someone unfamiliar with the tradition, this can seem like a focus on suffering rather than resurrection. But that’s not the goal.

The crucifix exists as a reminder of cost.

Christian faith teaches that redemption was not abstract or symbolic. It happened in a real moment, in real history, through real suffering. The crucifix draws attention to the depth of sacrificial love. It shows that God experienced human pain fully rather than avoiding it.

Where the empty cross emphasizes victory, the crucifix emphasizes love demonstrated through sacrifice. Neither denies the resurrection. Each simply chooses a different place to rest the eye. One says, “Remember what He endured.” The other says, “Remember that He overcame.” Both belong to the same Gospel.

If we want to understand why both views exist, we need to remember how shocking the cross was to early Christians.

In the ancient world, crucifixion represented divine curse and social disgrace. Roman citizens were rarely subjected to it; it was reserved for rebels, slaves, and the powerless. The idea that salvation would come through crucifixion seemed absurd. The apostle Paul acknowledged this directly:

“…we preach Christ crucified: a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles…”
(1 Corinthians 1:23)

Early Christians did something extraordinary. They took the empire’s symbol of terror and turned it into a symbol of hope. Through their faith, God transformed what the cross represented. The cross became meaningful not because of the wood, nails, or violence, but because of what God did through it.

That’s why the symbol carries tension. It holds both sorrow and victory at the same time.

Seen this way, the difference between an empty cross and a crucifix isn’t a disagreement about salvation. It’s a difference in emphasis. The empty cross reveals that the sacrifice is complete, that Christ is risen, that death has been defeated. The crucifix reminds us that love bore a real cost, that sin was taken seriously, that redemption required sacrifice. One looks primarily toward resurrection. The other lingers at the moment where redemption happened. Together, they tell the full story.

Some believers feel uneasy when they see the cross used in a frivolous way. They might find it trendy or tacky, but maybe they really just want to preserve the symbolism with Christ. Others feel uneasy when the cross is used as a physical object as if the cross might itself become the focus.

Historically, Christian teaching distinguished between worship directed to God and visual reminders meant to help us remember. Images, when used, are intended as reminders of events and truths, not objects with power in themselves.

Ultimately, how we relate to the cross is between us and God. What others do with it doesn’t have to define what it means to us.

Still, conscience matters. Some connect more deeply through visual reminders of Christ’s suffering. Others find their faith strengthened by focusing on the risen and reigning Christ. When both lead us to fix our eyes on Jesus, we don’t need to turn those differences into divisions. Scripture allows room for differences of conscience among believers who are sincerely trying to honor God. What matters most isn’t uniformity of symbolism, but unity in the person and work of Christ.

So here’s a question worth sitting with: if Christianity celebrates resurrection, why keep the cross at all? Why not replace it with symbols of victory? Well, some of us do. I’ve started using an anchor that reminds me of how God holds me steadfast through all the storms of life. But I would never replace the cross entirely because of what the cross reveals about God.

The resurrection shows God’s power. The cross shows God’s character.

At the cross, we believe God stepped into human suffering rather than standing at a distance. The worst humanity could inflict became the place where forgiveness was offered. The cross reminds us that redemption wasn’t achieved through force or conquest, but through self-giving love.

Remove the cross entirely, and resurrection risks becoming triumph without context. Keep only the cross, and the story risks ending in tragedy.

When Christians look at the cross, whether empty or bearing Christ’s image, they’re looking toward the same reality: a moment where death was confronted and transformed. Not a symbol of ongoing defeat, but of finished redemption.

In the end, the diversity of Christian symbolism may be less about disagreement and more about perception.

Some believers stand at the foot of the cross, remembering the cost of love. Others stand before the empty tomb, celebrating victory over death. Both are looking at the same Savior.

And when our differences are merely a matter of perspective, and the message remains the same, it would serve us well to hold those differences with humility. Not every variation is a threat. Sometimes it’s just another angle on the same truth.

Maybe the cross continues to endure as Christianity’s central symbol because it refuses to let us forget either reality: that salvation was costly, and that death did not have the final word.

There was water in the basin.
There were towels folded nearby.
And there were twelve men eating with dirty feet.

Few moments in the Gospels are as quietly unsettling as the night Jesus washed His disciples’ feet.

It’s a scene so familiar that it risks becoming tame. This act is often reduced to a symbol of kindness or humility, reenacted ceremonially without much discomfort. But in its original setting, this moment was neither gentle nor sentimental. It was shocking. Awkward. Deeply unsettling to everyone in the room.

To understand why, let’s begin where the disciples were that night:

Eating with dirty feet—and no one willing to kneel.

Feet, Roads, and Rank

In the first-century Mediterranean world, foot washing was not symbolic. It was both functional and deeply social.

People walked everywhere. Roads were unpaved, dusty, and often mixed with animal waste. Open sandals were the norm. By the time someone entered a home, their feet were filthy.

In that world, foot washing wasn’t just a customary form of hospitality or hygienic necessity. It was also hierarchical.

Foot washing was the job of the lowest household servant, preferably a non-Jewish slave. It was never the host, never a teacher—never a superior.

Even Jewish servants couldn’t always be required to wash feet since it was considered too degrading. This was the task reserved for those without status, power, or honor.

Which makes what happened at the Last Supper so striking.

There was a basin.
There was water.
There were towels.

But there was no servant.

When No One Would Kneel

The Gospel of John does not tell us why no one washed the disciples’ feet before the meal. It doesn’t need to. The other Gospels give us the context.

Luke tells us that during this very meal, the disciples were arguing about which of them was the greatest (Luke 22:24). This was a repeated pattern. Time and again, they jockeyed for position, asked for seats of honor, and measured themselves against one another.

In their culture, foot washing wasn’t merely unpleasant. It was a public admission of inferiority. If one disciple washed the others’ feet, he would be declaring himself beneath the rest.

So no one moved.

And here is the uncomfortable truth we often miss:

The disciples were not ignorant of humility. They were unwilling to embrace humiliation.

They were willing to eat with dirty feet rather than kneel beneath one another.

Why Jesus Let the Meal Begin

This detail matters.

According to John 13, Jesus doesn’t immediately intervene. He allows the meal to proceed. They reclined at the table with their dirty feet exposed, close together, and undeniable.

This was intentional. Watch how Jesus reacted.

Jesus did not rush to correct the moment. He let it sit. He let the tension breathe. He let their unwillingness become visible.

Why?

Because if He had washed their feet before the meal, it could have been misunderstood as a courtesy.

By waiting, Jesus transformed it into a confrontation.

They ate while the unspoken problem remained unresolved. They ate knowing someone should have knelt. They ate knowing no one would.

Only then did Jesus rise.

The Lord Who Knelt

John introduces the foot washing with one of the most theologically dense verses in the Gospels:

“Jesus knew that the Father had put all things under His power, and that He had come from God and was returning to God.”
(John 13:3)

This is not incidental.

John is explicit: Jesus acts from a position of total authority, not insecurity. And then, knowing who He is, Jesus does the unthinkable.

He:

• Gets up from the table
• Takes off His outer garment
• Wraps a towel around His waist
• Pours water into a basin
• Kneels

Every movement echoes the posture of a slave.

The One through whom all things were made takes the place no one else would take.

Peter’s Protest… and Ours

When Jesus reaches Peter, the tension finally breaks.

“Lord, are You going to wash my feet?”
(John 13:6)

Peter’s objection isn’t pride in the usual sense. It is discomfort. Confusion. Reverence.

“You shall never wash my feet.”

Peter recognizes the reversal of order—and it feels wrong.

But Jesus responds with words that still confront us:

“Unless I wash you, you have no part with Me.”
(John 13:8)

This is not about hygiene. It is about relationship.

Peter wants a Messiah who reigns. Jesus insists on being a Messiah who serves.

You cannot follow Christ while rejecting the way He chooses to love. You cannot accept His crown while refusing His towel.

Why the Dirty Feet Matter

It is easy to miss how radical this moment truly is.

Jesus doesn’t merely teach about service. He doesn’t merely recommend humility. He enacts it, physically, personally, unmistakably.

And He does so after their failure.

He washes the feet of:

• The disciples who refused to serve one another
• The men arguing about greatness
• The one who would deny Him
• The one who would betray Him

Jesus kneels before unrepentant pride.

That is the scandal.

Teacher and Lord

After He finishes, Jesus resumes His place at the table and asks a dangerous question:

“Do you understand what I have done for you?”
(John 13:12)

Then He names the truth plainly:

“You call Me Teacher and Lord—and rightly so, for that is what I am.”
(John 13:13)

Jesus doesn’t deny His authority in order to emphasize humility. He grounds humility in authority. If Jesus were merely an equal, this act would be kind. But because He is Lord, it is revolutionary.

“As I Have Done for You”

Jesus’ conclusion isn’t symbolic. It’s ethical.

“Now that I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also should wash one another’s feet.”
(John 13:14)

This isn’t a call to occasional gestures. It’s a redefinition of greatness.

In the Kingdom of God, rank does not excuse service, knowledge does not exempt obedience, and calling does not cancel humility.

The closer one is to Christ, the closer one should be to the floor.

Why This Still Confronts Us

We live in a culture that praises leadership but resists servanthood. We admire humility as long as it doesn’t cost us dignity. We like the idea of washing feet more than the reality of kneeling.

But Jesus does not ask us to admire the act. He asks us to imitate it.

Not ceremonially.
Not symbolically.
But relationally.

Who are the people we believe should kneel for us? Who do we quietly believe are beneath our service? Where do we preserve our status at the expense of love?

These aren’t abstract questions.

They’re the basin in front of us.

When we live by the ladder, we live in isolation. We feel lonely at the bottom because we feel unseen, but we also feel lonely at the top because we are constantly defending a status that doesn’t allow for true connection. That night in the upper room, every disciple chose the ladder, and the room grew heavy under the weight.

The basin was the only way out.

It was the only place where status no longer mattered, where comparison ended, where love could finally move. The basin is where performance stops, where defenses fall away, and where we allow ourselves to be shaped by something greater than ourselves.

The Last Lesson Before the Cross

This moment takes place on the night Jesus is betrayed.

Before the cross.
Before the blood.
Before the crown of thorns.

Jesus’ final lesson to His disciples isn’t power, strategy, or dominance.

It’s posture.

The hands that will soon be pierced first wash feet. The knees that will bear the cross first touch the floor. And in doing so, Jesus shows us what God is like.

Not distant.
Not self-protective.
Not obsessed with rank.

But willing, always, to take the lowest place so that others might be made clean.

If you’ve ever felt like Christianity wasn’t meant for someone like you, you’re not alone.

Many people walk away from faith not because they rejected God, but because they were rejected, or otherwise hurt, by people who claimed to represent Him. Others were never really invited at all. They were only warned, judged, or talked past. Some were taught a version of Christianity that sounded more like control than hope, and more like shame than truth.

So before anything else, let’s say this plainly:

Christianity isn’t about becoming acceptable to God.
It’s about discovering that God came to you first.

For many people, the question isn’t even “Why Christianity?” It’s more basic than that: Why God? Why believe in anything beyond what we can see, measure, or control?

Because the human experience refuses to stay contained inside those limits.

We long for meaning that outlasts success. We ache for forgiveness that actually heals. We carry guilt we can’t erase, shame we can’t outrun, and grief we can’t reason away. We hunger for justice. Yet, deep down, most of us know that if perfect justice were applied evenly, we wouldn’t escape it either.

One of the most common misunderstandings about Christianity is that it’s some kind of moral ladder: behave better, believe harder, clean yourself up, and maybe God will accept you.

That’s not Christianity.

Christianity begins with the claim that the ladder not only doesn’t work, but it never did.

“There is no one righteous, not even one.”
(Romans 3:10)

“All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.”
(Romans 3:23)

That sounds harsh until you realize what it removes: comparison, hierarchy, spiritual elitism.

Ladders don’t just measure progress. They create hierarchy. Someone is always climbing, someone is always watching, and someone is always left at the bottom wondering why they never seem to move. The farther down you are, the more alone you feel. That’s where shame grows and where many people quietly leave, or never really try at all.

No one starts closer to God than anyone else. Christianity levels the ground before it builds anything else.

Every other religious system, philosophical path, or self-improvement framework begins with you: your effort, your discipline, your insight, your progress.

Christianity begins somewhere else entirely.

“But God demonstrates His own love for us in this: while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.”
(Romans 5:8)

Not after you fixed yourself. Not once you understood everything. Not when you proved you were serious.

While you were still broken.

“The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.”
(John 1:14)

God doesn’t shout instructions from a distance. He enters the mess.

Many people are open to “God” but hesitate at Jesus. That hesitation often comes from what they’ve seen done in His name, not from what He actually said or did.

What He actually did was this: He consistently moved toward the ignored, the shamed, the doubted, and the disqualified. He ate with social outcasts. He touched the unclean. He defended the publicly humiliated. He rebuked religious hypocrisy more sharply than open sin.

“I am the way and the truth and the life.”
(John 14:6)

Not a way. Not one option among many. He is the way.

Christianity stands or falls on Jesus. He isn’t merely a moral teacher, but God revealed in the flesh.

This realization sometimes puts people off. Some people don’t reject Christianity because they think too highly of themselves. They reject it because they think too poorly.

They assume faith is for “good people.” They assume God is tired of them. They assume they’ve used up whatever grace they were offered.

Scripture directly contradicts that.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
(Psalm 34:18)

Christianity doesn’t demand self-confidence. It offers a replacement identity.

“If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation.”
(2 Corinthians 5:17)

Not a polished version of the old self.

New.

This doesn’t mean consequences vanish. It means condemnation does.

“There is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.”
(Romans 8:1)

That’s not emotional encouragement. It’s a promise.

None of this means Christianity promises an easy life. No health guarantees, no smooth road, no shelter from pain. Jesus Himself is direct about it:

“In this world you will have trouble.”
(John 16:33)

What it offers instead is something suffering can’t take from you: the assurance that it isn’t meaningless. That your pain isn’t wasted. That weakness isn’t disqualifying.

“My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.”
(2 Corinthians 12:9)

And it doesn’t ask you to pretend you’re fine to get there. Christianity doesn’t deny human brokenness. It offers freedom not by pretending you’re whole, but by refusing to leave you trapped.

From the beginning, Christianity spread not through cultural dominance but through wounded people discovering they were wanted.

“God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise… the weak things of the world to shame the strong.”
(1 Corinthians 1:27)

And yes, many have used the name of Christ as a cover for control. That’s real, and it deserves to be said. It has caused genuine harm. But that isn’t Christianity at work. It’s sin distorting the message, which is exactly what Christianity says humans will do when left to their own devices.

If you feel overlooked, misunderstood, or dismissed, Christianity doesn’t ask you to clean up your past before approaching God.

It invites you as you are.

“Come to Me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”
(Matthew 11:28)

That invitation has no fine print.

So… Why Christianity?

Because it tells the truth about humanity, and about God. Because it doesn’t confuse morality with worth. Because it offers forgiveness without denial. Because it confronts evil without pretending we’re exempt from it. Because it offers hope that survives reality rather than escaping it.

Most of all, because it centers on a God who doesn’t stay distant.

“For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son.”
(John 3:16)

Not because we deserve Him.

Because we need Him.