The gift

Deny Yourself, Take Up Your Cross, and Depend on Him

One of the things I love most about Jesus is how direct He is when He speaks about denying ourselves and carrying our cross. He tells us that if we want to follow Him, we must deny ourselves, take up our cross, and follow Him. And honestly, that is very, very hard. Because what Jesus is asking us to deny goes against almost everything we have learned from the moment we were born.

Our first instinct is survival. The first thing a newborn child does is breathe. Before we understand language, before we understand fear, before we understand who we are, there is already within us this instinct to survive. And yet Jesus comes to us and, in a sense, says: Stop. Stop believing that you can survive on your own. You can’t.

That breath you took when you were born was not something you created. And the breath you took this morning was not something you earned. It was given to you. God is the giver of life. And perhaps this is part of what Jesus means when He tells us to deny ourselves. He isn’t telling us to stop caring for ourselves or to reject the life He has given us. He is asking us to stop living as though we are the source of our own existence.

Stop depending entirely on your instincts, your strength, your plans, your abilities, and your own understanding. Depend on Me. Depend on My will. Depend on My Providence.

That is the difference between simply believing in God and actually surrendering your life to Him.

Everything is a gift. The life we have is a gift. The breath we take every morning is a gift. The people we love are gifts. The opportunities we receive are gifts. Even the strength to get out of bed and face another day is a gift.

And somehow, we forget.

We wake up, breathe, get dressed, go to work, take care of our families, make plans, solve problems—and we rarely stop to realize that the very breath allowing us to do all of it was given to us by God. Even while we sleep, God sustains us. And perhaps He is quietly telling us:

“Depend on Me. I am the giver of life. Everything you have comes through My hands.”

That is difficult for us to accept because, by all appearances, we like to believe that we are independent, self-sustaining creatures. We like to think we are in control. We build our lives around our ability to provide, protect, accomplish, and survive. And sometimes, without realizing it, we begin to live almost as though we are gods unto ourselves.

But we are not.

God made us in His image and likeness, but He did not make us God. He created us because He loved us. He looked upon His creation and saw something uniquely beautiful and precious.

Yet somewhere along the way, we became so enamored with ourselves; with our own abilities, our own pride, our own desires, and our own understanding, that we began to believe we owed nothing to God. And that is where we begin to fail.

Because what happens when God allows something into our lives that we cannot control?

What happens if tomorrow you lose your job? What happens if the doctor gives you a diagnosis you never expected? What happens if you lose someone you love, your mother, your son, your daughter, your wife? What happens when the thing you depended upon for security suddenly disappears?

Would that change your relationship with God?

I have been sitting with that question.

Because it is easy to say, “I trust God,” when everything is going well. It is much harder to say it when God allows us to walk through something we never wanted, never expected, and cannot understand.

And yet Jesus has already told us what He asks of us:

Deny yourself. Take up your cross. Follow Me.

Not because He wants to take something away from us, but because He wants to free us from the illusion that our lives belong entirely to us.

I was thinking about this when I heard the reflection on the woman who poured the expensive oil over Jesus before His death. She could have kept it. It was valuable. By all accounts, it represented an enormous sacrifice. Others could look at what she was doing and see waste. Judas certainly did.

But Jesus saw something completely different.

She broke the alabaster jar and poured out what was precious upon Him. She didn’t calculate the cost. She didn’t hold something back just in case she needed it later.

She gave.

And Jesus simply said, in essence: Let her. Do not bother her.

What a beautiful image of surrender.

Everyone else was calculating the value of the oil. Jesus was looking at the value of her heart.

And I think there is something here that we easily miss.

How often do we recognize the material value of what God has placed in our lives, but fail to recognize its spiritual value? How often do we hold on so tightly to what we have because we are afraid that if we give it away—our time, our resources, our talents, our security—we won’t have enough left for ourselves?

But this woman understood something profound.

What is given to God is never wasted.

She surrendered something valuable, and Jesus transformed her act of love into something eternal. He defended her. He honored her humility. And He said that what she had done would be remembered.

Think about that.

Her act of love became part of the Gospel.

She probably didn’t know that would happen. She wasn’t trying to make history. She was simply surrendering what she had to Jesus.

And perhaps that is what God asks of us too.

Not to understand everything. Not to know what tomorrow will bring. Not to know how everything will work out.

Just to trust Him enough to place what we have in His hands.

For as long as I can remember, I have never been very good at asking for help. Not necessarily because of pride, but because I have always believed that God has blessed me. Whenever I have found myself in need, somehow God has provided what was necessary.

Not always what I wanted. Not always when I wanted it.

But what was necessary.

And there is a difference.

Sometimes my heart wants to ask for more. Sometimes I wonder why things cannot be easier. Sometimes I want God to explain Himself.

And somehow, in the middle of that questioning, He reminds me:

“This is what you need.”

Not necessarily everything I want.

But what I need.

And perhaps that is Providence.

Providence doesn’t always look like abundance. Sometimes Providence looks like having just enough grace to make it through today. Sometimes it looks like a door closing. Sometimes it looks like waiting. Sometimes it looks like losing something we thought we couldn’t live without.

Sometimes it looks like God allowing us to discover that the thing we thought was sustaining us was never really our source of life.

He was.

And when the trials become difficult, I know my heart can wander. I know what it is like to become distracted, to question, to become afraid, and to forget what I once knew so clearly.

But what amazes me about God is that when I wander, He doesn’t simply wait for me to find my way back.

He comes looking for me.

And believe me, finding me isn’t always easy.

But God knows how much I need Him. And perhaps He knows that better than I know myself. So He doesn’t allow me to become completely lost.

Instead, He reveals something even greater about Himself.

He reveals the depth of His mercy.

He reveals a heart that loves without conditions.

He reveals a love that does not grow tired of searching.

He reveals a Sacred Heart that continues to call me home, even when I have wandered far away.

And maybe that is the greatest lesson in denying ourselves.

It isn’t about destroying who we are.

It is about finally realizing who we are not.

We are not the source of our own life. We are not the masters of tomorrow. We are not in control of everything.

We are creatures.

And He is the Creator.

And there is something incredibly beautiful about finally accepting that.

Because when I stop trying to be my own provider, my own protector, my own answer, and my own savior, I finally have room to let God be God.

And then the cross begins to look different.

The suffering doesn’t necessarily disappear. The uncertainty doesn’t disappear. The questions don’t always disappear.

But I no longer have to carry them alone.

Because I begin to understand what Jesus has been asking of me all along:

“Trust Me. Give Me your life. Give Me your fears. Give Me your tomorrow. Give Me what you cannot control. And follow Me.”

And when I think about all of this, after everything, I find that I don’t really have a complicated answer.

I don’t have a perfect theological explanation.

I don’t even have all the faith I wish I had.

But I have this:

I love You, Jesus.

And maybe, in the end, that is where surrender begins.

God bless you always.