The early worship is full of praise and worship music. There’s coffee and breakfast snacks on the back table. The sermon is shorter, and typically lighter in tone. Usually, the sermon for the early service is given by one of the associate ministers of the church, instead of our Pastor. On occasion, a church member, instead of a staff member will give the message of the day.

One thing that used to be a regular feature of the early service was a performance by our drama group. Personally, I’m not normally a fan of dramas. Sometimes they speak to me, and sometimes they don’t. To others, these dramas are quite moving. On some occasions, though, there will be a performance that strikes me very close to the heart.

One such drama happened this past Easter. It came out of the blue, for me, and took most of the service to perform. There, in the church’s chapel, we re-enacted the raising of the cross. I can’t speak for anyone else in the crowd, but for me it was one of the most moving occurrences I’ve witnessed in the church.

As usual, my family walked into the chapel and, after getting coffee, took a seat near the back of the church. As we waited for the service to start, we noticed that the band had not set up. Normally, they’re on stage practicing a bit when we arrive. As we looked around, others looked as bewildered as we were. What was the plan for this morning’s Easter service?

Suddenly, one of the leaders of the drama group appeared at the rear of the chapel. She carried a walking staff, made of a sapling. She walked down the aisle and pointed the stick at one of the men in the crowd and said "You are Simon." She walked further, pointing again at another man, "You are Simon." She pointed the stick in my direction, and again repeated those words, "You are Simon."

I must admit, I wasn’t in the mood to be "Simon." I really wanted to sit and watch, and not be involved in the drama. I’m not even a fan of dramas in church. I didn’t expect this experience to be a lot of fun, and I was definitely going to miss my cup of coffee as it got too cool to drink. I thought that being "Simon" was going to be a real bad idea.

A few more men in the church were chosen to be "Simon." We were all younger men, in our 20s or 30s for the most part. We were all taken outside of the chapel to the yard. On the ground were two pieces of wood. Two beams, actually. One of the beams was approximately 12 feet long, and 10 inches by 12 inches thick. The other was shorter, but a similar thickness. Each had a notch cut out of them, so that they could be joined. The short beam was notched in the middle, while the longer one was notched about two feet from the end. We were instructed to lift the beams and carry them into the church.

We separated into two groups. The smaller group grabbed the shorter beam with relative ease. The longer beam took more work, but my group managed to lift it with some effort and put it on our shoulders. It wasn’t easy, but we carried it up the front steps of the church and in the front door. At the door, we had to turn and manipulate the beam to get it to go through the second set of doors, which were offset from the first. Eventually, we managed to get the beam down the aisle and laid on the floor down front, parallel with the pews.

Next came the assembly. Long, thick nails were brought out and used to join the two pieces of wood into a cross. This took some effort, as the nails wanted to bend, but after a few minutes, the wood was joined. At the top of the cross, a cardboard sign was attached, with a message written in Greek.

The next instruction was to raise the cross. We lifted the crossbeam from the floor and started to push it into the air. The bottom started to slide. I left my position and moved to the bottom, to hold the foot of the cross in place as it was lifted. Half a dozen men pushed the cross skyward, but soon found that they didn’t have enough strength to push it as the far end lifted out of range. We called more men from the crowd to assist. With a major effort, we managed to push the cross into a vertical position, where it towered above us in the room.

After doing this, and having a short message, we moved the cross up onto the stage. This meant bringing the cross back down again. Again, this was no small feat. It took at least a dozen strong men to manipulate this construction to and from vertical. Once on stage, we placed the foot of the cross into the space between the organ and the stage and pushed it back up. This time, having had some practice, the job was a bit easier. Once we were done, however, the foot of the cross was approximately three inches too far from the stage. If we left it there, the cross would lean and be unstable.

I’m lucky enough to be the son of an appliance repairman. All my life, I’ve been taught how to lift, and how not to lift. I knew that the only way to move the cross that three inches was to lift it off the floor, fully clear of the carpet below. As such, I wrapped my arms around the cross and prepared to lift.

Immediately, I could see the worry on the faces of the others. We all knew how heavy this cross was. We had carried it, and lifted it, and it had us all exhausted. I assured them that I knew what I was doing, and that I would need help moving it into place. I replaced my arms around the cross, and hugged it tightly. With my legs, I pushed the cross off of the ground and held it for the two seconds necessary to get the base moved into place. For those two seconds, I alone held the entire weight of the cross. I can assure you, it was extremely heavy.

With the cross in place, the drama was over. A short prayer was said and the crowd filed out of the chapel.

When I think about the suffering of Jesus on the cross, I know that he held the weight of every single sin that I have done. Every stroke of the lash held a portion of my sin. Every strike of the hammer on the nails that held him in place was the result of my own bad actions. He did this for me, because only one man could. He was the only man that could hold the weight of my sins, and those of every other born-again Christian in all of time. The job was his, and he bore its weight with honor.

After this past Easter, I have some small idea of what it was he endured. I never had to endure the whip. I never had nails driven into my hands and feet. No spear was pushed into my side. No real suffering has resulted from my own sins. For hours, Jesus suffered on the cross until he gave up his life for me. All I can say is that for less than two seconds, I carried the full weight of a cross in my arms. For that one small moment, I lifted the weight of a cross with my legs. As much effort as that took for me, and as much soreness as I felt in my legs afterward, it was nothing compared to what he did for me.

That message spoke to me, directly. For the rest of my life, I’ll carry that message in my heart. I had a front-row seat for one of the best messages of my life. I had even forgotten about my coffee.

We don’t have dramas in our celebration service anymore. Apparently, this message that meant so much to me was too much for others. The leaders of the drama team were instructed, by someone whose name I do not know, that it was too much. They were told to forget about what happened before the resurrection, and focus on what happened after. The drama team is no longer active, and for some time the couple who led the team weren’t active either.

I say yes, focus on what happened after the cross. Dying on the cross wasn’t what proved Jesus is our savior. Raising from the dead after three days, and walking among his disciples in the flesh is the proof. It wasn’t the resurrection, though, that washed away our sins. Our sins were placed upon him at the time of his crucifixion. We should keep in mind the weight that our sins placed upon our Lord. That one drama, which apparently caused some division in our church, hammered that message home in my heart.

I only wish that those who criticized it could have, for only a moment, held the weight of the cross in their arms as I did. Perhaps they would have gotten the message that I did.