“And if you do not carry your own cross and follow me, you cannot be my disciple.” (Luke 14:27.

I learned a new word last month. CRUCIFORM. I love new thoughts and words.

I must thank my preacher friend Stan Key for this new word. He asked me to review his soon-to-be-published book, Cross Purposes. The book is full of wonderful and new (if anything can be new about the Cross) thoughts about Jesus Christ and his death on the “Old Rugged Cross”. I recommend you find it on Amazon when it comes out in September. You might learn something too.

The word CRUCIFORM simply means cross-shaped and refers specifically to conformity to the crucified Christ. It will take me the rest of my days on earth to unpack the full meaning of that thought.

One of Stan’s illustrations is from inside a famous cathedral in France. He quotes a tour guide in the magnificent building,

“Standing here at the center, we have our clearest view of the entire structure and can best understand what its most obvious characteristic is. Can you see it? The cathedral is cruciform, in the shape of a cross. The cross is the defining reality not only of this building, but of the Christian faith. Even illiterate peasants can understand that.”

WOW!

Architecture points us to the Cross of Christ. I recalled the many times I have walked through the Dornoch Cathedral in Scotland. Sure enough. The shape of the Cross cannot be missed, even in that relatively small church. If the sermon is boring and the music is mediocre, the time in the cathedral is still well spent- the Cross is there!

I have always understood very well that Jesus died for me on the Cross. He paid the penalty for all my sins and I am forgiven. But Stan makes the point even more profoundly. We are also called to join Jesus on that Cross, carrying the burdens of our friends and family in intercessory prayer. “I have been crucified with Christ.” (Galatians 2:20). I continue to struggle with the meaning of Paul’s statement. Jesus died alone. But now, in a mystical sense, I can join Him.

But this “Cruciform” story goes way back in time and around the world for me. In 1990, thanks to Richard Samuel, I met Mother Teresa at her home in Calcutta. That brief encounter was the highlight of a five-week adventure to India.

Sue and I went there in 1989 as part of a typical short-term mission trip, helping construct a building at an orphanage. We fell in love with the people we met at Bethel Agricultural Fellowship. Two six-year old prayer children, Subha and Mumtaj, were orphans. They became our “prayer children” in a moving ceremony. Getzi was a teacher who is still a dear friend. There were dozens of memorable “Bethel boys” at the Bible school, training to change their part of the world. Every morning was a life-changing prayer service. The whole experience was transformative.

In fact, looking back, the old devil himself had tried to stop that 1989 trip. It took us a full week on Air India to arrive. We were delayed in N.Y. City for 24 hours, then a bomb scare on the plane over Europe somewhere caused an emergency landing in Istanbul, Turkey. Our group of a dozen soft and coddled Americans was pretty well worn-out when we finally arrived in Bangalore, India on a Saturday, three days later than expected. These were the days before cell phones and internet, so we were stuck in a ratty hotel for one final day until rescued by our new friends at Bethel.

On arrival, we learned that the patriarch at Bethel was P. Sam. That was the affectionate nickname of the founder of Bethel whose real name is too complicated to pronounce. P. Sam started with five little boys under a tree when he was a young man doing street evangelism. He was now in his mid-60s, and full of God stories of how it all happened. By a miracle, God provided money, mostly from a foundation in Holland, to build Bethel and do the work of saving thousands of orphan children in India.

As you read this mission story, keep in mind that manual labor is not my forte, as my wife likes to remind people with a smile. I was not even mowing my own yard at the time. I am sure that the experienced foreman would have preferred that I stay in my room under the mosquito net.

In the USA, I was an up-and-coming young lawyer. On this trip, I was a low-level brick carrier, and not a good one. Eighty-pound Indian women who could not read or write were carrying more weight than me, thanks to decades of practice under the hot south India sun. They used their heads mostly. My neck and head were not ready for that balancing act, so I was limited to what two skinny arms could handle.

I soon realized that any future mission trips should be different, using other gifts which I might have. I was active in CBMC- a ministry of evangelism to business and professional men. So, when I got home, I called the international President and asked if CBMC existed in India. He said Yes. I offered to go back to India on a ‘mission-trip’ of evangelism to the CBMC groups around India. So sure enough, a year later, I returned to India with Clair Stewart and Stephen Johnson- two of my CBMC friends- for a five-week mission all over India. Richard Samuel (P. Sam’s son) was our escort in January 1990. We ended our trip with three days in the heart of Calcutta, arguably the most dangerous and slum-filled city in the world.

Richard suggested that we try to meet Mother Teresa. He had met with her multiple times since he was also engaged in works of charity to the poor. So, we knocked on her door at the convent and were told to come back at 5pm for prayers. And sure enough, Mother Teresa herself was there. She led prayer-time for about fifty nuns. We listened in. We spoke to her quietly at the end.

Richard and me with Mother Teresa in Calcutta.

Now I was hooked. I kept going back to India almost every year. In 1995, I led a group of doctors and nurses back to Calcutta to work with Mother Teresa for a few days. By then, I was a Kentucky state Senator, so Richard used my title to get a private audience with the ‘saint’ on February 7, 1995.

I purchased fifty cheap rosaries from a vendor near the convent. I asked Mother Teresa to bless them, with the idea to give them away to my Catholic friends back home. She graciously did so. As a loud-mouthed “Pro-Life” politician in Kentucky, I had lots of Catholic friends. So, when I mentioned Mother Teresa and her blessing, it was a Wow moment for them all.

As for me, I put a rosary in my car, hanging from the rearview mirror. I have never officially prayed the rosary, but it has always been a reminder of India and my wonderful two moments with the “saint of Calcutta”. But sadly, after a while, like many things, I almost forgot the rosary, even though it was swinging in front of my face every day.

Fast forward twenty-five years. I bought a new car in 2021, and as I was moving the rosary to the new car, the beads started preaching a sermon to me. You see, the cross was missing! The beads looked fine- but where was the cross? Somewhere over the years, the cross had disappeared and only the beads remained.

And I had not even noticed.

The religious beads were there- but no Cross. I knew that somehow, this needed to be corrected. True relationship with Christ cannot exist without a Cross. I did nothing about this cross-less rosary for two years.

And then a friend stepped into my journey. Paul Bell is one of my golf pals- and a good Catholic brother. We study the Bible together every week at the golf course. I told him of my cross-less rosary. He frowned, as he should have. He began to plot and scheme for a solution. Months went by until last week. He and the other men in the Wednesday golfer’s Bible study surprised me with gifts. I am still not sure why- but these dear brothers decided to celebrate our brotherhood in Christ by giving me a fancy golf bag and a Kentucky belt. It was a great day of celebration of our friendship over the last three years.

But the main gift, which most of the guys never really even saw, was a Cross for my rosary.

Bible Study for Golfers at Steelwood CC.

Paul had arranged to purchase a special Crucifix blessed by a wonderful priest who is visiting Alabama from Nigeria. See this photo of Priest with Paul’s wife, Carol. Father Finbarr Felix became part of the story.

So…….. there you have it. The rosary is complete again- Cross and all. I am not a Catholic. And don’t plan to convert any time soon. But I do know we all have one thing in common— the need to live a CRUCIFORM life.

I have not arrived. I am merely on the Way. It is the Way of the Cross. The Via Dolorosa (The Way of Suffering). I am stumbling down that rocky road. At age 72, I am looking around to see who else is on the path.

Here is what I see. A man in south India who saves thousands of orphans. Two six-year-old girls who prayed for me daily. A saintly Albanian nun from Calcutta shows mercy. A priest from Nigeria blesses a stranger like me. A preacher friend in Michigan spends years writing a book. A Catholic golfing pal in Alabama gives a precious gift- the Cross of Jesus Christ. My wife Sue- who has now put up with me for 52 years of marriage- is also on the path. Today (July 31) is our 52nd anniversary. So……………

The path is not empty. But neither is it crowded. Will you join us?