We Don’t Move On From the Cross

We’ve just come out of Easter.

For a moment, everything slows down enough for us to really look at the cross.
To remember what Christ has done.
To sit in the weight—and the wonder—of it.

But it doesn’t take long before we move on.

And yet, when Paul writes to the Corinthians, he describes a different way:

“I decided to know nothing among you except Jesus Christ and Him crucified.”

That wasn’t a limitation placed on him.
It was a decision.

Paul could have said many things. He was thoughtful, capable, and deeply knowledgeable. But when he came to Corinth, he chose something else.

He chose focus.

Not on style.
Not on persuasive words.
Not even on what might leave the strongest impression.

But on a person—and a moment:

Jesus Christ, and Him crucified.

He even says he came in weakness. In fear. In trembling.
Not with impressive speech, but with a quiet dependence on the Spirit.

And what’s striking is—others noticed.

“His letters are weighty and strong, but his bodily presence is weak, and his speech of no account.”

That wasn’t a misunderstanding.

It was the result of a life that refused to rely on itself.

Because Paul had a deeper goal:

That faith would not rest in human wisdom,
but in the power of God.

The cross isn’t something we return to once a year.

It’s not the starting point we eventually move beyond.

It’s the center.

To keep coming back to Christ crucified means we never outgrow it.
Never replace it.
Never move past it in search of something more.

Because there is nothing more.

Maybe the invitation is simpler than we think.

Not to find something new—
but to return again to what is already enough.

Jesus Christ,
and Him crucified.