I’ve seen it happen only twice in my lifetime.

The first “utterly stunned” moment came as an audience exited the theatre after watching Schindler’s List.

They filed out one by one. No one spoke a word. It felt like a funeral procession. No attendant instructed, “Please depart in silence.” We didn’t need one. The moment demanded it. Silence was the only fitting response.

The second happened two weeks ago on a mission trip with the Urban Hope Leadership Initiative in the Dominican Republic.

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It was a sunrise worship service—with one big surprise.

The night before, Pastor Max Bunn and I told the men, “What do you need to leave behind here in the DR? Bitterness? Regret? Whatever it is, write it down. If you’re worried someone might see it, use initials, symbols—whatever you need. Let it sit overnight. Add to it if you must. Just bring it with you in the morning.”

The day prior, I had gone searching for wood—anything that could serve as a cross. It took longer than expected. A hammer had already been secured from a maintenance worker. Ten rusty nails were easy enough to gather. But the beams? That took time.Right when I was about to give up, I saw two rugged, perfectly weathered beams. They were just right. For a second, I could almost see Calvary.

As I pulled them free from a pile of discarded scraps, a woman appeared out of nowhere, shielding herself from the sun with an umbrella. She began wagging her finger, scolding me in rapid Spanish. You would’ve thought I was stealing gold, not wood from a trash heap.To be fair, it was her country. Her ground. I respected that.

Still, we had to settle it.

She called over a man from a distance to interpret.

“I’m making a cross,” I said. “It’s for a worship service on the beach.”

That was all it took.

Her posture softened. The man smiled. What moments earlier felt like confrontation turned into quiet approval. They nodded, turned, and went on their way.

The next morning, the eight fellows arrived in clusters, still unaware of what was coming. Pastor Max and I had hinted all week at a “surprise.” They were expecting a foot-washing: which Jesus did tell us to do. But not that morning… it was all about the cross.

After a mini sermon on the crucifixion, I stepped forward, knelt down, and nailed my crumpled paper to the wood. Then stepped back.

One by one, each man followed.

No instructions were given.

No words were spoken.

Again—we all knew.

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I had planned to close with another short message, but I knew better.

There are moments when the best thing a pastor can do... is get out of the way.

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. Then thirty. Can you imagine?

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Eventually, Big Donny came forward. He dropped to one knee at the base of the cross, head bowed, facing the ocean as the sun broke over the horizon.

Then D did the same.

Ayo stepped into the water, ankle-deep off to the left. Zy off to the right.

Tristen and Daniel gazed ahead shoulder to shoulder. Caleb and Gavyn remained in place, taking it all in.

Laquann, such a likeable guy and true to form, was all over the place.

And it was there again.

Utterly stunned.

Moments like that can't be manufactured. They can't be scripted. In no way could they be improved upon. You just have to recognize them when they come... and have the good sense to get out of the way.

The cross still affects us, deeply. Moves us, profoundly. It'll do it again this Good Friday. I hope you can just slow down long enough to see it... and be utterly stunned.

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Jesus said, "For those who have ears to hear, let them hear."

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