Is your Jesus stretched, or is he squashed?
“To be in Christ is to be shaped by the narrative of Christ’s self-giving love, a narrative that always takes the form of the cross. Cruciformity is the reenactment of the story of Christ in our lives, a life of faithful obedience and self-emptying love for God and neighbour.” — Michael J. Gorman, Cruciformity: Paul’s Narrative Spirituality of the Cross
As Christian leaders, we are called to live a cruciform life—a life shaped by Jesus’ invitation to walk in his way, to “take up our cross and follow him.” (Matt 16:24-26)
The cross has two bars: one vertical, one horizontal. As Christ goes to the cross, we see him in constant dialogue with both his Father and with humanity. He cries out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (MaI 27:46) and he asks a soldier for water. He gives up his Spirit to God, and he gives a son to his mother. Just as the crucifixion mediates between us and God, so Christ’s words throughout the passion narrative mediate between heaven and earth.
That’s our pattern too. But if we’re honest, most of us lean more one way than the other. My own story has been one of oscillating between an overly embodied messiah complex— committed to justice at all costs—and a lofty, ungrounded spirituality that at its worst has been escapist. Sometimes the vertical bar of my cross has stretched high into the sky while my connection with my neighbour was thin; other times I’ve stretched myself wide into my neighbourhood while my communion with God grew fragile.
So here’s a question: is your cross stretched, or is it squashed?
The Stretched Cross
The stretched cross is full of holy devotion but lacking in mission. At its best, this life is marked by prayer, retreat, and worship. It treasures holiness and intimacy with God. But at its worst, it hears God say, “This is my child, whom I love,” (Matt 3:17) but not, “Go and make disciples.” (Matt 28:19-20)
Without incarnation, this spirituality floats above the ground. Discipleship quickly plateaus, because it hasn’t been embodied in real neighbourhoods and communities. Mystics, contemplatives, and pastors can be especially prone to this temptation—removing themselves from culture in a way that makes them neither influential nor embedded.
The Squashed Cross
The squashed cross is full of radical self-emptying. On good days, this looks like deep commitment to those who suffer and a holy conviction to see justice done on earth. But at its worst, it is marked by exhaustion, burnout, and a creeping self-righteousness. Those carrying a squashed cross often become so overwhelmed by the world’s need that they lose hope. Chaplains, community workers, and activists are especially vulnerable here.
The Small Cross
But there is another cross we should consider: the small cross.
This one costs us nothing. It speaks of intimacy with God or justice for the world, but embodies neither. It fits neatly on a necklace, polished in brass, but bears none of the blood or scandal of Golgotha. It is a domesticated cross—safe, tame, and detached from the real Christ.
And to be honest, I’d rather walk with stretched or squashed Christians stumbling toward wholeness than with those content with such a small and shallow vision of discipleship.
What we all desire is the big cross—the cruciform life. A life that reaches to the thief beside us with mercy and stretches upward to the Father in surrender: “Your will be done.” (Luke 22:42)
This is the life that resists both burnout and disembodiment. Not stretched or squashed or shrunk down, but fully extended in both directions—love of God and love of neighbour, intersecting in the costly shape of Christ.
And here’s what I’m learning: Our only hope for the big cross is found in the breadth and diversity of God’s people. Stretched Christians tend to stay with the stretched, and squashed Christians tend to stay with the squashed. But when we remain in our silos, we miss the gift the other holds.
The connection of difference expressions, traditions, and denominations is where this cross-pollination happens. The stretched bring hope, holiness, and depth of devotion. The squashed bring compassion, solidarity, and embodied presence in the world. Alone, each is incomplete. Together, they reveal the whole cruciform pattern of Christ—grounded in God, poured out for neighbour.
So here’s two questions we might consider as we pursue a more faithful cruciform life. Firstly, is your cross stretched, squashed, or small? And secondly, who am I walking with where we might lead each other into a more whole Christianity?
Rev. Scottie Reeve
Scottie heads up the Catch Network. He loves helping people starting brand new things to make it through the trickiness and the loneliness of starting from scratch. Scottie is based in Wellington.