Mark 9:30-32

Everyone wants victory without the cost. We love the celebration, the answered prayer, the moment of breakthrough—but not the process that gets us there. We want Easter without Good Friday, the crown without the cross, the joy of faith without the stretch of obedience. But Jesus never offered discipleship without a cross.

That’s where this week’s message began—a confession and a reminder. Growth doesn’t happen in ease; it happens in pain. Faith doesn’t deepen through shortcuts; it grows through surrender. In Mark 9:30–32, Jesus walks with His disciples through Galilee and delivers the most important truth they’ve ever heard: “The Son of Man is going to be delivered into the hands of men. They will kill Him, and after three days He will rise.”

It’s the heart of the Gospel in a single sentence—and they completely miss it.

The disciples had seen Jesus do everything right. He had healed the sick, silenced storms, cast out demons, and fed thousands. Everything about Him screamed victory. So when He started talking about death—about being handed over, about being killed—it must have felt like the air left the room. Their Messiah, their miracle-worker, their hope—talking about dying? They couldn’t comprehend it, because they couldn’t imagine a Savior who saves by suffering.

But that’s exactly who Jesus is.

This wasn’t a mistake or a moment of despair. It was the mission. The cross wasn’t a tragic accident—it was a deliberate act of love. The word Jesus uses—paradidotai, “to be handed over”—isn’t passive. It’s purposeful. Jesus wasn’t only betrayed by Judas; He was handed over by His Father. The cross was not something done to Him—it was something He chose. Heaven’s justice and mercy collided there, where wrath and love met and grace began to reign forever.

And that changes everything about how we see our own suffering.

Because if God’s plan worked even when it looked like it didn’t—if redemption came through surrender, not strength—then we can trust Him when life doesn’t make sense. The cross tells us that God’s power is not proven by our escape from pain, but by His presence in it.

That’s why the sermon invited us to pray a different kind of prayer. Instead of “God, make it easier,” Jesus teaches us to pray, “Father, make it count.”

Because sometimes the pain we’re trying to escape is the very thing God is using to shape us. The road marked by suffering isn’t punishment—it’s preparation. Before every crown, there’s a cross. Before every resurrection, a grave. Before every victory, surrender.

And maybe that’s your story right now. Maybe you’ve prayed for healing and it hasn’t come, or you’ve waited for breakthrough and the silence feels endless. Maybe you’ve asked for answers and heard nothing but the wind. The cross tells you: you are not forgotten. The story isn’t over.

Jesus didn’t run from the cross—He walked straight toward it. Because He trusted that the Father’s purpose was greater than His own comfort. And He invites His followers to trust the same. To believe that obedience is worth it even when it hurts. That surrender can lead to glory.

That’s the pattern of the saints we remember on this day. They weren’t fearless or flawless—they were faithful. They walked through darkness holding onto light. They didn’t live without questions or pain; they lived with the confidence that their pain would not have the last word. They prayed the same prayer Jesus did: Father, make it count.

Mark tells us the disciples didn’t understand what Jesus meant, and they were afraid to ask Him. And if we’re honest, that’s still where many of us live—silent, confused, afraid to ask God questions we don’t want the answers to. We love a Savior who heals, but we hesitate with the one who suffers. We love the comfort of faith, but not the cost.

But the cross confronts that fear head-on. It tells us that God’s love isn’t sentimental—it’s sacrificial. It bleeds. It bends low. It steps into suffering and carries it for us. When we ask, “Do You care?” the cross answers louder than any thunder: “Yes. More than you can imagine.”

Faith doesn’t always mean understanding. Sometimes it means trusting before we understand. Sometimes it means walking through the valley believing that the God who was handed over still holds the story together.

And that’s the faith of the saints—the people who kept showing up when it hurt, who kept worshiping when they didn’t see the outcome, who forgave when it would’ve been easier to stay bitter, who prayed when heaven was silent, and who lived believing that the road marked with pain leads to resurrection.

All Saints Sunday isn’t about spiritual perfection. It’s about spiritual perseverance. It’s not about heroes of the faith; it’s about ordinary people who kept walking with Jesus through ordinary pain. It’s about men and women who discovered what we’re still learning: that every cross carried in faith becomes a crown in glory.

Because that’s how God writes His story. Every act of obedience, every tear surrendered, every moment of loss offered back to Him becomes part of the resurrection that’s coming. The saints remind us that faith doesn’t always look like victory—it often looks like holding on by a thread. But that thread is strong enough to pull you through death into life.

So if you’re carrying a cross right now—grief, disappointment, fear, or pain—remember this: you don’t have to be strong to be held. The same Jesus who carried His cross for you is ready to carry you through yours.

And just as the saints found glory on the other side of suffering, so will you. The story of the Gospel always moves from death to resurrection, from sorrow to song, from the cross to the crown.

Because God’s plan still works—even when it looks like it doesn’t.