April 7th, 2026
by Rachel Mahoney
by Rachel Mahoney
A reflection on the cross, borrowed trust, and finding Jesus under the rubble.
I've seen a lot of crosses in my life. On necklaces. On church walls. On Sundance Mountain. Familiar enough that it's easy to stop really seeing them.
But there was a season when I couldn't look at one without it costing me something. Not because the cross had changed, but because I finally understood how I had been misplacing my trust.
When the Foundation Cracked
I grew up in the church. Years of religious education, active ministry, small groups, teams, service. I knew the language. I knew the rhythms. I loved Jesus, I genuinely did.
But somewhere along the way, I started building on something that wasn't totally Him.
I placed my trust in people, in a community, in a church structure that felt solid and good. For a long time, it held. Until the season when it didn't.
I won't go into the details because they aren't necessary to share. But there was a time, long before Black Hills Cowboy Church, when the institution I had leaned on crumbled from within. There were unhealthy patterns, broken trust, and leadership that proved unworthy of what had been placed in its hands. When it fell, everything I thought my faith was standing on shifted.
That chapter is behind me now, and this community we belong to today is a different story. But what that season revealed in me is something I still carry, not as a wound, but as a gift.
In that disorienting time, I had to go looking for Jesus under the rubble of a false foundation. What I found was that He had been there all along, solid, unchanged, completely unaffected by the collapse above Him.
He was never the problem. The problem was what I had placed between myself and Him.
Measuring on a Curve
Before that season, I tended to measure my faith on a curve. I wasn't perfect, but I wasn't that bad either. Not the loudest failure. Not the most obvious mess.
But the cross doesn't grade on a curve.
It doesn't ask, “Are you better than someone else?”
It asks, “Are you whole? And are you building on Me, or on something that will eventually give way?”
Not perfect, but being made whole. Not finished, but being formed.
When I slowed down enough to look honestly, not just at my actions but at the structure of my trust, I saw it clearly. I had placed people where only Christ belonged. I had let a community carry weight it was never meant to hold. When it couldn't, I called it a crisis of faith.
What I Found at the Cross
During that season, there was a song I kept coming back to. Not a triumphant anthem, just a quiet reminder to keep my eyes on Jesus. Not because the storm wasn't real, but because the waves and wind still know His name.
There was a day when I laid it down at the foot of the cross. The misplaced trust. The quiet idolatry of institution. The pride of thinking proximity to ministry meant proximity to Christ.
And I have never been the same.
Not because life got easier, but because I began rebuilding on something that does not crack. Something that does not depend on the people around me. Something that does not change.
More Than Forgiveness
For a long time, I thought the cross was mostly about being forgiven. And it is that, deeply and completely.
But it is also more...
It is an invitation into a changed life. Not just pardon, but restoration. Not just being let off the hook, but being rebuilt on the only foundation that holds.
The cross tells me that what is broken in me is serious. But it also tells me that God's love is stronger still. Strong enough not to leave me the way it found me. Strong enough to clear away false foundations and begin building something true in their place, as I continue to surrender what He reveals.
Which means I don't have to pretend I have it together to come near. But it also means I cannot stay the same if I do.
What the Cross Asks of Me Now
Now when I see a cross, I don't rush past it.
I let it ask me something.
Where am I building on things that will eventually give way?
What am I still carrying that was meant to be laid down?
What have I quietly placed above Christ, not out of rebellion, but out of slow drift?
The cross is where resurrection begins. Not just on Easter morning, but in the daily work of a life being made new as I continue to walk with Him.
Because the cross is not the end of the story.
He did not stay buried. The same Jesus who held steady beneath everything that collapsed walked out of the grave, alive. Not symbolic. Not distant. Alive.
Which means this rebuilding is not wishful thinking. It is anchored in something real.
There is no new life without continually laying things down. But what is raised in its place is not fragile. It is held by the same power that defeated death itself.
I know that weight. I carried it longer than I realized. And I know what it feels like to finally put it down, and to keep putting it down.
If you are in a season where the ground feels uncertain, where people or structures you trusted could not hold what you placed on them, hear this:
He is not among the rubble.
He is the foundation it fell on.
And He has not moved.
A Question to Sit With
Is there something, a person, a community, an institution, even a version of yourself, that you have placed where only Christ belongs?
A Prayer
Lord,
I confess that I am better at trusting what I can see than what I cannot. I confess that I have placed people and structures in spaces that belong only to You, not out of rebellion, but out of slow drift.
Forgive me.
Clear away what I have built on the wrong foundation, even when it hurts. Remind me that You have not moved, that You do not change, that the waves and wind still know Your name.
Teach me to walk with You in what You are rebuilding. Give me the grace to keep surrendering what You place Your finger on.
It is well because of who You are, not because of what surrounds me.
Rebuild me on You alone. Amen.
I've seen a lot of crosses in my life. On necklaces. On church walls. On Sundance Mountain. Familiar enough that it's easy to stop really seeing them.
But there was a season when I couldn't look at one without it costing me something. Not because the cross had changed, but because I finally understood how I had been misplacing my trust.
When the Foundation Cracked
I grew up in the church. Years of religious education, active ministry, small groups, teams, service. I knew the language. I knew the rhythms. I loved Jesus, I genuinely did.
But somewhere along the way, I started building on something that wasn't totally Him.
I placed my trust in people, in a community, in a church structure that felt solid and good. For a long time, it held. Until the season when it didn't.
I won't go into the details because they aren't necessary to share. But there was a time, long before Black Hills Cowboy Church, when the institution I had leaned on crumbled from within. There were unhealthy patterns, broken trust, and leadership that proved unworthy of what had been placed in its hands. When it fell, everything I thought my faith was standing on shifted.
That chapter is behind me now, and this community we belong to today is a different story. But what that season revealed in me is something I still carry, not as a wound, but as a gift.
In that disorienting time, I had to go looking for Jesus under the rubble of a false foundation. What I found was that He had been there all along, solid, unchanged, completely unaffected by the collapse above Him.
He was never the problem. The problem was what I had placed between myself and Him.
Measuring on a Curve
Before that season, I tended to measure my faith on a curve. I wasn't perfect, but I wasn't that bad either. Not the loudest failure. Not the most obvious mess.
But the cross doesn't grade on a curve.
It doesn't ask, “Are you better than someone else?”
It asks, “Are you whole? And are you building on Me, or on something that will eventually give way?”
Not perfect, but being made whole. Not finished, but being formed.
When I slowed down enough to look honestly, not just at my actions but at the structure of my trust, I saw it clearly. I had placed people where only Christ belonged. I had let a community carry weight it was never meant to hold. When it couldn't, I called it a crisis of faith.
It wasn't a crisis of faith. It was a crisis of misplaced faith.
What I Found at the Cross
During that season, there was a song I kept coming back to. Not a triumphant anthem, just a quiet reminder to keep my eyes on Jesus. Not because the storm wasn't real, but because the waves and wind still know His name.
That became something I held onto when everything else felt uncertain. He hadn't moved. He hadn't failed. I had just been looking in the wrong direction.
There was a day when I laid it down at the foot of the cross. The misplaced trust. The quiet idolatry of institution. The pride of thinking proximity to ministry meant proximity to Christ.
I put it down. And, in many ways, I keep putting it down.
And I have never been the same.
Not because life got easier, but because I began rebuilding on something that does not crack. Something that does not depend on the people around me. Something that does not change.
More Than Forgiveness
For a long time, I thought the cross was mostly about being forgiven. And it is that, deeply and completely.
But it is also more...
It is an invitation into a changed life. Not just pardon, but restoration. Not just being let off the hook, but being rebuilt on the only foundation that holds.
The cross tells me that what is broken in me is serious. But it also tells me that God's love is stronger still. Strong enough not to leave me the way it found me. Strong enough to clear away false foundations and begin building something true in their place, as I continue to surrender what He reveals.
Jesus didn't stay distant. He stepped into the full weight of our brokenness, not just to forgive it, but to break its hold.
Which means I don't have to pretend I have it together to come near. But it also means I cannot stay the same if I do.
What the Cross Asks of Me Now
Now when I see a cross, I don't rush past it.
I let it ask me something.
Where am I building on things that will eventually give way?
What am I still carrying that was meant to be laid down?
What have I quietly placed above Christ, not out of rebellion, but out of slow drift?
Drift is quiet. Staying near takes intention.
The cross is where resurrection begins. Not just on Easter morning, but in the daily work of a life being made new as I continue to walk with Him.
Because the cross is not the end of the story.
He did not stay buried. The same Jesus who held steady beneath everything that collapsed walked out of the grave, alive. Not symbolic. Not distant. Alive.
Which means this rebuilding is not wishful thinking. It is anchored in something real.
There is no new life without continually laying things down. But what is raised in its place is not fragile. It is held by the same power that defeated death itself.
I know that weight. I carried it longer than I realized. And I know what it feels like to finally put it down, and to keep putting it down.
If you are in a season where the ground feels uncertain, where people or structures you trusted could not hold what you placed on them, hear this:
He is not among the rubble.
He is the foundation it fell on.
And He has not moved.
A Question to Sit With
Is there something, a person, a community, an institution, even a version of yourself, that you have placed where only Christ belongs?
You may not have done it intentionally. Drift is quiet. But the foot of the cross is always open, and it is never too late to lay it down.
A Prayer
Lord,
I confess that I am better at trusting what I can see than what I cannot. I confess that I have placed people and structures in spaces that belong only to You, not out of rebellion, but out of slow drift.
Forgive me.
Clear away what I have built on the wrong foundation, even when it hurts. Remind me that You have not moved, that You do not change, that the waves and wind still know Your name.
Teach me to walk with You in what You are rebuilding. Give me the grace to keep surrendering what You place Your finger on.
It is well because of who You are, not because of what surrounds me.
Rebuild me on You alone. Amen.
Rachel Mahoney
Recent
Archive
2026
January
February
March
2025
May
June
July
August
September
October
No Comments