The Upside-Down Map: Trusting the Foolishness of the Cross

A Reflection on the Feast of St. Andrew, the Apostle

Today, on the Feast of St. Andrew, the Apostle, I was reflecting on the reading from the Daily Office - I Corinthians 1:18-2:5 (the foolishness of the Cross of Christ). St. Andrew, pray for us.

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The Upside-Down Map: Trusting the Foolishness of the Cross

Let’s start with a story.

There’s a man standing at a crossroad, holding a map. The map is ornate—marked with clear paths, bright symbols, and labels in bold print like Achievement, Success, Control, Power, Ambition. It looks very official, very definitive. But here’s the twist: the map is upside-down, though the man doesn’t realize it. Along comes another traveler—a quiet, unassuming figure—who points this out. “Turn it over,” the traveler suggests. “It’s not guiding you the way you think it is.” But the man just shakes his head and tightens his grip. “That can’t be right,” he says. “This map is how the world works. Everyone I know uses this map.” And so he keeps walking, confidently following the wrong directions.

Now, this is not some clever allegory designed to make me sound like the wise traveler who’s figured it all out. Because the truth is, I’m not. I’m the guy clutching the upside-down map. Probably so are you. The point of this story is to illustrate something both obvious and maddeningly difficult to accept: the way we navigate life—what we instinctively value, what we chase after, what we rely on to give us meaning—is often deeply flawed. And nowhere does this become more apparent than when we’re confronted by something that flips the map entirely—something like the Cross.

Here’s the thing about the Cross: it makes no sense. Not to the world, anyway. Think about it. Power through surrender? Freedom through obedience? Life through death? If you’re honest, those aren’t exactly the kinds of phrases you’d slap on a motivational poster. They don’t “sell.” The Cross doesn’t play by the world’s rules, and that’s what makes it so profoundly disruptive. It forces us to question whether the map we’ve been following—the one promising comfort, achievement, acclaim—is not only upside-down but maybe never led anywhere worth going in the first place.

St. Paul puts it bluntly: “The word of the Cross is folly to those who are perishing.” That’s the word he uses—folly. And, if we’re being real, he’s not wrong. The Cross is, by all worldly standards, absurd. But—here’s the twist again—to those willing to trust it, to lean into its strange and paradoxical wisdom, it becomes something else entirely: the power of God. Not a flashy, triumphant power, but a quiet, transformative one—the kind that rewires your heart from the inside out.

Which brings us to today’s saint, Andrew. You probably know the basics of his story. A fisherman by trade, he’s out there one day by the Sea of Galilee, doing his thing—casting nets, pulling them in, going through the rhythm of work that puts food on the table. And then along comes Jesus with this utterly baffling, wildly unreasonable invitation: “Follow me.” No explanation, no guarantees, just those two words. And here’s the kicker: Andrew goes. He drops everything—his nets, his livelihood, the life he’s built—and he follows. No questions, no conditions. Just trust.

Now, let’s pause here because this is one of those moments that’s easy to romanticize in hindsight. It’s tempting to imagine Andrew as some kind of spiritual superhero, instantly enlightened, effortlessly obedient. But let’s get real. Andrew was human. He had a family, responsibilities, fears. He wasn’t handed a crystal-clear roadmap detailing where this “following” would lead him. (Spoiler: it ends with him on a cross, too.) So what in the world possessed him to say yes?

Here’s the best answer I can come up with: grace. Something in Jesus—something Andrew couldn’t quite name but deeply recognized—spoke to him. And that something was worth leaving everything else behind. Grace gave Andrew the eyes to see what the world couldn’t: that the real Messiah doesn’t promise worldly success or easy answers, but something far better—freedom, purpose, love. But—and this is crucial—grace didn’t do all the work. Andrew still had to decide. He had to take that first, terrifying step into the unknown.

And isn’t that the paradox of faith? It’s both a gift and a choice. God plants the seed, but we have to nurture it. We have to choose to trust, over and over, even when the map seems illegible or the road ahead is pitch dark.

Which brings us to the question I think we all wrestle with: how do we actually live this out? How do we follow Christ when the Cross feels less like a symbol of hope and more like a burden we’re not sure we can carry? How do we trust when trust itself feels foolish?

The answer, I think, lies not in grand gestures but in small, stubborn acts of surrender. Whispering, “Lord, I trust You,” even when you don’t mean it yet. Choosing kindness in a moment when it feels easier to be cruel. Letting go of control when you’d rather white-knuckle your way through. These little acts, these tiny yeses, these daily surrenders, are how we take up our cross. They don’t make the path easier, but they do make it holier. And over time, they shape us into people who can say, like Andrew did, “We have found the Messiah.”

Here’s the thing: following Christ will often look ridiculous by the world’s standards. It will make you feel like the guy at the crossroads, throwing away the official map. And that’s okay. Because the real map—the one Christ offers—doesn’t promise a life free of struggle or doubt. What it promises is infinitely better: a life filled with meaning, shaped by grace, and anchored in a love that even death can’t destroy.

So, on this Feast Day of St. Andrew the Apostle, let’s ask ourselves: what’s one small act of trust I can offer God right now? What can I surrender? It doesn’t have to be dramatic. Maybe it’s as simple as taking a deep breath and saying, “Lord, I don’t get it, but I’m here.” Or maybe its the Jesus Prayer - “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner.” Because here’s the beautiful, foolish truth: God can do extraordinary things with even the smallest yes—the smallest surrenders.

Let’s dare to be fools for Christ. After all, the upside-down map? It turns out to be the only one that leads home.

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