I adjusted the cord on my wooden cross necklace as I switched the microphone off and waited for the next station break. Leaning back, I glanced down the news-sheet, making a mental checklist of what to include in my next broadcast. Lead off with one of the national stories, then a couple of local stories, today's big news about the governor, and finish with weather and a plug for tomorrow's morning show.

David* opened the studio door, fumbling with his usual armload of sheet music, books, CDs, and a diet cola. He was the station's artistic director, and he had helped me to secure a month-long internship at my local public radio station. He gently dropped his pile of work onto the table and gave me a morning grin.

"Joe asked me to send you in to see him," David said, straightening his tie and brushing at an ancient-looking stain on his shirt.

Joe Fallano, the station manager, generally stayed in his office and let the other staff handle my training and supervision; I hadn't had much contact with him. He sat hunched over his desk when I entered.

"Sit down, Caleb," he told me, pointing a gnarled finger at the chair opposite his desk. I lowered myself into the seat. "Caleb, you've been doing a good job. You seem to be catching on quickly."

"Thank you, Mr. Fallano," I replied. "It's been a great experience for me, too."

"Do you know why I called you in here?" he said. I shook my head and shrugged.

Mr. Fallano stood up from his desk but remained on the far side of the room. He straightened his tie and buttoned his suit coat. "Caleb, we've got a professional image to maintain at this station, so I need to talk to you about how you dressed for work today."

The collar of my turtleneck sweater suddenly became very itchy, but I breathed a sigh of relief that my wardrobe was the only problem. "I'm sorry, Mr. Fallano," I said. "I didn't realize this was too casual. I'll be sure to wear a shirt and tie from now on."

Mr. Fallano turned and smiled a little. "That's good," he said. "But I'm also worried about what you have around your neck."

My fingers instantly found the wooden cross on my chest; the once-sharp corners had grown smooth and familiar over time. "My necklace?"

"Yes. But what's on the necklace?"

"It's a cross." I wore it every day. People knew me by my necklace. It symbolized who I was as a follower of Christ.

"Caleb," he said matter-of-factly, "nobody said you could wear a cross at a public radio station."

"Maybe the Constitution?" I blurted out, before pausing to consider whether this was a wise thing. Every wall in my defense system shot up, and my instinct was to valiantly stand my ground in the name of Christ.

Mr. Fallano continued in a calm but firm voice: "Caleb, you can wear whatever you want on your own time. But this is a public radio station, and here we've got to represent public opinion, not go showing off whatever we believe. Don't get me wrong; I'm a religious man myself, but I don't show it off to everyone I meet. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

My head whirled between truth and fact, defiance and submission. "You don't want me to wear this necklace?"

"That's right," Mr. Fallano nodded. "And I appreciate your sensitivity on this." His demeanor relaxed a little, signaling to me that, as far as he was concerned, the discussion was over.

"Now, you're probably back on the air in a couple minutes," he said, as he returned to the work at his desk. "Have a good day."

As I switched on the microphone in the studio, a temptation passed over me to tell the public what had just happened in the station office: how my personal rights had been violated, how my civil liberties had been trampled. I thought it was righteous indignation that stirred me. "Stand up for Christ," my pride urged my will. My stomach quivered, and my heart pounded within my chest. But in the end, I stuck to the news about the governor.

Many times afterward, I've wanted to hang that cross around my neck and proclaim my right to wear whatever piece of religious jewelry I choose. I've even constructed several arguments that would justify my position. But then I think of the real meaning of the Cross, and wonder to myself, Would my defiance represent Christ's cause, or my own? His glory, or my pride? Is it His cross, or mine?

That evening, I hung the necklace on a coat hook in my room, and it stayed there for the remainder of my time at the radio station. Surrendering that piece of wood humbled me, but it also challenged me to ponder what it really means to represent Christ in the world. Wearing my cross so casually had almost kept me from carrying His.

*Names have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved. Caleb Sjogren is a writer living in suburban Chicago.