At the Cross

We had communion in church this past Sunday. One of the songs had the powerful phrase "at the cross."

Where else is life distilled to its most basic form than there? At the cross only one thing matters--our response to Jesus' sacrifice.

When Dave and I were first married, we participated in an Easter pageant. He was a Roman soldier, I was one of the women following Jesus.

At the crucifixion scene we were all at the foot of the cross, weeping at the injustice.

And I realized a friendship I had at work was getting a little too important to me. My sin had put Jesus up on the cross. My tears of repentance were real.

In high school, I was a cast member in "Godspell." Midway through the second act Jesus said goodbye to each of his followers:  some with handshakes, many with hugs, all with a special gesture to signify each unique relationship. Just when we were starting to realize who our friend was and why he came, he was taken away.

In the play he was hung on a fence that stood in for a cross. Listening to him sing, "Oh God, I'm dying," while we were writhing at the base of the fence was a spiritual experience that gave me a glimpse of his sacrifice.

Our small school cast was a mix of kids, from different churches or no church background at all. Some athletes, some musical, some popular, some not. I determined that in my mind for the rest of my life they would be family. The ground was level at the foot of the cross.