Only, Solely, Alone

It is a desolate place. The earth is sun baked from scorching summers and stained a rusty red from the blood that has often fallen there. Bits of metal and rubbish litter the ground, the resting place of many tears. You would be a fool to kneel there, the place where human carnage has sullied what was once christened "and behold, it was very good". There are no prayer shawls, plaques or icons here. Two beams of wood and a handful of nails stand tall. It is a place of bereavement. There is no alternate route, no options. You wish for "it will be OK" and "don't worry about it" and "it's only a religious symbol" but there is only a deep and penetrating silence. The slightest breath grates deafeningly on your ears.

This is a place that knows things. There is no crevice of your heart that is unscrutinized, no thought unnoticed. There is no worship band, no bulletin, no offering plates. Here only two things exist, you and those two beams of wood, heavy, bloody beams of wood. It is enough. God's death is sufficient. Not God's death plus outreach programs. Not God's death plus prayer and fasting. God saves sinners. It is enough.

There is a gripping power in the paradox of the Gospel. The thing you most desperately desire is free. It cannot be earned or achieved, only accepted.

Follow me. Seek first the kingdom, my kingdom, and the rest will take care of itself. Don't seek first social justice. Don't seek first Bible translation. Don't seek first food pantries. Seek me and you will find me, and you'll get the rest thrown in. It is no surprise that the rich young man found the cost of the Gospel too high. The gift is free for receiving, but receiving it will cost you everything. And in that loss, you will find the greatest gain.

If we disregard the power of "And there is salvation in no one else, for there is no other name under heaven given among men by which we must be saved." we must resort to programs and universalism to entertain the people who warm our pews. Entertain? Has church become merely a pageant where people are brought into conversation but never conversion, and spirituality masquerades as faith? Let it not be so.

Let us not forget that place of death from which life springs, the spiritual warring that brought us peace, the wounding that resulted in healing for any who would receive it. All our attempts at religion and graceful goodness pale in comparison. What is our petty offering to charity compared with these bloody beams? Here, a whole life was offered. Can we truly stand in this desolate place thinking we have done any good? These towering splintery posts slowly strip away illusions of personal moral grandeur like wind erodes the soil, until there's nothing left of you but you.

Only you stand before the cross. Gone are your greatest achievements, your claims to fame. You cannot bring friends to stand with you, or loved ones to hold your hand. You are alone in this place, but it doesn't leave you alone for long.   It takes all you clung to and fills you with new life. The love that drove the nails now fills you.  Only now can you begin to be who you were always meant to be.