At the Cross

Before I begin today’s post, daughter Avery (age 3 going on 4), would like to say hi:

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As you can tell, she was telling her friend Abby she’s excited see Horton Hears a Who! with her later today.

Now, for the post:

There are some awesome words that are said in the Anglican Church of Kenya. They have, from time to time, been a part of our worship at Church of the Good Shepherd in Davidson, NC:

All our problems:
We send to the cross of Christ.
All our difficulties:
We send the cross of Christ.
All the devil’s works:
We send to the cross of Christ.
All our hopes:
We set on the risen Christ.

Man, I love these words. I’ve even decided that my kids’ next group-songwriting project will be to flesh these ideas out and make them a song of liturgical praise. Imagine how those words could either be tender – or shake the walls in a glorious anthem!

Yesterday was Good Friday. Our school chapel was sparsely populated because for all of Bolivia it is a national holiday (in fact, we decided that our 130+ students were probably the only ones in school in La Paz!); even though it was a half-day, our high school chapel alone was at about 70%.

Bummer for those who missed out.

Yesterday, we met at the cross of Christ. Literally, the walls were stripped of all the exciting posters that kids have made and all was replaced by a large, rugged, wooden cross. We began in silence, watching the last words of Christ flash on the screen slowly in English and Spanish. Then we sang simple songs: “Were You There?” and “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross”. Pastor John, the campus pastor, shared what the cross meant to him, “Three simple words: ‘It is finished’”. I shared a bit about what the Bible says actually happened at the cross (the forgiveness of sins, the making of a new humanity, the reconciliation of all things to God etc.). Then we invited the kids to bring their sorrows, their shame, their worries, their every burden, to the cross. Soft songs were sung as the kids – some quickly, and some slowly – came to the cross with written prayers, nailing them there.

Thing is, they all came. The cross was covered with prayers that no one ever saw but them and God (I burned them to ensure that). Some lingered for a half hour, bringing – whatever – to God.
This is not an original idea, and I’m glad. I’ve done this on retreats and at church camps. There’s nothing new or innovative about what we invited the kids to do.

That’s the point. That’s the beauty. The cross has not changed. The cross has always been the place of healing, of new birth, of hope. It is the real peace sign. It is where the war was won and the devil was forever chained, wrecked and defeated.

It’s the place Jesus calls us back to, again and again.

I decided last year, at Good Friday 2007, when my pastor Clay Thompson preached at our service, that Good Friday – of all days – had become my favorite day of the Christian calendar.

It brings meaning to Christmas and makes Easter possible.

The cross is often used as an instrument of guilt for many, by many. But for me, it is the place where I can go to remember that, well, it is finished.

Guilt is gone at the cross.