Mosh Pit Of The Cross.

Picnic blanket spread.  A beautiful, spacious place.  Pretty paper plate with, of course, a pretty paper napkin.  Colorful food, fresh garden veggies and creamy cheeses, summer-tasting lemonade. Peonies and roses in a vase, tall and wide, peaches and pinks.  And the final addition: Me.  Part of the lovely, perfect, manicured space reserved for one, at this gorgeous arrangement at the foot of the cross.

It's true.  Sometimes, this is exactly how I envision it.  Singularly me, and all beautiful and articulate, a scene Pinterest-worthy and perfect, at the Cross.

But instead, it's a mosh pit at the cross. A mess of humanity, spread and squished, bloody and dirty, soiled and stained.  All clumped together, sweaty and stinky, clamoring for the foot of the cross.  His blood, dripping scarlet and wet, on the heads of the clawing.

The diversity at the foot of the cross is shocking.  Piled high with babies and elderly, brown and black, wealthy and impoverished.  The elite and the untouchables, the intellectuals and the learning disabled, the prominent and the poor in spirit.  Creations of all shapes, sizes, colors.  

All look around into the dark melty eyes of each other, seeing the sparkle in the blue or the sorrow in the brown, surprised by the fact that they are all here, all coming needy and worshipful, to the foot of the cross.

No space for picnic blankets.  No need for pretty or pious.  Just a whole lot of people, humans all equal and dictated by flesh and bone, spirit and soul, need and desperation.  For the longing hope and redemption, the dripping blood of the Savior, at the mosh pit of the cross.

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* Original phrase coined by Amber Porter at Every Little Step, Church At Charlotte, November 7, 2017.