The Ground Is Level at the Foot of the Cross

It’s been 15 years since I sat in chapel at The Foundry Rescue Mission and Recovery Center. Fifteen years since the day I learned the ground is truly level at the foot of the cross.

I was visiting The Foundry as a consultant, and my visit happened to bridge Thursday night — chapel night – for homeless overnight guests and recovery residents.  I found a seat near the front and was quickly surrounded by homeless folks, men, women, a few kids.  The music began, a pretty good worship band made up of various volunteers, staff and residents.  Led by a guy in a UPS uniform, we rocked the chapel, clapping, shouting, raising our hands and faces to the ceiling and beyond to God’s ears.

It was April … the Lenten season … and Rev. Bill Heintz, the executive director of The Foundry, got up to preach.  I settled in to hear an Easter message, typical for a rescue mission, and usually followed by an altar call.  I checked my watch and calculated the minutes it would take to complete the whole chapel process, get a bite to eat and finally settle into my hotel bed with the remote control.  If all went well, I’d be watching ER in a couple hours.

But Bill Heintz is a “preach it!” preacher.  It didn’t take long for my ears to lock on to the rise and fall of his voice.  As I listened to him create a picture of Christ’s stumbling struggle to Golgotha, I became completely caught up in the story … a story I’d read, heard, taught myself, a hundred times.

For a moment, my thoughts were captivated by my own struggles: a gut-wrenching divorce and the overwhelming pain my children and I were experiencing; my own sinful, fear-swept reaction to what was happening to us; worst, the loss of trust in my own ability to make right decisions, to be a decent mother, provider, spiritual leader in what was left of our family.

Then Bill caught my attention again.  He had come from behind the pulpit and was standing, head bowed and silent. Seconds passed and then!  ”He … Died … For … YOU!”  Punctuating each word, he thrust out his left arm first, then his right.  As he said “YOU!” he raised his head sharply and stood as though crucified for several more seconds.

I tried to regain my mental footing, but my tears and heart had leaped ahead.  As Bill offered a place at the altar for anyone who wanted prayer, my pride said, “You don’t have the problems these folks around you have.  They are homeless, addicted, they’ve lost their families, they have nothing.  Don’t take away the time they need before God.  Don’t take up someone else’s space at the altar.”

Then thankfully, the voice of God’s spirit broke through: Who are you kidding?  Are you better than these people?  Do you think you can fix this on your own.  What separates your loss from theirs?  What makes your pain more bearable? Who exactly do you think you are?

And it hit me: There is no difference between the addict, the drunk, the prostitute, the abuser, the gambler, the unemployed, the destitute, the low-income, the middle-income, the housed and the unhoused, the divorced mother or father, the physically sick or the heartsick, the mentally ill or spiritually proud.  THERE IS NO DIFFERENCE.  I DIED FOR YOU.

He died for me.  He died for you.  He died for all.

Fifteen years ago, I learned to kneel at the altar, broken and bare.  Free to “come before the throne of grace with confidence.”  Free to acknowledge the ground is level at the foot of the cross.  Thank God.  Praise His Holy Name.