The Touching Spirit

The city I visited was very nice. Beautiful scenery. The helping staff at the hotel and the restaurants were nice and went out of their way to be helpful and polite.  But the customers were a different matter. I saw people scream at staff members on two occasion, simply, I assume because they could get away with it.  Not cool.

I went walking every morning in perfect weather amidst beautiful landscaping with tall fir trees and lovely flowers of every hue.  Lots of other people did too.  But none of them looked at me, much less said hello like we do here in Oklahoma.  I’m glad to be back.

Around here, when I encounter someone who looks down and stays quiet, I assume something might be wrong, so I make sure to catch their eye and say, “Hi, how are you?” Because I really want to know.  

At church, I hug, pat shoulders, or shake hands with everyone I encounter. It’s partly me. I’m a toucher.  It’s also them--most people need a touch. Sometimes a person doesn’t want to be touched. It’s not hard to tell, and I respect that, but most people like the contact.  

Jesus was a toucher. He could have healed every sick person he encountered with a word, or a blink, or even a thought. But usually he touched them, even the lepers. Especially the lepers.  

We come to church for the contact with each other as well as with God.  We could stay home to worship. We can turn on the TV to hear some preaching and listen to music, and for some, by necessity, that has to suffice.  But there’s something healing about the physical company of others. It’s allows for a fuller experience of the Holy Spirit’s presence.   

Everywhere we go, we have the chance to heal or to harm. We can bless or we can curse.  I opt for blessing when I can. I try to avoid hurting others and I hope others do to.  But I hate being ignored and I hate ignoring anyone who crosses my path, whether it be on a walk, at the hotel, or on a plane.  

Or at church.  

To Bless and To Heal

A couple years ago, at the OKC Art Museum, we saw an exhibit of works done by artists commissioned by the WPA during the days of the Great Depression. I was surprised at their quality and moved by the stories they told.  

There was one piece that I found quite unpleasant but now I can’t forget of an old woman peeling potatoes. It was a dark image, almost silhouetted, but I could see her hands were covered with wounds she had sustained over the years from her arduous work. The artist showed them as if the wounds had never healed but stayed fresh, with more added each year.  Her face was the same way.  

The artist wanted us to remember that period of history and not get over it quickly because the people of our past suffered in part to give us our present and future.

I get the message. It’s important.  But I’m a minister and I want people to get better.

I wanted to reach into the canvass to take the wounded hands of that woman. I wanted to place my palms on her cheeks and kiss her scarred forehead. I wanted to tell her she was not alone, that she was loved, and that her work and life was important.  

It’s impossible to do that to the woman in the picture. It’s pretty hard to convey a blessing of worth to each other in the present time. But surely it’s not impossible.