in wounded hands

The policeman was very kind.  He took seriously my friend’s fear of her ex-husband.  He understood that it might be simple coincidence that he had tried to ‘friend’ her on Facebook the morning after someone tried to break into her house. But he would check with the parole officer and see if her ex was tethered to a monitoring device and promised to call her if he had any information.

He asked permission before he stepped into the foyer to examine the damage to the door.  He wore a mask.  We wore masks.  He kept his distance.  His partner stayed outside on the front step.  The dispatching agent had asked if anyone in the house had a fever, and then if anyone had a cough.  These are the strange times in which we live.

We discovered the damaged door when two deliveries arrived at the same time, adding confusion to the dawning realization that someone had tried to break in – and that the door would no longer shut.  A third delivery arrived moments later.  I was on the phone with the rehab center trying to reach my mom who’s had no other contact with family but our struggling one-sided phone “conversations” since she fell and went into neurosurgery 6 weeks ago.  Such contacts cannot replace holding her hand and looking into her eyes.  COVID-19 has kept us apart for six months.

These are stressful days. I cannot travel to my Father whose death is drawing near.  Smoke from the surrounding fires fills the valley in which I live.  Beloved state parks, where our family camped when we were children, have burned. Tens of thousands are displaced. It makes the marches and police brutalities of last month seem ages ago.  Everything seems timeless, now.  There is little to mark the days of the week.  Except for Sunday.  Sunday, I stand at the altar in an empty building, turn on my laptop, and lead worship by Zoom.  It is good to see the faces.  I remember that there is a community to whom I am attached, though we have not been able to celebrate the baptisms, or weep at the funerals, or dance at the weddings.  I have to mute my microphone when the organist plays in order to sing.  If we don’t, our voices don’t form a choir, just chaos.

I miss singing the liturgy.  I miss the kyrie and the hymn of praise.  I miss the warm greetings at the sharing of the peace.  I miss the occasional hug at the door.  I miss being able to look people in the eye during the sermon and feel the energy of their participation in the hearing of the word.  There are no head nods, now, no smiles, no laughter, no ‘amens’, no solemn awareness of the wondrous grace and noble calling of God in Christ.  There is just a screen, and sometimes the sound of the TV in the next room that someone forgot to turn off, as we break the bread and proclaim that Christ is broken for us, for this broken world, for this sorrowed community where ancient trees and neighbor’s homes are burning, where loved ones are kept apart, where the suffering die alone and go unmourned, where news seems every more fearful, and the thoughtless lift their glasses or crowd the beaches or ply a crowbar at a stranger’s door.

Christ is broken for us.  Christ is broken for the world.  And our brokenness finds its hope in him.  He who healed the sick, opened eyes, showed mercy, and taught compassion.  He who cursed not his enemies and reconciled his betrayers and pointed us towards a world governed by his Spirit.  He who left the door of the tomb open and bids us find truth and life in his wounded hands.