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Hands and Feet
These were curious days after Jesus’ crucifixion, his escape from the tomb, his appearance in so many places for a few weeks trying to show, teach, encourage his disciples and followers to carry on his mission, his words, his spirit, to share it with the world. A string of events running through most of the attitudes, searchings, confirmations of Lent and Easter puts a crown of importance on the hands and feet of Christ.
 Let us never forget that long metal nails were hammered into Jesus’ hands and feet to keep him hanging on the cross - breaking his feet that walked so many miles to share himself with the needy, the frustrated, the hungry, the sinners, the searchers - going to the most remote places to share himself with the poor and unwise. Feet that walked miraculously on water. Feet that lived in simple sandals, that were surely covered with dust and dirt as the sun went down each day. Feet so dirty of dust that Our Jesus himself, the Son of God, got on his knees to wash feet of his friends at the Last Supper. Holy feet. Caring about each other.
All over the world in holy places even today one must remove shoes to step inside sanctified places in recognition of the holiness - be it a temple or basilica, cathedral, mosque, syna-gogue, Cao Dai in Vietnam, Mandir, Jain Basadi, Chaitya, Shinto, or Buddhist Wat Po in Thai-land - it doesn’t matter whether it be Christian, Buddhist, Hindu, Muslim, some New Age homes, and most Yoga studios: there is something required and respectful about being bare footed, of leaving your shoes among the millions of other shoes, outside the doors in order to worship on equal ground. One of my favorite priests, who happens to live in Nashville and has done amazing things to give life and hope to prostitutes through her Thistle farms project and now international business, always goes barefoot in her church, because she recognizes that all churches, all altars are holy ground. If you travel to the Mid or Far East - be it far or near - you will spend a lot of time in your sightseeing barefoot. No exceptions either. Don’t cheat by wearing socks. I so admire that moment of respect. No one will steal your shoes, though they might be tempted, since theirs are so ragged and you are shoulder to shoulder with the poor-est in the world. You are in a holy place.
But what speaks loudest to me about the holiness of our risen Christ is the power that comes through his hands. Hands in extremely holy people burst with blood as stigmata. Hands of doubters touching the skirt of Christ’s robe to confirm for so many that this man was the Christ, the son of God. Saints’ hands miraculously healing with a touch. Hands that had to touch Christ’s wound to believe, helping us so far from that time believe with more confidence. And before the holy supper is shared among us, among the congregates, it is the priest’s hand that breaks the bread that is the body of Christ. It is a silent moment. An amazing trans-formation. Whether you are Roman Catholic or Orthodox Catholic, Coptic Catholic, or Angli-can/Episcopal Catholic, we all believe Christ is present in the bread and the wine, and it is through the hands of the priest, the celebrant, that the forgiveness of sins, the blessings of the bread and wine, the celebration of the Eucharist in its transformed state happens.
The Bible says that worship must be led by holy men, of high spiritual quality. And although there has been a rupture in ordained male clergy as so many followed temptation and didn’t stick by their promises to Christ, holy men have done unholy thing, and, lo and behold, now women have the authority to sanctify the Eucharist. Things change, but, prayerfully, for the good of the Church. The new trend is to lift up holy hands to God, as Timothy had suggested. Solomon spread forth his hands toward heaven, that upward motion, to dedicate the temple. David lifted up his hands toward the holy oracle of God. There are murderous hands, there are pure hands. There are jeweled hands, and there are empty hands.
But the hands of the presider must open not only themselves and the presider’s being to the group, not only the words spoken and prayed, but also everything that they handle in the course of a ritual. The hands express care for the symbol or other object. The hands express the commonality of the thing - the fact that it is not the priest’s private property but the pos-session of the whole congregation; hands express praise and thanksgiving for the bread, the cup, holding it up before the assembly so that all can experience its use and praise the Lord for its beauty. The hands can do all this, once they are appreciated and limbered up and cho-reographed - like all the rest of the liturgical action.
It was frightening to me, in the beginning, to remember to do the right thing at the right time. How many Eucharists had I witnessed in my life ? And yet, when it became my time, my privi-lege to celebrate the Holy Eucharist as a priest, I was a nervous wreck: don’t forget to lift up your hands here, or bless the bread and wine with your hands at a certain word, and for heaven’s sake, when you give the final blessing, be sure you make the cross with hands facing the congregation, and not, as all of us normally do, crossing ourselves. Well, I goofed and crossed myself. That was the first time I celebrated. It’s true, the hands of the presider are the communicator for the believer.
But it was one Sunday after celebrating the Eucharist in Memphis, I looked at my arthritic, crooked hands and fingers, I cannot even open them completely. I drop things a lot. It’s risky with me holding a cup of wine or even a milk shake. These hands, I thought. Can I trust these hands? These hands, for an hour now and then, become the holy hands of God. Somehow, through the privilege and power of being a priest, these hands can cleanse someone of their sins, bless people, and things, be it at the holy communion, a baptism, a wedding, or the ailing patient close to death or a joyous crowd singing Hallelujah, or a hopeless circle of youth in green or orange prison uniforms wondering if there really is a God who cares.
These hands which wash dishes, clean toilets, scratch dogs behind the ear and clean up their mess on the carpet, and then needlepoint brightly colored kneelers, these hands must be clean, strong, precise in movement and orderly as the Eucharist processes, these hands that pick roses in their prime and touch the heads of little ones who want assurance that you are still there. These hands that open doors, drive cars, paint fences, hold on to horses’ manes galloping through a field. These hands that sign documents, pour a whiskey, play pool or ten-nis, and shoot a gun that kills the innocent. These hands can be murderous or brilliant. On a stage, exaggerated hand motions are vital.
Yet somehow, at Sunday Eucharist clean and shiny, these hands lift up prayers for and by the congregation to God and say “We are here Lord! Come be with us as we worship you and give thanks for thy Glory.” We are here Lord to continue a celebration 2000 years old, and because some of us have been ordained to the privilege of priesthood, we can turn the bread and wine into the very Body and Blood our Christ shed for us so that we may be forgiven our sins, and then our family can go in peace to love and serve the Lord. These things we can only do with hands that speak for and from a holy heart. It is such a simple thing. And we must be careful not to spill the wine and nor waste a crumb of the bread, because having been sanctified, it is Christ who is in our hands, so to speak, and we must respect this Highest expression of our life as Christ’s servants. We have been blessed, for sure. Amen
~ Rev
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audrey@audreytaylorgonzalez.com
www.audreytaylorgonzalez.com
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