We are the hands and feet of Jesus in the world.
Where are we, as those hands and feet?
With starving children around the world?
With refugees seeking home?
With school children afraid of their places of education?
With ethnic groups who are not allowed to fit in this society?
With the homeless?
With those in prison?
With the sick?
With those who are judged because they are somehow “different” from what the majority defines as “normal?”
The old song “Were You There” is a favorite that will be sung in many worship places over the next few days. It is a powerful song whose meaning is sometimes lost in a sentimentality that occurs to some Christians during this time of year, only to be forgotten as soon as worship is over on Sunday. A tear may be shed today during a prayer vigil or quiet worship in a sanctuary stripped of all its decoration. The return of the “Alleluia” to the liturgy may carry with it a sigh of relief in a couple of days, but not yet.
Trying to “be there” as in the song is a mental exercise I no longer do. However, all the elements of the song are still a part of my spiritual memory, something embedded in my spiritual DNA that doesn’t have to have me present in whatever month and year Jesus actually suffered. It’s part of my faith, part of our faith.
I do remember that we are still crucifying God on a daily basis. When we are not there with the starving children, the refugees and immigrants, the victims of racial injustice, the poor, the sick, the imprisoned, the mentally ill, the differently abled, the terrified, we are not where Jesus is, and I believe, sadly, that he still feels the nails in his palm, still has trouble taking enough breath into his lungs that he continues to die a long, slow death. He is suffering a crucifixion of our making, of our choosing.
All of this is too much to take in, I realize. So, I want to wrap myself in the mystery and the mysticism of the day, to pray, to read Psalm 51 and hear it read and chanted and considered from the pulpit. I want to remember that in the end, no matter where I fall on the theological correctness spectrum, that what Jesus’ death means cannot be explained by a liberal or conservative or evangelical or fundamentalist perspective.
I want Jesus’ death to be something that helps liberate the suffering of humankind. I want all Christians to love each other and those that God loves (the marginalized, the suffering, the poor, and especially, the children, everywhere the children). I want Jesus’ life and death to transform me into a person of compassion, not a person of selfishness.
I want those things for you, too.
About jamiebrame
Greetings, fellow earthlings. I'm the retired Program Director at Christmount, the national retreat, camp, and conference center of the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ), in Black Mountain, NC. From September 2019 through October, 2020, I served Timberlake Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) in Lynchburg, VA, as interim minister. After taking more than a year off, First Christian Church (DoC), Wilson, NC, offered me the position of Interim Minister, beginning May 10, 2022.
Originally from Eden, NC, I graduated from John Motley Morehead High School, earned a BA in Religion and Philosophy at Atlantic Christian College (now Barton College), and eked out a Master of Divinity from the Divinity School at Duke University. I served, in various positions, churches (part time and full time) in North Carolina and Georgia, and have lived in Black Mountain, NC, since 1989. I married Renae in 1992 (she refers to these years as "looooooooooong" years.
I've spent the past 50 years or so trying to practice Christian contemplative prayer with some touches of Zen meditation to help the journey along. Married to a wife who is much holier than I am, I am fortunate to learn from her daily about how to do this thing called spirituality. Being an ordained minister doesn't make me holy (but occasionally, as you'll read, a little sanctimonious, so forgive me in advance!); but I hope that I put my education to good use.
I'd love to be considered a spiritual teacher, but I know myself too well to claim that. While I do a bit of teaching, I think the best teaching we do is when we remain silent (the old desert abba said something like, "if you won't learn from my silence, you won't learn from my talking"). But silence shouldn't turn into quietism, and we do have to speak out and act for justice and fairness and equality for all.
I frequently ask myself the question, "Does it matter?" about the major - and minor - issues of the day. What I think matters: love for God, equality, fairness, loving our neighbor, feeding hungry people, housing homeless ones, clothing naked ones, and especially caring for children; basically, caring for those who have some trouble caring for themselves. AND our relationship with God.
What doesn't matter: what you think of me. I'm not very Christ-like. You won't hear me talking about all the things I do for others, or all the things I do for God - I was taught that It's not about me, and using good works to get attention for myself isn't what Christian faith is about - look up "narcissism" on Google. I'm not sure Jesus thinks it matters much that I am like him or not, but I do. The old story from the rabbis is probably apropo: when I am hauled up before God at the end of time, God isn't going to ask me why I wasn't more like someone else: I will be asked why I wasn't more like me. The rabbis tell the story better.
I'm still a work in progress, as Renae will attest to.
Finally, I just hope that something you read here will make you think. Use what you can, ignore the rest. Go read some of the desert saints. Read the classics. Take care of people, never point to yourself, and don't follow me: I'm just hoping to be one more signpost to God.
And as one friend reminded me the week before I left Christmount, "It matters."
Oh, and my favorite color is probably blue, and I love cats, and I love my wife's music. I don't like beets.
Does It Matter 