Hold out your hands.
If you lived in Guam, and you were proficient in Karate or a similar art, you would be required to register those hands as deadly weapons! That may sound silly. But what is sad is that our fingers are fatal. Health experts tell us that our hands are one the primary ways coronavirus spreads. In a Covid-19 world, we are learning in new ways that our hands hold harm.
This is true in more than one sense. Therapists tell us that our bodies, including our hands, hold the harm that’s done to us. For instance, Resmaa Menakem is the author of a book entitled, My Grandmother’s Hands. It focuses on the way our bodies bear burdens. He recalls, as a young boy, watching TV with his grandmother. Her hands often hurt and she would ask him to rub them. Her hands were broad and had thick patches of skin. “Grandma,” he asked one day, “why are your hands like that?” She explained it was the result of being forced to pick cotton from the time she was four. The burrs on the cotton left her tender hands torn. Eventually they became thick from the trauma. Grandmother’s hands held harm. Menakem’s research shows that our entire bodies bear the burdens committed against us.
Perhaps this is why we often talk about healing from hardship as a kind of “letting go.” Inherent in the phrase “letting go” is the image of hands gripped around grief. And we find that healing happens through some sort of release. Our hands hold harm. But they dream of letting go of all that is lamentable.
This was true of Jesus. When we think about Jesus’ body, we are likely to picture his hands. His hands highlight the torment Jesus took:
So the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “Unless I see in his hands the mark of the nails, and place my finger into the mark of the nails, and place my hand into his side, I will never believe.” (John 20:25 ESV)
Never have hands tightened around trauma as Jesus’ hands did. His hands bore the mark of nails! Our hands, and our bodies, in many ways, bear the mark of every nail ever driven into us. Our hands hold harm.
And the question inciting our insomnia is this: how do we deal with this despair? Into whose hands can we place our enfleshed pain?
Sadly, the answer for many is not God. Our American brand of Christianity is warped by images popularized by Jonathan Edwards sermon “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God.” Perhaps the most well known image from that sermon is this (Brian Zahnd Sinners in the Hands of a Loving God, 3):
The God that holds you over the pit of Hell, much as one holds a spider, or some loathsome insect, over the fire, abhors you, and is dreadfully provoked; his wrath towards you burns like fire; he looks upon you as worthy of nothing else, but to be cast into the fire.
Edwards, and many like him, leave us thinking that God is the cause of pain, not the cure for pain. God’s hands long to let go–of us! Who of us, then, could ever let go of the harm we hold into hands like His?
Thankfully, Jesus corrects this view in his statement from his cross:
Then Jesus, calling out with a loud voice, said, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit!” And having said this he breathed his last. (Lk. 23:46 ESV)
Jesus, quoting Psalm 31, adds a word to this ancient prayer. In the original, David prays, “Into your hands I commit my spirit” (Ps. 31:5 ESV). But Jesus prays, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit!” Jesus envisions the faithful, fervent and fond hands of a father. It’s into these hands that Jesus lets himself, and the catastrophe he’s been clenching, go. It’s into these hands that Jesus releases his pain, and his entire person.
Our hands hold harm. But the Father’s hands hold healing.
Henri Nouwen illuminates the character of these hands. He points to the parable of the prodigal son in Luke 15 and a painting of it by Rembrandt. The painting captures the moment the prodigal son kneels in the nuzzle of his father. What Rembrandt wants us to see are the hands of the father:
The father’s left hand touching the son’s shoulder is strong and muscular. The fingers are spread out and cover a large part of the prodigal son’s shoulder and back … That hand seems not only to touch, but, with its strength, to hold…How different is the father’s right hand! This hand does not hold or grasp. It is refined, soft, and very tender. The fingers are close to each other and they have an elegant quality. It lies gently upon the son’s shoulder. It wants to caress, to stroke, and to offer consolation and comfort. It is a mother’s hands.”
Rembrandt wanted us to see the strength and tenderness of the hands of God. Protective and nurturing. Mighty and merciful. The true hands of God are the hands of a perfect father and a perfect mother.
Our hands hold harm. But our Father’s hands hold healing. Jesus shows us that whatever our hands, our bodies, our hearts, our minds or our souls are holding, we can let it go into the hands of the Father.
I was speaking recently with a man whose ninety year old mother was feared to have coronavirus. She was placed in isolation in a hospital while she awaited the results of the test. For six days she languished in isolation. Twice she became so weak it seemed the end was near. But, by phone, she shared with her son that something remarkable happened. “God,” she said, “was in the room with me. I felt him hold my hand. And every time I was afraid, I would squeeze his hand. And he would squeeze mine back. And I knew it was going to be OK.”
Our hands hold harm. Our Father’s hands hold healing. Whatever you’re holding today, begin to let it go. You may have additional work to do to heal from that hurt. But right now, picture it in your mind. The loss. The lament. The despair. The disappointment. The hurt. The harm. And say these words, “Father, into your hands I commit this calamity.” With his hands in yours, and your hurt in his, you can know that it’s going to be OK.
