The Scandal of Open Wounds

https://www.newsweek.com/coronavirus-fears-mask-hand-sanitizer-water-toilet-paper-shortages-costco-walmart-target-1489981

Once a week now, I gird up my loins and venture out to the grocery store. I put on the armor of a homemade face mask and old clothes. I remove the rings from my fingers and take up the shield of hand-sanitizer. Face set in brow-furrowing determination, I make my way through the aisles like a soldier through a mine field. I eye my fellow shoppers with suspicion, my ears primed for any stray cough, my eyes alert for beads of sweat on someone’s fevered forehead. Going to Kroger used to be a boring task. Now, it’s a stressful battle.

Returning home, it’s only when I’ve removed food from contaminated bags, frantically Cloroxed doorknobs and counters, and scrubbed my hands raw … it’s only then that I can exhale. Only then do I let go of the pent-up fear from my hour away from home. My tense muscles begin to relax, and I look around with gratitude at the blessed security of my own four walls. Safe at last. At least until next week.

This Easter, it doesn’t take much imagination to understand the fear that keeps Jesus’ disciples locked up in a room. We now know all about how frightening it is to go about our daily tasks, surrounded by an invisible, unpredictable threat. We know all about how good it feels to be safe at home, even when it can feel confining, too. Believe me, I no longer scoff at the fear that drove those first-century disciples indoors and kept them there, even after Jesus came to them. I no longer judge their inability to deal with the fear of death, or with the strange unknown of resurrection.

It is indeed Good News that we hear today in our Gospel lesson—that neither our isolation nor our fear can separate us from the presence of God. Jesus enters our locked rooms, and if we miss him for some reason, he keeps coming back again until we meet. He appears in the messiness and frustration of our quarantined lives; he appears in our hospitals; he appears on our computer screens. The scandal is not that he appears, but that he brings with him his open wounds, the wounds he shares with humankind, the wounds that he carries with him even into New Life. Jesus doesn’t just retain the faded scars of his Passion. He still bears his oozing, gaping flesh. Think about it: Nothing represents vulnerability more than an open wound. A wound hurts; it bleeds; it screams out the flimsiness of human flesh, the brokenness of our mortal condition. The Risen Christ remains the Crucified One, the One who knows our pain from the inside out-- The One who will never turn away from our brokenness nor abandon us to our pain.

Like St. John, we often give Thomas a hard time for not believing that Jesus has risen from the dead. “Doubting Thomas,” we call him. But I don’t think that intellectual doubt is Thomas’s problem here. Before he meets the risen Jesus, Thomas doesn’t merely demand to see the wounded Christ, as the other disciples have already done. He demands to touch his wounds. He demands a chance to thrust his hand into Jesus’ torn flesh, to feel around inside his pain, to understand it, to judge it, to have power over it. Thomas thinks that he can get to the bottom of the pain and fear that have overtaken him since the moment he saw his Teacher crucified. He wants an answer to the threat of vulnerability that hangs over him. Take a look at Caravaggio’s famous painting of Thomas.[1] Look at the faces of the disciples. Can you see yourself?

We all do it. We read about someone suffering from Covid 19, and we try to poke around inside of their pain. We want to account for their suffering somehow, in order to distance ourselves from it:

 “Of course, this sick guy wasn’t careful,” we rationalize.

“That whole country doesn’t know what they’re doing,” we scoff.

“This woman wasn’t healthy to start with…

This one foolishly went to an Easter service,” we judge.

“I’m not any of these things, so I’ll be fine, right?” we ask, peering into the wide-open vulnerability of our neighbors.

 Some of us hoard toilet paper, as if an abundance of everyday necessities can take away the empty, vulnerable feelings. Some of us buy guns, seeking to protect ourselves with the mighty power of Death. Some of us pour hatred on the wounds that we see, and some of us turn away and refuse even to look at them.

 The vulnerability that Jesus shows us, however, cannot be rationalized away. Neither can it be killed or denied. It is filled with a power that has already defeated death and empire and greed. The wounded Jesus comes to us with the power of God’s own Spirit, the power of compassion. He comes to usher in the reign of forgiveness and love. Once Thomas sees Jesus, he no longer needs to rummage around in the wounds. He steps back from Jesus, overcome by the Love that he sees there. “My Lord and my God,” he stammers.

Take a look at another painting of a wounded Jesus, this one by a Polish Jesuit painter named Vyacheslav Okun.[2]

This one is a kind of “Pieta,” a Good Friday painting, before the Resurrection. Here, look at the compassion, the “suffering-with” in the faces and stance of the medical staff that hold Jesus’ disease-ravaged body. Like this Jesus, these doctors and nurses will continue bear the wounds inflicted by the suffering depicted here. But in their response to Gods call to heal, they also been baptized into the divine compassion that brings us into the very heart of God.
           Today, the Risen Christ comes into our locked homes. He even stops us in the midst of our frantic grocery-aisle battles: “Peace to you,” he proclaims. “Don’t be afraid. You are about to see something astounding, something unsettling, something of the Living God. The scandal of divine compassion won’t get your lives back to normal. It will bring you even greater change. It will give you New Life, life that goes so deep into the heart of God that it never ends.”

Let us pray:

“God of the present moment, God who in Jesus stills the storm and soothes the frantic heart; bring hope and courage to all who wait or work in uncertainty. Bring hope that you will make them the equal of whatever lies ahead. Bring them courage to endure what cannot be avoided, for your will is health and wholeness; you are God, and we need you. Amen.”[3]

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[1] https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:The_Incredulity_of_Saint_Thomas-Caravaggio_(1601-2).jpg

[2] Found at https://fatdormouse.wordpress.com/category/god/

[3] Prayer adapted from New Zealand Prayer Book, p. 765, found at https://www.episcopalrelief.org/what-we-do/us-disaster-program/faith-based-response-to-epidemics/

Facebook Live Easter

My finger hesitates
over the screen,
wavering, wondering
how I came to this place,
time and breath caught
like a stunned fish
in a net.

Once I touch
the fragile glass,
time will come alive
and I will be unleashed
on the world, born anew
in a hundred places,
ready or not.





I wonder if that's how Jesus
felt in the tomb,
his hand hovering
over the smooth stone?
One push,
and his image belonged to him
no more. 



Anne Richter+
Holy Week 2020 

Salty!

Epiphany 5A

Matthew 5:13-20

"YOU are the light of the World!" Jesus tells us. "YOU are the salt of the earth!" he proclaims.

We've been talking about light since before Christmas, lighting Advent candles and Christmas tree lights, talking about the bright star that led the wise men to Bethlehem.  Our Epiphany bulletin board downstairs is covered in golden stars that tell us how we can "Let 2020 shine!" It's comforting to think about the warmth and joy of light, shining forth like love from a smiling face. We know that God wants us to shed light on the needs of the world and to direct God's love into the shadows. "Put it under a bushel? No! I'm gonna let it shine!" we sing.

But salt?  Why salt, Jesus? What does it mean to be "salt" for the world? If God is into condiments, why not ask us to be something that tastes better, like sugar? Or cinnamon? Even pepper would have more spice and flair than plain old salt.

          In order to help us think about salt today, the teens are going to pass out bags of salt dough to any interested children and adults. While you listen, feel free to play with this salty play dough. Feel it, squish it, mold it, smell it. But beware. Salt isn't altogether harmless. This dough is much too salty to eat, so you don't want to taste it. If you have a cut on your hands, this dough will sting. It will also cling to your skin--your fingers might feel crusty after you hold this salt dough for awhile. But be courageous and take some anyway! God knows, creation is always risky business. As you play with this ball of dough, imagine that you are God. How does God want to use your very own saltiness for the healing of the world?

          Like light—and unlike sugar and cinnamon--salt is everywhere, and it is essential to life on earth. Plants, animals, and humans all need some salt in order to live and grow. All over the world, for thousands of years, people have been preparing salt for use by evaporating ocean water or digging salt deposits out of the earth. Regular table salt is pretty inexpensive these days, but salt used to be so valuable that people used it instead of money to buy what they needed. The word "salary" comes from the Latin word for salt. Outrage over a tax on salt helped start the French Revolution. In times of war, armies would fight and kill to take over the salt supply of their enemies. To be salt, is to be precious; it is to be essential for life.

Jesus knew about the spiritual importance of salt. In the Hebrew Scriptures, salt is used to seal the deal in covenants and is sprinkled on Temple sacrifices. In many cultures, salt is thought to keep away evil spirits, and spilling salt is considered bad luck. If you take a close look at Leonardo da Vinci's famous painting of the Last Supper, you'll see salt spilled on the table. It's right in front of Judas--a clue that the disciple Judas will soon betray Jesus and turn him over to be crucified. To be salt is to play a part in banishing evil and spreading goodness.

Today, salt has several uses. First, of course, it seasons our food. Have you ever accidentally left the salt out of a recipe? Without it, most things taste pretty awful. Before scientists invented medicine to fight high blood pressure, my grandmother had to live off of unsalted rice and vegetables in order to keep her heart healthy. The story of this unpleasant diet made such an impression on her family that it became a tale that was passed down for generations. If Jesus wants us Christians to be salt, perhaps he wants us to add the spice of kindness to our encounters. Perhaps he wants us to nourish others with the depth of all that we are and all that we have.

Salt is also used to clean and preserve things. Have you ever poured salt into a frying pan to clean burned food up off the bottom? It works as well as any scrub brush. Have you ever eaten country ham? It's very salty because the ham is preserved with salt. That's how it stays fresh without having to go in the refrigerator. Perhaps Jesus wants us Christians to be the salt that will clean our world's polluted air, land, and waters. Or the salt that will scour our institutions of their lies and corruption. Or the salt that will preserve the dignity of every human being.

Finally, as you noticed this weekend, salt is used to melt things—like the snow on roads and sidewalks. With some special salt, dangerously slippery ice becomes safe to travel on. Perhaps Jesus wants us Christians to be the salt that will melt hatred and fear, making others feel safe and loved as we all travel in the ways that God prepares for us to walk in.[1]

If you and I are to be salt, I imagine that we are to be our own special kind of salt. Some of us might be heavily processed "table salt," ground down very fine to be measured and sprinkled on the world.

Some of us might be crunchier Kosher salt, less strong in flavor. Maybe we grains of Kosher salt need to join together in larger groups to salt the earth with our goodness.

Some of us might be big grains of sea salt or Himalayan pink salt—less pure and dainty than table salt, wearing our true colors and imperfections for all to see, with a loud, cracking impact on the world around us.

Some of us might even be this "smoked sherry and Spanish olive-flavored salt" that I bought at the store yesterday—fancy and complicated, imparting a truly original flavor to the blandness of our world.

Jesus encourages all of our varied saltiness. There's only one kind of salt that Jesus doesn't want us to be—and that's the kind that sits in a pretty bottle in the cupboard, admired for its perfection, yet still unopened, still untasted. Salt that remains wrapped in protective plastic is not sharing its saltiness with the world. In Greek, "to lose flavor" is an expression that can also mean, "to become silent" or even "to speak foolishly."[2] When we remain silent while others are mistreated, we are salt that has lost its taste. When we manipulate someone in order to make ourselves look better, we are salt that is speaking foolishly. When we fail to act on behalf of those in need, we are salt that has become useless. When we practice religion without practicing justice, we are hopelessly flavorless. No matter what kind of salt we are, we must be healing salt, salt that pours itself out for the healing of the world, the repairing of the breach, the restoring of streets to live in.

What small, precious, essential, full-voiced, life-giving, saving thing did God create with your salt dough this morning? How does God want to use your very own saltiness for the healing of the world?

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[1] Carolyn Brown, Worshiping with Children, found at http://worshipingwithchildren.blogspot.com/2014/01/year-fifth-sunday-after-epiphany-fifth.html

[2] Ulrich Luz, Matthew 1-7; Hermeneia (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2007), 203, note 1.