The Gift of Touch

April 12, 2011

It's 5 AM in the morning and we are having "coffee."  Hans is sleeping in his chair and I am meditating on "touch." 

Jesus has been on the move all day with his disciples. It has been a fruitful day of instruction and miracles. Thousands have listened to his teachings about the kingdom of God and responded. He is encouraged and full of the Spirit. So are his disciples. They are radiant with their emerging understanding of who He is and what He is all about. The master is about loving people and going out to meet with them,  making Himself available to all. He has been out walking and the muscles on his legs are tight, sore and hurting. And although He has been doing the will of  God, He is tired, thirsty and hungry.  Martha brings Him a cup of lentil soup swimming in tomatoes and curry along with a piece of warm flatbread. Along side the bowl are dozens of chipotle peppers. Jesus hungrily eats everything put before him, his gnawing stomach soothed by the warm nourishment. His soul is refreshed by the physical contact with food. Lazarus stokes the fire before Him and brings Him a cold one.  They sip together by the fire and the disciples want to talk. He is too tired so He asks them a question, it will keep them occupied all night. He asks "Which is better, to give or to receive?" 

He is stretched out by the fire with only his head propped up. His body hurts from overuse. He is full but not content. His legs still whimper from the strain of the journey. Mary has been sitting in the chair next to his bed. She has heard his quiet sighs and the secret language of the body. She knows that He is tired.  Filling her hands with oil she begins to rub his feet—gently pulling on his toes, each one individually stretched. He turns his head away from her as if to give her privacy to work on his body. She turns his foot to the left and to the right, causing the blood to move forward and backward... refreshing and bringing oxygen to each cell.  He audibly groans. It unnerves Mary. She is not used to seeing him so vulnerable, so dependent. His eyes remain closed eliminating her from his view.

She continues to move her delicate small hands upon his skin, lightly touching his calves and pulling on the muscles, releasing each one from their constriction. Jesus' face is loosening, the tension in his face is diminished. With greater courage she uses the whole of her hand to grasp his thigh, lifting the muscle away from the bone,  bringing it back to life. She can almost hear the muscle sigh with sheer relief. Mary is loving Jesus. In a husky voice He says out loud, "Thank you Father, Thank you Father." She is staggered by the implication. The Father is loving His Son. The Father is bringing life back to the body of the man called Jesus. The Father is rescuing His Son from the cost of being a laborer. 

Now Mary, with unreserved passion pulls on her Lord's limbs, making each arm an extension of herself. Her own arms now excruciatingly tired, as if the pain of her Lord had been transferred to her own body. It will be well into the next day before she will recover. But tonight, she continues in unabated movement, releasing each arm from its agony. His mouth hangs open as if he has completely surrendered to her touch. He closes his eyes completely lost in the Father's embrace. Lazarus brings Mary a cup of water filled with pieces of fruit. He wets her lips with the sweet liquid. 

I have been Mary and Julianne has been Martha, then we switch. I am Martha and she is Mary. Once in a while, Lazarus will come away from the fire and relieve them of their duties. The Lord is laying in bed on Half Moon. He only slightly resembles Hans. . . Hans increasingly resembles Him. Someone is ministering unto the Lord and comforting Hans in the hour of His pain. "Thank you Father, Thank you Father" escapes from his mouth. Who can describe the joy of a body as it comes back to life. Reason and coolness re-emerge from the storm tossed body and Shalom—nothing missing nothing broken— appears. 

Is the gift of touch any less sacred than the gift of teaching? Each in their own sphere is priceless. Let us be the people of the large hand. Let our hands grow disproportionately big, like the hands of the Father in Rembrant's Prodigal Son. Let us develop huge ugly hands in the service of the King.