A Splintered Mind

 

(Billy Pasco/Unsplash)

I’ve never been glad to get a splinter before.

Not that it was the most pleasant experience this time, either. Yesterday I was taking the dogs out to the back yard to do their business when I stopped to kick off a piece of excrement that had been left in the middle of one of the wooden steps by a hound in a hurry sometime earlier. As I raised my leg to kick, I reached for the rail to steady myself and caught my hand on a rough spot in the wood, leaving me with a small cut and a splinter just under the skin.

It was no big deal; once back inside the house I poked around the wound a bit with a needle, dislodging the splinter in short order. And that was the end of it, or so I thought…until today when I reached to grab something and felt some soreness in the middle of my left palm. It was then that I remembered the episode from the day before and shrugged it off, knowing the miniscule cut would be healed up in no time. But today, repeatedly, I’ve been reminded, even ever so gently, of the little hole in my hand.

And I’ve smiled, grateful for the tiny reminder of what this week is all about.

You see, I blew past Palm Sunday yesterday. I was shocked when I opened my Lenten devotional this morning and saw a special Sunday entry that I’d missed the day before. On all the other Sundays in this season there had been no reading available, the author suggesting we use the day to rest and recharge as God intended. But yesterday was Palm Sunday, a big part of the Holy Week narrative, the day when Jesus rode into the city of Jerusalem on a donkey’s colt, and the crowds welcomed and worshiped Hm by spreading their clocks on the ground before Him and waving palm branches in greeting, before later calling for His crucifixion.

I suddenly remembered the years upon years of palm fronds being handed out as one entered the sanctuary before the service on the Sunday before Easter, first in my own childhood, and then as we eventually brought our own children to church, as well. At one church we attended, an Easter Egg Hunt always followed the Palm Sunday service, adding weight to an already heady day. Even after my kids grew up and the churches we attended grew out of the practice of passing out palm fronds, the significance of the day was at least mentioned in the message from the pulpit.

I was surprised to realize that yesterday it was not.

I don’t blame the speaker; our congregation is currently deep into the study of the book of Genesis, and his mind was full of the subject matter assigned to him by the pastor he was filling in for that day. Nor do I blame the worship leader, who surely believes that every Sunday we should worship as if Jesus was arriving in our midst, and welcome Him with our praise.

No, the blame for forgetting the day lies solely with me, and the fact that my mind was focused on other events on my calendar this week. I was remembering the multitude of appointments scheduled in the days ahead for both me and my dog. I was looking forward with anticipation to an exciting end to a PGA golf championship that afternoon, the leaderboard packed at the top with viable contenders; I wondered what I would knit while watching. I wanted to monitor my bracket for the ongoing March Madness basketball contest …all the while I was busy researching the viewing times on the streaming service that would show an important ice skating event. My mind was everywhere but on Easter. How sorely I needed the little sore on my palm to remind me of what is important this week!

Surely by Easter Sunday morning the little cut will be healed and forgotten, but it’s interesting that Jesus’ hand wounds were not… they remained after His resurrection, evidenced by His invitation to Thomas to examine them for himself. And I want that picture to remain with me… so that each time I reach up and receive gifts from His hands, those holes remind me that He healed all the ones in my heart, and to never let the sacrifice He made for me be forgotten, nor take the  grace He gives for granted ever again.

 

“A week later his disciples were in the house again, and Thomas was with them. Though the doors were locked, Jesus came and stood among the and said, ‘Peace be with you!’ Then he said to Thomas, ‘Put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe.’” (John 20:26-27 NIV)

Hands-on Help for the Hurting

My fingers were all just so sore.

That was my thought as I lay down in bed the other night. Usually I have one or two troublesome digits at a time during the winter months; to have both hands so achy was unusual and a little overwhelming. I could work around a couple of sore spots with ease, but to have the fingers that were supposed to pick up the slack also in bad shape was a bit of a problem. Resolutely I grabbed the little pot of cream on my bedside table, took off the lid and sent the top of both hands inside for a dive. Then slowly and methodically the tips of those ten fingers worked that salve into each other's broken places... the finger cracks by the nails from the cold weather, the dry skin from pulling moisture-sucking grocery bags open all day at work, the burns from my carelessness with the wood stove. Up and down, in and around, rubbing and soothing till all the excess was gone. I got tickled to realize that as each finger worked cream into its neighbors' wounds, its buddies beside it were doing the same to its own lesions. It was a mutually beneficial action that would soon bring positive results. I flipped off the light and let the healing balm do its work during the sleep-filled hours of the night.

When I woke I realized that my fingers' actions the night before were a picture of the church.

“Church” has been on my mind of late, as my pastor has been preaching a sermon series exploring the reasons why we as believers attend. Of course, church attendance has changed in form during this last year of dealing with a pandemic; our options have expanded from merely walking through an open door to watching a service online to small-group Zoom meetings in the comfort of our homes, to name a few. But a weekly gathering of believers in some form is still a ritual we cling to. My pastor's opening question of why we do so troubled me more than I liked to admit. Was it just a matter of habit? One of those things I've done for so long that the action is no longer questioned? Or perhaps obedience? I went originally because my parents said so; now I go because God says the same? Or is it merely a social activity with people who have become my friends? The question lingered in my subconscious and surfaced repeatedly during the last couple of weeks to tease my mind.

In the process of delivering last week's sermon, almost as a side note, our preacher issued an invitation to his congregation. The ongoing construction of a new sanctuary on the church grounds is nearing completion, and church members were invited to come in socially-distanced times and ways to cover the bare floor with hand-written Scriptures and prayers before the carpeting was laid down in the coming week.

I smiled at a memory the words conjured up; a similar invitation issued many years ago when the church I was then attending had built a new platform for its growing worship team, and we likewise covered the bare wooden boards with the words and promises of God. It was a powerful and prophetic action that united us in purpose and praise for what God was allowing to be a part of in the lives of the people in that area. I was eager to participate again.

I had driven by that old church in recent weeks, and was saddened by the sight of the chain that now blocks the driveway, the building slowly falling into disrepair behind it after property disputes among former tenants forced it to close while lengthy legal battles sorted the mess out. To a casual observer it looks like the church is shut down, its days of serving the community now over. But those of us who used to attend there know differently. The building may be closed, but the church itself is alive and well, the flame of the Spirit that used to dwell there burning brightly still in the hearts of the believers who are now spread out into different houses of worship, setting dry spirits aflame with new hope wherever they go.

And suddenly I understood. The church gathering is just the pot of cream we dip our hearts into each week, a source of healing balm that we then use in our interactions with each other, rubbing it into our sore spots and open wounds...it is help for the hurting that we apply as we go and which heals our own hurts in the process. We come together for a joint encounter with God, Who promises that where two or three are gathered together in His Name, He is there in their midst. The worship releases and increases our love for Him, the preaching instructs and inspires us, and the social interactions give us an outlet for the gifts we've been given... so that we leave armed and ready to be a blessing in some way to those who will cross our paths. Just as I have three kinds of lotion or ointment on my nightstand that I choose between on any given night to give my fingers some relief, so do we have multiple options of church services to choose between depending on our personal preferences and needs. The important thing is that we find a source of help.

Perhaps when God warns us not to forsake “the assembling of ourselves together” (Hebrews 10:25), it's not because He wants to add another item to our over-loaded to-do lists, or to make us feel guilty for our failure in that area, nor because He is an overbearing father just giving commands because He is the Boss. He simply knows that none of us can make it through this life on our own... that we need each other to sooth the hurts and walk us through the broken places in our lives in this journey through a wounded and weary world. As always, He has a source of Help and Hope ready for our every need if we just make the effort to avail ourselves of it.

“Is there no balm in Gilead? Is there no physician there?

Why then is there no healing for the wound of my people?”

(Jeremiah 8:22 NIV)