I went to Church tonight. And I cried.
I knew I would.
I told my friend, the one who rang my doorbell five minutes before I was due to leave, that I probably would. She (not purposely) had reminded me of the man who once was her husband. The memory brought sadness; sadness for separations here on earth and sadness for the separation of death. The loss is temporary, yes, but still painful.
The man to whom she had once been married often cried at church, too. I admire other men who are tender-hearted and not afraid to show it, but I’ve never thought it one of my best attributes. It’s funny how that works.
Still, there it is. I cried.
Singing with my friends, I cried. And, as we took the bread and the wine of communion, the tears flowed freely.
I admit it. My mind wandered as the Pastor shared about our Servant Savior who showed the attributes of God in His suffering. I couldn’t help it.
We have several Spanish-speaking folks in our number, so the main points of the sermon are noted on the overhead monitor both in English and in Spanish.
It was only one letter. A very common one. The letter “s” had been omitted from one of the Spanish words. But, try as I might, I could think of nothing else.
In Spanish, as in English, the word “no” means just that. No. Negative. Not at all.
So, in the context of this particular written sentence, it told anyone reading the Spanish text that Jesus did not show God’s wisdom as He served. That couldn’t be what it meant. Could it?
For several minutes, I heard nothing the Pastor said until, in a split second, the slide on the monitor was changed, adding the “s”.
Oh! Of course! The word was “nos“. In that instant, the meaning became clear. Nos means us! It wasn’t that He didn’t show wisdom—not at all. It was that He showed it to all of us.
All of us.
Tears came once more.
The Pastor said the familiar words again tonight. “On the same night that Jesus was betrayed, He took bread…”
My mind, still wandering a bit, reminds me that also on that same night, before He took the bread, He told His disciples, “Take off your shoes. You are on holy ground.”
Well, perhaps the words weren’t the same as those that Moses heard in the wilderness eons before, but it was true just the same. Not one of the disciples had their shoes on when He finished washing their feet Himself.
And they were, undoubtedly, on holy ground.
I’ve written of this holy ground before but, as my mind wandered further afield during the service tonight, I saw the truth of it anew.
In the presence of our Servant Savior, we are ever on holy ground. For where ever God stoops to serve and save, there it is sacred.
In the garbage dumps of Guatemala, in the halls of political power.
In the tiled mansions of the Upper East Side of New York, in the stinking, fetid shacks of the refugee camps across the Rio Grande.
In the quietness of the forest clearings, in the riotous racket of the championship soccer match.
Wherever God stoops, we stand on holy ground.
And He stoops where we are. All of us.
The word is not “no”.
The word is “us”.
On holy ground, He stoops to all of us.
And, He washes us clean.
And, behold, there came a leper and worshipped him, saying, Lord, if thou wilt, thou canst make me clean. And Jesus put forth his hand, and touched him, saying, I will; be thou clean. And immediately his leprosy was cleansed.
(Matthew 8: 2-3, KJV)
A subtle thought that is in error may yet give rise to fruitful inquiry that can establish truths of great value. (Isaac Asimov)
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2023. All Rights Reserved.
