Human Touch, and Hard to Reach Places

Have living and longing ever been aching neighbors in your soul? Life in a full-contact world with its disloyalties and treasons, its touching-caressing--intimate chasms--ahh, the people I meet often express in words--or without them--a deep and desperate longing to be known. To be touched in some invisible place where touch is life. And surely there is no physical way to reach so far as to touch a soul, unless it be with spirit?

Do you think the woman caught in adultery and brought to Jesus early in the morning--evidently after a night in adulterous passion--do you think she had any aching longings? Do you think the tryst had been planned for a week or so, that she had wept at the kitchen sink thinking of the damage her longing might cause? Was she aching when she rendezvoused for the illegitimate night, or when she was caught and dragged into public--her aches being shouted as accusations into the public gathering? (And what about the guy that evidently was escaping the mob? Where is he?)

I'm thinking of Eleanor Rigby again, but look at each face in the mob, look at the woman facing certain death by stoning. Look at the people watching, and those being handed stones and then look at the face of Jesus. In the midst of all the aching longing in that public courtyard, Jesus alone was ready to touch everyone present in a deep place where no one can reach with a hand, or scalpel. Maybe he was humming Eleanor Rigby?

He disbands the crowd with words that affirm their aching and their futile attempt at release. And then he looks to the woman...fresh from her treason. And instead of seeing the despicable disloyalty, he thinks of her aching longings. That her hopelessness last night had taken her at high risks to a secret place. She had ignored fears of being caught, or of sinning--in hopes of being known. She had thrown caution to the wind and run to the shelter of another soul, hoping to be touched deeply and lovingly. And perhaps she had felt that touch in the night, in his arms. But how quickly hope faded into disaster...until she was touched by Jesus.

Could her aching have been a desire to feel OK? A need to feel that all of her human failures were forgiven? Could she have wanted to know that someone somewhere looked at her and saw beauty, something worth the risk of possessing. Ah, look at all the lonely people.

When the crowd had left, Jesus asked, "Woman, where are your accusers? Has no one condemned you?"

She answered, "No one, Lord."

Then Jesus spoke the words that reached deep inside of her, to her soul. And they weren't just words, they were healing vibrations--human/spiritual/psychological touch. (OK, divine as well, but I'm really into kenosis for all of you theologians--Phil 2:5-11, or C. Wesley--"He emptied himself of all but love..." But I digress.) He said, I don't condemn you either. Go and stop sinning." (This story is in the Christian New Testament, book of John chapter 8 and verses 2-11--you can find the verses by those tiny numbers before each sentence or so.)

I guess that is why my faith rests in Jesus. Not in a Jesus who says, "Go and stop sinning and then I won't condemn you and I'll think you're OK." But the one who says, "I don't condemn you, I love you. I see your beauty and dignity. Stop seeking life where it isn't."

I'm aching so deeply for a few people right now. And I'm praying for the way to speak peace to their aching longing and living.

Grace and peace to you. You are loved, just as you are, more than you can imagine.

The Beatles/A Hymn/and A Sunday Morning Pastor

Before reading, please sing the Beatle's Eleanor Rigby. Done? Make sure the chorus is playing in your head... All the lonely people, where do they all come from? All the lonely people, where do they all belong? Ahhh, look at all the lonely people...(repeat last phrase.) So, are you with me now?

On Sunday mornings, I awake thinking of the day ahead. I rise earlier than most any morning of the week and go downstairs to my chair. I pray. I seek strength. I rehearse my sermon for the morning--sifting it through my spirit and hopefully a Greater One. And I feel alone.

Around the area where I live I know there are people, preparing to rendezvous with me at the "meeting place." (I always like that Quaker title better than "church.") I begin seeing their faces. There are parents who are hurting for sick or rebellious children. Elderly who are wondering if they can make it again ("Just hanging in there," I'll hear one say in another few hours). There are some couples struggling to stay faithful--or who have no idea their spouse is. There are teenagers doing life as if it feels like walking through deep oncoming water--or motor oil. There are single people wishing they were loved. There are people awaiting a diagnosis...cancer? There are children who will run to me for a hug. (God bless the children.)

And somehow in the strange way we do church, I will be a key to providing hope and healing to all of these.

I pray for the strength--the faith to perform.

I weep here alone in my chair, before anyone else gets up.

And I go to facebook hoping for a friend. One pastor after another has already been there, or drops-by while I am. Some mention sermon topics, others psych themselves up with a positive statement. And none of us comment on the others, or speak using the chat feature. We post no notes to each other. What can we say? We are storming the beaches today, and once again, we wonder if we'll survive.

Ah, look at all the lonely people
Ah, look at all the lonely people

Eleanor rigby picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been
Lives in a dream
Waits at the window, wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door
Who is it for?

All the lonely people
Where do they all come from ?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong ?

Father mckenzie writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear
No one comes near.
Look at him working. darning his socks in the night when there's nobody there
What does he care?

All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?

Eleanor rigby died in the church and was buried along with her name
Nobody came
Father mckenzie wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave
No one was saved

All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?
RECORDED BY THE BEATLES

And there is another text, this one by Edwin Hatch:
Breathe on me, Breath of God,
fill me with life anew,
that I may love what thou dost love,
and do what thou wouldst do.

Breathe on me, Breath of God,
until my heart is pure,
until with thee I will one will,
to do and to endure.

Breathe on me, Breath of God,
till I am wholly thine,
till all this earthly part of me
glows with thy fire divine.

AMEN