Kirkepiscatoid

Lately, as I am getting down to the "teens" in my "Journey backwards through the Psalms," I got to thinking how in many of them, the psalmist references "seeing God's face" (usually, he's lamenting his inability to see God's face.)

I have a strange theory about that. I think I often see the face of God in human hands.

Hands have fascinated me since childhood. My family is full of men with tough, calloused "working man's hands" and women with "hands shaped by honest work." No French nail tips or manicures in that crowd. I can remember watching the hands of my family as they chopped and pounded round steak for dinner, or cut wood, or worked on the car, or scrubbed tough stains off of the laundry. I was always intrigued with how these rough, tough, no nonsense hands also could be capable of most delicate moments...diapering babies, comforting crying children, gentle touches to the back of my head in moments of love and pride.

So it is no surprise that I still often observe hands, and my memories of people are often of their hands, not their faces. I think about my old mentor M.J., how his gnarly, fingernail-bitten, osteoarthritic hands could still have such fine muscle control to drive a microscope slide "freehand" and move the slide mere microns while looking at a case under the scope. I think about my college mentor CJM, this hyperactive Scottie dog of a man, whose hands moved surprisingly slowly and gracefully when he talked, like delicate little birds. I think of my friend S., whose small, short-fingered hands move like lightening bolts when she cooks supper and seem to have a mind of their own. I look at my own hands now and then and realize as I age, I am getting "wise-looking hands" like my grandmother had at my age.

I was realizing recently during one of my acolyte stints that I probably occupy my mind 75% of the time I am up there in front by observing and pondering clergy hands. When I go down the aisle with the processional cross as our associate priest reads the Gospel, I stare transfixed at how her hands hold the book firmly yet gently. In the Eucharistic Prayer, I watch our priest's hands as he blesses the wafers and the wine, holds his hands outward at certain parts of the prayer, and gaze a lot at his "Sunday ring".

The story of his "Sunday ring" to me becomes part of the Eucharistic Prayer itself. Some years back, after a very tough time in his life in "the parish from Hell," he had a dream in which a circle figured prominently. A few days later, as he was out for a walk, he happened to look down in the storm sewer. There in the leaves and debris of the storm sewer was a white gold ring with a bluish green oval stone setting. He sort of took it as a sign of sorts, and has worn it in services every Sunday in the various parishes he has served subsequently. For him, it is a symbol of his obedience to God and his acknowledgement of the power God allows to be channeled through his hands. Knowing that story connects what is going on during the Eucharist in a "it's him/it's bigger than him" sort of way.

Pondering his "Sunday ring" has really made me think a lot about what clergy hands really mean on Sunday as they preside over the table and hand out the Sacrament.

I like to think about how for a brief moment, the hands of the person presiding over the altar are the “hands of God.” They symbolize the presence of God among us, just like how Jesus came to be among us. Week after week, God comes down to dwell among us and the human form of it is in the hands that preside over the Eucharist. When I say the Nicene Creed, I think about both of those sets of clergy hands in our parish, how in the service of the Church, they are just like Christ--fully human and fully divine in their power to bless the Sacrament and hold the Gospel.

I enjoy my job of helping with the ablution of those hands. It is my little tiny symbol of serving a living God. It reminds me of how the symbolic water of our baptism is connecting all of us in the parish in those few seconds, how our parish is connected to parishes all over the world, a never ending river of our Baptismal Covenant. It is a “that we all may be one” moment. That simple act I am doing in my regular acolyte stint helps all the mysteries of the Eucharist “happen” in a tiny way. Whoa!

And, as the infomercials say, "But wait...there's more!"

Then I sit and watch the hands that receive the Sacrament. Everyone sort of does it the same, but does it differently. I sit and wonder what blessing will happen to each of those sets of hands each week. I remember when I first started doing a regular acolyte stint. I was really concerned about all the "What do I do's" when I wasn't actually doing anything. "Look reverent" was the only thing I could think of. Of course, Wallace, in his quasi-Buddhist-totally-into-contemplation sort of way, looks at me quizzically, like he's a little puzzled that "contemplation" is not intuitive for me, and goes, "Well...uh...you know...meditate."

I go, "On what?"

"Well, on whatever you want."

"But I don't know what I want! Gimme a jump start, here."

"Ok...well then, pray about the needs of each person in the parish while I go down the line. If you know something in particular about that person's needs think about that, if you don't, just think in general terms. That's kind of what I do, since we're a small parish and I know most everyone."

I found that I could accomplish that if I concentrated on everyone's hands as they got the Sacrament. I could think about all those sets of hands going out and being "sent now into the world in peace," like in the Post-Communion prayer.

In all those moments, I realize I am given a glimpse of the face of God...and his face has ten fingers.