Bright hope for tomorrow

I had the pleasure of hearing a sermon by The late Rev. Dr. Nancy Eisland, author of The Disabled God: Toward a Liberatory Theology of Disability , when I was in seminary. In that sermon, she called me a TAB. TAB is an acronym disabled persons use for an able-bodied person. You know the A.B. stands, then, for “able bodied,” but what about the T? The T stands for temporarily. Temporarily Able Bodied Person. I was 29 years old, I could still do cartwheels and handstands! I didn’t need glasses. My knee hadn’t had its second injury and was stable. Now, at 47, I’m far from “disabled,” but I see a bit of what she means. She was born with her disability and that gave her a perspective much different from my own.

Of course, we all accept that God loves us no matter what our minds or bodies are capable of. Dr. Eisland added a new depth, however: maybe redemption comes within the context of our own brokenness, our own illness, our own disability. To meet Jesus with no disability was to meet Jesus, in her mind, incompletely, dishonestly, as if denying the sum of her life experiences. Her hope in Christ was not in being perfected in eternity, but in being perfectly embraced as she was.

We are the sum of our life’s experiences.

Maybe this is one reason Jesus came into the room where the disciples were hidden away out of fear — not just to show that it was really him, but as a way of saying, “Peace be with you. We acquire scars in life — and still there is resurrection.”

Many churches do what they call “passing the peace,” or “sharing the peace.” At a point during the service, worshipers turn to their neighbors and say, “Peace be with you.”

How would it be if we did this just like Jesus: “Peace be with you. Let me show you my bypass surgery scar.” Or “Peace be with you, let me tell you about the bills I can’t pay.” Or “Peace be with you. My son ran away from home.”

I’m not looking for a savior on a white horse galloping to take me away to fairy princess land where everyone lives happily ever after. What I crave deep down inside is a savior that bears his life’s wounds, the same as I do and still has victory; one whose wounds give my wounds victory.

“Sometimes,” says Timothy Warner, “we would do well to simply offer our doubt-filled loved ones our hands which have been wounded and are now healed by the blood of Jesus Christ.” I know just what he means.

When I first moved to Fayetteville, I had been hurt in a way I’d never been hurt before and I felt very alone. To make a long story short, in seeking some human connections, I found a women’s ministry that gathered for worship and Bible study. I confess that I was a little fearful, locked behind a door like the disciples, because I didn’t know if they would judge me or ask me a bunch of questions I didn’t want to answer. Nothing could have been farther from the truth; they were glad I was there, plain and simple.

Through the weeks, I learned something about this body of Christ. I was not alone in my hurt and my worry. Women shared with each other some pretty serious burdens they were bearing: from health issues to anxiety over their children to having endured something traumatic. And, in worship, they were praising God through it all, knowing that there is hope for tomorrow.

And I was questioning that hope. I’m Thomas’ identical twin. If I even thought it was true for them, would it be true for me? Is it real?

Having “bright hope for tomorrow” is far from simple platitudes that we sometimes speak too easily; it is a sharing in Christ’s very blood, a sharing in Christ’s very body. We can speak openly of doubt and questions. Without doubt there can be no real faith. Without questions there will be no answers. Without fear assurance is pointless.

When I meet Jesus face to face, I’m going to bring it all to him. I’m going to bring my sin. I’m going to bring my scars. If we’re to give Jesus anything of ourselves, we’ve got to give him all of us.

When Christ was wounded for us all, it was not so we would never again be hurt; it was so we could be hurt and claim his name and resurrection together as his body.

That is Bright Hope for Tomorrow.

(Excerpted from the first of a sermon series, “Bright Hope for Tomorrow.”)

Sally Oakes is pastor of Bethany United Methodist Church, 607 Rivers Road, Fayetteville, GA 30214. Phone: 770-964-6999 or 770-964-6992, or e-mail bethanymnc@bellsouth.net.