Isaiah 52:7 How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of the messenger who announces peace, who brings good news, who announces salvation, who says to Zion, “Your God reigns.”
I think sometimes we forget we have bodies. We live the life of the mind, we Harvard people, so we power through the caffeine jitters and the muscle fatigue, undeterred by the weight of our books and our laptops, preoccupied with the weight of the world on our shoulders, the sure knowledge that there are ideas to be thought up, by us, right now.
And some theologies teach that we are better off escaping the will of the flesh, rising above our sinful, hungry, lustful bodies to some higher plane of prayer and spirit. But I am reminded that the miracle of Jesus was that he chose to live in a body.
We are midway between seasons in the church: In December we remembered that love came down into a tiny, fragile baby body, the beloved son of an unwed mother. And this week we began Lent, the long walk to Easter, of remembering that Jesus’ choice was so painful. It hurts to live in these achy, fretful, shivering bodies. These bodies are violable, susceptible to attack by viruses and humans both. Even our love, our holy love, stretches us, as the harder and more joyfully we love another person, the deeper the ache when the body we love is with us no more.
But in a market that offers us a thousand ways to distract ourselves from the pain of these bodies, there is something to be gained by paying attention, by listening carefully to the flesh and bones that make up so much of what we are. Knowing the value of my own body opens my eyes and my mind to the needs of the bodies around me. Loving the warmth of my body reminds me to offer a coat or a dollar to the person outside these doors struggling to keep his body warm. Taking pleasure in the strength and stretchiness of my sinews allows me to feel for the hotel worker whose back aches from lifting too many heavy beds, too quickly, and so I seek her justice. Caring for my body with rest and food and medicine strengthens my heart for the work of caring for my neighbor, who has no access to healthcare, because our politics have gotten in the way of our humanity, our egos in the way of our hearts.
We need these bodies, well-loved and well-cared-for. We need to know what a cared-for body feels like so that we can honor and care for bodies of every shape, size, color, and ability. As a friend recently reminded me, Jesus’ sacrifice of his body on the cross is a call to live as he lived, not as he died. For we cannot be the body of Christ if we treat the body as disposable.
I confess this has been a difficult truth for me to live. I have had cause to learn the damage that can be done by trying to live as though my body were but a painful nuisance. For many years I have lived with a constant background of deep, bone-shaking anxiety, and I taught myself to ignore it, to tamp down the ache in my shoulders and the lump in my belly. But this body would not let me get away with that. When I ignore it, this body offers me explosive reminders, panic attacks that only subside when someone helps me to breathe, to inspire my body and slow down my mind.
So I want you to breathe. To slow down. To slow down. To make space in your mind for the still small voice, for the presence of the Holy Spirit.
Because she will come a knockin'. You will know her breath by yours, her stirring of the waters by the stirring in your beloved body, the rise of energy that tells you this moment of healing, of creation, is your calling. I am here as her harbinger. I am here to remind you to breathe, so that you are ready. I am here to stand sentinel on the hilltops of Zion and proclaim that the spirit of God is upon us, to declare peace with our bodies, to preach their salvation, in joy and in pain. I am here to live my way into some beautiful feet.
I think sometimes we forget we have bodies. We live the life of the mind, we Harvard people, so we power through the caffeine jitters and the muscle fatigue, undeterred by the weight of our books and our laptops, preoccupied with the weight of the world on our shoulders, the sure knowledge that there are ideas to be thought up, by us, right now.
And some theologies teach that we are better off escaping the will of the flesh, rising above our sinful, hungry, lustful bodies to some higher plane of prayer and spirit. But I am reminded that the miracle of Jesus was that he chose to live in a body.
We are midway between seasons in the church: In December we remembered that love came down into a tiny, fragile baby body, the beloved son of an unwed mother. And this week we began Lent, the long walk to Easter, of remembering that Jesus’ choice was so painful. It hurts to live in these achy, fretful, shivering bodies. These bodies are violable, susceptible to attack by viruses and humans both. Even our love, our holy love, stretches us, as the harder and more joyfully we love another person, the deeper the ache when the body we love is with us no more.
But in a market that offers us a thousand ways to distract ourselves from the pain of these bodies, there is something to be gained by paying attention, by listening carefully to the flesh and bones that make up so much of what we are. Knowing the value of my own body opens my eyes and my mind to the needs of the bodies around me. Loving the warmth of my body reminds me to offer a coat or a dollar to the person outside these doors struggling to keep his body warm. Taking pleasure in the strength and stretchiness of my sinews allows me to feel for the hotel worker whose back aches from lifting too many heavy beds, too quickly, and so I seek her justice. Caring for my body with rest and food and medicine strengthens my heart for the work of caring for my neighbor, who has no access to healthcare, because our politics have gotten in the way of our humanity, our egos in the way of our hearts.
We need these bodies, well-loved and well-cared-for. We need to know what a cared-for body feels like so that we can honor and care for bodies of every shape, size, color, and ability. As a friend recently reminded me, Jesus’ sacrifice of his body on the cross is a call to live as he lived, not as he died. For we cannot be the body of Christ if we treat the body as disposable.
I confess this has been a difficult truth for me to live. I have had cause to learn the damage that can be done by trying to live as though my body were but a painful nuisance. For many years I have lived with a constant background of deep, bone-shaking anxiety, and I taught myself to ignore it, to tamp down the ache in my shoulders and the lump in my belly. But this body would not let me get away with that. When I ignore it, this body offers me explosive reminders, panic attacks that only subside when someone helps me to breathe, to inspire my body and slow down my mind.
So I want you to breathe. To slow down. To slow down. To make space in your mind for the still small voice, for the presence of the Holy Spirit.
Because she will come a knockin'. You will know her breath by yours, her stirring of the waters by the stirring in your beloved body, the rise of energy that tells you this moment of healing, of creation, is your calling. I am here as her harbinger. I am here to remind you to breathe, so that you are ready. I am here to stand sentinel on the hilltops of Zion and proclaim that the spirit of God is upon us, to declare peace with our bodies, to preach their salvation, in joy and in pain. I am here to live my way into some beautiful feet.
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