Grease On My Hands

I have had the incredible pleasure of spending the last two days working at the Wagner farm. The ground has been working well and the planting has begun . . . finally. For me, this is Sabbath time: Time with God and time for my spirit to be renewed. Sixty and seventy hour weeks in ministry with few days or hours off over the course of the last four months now have given way to a few moments tending to the soil, to the equipment required to till the soil, and to my soul which is rooted in this Southern Illinois soil. I can tell, because I have grease on my hands.

Funny how things change the older one becomes. It used to be that I kept my hands in my pockets around the more 'edumacated' people because my hands were a dead give-away that I was a dairy farmer: There was grease and dirt in the lines of my hands that just wouldn't go away, regardless of the number of times I scrubbed them. Even though my hands were 'washed', along with the udder of every cow I prepped, still the grime of farming was a part of my identity and that grime could not be washed away. When I shook hands with folks who were the 'professionals' among those with whom we were acquainted, I was terribly self-conscious of my hands, they always told the story of what I did for a living.

Nearly thirty years later and having become one of those 'edumacated' people that so used to intimidate me, I feel myself blessed when there is grease on my hands, for it means that I have been engaged in the sacred rites of farming and/or manual labor. Some might say such a change in attitude comes with growing older, I say it comes with the twinge of maturity that reminds all of us that, too soon, we are anxious to give up those things which, often too late, we come to really value and cherish. Now I have a better understanding of and respect for those whose hands are rough and calloused, grime worn and chapped, for those are the ones whose labors are bound in the sweat of working with God, side by side . . . those are the ones upon whose labors our world depends, more than the world would ever know. More than the world could ever know.

On Sunday morning, as the elements of bread and wine are lifted up with grease marked hands and the prayers of consecration are spoken, I will be thinking of Jesus with his grime covered carpenter hands. I will be remembering them nailed to a cross of our cruelty upon the order of those whose hands seldom saw the grime of everyday labors. I will be remembering those calloused hands bleeding as his lips uttered, "Father, forgive them . . . ", as even in their prone position fastened upon the wooden altar of the cross they pronounce a final heavenly benediction. I will remember . . . and give thanks for the humble opportunity to join my hands with His in earthly labors that heavenly Good News might be shared with all.

And when the liturgy is complete, the last hymn sung and the Postlude is played, I will extend my grease marked hands to embrace the life and contributions of others hands as the faith family slowly leaves our worship home. Counting my blessings far differently today, I take my place as a servant of the One who hands were darkened from labor and strong in redemptive love, giving thanks to God for the Sabbath time which has so shaped my heart and soul . . . and allowed my hands to so resemble His.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don