Bleeding Hands

A sermon from the back of the van

“I cried so much during those winter nights on the street, pushing my cart, living under a tarp. My clothes froze in my bag, my hands were so cold and bleeding.”

Her testimony and confessions poured out from a back seat in the van. I hung on every word, because I’ve learned that wisdom still cries in the streets (Proverbs 1:20-33). 

It’s hard to hear a mother speak of her children that were signed away as the last hope of saving them. Her words invade my “quiet time” with a deep anguish and sorrow that echoes from ancient prophecies.

“Thus says the Lord: “A voice is heard in Ramah, lamentation and bitter weeping. Rachel is weeping for her children; she refuses to be comforted for her children, because they are no more.” -Jeremiah 31:15

Jeremiah’s words trickle down cheeks, hers and mine mingle with the Seer’s song. She doesn’t know that the Spirit speaks through her as she retells her sufferings and hopes. Her sermon is the word implanted that saves my own soul from complacency, isolation and indifference.

In remembrance I sit here with Jeremiah’s promises, praying them as he prayed them. Whispering them as burning lights on dark paths out of captivity, as tambourines for dancers and bread and wine for the famished. I hear the voice of God in these words, speaking to her, to me, to others pushing carts on the streets: 

“Thus says the Lord: “Keep your voice from weeping, and your eyes from tears, for there is a reward for your work, declares the Lord, and they shall come back from the land of the enemy. There is hope for your future, declares the Lord, and your children shall come back to their own country.” -Jeremiah 31:16-17

Breathless, fast talking, recovering addicts  with tragic stories are icons into a world of hells and horrors where I continue to find the wounded God singing into the apocalypse. 

As she hobbles out of the van, I reach for her, but she doesn’t need my help. She turns smiling, her eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses as she says: “You can’t see my eyes because you’ve made me cry during your sermon.”

This morning as dawn’s light is pushing back the darkness across the city, I have no sunglasses to hide my tears from her sermon. I thank God that I have the honor and privilege to be pastored on the ragged edges of the city where such women rise. 

“The whole valley of the dead bodies and the ashes, and all the fields as far as the brook Kidron, to the corner of the Horse Gate toward the east, shall be sacred to the Lord. It shall not be plucked up or overthrown anymore forever.” -Jeremiah 31:40