Two weeks ago at this very hour, I broke my nose in a clumsy fall on the Metra platform. My nose was bleeding, then swollen. My eyes were swollen, then black. Today there is just a faint trace of black which aligns nicely with the frames of my glasses so it’s barely noticeable. The miracle of healing.
Yesterday at my Uncle’s funeral, I spent holy time with a ridiculously diverse group of human beings. We may not have looked that different in terms of skin tone or even surnames, but we truly run the gamut theologically and politically. I hugged and kissed people who voted for the constitutional amendment banning same-sex marriage in N.C. last May and people who have been attendants at gay weddings. I ate deviled eggs among people who have always lived within a few miles of their birthplace and people who have traveled the world. I talked nose to nose with people who believe the Bible is inerrant in matters of theology, history, and science and those who believe is it (merely?) infallible in pointing to the Truth. I prayed along with people who do not believe in the ordination of woman and people who have never had a male pastor. I enjoyed story-telling with the under-educated and the over-educated, the old and the young, the Republican and the Democrat, the Tea-Partier and the “Mondale Liberal” (as my father would put it.)
And it was lovely.
This group of people would take opposite sides on many matters – including matters about what makes God happy and what doesn’t – but the bottom line is that love makes God happy. And love heals people.
It’s not easy to love those who judge us or criticize our choices, but if we can feast our eyes on each other with the eyes of Christ, I believe healing happens. That is all.