Into God’s Hands: A Good Friday Prayer Poem

“Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.”

Luke 23:46 (from Psalm 31:5)

The realities of our lives—

All that we see happening around us:


To what
To whom
do we commit these things?

“Into your hands I commend my Spirit.”

The things we value—love—hold dear
To whose hands do we entrust these things? 

It is a part of life.

We hand in
Hand over
Hand on
Hand off.

“Put your hand in the hand of the one…”

Jesus—as he is dying—
commends himself
—his soul
—the marrow of his bones
into God’s hands.
The hands of the One
who delivered from the womb of creation 
dolphins and dandelions,
marsupials and marigolds

The hands of the One
who ripped apart seas
to make a freedom way.

The hands of the One
who gathered up earthy dust

“We are the clay; you are the potter.
We are all the work of your hands.”

What if God’s work—
continues beyond crucifixion
in our hands?

Gentle hands that put Hello Kitty band aids on skinned knees.
Arthritic hands that knit or build or garden through pain.

Large hands that hold tiny hands as first steps are taken.
Hands that set music free from pianos or organs or guitars.

Hands that calm with a touch or write with a flair or feed with a fierce desire that none will go hungry.

Hands that serve or wash or repair. Hands that resist with everything in them other hands that with clenched fist or the stroke of a pen or the push of a button mark the world with violence and hatred—

God, the Potter.
We, the clay.

Our hands—
the work of God’s hands.

“Into your hands, I commend my Spirit.”

Do we?
entrust our lives—
our well-being—
our thoughts and feelings and wildest imaginings

Do we commend
our contingent existence
the whole of our radical temporariness–
Do we commend all of it—i
nto God’s hands?

Too many too soon forget this—
life’ uncompromising impermanence.
Or perhaps we are all too aware of it— 
So we live in fear.

React to others with fear.
Soak faith in the bitter herbs of fear.
Cling to what little postmortem knowledge we have with
clenched hands animated by a redacted hermeneutic of fear. 

But Jesus—in the end—

After splashing up out of Jordan’s waters
After calming seas and eating with tax collectors

But Jesus—in the end–

After refusing to be made king
After holding children in his arms
After breaking and blessing and giving

—even here:

“Into your hands I commend my spirit.”

“And having said this, he breathed his last.”

Jesus died.
A childhood prayer on his lips.
Words of his mama’s faith—
Words learned as sun was setting
on growing up days of laughter and play
now slipping from weary body. 

“Into your hands I commend my Spirit.”

Last words.
Intimate words.
Breathed out to the Holy One
who breathed into him the breath of life.
Breathed out to the Holy One
who breathed into all creation—
into you and me
the breath of life.

“Into your hands I commend my spirit.”

Do we?

In My Bones: Holy Week Reflections

Holy Week began a few days ago, on Palm Sunday. Many Christians processed into worship, colorful banners and streamers and emerald palm branches dancing in the air as they went.

I do not dance with ease or grace on any day. I stumble even more on Palm Sunday. My uncooperative sense of rhythm is only part of the problem. I process with awkward reluctance because my heart and mind are reluctant to grapple yet again with the seven days Christians have marked as Holy Week.

What makes this particular version of Sunday through Saturday holier than other weeks of Sundays through Saturdays? Judging by the headlines in this morning’s news, I think it is fair to say that human endeavors will not do much to create an ecology of particular or peculiar holiness during this week (though I suppose we can be on the look-out every week for those moments when human courage and faith ease or even transform some element of communal brokenness). How do our ritual actions during this week speak of God in and to communities crucified every day to appease the gods of commerce or politics? What do our 21st century embodiments of Jesus’ story mean in a world where disease or violence or war disrupt life and where too many of the wrong things and not enough of the right things are resurrected? These questions trouble my feet as I make my way in fits and starts along well-traveled Holy Week pathways.

But I am a liturgical theologian. So when my heart and head have no insight or energy with which to reckon with what Christian theology speaks, means or accomplishes, my bones take over. I do not understand the physiology or spirituality of why it is the case, but I am somehow able to believe in my bones that something about what we embody in Christian worship connects us to the on-the-ground realities of our neighborhoods and communities. And something about what we embody as community in Christian worship connects us to God’s Spirit.

For me, worship—communal ritual practices—keep our feet on the ground when our thoughts roam without direction through complex ambiguities and when our feelings ebb and flow without rhyme or reason. When we cannot embrace the barest bones of belief, our physical bones incarnate, carry out and do as best they can what we understand God to be in the midst of suffering. When in spite of our lack of rhythm, we decide to keep on stumbling together along potholed Holy Week pathways and let those pathways take us to streets where people are hungry or into neighborhoods where people have been forgotten, ignored or cast out, then we at least stumble together on holy ground.

A Jesuit theologian, Agbonkhianmeghe Orobator, is helping me to limp with more grace through Holy Week this year. Orobator writes that in the midst of the “flawed words and stubborn sounds” of our worship practices, there remains a prophetic and graced Word. What we do during this week is more than theological abstraction or ritual legalism. What we do during this week is more than scripted rhetoric about Jesus’ crucified body and our redemption.

During Holy Week, we break bread on Maundy Thursday and lean with longing into the silence of a Friday that is anything but good. In that silence, says Orobator, in those moments when Jesus cries out to a God who does not answer, another holy Word is spoken. What Word? The Word that speaks in the lives of unacknowledged, marginalized, and ignored prophets who in their work in their cities and neighborhoods “show the ‘face of redemption turned visibly’ toward the sick, the poor, the refugees.” These ones absent from word-centered religious, political and economic institutional arenas? They are sacraments of God’s saving presence with God’s people. They believe with their bones—with their beaten down backbones, their arthritic fingers, and their road weary feet—and in their believing they incarnate in despairing places the promises of God’s grace and love. By remembering and acknowledging their presence, we remember Jesus.

I drove past a local church this past Sunday on my way to my own church’s Palm Sunday celebration. Their triumphal entry was under way. I looked, and then I looked again. Two women, one in a wheelchair and the other using a walker, waved palm branches in the air as others helped them down the sidewalk and into the sanctuary. At my church? We remembered Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem and then heard in word and music the story of Jesus’ passion, Jesus’ suffering. The choir sang the haunting laments of the season—“O Sacred Head Now Wounded,” “Were You There When They Crucified My Lord?” “Beneath the Cross of Jesus.” The pastor spoke about Jesus’ pain-wracked and broken body. The sacramental irony? I sat in worship just inches away from our community’s newest member, an infant a mere four weeks into this beautiful, joyful, terrifying thing we call human living. As those mournful songs washed over us, that infant yawned, slept, stretched, kicked the air with tiny feet, gurgled, and cooed.

They grounded me again on Palm Sunday, those aging ones who we too often forget and that tiny one who so needs our care. And as I waved my palm branch and smiled at that sleeping child, I felt it in my bones, the tingling presence of Holy Week’s absent One.

So, I will do it one more time, limp through Holy Week, and be glad that my bones, though reluctant and aching as they make the journey, ground me. I pray that they take me, by the power of the Spirit, to the same kinds of human communities where Jesus’ own bones took him.