My trip into Target a
few weeks ago brought back reminiscing thoughts. Standing in the department where sun glasses
are sold, waiting for a sales person, a lady and a small boy, who I think might
have been 4 or 5 years of age stopped by, as well. "Don't touch" was repeated about
every 15 seconds until he was literally “hog tied”, kicking and screaming. All the while, the lady schussing him softly
and reassuring that he would be also get new glasses, providing he be a "good boy." I readily admit; this
was a command I heard more often than most children when I was that age. I was
allowed to push the boundaries twice before the consequences sat in on my behind. Upon accompanying mother, father, grandfather, and grandmother to
stores and markets, no matter what treasures they might be looking for; crossing each threshold, I was given the firm and
familiar instruction: "No touching and stay close by." It was also
the rallying call for what I now fondly remember as "assuming the
position." My hands were to be kept flatly on my side, my body snapped to
attention and prepared to walk through narrow aisles of Woolworth, Ben Franklin
and other potential places of temptation. I still feel a tinge of fear today
when I put my hands on anything in an antique store, and I don't think I would
be the least surprised if someone came around the corner and blurted out,
"The sign says, 'No touching!'" I almost brace myself to hear it.
Well, as I expect it
is for most children, seventy years later, the command to turn over hands as tools
of investigation remains a difficult one. It is still for me. The "assumed position" was
counter to my natural stance (which is no doubt a reason why the command was
necessary). My favorite pastime seems mostly given to investigating. Then, finding horny toads and grasshoppers
required each finger to be carefully committed (as they were the kind of
treasures that jumped out of my hands). Shivley Hardwar’s toy department had
many curious things to examine too. I learned to investigate with my eyes, but
mine was forever a limited experience. I wanted always to touch. Still do for that matter. The grain, the pattern, the rings, the insect holes, knots, or injury that create color variations of wood, especially. I suppose there is a metaphorical reason for my joy in knowing the stories of people. To have my soul touched by it all. To celebrate with joy the touch of God on another's.
The disciple named
Thomas has forever been branded "the doubting one" because he
wouldn't believe Jesus had been raised from the dead until he could see him
with his own eyes and touch him with his own hands. When Jesus appeared to the
gathered followers Thomas was eventually granted that desire; he was invited to
put his hands in Jesus's side and his fingers into the nail holes. The response
I have usually remembered is Christ's, particularly because he seems to be
talking to me: "Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe."
But I wonder if there
is not more to take from this exchange between Jesus and his purportedly
doubt-ridden disciple. Where I’ve often deemed Thomas the doubter and forget
the rest of his life, Jesus looks him in the eye and tells him to touch. Reading
John’s account, the other morning” "Put your finger here; see my hands.
Reach out your hand and put it into my side." Jesus saw him as a man with
a need to put his fingers around reality, and had mercy on his doubting soul.
This desire to touch,
to know something is solid, to feel it’s beauty—to put my hands around what is
real and sense its longevity—is something I need to feel deeply and know
strongly. Like when I was a child, (and maybe like all children) there is
something deep inside me longing to fully experience the investigation of my
world, to employ every faculty, to embrace every truth. Was Thomas like me,
made to want something real?
There are times, more
so now, when meaning, truth, and hope seem untouchable, unreachable, cloudy in
nature. Thinking about it; there are parts of me that consequently "assume the position" as I walk about the world of faith
and belief. With hands at my side, I resign myself to incomplete investigating,
viewing truth as inaccessible, hope and significance as ever-fading mirages,
and God as somewhere "up in heaven," obscure and staying put. Isn't it odd that I, at my age, still listen and snap to attention when certain family, friends, and/or colleagues say to me, "I wouldn't go there if I were you," or "why on earth would you ever want to do that? Is it because they love me and want for my best interest? Do they or have they ever understood me?
But thank You Father
for showing me through this story of Thomas that You are inviting me to touch. Thank
You Father that just as Christ told Thomas
to place his hands on the One promised in ancient Scriptures, to touch the One
pierced for my transgressions, to be present with God who is present. I am able
to touch wounds that are real because my need and sin and hope is real. I am
able to touch the resurrected Christ because Jesus was Who He said He was. In
the life of the Son, You, Father have made it evident that my need to have and
to hold Your truths, beauty, forgiveness, promises, and my life is understood. Thank
You, Jesus, Who gave to Thomas the same invitation that You have given to me,
Bill Prather: please touch. Amen
