Visible Signs of the Gospel in the Midst of Suffering and Death
What do chipped fingernail paint, masks, cross, bread and wine have in common?
Six years ago, I wrote about an experience during a Sunday worship service. In retrospect, the experience was petty to be sure, and yet God used it in my life in profound ways.
Chipped fingernail paint
My husband and I were fairly new members at a downtown, Episcopal church. The majority of the church members come from the upper class, and Sunday morning is a formal affair. As a middle class woman, it was important for me to fit in the best I could. We arrived at church that day after having rushed out the door (we had a four year old at the time), and yet I was proud of myself for looking very put together in my new clothes. That was until I became aware of my chipped fingernail paint.
The chipped paint was fairly noticeable, and, in my mind, it gave me away as not being completely put together on the outside as I had hoped for everyone to see. I hid my hands as best as I could due to my embarrassment.
When it came time for communion (to receive the bread and the wine), I watched as men and women made their way forward to the table in a long line. I love watching people go to the communion table because of the visible sign that we are all in need of God’s grace, love, and mercy found in Jesus Christ. At the table, as at the foot of the cross, we are equal and in need, and we kneel to receive the gospel once more.
As I watched, I noticed a man on crutches hobbling toward the table. The picture of the lame man limping to receive the bread and the wine moved me deeply. Here I was concerned about what I looked like on the outside, obsessed by my broken fingernail paint, and yet this man was a visible sign of the real me—the real all of us. For although on the outside we may appear that things are good and altogether right, in reality we are all hobbling toward the table, broken by sin and failure and in need of the God who loves us and the only who can heal us.
My fingers unfolded; I uncrossed my arms. When it was my turn to go to the table, I looked down at my chipped fingernail paint and gave thanks to God for this outward reminder of my need for him—that I wasn’t all put together on the inside.
Masks
When the COVID pandemic forced the country to stop meeting in person in 2020, many of us experienced deep loss: loss of fellowship, friendship, in person gatherings, health, and, for some, their lives. The pandemic forced us into a shared state of suffering and death.
When we finally regathered inside the church building to worship, we were required to wear masks. Looking around at a room full of faces wearing masks did something for me much like that chipped fingernail paint did years ago.
The masks became an outward, visible sign of our human fragility, death and shared suffering. As I worshipped God the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, the physical mask, rubbing against my cheeks and pressing against my nose, with all its discomfort, made me more acutely aware of my need for him.
If the church had regathered to worship God without masks on our faces, it would have felt disingenuous and dishonest to the suffering caused by the pandemic, and, frankly, to our current reality. As much as we want the pandemic to end and to become a distant memory, that simply isn’t the reality yet.
By bringing masks inside the church, we brought in a tangible, concrete sign of our suffering into holy worship as if to say, “Look, God, upon us. Remember us and what we are going through.”
In American Christianity, especially, there is a tendency to be self-sufficient so that we do not really need to rely on anyone else, including God. We come to church for its societal benefits and to give to the church, much like any other charity.
Additionally, in my lifetime, we have lived so far and separated from death, that most of us, up until the pandemic, could say we have never seen a person die, much less die in our home. For many, the Christian faith and God had become more of a convenience than a necessity.
Thus, the masks, within the context of a Christian worship service, in particular, communicated to me that we are not self-sufficient, that we are indeed dying. If nothing else, the pandemic opened our eyes to our weaknesses and deep, utter dependence: that we truly need God.
Cross
As an Episcopalian, our worship begins and ends with the cross, choir, and clergy processing and recessing down the center aisle. That first Sunday and each Sunday since, I have been moved to tears as I watch the cross, lifted high, seemingly float down the center aisle above and in the midst of a sea of masks.
In our death, sickness, and suffering, there is Jesus. The cross is a visible sign that Jesus, too, suffered and died. But this particular cross is gold-plated, a contradiction to the splintered cross Jesus died upon. The gold, however, reminds me that Jesus conquered death upon that cross, by his resurrection, so that what was once only a symbol of death is now a symbol of life. Jesus has subverted the cross.
Thus, in Jesus, death does not have the last word. In him, we live. In the midst of death, there is life in Christ.
The outward signs of the masks together with the cross are deeply pedagogical.
Bread and wine
Outward, visible signs of the gospel have always been central to Christian worship, going all the way back to Jesus himself when he broke the bread and said, “Take; eat. This is my body broken for you.” When he passed the cup, he said, “Take; drink. This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins.”
In my tradition, we walk forward to the altar with our hands open for we bring nothing with us. We kneel before the Lord next to our brothers and sisters in Christ in a posture of humility and servitude. Kneeling with our hands open, we receive the bread with our hands, taste the bread with our mouths, and hear the following words:
The Body of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was given for thee,
preserve thy body and soul unto everlasting life. Take and eat
this in remembrance that Christ died for thee, and feed on
him in thy heart by faith, with thanksgiving.
We then receive the wine in like manner and are reminded by the priest:
The Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was shed for thee,
preserve thy body and soul unto everlasting life. Drink this in
remembrance that Christ's Blood was shed for thee, and be
thankful.
During the pandemic, the bread and the wine have become even more precious, outward signs of God’s grace. Each week I kneel and hear the word of the gospel, namely that Jesus Christ’s body was broken and his blood shed for me.
This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down his life for us. (1 John 3:16)
After receiving the bread and the wine, I rise from the altar, place the mask back on my face, and look forward to next Sunday when I can be reminded of the gospel again in such tangible ways.
Light beyond shadow
A few weeks ago, I attended the chapel service at my son’s Episcopalian school. The choir, of which my son is a part, sang a beautiful hymn by Paul Wigmore. The hymn would be moving at any particular time in history, but the words took on a deeper meaning as I watched these children, including my 10 year old, sing behind masks. The masks made visible the ”shadow,” “tears,” “fears,” “storm,” “lost,” “sins,” “darkness,” and “crying” of which they sang. But, even more poignant and palpable, the masks illuminated the contrast of “light,” “joy,” “love,” “peace,” “Christ,” “Jesus shining,” and “Jesus dying,” that much more.
Yes, I’m eager to move beyond the masks and look forward to the day when masks won’t be part of our daily wardrobe and concern. Even more so, I eagerly await moving beyond the shadow of death, and I believe that there will come a day when that will be the reality for those in Jesus Christ. But until then, it’s not good or helpful to pretend that we are there fully yet. Instead, let’s proclaim that in the midst of the fog, in the midst of suffering and death, there is light and life, for there is the crucified-yet-resurrected Jesus standing in the mist with us, holding onto us, until that day when night is no more and the shadow is gone:
Light beyond shadow, joy beyond tears,
Love that is greater than darkest our fears;
Deeper the peace when the storm is around,
Dearer the Christ to the lost who is found.
Light of the world, Jesus shining!
Sins of the world, see him dying!
In our darkness, he is light,
In our crying, he is love,
In the noise of life imparting
Peace that passes understanding.