Lenten Letters... The Nail Scarred Hand

We went to Ash Wednesday service at an Episcopal church near us last week. As we walked into the beautiful sanctuary, the cross at the front caught my eye. Made of wood and contemporary in design, it was the centerpiece of the whole room. Each person as they entered the sacred space, stopped, faced the cross and with a bow, reminded themselves and each other why we were gathered.
As I sat in quiet before the worship, I time traveled back to the churches, other sanctuaries I have known and loved where the cross was the centerpiece of worship. Some were plain and simple, others works of art, but they all were stark reminders of the death of the One we would follow. Sin, guilt, repentance, death, grace, resurrection... the Baptists of my childhood raising knew the truths of this progression. Lent was a year round occupation of worship. We lived it and we sang it. It was a messy, untidy, often painful and hilarious but real and true.
The saving grace of a small town is the art of knowing everybody’s business and minding your manners. It is devilishly difficult to hide anything, good or bad, in a small community. Mrs. Hamrick is caught in sleeping with the chair of the deacons and his name is not Mr. Hamrick. Everybody knows, passes judgement and waits to see if repentance leads to confession, forgiveness and grace to follow. Even small children knew the routine. After all, a murderer who served time in prison for his action, been converted and become a preacher, had stood in our pulpit as a revival preacher. I can still feel the power of his story told simply and honestly. He was an example of the power of the blood to redeem those who seemed beyond saving. Raw, uneducated and simple we might have been, but we had a pattern for living that gave us a way to name and atone for our sins.
Knowing everybody else’s business meant you knew you were not alone when it was your turn to confess and ask for forgiveness. In Sunday morning worship you were surrounded by others whose stories you knew, whose lives had fallen apart and been rebuilt, whose sins though they were scarlet had been made white as snow. You were in good company. Salvation from yourself was neither cheap nor easy but it was possible and the way was made plain.
One of the old hymns we sang...The Nail Scarred Hand written by B.B. McKinney... still gives me comfort when I stand once again during this season of reflection and repentance with my sins and failures to live as a Christian revealed to myself in the harsh light of truth telling.
Have you failed in your plan of your storm tossed life?
Place your hand in the nail scarred hand.
Are you weary and worn from its toil and strife?
Place your hand in the nail scarred hand.
Are you walking alone through the shadows dim?
Place your hand in the nail scarred hand.
Christ will comfort your heart, put your trust in Him.
Place your hand in the nail scarred hand.
Is your soul burdened down with its load of sin?
Place your hand in the nail scarred hand.
Throw your heart open wide, let the Savior in.
Place your hand in the nail scarred hand.
There is hope and light and life after the fall from grace for me if I will just reach out and take the hand of the One who waits for me in the darkness, the One who would lead me to a new life, clean and shriven of my sins, ready to go and try once more to live as a true Christian. I am not alone. I am not beyond the pale. I only have to reach out and hold the hand of the One who waits to walk with me. Help me throw my heart open wide in this season of Lent, Dear One and hold my hand tightly please, as I start over again. Let your scars and mine become reminders of the power and grace available for me if I ask. Thanks be to God for a lifetime of second chances.