HEALING LOVER

Karen Jantzi

I am on retreat, at Wernersville, my spiritual home. The place where God and I wrestle, where I demand a blessing. And I am frightened. For most of my life, I have believed that perfection must be attained in every action, thought, intention. For most of my life, I have felt the weight of my failure to achieve that goal. For most of my life I have been motivated by guilt, shame, fear. Part of me knows this is ridiculous. But a more demanding part assures me it is the only path to salvation.

Now I face a decision that can be considered not only a failure but also sin. Divorce. The death of a relationship but in some ways more painful than a death. It is murder or at least mercy killing. How can I speak of my faith, my relationship with God, when I am sinning?

Many people have responded with love and mercy, wrapped me in their arms as I sob, placed hands of blessing and absolution on my head. Just as I have spoken to others of God’s love and mercy. Laid hands on other’s heads.

Why can’t I extend that hand to myself? Another failure to add to the list.

Is it possible that anyone can love me as I am—ridiculous expectations, conflicting theology, wounds, dysfunctions, and all? Is it possible for me to celebrate the me God created . . . Karen . . . exactly as I am, here, now? Is it possible for me to believe in God’s love?

I kneel in the balcony, looking at the mosaic of the crucifixion as I sob, “Lord, I believe, help me in my unbelief.” The cross, symbol of pain and glory . . . the rainbow flames surrounding it, promising the life-sustaining Spirit to come . . . the halo, crown of the King of heaven and earth . . . the blood pouring from his body, symbol of eternal love—all speak to me of a love I cannot comprehend. All add to my load of shame and guilt.

My lips form the words “Fear not,” and I speak God’s assurance through tears:

FEAR NOT,
for I have redeemed you:
I have called you by your name;
you are mine.
When you pass through the
waters,
I will be with you;
And through the rivers,
they shall not overwhelm you;
When you walk through fire
you shall not be burnedand the flame shall not consume you.

For I am THE Lord, your God,
The Holy One of Israel,
Your Savior.
You are precious in my eyes,
and honored,
and I love you.

Can a woman forget the child
at her breast
so that she would have no
compassion on the
son of her womb?
Even these may forget,
yet I will never forget you.
LOOK!
Your name is written
on the palms of my hands.
(Scripture from
Isaiah 43 and 49, NRSV)

“Look, your name is written on the palms of my hands.”

Look. Look. My eyes are drawn to Christ’s hands. My name is there. The nails printed my name . . . my name. I find it hard to articulate. But my name is there, on his hands. By accepting the nails he put my name there.

Not as punishment. No. This is not about shame. It’s about a love too extravagant to describe. I struggle with half-formed thoughts, images, memories. Anything I say sounds masochistic, pietistic, stupid. My heart knows this truth but there are no words that make sense. Lord, give me the words.

“Look. Look at my hands. The scars on my hands spell out your name.”

I look at Christ’s hands and see my name. He loved me: Karen. Not just the whole world, all humans, but me. Those scars are there because of his love for me, Karen. Those scars are my name on his hands, Karen. When he looks at the scars, he does not see my failures. No. He is filled with desire to hold and protect me.

They are not the scars of a victim. They are the scars of a parent, of a lover who joyfully risked all for his beloved daughter. Who made a decision not out of compulsion or guilt but so he could hold out his hand and say, “Look, Karen, look at my hands. There is your name.”

What can I do in the presence of this love but fall on my knees and cry, “I am not worthy to receive you, but only speak the word, and I shall be healed.”

“Karen, I have spoken the word. It is Jesus. You are healed.”

Amazing love, how can it be that Christ my God should die for me?

My name is on your hands. The scars are my name. You don’t show them to punish me. You don’t push them in my face asking, “How could you do this to me?” You show them to comfort me. They are a symbol of hope, of healing, of protection, of extravagant, abandoned, passionate love beyond any I have ever or will ever experience on this earth.

And when they ask you, “Why did you do this?” Your answer is a look of amazement. “Why? Because she is mine. Because I love her.”

My tears continue but now they accompany an anthem of praise for the vision planted in my soul many years ago, nurtured by men and women who saw what Christ sees: Karen. Karen, precious, honored, beloved child of God. The vision I am beginning to see as well.

I stand, reluctant to leave. Knowing the struggle is not over. Realizing old habits die hard. But also assured that holding me are the hands of God, hands imprinted with my name.

—Karen Jantzi, Harleysville, Pennsylvania, is a life-long teacher and learner. After completing her Ph.D., she hopes to write and teach in international settings. Anabaptist by birth and choice, her spiritual journey has also been enriched by writers, poets, composers, musicians, ministers, priests, and ordinary people from many different faith traditions.