Of all the ways we can use our hands, none is more authentically human than touching. Touching, not grasping, for some of the apes can do that too. Touching, not hitting, for that is a perversion of our humanity. Touching, not taking, for that is part of our fallen nature. We are most human when we touch gently, carefully, gracefully. Of all the ways we can use our hands, none is more authentically human and none closer to the intent of our Creator than touching.
When our hands reach out to touch others, we do so because we want to share something, and find that it cannot be shared fully in words. When I meet my grandchildren, I want to reach out and touch them. I can tell them I love them, I can smile at them, I can even give them gifts. But nothing is quite as clear as the signal I send when my hands go out to them. Never mind that one of the girls teases me with a shrill little “No” and the other one head-butts me! At least the baby gives me a high-five, and I am satisfied. He is not yet sophisticated enough to mess with Grandpa’s emotions. There is in our human touch so much power. Hands touching.
And so when Paul speaks to the young Timothy and reminds him of the gifts he has received, he urges him to rekindle those gifts, given him by the laying on of hands. The laying on of hands, hands touching, is an ancient ceremony of blessing; it is a means of setting apart those who are called to spiritual leadership. But it is much more than that. The laying on of hands is no magic ceremony that transmits authority to those receiving it. Nor is the laying on of hands like a secret handshake that initiates someone into the fraternity of the privileged. The laying on of hands, going back as far as Isaac blessing his son Jacob, is a sign of the gifts that the faithful community gives to those chosen. Our hands will in a few moments touch one another and through a chain of connections touch those who are being ordained; so in our touch we affirm in them important gifts. Not offices, not privileges, not authority – none of those things are implied as Baptists practice the laying on of hands; but hands touching, giving from the church and for the church.
Paul is quite specific about these gifts. The apostle is clear what these gifts do not mean. “God did not give us a spirit of cowardice,” he says. It is not the gift of God if in timidity you refuse to step forward and serve as the Spirit summons. It is not the gift of God if you are so bound up with tradition that you cannot envision a new day for the church. Nor is it the gift of God if you are so bent on change you want to tear down everything accomplished in the past. God does not give us hands tearing away at the fabric of the church, nor hands pushing toward a reckless future. God does not give us the spirit of cowardice.
But when our hands touch, He will give three significant gifts. He will share three crucial blessings.
I
First, God gives, as we touch hands, a spirit of power. A spirit of power; not of force, not of constraint, but a spirit of authentic leadership. God will give you, His deacons, as we touch hands, that spirit that leads the church with encouraging power.
As a boy, I learned to play the violin. But I use the word “learned” loosely. Despite lots of practice time, despite good money for private lessons, I was never very good, and I knew it. So I resisted any expectation that I might play a violin solo in public. Most of the time that worked; my parents knew that the squeals that went up from those strings were not in the Heifetz or Kreisler class. So they never pushed me to play in public – with one exception. The annual family reunion.
Every year we would pack ourselves into the Plymouth and head for northern Indiana to see the family, and into the trunk would go my violin and my forebodings. For we were a musical clan, and it was expected that each of the cousins would demonstrate his or her musical skills. There was my cousin Harriett, whose thrilling soprano voice made headlines all over Fort Wayne for years; there was my cousin Richard, who sang musical theater and whose rich voice would ultimately be used for liturgies and sermons in the Lutheran Church. There was my cousin David, who ended up as principal clarinet for an orchestra in New York. Best of all, there was my own little brother, whose musical genius at the piano was apparent when he was only four years old. Prodigies all. And then there was me and my wailing wires.
Well, one year I just decided I could not do it. I would not do it. I refused even to get my fiddle out of its case. I was very clear: it may be annual family reunion, it may be talent night, but Joe has no talent and does not need for you to find that out. No violin solo.
However, my father had other ideas. He summoned me upstairs while the family waited below. He told me that playing the violin was expected. He demanded that I do it. He made sure I knew how embarrassed he would be if I did not play. But none of that worked. Some of you have had reason to discover in this past year that I can be stubborn, and that night I got really stubborn. The more my dad argued, the more he threatened, the more he insisted, the more I resisted. They were waiting downstairs. Waiting for the wailing wires.
My dad then did something totally unexpected. He quit arguing; he stopped breathing out threats and slaughter. He just put his hand on my back. Gently on my shoulders. Some of you think it should have been a smack lower down, but no, gently on my shoulders. “Come on, let’s give it a try. They’re family. You’ll be all right.” And I want you to know that that night, through my tears, I played as never before and never since!
For God did not give us a spirit of cowardice, but of power. And the touch of the father’s hand encourages us with the power to be and to do vastly more than we think we can do. God gives us, as we touch hands, the spirit of power.
II
Second, Paul says God gives us through the laying on of hands the spirit of love. God did not give us the spirit of cowardice, but the spirit of love. If there is anything that the church needs in these days, it is people with the strength to love. For love is not a warm fuzzy feeling; love is self-giving, it is sacrifice, it is spending our spiritual capital so that others may be strengthened. The task of the deacon, yea, the task of every Christian, the task of the church, is to love. Love heals. Love strengthens. Love builds up. Love is not a flimsy flighty feeling of flirtatiousness. Love is the right touch at the right time.
I went to the hospital room quickly. Having heard that one of our oldest members, nearly a hundred years old, was back in the hospital for the fourth time in less than two months, I suspected that the end was near. Ruth surely could not have much longer to live.
When I looked at her, hesitating to speak because she was sleeping, my fears were confirmed. Just a glance told me that her body was going into failure. I was tempted to tiptoe out of the room and not disturb her – no, let’s be candid: I was tempted to tiptoe out of the room so that I would not have to deal with this ultimate moment. But she opened her eyes and caught me. No words came from her mouth, but from under the sheets came a frail hand, connected to a feeding tube. That hand stretched out in my direction, and I took hold of it. Ruth then grasped me as though she must hold on for dear life. Something in her grasp suggested that if I let go, she would let go of life. So I stood for five minutes, ten minutes, twenty, quoting Scripture from memory – I had to, I could not turn Bible pages in my one free hand! And praying, speaking to her just a little. Whether she understood I could not tell, but she held on tight. You would be amazed how much strength there is in ninety-eight year old fingers!
And then I heard her say one word: “Forrest”. Forrest was the name of her husband, long deceased. I had visited with Ruth after Forrest’s death. I had asked her what it felt like to lose a mate after sixty-two years of marriage. I shall never forget her answer, “It feels just like a part of your body has been torn away.” What a testimony to the Biblical saying, “The two become one flesh.” But now, at this moment – “Forrest”. What did it mean?
Ruth died that night, and I can only guess that in her mind this pastor’s hand represented for her the restoration of her body; she was expecting to reunite with the great love of her life. And if for some reason I had not taken that hand, or had wriggled loose too soon, or had preferred to do the preacher’s thing and talk, talk, talk – if our hands had not touched, might she have gone into the next world afraid, alone, and abandoned? I do not know; but I do know that God has given us through the laying on of hands the spirit of love. And even though we may not always feel loving and certainly will not always be loveable, God has given His church the gift, by the laying on of hands, of the spirit of love.
III
The spirit of power, the spirit of love, and one more gift. God has given us, says the apostle, the spirit of self-discipline. God has not given us the spirit of cowardice, but the spirit of self-discipline. God will make us self-starters, who will learn new things. You will feel the pulse of this church, you will read the needs of this community, and you will learn to do whatever it takes to be effective. The spirit of self-discipline.
Being a deacon is a little like the fellow who was awarded a medal for his great humility, but when he proudly wore the medal, they took it away from him! Being a deacon is acknowledging that the church has seen in you a degree of maturity; but if you are satisfied that you have made it, they ought to take away your deaconship! For there is more to learn than you know, and more to think through than you have imagined. It will require self-discipline.
But do not be afraid. God did not give you the spirit of cowardice, but the spirit of self-discipline. As we lay hands on you, we give you the gift that lies in all of us, the gift of growing and becoming skillful in the things of the Kingdom.
Think of the surgeon’s hands, trained to cut through and repair damage in the body. That surgeon was not born knowing how to do that; as he trains and practices, he learns his skill and loses his fear. Not a spirit of cowardice, but a spirit of self-discipline, in the touch of the surgeon’s hand.
Or think of the architect, who takes pencils and T-square in hand, or now, I suppose, Computer-Assisted Design, and her hands skillfully create plans for a great structure, one that we trust not to fall down, for the architect has grown that spirit of self-discipline.
Or the pianist, whose hands are practiced to find the right keys at the right time and to touch those keys in ways that make the music sing. Self-discipline. Or the chef, who knows how to handle food so that it is not damaged, and the full flavor comes out. Self-discipline. Or the artist, who and yet with confidence adds a line here, a shadow there, to a painting until beauty is revealed through self-discipline.
So also the deacon, who knows that she or he is dealing with the human soul, and must therefore be neither ham-handed nor hands-off, but trained to touch other hearts just right, with the spirit of self-discipline.
Rekindle these gifts, my brothers, gifts already in you but now called forth from you and for you as the hands of the church touch one another and then touch you. For God did not give you the spirit of cowardice; but God grant you the gifts of power, of love, and of self-discipline.
Of all the ways we can use our hands, none is more authentically human than touching. Our hands now touch you; we wait for you to touch us.
