Tattooed on God's Hand

Tattooed on God’s Hand

Isaiah 49:8-18

            No, Isaiah doesn’t use the word tattooed.  I first heard that word used in this passage by Dr. Christal Williams, the Regional Minister for the Tennessee Region of the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ).  She was addressing the pastors of her region on Zoom during the early days of enforced separation due to the corona virus. 

            Dr. Williams wanted to assure us that we had not been forgotten.  It would be easy for us to assume we had been abandoned.  We were without our flocks.  When we went to our church buildings we found them silent, empty, even a bit frightening.  Who knows what might lurk there?  Perhaps there were some stray remnants of the virus, left over from the last time our people gathered. 

            Pastors enjoy silent time; we need it.  But this was too much—much too much silence, Much too much separation.

            In those early Zoom meetings we reached out to each other, almost desperate for contact, wanting to hear other voices, wanting to see friendly faces, wanting to know we were not as alone as we felt.

            We talked church.  Dr. Williams asked us what we were doing to keep our congregations together.  What were we doing to maintain our own physical health?  Our mental health?  Our spiritual health?  Did we need anything she could provide? 

            At the end of the conversation, Dr. Williams reminded us that we were tattooed on the palms of God’s hands—that we were tattooed on the palms of her hands.  We were not forgotten,  we were not alone, regardless of how we felt, no matter what we perceived our situation to be.

            What a blessing!  What a relief!  Not only were we not forgotten, we were indelibly engraved on the palms of God’s hands.  God knew our loneliness.  God knew our separation.  God—and Dr. Williams—could not possibly forget us.  We were a part of them.

            Israel was sure God had forgotten God’s people.  They had been conquered by Babylon.  Their temple and their holy city had been destroyed.  Their king had suffered the humiliation of defeat—taken captive, blinded—and would soon be put to death.  Their leading citizens—those who might cause trouble, who might lead a revolt—had been taken into captivity as well, exiled from the land they loved, the land God had promised them centuries—millennia—before.  What did they have to look forward to?  How could they exist, let alone prosper or find joy, living in a strange land, with a foreign language and unfamiliar customs?  They could only weep.

            But God had not forgotten Israel.  God could no more forget God’s people than a mother could turn her back on her nursing child.  In fact, a mother’s love and care would wane before God’s love and care would diminish.

            We are not living in exile, but we are moving through difficult times.  The enforced separation of several months, even though it is becoming less severe, has left its mark on us, and continues to mark us.  The economy, which had been humming along comfortably is now in free fall.  Unemployment has reached unprecedented heights.  The frustration of a great part of our population has finally reached the breaking point over the murders of citizens by the people sworn to protect them.  The leadership of the country is increasingly ineffective.  What can we do?  Where can we turn?  Where is our help?

            God says, “See, I have tattooed you on the palms of my hands.  You are a permanent part of me.  I will not forget you.  I’m here for you.  Come to me for rest and reassurance.”