Engraved on His Hands

Jesus said: “Anyone who welcomes a prophet because he is a prophet will have a prophet’s reward; and anyone who welcomes an upright person because he is upright will have the reward of an upright person. If anyone gives so much as a cup of cold water to one of these little ones because he is a disciple, then in all truth I tell you, he will most certainly not go without his reward.” Matthew 10: 41, 42

Museums are such contemplative places.  What are they rather than the bits of history and art that somehow has been deemed worthy of humanity, to have and to hold.  And to reflect.  Upon row after row of books filled with a life’s passion behind dull, frayed covers, upon bronze and marble statues capturing the nobility of sacrifice for the greater good.  The courage of astronauts and their sippy cups.  The beauty of high arches covered in frescos.  And even or especially the looping tapes of the harsh staccato of Mein Fuhrer and the adoring crowds waving red and black flags.  Whom do honor?

And somehow, through the honoring and welcoming, we become part of them, part of the vision and calling, and somehow join into their reward.  How tightly we are strung together, so many electronic particles, bouncing through the universe. 

So many people, and yet He engraves each name on the palms of his hands.  And as I wander through the bustle of very busy people rushing somewhere, I am reminded of the long lists of victims of the concentration camps, engraved on long windows stretching up and up and down and down in all directions, and I believe.  All of the museums have inadvertently captured the glow of God’s presence, echoing in the halls and gleaming through the beauty.  He is and was and will be present, until the end of days.  It declares purpose.  An immense design.  Of love.  But would I be able to explain how I know?