Touch.

I read a quote this morning by the ancient scholar, Jerome (342-420). “The kingdom of God is in your midst. Faith beholds Jesus among us. If we are unable to seize his hand, let us prostrate ourselves at his feet. If we are unable to reach his head, let us wash his feet with our tears. Our repentance is the perfume of the Savior.” Two Gospel stories come to my mind – the woman who reached out and touched the tassel of Christ’s garment seeking healing, and the woman who poured out the alabaster jar and washed Jesus’ feet with not only the precious oil, but her tears and hair as well.  I was drawn into this quote with the concept of touch.

My mind has been meditating on the idea of touch for a few weeks. To be more specific, I have been chewing on the idea of tangible experiences with God, my family, and the Community that surrounds me. Or even more specific, I am confronting my reluctance to place myself in a position of being able to be touched by God and others and my stubbornness that refuses to prostrate myself and thus make myself available to receive such abundant grace. Let me unpack this a bit.

At birth, I was identified as the baby that “did not want to be held.” There are reasonable explanations as to why I did not want to be held. My birth was complicated by the fact that I spent two days stuck in the birth canal before I was finally rescued by Cesarean section. I spent twenty hours in the NICU – twenty hours before I came into physical contact with either of my parents. Thirty-four years ago, this was common practice. Now we know that those are critical hours for forming a bond. Regardless of the circumstances, the legacy followed me. I came to believe the words, “I did not want to be held.”

At the age of five, I stumbled into toxic touch, and discovered despite its dangers, I did indeed long to be held. I wanted it. It felt good; at times it felt wonderful. But it was toxic. The pleasure was tainted with shame and at times pain. In kindergarten, I discovered a really big word . . . ambivalence. I loved to be held and I hated that I wanted it. I was being pulled into two different directions. The tension was torture – I pictured myself on the medieval rack. I was stuck in the middle of two opposing forces.  I was paralyzed.

As I aged into the great maturity of adolescence, my belief system shifted from “I did not want to be held” into “I do not need to be held.” And such birthed a new era of fierce independence. I engaged the world, and God armed with a sword of sarcasm and hiding behind a steel wall of self-protection.

In sixth grade, I had a Sunday school teacher who concluded class with “holy hugs.” It was an all-girl class, and at the end we were to join together for a large group hug. I maintained the facade of hating these hugs. I resisted; often standing with my arms crossed and a scowl upon my face. A few were brave enough to step into my fortress of solitude and give a one-way hug. While I never hugged them back, I was secretly grateful they were brave enough to find me.

The truth is I did want to be held. I did want to be touched. I did not want to admit it. Honestly, this is much to do with shame. Shame that I found pleasure in the throes of toxic touch. Shame that a part of me sought it out because drinking poison was better than dying of thirst. And then there is this little voice inside of me that whispers, “You do not deserve to ask for pure touch.” And another voice that whispers a little louder, “Don’t ask for it; you will only be disappointed.” And disappointment on this level is devastating.

I can put my therapist hat on and see right through the lies I have come to believe. And I know they are lies. What I cannot seem to do is get myself untangled from the sticky web they have strung around me.

And this is precisely the truth I need to hear. I cannot get myself untangled. My own hands are tied. My feet are tied. I need help to break free. I cannot do it alone, and I have exhausted myself trying.

As a therapist, I share with clients the importance of having enough positive experiences to counterbalance the negative. But, I stress this takes risk. This means putting ourselves out there in order to be available to receive such experiences. It is risking that sometimes we may judge a person wrong and be reinjured or further disappointed. But regardless, we must take the risk in order to get on the path of healing. I found this to be true in my own path of discovering love, intimacy, and empathic connection with others.

I find this to be true again as I wrestle with touch. I risked asking for a hug from a friend in a time of need and I got it. And it felt safe, comforting, and wonderful. I risked asking another friend to carry an emotional burden with me, and though we were 600 miles apart, I felt her holding me ever so tenderly. And so I say to myself, if this is what comes from friends – from the imperfect Community of humanity, how much more must there be from Christ himself?

Believing that a God I cannot see is eager to embrace me, all of me, including the yucky parts is difficult.  It is especially difficult to believe I will have a real and tangible experience.  Blind faith is a risk-taking adventure.

Today, I am grateful for the physical Community around me here on earth offering the gift of positive experiences. I am indebted to those who are truly being the Body of Christ – the incarnational presence of love, tenderness, and mercy. Their hospitality is indeed healing. They are counterbalancing the negative. And because of them, my faith is slowly, but surely becoming a little more tangible.