Words fail me. I can’t breathe. I put my hand over my mouth.
God, the Master, says, “Come from the four winds. Come, breath. Breathe on these slain bodies. Breathe life!”
God breathed life into the nostrils of the clay man and so our earth story began. But soon we started to worship certain individuals and trample others. “Food for me, clothes for me, air for me; nothing for you.”
After Jesus breathed his last on the cross and then ascended triumphantly, he sent out his followers with a blessing of peace and a Spirit commission borne of his renewed breath: “A cup of water for you, food for the hungry, fresh air for all.”
Once the slogans, the marching, the fist pumps, the signs, the broken windows and the debris are over, after the collective roar of frustration and hopelessness echoes away into the distance, then comes the hard work. I’m hoping for reconnection. I’m envisioning forgiveness. I’m looking for reformulating. I’m anticipating being the love. I’m reaching out to move forward arm in arm.
Hands clasped we dust off the injured, prop up the limping, and raise the fallen who’ve had the breath knocked out of them.
United. Equal. Respected. Loved. One in Christ.
These things should not be: Lives needlessly squeezed away, suspicion based on skin color, economics stacked against a race.
These things should be: Hands of all colors raised together toward heaven, blessings distributed to all, open hearts and listening souls.
Breathe life. Be the love.
From Job 40:4; Ezekiel 37:9; Genesis 2:7; Matthew 25:35,36; John 20:22.