How such a smooth, simple process could have become so disorganized and complicated was nearly unthinkable. But my serving partner seemed completely unaware that trays of communion juice and bread were stacking up against each other in the middle of the rows of benches as if they were vehicles being swallowed up in the traffic jams that so frequently characterize Japan’s highway system. No matter how I tried to catch his attention from the other end of the pew in order to help get our serving back in sync, he kept his eyes lowered reverently, seemingly oblivious to anything not immediately at his hands.
It got so confused that one row of congregants didn’t receive a plate of bread until everything was almost over. When I suddenly realized they’d been overlooked, I nearly sprinted from the back of the sanctuary to serve them before the prayers began. If the worshipful mood hadn’t already been broken, I certainly succeeded in shattering it in those frantic seconds.
Certainly the quietness of a holy moment was destroyed for me as I returned to my seat. Heart pounding and cheeks red with embarrassment, I took the bread in my left hand and the tiny cup in my right, nestling it between my thumb and first finger. It was then that I saw it: the print of my pointer finger. Amazingly, the juice was reflecting it as my finger rested on the outside of the cup. It was as clear as if a detective had dusted the vessel for fingerprints and determined easily and beyond any doubt that suspect Cheryl Barton had indeed held that glass cup on Sunday morning, September 20.
I’d just been identified in the police lineup and there was absolutely no use in denying my crimes. My fingerprint was more than the proof required.
Amazingly, rather than the remorse and the fear of punishment I should have felt at that moment, I was flooded with the most beautiful feelings of love I have ever experienced. I was enveloped in Jesus’ wholly indescribable arms as his nail-scarred hands rubbed my back gently and lovingly. It was a bear hug the likes of which no one could have escaped—but who would have wanted to flee such a comforting embrace anyway? After all, it is for such intimate moments with God that we were created; it is for these pinnacle experiences with joy that our hearts yearn as long as they beat.
And then I heard him as clearly as if he were sitting immediately beside me, whispering into the ear of my heart: “See your fingerprint?”
Of course I did. It stood out on the cup as if painted in the bold and decisive strokes of calligraphy, only in opaque ink rather than sumi, the basic ingredient of Japanese brush painting, derived from charcoal.
“This is my blood shed for you. It has your name on it just as your fingerprint does. This is how much I love you.”
I could hardly drag my attention away from the rim of the cup as exquisite scenes of nature appeared before my eyes: powerfully crashing waves on a rocky shore, a beautifully cascading waterfall amidst an evergreen forest, an awe-inspiring, serene, sinking orange ball of fire in a western sky. And from deep within, my soul rejoiced:
“When peace like a river attendeth my way, when sorrows like sea billows roll, whatever my lot, thou has taught me to say, ‘It is well, it is well with my soul. It is well, it is well, it is well, it is well with my soul.
“Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come, let this blessed assurance control, that Christ hath regarded my helpless estate and hath shed his own blood for my soul. It is well, it is well, it is well, it is well with my soul.
“My sin—O the bliss of this glorious thought!—my sin, not in part but the whole, is nailed to his cross and I bear it no more. Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul. It is well, it is well, it is well, it is well with my soul.” (Horatio G. Spafford, 1873)
It got so confused that one row of congregants didn’t receive a plate of bread until everything was almost over. When I suddenly realized they’d been overlooked, I nearly sprinted from the back of the sanctuary to serve them before the prayers began. If the worshipful mood hadn’t already been broken, I certainly succeeded in shattering it in those frantic seconds.
Certainly the quietness of a holy moment was destroyed for me as I returned to my seat. Heart pounding and cheeks red with embarrassment, I took the bread in my left hand and the tiny cup in my right, nestling it between my thumb and first finger. It was then that I saw it: the print of my pointer finger. Amazingly, the juice was reflecting it as my finger rested on the outside of the cup. It was as clear as if a detective had dusted the vessel for fingerprints and determined easily and beyond any doubt that suspect Cheryl Barton had indeed held that glass cup on Sunday morning, September 20.
I’d just been identified in the police lineup and there was absolutely no use in denying my crimes. My fingerprint was more than the proof required.
Amazingly, rather than the remorse and the fear of punishment I should have felt at that moment, I was flooded with the most beautiful feelings of love I have ever experienced. I was enveloped in Jesus’ wholly indescribable arms as his nail-scarred hands rubbed my back gently and lovingly. It was a bear hug the likes of which no one could have escaped—but who would have wanted to flee such a comforting embrace anyway? After all, it is for such intimate moments with God that we were created; it is for these pinnacle experiences with joy that our hearts yearn as long as they beat.
And then I heard him as clearly as if he were sitting immediately beside me, whispering into the ear of my heart: “See your fingerprint?”
Of course I did. It stood out on the cup as if painted in the bold and decisive strokes of calligraphy, only in opaque ink rather than sumi, the basic ingredient of Japanese brush painting, derived from charcoal.
“This is my blood shed for you. It has your name on it just as your fingerprint does. This is how much I love you.”
I could hardly drag my attention away from the rim of the cup as exquisite scenes of nature appeared before my eyes: powerfully crashing waves on a rocky shore, a beautifully cascading waterfall amidst an evergreen forest, an awe-inspiring, serene, sinking orange ball of fire in a western sky. And from deep within, my soul rejoiced:
“When peace like a river attendeth my way, when sorrows like sea billows roll, whatever my lot, thou has taught me to say, ‘It is well, it is well with my soul. It is well, it is well, it is well, it is well with my soul.
“Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come, let this blessed assurance control, that Christ hath regarded my helpless estate and hath shed his own blood for my soul. It is well, it is well, it is well, it is well with my soul.
“My sin—O the bliss of this glorious thought!—my sin, not in part but the whole, is nailed to his cross and I bear it no more. Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul. It is well, it is well, it is well, it is well with my soul.” (Horatio G. Spafford, 1873)
Hallelujah and Amen!
