Lifted hands

Some years ago, at the weekly liturgy critique that took place with my family around Sunday lunch, my adolescent daughter made this observation. She noted that the liturgy that day was fine, music was good, sermon was passable. But she had noticed the following. She said that when I stood behind the altar for the eucharistic prayer, with my arms lifted in what we call the orans position, it looked like I was shrugging my shoulders and saying: “I don’t know.”

I took it as a bit of a prophetic word, out of the mouths of babes. You see, the longer I’m at this spiritual journey, the more I realize how much I don’t know, how much mystery surrounds us. That realization may have been unwittingly reflected in lifted arms.

I recalled my daughter’s insight when I read the psalm heard in church yesterday (which is reprinted above). The psalmist speaks of lifted hands, and it got me thinking about what it means to lift our hands in worship.

These days, I start my days with a yoga class. Gets the old body moving. While much of the spirituality of that practice comes from sources outside the Christian tradition, I’m mindful how much scriptural emphasis there is on open hands and lifted arms, a path to the opening of the heart, a universal spiritual need.

I served in a parish a number of years ago where an elderly couple were pillars of the parish. The husband was quite a conservative, quite a successful businessman, stern and proper, and quite reserved. But in a conversation after he died, his wife told me of his daily practice of quiet time, prayer, and reflection on scripture. She spilled the beans that one morning, she walked in on his time of devotion in his study. She described him sitting in his chair, in low light, with eyes closed. His arms were lifted in a posture of absolute adoration. He seemed totally lost in wonder, love, and praise. All that took place before he went out into the world of commerce to contend with the rat race.

What does it mean, literally and figuratively, to worship God with lifted hands? For starters, it is the admission of vulnerability, a confession that there’s so much we don’t know. From that place, we lift hands in worship, opening our hearts to recognize that our lives unfold in God’s presence. Gratitude is implicit in that posture. And as we do all that, we find ourselves prepared to go out into the world to contend with our version of the rat race. It is what we do as Jesus followers.

I recently visited another church and noticed the reredos (the relief sculpture over the altar). There was a beautiful wooden carving of Jesus on the cross. Except, as I looked closely, Jesus' arms were lifted extended. His hands seemed to be free floating, not nailed to the cross. I took that to represent the way that Jesus’ arms lifted on the hardwood of the cross were intended to draw all people to himself. The nails did not have the final say. The sculpture recognized the experience of the cross, but it moved beyond that suffering, that offering to say that the lifted arms of Jesus had a universal power (regardless of efforts to erase diversity, equity and inclusion).

So that when we’re invited to lift our hands in worship, we do so first to admit our vulnerability, the recognition of what we don’t know. Then we do so in worship, to open ourselves to the power. And with arms lifted, as Jesus’ followers, we are open to neighbors, freed up to be of service.

I know that this Episcopalian, along with others (We are sometimes referred to as the frozen chosen) may be reluctant to raise hands publicly in worship. Way too exuberant. But we can take this invitation to lift hands as a call this week to open our hearts, to open ourselves to God’s grace and truth, a way of saying: “Here I am, Lord.”

Lift up your hearts. We lift them up to the Lord.

-Jay Sidebotham

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