God’s Sick Room
I sat in God’s sick room
And I said
You see, I’m not really sure I can trust you on this one, Jesus.
Unless you can explain to me how the mighty Creator of the world
could ever be ill -
Whose powerful arm blasted commandments into stone,
Whose tireless feet trudged out to feed hungry crowds of thousands,
Whose strong voice resounded for justice in the temple,
where a proud, perfect priesthood served -
How could you ever be
(like me)?
And God said
Ever since I was resurrected with these wounds
that bleed and bleed and will not be healed,
I am no longer welcome in the holy of holies.
The crowds are all afraid of my body, broken for them.
No one dares put their hand in my weeping side.
And so
I am
here.
And I said
Chronic illness is long, lonely day-after-days in bed.
It is being asked if you are sure you are well enough to serve.
It is knowing no one really wants to hear about the pain.
It is being so fucking tired, now and forever amen.
(It is being forgotten.)
It is shrunken-down-to-one-room life,
insignificant life.
Not Resurrection life.
This is a temple too small for the God of the universe.
And God said
Resurrection was exhausting.
My nail-torn feet, twisted and tired,
no longer carry me out to feed the hungry.
Only a few stop by to visit now - oh, maybe twelve -
the rest too afraid of an eternity in one room.
Too afraid that stillness is catching,
and that they might have to slow down
if they want to hear the Word whispered from this bed.
And still
I am
here,
and those who draw near and wait still hear my voice.
And I said
nothing.
I was listening.
And God said
No Temple is too small for me to dwell in.
And I said
It still might take me a bit longer to trust you, Jesus.
And God looked around God’s sick room and said
That’s okay.
I’m not going anywhere.
By Dr Naomi Lawson Jacobs, co-author of At the Gates: Disability, Justice and the Churches. The poem can also be found at Naomi’s creative blog, Stories from the Garden. | 
