By Anne Windholz
In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form and void. And darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the breath of God [ruach Elohim] moved upon the face of the waters. And God said, “Let there be light.” (Gen. 1:2-3)
The breath of God.
Later, “And the Lord God made a human from the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the human became a living soul” (Gen. 2:7).
The breath of God.
For the last several months, we in this hospital and in medical centers around the world have been trying to save the lives of people whispering, gasping, coughing out the words, “I can’t breathe.” We, and so many brothers and sisters from all nations and creeds, races and cultures, have heard those words, or seen them written in the eyes of the dying, and tried – each in our own unique way – to respond. To preserve the breath, to buy the time needed with masks and quarantines and ventilators, so that maybe – just maybe – that living soul could be saved. And that one. And that one.
The breath of God.
Despite our best efforts, we have watched the slow and too-often brutal deaths of living souls who, because of the dark color of their skin, the zip code they live in, and the nature of the jobs they must do to feed their children, are particularly susceptible to the venom of COVID-19. And every time we lose one of them, surely the breath of God is stolen away from all of us.
But as people committed to the saving of lives, what can we make of the deaths that are not the whim of a virus, but carelessly or intentionally perpetrated because someone with power has judged that those “living souls” are not worth preserving? That somehow their breath is less sacred, their light less important, or that their lives don’t matter?
Black lives matter. Because every living soul bears the light and breath of God. Because goodness and compassion, healing and mercy, are not something earned. These are inherent rights born of our dignity as humans. And today, in this place, we kneel and give notice: That is my brother, my sister you shoot. That is my mother, my nephew, my spouse and partner and best friend you kill. That is my father you suffocate. That is my savior you crucify.
“Jesus uttered a loud cry,” says Mark’s gospel, “and breathed his last.”
Ruach Elohim.
The breath of God, moving upon the face of the waters. Moving in our hearts. Moving now, as we remember the fallen, reclaim their dignity, worth, and unique personhood. As we defy the chaos of societal diseases more destructive than COVID. As we reclaim the breath of those killed and don’t just say, but demand, “Let there be light!”
Ruach Elohim.
Anne M. Windholz, BCC, is a chaplain specialist at St. Alexius Medical Center in Hoffman Estates, IL. This is adapted from a reflection she gave at the “Take a Knee” service of solidarity on June 5, 2020.
