St. Luke's Day II

The Hands That Bind Our Wounds

He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.

— Psalm 147:3

What a beautiful description of God! Psalm 147 celebrates one divine activity after another: gathering the scattered, healing the brokenhearted, numbering the stars, providing food for living creatures, sending snow upon the earth, and melting the ice when warmth returns. Even the descriptions of winter sound rather inviting to those of us who enjoy snow! Yet the psalmist also acknowledges that God's cold can be severe. Perhaps the larger wonder is that the God who governs such enormous forces of nature also attends to something as intimate as a wounded human heart. The God who numbers the stars also binds our wounds.

As we continue preparing for the Feast of St. Luke, the beloved physician and evangelist, I'm thinking about the people who participate in that work of healing. Yesterday, Sirach reminded us to honor physicians, recognizing both their professional abilities and their prayers for wisdom. Today, Psalm 147 reminds us whose work healing ultimately reflects. My friend Dr. Mike, a physician and fellow musician whom we've affectionately called “Doc,” has expressed this beautifully: “God heals people through me.” He doesn't regard his medical knowledge as something separate from his faith. Rather, he sees his abilities as gifts through which he can serve others. And he has put that conviction into practice, volunteering his time and expertise on medical mission trips to impoverished communities where professional healthcare might otherwise be difficult to obtain.

Throughout history, people of faith have understood that serving God doesn't require entering the ordained ministry. Healing can itself be a vocation. Catholic, Methodist, Baptist, Latter-day Saint, and other Christian communities have established hospitals, clinics, and charitable healthcare institutions, often motivated by the conviction that caring for the sick is an expression of faith. The Latter-day Saints, for example, established Deseret Hospital in the nineteenth century and later founded Primary Children's Hospital in Utah. Of course, medical progress has also benefited enormously from the discoveries and service of people across many religious and secular traditions. But there is something especially moving about generations of believers translating their understanding of God's compassion into actual places where suffering people can receive care.

I think, too, of the many members of my own extended family who have devoted themselves to medicine, healthcare, and wellness: James, Lori, Lorraine, Doug, Suzie, Jack, and others among my cousins and relatives, near and distant. Lorraine served as a medic in Vietnam, where the need for healing existed amid the terrible realities of war. Their professions and circumstances differ, but each represents something worth celebrating. They have invested time, effort, education, and portions of their lives in work that can make other people's lives better. And they remind me that the ministry of healing extends far beyond the walls of a church.

Of course, the question remains: Why does a loving God permit so much human suffering in the first place? The existence of physicians doesn't answer every part of that question. Some illnesses cannot be cured. Some wounds never fully heal. Some people suffer despite receiving the finest care available. But Psalm 147 offers us something more immediate than an explanation of suffering. It portrays a God who responds to suffering with compassion. And when I see physicians, nurses, therapists, medics, and other caregivers tending the sick and wounded, I see human beings participating in that response. They may not be able to cure everyone, but they can relieve pain, restore function, offer comfort, and help people live with greater dignity. Sometimes healing begins with simply refusing to leave someone alone in their suffering.

And that brings the psalm home to the rest of us. We may not possess the training to diagnose an illness or bind a serious wound, but we can encourage those who do. We can support medical missions, recognize the sacrifices caregivers make, and remember that healers themselves sometimes need healing. We can also offer our own gifts of compassion, companionship, and practical assistance to people who are hurting. As we celebrate St. Luke and the people who carry on the healing vocation, perhaps we should ask not only why suffering exists, but what we're doing to relieve it. God heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds. Whose hands might God be using today—and what am I doing to encourage them?

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