ST. MARY, MOTHER OF OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST
(transferred from August 15)
August 17, 2008
Ss. Peter & Paul – Fr. Phillip Ayers
+++++
In his letter to the church in Galatia (our second reading today), Paul cuts through romantic nonsense to say that Mary’s ministry, like her son’s, was above all else to be the incarnation of a fundamental gospel message. The two of them, this mother and her son, are our hereditary links to kinship with God. To prove that we are sons and daughters of God, says Paul, this child was born of this woman, “so that we might receive adoption as children” (Gal. 4:5).
The primary images of our human relationship one to another and of our relationship to God are not images of husband and wife, nor even of father and son, for these relationships are known only to some of us. The inclusive and archetypal image of mother and child affirms our common humanity and, in this particular birth, affirms our common inheritance. We are all children of a mother! The fact that that child happens to be male does not represent male hierarchy or superiority; it represents gender symmetry. Arguments over which is the greater—mother or son, male or female—are as inconsequential and as circular as the argument of who comes first? the chicken or the egg? Madonna and child, like chicken and egg, are inseparable.
In them we have an icon of our relationship to God and of our kinship with one another. In the reality of something so simple, so fundamental, and so common as a human birth, our relationship to God is affirmed and our status as children of God’s own making is confirmed. But such relationship challenges our autonomy and independence. It is not “modern.”
A few years ago, we enjoyed a weekly, popular television series, “Northern Exposure.” In it, Dr. Joel Fleischman is a young Jewish doctor from New York transplanted to a remote little town in Alaska to work off his medical school loans. His character is a good representative of the secularized religious persons who make up an enormous percentage of our population in this country. In one episode, Dr. Fleischman learns of his possible ties to a dissident Jew in the former Soviet Union.
As he reads the story of Evgeny Fleischman’s flight from oppression, the young Jewish doctor recalls the stories of the Soviet Jews shared around the family table in his childhood and youth. As he reads on, Evgeny Fleischman becomes more and more real, an incarnation of things he has only lightly apprehended in imagination. Joel is fascinated and moved.
Though a part of him repudiates the relationship and objects that it means nothing to him, he is drawn by the story and the images it calls forth. Finally, Joel picks up the telephone at his crude desk in Cicely, Alaska, and dials Israel. For long, pregnant moments, all he can do is recite the name, “Evgeny? … Evgeny Fleischman?” When he realizes that they are connected, in the literal and figurative senses, Joel is overcome with tears. The scene ends with this young, thoroughly modern, secularized Jew asking tearfully, but with sincerity, warmth, and noticeable reverence, “Evgeny, how are things in Israel?”
In the person and the image of Mary we are invited to be reunited with that radical connectedness we share in our common birth and life. This was and continues to be the “greatness of the Lord” proclaimed in her song: that God is firm in the promise to our ancestors, that God has not forgotten to show mercy to Abraham and Abraham’s children, from generation to generation, even to our own day. This is the greatness that rejoices her spirit and ours: that in God’s greatness we are all embraced as one family. This is her eternal mission and ministry—that we might look upon these elemental images, ponder them in our own imaginations until they become incarnate in our own lives—reunion with God, with neighbor, and with self as whole, and as holy, as the union of mother and child.
[taken from a homily in Sam Portaro’s Brightest and Best]
archived musings and preachments
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Monday, August 11, 2008
Feast of the Transfiguration
FEAST OF THE TRANSFIGURATION
August 10, 2008 (transferred from August 6)
Ss. Peter & Paul Parish – Fr. Phillip Ayers
+++++
When I read or hear or celebrate the Feast of the Transfiguration – as we’re doing today here in our parish – I rejoice that I am “mystical” and “spiritual” enough not to be bothered by its fantastic nature. You know, Jesus taking some of his disciples up to a mountain, the clouds, the vision of Jesus with Moses and Elijah, the voice of God saying, “This is my Son, hear him.” I’d love to have been there.
Or would I? Would I be scared half out of my wits? Probably: I scare easily. There’s a linear part of me, a literal part of me that demands a glowing Jesus on a mountaintop with phantasms of Moses and Elijah on either side. But this has no poetry, I realize; the story of the Transfiguration is an artistic struggle to give voice to an intangible insight. In the accounts of Matthew, Mark, and Luke the story falls near the center of each evangelist’s record; in Luke, what we just heard today, the Transfiguration is pointedly positioned between two incidents.
Just before the Transfiguration, Jesus asks his followers, “Who do the crowds say that I am?” and receives varied replies: “John the Baptist; but others, Elijah; and still others, that one of the ancient prophets has arisen.” Jesus then asks them, “But who do you say that I am?” Peter answers, “The Messiah of God” (Lk 9:18-20). Jesus then recounts the expectations of the messianic mission, speaking to them of duty and of death. “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will save it. … there are some standing here who will not taste death before they see the kingdom of God” (Lk 9:23-27).
About a week after this exchange, Jesus goes up a hill to pray, taking Peter, James, and John with him. While in prayer, Jesus’ face takes on a new radiance and Moses and Elijah appear on either side of him, and they talk to him—not with him. Jesus presumably learns from them the manner of God’s purposes for him and is perhaps encouraged to meet the suffering and death ahead of him. The vision ends with a thundering voice from the cloud repeating the acclamation heard at Jesus’ baptism in the River Jordan, “This is my Son, my Chose,” adding the instruction, “Listen to him!” (Lk 9:35).
But another story follows immediately. The very next day Jesus encounters a man who begs Jesus to come look at his son. The distraught man is concerned that his boy is possessed by a destructive spirit that “convulses him until he foams at the mouth; it mauls him and will scarcely leave him.” The desperate father has come to Jesus because, he says, “I begged your disciples to cast it out, but they could not.” Jesus is provoked to an unusual outburst: “You faithless and perverse generation,” he charges, “how much longer must I be with you and bear with you?” (Lk 9:37-41).
The Transfiguration is a kind of ordination. It is not a formal priestly ordination, but it is certainly the feast affirming the particular vocation of Jesus. Before he goes up the hill, he reveals his own doubts and his need for greater clarity of discernment in his little poll, asking “Who do they say …, who do you say that I am?” He ascends the hill with their answers still resounding in his head. Peter’s response confirms that at least some of the people understand him to be the Messiah, the Christ. Once on the hill he is told exactly who he is, presumably by Moses and Elijah, and emphatically in the voice that proclaims from the cloud, “This is my Son, my Chosen.”
Upon descending from the mountain, Jesus experiences the first test of his new ordination as he is confronted by the faithlessness of his own disciples. He encounters their poverty of trust and assumes the full burden of his vocation. He expresses so poignantly his frustration when he demands to know how long he must put up with them. But even in expressing this exasperation, he has obviously accepted what God has demanded of him. His question is rhetorical; he knows as well as we do that he answer is “for all eternity.”
After that strange experience on the hill Jesus possessed something he had not known or evidenced before. He bore within and expressed without the unmistakable assurance of one who knew his place and what was demanded of him; he knew he was loved and chosen by God. That knowledge was his authority and the core of his integrity; he knew it so surely he could never relinquish it, even to the power of death. He was changed, and everyone who saw him saw that change. He was transfigured. The brooding shadow of doubt—doubt over his own place in God’s order and affections—was replaced by the clear light of assurance.
That transfiguring light, that blinding flash of insight, opens any person as it opened Jesus. That unassailable assurance in God, in one’s place within God’s household, of one’s worth as a child of God, illuminates life. Such transfiguration begets transfiguration in others, as the light is passed from person to person, until the whole world is ablaze with glory and God’s voice resounds, “This is my world, my Creation, my Chosen.”
[Ideas and illustrations from Sam Portaro in Brightest and Best]
August 10, 2008 (transferred from August 6)
Ss. Peter & Paul Parish – Fr. Phillip Ayers
+++++
When I read or hear or celebrate the Feast of the Transfiguration – as we’re doing today here in our parish – I rejoice that I am “mystical” and “spiritual” enough not to be bothered by its fantastic nature. You know, Jesus taking some of his disciples up to a mountain, the clouds, the vision of Jesus with Moses and Elijah, the voice of God saying, “This is my Son, hear him.” I’d love to have been there.
Or would I? Would I be scared half out of my wits? Probably: I scare easily. There’s a linear part of me, a literal part of me that demands a glowing Jesus on a mountaintop with phantasms of Moses and Elijah on either side. But this has no poetry, I realize; the story of the Transfiguration is an artistic struggle to give voice to an intangible insight. In the accounts of Matthew, Mark, and Luke the story falls near the center of each evangelist’s record; in Luke, what we just heard today, the Transfiguration is pointedly positioned between two incidents.
Just before the Transfiguration, Jesus asks his followers, “Who do the crowds say that I am?” and receives varied replies: “John the Baptist; but others, Elijah; and still others, that one of the ancient prophets has arisen.” Jesus then asks them, “But who do you say that I am?” Peter answers, “The Messiah of God” (Lk 9:18-20). Jesus then recounts the expectations of the messianic mission, speaking to them of duty and of death. “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will save it. … there are some standing here who will not taste death before they see the kingdom of God” (Lk 9:23-27).
About a week after this exchange, Jesus goes up a hill to pray, taking Peter, James, and John with him. While in prayer, Jesus’ face takes on a new radiance and Moses and Elijah appear on either side of him, and they talk to him—not with him. Jesus presumably learns from them the manner of God’s purposes for him and is perhaps encouraged to meet the suffering and death ahead of him. The vision ends with a thundering voice from the cloud repeating the acclamation heard at Jesus’ baptism in the River Jordan, “This is my Son, my Chose,” adding the instruction, “Listen to him!” (Lk 9:35).
But another story follows immediately. The very next day Jesus encounters a man who begs Jesus to come look at his son. The distraught man is concerned that his boy is possessed by a destructive spirit that “convulses him until he foams at the mouth; it mauls him and will scarcely leave him.” The desperate father has come to Jesus because, he says, “I begged your disciples to cast it out, but they could not.” Jesus is provoked to an unusual outburst: “You faithless and perverse generation,” he charges, “how much longer must I be with you and bear with you?” (Lk 9:37-41).
The Transfiguration is a kind of ordination. It is not a formal priestly ordination, but it is certainly the feast affirming the particular vocation of Jesus. Before he goes up the hill, he reveals his own doubts and his need for greater clarity of discernment in his little poll, asking “Who do they say …, who do you say that I am?” He ascends the hill with their answers still resounding in his head. Peter’s response confirms that at least some of the people understand him to be the Messiah, the Christ. Once on the hill he is told exactly who he is, presumably by Moses and Elijah, and emphatically in the voice that proclaims from the cloud, “This is my Son, my Chosen.”
Upon descending from the mountain, Jesus experiences the first test of his new ordination as he is confronted by the faithlessness of his own disciples. He encounters their poverty of trust and assumes the full burden of his vocation. He expresses so poignantly his frustration when he demands to know how long he must put up with them. But even in expressing this exasperation, he has obviously accepted what God has demanded of him. His question is rhetorical; he knows as well as we do that he answer is “for all eternity.”
After that strange experience on the hill Jesus possessed something he had not known or evidenced before. He bore within and expressed without the unmistakable assurance of one who knew his place and what was demanded of him; he knew he was loved and chosen by God. That knowledge was his authority and the core of his integrity; he knew it so surely he could never relinquish it, even to the power of death. He was changed, and everyone who saw him saw that change. He was transfigured. The brooding shadow of doubt—doubt over his own place in God’s order and affections—was replaced by the clear light of assurance.
That transfiguring light, that blinding flash of insight, opens any person as it opened Jesus. That unassailable assurance in God, in one’s place within God’s household, of one’s worth as a child of God, illuminates life. Such transfiguration begets transfiguration in others, as the light is passed from person to person, until the whole world is ablaze with glory and God’s voice resounds, “This is my world, my Creation, my Chosen.”
[Ideas and illustrations from Sam Portaro in Brightest and Best]
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
12th Sunday After Pentecost
Proper 13, Year A - Tracy LeBlanc
Jacob’s story is great fun. He is such a naughty guy it is hard to imagine God doing any sort of work through such a vessel. He is the wily coyote of his day, only much more lucky and much more successful. In the womb he struggled with his twin, grasping Esau’s heel as they were born. Fighting even then to be first, to have more. Later in life he outwitted his brother Esau for his birthright, buying it for a bowl of lentils. Later he dressed in “hairy” clothing, impersonated his brother in the presence of his blind father, Isaac, and outwitted both Esau and Isaac receiving the family blessing. Receiving a little of his own foul play he met with his uncle Laban. But in the end he outwitted even his wily uncle and made off with the best of the flock of sheep.
Here is the scene for today’s story. Jacob has fled his uncle, now father in law, and is headed toward the territory of Esau who he has not seen since he stole his rightful blessing. Esau did not take kindly to the loss of his blessing and last we heard intended to kill Jacob. And in this scene Jacob is afraid. It has been many years, but he fears the anger of his brother who is rumored to be approaching with a large group of men. Fearing for his life Jacob sends a large portion of his sheep and camels as gifts ahead of him for Esau. When he gets even closer he sends ahead his wives and children and stays alone at the river crossing…
Alone, afraid, at night. And the common folklore of the time is that river crossings are guarded by mischievous and ill wishing spirits that come out to guard the river at night and must be bested in order for a safe crossing. A bit like the more modern image of the troll guarding the bridge. Most of us have been in that space. Alone, afraid and facing the consequences of our own ill actions. It is in that space that Jacob encounters God.
This is not an ordinary human-divine meeting. God enters the scene disguised as a man in a setting in which Jacob may expect some unruly spirit, disguised much as Jacob disguised himself for Isaac. And from the beginning he and Jacob wrestle. It is a night that echo’s Jacob’s life. The struggle to be the best, the constant striving to win - these last long into the darkness of the night. Then, just as Jacob has tricked and weaseled his way into the winner’s circle again and again, God pulls an unfair move and puts out Jacob’s hip. Yet even with this impediment Jacob holds on. He will demand of this encounter a blessing. But first God will give him something more. God will give Jacob himself. The entire night has been a battle between Jacob and his own nature a close up mirror that allows Jacob to see and wrestle with all that he has been. And now God gives Jacob, whose name means “supplanter or trickster” a new name. He will now be named “Israel” or the one who wrestles with God. God honors Jacob’s struggling nature and makes it something good and holy – something an entire nation will be built upon. And not any nation, but the nation that will be the one to bear God into the world.
The story ends without much of a sense of how the encounter will have influenced Jacob. He recognizes he has seen God, he builds an altar and he goes forth to face the his fears and meet Esau. The real glimpse of the change that has occurred comes when Jacob and Esau meet. Esau, rather than greeting his brother with anger runs to meet Jacob and embraces him with tears. He thanks his brother for the offering of the gift but says it is not necessary. Jacob, the one who has his entire life pushed for more, who has never been satisfied with his situation, who has never been pleased with the existence of his brother, does not grab back at the gift in relief. Rather, he says “no, please, please take my gifts for seeing you is like seeing the face of God. And God has dealt generously with me and I have more than enough”…I have more than enough.
Once John Rockefeller was asked, , "Mr. Rockefeller, how much is enough?" to which he replied, "Just a little more than I have." We are all a little bit like Jacob. We may not be tricksters or wily, but we view the world through scarcity colored glasses, always striving for more. God’s encounter with Jacob does not change the nature of his struggling ambitious will but it does give him an new perspective on the world colored by God’s abundance. It leaves him able to see the generosity of God, able to appreciate the abundance of his life and able to love his brother. Jacob/Israel has been named and that has made all the difference.
Well, we too are named. To each of us God would reveal to us our true selves, our true names that honor who we are and open up in us a heart that revels in God’s abundance. This is the true nature of the Eucharist – that we offer ourselves wholly to God, (symbolically in bread and wine), God honors our gift as holy, transforms it and gives us back to ourselves. “Be what you see and receive who you are” as Fr. Kurt so often says. Eucharist is this act of offering ourselves and receiving our true selves back again from God. Not just a Sunday morning thing, but every time we offer our lives, our hands, our labors to God we are named.
Being named gives us a responsibility as well as a gift, though. Jacob’s name, Israel put him in the place to create a nation that would “be a blessing to the world”. Our names leave us with much the same charge. We are named and in turn must become namers ourselves.
One of my favorite summer activities is to reread some of my childhood favorites. This summer I am rereading Madeline L’Engle’s series that begins with the novel A Wrinkle in Time. The second book in the series, A Wind in the Door, is all about this issue of naming. L’Engle meshes together religious ideas, science, and fantasy to weave an engaging tale about a teenage girl named Meg and her family. In this book Meg meets a cherubim whose vast life has been spent learning all the names of all the stars. He is, he tells Meg, a “namer”. He must remember the names and remind the stars of who they are meant to be. Meg, he says, must become a namer too for the darkness of this tale are the Xers, the “unnamers” who demolish souls by making beings forget who they are meant to be. Meg, then must learn to “name” and most importantly to “name” a character who has been cantankerous and hurtful, Mr. Jenkins the school principal. The Cherubim teaches Meg that to truly name this man, to give him the gift of who he really is, she must love him. Her initial wish would be to discount this man. To let him be Xed, unnamed. But, as one of the themes L’Engle contends through this novel is that all are necessary to the work of salvation in the world, this man cannot be forgotten or all is lost. Meg has to love the most unlovable man. Meg must “name” him and give him the gift of knowing who he is really meant to be. Of course, in the world of fantasy this is a very powerful event. Mr. Jenkins is named and this enables him to grow in courage and love until he is able to offer himself as a sacrifice to save the life of another.
We have a lot of Xers in our world today. Myriads of influences that would unname us, that would tell us we are nothing. From depression and shaky self confidence to consumerism that would have us believe we are nothing without the new and improved “this or that”… or without that career or without that family or more subtly nothing without that spiritual practice or great act of service. Our own little Xers run around in our brains telling us what we are doing is not quite enough, or not quite right. Jacob’s night of wrestling gave him a chance to face all the Xers lies head on, to see himself fully, to see God honor that self and to hear God give him a true name. Could we sit through a night questioning, thinking, wrestling with God, with who we are, what our life has been about and allow God to show us a mirror and give us a name?
And could we take upon ourselves the role of the namer? Could we walk through this world loving people so much that our words and interactions affirm the spark of God given charisma and light that is in them? Could we do that even with a Jacob – a wily trickster out for himself kind of guy? Can we love him? Can we find in the midst of the difficult personality the spark of God? We must, because, truly we belong to each other in such a way that we are, all of us, necessary. God will make a nation out of the most surprising people. God will speak through the silliest or quietest of voices, will act through the most clumsy of hands and we must be constantly loving and naming those people so that their voices and hands are free to work.
I read a great account of the Gospel text today by Sarah Dylan. She asserted that the most impressive part of the miracle in this story is not the multiplication of food but that all of those people were willing to eat together. The laws and cultural taboos that ruled who was clean and unclean/in and out – those were especially stringent around who one ate with. A large crowd has gathered around Jesus. They most certainly did not all meet the criteria for dinner guest. In fact, it would have been scandalous for a good Jew to eat with several of the people present. Jesus, however, gets them all to eat a meal together. Here we are today, still attempting that meal. We gather at the Eucharist as a whole community. Not all of us would make great dinner guests. But at the moment of the Eucharist we are all one and we are asked to eat together. Not one of us is dispensable this morning. The moment we begin to think that we become Madeline L’Engles Xers.
Our challenge today is to allow our hearts to wrestle with God and to receive the gift of who we are meant to be. The challenge today is to take upon ourselves the mantle of Namer – to love and need one another, to affirm the Spirit of God that dwells in all our hearts. The challenge today is to have a meal together in love.
Jacob’s story is great fun. He is such a naughty guy it is hard to imagine God doing any sort of work through such a vessel. He is the wily coyote of his day, only much more lucky and much more successful. In the womb he struggled with his twin, grasping Esau’s heel as they were born. Fighting even then to be first, to have more. Later in life he outwitted his brother Esau for his birthright, buying it for a bowl of lentils. Later he dressed in “hairy” clothing, impersonated his brother in the presence of his blind father, Isaac, and outwitted both Esau and Isaac receiving the family blessing. Receiving a little of his own foul play he met with his uncle Laban. But in the end he outwitted even his wily uncle and made off with the best of the flock of sheep.
Here is the scene for today’s story. Jacob has fled his uncle, now father in law, and is headed toward the territory of Esau who he has not seen since he stole his rightful blessing. Esau did not take kindly to the loss of his blessing and last we heard intended to kill Jacob. And in this scene Jacob is afraid. It has been many years, but he fears the anger of his brother who is rumored to be approaching with a large group of men. Fearing for his life Jacob sends a large portion of his sheep and camels as gifts ahead of him for Esau. When he gets even closer he sends ahead his wives and children and stays alone at the river crossing…
Alone, afraid, at night. And the common folklore of the time is that river crossings are guarded by mischievous and ill wishing spirits that come out to guard the river at night and must be bested in order for a safe crossing. A bit like the more modern image of the troll guarding the bridge. Most of us have been in that space. Alone, afraid and facing the consequences of our own ill actions. It is in that space that Jacob encounters God.
This is not an ordinary human-divine meeting. God enters the scene disguised as a man in a setting in which Jacob may expect some unruly spirit, disguised much as Jacob disguised himself for Isaac. And from the beginning he and Jacob wrestle. It is a night that echo’s Jacob’s life. The struggle to be the best, the constant striving to win - these last long into the darkness of the night. Then, just as Jacob has tricked and weaseled his way into the winner’s circle again and again, God pulls an unfair move and puts out Jacob’s hip. Yet even with this impediment Jacob holds on. He will demand of this encounter a blessing. But first God will give him something more. God will give Jacob himself. The entire night has been a battle between Jacob and his own nature a close up mirror that allows Jacob to see and wrestle with all that he has been. And now God gives Jacob, whose name means “supplanter or trickster” a new name. He will now be named “Israel” or the one who wrestles with God. God honors Jacob’s struggling nature and makes it something good and holy – something an entire nation will be built upon. And not any nation, but the nation that will be the one to bear God into the world.
The story ends without much of a sense of how the encounter will have influenced Jacob. He recognizes he has seen God, he builds an altar and he goes forth to face the his fears and meet Esau. The real glimpse of the change that has occurred comes when Jacob and Esau meet. Esau, rather than greeting his brother with anger runs to meet Jacob and embraces him with tears. He thanks his brother for the offering of the gift but says it is not necessary. Jacob, the one who has his entire life pushed for more, who has never been satisfied with his situation, who has never been pleased with the existence of his brother, does not grab back at the gift in relief. Rather, he says “no, please, please take my gifts for seeing you is like seeing the face of God. And God has dealt generously with me and I have more than enough”…I have more than enough.
Once John Rockefeller was asked, , "Mr. Rockefeller, how much is enough?" to which he replied, "Just a little more than I have." We are all a little bit like Jacob. We may not be tricksters or wily, but we view the world through scarcity colored glasses, always striving for more. God’s encounter with Jacob does not change the nature of his struggling ambitious will but it does give him an new perspective on the world colored by God’s abundance. It leaves him able to see the generosity of God, able to appreciate the abundance of his life and able to love his brother. Jacob/Israel has been named and that has made all the difference.
Well, we too are named. To each of us God would reveal to us our true selves, our true names that honor who we are and open up in us a heart that revels in God’s abundance. This is the true nature of the Eucharist – that we offer ourselves wholly to God, (symbolically in bread and wine), God honors our gift as holy, transforms it and gives us back to ourselves. “Be what you see and receive who you are” as Fr. Kurt so often says. Eucharist is this act of offering ourselves and receiving our true selves back again from God. Not just a Sunday morning thing, but every time we offer our lives, our hands, our labors to God we are named.
Being named gives us a responsibility as well as a gift, though. Jacob’s name, Israel put him in the place to create a nation that would “be a blessing to the world”. Our names leave us with much the same charge. We are named and in turn must become namers ourselves.
One of my favorite summer activities is to reread some of my childhood favorites. This summer I am rereading Madeline L’Engle’s series that begins with the novel A Wrinkle in Time. The second book in the series, A Wind in the Door, is all about this issue of naming. L’Engle meshes together religious ideas, science, and fantasy to weave an engaging tale about a teenage girl named Meg and her family. In this book Meg meets a cherubim whose vast life has been spent learning all the names of all the stars. He is, he tells Meg, a “namer”. He must remember the names and remind the stars of who they are meant to be. Meg, he says, must become a namer too for the darkness of this tale are the Xers, the “unnamers” who demolish souls by making beings forget who they are meant to be. Meg, then must learn to “name” and most importantly to “name” a character who has been cantankerous and hurtful, Mr. Jenkins the school principal. The Cherubim teaches Meg that to truly name this man, to give him the gift of who he really is, she must love him. Her initial wish would be to discount this man. To let him be Xed, unnamed. But, as one of the themes L’Engle contends through this novel is that all are necessary to the work of salvation in the world, this man cannot be forgotten or all is lost. Meg has to love the most unlovable man. Meg must “name” him and give him the gift of knowing who he is really meant to be. Of course, in the world of fantasy this is a very powerful event. Mr. Jenkins is named and this enables him to grow in courage and love until he is able to offer himself as a sacrifice to save the life of another.
We have a lot of Xers in our world today. Myriads of influences that would unname us, that would tell us we are nothing. From depression and shaky self confidence to consumerism that would have us believe we are nothing without the new and improved “this or that”… or without that career or without that family or more subtly nothing without that spiritual practice or great act of service. Our own little Xers run around in our brains telling us what we are doing is not quite enough, or not quite right. Jacob’s night of wrestling gave him a chance to face all the Xers lies head on, to see himself fully, to see God honor that self and to hear God give him a true name. Could we sit through a night questioning, thinking, wrestling with God, with who we are, what our life has been about and allow God to show us a mirror and give us a name?
And could we take upon ourselves the role of the namer? Could we walk through this world loving people so much that our words and interactions affirm the spark of God given charisma and light that is in them? Could we do that even with a Jacob – a wily trickster out for himself kind of guy? Can we love him? Can we find in the midst of the difficult personality the spark of God? We must, because, truly we belong to each other in such a way that we are, all of us, necessary. God will make a nation out of the most surprising people. God will speak through the silliest or quietest of voices, will act through the most clumsy of hands and we must be constantly loving and naming those people so that their voices and hands are free to work.
I read a great account of the Gospel text today by Sarah Dylan. She asserted that the most impressive part of the miracle in this story is not the multiplication of food but that all of those people were willing to eat together. The laws and cultural taboos that ruled who was clean and unclean/in and out – those were especially stringent around who one ate with. A large crowd has gathered around Jesus. They most certainly did not all meet the criteria for dinner guest. In fact, it would have been scandalous for a good Jew to eat with several of the people present. Jesus, however, gets them all to eat a meal together. Here we are today, still attempting that meal. We gather at the Eucharist as a whole community. Not all of us would make great dinner guests. But at the moment of the Eucharist we are all one and we are asked to eat together. Not one of us is dispensable this morning. The moment we begin to think that we become Madeline L’Engles Xers.
Our challenge today is to allow our hearts to wrestle with God and to receive the gift of who we are meant to be. The challenge today is to take upon ourselves the mantle of Namer – to love and need one another, to affirm the Spirit of God that dwells in all our hearts. The challenge today is to have a meal together in love.
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