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From February 12,
2006 He had a name once. And a life, as well. Maybe he made his living as a potter, transforming lumps of clay into pots so airy and beautiful they took people's breath away. Maybe he was a storyteller so gifted that even weeks later listeners would swear they had seen rather than heard. Maybe he had had the great good fortune to marry the apple of his eye and become the father of four strong sons. He had a name. And a life he had done something with. But when his skin grew scaly, everything changed. "Leper. Leper," he heard them call him. Although few said it straight out loud like that. Mostly people just whispered from a safe distance. Keeping that distance was essential. Why? Even the faint brushing of his arm against theirs, just his fingertip accidentally touching their cloak was enough to pass on his ritual impurity. Who knows how long it had been since he had been touched or felt free to reach out. The morning he woke up and saw those first leprous scales, he had wept. He knew what this meant: he might never again be able to kiss his wife or lift his grandchildren high into the air and delight in their squeals of laughter. Since discovering his disease, the man had combed his memory this way and that to find the thing he had done (or not done)--the sin he had committed. Disease was, after all, evidence of a person's lack of faithfulness. It was God's comment, his tradition told him. What sin and when, the man had asked himself at every turn--except in those moments when he was overcome with grief for all that he had lost, all the way down to his rightful name. You and I know how circumstance can change a person's name and thereby change a life. How many came to school after a visit to the optometrist and from that moment on had to live with the name "Four Eyes?" Or, when it was discovered they were living on the wrong side of town, began to be known as "White Trash." When I was growing up, so strong was the social stigma against the dissolution of a marriage that a whole identity could be stripped away with this one word name: divorce. Even now we have short-hand names for those we don't want to touch or be touched by: the pedophile, the addict, the AIDS patient, the homeless person. When such a name is spoken, or even just thought, our vision is so narrowed that all we are apt to see is their affliction and our revulsion. If we were to see beyond the external and into the hearts and histories of those around us, we would realize that many have another name to which they answer, a name - as with the leper - that is sometimes more real and powerful than the one given at birth. Recently I happened upon an interview with a spiritual director. Speaking about a retreat she had recently led, she told of inviting her charge to spend their days searching the Bible for passages that echoed their story with God, passages that spoke to them of the name they felt was deeply, truly theirs. On the last day of the retreat, the leader called everyone into a circle and into a time of prayer and holy silence. When the time was right, she set a chair in the middle. The invitation was this: to take turns in that center chair sharing the story and the name that had called out to them. Those on the outside of the circle were to listen without judgment or interruption, holding the speaker in love. Because the woman didn't elaborate, my imagination took over. I pictured a grey-haired gentleman telling of how, in the midst of a rewarding retirement, he had sensed a most surprising calling, one he could not deny or ignore. As a result, he had left everything behind to follow God's leading. "At last I know myself to be Abraham." Next I envisioned a woman, active in her community and successful in her career, sharing about how events in her life highlighted her love affair with busyness. "For so long, I was Martha and I was celebrated, rewarded even, for being Martha. But my soul was not satisfied. These days I sit at Jesus' feet and rejoice in hearing him call me Mary." Then another woman took the center chair. Quietly she told of a lifetime of hesitant speech and behind-the-scenes activity until God ignited in her a passion to lead others into lives of freedom. "My name, strange as it may sound, is Moses." These are the stories I imagined - and easily so. What I could not have imagined was the story the spiritual director went on to tell. One by one, the woman said, participants shared. Each
time, the circle listened with love. Later they would
recognize that they had stepped out of ordinary time and
into God's time. Finally, the young man began. "For the past three days, I have done what you asked. I have scoured the pages of scripture for a story and a name. Noah. Jonah. Peter. Mary. Judas, even. None of these names seemed right. None of them seemed more potent or true than the name given me long ago by my father." The young man's voice trailed off as he stared at the floor. The retreat leader drew close and knelt in front of him. "What name is that," she gently asked. "What name did your father give you?" "Not-good-enough." In Mark, it was the leper who found his way to Jesus. He was the one who knelt before Jesus and asked "If you choose, you can make me clean." But unlike the leper, not everyone knows to ask. Because sometimes what needs healing is buried deeper than our own eyes see. And even when we do see our inward affliction, not always do we know where to turn or how to find this Christ, this one whose loving power heals. And so it is Christ who comes in search of us, to kneel before us to touch us with a word or a way that would restore us to wholeness. In the shuddering silence of the young man's confession, no one at the retreat knew quite what to say or do. Together they waited for some sense of direction. Then someone rose up out of her chair and moved toward the young man. Another did the same. Then another. Together they embraced him in a circle of caring and compassion, a tangible expression of love. Instinctively, someone put a hand on the fellow's shoulder. Another person bent over and cupped his knees. Someone else placed her hands on the crown of his head. Without even realizing it, these men and women found themselves following in the tradition of the early church. Christ's disciples that day trusted that through their hands the Spirit's power would flow to bring healing and restoration. They stood like this for some time, silent and motionless while the Spirit poured through them and into the "not good enough" young man seated before them. "You are my Son, my Beloved," the leader found herself saying. "With you I am well pleased." ******* A leper came to Jesus, begging him, and kneeling and he said to him, "If you choose, you can make me clean." Moved with pity, Jesus stretched out his hand and touched him, and said to him, "I do choose. Be made clean!" Immediately the leprosy left him and he was made clean. We are not called to diagnose, the church. But we are called, we are called to respond, to create a caring community in which God's healing can flow into broken bodies and wounded souls. We are called to reach out and touch. Christ has no hands but ours. Amen. © Rev. Karen Winkel The story of "Not Good Enough" was adapted from an interview featured in section four "Restoring Relationships" found on the Living the Questions DVD. Living the Questions is a program for Christian invitation, initiation, and spiritual formation. |
"Never place a period where God has placed a comma." - Gracie Allen
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