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From
May 21, 2006 Reldon Heaps. Orvil Minchey. Verbena Fox. Rayola Keeler. I love unusual names. In fact, I collect them. When I lived on the Navajo Reservation, I kept a notebook of surnames like Manygoats, Yellowhair, Greyeyes, Peaches - names that often pointed to what distinguished a family. A sturdy herd, perhaps. Or an orchard known for its sweet fruit. When I lived in Utah, I added to my notebook. (Obituaries were a goldmine.) Athleen Budge Johnson. Selda Frisby. Afton Dalrymple Heck. Glade Sweat. Nancy Krump Cump. My little book has pages of jewels like these, ones I'll never find anywhere else. Kentucky may give Utah a run for the money, though. The other day in the Paducah Sun I came upon pages of names. Zeretta Jones. Gustie Mae Russelburg. Novella McClure. Cladie Holloway. Uvette Kizer. Names aren't just interesting, of course. Names are important. I remember when my brother Robert was a little guy my mother carefully embroidered these firm instructions on his corduroy overalls: Call me Bob. No "little Bobby" for her towheaded tot. Names make a difference. Studies consistently show that kids with "strong" names like Kyle and Miranda score higher on measures of self-esteem than do children with "wimpy" names like Myrtle or Egbert. Certainly corporate America recognizes the power of names. Think overseas out-sourcing. Customer service agents answering your call from cubicles in Bombay never give names like Sandya or Zahir; instead they'll ask you to call them Michelle or Jason. Names matter. They influence how we think about ourselves and how we think about others--to the good as well as the not-so-good. * * * * * * * * * * * * You may recall from the first chapter in the Book of Acts that in the forty days following Christ's resurrection, he continued to be present to his disciples, teaching and guiding and preparing them to inherit the ministry he had launched. Consider this advanced training, because that's what it was. Before the cross, there was only so much the disciples could grasp from Jesus. But after the cross, after the tomb, after Christ came back to his beloved disciples, after they got over their fears and their earlier failures in love, they were ready to tackle with open hearts and open minds the spiritual truths that had eluded them before. For forty significant days, Jesus shared with his disciples everything that might enrich and extend the mission of love the disciples would soon be taking up on his behalf. I mention this because we may not be aware of how, in the weeks falling between Easter and Ascension Sunday (next Sunday), Christ is doing the same with us. Through our scriptures since Easter, Christ has been preparing us in much the same way as he prepared his disciples. Just as he did with them, Christ been getting us ready to graduate from being mere followers to being far more than that. Next Sunday at this time, by way of scripture Christ will be returning to his Father, and then the Sunday after that, at Pentecost (again by way of scripture) the Spirit will descend and touch us in such a way that we are transformed into Christ's living, breathing body. Although we might think it's just an ordinary Sunday in May, something very important is happening this morning. Christ is preparing us to undergo a transformation similar to the one he prepared his disciples for. How? He begins by calling us into a circle. Then one by one, person by person, he steps toward us, leans in, and whispers a new name into our waiting ears. A new name meant to honor us. A new name that tells us everything we need to know about who we are and whose we are. This morning, Christ comes to each of us and gives us our new name, our true name. "Friend," he says in a voice at once gentle and sure. "I do not call you servants any longer... but I have called you friends." Did you hear that? Friend. Jesus calls you "friend." Not subordinant. Not follower. Not even disciple. Jesus calls you his friend. Not acquaintance, admirer, or loyal subject but friend. Of all the names Jesus could possibly use, this is
the one he delights in calling you. This is Christ's
joy, to call you his friend. For many of those years, when Mr. Redford would appear in a dream, he would be at a great distance from me. Yet even from that far spot, his star power would be too much. Even though we weren't anywhere near each other and he probably couldn't see me, I would have to avert my eyes. Sometimes I would even need to hide. I needed all that space between us, you see, because I was too shy and too overwhelmed for anything else. Like looking straight into the sun, looking Redford in the eyes (even in my dreams) might cause me to lose my sight or maybe even my bearings. Now, though, when I have a Redford dream the two of us are old friends, as comfortable with and as accepting of each other as two good friends can be. We might sit together on a couch and talk about independent films. We might enjoy a meal together, trading stories and making each other laugh. We might even remember together how shy I used to be and how I would never have guessed that we could grow so close. Chuckle if you want to, but I think my dream experience has a spiritual parallel. Many of us are overpowered by just the thought of the radiant presence of Christ. As marvelous as we know him to be, something in us may prefer to keep our distance. Christ? A friend? No, no, not me. Why would Christ want to be friends with me, anyway? He's everything and I'm just a little nobody. I'll just peek at him through my fingers from time to time. That glimpse of him is more than enough for me. Or maybe our minds go in a different direction. Instead of feeling our insignificance when set against Christ's immensity, some of us go to another place emotionally. We may honestly feel that we're too sullied by life, too damaged or dark to enter into friendship with one so lovely and pure. Certainly this is a frequent dynamic in our human relationships; we reject opportunities for friendships that could be richly rewarding simply because we cannot imagine someone continuing to love us if they truly knew what lurked inside. What a radical and remarkable thing Jesus does by reaching out to us, by choosing us, by asking us to be friends with him. And no, he's not just doing this because it's his job, his duty as our Savior. When Jesus calls us friends, Friends, he's doing so not just for our sake but for his. Sure he knows that our souls crave intimacy with him, that our very beings are shaped (like a puzzle piece) in such a way that we don't feel complete until we're right where we need to be, snug up against him, connected forever. Christ knows this about us because he has that very same imprint on his soul, too. An imprint that is a kind of hunger until it is fulfilled. Perhaps to our limited way of thinking, we underestimate Jesus' need of us. Perhaps because we know him as God's own, indeed as the second person of the Trinity, we suppose Christ has no needs at all. Certainly not the same kind of need of us as we have of him. But what if Christ feels a restlessness of heart until he has the gift of your friendship? Imagine. Imagine Christ not feeling quite complete without you in his life. Is that too far a stretch? Is it too far for you to go to think that the pleasure of your company, the blessing of your companionship, the gift of relationship with you would be something Christ would ache for... and wait for? One of our fourth-century spiritual forebears, Gregory of Nyssa wrote that it is not uncommon for relationship with God (and by extension, Christ) to begin in fear*. Fearing judgment, exclusion, or outright wrath, we relate to God as if we were God's slave. The only relationship we have is one of dependence and the requirement that we please the divine master. If we outgrow this kind of relationship, Gregory said, we move into a relationship with God that is pragmatic. Like hired hands who work so as to be rewarded, we relate to and serve God so as to be compensated. What are we hoping to earn? God's favor, perhaps. A higher ranking in the prayer response department. Eternal life. Neither of these two ways of relating is satisfying. They're not relating at all, really. They are simply the means to an end, which surely reduces us AND God to some kind of grace-less existence. What name does Christ ache to call you? Not servant. Not spiritual wage-earner. Not even number one fan. Christ wants to call you by the name he's always had for you, the kind of role Gregory ways is the only one worth anything spiritually--friend. Letting Christ call you friend, trusting that this is his great desire could--and does--change everything in a person's life. Want to know something? Being Christ's friend in the way Christ is hoping does more than give you a new name, though. It opens on to Christ's truest name. Want to know it? Maybe you already do. When someone's friends with Christ, his name's no secret. No secret at all. A whisper in the heart gives it away. Love. Any other name is just plain too small. Amen. © Rev. Karen Winkel *Roberta C. Bondi, To Love as God Loves, p. 27. |
"Never place a period where God has placed a comma." - Gracie Allen
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