“May I See Some I.D., Please?”

“May I See Some I.D., Please?”
(Isaiah 43.1-3 and Matthew 10.42, 44)
A Reflection by Dave Shull
Spirit of Peace United Church of Christ
Sammamish, Washington
The 25^th Sunday in Ordinary Time: September 18, 2011
The last in a summer series on topics you asked to hear reflections about.

This morning’s topic: How do we move from being givers to being receivers? How do we move from being givers to being receivers?

Dorothy White’s question gives voice to a very human grief.

The grief that comes over us when we can start more and more of our sentences with “I used to be able to…”, and end more and more of our sentences with “…but I can’t do that anymore.” The loss of what I used to be able to is a harsh and terrible loss. Because the things I used to be able to do are what gave me my identity. What I used to be able to do told me and everybody else who I was. What I used to be able to do gave me value. I was proud of what I used to be able to do.

As we get older, as we come out the other side of a major accident or illness, the roles we were used to switch.
We find ourselves being the receiver a lot more than we’re the giver. And that can be devastating.

When it seems like we’re always the receivers and that we have little of value to give, then we often find ourselves feeling guilty or ashamed or of little value. At such times, we need to hear the words of Jesus in this morning’s gospel reading. With these unfamiliar words, Jesus slaps me on the face. He says, Stop dividing the world into givers and receivers. With me, the gifts of love always flow both directions.

Listen for a word from God.

Jesus said to his disciples, “Anyone who accepts what you do, accepts me, the One who sent you. Anyone who accepts what I do accepts my Father, who sent me. Accepting a messenger of God is as good as being God’s messenger. Accepting someone’s help is as good as giving someone help. The smallest act of giving or receiving makes you a true apprentice. You won’t lose out on a thing.”
(Matthew 10.40, 42, The Message ReMix © 2003 Eugene Peterson)

Say what?

Accepting a messenger of God is as good as being God’s messenger.
Accepting someone’s help is as good as giving someone help.

What’s up here?

What’s Jesus trying to tell people who so often feel guilty for being receivers instead of givers? What’s up is that Jesus is telling us following him is all about practicing hospitality. When we practice hospitality, some people are guests and some are hosts. But it’s not like the host does all the giving and the guest does all the receiving. Where Jesus is concerned, the roles of guest and host get really messy.
(This idea of the fluidity of the guest-host relationship in the world of Jesus comes from John Koenig, New Testament Hospitality, Fortress Press, 1988.)

Think about what happens when we serve meals to hungry people in downtown Issaquah. We’re the hosts for these meals, right? We cook the food and set the tables. The hungry people who come for our meals are our guests. We’re the hosts. They’re the guests. We’re the givers. They’re the receivers. The lines are nice and clear, right?
But as we’re sitting at the table with them, something funny happens. One of our “guests” says something, or does something. And we feel like someone has just given us the most precious gift in the world. The person who was supposed to be the receiver has fed me. And gifted me with something I didn’t even know I needed.
But wasn’t I the giver? Weren’t they the receivers? What’s going on?

What’s going on is when we live the love of Jesus, everyone is a giver and everyone is a receiver. When we live with the love of Jesus, the lines between giver and receiver don’t just get really messy, they disappear altogether.

You come to do something for me I used to be able to do but can’t do anymore. I hate that I can’t do it anymore. When you come to me in my need, and the love of God fills you, then you don’t come in the role of a giver. And you don’t do anything to make me feel like a receiver or a charity case. You come as someone who expects that you will receive the love of God that is alive in me. I know you are coming to do something for me that I used to be able to do but can’t do anymore. When I believe the love of God fills me, then I don’t see you as the giver and me as the receiver. expect that, when you come to help me, you will receive something of the love of God that lives in me. Even when I can’t do so many things I used to be able to do.

Where Jesus is present, everyone is a giver. And everyone is a receiver. Because the love of God that fills us always flows in both directions. If I convince myself I have nothing more to give because I can’t do what I used to be able to do, then I make a choice. I choose to keep God’s love from flowing through me. I choose to withhold the life and joy and Jesus people need me to give them.

What do we do when we can begin more and more sentences with the words, I used to be able to …, and finish more and more sentences with, but I can’t do that anymore.

In this morning’s gospel story, Jesus doesn’t ask us to stop grieving the loss of identity that comes with the loss of the ability to do things we loved to do. Instead, Jesus asks us to stop dividing the world into givers and receivers. And stop identifying ourselves as receivers. Jesus asks us to change our identity. He asks all of to stop finding our identity in any role that aging, accidents, and illnesses can take away from us.

He asks us to take on the identity our Old Testament reading reminds us God gives us at birth.

The people of Jerusalem have been deported to Babylon, they’ve lost everything that had gave them their identity and value. In Babylon, their identity is gone.

If we’d gone to Babylon and asked one of those deportees, Can I see some I.D., please?, they wouldn’t have had anything to show us. Their I.D. was having a temple, a homeland, and a king.

Now all these has been taken away. So they have no idea who they are. They have no I.D.

To these deportees who have lost their identity and value, God sends the prophet Isaiah. God says to Isaiah,
Remind my daughters and sons who they are.
Tell them again what their identity is.
That identity I gave them at their birth.
That identity that neither age, nor accident, nor illness,
nor anything else in all creation can take away from them.
Isaiah, God says, remind them who they really are.

Listen for a word from God.

God’s Message – the God who made you in the first place, the One who got you started: “Don’t be afraid, I’ve redeemed you. I’ve called you by name. You are mine. When you’re in over your head, I’ll be there for you. When you’re in rough waters, you will not go down. I am God, your personal God, the Holy of Israel, your Savior. That’s how much you mean to me. That’s how much I love you.
(Isaiah 43.1-3, The Message Re-Mix © 2003 Eugene Peterson)

You are mine.

We sang this love song from God at the start of our worship this morning:
I love you. You are mine.

When anyone comes up to us and asks, Can I see some I.D., please?, wouldn’t it be outrageous if we smiled at them and said, “I’m God’s.”?

The next time we start to say, I used to be able to do that, but I can’t anymore, what if, instead, I said, Every moment of every day God looks at me and says, “I love you. You are mine.”

How will we respond when we can start more and more of our sentences with, I used to be able to … and when we can finish more and more sentences with, but I can’t anymore?

As that happens to me more and more frequently, I pray I will let the spirit of Claire fill and guide me.

Claire was a 90-something woman who lived down the hall from Peter and me in our apartment in Chicago.

There were lots of sentences Claire could have started with the words, I used to be able to. There were a few times I saw her cry for love she’d lost. Abilities she’d lost. Dreams she’d had to let go of.

All of us pass through that world at times. But Claire didn’t stay there for long. She didn’t spend a lot of time looking back over her life. She looked at right now. And she found ways to make now good. She chose to make now good.
She gave three violin and cello lessons they day she died of a heart attack. Every week she raced her 88-year-old brother to see which of them could finish the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle the fastest.
During baseball season, she cursed like a sailor at whatever team was beating the Chicago Cubs that day.
She enjoyed saying things to me like, Your French is lousy.
And she loved to play Private Eye.

There was a little grocery store on the first floor of our apartment building, and she was sure they were violating health department codes by throwing produce right into the dumpster behind our building. So every month or so Claire would stand at her window that overlooked the dumpsters. She’d take pictures when the store employees took out the trash. The next time I walked by her open apartment door after she had her newest batch of pictures, Claire would call out to me in her best stage whisper, Dave! I’ve got some more pictures….  I’d come in. And together we reviewed the fruits of her sleuthing.

I think the Rev. William Sloan Coffin was talking about someone like Claire when he said, The secret of living a good life is to die young as late as possible.

Two months before Claire died, Peter and I visited her in the hospital. We’d barely gotten in the room when she said with utter disgust, You wouldn’t believe what a nurse had the nerve to ask me this morning.
“What did she say,” we asked.
Well, Claire said, she asked, ‘What did you used to be?’
We were surprised anyone who said that to Claire was still standing.
“What did you do?” we asked.
With a look of triumph, Claire answered, I looked her right in the eyes and said, ‘Honey, I still am!”

Claire chose not to live in a world filled with I used to be able to.  She could do this because most of the time she remembered who she was. If anyone came up to Claire and asked, “Ma’am, can I see some I.D.?”, she would have said, “I’m God’s.” She would have said, “I’m someone God looks at every moment of every day and says, Claire, I love you. You are mine.

I love you. You are mine. It’s the only identity any of us will ever need. It’s the only I.D. that matters.

Amen.