I’ve
heard it said that we only ever receive something as a gift once we’ve been
offered it twice. When we received what
we’re owed, our wages say, we simply pocket the envelope and then go ahead and
make use of it, hopefully responsibly. I
doubt if many of us write thank you notes to our employers after each
payday. In fact, it would be odd if we
did. But gifts are different. For something truly to be received as a gift
there must at least a tacit unspoken resignation upon the first offering: “no,
thank you, but this is too much. I don’t
deserve this.” I use the word ‘resignation’
deliberately: it’s a re-sign-ation, changing the sign on the object,
clarifying, this isn’t anything I’m due or have earned, this is gift. Then, under the new sign, the gift can be
given and received as gift: “no, please, I want you to have it.”
We
only receive something as gift once we’ve been offered it twice. It’s a way to change the sign on the object
and re-beautify the sign on the friendship.
It’s a way of expressing trust in the relationship, trust in the love
that animates it, trust that the love is more powerful and more valuable than
any expression of that love in gift could be, trust that that love will
continue to express itself in gift even if acceptance of this object is
resigned.
In our
friendship with God, we call that trust ‘faith.’ Faith is no mere assent to the existence of
God, or to other propositions about him, but lively trust, trust not just in
God’s promises, but in the God of promise.
The Letter to the Hebrews makes a common move in lifting up Abraham as
heroic with respect to faith. Abraham
trusted in God’s promise enough to courageously respond to God’s call and set
out on a great and perilous journey, to leave his home and become a nomad. A nomad, but not quite a wanderer; more a
pilgrim, on a holy journey to a holy place.
Abraham and Sarah trusted in God’s promise to grant them uncountably
many progeny despite the circumstances of their advanced age, and God made good
on his promise with the gift of Isaac.
And
Isaac was a gift, given twice. Isaac’s
birth was gift enough, God’s abundant pouring out of life in the midst of
barrenness. But, then comes another
call, the call to sacrifice. Sacrifice
is the resignation of gift. It’s the “No,
thank you, but this is too much. I don’t
deserve this.” By faith, Abraham, when tested, offered up Isaac. By faith, by trust, not an almost idolatrous identification
of Isaac with the fullness of God’s faithfulness and generosity to him, refusing
to limit God’s graciousness. No,
Abraham, reckoned God powerful enough to raise even from the dead, and loving
enough to do that for him. So, Abraham
resigns the acceptance, offers Isaac.
And God restores him. God says, “No,
please, I want you to have him.” And the
friendship’s beauty is magnified, just as Mary’s song magnified the Lord. Hebrews says Abraham received Isaac back “as
a symbol,” and that doesn’t mean he didn’t really receive him back. No, it means he received him back and that
meant even more than a casual onlooker could tell. It meant faith, it meant trust, it meant
promise, it meant friendship, it meant love.
By
Mary and Joseph’s time, that sacrifice upon the birth of the first son had
become codified. Mary and Joseph offer
the sacrifice appointed for the poor: two birds. Faithful to the Law, they offer their symbol,
they make their “No, thank you, but this is too much. I don’t deserve this,” by offering the
birds. It’s the thank you note. And in their act of sacrifice, the Spirit
moves to show them what their gift really means. Simeon will recognize the Christ child for
who he really is, joyfully sing his praises, and then give an ominous
oracle. Anna, who lived her life
expressing her prayer through sacrificial fasting, will see the answer to her
prayers and go and spread the word.
The
sword will pierce Mary’s heart because, like Abraham, she will be called to
offer her Son. Not, like Abraham, by
binding him and wielding the knife herself, but by letting him grow up, by
letting him be gift, by letting him respond to God’s call to him to leave home,
become a homeless pilgrim, inaugurating the great pilgrimage to the Father we
all must walk. She must let him speak
boldly enough to be contradicted. She
must let him love extravagantly enough to be spurned. His sacrifice on the cross is her sacrifice
too, because love unites sacrifice, and because that’s her boy, who she
let go, because he was gift.
And
God, who is faithful, who is extravagant, who gives new life to the barren and
can even raise from the dead will say “No, please, I want you to have him.” Not even death can conquer that kind of love.
“Lord,
I am not worthy to that you should enter under my roof, but only say the word
and my soul shall be healed.”
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