Sometimes, the origins of
a word have little or nothing to do with what the word means now. “Malaria,”
for instance, means “bad air,” because people thought the disease was airborne,
and we’ve kept the word even though we now know that’s not how it spreads. But
other times, the origin of a word is really worth sitting with and wondering if
it can actually illuminate the concept for us. I think that a good example of this
is the word “educate.” Our English word “educate” comes from the Latin “to lead
out,” ex + dūcere. And I think that that’s actually a rather beautiful
image of what education is, the idea that education consists not of stuffing
people’s brains full of as many facts as possible (the so-called “banking model”
of education), but of leading them out of somewhere. The image, I think, is of
leading people out of somewhere that is narrow and confining. An educator walks
with students, equips them to walk on their own two feet, but keeps on guiding
them, not abandoning them, and leads them from a place of narrowness, of being
shut in, into a world that is suddenly larger, a world they can now navigate.
A place in
which this image of education spoke to me maybe most powerfully was when, prior
to seminary, I used to work as a prison educator. I taught community college math
within the CA state prison system. It was an incredibly formative experience
for me as a teacher, and, actually, what got me thinking about priesthood and
religious life. One of the most moving things about teaching in that environment
was the students’ motivations. Some of them knew, or at least hoped, that they
would be released soon, and for them, this class bore some of the weight of
their hopes to do something productive with their lives when they got out. And
that was wonderful, to know that my little geometry class could be one step in
getting out and staying out, in being able to play a new part in a world that
was getting bigger for them. But even more inspiring to me were my students who
knew they weren’t getting out any time soon. These students were motivated to
get an education because that’s how they could be led out of narrowness and
confinement even if they were incarcerated until the day they died. They wanted
an education because they valued that leading out for its own sake.
What got me
thinking about all of this this week was that, as I was praying with these
readings, the line that kept coming back to me was, “Out of Egypt, I have
called my son.” This is a quotation that Matthew takes from the book of the prophet
Hosea. The full passage in Hosea (it’s chapter 11 if any of you want to read it
at home) is a beautiful description of God’s parenting of His child, Israel. It
begins: “When Israel was a child, I loved him and, out of Egypt, I called my
son.” It talks about God teaching Israel to walk, as well as carrying Israel, lifting
Israel up to God’s cheeks, and God bending down to feed Israel. It’s a
beautiful collection of images that pictures God’s care for His chosen people
in terms of raising children. Raising, and educating.
The
reference to Egypt takes us back to the Exodus, when God led His people out of
Egypt. God led them out of slavery, equipping them to walk, walking with them
in the form of fire and cloud, feeding them along the way, and leading them
into a world that was so much bigger, a world in which they could play a much
fuller part. That’s education, leading out. That’s what gets beautifully expanded,
colored in, by Hosea, as intimate parenting. And we have to remember that it
was hard. Forty years of walking in the wilderness. Something inside so many of
the Exodus generation made them yearn to go back to the place that was
narrower, to slavery in Egypt, and grumble, “At least there was food there!”
But they walked on. What can make someone keep on walking? The first half of the
first verse of Hosea 11: “When Israel was a child, I loved him.” That divine initiative
of love is really the only thing that can make possible true education, a
leading out that really counts.
This is
what Matthew says is fulfilled in Jesus. And not first in Jesus’ care for us,
though truly he leads us out into freedom. But first in Joseph and Mary’s care
for him. Yes, Jesus was physically brought from Egypt to the land of Israel,
just as the Israelites were. But what Matthew is drawing our attention to is
something much deeper. Not just that Jesus was led out physically, but that he
was educated, he was raised. He was loved by a human father and mother. He was
talk to walk, he was carried, he was lifted up to his parents’ cheeks, and they
bent down to feed him. The full self-emptying of the Incarnation involves God
trusting humans with that task.
What we
contemplate most centrally today is that God is raising us. God is raising us
to His cheeks, God is raising us to be heads-held-high missionary disciples,
God is educating us, leading us out of slavery to sin, to that narrow place of
being turned in on ourselves to the much bigger world in which we can play our
part. But while that’s what we contemplate most centrally, for many of us it’s
helpful to first contemplate the humans who have raised us, who have educated
us, who have challenged and comforted us, who have led us out. I’m sure they’ve
all done that imperfectly, but human action can still be charged with grace, pointing
us to God’s action, and enlivening our wonder and awe. Then, only when we’ve
sat in wonder and awe for a while, might we contemplate relationships we’ve
been called into where we educate, whether formally as parents or teachers, or
in other ways. We develop a little awe at the grandeur of that task, a properly
godly task that God shares with us, but we don’t become over-awed. For Mary and
Joseph are helping us with their prayers. And, if ever our backs get tired from
bending down to feed, when remember how fully God is already bending down to
feed us, and to raise us up to His cheeks.
No comments:
Post a Comment