When I was a kid, my dad’s side of the family got together once in awhile for summer picnics – sometimes at my great aunt and uncle’s farm near Hortonville, sometimes at my grandparent’s cottage on Buckeye Point in Three Lakes. My great Aunt Elsie was known for her fudge and for her dill pickles, and there was always a big bowl of pickles at every gathering. The only parts of the meals I remember, really, are pickles, watermelon, tomato wedges, fudge, and the odd, electric sensation of drinking lemonade out of my grandma’s jewel colored aluminum tumblers.
At all gatherings of this nature there is a collection of great aunts. In my dad’s family, there was a great uncle for each great aunt, but they were a staid lot, and it was the aunts who would make the approach, pat me on the head, and give the great aunt pronouncement, “Little Lindy, My How You’ve Grown!”
Great Aunt Dorothy and Great Uncle George once brought their own cedar strip canoe to the cottage. This impressed me because I’d never seen old people do something that active. They sat up straight and didn’t splash when they paddled. Aside from her pickles and fudge, Great Aunt Elsie had a folksy, gossipy way of talking about things that I always liked. I imagined that she knew and noticed all the little details, the way I did, but managed to talk about them. Great Aunt May was my dad’s favorite aunt, and knowing this made her special. Though I couldn’t tell the difference in ages between them, I knew Aunt May was the youngest and she was the most cheerful. Great Aunt Bea scared me. She dyed her hair black and wore lipstick. She was tall and big and was a squishy hugger of little girls.
Several years passed – maybe 5 or more – between sightings of Aunt Bea. I remember running into the cottage at one of these picnics and seeing her standing in the corner of the kitchen. She turned around as I came in and scowled at me. I turned and ran back outside. Later, when my brother and sister and cousins and I came up from swimming dripping and bedraggled, Aunt Bea was sitting at the picnic table and seemed to be watching me. When I looked over, she was frowning at me with her arms crossed. I took cover in the cousins and ran away. From then on, whenever I saw her she seemed to be watching me, but I didn’t know what I’d done wrong. When we sat down at the picnic tables for supper, I was distressed to see her settle in kitty corner from me and then the rest of my family sit further down the line. I could hardly eat my food for fear of doing something that would cause her to scold me. Part way through the meal my dad said, “Linda, pass the pickles,” and as I reached for the bowl Aunt Bea’s eyes lit up. “That’s who you are! I’ve been wracking my brain trying to think of your name!” She said, “Linda! My, How You’ve Grown!” I became known in the passing of the pickles.
Sometimes it’s hard to put a name to what we see, it’s hard to recognize something that seems familiar.
Mary Magdalene spoke to Jesus just outside the tomb, but thought he was a gardener until he spoke
her name. Two disciples walked the road between Jerusalem and Emmaus with Jesus at their side, but didn’t know him until the evening meal and the breaking of the bread. Jesus directed the fishing disciples to cast their nets on the other side of the boat. But it wasn’t until the nets filled to bursting that Peter knew it was Jesus standing on the shore. Even his closest friends couldn’t recognize Jesus.
So how do we do it? How do we have eyes for the kingdom of God? How do we recognize the presence of God among all the emotions and ideas and relationships and events that fill the course of our days?
That is what the church does for us. In ure readings, in song, prayer, sermons, and the meal Christ is named, God’s love for you is spoken. And, as importantly, that is what we do for each other when we are being the church. Christ may be made known in the passing of the peace on Sunday morning, or in the potluck Sunday night. Maybe a phone call that says, “I’ve been thinking about you,” really says, “You are forgiven.” Maybe what someone is really looking for, what they really need, isn’t obvious from what they are doing. Maybe they are trying to recognize God’s presence and just need a little help from you. You might hold the key of recognition. You might be the one who says (or who shows), “the body and blood of Christ, given for you.” Don’t be afraid. It’s God’s work; it’s just our hands that pass the pickles.
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-- Pastor Linda, 5/29/2009
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