“1, 2… One”
Ephesians 2:11-18
If you’ve ever participated in an elementary P.E. class you know the standard operating procedure. After the elephant stretch, 15 jumping jacks, and some cherry-pickers it’s time to pick teams. So, everyone runs to line up and as the P.E. teacher works his way down they each show him with their short fingers the number that he assigns, “1, 2, 1, 2…” It’s meant to create even teams, in theory. But it only takes a few times before the kids get wise and strategically place themselves to be with their friends. “1, 2, 1, 2…” “Yes!” as they give their best friend a high five.
It shouldn’t take long for us to catch on either. Stand in any Irving elementary school lunch line and look for the kid who, in broken English, whispers to the Lunch lady, “reduced lunch.” “1, 2….” Ask teachers how many students were “left behind” when they were forced to take the TAKS test in English when they could have easily passed the same test in Spanish. “1, 2…”
Venture over to Irving high school where F hall is specially designated for ESL students and the mentally retarded. “1, 2…” Or wait till after school ends and walk across the street to the park where Hispanic and Black students beat each other in a massive race versus race brawl while the white students get in their cars and drive away. “1, 2…” Or come to school on the day that Dallas voted on Anti-illegal Alien legislature. The hallways were empty but City hall was full of high school students waving Mexican flags and chanting profanity in Spanish. “1, 2…” Or make mention that the Irving ISD’s student population is now close to 70% Hispanic to someone who didn’t know and listen to them say “Oh, I didn’t know it was that bad.” “1, 2…”
Drive around north Irving and the Las Colinas area before you make your way down below 183, southside. No more condos across from Valley Ranch where the Cowboys practice, just run-down apartments next to a field where children play soccer, or as they would say: futbol. “1, 2…”
Sunday morning, on your way to church, notice the vacant gas station where men sit on old truck tires waiting for someone to offer them a day of work. They cannot afford Sabbath. “1, 2…”
Then, as you enter the church building notice the chapel where the Hispanic congregation meets as you try to find the auditorium. “1, 2…”
If you take notice of all these thing then maybe, by the time you sing the third verse of “A Common Love,” or pass communion to a family member these words of Paul will begin to beat in your ears. “1, 2, 1, 2…”
For so long this has been our party text. We read this and we celebrate, it’s about us gentiles isn’t it?! Praise God we got included, it’s true we are one! And we do our Texas two-step “1 and 2 and 1 and 2 and”
These words start to chaff against us when we put a face on the text. If we have our noses buried in our bibles it’s easy for us to say “Oh, look how nicely they are getting along! The dividing wall is torn down, there’s peace all around, Paul does such a fine job!” But if we look up, “oh…” We get a different impression.
When you are in the Emergency Room with appendicitis and you are waiting behind someone who is trying to find a way around the paperwork so they can see a doctor about their cold, Paul’s words aren’t so sweet.
When you get t-boned by a guy with no insurance and no English to tell you that, Ephesians 2:11-18 doesn’t immediately come to mind.
Take a long enough look around and Paul’s words start tasting sour on our tongues. Words like “is” and “are” and “now” do not make nearly as much sense as words like “will be” and “someday.” “1, 2, 1, 2,…” These words keep beating in our ears.
Paul calls it a mystery but I think I would call it a miracle. If you took Paul for elementary P.E. you’d be surprised by how he does things. He doesn’t just look out over the kids and proclaim “One!” He doesn’t just do obstacle courses or have his kids all play with that big parachute, no he lines them up and counts them off “1, 2…” and it is only then, after the competition starts that he looks over them and says “they are one.” He calls it a mystery but I say miracle.
To make one holy nation from two countries with a literal wall built between them takes a miracle. To look into the dark eyes of a foreigner “without hope and without God in the world” and say to them “peace has been spoken to you” takes a miracle. To bring those who are excluded from citizenship close through the blood of Christ takes a miracle.
One of the most awkward worship situations I ever participated in was a visit to an Episcopal service. It’s not something I would normally do but it was required for a worship class with a certain professor, so I went. I arrived earlier than I had to on that Tuesday night, no one was there when I walked into that small chapel, next to the larger auditorium. As I sat there, worrying about whether or not I was in the right place, people began to trickle in and take their seats. I expected conversation, voices ringing, laughter, anything to let me know that I was welcome, but there was nothing, only silence, faces pointing forward. The holiness was unbearable.
As the service began, all the standing, the sitting, the kneeling, all those unfamiliar words made me terribly aware of my own conspicuousness, I stuck out like a sore thumb. I had heard that it was a healing service and I wondered at what those words could mean, what being healed would require of me. That moment came that I had been dreading: we were all called up to that front rail and invited to kneel for the sacrament of healing. It had finally come, I thought, now I am going to be found out. Everyone here will know that I am a 2 and they are all 1’s, I do not belong here. But I went, and I kneeled and when the priest came up to me he drew a cross on my forehead with oil: “1, 2…” and he said: “I lay my hands upon you in the Name of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, beseeching him to uphold you and fill you with his grace, that you may know the healing power of his love.” Those words beating in my ears.
As we rose together the priest invited us to give each other the peace. And so the first words I heard out of the middle aged man with the bad comb-over were “Peace to you, brother” and the first words I spoke to the elderly lady with the shaky voice was “peace to you, sister” those words beating in that small chapel next to the auditorium. Paul calls it a mystery, I say miracle.
Three months ago, in an enormous auditorium, a one and a two made vows to one another: for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health. If three months of marriage has taught me anything it is how close a one and a two can come to being just one. At the reception we celebrated, the DJ put on a familiar song and we danced. “1, 2, 1, 2…”
It used to make me so angry when I woke up in the middle of the night because of blaring mariachi music that found it’s way over the neighbors fence into my bedroom. Sometimes out of curiosity I would go look out the window and see the multi-colored Christmas lights hung on trees, the smoke from a barbeque grill climbing up the side of the house, and I wondered why they were celebrating. Every now and then, when I visit my hometown, Irving, I will wake up to a distant mariachi tune, that familiar boom chick-boom-chick boom chick-boom-chick “1 and 2 and 1 and 2 and” and though I still don’t know why they are celebrating, I hope that they are dancing.
