No names

The business where I work is near a farm. My boss began feeding the barn cats that roam around the surrounding fields months ago, always trying to find homes for the new kittens that are born before they get too wild and skittish. My in-laws have one such adoptee named Cookie.

When I arrived yesterday, my boss was fretting over a rather small little kitten that seemed cold and weak. She brought said kitty into the office with us and allowed it to eat in peace – we were both guessing that the larger cats were edging him (her?) out of the food bowl. The precious thing had something to eat, and then braved his way into our indoor world. He briefly looked around the desks before falling sound asleep on my boss’ lap for most of the day. As he slept, we took a closer look and realized that he was going to need veterinary care.

We wondered what we would do if we failed to find him a home. My boss’ husband (the other boss) refused to make him “the office cat” as we suggested and told us to stop fussing. Later, I suggested we name him and I was told, “No, never, ever give them a name, ‘cause then you’re sure to get too attached.”

Last night, I was thinking about how true a statement that is. I can remember how the church promoted missions, how somehow writing a check to pay budgets or support someone in a far away land was somehow fulfilling the command to care. Once in a while, we would program an outing to the city or work day or a food drive for the homeless, but it was always a temporary emphasis and nobody had to get too close to the sickness or coldness or hunger. You certainly never had to stay there and you never had to know someone’s name.

Shakespeare asked, “What’s in a name?” Knowing someone’s name creates attachment. Sometimes it initiates a haunting. At other times, it has forced me to evaluate my own life. But worst of all, a name generates a sense of responsibility and solidarity – a sense of our collective brokenness and need to heal each other with Grace. Just two hungry strays.

Jesus knew names. One of my favorite moments is this one from Luke 19:

Jesus entered Jericho and was passing through. A man was there by the name of Zacchaeus; he was a chief tax collector and was wealthy. He wanted to see who Jesus was, but being a short man he could not, because of the crowd. So he ran ahead and climbed a sycamore-fig tree to see him, since Jesus was coming that way.

When Jesus reached the spot, he looked up and said to him, "Zacchaeus, come down immediately. I must stay at your house today." So he came down at once and welcomed him gladly.

All the people saw this and began to mutter, "He has gone to be the guest of a 'sinner.'”
But Zacchaeus stood up and said to the Lord, "Look, Lord! Here and now I give half of my possessions to the poor, and if I have cheated anybody out of anything, I will pay back four times the amount."

Jesus said to him, "Today salvation has come to this house, because this man, too, is a son of Abraham. For the Son of Man came to seek and to save what was lost."

It cracks me up how the crowd calls him a “sinner,” but Jesus walks right up to the tree and uses his name, “Zacchaeus…” Jesus doesn't make him a category, He knows an individual. In essence He tells Zacchaeus, "I know your name, I am going to your house, I will hear your story, I am invested in you, I will eat at your table, I don't care what anybody else thinks…we’re friends."

And in the end, Zacchaeus is so valued, so safe, that he is free to change. It’s the same thing Jesus did for me, minus the fig tree.

“Wendy…”