Rachel's Wells

Scripture: Romans 12:1-8

We often treat this passage in Paul’s letter to the Romans as a reassuring feel-good text. In these verses, Paul offers the comforting observation that each of us has our own unique talents. Sure, we should make the most of them for the betterment of our fellow human beings and for the glory of God. But we needn’t trouble ourselves about the fact that faith calls others to engage in activities that don’t resonate with us or that we wouldn’t do competently.

In this respect, the text appeals to us because it affirms something we understand about ourselves, something elegantly expressed by that prominent philosopher, Clint Eastwood, when he declared: “A man’s got to know his limitations.” Paul’s statements comport with our suspicion that for some of us to try to engage in certain activities would be, at best, futile and pointless and, at worst, embarrassing and counterproductive. I think it was the author Robert Heinlein who made the famous observation that you should “never try to teach a pig to sing; it wastes your time and it annoys the pig.”

Well, I acknowledge that this passage from Paul’s letter can and should offer us some consolation. And I certainly don’t want to imply that this is in actuality a feel-bad text, although in the history of Christian theology some have managed to interpret it that way. But I do want to suggest that Paul’s message has a great deal more complexity than we might notice on first reading. And I want to try to persuade you that this passage presents us with a serious challenge—indeed, with several serious challenges—that can dramatically change how we think about our lives and, more importantly, how we live them.

One of those challenges is pretty easy to spot and I’ve already alluded to it. The text plainly urges each of us to find and fulfill our special role in the order of things. The scripture leaves plenty of room here, acknowledging that this role might be met through leadership or generosity or compassion or encouragement or teaching or ministering or, presumably, dozens of other activities. Of course, we know that when those seemingly limited roles are played to capacity the world stands up and takes notice and changes, even if not as much as we might hope. Just consider the leadership of Martin Luther King, Jr., the compassion of Albert Schweitzer, the ministry of John Wesley. Mother Theresa, whose simple acts of caring for the poor transformed countless lives, once said “Not all of us can do great things. But we can do all small things with great love.” If we will leave the wings and walk onto the stage we will discover that there are no bit players in this drama.

The second challenge is subtler, although still explicit in the text. In verse 3, Paul warns us not to think of ourselves more highly than we ought to think. He reiterates this later in verse 16, when he says “do not be haughty” and “do not claim to be wiser than you are.” We can see why this presents some challenges in this context. Our ego may keep us from recognizing that our highest and best use in the service of our faith may not be the one we envisioned or wanted. Or our ego may seduce us into pursuing higher goals out of lower motivations, like pride and self-aggrandizement. Or our ego may keep us from acknowledging, honoring, and fostering the special contributions of others. Our egos can even prompt us to judge the egos of our brothers and sisters. This evil is wonderfully captured by Ambrose Bierce’s definition of an egoist: an egoist, he said, “is someone more interested in himself than in me.”

But these verses pose another challenge to us as well, one much subtler and more deeply embedded in the text, although unquestionably present. And I want to suggest to you that this challenge turns on the difference between being and doing. In order to tease out what I’m getting at I want to start by moving away from one controversial topic, religion, and into another, politics. I will do so with the sincere hope and prayer that I will not offend anyone or, at least, that I will offend everyone equally and in a completely non-partisan way.

A few months ago, a certain congressman from New York got himself into some serious trouble by committing an indiscretion that became public. He was not the first political figure to have done so and I can confidently predict—without making any claims to the gift of prophecy—that he will not be the last. The incident prompted a great deal of speculation as to why people who are smart and savvy engage in conduct that is so short-sighted and, well, stupid. And the incident inspired—as such incidents always do—efforts to explain why some smart and savvy people make these kinds of mistakes and others do not.

In the course of skimming the newspaper coverage of this debate I ran across one proposed explanation that particularly intrigued me. A psychologist who was interviewed about the controversy distinguished between people who seek political power because they want to be something and people who seek political power because they want to do something. She suggested that people who strive to be something—to have a title, hold an office, or enjoy the benefits of a prestigious label—tend to be inwardly focused and therefore more likely to indulge their whims and impulses. In contrast, people who strive to do something—to serve the public good, work a change in policy, or improve the lot of their constituents—tend to be outwardly focused and therefore less likely to wander into this sort of mischief. Of course, I am omitting lots of detail; and, in all candor, I’m not sure we need a nuanced analysis to explain why some politicians get themselves into problems that others don’t. But I do think that this distinction gets at something terribly important and that relates directly to the text before us.

In this scripture, Paul does not invite us to become something. He does not tell us to go forth and claim the title of leader or teacher or minister or prophet. Rather, Paul invites us to do something. He invites us to find the activity, the direction, and the way of going through life that God has set aside for us—and then to pursue it. This poses a serious challenge for us because the world—the world to which Paul says we must not conform—reinforces throughout our lives that what matters is what we are. Indeed, this starts very early. How many of you remember being asked as a child “What do you want to be when you grow up?” and feeling like an idiot because the question seemed so weighty and the answer so elusive. In the end, though, to use Elbert Hubbard’s often quoted remark, “God will not look [us] over for medals, degrees, or diplomas, but for scars.”

Indeed, it is what we do that speaks most clearly and loudly to who we are. I thought about that last week when I read an article in the New York Times by columnist Nicholas Kristoff, who told the story of one Rachel Beckwith. Kristoff said that, in the midst of this summer of grim news, Rachel had restored his faith in humanity.

Rachel lived near Seattle and, very early in life, felt a calling to try to make the world a better place. At age 5, she learned in school about an organization called “Locks of Love,” which accepts donations of hair to make wigs for children suffering from cancer and other diseases. Rachel told her mother that she wanted “to help the cancer kids”; her mother allowed her to cut off her beautiful long hair and to send it to the organization; a few years later, her hair finally grown back, Rachel did it again.

Then, when she was 8, Rachel learned that some children in the world do not have clean water to drink. She was appalled at the idea. So she decided to skip her ninth birthday party and instead to ask all of her friends to donate nine dollars to an organization called charity:water, which digs wells in African communities. She set up a birthday page at the charity:water website and worked toward her goal of $300. When her birthday arrived on June 12, Rachel was disappointed to learn that she had come up about eighty dollars short.

About a month later, tragedy struck Rachel’s own life. While her family was out for a ride a truck violently collided with their car. The rest of the family was unhurt. But Rachel was left unconscious and in critical condition.

In a show of support, friends and family and members of Rachel’s church began donating to her charity:water birthday page. Money poured in. Contributions passed her goal of $300. They got to $1000, then $10,000, then $50,000. At that point, her parents were able to whisper to her—unsure whether she could hear them—that she had passed the amount of money that had been raised for this charity by pop singer Justin Bieber.

Rachel never regained consciousness and passed away. Her parents had her hair donated, one final time, to Locks of Love. Her organs were given to help other children live. It was just as Rachel would have wanted it.

Now, the story might have ended there. But stories about people like Rachel often have lots of chapters. And this one does, too.

After her death, word about Rachel and her cause spread and money continued to come in—from all over the world, even from Africa, the country we was trying to help. As of last week, when Kristoff wrote his article, Rachel Beckwith had raised more than $850,000 for charity:water. When I checked the site this morning, the figure was just shy of $1.2 million.

Next year, on the anniversary of her daughter’s death, Rachel’s mother plans to visit Africa. She wants to seee the work that Rachel’s generosity and selflessness helped accomplish. There should be a lot to look at.

We might say lots of things about who we think Rachel Beckwith was. She was special. She was an inspiration. She was a role model. She was an angel, and, if heaven is anything like how I imagine it, she still is.

But what will stay with us is not who Rachel was. What will stay with us is what Rachel did. We will remember Rachel’s locks of hair. We will remember Rachel’s charity birthday page. We will remember Rachel’s wells.

And, lo, the people heard the word of the Lord.

And they saw the works of the people of the Lord.

And, yet again, it was a little child who led them.

Amen.