I grew up, the child of two loving parents who both worked in our community’s school system.  My mother taught kindergarten and my father taught and was the junior high principal for many years.  Each of them had teaching careers of thirty five to forty years, so it’s an understatement to say that they loved children, although my dad probably had his doubts some days.  As principal he had to deal with some difficult junior high discipline problems.  I’ve often thought that these two parents should have had a houseful of six or eight children, but instead they had only me.  They were married for a number of years before I ever came along, so by that time, they assumed they might be childless forever.  I’ve heard my arrival was a real treat not only for them, but for the neighbors, my aunts and uncles, and even Dad’s classroom of sixth graders who wrote notes and gave gifts.  I still have the faded pink Christmas ornament one of them decorated, with a dim outline of my name in glitter on its surface, and each year it finds a place of honor on my Christmas tree.

I came into this world, a very special child, in my parent’s eyes, and amazingly through most of my years with them, I continued to hold that status.  But, it was something I was never very comfortable with.  Yes, I was an only child, but deep down, I just wanted to be like everybody else.  It was one of those strange situations where I wished my parent’s love and attention could just be lavished on someone else for awhile.  Shortly after I had learned to talk, I guess I informed my parents that I wanted a baby sister, who was a child of color.  Growing up in the early 1950’s, in rural northern Indiana, I’m not even sure where I had had contact with persons of color, but I had already sensed my parents enormous capacity for loving children.  Regardless of my unique request, I remained an only child.

I’m intrigued by the request of the psalmist: “But let your hand be upon the one at your right hand, the one whom you made strong for yourself.”  The congregation is apparently identifying themselves as God’s special people, those created by God’s right hand.  Being at the “right hand” is a special place to be.  Think about the preference and special place, afforded to right handed people.  When children are beginning to pick up crayons or pencils or scissors, there is always the question whether they are right or left-handed, and the silent hope that they will be like the majority.  Yet if someone is the special child, or the child of privilege, or the person in the majority, that probably means somebody else ISN’T special, or has no privilege, or is in the minority. 

In Anne Lamott’s book, Plan B Further Thoughts on Faith , she speaks of the struggle to truly put into practice the idea of an inclusive faith.  “It was clear that Veron-ica was speaking directly to me.  She said that Christians have a very bad reputation in the world, and we have earned it, with our hate and self-righteousness.  We speak in reverent terms of grace, justice, equality, mercy, and then we despise people who are also created in God’s image, who are Her children, too.  Veronica said that if the president had been the only person on earth, Jesus would still have loved him so much that he would have come down and died for him.  This drives me crazy, that God seems to have no taste, and no standards.  Yet on most days, this is what gives some of us hope.” (p. 221-222)

All contents copyright 2003 by the Wisconsin Chapter of the Methodist Federation for Social Action. Permission is granted to United Methodist congregations, individuals and groups to reproduce and distribute this devotional without charge. All other use requires the advance permission of the editor.