The Ones Whose Names Are Almost Forgotten

The hidden servants by whom the Kingdom is quietly carried

“And the twelve were with him, and also some women who had been healed of evil spirits and infirmities… and many others, who provided for him out of their means.”

— Luke 8:1–3

It is easy to pass over these three verses.

Saint Luke tells us that Jesus “went on through cities and villages, preaching and bringing the good news of the kingdom of God.” The Twelve were with Him. But then the Evangelist turns our attention, almost quietly, toward others who accompanied the Lord.

There were women with Him.

Mary Magdalene, from whom seven demons had gone out. Joanna, the wife of Chuza, Herod’s steward. Susanna. And then that remarkable phrase:

“and many others.”

These women had themselves received mercy. Saint Luke tells us that they had been healed of evil spirits and infirmities. And now they followed Christ, providing for Him and His company out of their own means.

The sentence is so quiet that we might miss what it reveals.

The visible proclamation of the Kingdom was accompanied by hidden hands.

Someone provided food. Someone supplied what was necessary for the road. Someone gave from what she possessed so that Christ and those traveling with Him might continue their journey. Alongside the preaching of the Gospel stood lives of generosity about which we know almost nothing.

The Fathers understood this hiddenness.

The desert was filled with men and women whose lives disappeared from human memory. We possess the names of a few: Antony, Macarius, Arsenius, Syncletica. But around them were thousands whose names have vanished. They prayed in caves. They carried water. They tended the sick. They baked bread. They welcomed strangers. They buried the dead. They gave away what little they possessed.

No one wrote their lives.

God saw them.

This is one of the great corrections the Gospel makes to our understanding of importance.

We tend to think that the Kingdom advances through the person speaking, teaching, leading, writing, preaching, or standing before others. But heaven may see things very differently.

Perhaps the sermon was possible because someone prepared the meal.

Perhaps the monastery endured because someone quietly tended the garden.

Perhaps a priest remained faithful because an old woman prayed for him every morning for thirty years.

Perhaps a book reached a wounded soul because someone packed the box, paid the postage, corrected the manuscript, or gave the money that allowed it to be printed.

Perhaps a suffering person endured another night because someone sat beside the bed and refused to leave.

The Kingdom has always been carried by hidden people.

And there is something still deeper in this Gospel.

These women had first received mercy.

Their service follows their healing. They had encountered Christ and been restored, and what they possessed afterward became an offering. Grace received became generosity offered.

This is the pattern of the Christian life.

We receive mercy.

And then, almost without noticing, our life begins to become an offering.

The modern elders continually returned to this hidden offering of the self. Holiness does not require a dramatic arena. It requires that the person before us, the task before us, the suffering entrusted to us, become the place where we give ourselves to God.

This is difficult because much of what is most precious in a human life will never be acknowledged.

There are obediences for which no one will thank us.

There are sacrifices no one will understand.

There are years spent caring for another human being that will leave almost no visible monument behind.

There are prayers offered in rooms where no one hears them.

There are meals prepared, bodies washed, medications given, floors cleaned, bills paid, tears wiped away, and weary people accompanied through another day.

Much of this will disappear from the memory of the world.

But none of it disappears before God.

Perhaps this is why the hidden life becomes such a severe school of love. When no one sees what we are doing, we slowly discover why we are doing it.

At first we may still want someone to notice.

Then even that desire can be surrendered.

The Desert Fathers fled precisely from the terrible hunger to be seen. They knew how easily even virtue can become another form of self-love. They sought the place where a person could stand before God without witnesses.

There the soul learns a frightening freedom:

God sees. That is enough.

Joanna did not need to preach the sermon.

Susanna did not need to become one of the Twelve.

The “many others” did not need their names preserved.

They simply remained near Christ and gave what they had.

And perhaps that is one of the purest descriptions of discipleship.

Remain near Him.

Give what you have.

Do the thing love has placed before you.

And do not be troubled if no one understands its importance.

The Kingdom of God has always rested upon such hidden offerings.

Indeed, when everything is finally revealed, we may discover that what appeared peripheral was never peripheral at all.

The old woman lighting a candle.

The father working quietly for his family.

The mother keeping vigil beside a sick child.

The caregiver returning to the same room for the hundredth time.

The monk praying alone before dawn.

The anonymous benefactor.

The person who listens.

The person who stays.

The one who gives without being thanked.

The one whose name is forgotten.

These may be among the great pillars of the Kingdom.

Saint Luke gives us only three verses.

Mary.

Joanna.

Susanna.

And many others.

Then the narrative moves on.

But God does not forget.

He remembers every cup of water.

Every hidden gift.

Every quiet obedience.

Every act of love offered without witness.

And perhaps the deepest freedom comes when we no longer need our name to be remembered at all.

It is enough that we were near Christ.

It is enough that we gave Him what we had.

It is enough that He knows.