On the Power of Pancakes…

Tags

community, dignity, feast, homeless, humanity, Jesus, meal, normal, pancakes, parish, profound, Shrove Tuesday, simple

Photo credit:  https://stpauls-exton.com/event/shrove-tuesday-pancake-supper/

Last night we had our annual Shrove Tuesday Pancake Supper at Hickory Neck Episcopal Church.  In some ways, the evening was just like every other year:  pancakes, sausage, and cake were in abundance, people donned their beads, and festive music was in the air.  But this year there was one big difference.  We shared the evening with some special guests.  You see, we signed up to host a week of our community’s emergency winter shelter – but without checking the liturgical calendar.  So, we had two options – invite our guests to join us, or find an alternate location for our festivities.  The decision was not an easy one.  We talked for months about the theology of hospitality and service.  We talked about the realities of life for our guests, who are often tired and usually want to get some sleep as soon as possible.  We talked about privacy, fellowship, and discomfort.  In the end, we decided sharing the evening was the most authentic, hospitable way forward, not being entirely sure how the evening would go.

In my mind the evening had two potential outcomes.  The first one I imagined was of a typical middle school dance – the girls on one side of the room and the boys on the other, neither being bold enough to get out there and dance.  I worried that our guests would feel awkward or put on the spot to socialize.  I worried that our parishioners would feel uncomfortable and would avoid contact with our guests.  The other outcome I imagined was a profound evening, where guests and parishioners would mingle with ease, where deep conversations would be had, and where God would be palpably present.  In that scenario, we would see God in the faces of each other, and we would be deeply transformed.

The reality of the evening was neither of my scenarios came to fruition.  Luckily, no one behaved awkwardly or made anyone feel uncomfortable.  But there was also not a sense of deep transformation last night.  Instead, the evening was simple, authentic, and real.  Some of the guests and parishioners kept to themselves or stuck with those like them.  Some of the guests and parishioners shared in conversation over the feast.  Children played with parishioners and guests alike, serving as a great equalizer.  Jokes and laughter were shared, a meal was had in relaxed community, and the evening ended with the goodbyes of old friends.  The only thing profound about the evening was that it was profoundly normal.

As I reflect back, I suppose that is the best outcome we could have had.  Jesus sat with all sorts of people over meals, not necessarily to have contrived, poignant encounters, but to serve as an equalizer with people who were not treated equally.  Jesus knew the power of food to move people toward honoring the dignity of every human being.  That is what we did last night.  We had fun, we feasted until we could feast no more, and we honored our baptismal covenant by seeking and serving Christ in every person, loving our neighbor as our self, and respecting the dignity of other human beings.  Not bad for a Shrove Tuesday Pancake Supper!

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On Patience and Humanity…

Tags

control, free will, freedom, frustration, God, humanity, patience, pray, reason, sleep, stubborn

Our youngest recently graduated to a “big girl” bed, which means that she now officially refuses to stay in it for sleeping.  Since she discovered her new freedom, we have spent anywhere from twenty minutes to two hours trying to get her to sleep.  We have tried everything – a predictable routine of bath, book, rocking, and bed.  We have tried gently returning her to her room, with limited conversation.  We have tried insisting she put herself back to bed (this one almost never succeeds).  And of course, we have raised our voices many a time – not exactly the best remedy to get someone to go to sleep.  There have been tears (hers and ours), arguments, and desperation.  We keep reminding ourselves that this is a phase, but when you are in the thick of a phase, it can be hard to see straight.

I was bemoaning our situation this weekend, wondering why she doesn’t just go to sleep.  Clearly she is tired, and she feels better when she is rested.  But logic is not her strong suit right now.  In the midst of my frustration, it occurred to me that this must be a little taste of God’s relationship with us.  Surely God knows what is best for us, and would love for us to follow God’s will.  And yet, we are stubborn.  We want to do things our way, and we want to be in control.  Sometimes it occurs to us to go to God in prayer, seeking guidance.  But most of the time we are so fixed on what we want and what we think is best, we rarely look to God.  God gives us the gift of free will, and with that comes the mess of human decisions and actions.

Thinking about God’s infinite patience with my own stubbornness has made me wonder if I might take a deep breath and try to offer that same patience with my little one.  I often find that when I take that breath, imagining God’s lens of patience, I am able to see my child’s frustration, her longing for independence, and her confusion.  Seeing her humanity makes my heart much more generous.  Thinking about God’s infinite patience has also made me wonder to whom else I could extend a little more patience.  Perhaps it is the friend or family member who feels like a perpetual burden.  Perhaps it is a colleague or fellow volunteer who refuses our advice.  Or perhaps, and maybe even more frustrating lately, it is that elected official for whom we may or may not have voted.  If God can love us, honor our humanity, and abide with us, surely we might be able to share the same love, honor, and patience – even if it sometimes makes us crazy!  I promise to pray for you as you endeavor to follow God’s example – as long as you pray for me too!

Photo credit:  www.ottawacoc.org/sermons/393261-gods-patience/

On humanity…

Tags

Bathsheba, community, David, dignity, healthy, honest, human, humanity, humble, king, Nathan, power, sin

This summer I have loved the unfolding of the David story in our lectionary.  I have preached on his story several times because I love how very complicated his story is.  When most of us think of David, we think of the revered king.  He was favored and anointed by God, is celebrated by the people of faith as an exemplary king, and for Christians, he is honored in the lineage that produces Jesus, the Messiah.  Our selective memory of David is not unfounded.  He has very humble beginnings.  As the youngest son of his family, relegated to working in the fields as a shepherd, he is anointed as the favored one.  As a boy, when whole armies feared Goliath, David is considered brave, fighting off the giant Goliath with only a bag of stones.  As a young man he is the beloved friend of Jonathan and Michal.  He survives multiple murder attempts by Saul – even being presented with the opportunity to kill Saul himself, David refrains.  He dances boldly before God when he becomes king, showing proper adoration of the Lord.  He and his son, Solomon, will be the last of the noble kings, before a strain of evil kings runs the people of Israel to the ground.

At least that is what our selective memory holds.  When we proudly proclaim Jesus is descended from the house of David, we sometimes gloss over the other “stuff” about David.  We gloss over the way he cuts off Michal in her grief.  We gloss over the way he rapes Bathsheba, and then has her husband killed when he cannot hide his indiscretion.  Of course, the text does not say David raped her – just that he “lay with her.”  But when a king (who has infinitely more power than a common woman) sends men to your home when your husband is away, and they take you (not asking if you are interested in going) to the king, and the king has sex with you, I am guessing the sex was not consensual.  Later, we gloss over the fact that despite this horrid beginning of a relationship with Bathsheba, Bathsheba is the one who later bares him the son, Solomon.  The list of things we gloss over about David is indeed long.

I think that is why I love the unfolding story of David.  He is beloved and horribly flawed.  He is a revered leader with deep sinfulness.  He is noble king and he is human.  I have great affection for David and I am deeply disappointed by him.  But isn’t that the way with all great people?  I remember when I first learned of how The Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was complicit with the sexism of his time, I finally began to see him as human too.  And of course, David’s humanity forces me to reconcile with my own humanity.

Photo credit: http://www.artforhumanity.org/

But all of that reflection on David overshadows the humanity of Bathsheba.  Like so many characters in the Bible, especially women, we are left with little of her perspective.  And because we have so little information, many of us are hesitant to preach about her story.  And yet, we are a community that has Bathshebas too – women stripped of power and dignity.  I do not know what that means for Sunday’s preaching (when we will get Nathan’s judgment of David for his actions with Bathsheba), especially since I try to be careful about sensitive subjects in the pulpit.  But this week, as we continue to journey with David, I am lingering with Bathsheba.  I am lingering on what it means to be a community of Davids, Bathshebas, and Nathans – and how we do that in a healthy, honest, and humble way.  Stay tuned!

Seeing dignity…

Tags

baptism, brokenness, difficult, dignity, faith, human being, humanity, joy, laughter, The Intouchables

Photo credit: http://ourfaithinaction.net/2012/the-intouchables/the-intouchables-movie-poster-3/

This weekend I finally saw The Intouchables, a 2011 film based on the true story of a French, wealthy quadriplegic who hires a man convicted of petty theft to be his caregiver.  The quadriplegic, Philippe, has been through many caregivers.  He is a widower who lost the use of most of his body in a paragliding accident.  He is bitter and does not like the way that most highly-skilled caregivers treat him more like a patient than a person.  Meanwhile, Driss applies for the job simply to obtain governmental unemployment benefits, assuming that Philippe will never hire him.  Philippe is intrigued by this man who shows him little respect, and hires Driss.  The two begin a relationship that is different than any either of them had known.  Philippe is finally able to rediscover a joy for life and reimagine what his life can be.  Meanwhile, Driss begins to see that he can have value too – that perhaps he can start anew with life, providing for his family and having a new sense of self-worth.

What I loved about this film was two-fold.  First, I had anticipated this being a sober, but triumphal movie.  Instead, I found myself laughing throughout the film – not at a slapstick humor, but at the kind of humor one develops when things get so bad that laughter is both the inappropriate and most appropriate thing to do.  It is an irreverent humor that only two characters who have been pushed to the margins can deeply enjoy, and yet, those outcasts invite us in to our own darkness and bring us out with laughter.  The second thing I loved about this movie is the way in which each character was able to see humanity in one who had been stripped of their humanity.  For Philippe, his physical disability had taken away his ability to full participate in society.  Society struggled to see any value in him beyond his money – which is not a value for which anyone wants to be known.  For Driss, he was a criminal who was unable to hold down a job and be a responsible citizen.  Society struggled to see any value in him, leaving him limited options.  And yet, in Philippe, Driss was able to unearth an adventurous, funny, sarcastic man of compassion and fortitude.  And in Driss, Philippe was able to unearth a sympathetic, strong, talented man of wisdom and grace.  In essence, they could see the humanity in one another.

When we reaffirm our baptismal covenant, one of the promises we make is to respect the dignity of every human being.  Over and over we make that promise, and yet I think it is one of the hardest things we promise to do.  It is very difficult to respect the dignity of the guy who cuts you off in traffic.  It is very difficult to respect the dignity of your family member who constantly puts you down.  It is very difficult to respect the dignity of the man who kills nine Christians in a church because of their race.  This past Sunday, as we were editing the Prayers of the People, I found I had no problem listing the names of the deceased from Charleston.  Where I struggled was adding the killer’s name to our list too.  That action went against every instinct in my body, and yet, some small ache made me feel like I had to add him too.

Respecting the dignity of every human being is not a one-time action.  It takes a lifetime of practice.  We fail at it all the time, but we keep recommitting to the work because we promised we would at our baptism.  What encouraged me about that work this week, was the relationship between Philippe and Driss.  Watching two men, so dramatically different, and yet similar in the way that society treated them as outcasts, heartily laugh from the depths of their souls gave me hope.  They gave me hope that I might see the dignity of others through my own brokenness.  The promise for my work is that I too would find the joy that only hearty, full-bodied laughter can bring.

Sermon – Mark 11.1-11, PS, YB, March 29, 2015

Tags

bad, God, good, humanity, Jesus, love, Palm Sunday, Sermon, sinful

Today is one of those days in which the fullness of our humanity is on complete display.  We see that fullness in our two readings today.  We start with the liturgy of the Palms.  In Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem, everything is right.  The disciples finally follow instructions by Jesus to perfection.  They do not ask questions, they do not fumble – they simply listen to Jesus, do what Jesus says, and enable the procession of a lifetime.  And the people show us a glimmer of perfection too.  When Jesus comes down that Mount of Olives, the traditional location from which the people expected the final battle for Jerusalem’s liberation would begin,[i] the people respond as though they understand.  They spread cloaks before him, they wave palms, and they proclaim, “Hosanna!  Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!  Blessed is the coming kingdom of our ancestor David!  Hosanna in the highest heaven!”  Despite text after text of the people debating who Jesus is, finally there is clarity – a moment of truth.  And that moment is perfectly good.

But then of course, we also read the passion today.  And all that is awful about humanity is fully exposed too.  Religious leaders are plotting to kill Jesus, his disciple betrays him, the disciples deny him though they swear never to do so, they sleep when he begs them not to, the people turn him over to be crucified, they humiliate him, and they mock him, even until he is dead on a cross.  No one escapes guilt.  All are to blame for what happens that day.  And even we in our liturgy shout with the people, “Crucify him.”  We do not shout those words because they are comfortable – in fact, we like to believe that we would have never shouted those words.  We like to believe that even though Peter could not be loyal, we would have been.  But the truth is that we too have denied Christ in our lives – both publicly and privately.  This moment is perfectly horrible, and full of human sinfulness.

This is the frustration with the readings from Palm Sunday.  Today would be a lot easier if we could just read the palms lesson or the passion narrative.  To do both takes us on too much of an emotional roller coaster.  The extreme high of the palms juxtaposed to the extreme low of the Passion is almost too much to bear.  We would rather focus on the relief of the palms, knowing that we sometimes get things right, or we would rather focus on our sinfulness, knowing that we often get things wrong.  But doing both in one morning feels confusing and disorienting.

But that is the brilliance of this day.  All of humanity truly is exposed – the good and the bad.  Just like in each of us there is goodness and sinfulness.  We are never fully one or the other.  Think of the person you most revere in life – that grandparent, that teacher, that community leader.  They taught you so much about how to be a good human being.  And yet, even they had flaws.  You probably saw those flaws once or twice, but you buried them or ignored them so you could keep them up on their pedestal.  Likewise, if you were to think of the person you most detest in life – that bully at school, that slimy politician, that addict in your family.  As morally depraved as they are, there have been moments – tiny glimpses of goodness or at least vulnerability, that you saw in them.  Yes, they too are not wholly evil or sinful.

In 1969, Bill was a single, gay man in San Francisco who had always wanted to be a father.  Word got out that Social Services was having a difficult time placing boys with adoptive families, and so Bill went to the offices to find out if he might be eligible.  He met Aaron on one of his first visits to the adoption agency, but Aaron’s mother had been a heroin addict, and the two-year old had serious developmental issues.  At first Bill declined, but he found himself at FAO Schwartz later, buying a teddy bear to give to Aaron.  When Aaron heard his voice again the next day, he ran to Bill and threw his arms around him.  Bill and Aaron shared a happy family life.  Aaron ended up having neurological damage, and was diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic.  By his teenage years, he became a drug addict.  When Aaron was 30, Bill got a call from coroner’s office.  Aaron had overdosed on heroin.  When Bill was asked whether he ever regretted the adoption, he said, “You know, I still cry over the ending.  But I would do it again.  I loved him so much.  And he loved me too.  I was lucky in so many ways.”[ii]

That is the rub today.  We both celebrate the good and honor the depravity in ourselves because we know that God loves us no matter what.  God’s love is not sentimental.  As one scholar says, God’s love is “more like the love of a parent who washes feces from a pouting three-year old.”[iii]  That kind of love knows the moments of our goodness and the moments of our awfulness, and loves us anyway.  That kind of love is able to look back at a life tormented by addiction and mental illness, and know not only that he loved, but that the addict loved too.  Perhaps that is why we read both lessons today.  We need to know that despite the ways in which we betray our Lord and Savior, we also have moments of honor and goodness.  And despite the fact that we are sometimes the beloved, obedient children of God, we are also sometimes the disobedient, hurtful children of God.  And our God loves us anyway.  Amen.

[i] Charles L. Campbell, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 155.

[ii] Story recorded through StoryCorp on NPR, and can be found at http://storycorps.org/?p=57072.

[iii] Michael Battle, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 156.

On dignity…

Tags

baptism, dignity, human, humanity, Jesus, laborers

Today I drove by a pharmacy whose property is regularly peppered with “day laborers.”  I have yet to see someone actually out hiring people, but I imagine it must happen since every time I pass by, there are always 5 – 20 men standing around waiting.  Of course there are more men in the mornings and less in the afternoons.  But I consistently see men there, even in the late afternoons.  I have often wondered whether these men actually get hired at such a late hour, but their presence there leads me to believe that they must some days.

As I drove by the men gathered today, I was reminded of Jesus’ parable of the laborers in the vineyard (Matthew 20.1-16).  The landowner goes out at nine, noon, three, and five, each time hiring men from the marketplace.  At the end of the day, the landowner gives a full day’s wages to all the men, regardless of how long each person worked.  The ones who work the longest grumble at how unfair the landowner’s actions seem, but the landowner scolds them for their disdain for landowner’s generosity.

Courtesy of http://intentionaljane.com/tag/dignity/

What I have always liked about the parable is the way that the landowner sees the humanity in people – recognizes that even though someone did not get the opportunity to work, they may have wanted the dignity that work provides and the security that income can create.  I think we often forget the ways that our society strips people of dignity – either by creating barriers to earning a livable wage, by creating systems meant to help individuals without realizing how hard receiving help can be, or by simply reducing people into issues – “immigrants,” “refuges,” or the “homeless,” as opposed to persons known by name.  One of my new favorite blogs/Facebook pages is called “Humans of New York.”  A photographer collects photos of assorted people from New York and usually includes a quote or a short story about them.  I just love the glimpses into people’s lives – people you might never give a thought or glance to, but who have a story.

We promise in our baptismal covenant to “respect the dignity of every human being.”  I wonder what that looks like in your life.  Just this morning I ran across a video of a man who approaches a homeless man on the street – a person who is virtually ignored by every other person passing by.  The man asks if he can borrow the homeless man’s bucket, and at first the homeless man seems wary and concerned.  But to his surprise, the man uses the bucket and a couple of friends to create an impromptu moment of music, which leads to some extra cash that the man then gives to the homeless man.  Something about the video give me a glimpse into what we mean when we talk about dignity – all three “helpers” sit with the man, they make him a part of something beautiful, and then they let him live in peace.  But especially they seem to be saying, “I see you.  You are not alone.  You are a person and I honor your dignity.”  How might you respect the dignity of every human being today?

Sermon – Matthew 17.1-9, LE, YA, March 2, 2014

Tags

divinity, God, humanity, Jesus, Sermon, touch, Transfiguration

As many of you know, I really enjoy movies.  I like dramas, comedies, independent films, documentaries, and action films.  But what I rarely admit is that I also enjoy my share of cheesy romantic comedies.  One of those romantic comedies, Notting Hill, tells the story of a famous American actress who is filming in England.  She stumbles into the shop of a normal Englishman and the two of them begin an awkward, but sweet romance.  Unfortunately, the actress’ fame keeps interrupting their relationship – whether with the surprise appearance of paparazzi, a planned date foiled by a press junket, or the confusing boundaries between the public version of the actress and the private version of the actress.  After a hiatus, the actress returns to England to see if the couple can make a go of things one more time.  The Englishman is extremely reluctant, but in her final plea, the actress reminds him that although everyone knows her as this famous actress, she is also just a girl who would like to have the love and companionship of a boy.

In some ways, I read today’s gospel with that same sense of tension between the extraordinary and the ordinary.  Today, on this final Sunday of Epiphany, we find one more manifestation of the identity of Christ.  On this Transfiguration Sunday, we hear the incredible story of Jesus’ transfiguration.  All the drama is there.  Peter, James, and John are up on a mountain – our first clue that something powerful is about to happen.  While they are there, Jesus transforms into an array of light:  his face shining like the sun, and his clothes shimmering in dazzling white.  And as if that were not shocking enough, the great prophets, Moses and Elijah appear, and begin talking to Jesus.  Finally, a thundering voice comes from a blinding cloud with new revelation, “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased.”  Now Jesus had heard these words at his baptism, but this is the first time the disciples are actually hearing them.  Jesus is not a prophet just like Moses or Elijah.  Jesus is the divine son of God.  If the disciples had in any way questioned the identity of Jesus, those questions are put to rest.  In response, the disciples fall to the ground, overcome with fear.

When I was a parishioner at the Cathedral in Delaware, I helped teach Rite 13, a class for middle school students.  In one of the sessions we talked about our images of God.  The prevailing images among the young people were of a distant God, one who is Lord over us, perhaps one who sits in a throne, and who is a bit inaccessible.  One even admitted that God was a bit scary.  I do not think those young people’s images of God are that far off from our own images of God.  We often see God as distant, transcendent, full of mystery, and far from our reality.  God is that not-so-relatable father who we may love, but also feel a certain sense of being so different from that we could never fully connect.  God is that famous movie star we have even met, but because of our differences, cannot fully connect with.

Into this reality comes Jesus, whose transfiguration today reveals the fullness and the incredible nature of Christ.  When we say that Jesus is both fully human and fully divine, today’s gospel lesson gives us a picture of that dual nature.  Jesus is all those things that we know about God – mysterious, transcendent, and “other.”  As the Son of God, he can be nothing other than fully divine.  And yet, when the disciples are cowering in fear on the ground, overwhelmed by their brush with celebrity, Jesus comes, in his full humanity and touches them.  He gently touches them and says, “Get up and do not be afraid.”  That distant, “other” God we know could never do that.  That distant God had never taken on human form in order to physically touch us.  And yet, that distant God is present in Jesus Christ, doing just that – gently touching overwhelmed disciples and allaying fears.  God in Jesus is that everyday person, simply wanting to love us.

This week I read a reflection by a priest friend of mine.  He was at his Diocesan Convention recently, an event at which he rarely speaks.  But an important issue arose, and he felt as though he could not avoid speaking.  He stood up, argued his case, and faced a heated confrontation.  In the end, the assembly agreed with him and his opinion won over.  As he sat back at his table, a friend quietly whispered in his ear, “You’re shaking.  I’m going to touch you for a little bit.”  As the friend laid his hand upon his shoulder, my friend could feel his blood pressure lowering and the tension releasing from his body.[i]  In a world that has become extremely and wisely cautious about touch, we sometimes forget the power of touch.  We all have had powerful experiences with touch:  whether we received a similar hand on the should as reassurance that all would be well; whether we received a hug that was just slightly longer than normal, but much needed, after confessing some bad news; or whether someone just held our hand for a while, as a silent, encouraging gesture.

Our liturgies understand the power of touch.  When someone lays their hands on us – in ordination, in confirmation, or in healing – something about the weight of those hands stays with us.  Maybe the sensation of that touch stays with us as a reminder of a powerful experience; maybe the weight of the touch becomes a release of something held inside for a long time; or maybe something holy passes between the person laying on hands and the person who has hands laid on them.  For those of us who have gone to Ash Wednesday services, we know the powerful experience of the gritty feel of ashes being rubbed across our foreheads.  That combination of touch and grit has a power to evoke all kinds of images – from the dust of creation, to the coarseness of this life, to the inevitability of our dirt-filled grave.  Or perhaps your most familiar experience with touch comes in the Eucharistic meal – the weight of the wafer as the priest presses the wafer into your hand, or the feel of the weighty chalice as you direct the chalice to your mouth.

Both our experiences with touch and the disciples’ experience with touch point us to the magnificence of what happens on Transfiguration Sunday.  As God takes on flesh in the person of Jesus, God is both that transcendent, mysterious, “other” God, and God is that earthy, fleshy, gentle God who can place a comforting hand on our shoulders, tell us to get up, and not be afraid.  That is what we have been celebrating in these weeks since Christmas – the miracle of what God accomplishes in the incarnation and the impact of what God made flesh means in our lives.  As one scholar writes, “This is the way that God comes into the world:  not simply the brilliant cloud of mystery, not only a voice thundering from heaven, but also a human hand laid upon a shoulder and the words, ‘Do not be afraid,’  God comes to us quietly, gently, that we may draw near and not be afraid.”[ii]  God is both the untouchable, but revered celebrity and the very real person through whom we are touched, comforted, and emboldened to get up and not be afraid.  For that reality, we celebrate our God with our final alleluias of this season, with the touch of healing, the embrace of the peace, and the weight of Christ’s body and blood in our hands.  Amen.

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[i] Steve Pankey, “The Power of Touch,” as found at http://draughtingtheology.wordpress.com/2014/02/27/the-power-of-touch/ on February 27, 2014.

[ii] Patrick J. Willson, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A., Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 457.

On compassion…

Tags

compassion, Congress, evangelism, humanity, Jesus, transformation

Courtesy of http://vividlife.me/ultimate/33329/a-guide-to-practical-compassion/

As our Vestry has been exploring the spiritual practice of evangelism, we have been doing some self-work.  This week we focused on the work of compassion.  David Gortner, in Transforming Evangelism, says, “Compassion is not pity, but the recognition of another person’s full humanity, warts and all.”  Our Vestry talked about our experiences of seeing others show compassion, but also how hard compassion can be to express – especially when people hurt us.

Our conversation reminded me of this blog entry I saw recently.  As a Long Island Driver, I totally get this story.  I have been yelled at many a time since moving here – and to be fair, I have expressed my own impatience at times, but hopefully never in such an extreme way.  What I love about this blog post though is that this is the ultimate example of seeing with compassion.  In that moment, that mom was able to see the other driver’s full humanity – in a way that probably Christ sees us every day, but in a way that we rarely take the time to see.  This kind of compassion does not come naturally – especially when someone is yelling expletives in our face.  But when that compassion was shown, both drivers were transformed – transformed by God’s love.

I have been thinking we could all use a little more compassion lately.  As our Congress has derailed an entire section of our economy and as we have been raging about whatever side is not “our side,” I think compassion has been long gone.  I include myself in that omission.  I found myself this week literally yelling at the radio as I heard one of the Representatives explaining why her party is doing the right thing.  And the whole situation makes me so angry that I am not sure I could even sit in the same room with these Representatives as they attempt to find a solution.  But thinking about that driver at Starbucks and thinking about our Vestry’s conversation about compassion, I have been wondering how Christ sees this whole debate.  I have my own sense of what position Jesus would take on all this (though I won’t share that here), but I also know that Jesus is fully capable of loving both sides and seeing the humanity in all the people involved.  Of course, that does not make the situation any easier or my frustration any lessened, but it does take the edge off my raging anger a bit.

Perhaps that small bit is all I can ask for now.  Perhaps that small glimpse into compassion is enough to shift my way of being and interacting with others.  Perhaps that first step is all that Jesus needs to begin the slow conversion of each of us toward a life of compassion.