The power of human touch is radically amazing. Human touch speaks of intimacy and connection. As humans we crave this intimacy and, yet, we have unspoken rules about it. We welcome strangers with a handshake or perhaps if we are younger, with a fist bump. We reserve embraces and kisses for those closest to us. This is only natural because in a very real way, the more we touch another, the more we are giving of ourselves. But also, the more we give of ourselves, the more we are hopefully received and blessed in return.
It is because of this reality of the power of human touch that my experience at the Village of Jesus was so life-giving. We spent a mere hour or two with this group of Haitian women. Many of them are probably around my grandma’s age; some of them are closer to my mother’s. All of them speak Creole and I speak barely none. After my weak attempt at, “what’s your name?” and “how are you?” we have basically exhausted our means of communicating verbally, and yet, we are not nearly done speaking to one another.
We begin our visit by passing out our gifts. Each woman receives a bandana, a rosary, lotion, and a new blouse. They are each so excited. The clever ones try to hide their bandana so that they receive two. It makes me laugh to witness their tricks and yet sad to know such tricks come out of a desire for more… for more than two clean shirts or two clean bandanas. I think of my closet at home and am embarrassed to know I have enough t-shirts to clothe each of these women at least once if not more.
After passing out the gifts, we begin the pampering. I follow the lead of others by simply going to one woman, pointing to the lotion, and pointing to her. She nods and immediately rolls up her sleeves. And so I sit and I massage lotion into her arms. I massage past her elbows going as far as I can reach. I take time on her hands; trying to mimic the massages I have received at home, hoping that it feels soothing. I think about the number of people in my life that I have touched this closely and carefully; very few. And yet, here I am, miles and what feels worlds away from home, having this extremely intimate experience. I can’t help but think that this is a sacred moment, an encounter with the divine in a way I have never before experienced.
Slowly, this is how we make our way through the women. Some of them point to their legs and we massage those too. Many of the toes and feet look and feel so broken. Missing nails, scars. Feet that have carried these women through hardship, through poverty, through homelessness. Feet that have carried these women, perhaps barefoot, gracefully through the care of children and families. These feet speak volumes.
After the lotion, we move on to nail painting. I remember a saying that says something like, “if you are to be a street sweeper, be the best street sweeper that you can be.” The point being, whatever you are doing or being, do and be it to the best you know how. That’s how I feel while painting these nails. I cannot do much for these women; I cannot do nearly enough. But, if I am going to paint their nails, I am going to do it perfectly… or at least, as best I can. I am going to do my part to make these women feel beautiful and proud.
That’s why, at one point, I sit cross-legged on the ground so that I can paint one women’s toes carefully. I am sitting on the cement ground in a pair of old capri’s that I brought to Haiti because I didn’t care if they got ruined. And yet, after about two minutes on the ground, a Haitian woman near me starts gesturing to me, clearly upset. Without words that I can comprehend, she is clearly telling me that I am sitting on the ground and the ground is dirty, and so, I need to find a chair.
You see, Haitians are a proud people who take care of themselves and their possessions. Here I am, just trying to paint nails as best as I can, and here these women are, worried about me getting my pants dirty. They are taking care of me as I am trying to take care of them. Another encounter with the divine.
As we finish making sure that each woman has her nails painted and arms massaged, the women start praying the rosary in Creole. This is not the first nor the last time in my week in Haiti that I find myself amidst a group of women spontaneously praying the rosary in Creole. Such faith, and hope, and joy. Yet another sacred moment.
Slowly, we start saying our goodbyes. We kiss their cheeks and say, “bonswa” and “mesi” at least a dozen times.
And then, that’s it. The time is over and we are on our way, perhaps to never see these same women again. Even so, they have changed me. They have changed me because, as I said, the power of human touch is radically amazing.
Human touch speaks of connection. It reminds us that in a very real sense, we are all one.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Haiti
There is a Haitian proverb that says, “What the eye does not see does not touch the heart.” Before I went to Haiti, I admittedly took some offense to this saying. It seemed to be implying that I couldn’t care about people I had never met, that I couldn’t love them or have compassion for them. Now, after spending mere days in Haiti, I think I am beginning to understand.
Before going to Haiti, I could say that I had compassion for Haitians; I could say that they are my brothers and sisters and I could mean it. However, I did so from the safety of my very comfortable life, I did so while doing nothing to better their existence. Only someone who has not witnessed the poverty and sickness and hunger of Haiti firsthand could care for and love these people from afar and yet do nothing to touch them – do nothing to alleviate their suffering.
Many things in Haiti touched my heart, but none so much as Reglena. Reglena is a little girl I met at the Missionary of Charities facility in Port-au-Prince. I was drawn to Reglena as an expressionless little girl with big brown eyes. As she lay in her crib in a room full of back-to-back cribs, she was one of a few children not crying. Upon first glance, I thought Reglena was maybe two years old. She was old enough at least to hoist herself to a sitting position when her nanny handed her a glass of water. After she finished her water, I leaned down to her, my arms out-stretched, and let her eagerly crawl into them.. the arms of a strange blah (white) woman whom she had never met.
Reglena resting comfortably on my hip weighed less than twenty pounds. Once I held her secure, I grabbed a hold of the wristband she was wearing so that I could learn her name. The white hospital band rested on a wrist that seemed very small, it was maybe the diameter of a fifty-cent piece. It read: Reglena 5 yrs.
Reglena was 5 years old and smaller than my 19 month old niece back home. But unlike my niece, Reglena wasn’t full of smiles and movement, talking and dancing. Reglena was more like a puppet, willing to go wherever I moved her, vacant of emotion. Reglena was barely able to hold herself up not because she had an illness, but simply because she was malnourished.
In an instant, I held Reglena, thought of my healthy niece, and started to cry. Today I cry because I know that my words cannot do her justice; they fail to convey her beauty, her frailty, her innocence.
In that moment, I knew that Reglena had touched my heart. Indeed, she broke my heart in a way she never would have had I not seen her myself.. if I hadn’t felt her cling to my arms when I tried setting her down not twenty minutes later, if I hadn’t seen her finally start to loosen up and giggle as she buried her head in my chest in glee when I figured out how to muster any emotion out of her. It was peek-a-boo that did it; made her laugh and smile. Because you see, Haitian children are not so very different than our own. The only real difference, the only one that matters, is that more of them, tons of them, die daily of completely curable diseases.. they die daily because they don’t have enough food to eat or clean water to drink.
It’s interesting that despite the suffering in Haiti there is almost no incidence of suicide. This is because Haitians, in their soul, are full of life. They love to sing and dance. They are deeply faithful and have a profound respect for community and family. Haitians are joyful and gracious, they are kind and generous. They are so full of life while at the same time they are dying of TB, aids, cholera, malaria, dehydration, and malnutrition.
It is easy to get overwhelmed. It is east to think: there is too much suffering in the world, too much pain, where do I start? How do I start? I went to Mass in Haiti and in his sermon Fr. Tom reminded us of the story of the Apostle Thomas seeing the Risen Christ for the first time. As we remember, when Thomas sees Christ and touches his wounds he exclaims, “My Lord and my God.” Fr. Tom reminded us that that’s what the Eucharist is all about: that we are the body of Christ and that Christ is within each of us. And so, when the suffering in the world seems like too much and you feel powerless, the first thing you do is look to the person nearest to you in that moment and say to yourself, “My Lord and my God”. It’s as if you are saying: “there you are, my Lord, in my spouse, there you are in my children, there you are in my friends, my neighbors, my peers, my co-workers, my enemies.. there you are, God, within even me.” Once we begin to see God within each other, we can try to do other small things within our reach.
In Haiti, I spent a morning in a wound clinic run by the Sisters of the Missionaries of Charity. I have no medical background and yet there was much I could do. I spent thirty minutes on the floor trying to match pill containers to their lids. You see, each Saturday one to two hundred adults and children come to see the Sisters to receive free medicines for their ailments; cough syrup, fever medicine, vitamins, antibiotics, scabies medication, dehydration medication, worms medication. The medication tablets are handed out in envelopes folded out of magazines. The liquids are dispensed in used pill containers donated from different groups of volunteers. Wounds, burns, cuts and other abrasions are wrapped in strips of cloth cut out of used bed sheets.
And so, what can I do? I can save my empty pill containers and used sheets for starters. I can ask you to save yours. That may not seem like enough (and truly, it’s not) but, it’s a start.. it’s an acknowledgment that somewhere out there, another is hurting. It’s a step towards healing.
Haiti is a mere one hour and forty minute plane ride from our shore. It is truly a beautiful country full of life, joy and hope. It is a joy and hope that also touches the heart. It is a joy and hope to be envied.
In a way, we are all very much like the Apostle Thomas who did not believe in the Risen Christ until he had seen it with his own eyes. This is true because in a very real sense, “what the eye does not see does not touch the heart”. And yet, Jesus responds, “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.” Blessed are they who consider our Haitian brothers and sisters, who consider the Reglena’s of the world, and think, “My Lord and my God” there you are… even when they have not seen them face to face. Blessed are they, because truly God is amidst the Haitian people, of that I have no doubt.
(If you are interested in donating empty pill containers or bed sheets please respond to this post).
Before going to Haiti, I could say that I had compassion for Haitians; I could say that they are my brothers and sisters and I could mean it. However, I did so from the safety of my very comfortable life, I did so while doing nothing to better their existence. Only someone who has not witnessed the poverty and sickness and hunger of Haiti firsthand could care for and love these people from afar and yet do nothing to touch them – do nothing to alleviate their suffering.
Many things in Haiti touched my heart, but none so much as Reglena. Reglena is a little girl I met at the Missionary of Charities facility in Port-au-Prince. I was drawn to Reglena as an expressionless little girl with big brown eyes. As she lay in her crib in a room full of back-to-back cribs, she was one of a few children not crying. Upon first glance, I thought Reglena was maybe two years old. She was old enough at least to hoist herself to a sitting position when her nanny handed her a glass of water. After she finished her water, I leaned down to her, my arms out-stretched, and let her eagerly crawl into them.. the arms of a strange blah (white) woman whom she had never met.
Reglena resting comfortably on my hip weighed less than twenty pounds. Once I held her secure, I grabbed a hold of the wristband she was wearing so that I could learn her name. The white hospital band rested on a wrist that seemed very small, it was maybe the diameter of a fifty-cent piece. It read: Reglena 5 yrs.
Reglena was 5 years old and smaller than my 19 month old niece back home. But unlike my niece, Reglena wasn’t full of smiles and movement, talking and dancing. Reglena was more like a puppet, willing to go wherever I moved her, vacant of emotion. Reglena was barely able to hold herself up not because she had an illness, but simply because she was malnourished.
In an instant, I held Reglena, thought of my healthy niece, and started to cry. Today I cry because I know that my words cannot do her justice; they fail to convey her beauty, her frailty, her innocence.
In that moment, I knew that Reglena had touched my heart. Indeed, she broke my heart in a way she never would have had I not seen her myself.. if I hadn’t felt her cling to my arms when I tried setting her down not twenty minutes later, if I hadn’t seen her finally start to loosen up and giggle as she buried her head in my chest in glee when I figured out how to muster any emotion out of her. It was peek-a-boo that did it; made her laugh and smile. Because you see, Haitian children are not so very different than our own. The only real difference, the only one that matters, is that more of them, tons of them, die daily of completely curable diseases.. they die daily because they don’t have enough food to eat or clean water to drink.
It’s interesting that despite the suffering in Haiti there is almost no incidence of suicide. This is because Haitians, in their soul, are full of life. They love to sing and dance. They are deeply faithful and have a profound respect for community and family. Haitians are joyful and gracious, they are kind and generous. They are so full of life while at the same time they are dying of TB, aids, cholera, malaria, dehydration, and malnutrition.
It is easy to get overwhelmed. It is east to think: there is too much suffering in the world, too much pain, where do I start? How do I start? I went to Mass in Haiti and in his sermon Fr. Tom reminded us of the story of the Apostle Thomas seeing the Risen Christ for the first time. As we remember, when Thomas sees Christ and touches his wounds he exclaims, “My Lord and my God.” Fr. Tom reminded us that that’s what the Eucharist is all about: that we are the body of Christ and that Christ is within each of us. And so, when the suffering in the world seems like too much and you feel powerless, the first thing you do is look to the person nearest to you in that moment and say to yourself, “My Lord and my God”. It’s as if you are saying: “there you are, my Lord, in my spouse, there you are in my children, there you are in my friends, my neighbors, my peers, my co-workers, my enemies.. there you are, God, within even me.” Once we begin to see God within each other, we can try to do other small things within our reach.
In Haiti, I spent a morning in a wound clinic run by the Sisters of the Missionaries of Charity. I have no medical background and yet there was much I could do. I spent thirty minutes on the floor trying to match pill containers to their lids. You see, each Saturday one to two hundred adults and children come to see the Sisters to receive free medicines for their ailments; cough syrup, fever medicine, vitamins, antibiotics, scabies medication, dehydration medication, worms medication. The medication tablets are handed out in envelopes folded out of magazines. The liquids are dispensed in used pill containers donated from different groups of volunteers. Wounds, burns, cuts and other abrasions are wrapped in strips of cloth cut out of used bed sheets.
And so, what can I do? I can save my empty pill containers and used sheets for starters. I can ask you to save yours. That may not seem like enough (and truly, it’s not) but, it’s a start.. it’s an acknowledgment that somewhere out there, another is hurting. It’s a step towards healing.
Haiti is a mere one hour and forty minute plane ride from our shore. It is truly a beautiful country full of life, joy and hope. It is a joy and hope that also touches the heart. It is a joy and hope to be envied.
In a way, we are all very much like the Apostle Thomas who did not believe in the Risen Christ until he had seen it with his own eyes. This is true because in a very real sense, “what the eye does not see does not touch the heart”. And yet, Jesus responds, “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.” Blessed are they who consider our Haitian brothers and sisters, who consider the Reglena’s of the world, and think, “My Lord and my God” there you are… even when they have not seen them face to face. Blessed are they, because truly God is amidst the Haitian people, of that I have no doubt.
(If you are interested in donating empty pill containers or bed sheets please respond to this post).
Sunday, January 2, 2011
You Do Not Have To Be Good
Wild Geese
by Mary Oliver
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
"You do not have to be good". This is a hard statement for my Catholic guilt ridden self to swallow. Yes I do, I do have to be good, I hear myself scream back. But whose version of "good"? What does "good" mean?
Perhaps I have to redefine good on my own terms. Perhaps if I let myself love what I love, then I will find goodness there.
Sometimes I don't follow all the rules. Sometimes I don't want to do things merely because I am supposed to... I want to do things because they are life-giving for me. I want to do things because they feel like the right things to do. It's hard sometimes to hear your own voice amidst the relentless chatter of the world around us. The world around us with its' constant opinions about what to do and what not to do, who to be and who not to be.
Sometimes I wonder who I would be if left all to myself. What would I care about? What would I do? What would I find myself being present to, moving towards, letting go of?
I do not have to walk on my knees, for a hundred miles through the desert repenting? Are you sure? Because I have made mistakes. Tons of them in fact. I have done stupid things even when a voice within was screaming their stupidity. I have hurt people. I have hurt myself. A lot.
I have said I was sorry. I have tried to make it right. But have I moved on? How do you forgive yourself and be patient with yourself and let yourself make mistakes? How do you be okay with not being perfect?
How do you be okay with being a divorced 27yr old in a world where being divorced means giving up and being single means being insufficient? How do you be okay with being a minister who clearly doesn't have all the right answers and sometimes isn't even a very good role model?
Maybe you focus on the answers you do have. I know that I have inner wisdom. I know that I care for other people, my hearts breaks for them, I feel one with them. I know that the world is beautiful and that I am grateful. I know that I have a place and a purpose. I know that I am trying desperately to live authentically, to cause more healing than harm, to trust more, to expect less.
Sometimes I think we take ourselves too seriously. I am a magnificent creature, we all are. And yet, I am still only a bit of stardust in a universe of stars. The world, life, everything is so much bigger than me. "Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on," she says. It's hard to hold all of that at the same time.. hold the fact that I am uniquely and wonderfully made, and yet, that I am also but a drop of water amidst an unending ocean. My life is truly important, and yet, there is so much more than my life.
In the end, maybe we don't have to be good on someone else's terms. Maybe instead we merely have to find our own terms... to learn to listen to the divine within.. to trust the divine within.. to follow the divine within. Maybe then we will find our place within the family of things... maybe then we will hear the heartbeat of the world within our own.
by Mary Oliver
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
"You do not have to be good". This is a hard statement for my Catholic guilt ridden self to swallow. Yes I do, I do have to be good, I hear myself scream back. But whose version of "good"? What does "good" mean?
Perhaps I have to redefine good on my own terms. Perhaps if I let myself love what I love, then I will find goodness there.
Sometimes I don't follow all the rules. Sometimes I don't want to do things merely because I am supposed to... I want to do things because they are life-giving for me. I want to do things because they feel like the right things to do. It's hard sometimes to hear your own voice amidst the relentless chatter of the world around us. The world around us with its' constant opinions about what to do and what not to do, who to be and who not to be.
Sometimes I wonder who I would be if left all to myself. What would I care about? What would I do? What would I find myself being present to, moving towards, letting go of?
I do not have to walk on my knees, for a hundred miles through the desert repenting? Are you sure? Because I have made mistakes. Tons of them in fact. I have done stupid things even when a voice within was screaming their stupidity. I have hurt people. I have hurt myself. A lot.
I have said I was sorry. I have tried to make it right. But have I moved on? How do you forgive yourself and be patient with yourself and let yourself make mistakes? How do you be okay with not being perfect?
How do you be okay with being a divorced 27yr old in a world where being divorced means giving up and being single means being insufficient? How do you be okay with being a minister who clearly doesn't have all the right answers and sometimes isn't even a very good role model?
Maybe you focus on the answers you do have. I know that I have inner wisdom. I know that I care for other people, my hearts breaks for them, I feel one with them. I know that the world is beautiful and that I am grateful. I know that I have a place and a purpose. I know that I am trying desperately to live authentically, to cause more healing than harm, to trust more, to expect less.
Sometimes I think we take ourselves too seriously. I am a magnificent creature, we all are. And yet, I am still only a bit of stardust in a universe of stars. The world, life, everything is so much bigger than me. "Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on," she says. It's hard to hold all of that at the same time.. hold the fact that I am uniquely and wonderfully made, and yet, that I am also but a drop of water amidst an unending ocean. My life is truly important, and yet, there is so much more than my life.
In the end, maybe we don't have to be good on someone else's terms. Maybe instead we merely have to find our own terms... to learn to listen to the divine within.. to trust the divine within.. to follow the divine within. Maybe then we will find our place within the family of things... maybe then we will hear the heartbeat of the world within our own.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
"Why are you still carrying her?"
Two monks were walking along a dirt path when they came upon a rich woman. The path in front of the woman was wet and muddy. The woman was angry because her servants couldn’t carry her across the mud due to the many packages they were carrying for her.
After a moment, the older monk picked the woman up and carried her across the mud. When they got to the other side, the monk put the woman down. The woman continued on her journey still upset and without even a word of appreciation for the monk.
The two monks proceeded to follow the path in silence.
A few hours later, the younger monk finally couldn’t stand it any longer. He said to the older, “Can you believe that woman? She was so ungrateful.” The older monk looked at the younger and simply replied, “I put down that woman hours ago. Why are you still carrying her?”
Sometimes we choose to carry extra baggage. We choose to carry anger, impatience, disappointment, resentment, or hatred. Of course, we all feel these things at times and none of us has any control over how we feel when we feel it. However, some of us choose to feel those feelings and then let them go while others seem to find a need to hang on to them a little longer.
Certainly people wrong us all the time. Someone cuts us off on the highway, a co-worker takes credit for something that we accomplished, our spouse is unappreciative of the meal we cooked or house we cleaned. And, certainly there are times when those wrongs can and need to be righted.. when we need to have a discussion with our co-worker or our spouse.
But, what about those times when we don’t want to discuss or don’t have the option.. when we don’t want to make things better or simply can’t? I wonder if sometimes we would rather carry those emotions with us just so that we can be justified in being upset… so that we can have cause for our own dissatisfaction.
Or, perhaps, we have a hard time letting things go merely on principal. Someone did something rude or unkind and they should know that their actions have affects. The person in this particular situation being affected just happens to be us and so we have no choice but to be resentful or irritated. And yet, being angry all day at the person who cut us off this morning isn’t teaching that person a lesson. Our emotions aren’t affecting that person at all. They are, instead, crippling us.. keeping us stuck in the past, preventing us from moving forward.
On the other hand, sometimes our emotions propel us forward. Sometimes staying with our outrage strengthens our motivation to make change. We get so angry about the education system in our county that we call our mayor; we get so outraged at the uneven distribution of wealth that we start paying more attention to purchases of need rather than want. Indeed, sometimes staying in our emotions is fruitful and important.
So, then, how do we decipher when to hold on and when to let go? When to carry and when to lay aside?
I suppose we ask ourselves a simple question: is this emotion useful right now? Is my irritation at my boss helping me? Is my anger at my son working for me? Or, am I just wasting time? Am I wasting a couple hours on my journey being angry at the rich, ungrateful woman when I could be focused on where I am at now or what’s coming next?
And then, I suppose, we have a choice. We can choose to listen to the answer to the questions we have asked ourselves or simply to ignore them. But, ultimately, the choice is ours and ours alone.
Also, I suppose, the answer is in the perspective. Is our perspective that we are owed certain things, that we are entitled to them? Or, is our perspective one of gratitude for each and everything that goes our way? What is it to think of each and every good thing in our life as a gift? A blessing?
Perhaps if we expressed more gratitude when things went right with our lives, we would feel less resentment when things went wrong. And maybe then our point of view might even shift from being irritated with the ungrateful woman, to being saddened and concerned that she is so full of anger in the first place.
One of my favorite quotes is: “It is better to light a candle than to curse the darkness.” In some way, that is the same to me as, “Why are you still carrying her?,” because it’s almost saying: “What’s the point? How does cursing the darkness improve this situation? Why not just let go, or, even better, light a candle?” Sometimes I wonder what would happen if the whole world could stop carrying unnecessary baggage and instead offer up more blessing, more light.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
"Whose to Say?"
There's a classic Zen story about a Farmer's luck. This is how the story goes, as I remember it:
There once was a farmer with a beautiful horse. One day, the horse escaped and ran away. Upon hearing this, the farmer's neighbor came over and lamented, "Oh, how awful, your beautiful horse ran away." The farmer simply responded, "Whose to say whether it is good or bad."
The next day, the horse returned to the farmer bringing a herd of wild horses along with it. Once again the farmer's neighbor responded. This time, the neighbor exclaimed, "Oh, how wonderful! Now you have a whole herd of beautiful horses!" Again the farmer simply replied, "Whose to say whether it is good or bad."
The next day, the farmer's son was trying to train one of the new horses. In the process, he was bucked off and broke his leg. The farmer's neighbor came over and sympathized, "Oh, how horrible, your son has been injured." "Whose to say whether it is good or bad," answered the farmer.
The very next day, military officials came to the village to draft the young men for a war. The farmer's son was not drafted because of his broken leg. "How wonderful," the neighbor rejoiced again. "Whose to say," responded the farmer.
Most of us live our lives much like that of the farmer's neighbor. Our lives are a rollercoaster of emotion: both good and bad. We are quick to judge all that happens to us as well as those around us. We are quick to label things, events, people, as "fortunate" and "unfortunate".
And yet, I wonder how much more peaceful we might be if we were to live like the farmer instead.
The reality is that tragedy strikes us all. We have each had an experience of our "horse running away". It is easy to get caught up in these experiences, to get immobilized by the pain, to be overcome with worry. The truth is, however, that none of us knows where these experiences will lead us.. none of us knows what will happen next. Perhaps that tragedy is the only road to a future beauty .. or joy .. or love.
Jesus tells us, "Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is life not more important than food and the body more important than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life" (Matthew 6:25-27).
Being able to let go of this worry, just as the farmer does, is possible only through a deep and profound trust. As Christians, for us that trust is in God. We trust that God has a plan for us, that His ways and reasons are greater than ours, that He knows what will happen next even when we are clueless. We trust that life is meaningful and that we have a purpose.
Thus, instead of wallowing in each moment of sadness, anger, disappointment, and betrayal, perhaps, we can merely experience them for what they are and then move on. Perhaps we can say to ourselves, "So, this is what pain feels like, or, this is what despair feels like, or, this is what loneliness feels like." After having allowed ourselves to experience these moments, then hopefully we can let them go. In doing so, maybe we can teach ourselves to simply remain open to whatever is to happen next.
I think the same can be true of times of great joy, hope, and peace. Of course we should experience these moments to their fullest. Nonetheless, we do not know where even these moments may lead. If we get too caught up in these moments, we lose our humility and perhaps our drive to continue to do more and be more. And, as the farmer says, we can't finally judge whether an opportunity or event is good or bad until we know what is to come of it.
To me, life should be about judging less and experiencing more. About accepting each moment with even just a grain of respect, peace, and curiosity. About letting go of worry and instead focusing our attention on just being who we are, where we are.
There once was a farmer with a beautiful horse. One day, the horse escaped and ran away. Upon hearing this, the farmer's neighbor came over and lamented, "Oh, how awful, your beautiful horse ran away." The farmer simply responded, "Whose to say whether it is good or bad."
The next day, the horse returned to the farmer bringing a herd of wild horses along with it. Once again the farmer's neighbor responded. This time, the neighbor exclaimed, "Oh, how wonderful! Now you have a whole herd of beautiful horses!" Again the farmer simply replied, "Whose to say whether it is good or bad."
The next day, the farmer's son was trying to train one of the new horses. In the process, he was bucked off and broke his leg. The farmer's neighbor came over and sympathized, "Oh, how horrible, your son has been injured." "Whose to say whether it is good or bad," answered the farmer.
The very next day, military officials came to the village to draft the young men for a war. The farmer's son was not drafted because of his broken leg. "How wonderful," the neighbor rejoiced again. "Whose to say," responded the farmer.
Most of us live our lives much like that of the farmer's neighbor. Our lives are a rollercoaster of emotion: both good and bad. We are quick to judge all that happens to us as well as those around us. We are quick to label things, events, people, as "fortunate" and "unfortunate".
And yet, I wonder how much more peaceful we might be if we were to live like the farmer instead.
The reality is that tragedy strikes us all. We have each had an experience of our "horse running away". It is easy to get caught up in these experiences, to get immobilized by the pain, to be overcome with worry. The truth is, however, that none of us knows where these experiences will lead us.. none of us knows what will happen next. Perhaps that tragedy is the only road to a future beauty .. or joy .. or love.
Jesus tells us, "Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is life not more important than food and the body more important than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life" (Matthew 6:25-27).
Being able to let go of this worry, just as the farmer does, is possible only through a deep and profound trust. As Christians, for us that trust is in God. We trust that God has a plan for us, that His ways and reasons are greater than ours, that He knows what will happen next even when we are clueless. We trust that life is meaningful and that we have a purpose.
Thus, instead of wallowing in each moment of sadness, anger, disappointment, and betrayal, perhaps, we can merely experience them for what they are and then move on. Perhaps we can say to ourselves, "So, this is what pain feels like, or, this is what despair feels like, or, this is what loneliness feels like." After having allowed ourselves to experience these moments, then hopefully we can let them go. In doing so, maybe we can teach ourselves to simply remain open to whatever is to happen next.
I think the same can be true of times of great joy, hope, and peace. Of course we should experience these moments to their fullest. Nonetheless, we do not know where even these moments may lead. If we get too caught up in these moments, we lose our humility and perhaps our drive to continue to do more and be more. And, as the farmer says, we can't finally judge whether an opportunity or event is good or bad until we know what is to come of it.
To me, life should be about judging less and experiencing more. About accepting each moment with even just a grain of respect, peace, and curiosity. About letting go of worry and instead focusing our attention on just being who we are, where we are.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Finding God Within.. you and me and the world.
There is an old story about a dying monastery in a small village. The monastery which had once thrived on monks, visitors, faith and prosperity, had fallen on hard times. All that remained at the monastery were a handful of aging monks. The abbot at a loss for what to do, decided to seek console from the wise rabbi visiting his hermitage in the woods outside the monastery.
The rabbi agreed that it seemed as if the people at the monastery and in the village had lost the Spirit. Together, they read the Torah and wept for the people. The rabbi apologized for not having any advice for the abbot save to say, "the Messiah is one of you".
When the abbot returned to his monastery the other monks were saddened to hear that the rabbi had offered no advice. The abbot did share the rabbi's cryptic message that, "the Messiah is one of you".
In the days and weeks and months that followed, the monks continued to ponder this message. They started paying more attention to each other and wondering if it was truly possible that one of them was the Messiah. As they continued to wonder who the Messiah might be, they began to treat each other with the utmost respect in the off chance that one of them was He. And, on the off chance that each one himself might be, they began to treat themselves with extraordinary respect as well.
Since the forest in which it resided was beautiful, it just so happened that villagers continued to visit the monastery from time to time. As they did so, people began to feel and sense the deep aura of respect that was emanating from the monks and the monastery.
This gentle aura seemed to radiate from the monastery and without naming it or realizing it, people became compelled to return. They began to bring their friends who in turn brought their friends. Eventually some of the younger men began talking to the old monks until one day, one of them asked to join the monastery.. and then another, and another, until the monastery was once again thriving.
The monks began to treat one another with deep and profound respect once they learned that the Messiah was among them. And indeed the Messiah was among them. That is what it means to be made in the image and likeness of God. It means that the divine is within us all, from the least to the greatest.
This concept is at the core of our Judeo-Christian tradition... it's discussed in the very first chapter of the very first book of our shared Scripture. "So God created human beings in his own image. In the image of God he created them" (Gen. 1:27). And yet, how often do we live as if this is true? How often do we treat those we meet as if God is within them?
Each week we reaffirm this belief as we participate in the sacrament of Eucharist. We eat the Body and Blood of Christ thereby literally inviting Christ into our very being. We are made one with Christ again and again. And yet, how often do we live as if this is true? How often do we treat ourselves, mentally and physically, as if God is within us?
As we interact with other creatures.. with our land.. with our environment, how often do we consider that maybe, just maybe, there is an element of the divine within it all?
I think about this sometimes. I make a commitment to treat everyone with the respect that I would treat the Messiah. I forget. I fail. I recommit. Life is a cycle of thriving and dying. We can't get it right all of the time because just as much as we are made in the image of God, we are also only human.
Even so, I wonder what this world would be like if we all handled each other as if God was within us. Could we also radiate an aura of love, peace, and respect? I have heard it said that "like attracts like". If that's true, then good attracts good, respect attracts respect, beauty attracts beauty, joy attracts joy, and love attracts love... just as much as hatred attracts hatred, indifference attracts indifference, envy attracts envy, judgment attracts judgment, and evil attracts evil.
Perhaps it is just that simple. If we want good things, we need to be good things. We need to send good things out into the atmosphere and good things will return.
Maybe if we actively look for the God within ourselves and others, we might actually find it there. Maybe if we believe the Messiah is one of us, there the Messiah will be.
The rabbi agreed that it seemed as if the people at the monastery and in the village had lost the Spirit. Together, they read the Torah and wept for the people. The rabbi apologized for not having any advice for the abbot save to say, "the Messiah is one of you".
When the abbot returned to his monastery the other monks were saddened to hear that the rabbi had offered no advice. The abbot did share the rabbi's cryptic message that, "the Messiah is one of you".
In the days and weeks and months that followed, the monks continued to ponder this message. They started paying more attention to each other and wondering if it was truly possible that one of them was the Messiah. As they continued to wonder who the Messiah might be, they began to treat each other with the utmost respect in the off chance that one of them was He. And, on the off chance that each one himself might be, they began to treat themselves with extraordinary respect as well.
Since the forest in which it resided was beautiful, it just so happened that villagers continued to visit the monastery from time to time. As they did so, people began to feel and sense the deep aura of respect that was emanating from the monks and the monastery.
This gentle aura seemed to radiate from the monastery and without naming it or realizing it, people became compelled to return. They began to bring their friends who in turn brought their friends. Eventually some of the younger men began talking to the old monks until one day, one of them asked to join the monastery.. and then another, and another, until the monastery was once again thriving.
The monks began to treat one another with deep and profound respect once they learned that the Messiah was among them. And indeed the Messiah was among them. That is what it means to be made in the image and likeness of God. It means that the divine is within us all, from the least to the greatest.
This concept is at the core of our Judeo-Christian tradition... it's discussed in the very first chapter of the very first book of our shared Scripture. "So God created human beings in his own image. In the image of God he created them" (Gen. 1:27). And yet, how often do we live as if this is true? How often do we treat those we meet as if God is within them?
Each week we reaffirm this belief as we participate in the sacrament of Eucharist. We eat the Body and Blood of Christ thereby literally inviting Christ into our very being. We are made one with Christ again and again. And yet, how often do we live as if this is true? How often do we treat ourselves, mentally and physically, as if God is within us?
As we interact with other creatures.. with our land.. with our environment, how often do we consider that maybe, just maybe, there is an element of the divine within it all?
I think about this sometimes. I make a commitment to treat everyone with the respect that I would treat the Messiah. I forget. I fail. I recommit. Life is a cycle of thriving and dying. We can't get it right all of the time because just as much as we are made in the image of God, we are also only human.
Even so, I wonder what this world would be like if we all handled each other as if God was within us. Could we also radiate an aura of love, peace, and respect? I have heard it said that "like attracts like". If that's true, then good attracts good, respect attracts respect, beauty attracts beauty, joy attracts joy, and love attracts love... just as much as hatred attracts hatred, indifference attracts indifference, envy attracts envy, judgment attracts judgment, and evil attracts evil.
Perhaps it is just that simple. If we want good things, we need to be good things. We need to send good things out into the atmosphere and good things will return.
Maybe if we actively look for the God within ourselves and others, we might actually find it there. Maybe if we believe the Messiah is one of us, there the Messiah will be.
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