Daily Dose (December 23 – 26)
TUESDAY DECEMBER 23 — “I now believe that the instruction (dogma) of my childhood—that led me into faith—is not what saved me,” my friend tells me. “It was the kindness of my Sunday School teacher; it was when my parents forgave me when I wronged them; it was the friend who stood alongside when I felt isolated from my peers. It was the hymns we sang in unison as a community, and it was the touch of a kind hand when someone had shamed me. It was the touch of the other—my brother and sister—that saved and saves me today.”
And I read this, and it did my hear good. “It feels like everyone is searching for someone—anyone—to tell them it’s going to be okay. When I was a child, I would often ask my mother, “Is it going to be okay?” Back then, I knew there were adults in the room—my parents, our political leaders—to reassure me. They were the ones who stepped forward to speak to the nation as one. They knew it was their duty to instill hope, minimize fear, and steady us. It was their job.
Where are those people today?
This week, a flight attendant leaned down and asked me, “Who is our voice these days? Who can be our voice?”
Here is my answer: You are. I am.
We are. Together.
Years ago, as I sat in the ICU with my mother, a nurse stopped and asked me, “Do you need anything?”
Trained by my mother never to need for anything and never to complain, I quickly said, “Oh no, please. Help someone else who has it worse.”
The nurse looked into my tired eyes and said: “There’s no competition here. Everyone in the ICU is having a hard time. Everyone here needs help.”
That truth has stayed with me. That’s what things feel like now.
Life isn’t a competition. It’s not about who has it worse. We all need tending to. We all need help for all our feels.” (Thank you, Maria Shriver)
So. We are back to the paradigm shift for our week. Instead of “What do you believe?” we ask, “Please tell me what (or how) you choose?”
Yes. Today, in a world that can feel upside down, I can choose to be merciful. I can choose to be kindhearted, inclusive and empathetic. I can choose to stand up for justice and to create sanctuaries for healing and forgiveness.
And here’s the good news: The bounty from compassion is not predicated on life as we expect it.
The replenishment from grace doesn’t start when our fear is gone.
Or when our beliefs are unadulterated.
Or when our circumstances make it feasible.
Most likely, if we wait for all that, we miss rebirth, comfort, healing, being fed to fullness… and the “miracles”—the little gifts of Grace—every time.
It is Christmas preparation week. Or maybe let’s call it, “Don’t look at all the things still on your to-do list” week. I would have loved to write about the snow gently falling outside our windows, but it’s a very heavy rain, and the trees are doing their best to not let the wind undo them. Let’s call it “not very fun sleigh weather”. But still a good day to raise a glass to the replenishment from Grace.
WEDNESDAY DECEMBER 24 — I love the story from Robert Benson’s book “Between the dreaming and the coming true,” when he talks about Sunday School teacher Hazelyn McComas (“a kind and gentle woman, a teacher, a woman of prayer, a woman whose spirit bears witness to her having spent a life seeking for glimpses of and listening for whispers of God within the ancient prayer of the Chosen People”).
There is always a kid in the class who considers it his charge to trap the teacher. Benson remembers one occasion when the teacher was challenged about the veracity of the Faith. “I remember that she drew a breath and straitened up a bit, as though she wanted to be firm and clear, but not harsh and critical.
(She said,) ‘This is what I believe: We were with God in the beginning. I do not understand that exactly—what we looked like, what we did all day, how we got along, any of it. Then we were sent here. And I am not sure that I understand that very well, either. And I believe that we are going home to God someday, and what that will be like is as much a mystery to me as any of the rest of it. But I believe those things are true and that what we have here on earth in between is a longing—for the God that we have known and for the God that we are going home to.'”
And I know that there have been times in my life, when I have lost track of where my well-being was grounded. Assuming performance or creed or impressing or getting noticed or drawing attention was necessary.
And, gratefully, a story is often my bridge back home. And a blessed reminder, theology is not a test to pass. It is embedded in, and enfolded by, a relationship.
And yes, Ms. McComas… love (value or meaning) is not something you produce or achieve or acquire.
It is not something that you even have.
Love is something that has you.
Amen.
A blessed Christmas, Hanukkah, and holiday season to all. And to celebrate Christmas Eve, I’ll put on Iam Tongi singing “Silent Night” (accompanied by the Rexburg Children’s Choir).
And speaking of things yet to do before Christmas. There’s still one more thing to wrap: please wrap your arms (in person or remotely via phone or email) around someone grieving a loss this Christmas.
THURSDAY DECEMBER 25 — I love that Christmas allows us to tell—and retell—a story.
Of a child born in a lowly place, because there was no room in the inn.
And we know the story.
And at our core, we love to tell, and retell this story, because we feel like we are a part of an ongoing bigger story which grounds us, and reminds us that the story of Grace is not finished.
And, as a storyteller, I love stories about Grace.
Stories I love to tell an audience, and to habitually retell myself.
A little boy was having nightmares. The kind that requires a momma’s reassurance. (Dads, at least from my own experience, are typically not wired for nightmare duty.) So, to his momma’s room the boy went, “Momma, momma, I’m having nightmares.”
“It’s okay honey,” she told him, “Here’s what I want you to do. Go back to your room, kneel down by your bed, pray to Jesus, and he’ll fix it.”
Back to his room, the boy knelt by his bed, prayed to Jesus, hopped back in bed, and… more nightmares. All mommas know this story. Back and forth to momma’s room, throughout the night.
On the sixth visit, “Momma, I know, I know the drill. I’m going to go back to my room. I’m going to kneel down by my bed, and pray to Jesus, and he’ll fix it. But before I do that, can I just lay in bed with you, and have you hold me?”
“Sure honey, why?”
“Because sometimes I need Jesus with skin on it.”
On this Christmas Day, let us be the voices—and arms—of compassion and grace and healing.
“Last night. Cold. I lay in bed realizing that I was, was happy. And I was that. Said the strange word ‘happiness’ and realized that it was there, not an ‘it’ or an object. It simply was. And I was that. And this morning, coming down, seeing the multitude of stars above the bare branches of the wood, I was suddenly hit, as it were, with the whole package of meaning of everything: that the immense mercy of God was upon me, that the Lord in infinite kindness had looked down on me and given me this vocation out of love, and that He had always intended this.” Thank you, Thomas Merton.
Peace and blessings to all, my friends. May we allow this infinite kindness to find a place in our hearts today.
FRIDAY DECEMBER 26 — One of my favorite invitations during Christmas season is the invitation to Pause. The invitation to slow down. The invitation to pay attention.
One semester, a seminary professor set up his preaching class in an unusual way. He scheduled his students to preach on the Parable of the Good Samaritan. And on the day of the class, he choreographed his experiment so that each student would go, one at a time, from one classroom to a classroom in a different building on campus, where he or she would preach their sermon.
The professor gave some students fifteen minutes to go from one building to the other, ending with the instructions, “It’ll be a several minutes before they’re ready for you, but you might as well head on over.”
To others, the professor told the students, “Oh, you’re late. They were expecting you a few minutes ago. We’d better get moving.” He allowed less time, forcing them to rush—in some cases, run—in order to meet the schedule.
Each student walked (or ran) alone to the building where he or she would deliver their sermon. On the way, the student encountered a man slumped in a doorway with his eyes closed, coughing and moaning, clearly in distress.
From afar, researchers watched: Would the seminary student stop to help the stranger in need?
The results were surprising, and offered a powerful lesson to them. And to us today.
Social psychologists John Darley and Daniel Batson found that only 10% of seminary students in the “hurried condition” stopped to help the man.
In comparison, 63% of the participants in the “unhurried condition” stopped.
In other words, being in a hurry can lead even a seminary student with the Good Samaritan on their mind, to ignore (disregard) a person in distress.
When the professor revealed his experiment, you can imagine the impact on that class of future spiritual leaders. Rushing to preach a sermon on the Good Samaritan, they had walked past the beggar at the heart of the parable.
(Thank you to researchers Darley, J.M., and Batson, C.D.—1973)
Bottom line: There is a significant benefit in slowing down. Likewise, reducing time pressure will likely help us pay attention to our surroundings and respond more readily to others in need.
Like the little boy who said to his Mama, “Mama, Mama, listen to me, but this time, with your eyes.”
To take this to heart, I appreciate my friends Tim Hansel’s paraphrase of Jesus’ words in Matthew 25, words intended to make us stop, pray, and reach out to hurting people: “‘I was hungry, and you formed a humanities club to discuss it. I was imprisoned, and you stayed home to pray for my release. I was naked, and you debated the morality of my appearance. I was sick, and you thanked God for your health. I was homeless, and you preached to me about the shelter of God’s love. You seem so holy and so close to God, but I’m still hungry, lonely, cold, and in pain. Does it matter to you?’ Don’t just talk about God’s love; please show it.”
With us
And the Word became flesh and lived among us.
—John 1.14
O Holy One, your love is no mere feeling
but an act of presence.
You are with us,
among, within and all around us.
The babe in the manger
reminds us:
You are here.
All of this is Holy.
Glory to God, and peace on earth.
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Prayer for our week…
A person should always offer
a prayer of graciousness
for the love that has awakened in them.
When you feel love for your beloved
and his or her love for you,
now and again
you should offer the warmth of your love
as a blessing for those who are damaged and unloved.
Send that love out into the world
to people who are desperate;
to those who are starving;
to those who are trapped in prison;
in hospitals and all the brutal terrains
of bleak and tormented lives.
When you send that love out
from the bountifulness of your own love,
it reaches other people.
This love is the deepest power of prayer.
John O’Donohue, Anam Cara
Photo… “Hi, Terry, I shot this photo traveling on the freeway (passenger!) in Southern California last September. And I’ve entered it into America’s Favorite Photo contest, and hoping maybe this photo could win some funds for the Dominican Sisters of Mission San Jose. If you all your friends and acquaintances could see the photo, they may want to have the opportunity to vote. Thank you!” Sister Donna Marie.
