Daily Dose (July 15 – 18)

TUESDAY JULY 15 —

Whatever it is, the light of compassion brings people out of hiding, out of unease and out of fear. The light that invites courage and renewal and resilience. And that, well, that is light worth spilling. And it is the light of Grace.

My friend—a pastor in Seattle—told me the story about a remarkable woman in his church. She was licensed by the state to be a foster-care home for children with special needs. This requires fortitude and resilience, not knowing how long the children will be with you (maybe days or perhaps weeks), or how many children you may have at one time (as many as six).
One year, at Christmas time, money was short. Not just for presents, but also for food. There was a knock at the door. The children answered. Standing outside were three men wearing red bandannas—as “masks”—on their faces. At first the children were uneasy, but saw that all three were carrying sacks of groceries. And even they knew that people who rob you, usually don’t bring groceries.
They went to get their “mother,” and when she arrived at the door, on the stoop sat 13 sacks of groceries. At the curb, a 1959 Cadillac convertible, the top down, with two of the men sitting up on the back—as if they were in a parade—while at the wheel the third, all of them still wearing their red bandannas and doing the “queen’s wave,” shouting, “Hi-yo. Silver, away!”
On each one of the sacks of groceries was written in big black calligraphy, “God’s desperadoes have been here.” The children asked their mom if they could sleep with some of the sacks in their room, never having seen that much food before.
Can I tell you the rest of the story?
To this day, no one knows who those three men are.  The children don’t know. The mother doesn’t know. The pastor doesn’t know. However, when he began to tell the story, the people who heard realized, “I am one of God’s desperadoes.”

Yes, I suppose it is that simple. Easy?  Probably not.
But we sure do make it complicated. The best way to kill a desperado endeavor is to send around “sign-up sheet.” “Who wants to be one of God’s desperadoes? First you have to go to desperado training, and then be certified, and maybe even serve on the desperado committee.”
We’re so focused on the wrong measurement or motivation or reward.
But here’s the good news. That which you can give, already exists inside. You see; this is about spilling light.
This is not just an invitation to what we must do, or about accolades, or status. This is an affirmation of what is already alive and well within us.
We—every single one of us—have the capacity to be places of shelter and hope and inclusion and healing.

“Dear God, may we find strength in each other, courage in community, and peace in the presence of love. May those grieving be held gently, and may we all be prepared not just for disaster, but for compassion, connection, and healing.” Amen. (Thank you, Clint Hurdle)

WEDNESDAY JULY 16 — In 1942, the Nazis were actively and forcefully rounding up Jews in France. In the picturesque farming village of Le Chambon-sur-Lignon (in southern France), Reformed Church minister Andre Trocme inspired an entire village to change lives. And, as it turns out, the world in which we live.
Each of the citizens of Le Chambon-sur-Lignon voluntarily risked their lives to hide Jews–in homes, on farms, and in public buildings; Jews who were being rounded up by the Nazi SS for shipment to the death camps. (It is said that there was not a single home in the village that did not shelter a Jewish family.) Le Chambon-sur-Lignon became known as the “City of Refuge.”
Whenever Nazi patrols searched the village, the Jews were sent, surreptitiously, out into the woodland countryside. One of the villagers recalled, “As soon as the soldiers left, we would go into the forest and sing a song. When they heard that song, the Jews knew it was safe to come home.”
It is estimated that as many as five thousand lives were saved–many given passage to Switzerland. One reason for this display of compassion? These French villagers were descendants from the persecuted Protestant Huguenots. Their own history of persecution connected them to the plight of the Jewish people hiding in their homes.
Perhaps that is true, I do not know.
I only know that for whatever reason, the villagers choose love.
And the rest, well, the rest is history.
Two things about this story struck me.
One, the extraordinary power of compassion (and the courage to practice compassion in a world that measures and weighs and judges).
Two, the power of love and music to bring each and every one of us, home. Home, the place where we are given value and love and dignity.
What song did the villagers sing?
What kind of music represented freedom and well-being and love and home?
Or maybe it’s not that important. The song, I mean. Although, it is certainly our knee-jerk reaction to figure it out. But maybe, just maybe, the song is compassion. Plain and simple.
Whatever it is, the song brings people out of hiding, out of unease, and out of fear. The song invites courage and renewal and resilience.
This week Pope Leo reminded us all. “Caring for others is ‘the supreme law’ that comes before society’s rules.”
And caring for others, well, that is music worth singing. And it is the music of Grace.
Or in the case of our 90-year-old matriarch, it is the music to remind us that there are always sandwiches to be made.

THURSDAY JULY 17 — Congressman John Lewis is one of my heroes.
And today (July 17) marks the fifth anniversary of his transition from this earthly life to the communion of saints.
On one of my recent trips, I enjoyed the John Lewis Memorial in the Atlanta Airport, and smiled big reading this story. “John Robert Lewis grew up on his family’s farm in Troy, Alabama—110 acres of cotton, corn and peanut fields and a three-bedroom house surrounded by thick pine forests. When he turned five, John, the third oldest of ten siblings, was given the responsibility of caring for the family’s sixty chickens. John wanted to be a preacher when he grew up, and every evening, he would gather the chickens in the henhouse, settle them onto their roosts, recite Bible verses and preach. They were his first congregation. He named all the chickens, baptized them and held funerals for those that died. He agonized over the ones that wound up on the dinner table or were traded for farm supplies.”

I remember returning home from that trip, looking forward to telling that story to the geese. I sure they appreciated it.
It does my heart good because it is a reminder of how stories shape us and shape our world. Inviting us to stop and ask;
Do our stories make us bigger, or smaller?
Do they invite us to be people of grace, or to be people of umbrage and anger?
Do our stories spill the light of mercy and compassion, and restoration and amends?
Thank you, John Lewis, for stories that made us bigger. For stories inviting us to embrace choosing “good trouble”.
I’m always curious about how people (how we) choose the paradigm to write, tell stories, preach and live. What’s the invitation?
From my life journey, here’s what I know; if the story makes me feel small (shame) or fearful or angry (where there are always others to blame and dismiss), then I’m not telling (or hearing, or embracing) a redemptive and liberating story.

Speaking of stories, on one day in 2013, I walked across a bridge. The sun shone down from a bleached blue sky. The air was cool, but our spirits don’t notice, as we stand and sing under the sign, Edmund Pettus Bridge. We are in Selma, Alabama on Bloody Sunday. I was honored to join a group of new friends on the 13th Annual Congressional Civil Rights Pilgrimage. We were led by Representative John Lewis.
As it turned out, I walked smack dab into an epiphany.
Or perhaps, the epiphany walked into me.
Either way, it wasn’t on my agenda.
But this I know: control (craving the status quo) and epiphanies are not to be found in the same sentence. Epiphanies open our eyes, and they open our heart. And gratefully, after that day, I could never be the same.
Today is a good day to pause. And tell stories that let us remember the gift of epiphanies.
And to let the light of mercy and compassion be rekindled.
In a world where cruelty is real and taking a toll, I know it’s something I could use.

FRIDAY JULY 18 — I love this story. A woman is traveling alone by train. She arrives in a new city and there was time until her next train connection, so she strikes up a conversation with another traveler, a woman making a stopover in the midst of a very long journey. The traveler on the long journey was quite tired, and the woman unthinkingly handed her a sandwich that she’d been saving for later. It began as a conversation, and become a friendship that lasted for twenty years.
After the woman died, her son happened upon a packet of his mother’s correspondence. One thing particularly struck him. “There were so many letters from this woman she had met in the train station. And they all ended with the same words: ‘I’ll never forget that you fed me.’”
(Adapted from Field Notes on the Compassionate Life, Marc Ian Barasch)

Yes, and here’s the deal: Who you are, makes a difference.
Today, I can choose to Be kind. To Be generous.
To Be inclusive. To not demean or shame or exclude.
And in a world that weighs and measures, we think, “Handed her a sandwich… that’s such a small gesture.” Ahhh yes. But, as Jon Kabat-Zinn reminds us, “The little things? The little moments? They aren’t little.”
They are difference makers. They are the building blocks for healing.
And I love the phrase, “choosing to heal”. It would be a great book title. An even better life mission.
“What do you do?”
“I choose to create moments that heal.”
From Jewish tradition we learn our job title; Tikkun olam. Literally, repairer of the world.
The word olam also means hidden. We need to repair the world so that its Creator is no longer hidden within, but shines through each thing in magnificent, harmonious beauty.
As a gardener this makes perfect sense. It’s all about the dirt. Nutritious or nutritive soil creates and generates life. Toxic soil does not. Fertility is stifled, because the nutrients have been leached.
Tikkun, to repair the soil of the world with nutrients: kindness, a balm of generosity, a capacity to accommodate fragility, and a softness of spirit. What Eve Ensler called, “The daily subtle simple gathering of kindness.”
Choosing (working) to heal (Tikkun olam) isn’t only for the spiritually or intellectually inclined.
Choosing to heal is in our DNA. As children of our creator, we are healers.
In kindness, we affirm dignity.
In empathy, we see value and build connections.
With compassion and justice, we right wrongs and create sanctuaries.

Prayer for our week…
May God bless you with discomfort at easy answers, half truths, and superficial relationships, so that you may live deep within your heart.
May God bless you with anger at injustice, oppression, and exploitation of people, so that you may work for justice, freedom and peace.
May God bless you with tears to shed for those who suffer from pain, rejection, starvation, and war, so that you may reach out your hand to comfort them and to turn their pain in to joy.
And may God bless you with enough foolishness to believe that you can make a difference in this world, so that you can do what others claim cannot be done.
Franciscan Benediction

Photo… “Good morning, Terry. This is a tendril of a rambunctious clematis that refuses to be restrained and clambers up my neighbor’s Camellia tree! A good reminder to let go of control and enjoy it’s unrestrained joy! Blessings,” Jo Kirschner (Ballard, WA)… Thank you Jo…  and thank you for your photos, please send them to tdh@terryhershey.com