Our reservoir of Grace
In the emergency room, Benny’s face is black and blue, caked in dried blood, his eyes pinched shut, his lips swollen and bleeding. In the middle of the night, two men had broken into Benny’s home, beaten him severely, and then robbed him. A terrible thing to happen to anyone, but especially heinous when you know that Benny is a seventy-year-old mildly mentally handicapped man recognized through his neighborhood for gentleness and generosity. Even more evil when the detective concluded the thieves knew Benny well enough to know he’d cashed his pension check that day.
“In moments such as these, it’s hard to believe in the triumph of grace,” Philip Gulley writes (If Grace is True) about his encounter with Benny. “Evil seems far from defeated. I’m tempted to believe in a salvation that includes everyone but the men who beat Benny. I had to fight my rage as I tried to comfort him. We talked about the attack, his injuries, the good prognosis from the doctor, and then I asked him if I could pray with him. Benny nodded his head and said, through swollen lips, ‘Don’t forget to pray for those men.’”
When I read this the first time, I had to put the book down, and whisper, “Wow.”
I can tell you I don’t believe I would have been that large “souled”. But, then, you never know until you’re in that bed.
This much I do know; if you guzzle the news these days (which is too easy to do), we live in a world where fear undermines and outmaneuvers grace far too often.
Most days, I read and shake my head. I can’t make sense of it. The meanness and violence, the uncertainty, the polarization. (Although we don’t need the news to remind us that life can be, at times, harsh, unfair and unkind.)
The effect is that (even if only in a small way) each one of us knows that there are times when life is just “too much”.
Too heavy. Too precarious. Too uncertain. Too depleting.
Times when we’ve said (or prayed to any deity that would lend an ear), “Please help me. I don’t think I have what it takes.”
Even then, I do want to believe in the triumph of grace.
Do you remember the movie, Jaws? There’s a great scene where the local sheriff is chumming for the great white shark. And out of nowhere Jaws appears. The shark is gigantic, more enormous than the crew imagined possible. They are, understandably, terrified. (Of course, the music—da-dum, da-dum, da-dum—doesn’t hurt for amplifying the suspense.) The sheriff says carefully, “We’re going to need a bigger boat.”
Yes. “We’re going to need a bigger boat.”
I love this metaphor. (And a great job title: “Bigger boat business”.)
Think of our “boat” as a reservoir. Our reservoir of strength, and resolve, and grace, and permission, which assures us we cannot be undone by life’s cruelty or capriciousness. Here’s the deal: Our reservoir is bigger.
I love that Benny lived his life from a bigger boat. His “forgiveness” is not a ploy to “move on”. Living large-souled is not about making our lives into a nice tidy narrative. Let’s pause here. Forgiveness is not denying the violence or hatred. And it is not feeling warm and tender about the offenders. Forgiveness is saying, “I give up my right to get even.” (Thank you, Lewis Smedes.)
I received an email this week inviting me to “get the life I deserve.” (“Now that’s what I’m talking about!’ “I mean, the things I’ve put up with.”) Truth be told, the email made me laugh out loud. And, I thought of the story of Benny. Life is not about what I “deserve,” as if life must yield or bend to my druthers (which becomes a life lived so self-consciously).
No. This is about… The life we create. The love we share. And the light we shine.
The fine print here is that we live this way only when we are free to be vulnerable and tender hearted. It’s not that I have anything against striving or praying or achieving or dreaming. They are all well and good in their place. But it backfires if there’s an implicit agreement (or hope) that I can avoid life’s pitfalls—as if a pitfall means that I’ve failed at life. Because what do I do with such an agreement? I live cautiously. I choose to be afraid. I close down my heart. I withhold my love and my forgiveness. And I rage on the inside.
“The plain fact is that the planet does not need more successful people. But it does desperately needs more peacemakers, healers, restorers, storytellers, and lovers of every kind.
It needs people who live well in their place. It needs people of moral courage
willing to join the fight to make the world habitable and humane. And these qualities have little to do with success as we have defined it.” David Orr
I talk about (and teach about) boundaries. The permission to make choices both From self-nurture, and For self-nurture. The permission to make choices from a replenished self. And let us remember; boundaries are not just about what we say “No” to, but what we say “Yes” to.
It’s no surprise that we often teach from our own place of struggle and limitation. (Will I learn to add the word No to my vocabulary any time soon?)
I do know this… there are many times I don’t believe that my heart (my “boat”) is big enough. I do know this: I cannot access my reservoir as long as I am running with a deficit. You name it… time, patience, energy, resolve, heart, fortitude. Because when I see only the deficit, I believe that my identity is owned by fear. And then, I am stuck, and I shut down. And I don’t listen to my heart.
Benny’s overture of grace came from a reservoir, deep inside. It was not required. It was not done to impress. Yes, any one of us can be selfish, petty, fearful, controlling, conflicted, wary and driven. But Benny’s story reminds me that any one of us has the capacity to be open, vulnerable, heart filled… yes, with the capacity to be moved, trustworthy, forgiving and generous. A triumph of grace.
My friends, this journey begins when we allow ourselves to fall into this grace. To remember that we are “a cluttered house that hides the Holy One”. True, there are many times when we may not see the Holy One in ourselves, but it shouldn’t keep us from singing, “This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine,” followed by, “Don’t forget to pray for those men.”
I’m grateful for the rewarding three days in Albuquerque, NM with an openhearted group of United Methodist Certified Lay Ministers.
And I’m grateful to be enjoying a pleasant evening back home in Port Ludlow, on the patio with a glass of wine and a bowl of out-or-the-oven blackberry cobbler, made from the berries we picked on our morning walk.
Quote for our week…
“If it ain’t in you, it can’t come out of your horn.” Charlie Parker
BULLETIN BOARD
Today’s Photo Credit: “Terry, The smoke from Canadian fires have made our sunsets in Door County, WI amazing. Stay well and safe.” Pat Ensing… Thank you Pat… Thank you to all, I love your photos… please, keep sending them… send to terryhershey.com
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Letters that do my heart good…
–Thank you, Terry. I danced to Morning Has Broken. It was so lovely. My spirit was soaring when it was over. Anne
–Terry, Your words in this course are balm to my weary soul. Thank you for all you offer to those of us who need a word of encouragement. I’m grateful for my friend Larry who told me about you. My spiritual life has been lackluster and I now know why. You said spiritual care is grounded in self-care. And my self-care is severely lacking. As one improves I’m sure the other will as well. May God richly bless you, Amy
–Presence is a bit of what I am attempting to be about these days. Lighting candles of hope in our days of deep darkness. The movie Yentl has her/him lighting a candle before praying and asking “Papa, can you hear me?” I have often cried out to God during dark days of doubt, fear, confusion, “God (Papa), can you hear me?” Here’s to us all continuing to light candles everywhere we go no matter where the darkness is. Pam
–Terry, again, thank you for the reminders. Teaching each other to ballroom dance reminds me of your quote that you put in your newsletters, and I remind people of Ram Dass: We’re walking each other home. It is the same concept. I love it. Thanks for the reminders again. May you continue to walk in peace and with the strength of the words that you share with others. Stephen
