Voices of Mercy

With sadness for his passing, and gratitude for the light he spilled in our world, I watched Pope Francis’ funeral on Saturday.
In his homily, Cardinal Giovanni Re said, “Pope Francis always placed the Gospel of mercy at the center.”
Francis’ papal motto says it all; “Miserando atque eligendo” (meaning, “He looked with mercy and chose”—the words referring to the Gospel story about the calling of Matthew, the tax collector.)
“He (Francis) often used the image of the Church as a ‘field hospital’ after a battle in which many were wounded; a Church determined to take care of the problems of people and the great anxieties that tear the contemporary world apart; a Church capable of bending down to every person, regardless of their beliefs or condition, and healing their wounds.” Cardinal Re said.
Yes, and Amen. Francis, a voice of mercy, for the wounded and the marginalized—inviting the compassionate treatment of those in need (even and especially when it’s within one’s power to harm or “punish” them).
And this I know my friends: We live in an emotionally and spiritually de-hydrated world, thirsty for the sustaining balm of mercy.

Rev. William Barber II, a civil-rights leader and ordained minister in the Disciples of Christ denomination, said the loss of Pope Francis meant others must carry on his mission to the marginalized. “We must now say, ‘I am Pope Francis,’” he said.
“Okay, count me in,” I say out loud as I read the comment. And then, “But how is that even possible?” (Let’s just say that skepticism and cynicism raise their irksome heads rather predictably.)
Then, I close my eyes, and take a deep breath.
And I take to heart the invitation: I can be a voice of mercy.

What does mercy look like?
How can I choose to heal, instead of choosing to hurt?
How can I spill grace to those around me, instead of disregard or neglect?
How can I make room for transformation and growth, instead of numbing and detachment?
Mercy is the fruit of compassion in a world where inhumanity and heartlessness is real. Mercy is any compassionate gift given to someone who is suffering.
And raised in a church where verbal affirmation was the key to “passing the test”, I need to take to heart that compassion is more than just a verbal nod, and more than just feeling concerned about someone in distress (or caring about a person’s misfortune); compassion involves action. And that action, is mercy.

Speaking from my heart, this is not easy to read or hear, or do, when anxiety is so real.
And somewhere along the way, every one of us has wrestled with discouragement, disillusionment or defeat (only exacerbated by a disappointment in ourselves).
Yes, our “upside down” year has illuminated all of this.
There is no doubt that the weight of our world is real. For some, too hard. For some boiling rage. For others, stillness. And for others, there are moments of unexpected resilience, and courage. (Okay, another confession, this is the range of what I have been feeling of late.)

Mercy is a compassionate gift to someone who is suffering. And here’s the deal: Every one of us knows what it is like to be broken. Or marginalized. Or shunned. Or wrestled with feeling powerless.
And every one of us needs the rebuilding and sustaining balm that mercy provides.
And I wonder, “What can I do about this?”
And then (ironically), “I should be able to handle this.” As if I have to bring to this moment, something other than myself.
And, “How can I possibly be Pope Francis?”
No, in a crazy world, mercy often does not feel possible. Attainable. Doable.
But here’s the good news. Mercy is not an acquirable, attainable trait. Mercy is what flows from an open and vulnerable heart. In our vulnerability and humility, mercy matures, and is spilled.
The healing balm of God’s mercy. Yes. Let us sit, and allow that to percolate. A balm that is healing and replenishing and sustaining for both hope and courage.
And my friends… We can be voices of mercy. “We”, the applicable pronoun, as more than ever the saying is true, “In the shelter of each other the people live.”

Which takes my mind to my very favorite story 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.”
Today, we can be voices of mercy.

I write this from the Cotswolds in England, after an uplifting day in Devon, on the water, with Allison and David. David Wells and I have been presenters at the Religious Education Congress in Anaheim for many many years. And were very grateful to connect here in his neck of the woods.
Thank you, my friends, for your voices of mercy as we keep walking each other home.

Quotes for your week…
“A little bit of mercy makes the world less cold and more just.” Pope Francis

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Today’s Photo Credit: Here in the English Cotswolds, very old stone homes, with their lilac attire. Spring, alive and live-giving, making me smile real big… And 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…
–Terry, As always, thanks for your message. It applies to Pope Francis. I’ve been to Buford. Lovely town. Patty
–Lovely Burford! You have again fed us with a banquet. No time to stay neutral. That sounds like Germany in 1930s. No way. Enjoy the day. Flip
–I am 78 this week and it just struck me why Easter is in the spring when this part of the planet is in full resurrection mode. How did I not notice? (“All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.” Gandalf), Ron
–Food for the soul, especially meaningful for me in these challenging times.
–This is so beautiful, Terry. Thank you, for not being neutral. Love, Sherene
–I don’t see how one can be “neutral” with the issues we face. It seems that to be neutral is to not care. We must care and care deeply. Easter Blessings, Faith
–Terry, Thank you for today’s Sabbath Moment. As far as taking sides is concerned, I respond that I am not taking sides but to the best of my ability, I am trying to follow Jesus. Grace and Peace, Bill
–My dearest Terry, I do not expect you to be neutral. I expect you to be human.  I learn from you every single week and I am so grateful for the fact that you don’t neutralize your teachings! How are we to learn to become better? We are people all connected. Keep on being who you are: a messenger—a prophet… a friend! Yvonne
–Terry the gospel, it is spilling love and compassion in every direction. We joined a couple hundred to wave our signs Saturday. Safe journey in England. Kent and Joan