What We See in Otrhers

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The thing that bothers you most about other people is actually the thing that bothers you most about yourself.

I can't remember when I first heard that, but I can remember how it felt to have my soul split open, my life diagnosed, and my weakness exposed when I heard it. Suddenly, the names and faces of the people who had frustrated me most over the years came flooding back as I realized that the part of them that hooked me was me. I'll save the content of that revelation for the sacrament of reconciliation, but I trust that you can identify in your own experience the ways in which your frustrations in others are a reflection of your frustrations in yourself.

This Sunday, when we hear the parable of the tax collector and the Pharisee (Luke 18:9-14), we get several layers of gut-wrenching self-examination sandwiched together in a remarkably concise account.

First, there's the Pharisee in the story: "God, I thank you that I am not like other people: thieves, rogues, adulterers, or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week; I give a tenth of all my income." What an ass! Jesus identifies him in terms that leave no room for sympathy. The parable sets up an incompatible collision of pretending to be holy and arrogance. Because of the way he looks at the tax collector, you don't need to know anything more to understand that the Pharisee's piety is an illusion.

But there's also another character in the story, whom Luke brings in right at the beginning: "Jesus told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt." It's us. Or, at least, in theory it's us. Whoever is listening, whoever needs to hear this parable, whoever hears the parable and thinks, "What an ass!" is involved in the parable, too. We get hooked by the Pharisee's hypocrisy because we, too, are hypocrites.

Think about the parable. It isn't designed to teach us that we shouldn't say prayers like that of the Pharisee. And it isn't designed to teach us that praying, fasting, and tithing are futile. It's designed to draw us into the life of the tax collector--the humble, honest introspection that leads to a plea for mercy. And we can't get there as long as we're pointing fingers at other hypocrites.

Maybe I'm the only one who effortlessly points a finger at the Pharisee and says, "Thank God I'm not like that Pharisee who thinks so highly of himself and holds others in contempt." But I doubt it.

Lord, I pray for all my Sonshine Friends that we learn to be more humble. Words that cause anger, violence, or sharp criticism have a negative effect. Our expression of humility needs to convey gentleness and compassion.

Foolish Mercy

Sue gets a call from our neighbor Maggie who is crying on the phone. It seems one of her cats, Surprise is dying. Sue observes that Surprise was rangy and ribbed and barely moving. Maggie says that Surprise has not eaten. The vet clinic is full and they make an appointment for the following day. Surprise is in her ninth year and she stopped maintaining her weight. Her soft coat started to thin; her bright eyes to dim. In desperation, Maggie tried to feed her, but she wanted nothing.

The following morning when Sue arrives to take Surprise and Maggie along to the vet, she learned that Surprise had died overnight. That night before she died, Maggie lay beside her on the floor, stroking her soft fur, whispering in her ear, “Do you hurt, Surprise? Are you sad? What do you need? Please tell me.” Surprise was silent. She cried.

We can be forgiven for failing to recognize the pain of another when they can neither recognize nor speak their own sadness. But there is no forgiving us when we choose not to hear, when we turn away from another’s pain.

Luke tells a story about a persistent widow who pesters a judge day and night, but the judge refuses to hear her pain, refuses to acknowledge her request, pretends she doesn’t exist.

Luke doesn’t reveal the specifics of her complaint, only that she has been treated unjustly. Kudos to the widow for her persistence, but what, exactly, was the injustice?

Perhaps her son has been wrongly imprisoned or maybe she herself has suffered age discrimination. It might be that her brother is being detained at the border or her deceased husband’s lawyer is dragging his heels in settling the estate. Perhaps she has been driven into bankruptcy by exorbitant medical bills.

Injustice comes with so many alibis and aliases. We want to look in her eyes and ask, “Do you hurt? What do you need?” But both she and Luke remain silent. Why does Jesus teach this lesson? Are we to pester God with our needs, as the widow pesters the justice? Is the goal of our prayers to receive compensation for injustice, or simply to wear out an exasperated God? I’m not comfortable with any of those interpretations.

So what is the greatest injustice? That the woman was mistreated? That the justice is slow to respond to her claims? Or that, ultimately, he acts with mercy, regardless of the merits of her case? Without reviewing her claims, the justice grants her request. Is it merely justice that she receives, or an even greater gift?

Perhaps Luke is hinting that Jesus is also unjust, because Jesus hears the prayers of righteous and unrighteous alike. Perhaps Luke is implying that Jesus’ justice is based not on the merits of the case but on his inexplicable love and mercy for sinners. Is it just to forgive sinners who will sin again, to feed those who will hunger again, to heal those who will be sick again, to bring back to life those who will overdose again, to raise those who will die again? In some quarters, Jesus’ kindnesses would be deemed not only unjust, but foolish.

At the end of the parable, Jesus promises that all who cry will be heard, all in need will be helped. Jesus promises that justice—Jesus’ justice—will be served without delay.

Lord, I pray for all my Sonshine Friends who are hurting and no one hears their cry. Finally, like the persistent widow, Surprise was held in loving arms before she died. She received the justice of a gentle, peaceful death. Finally, Jesus is that unjust justice—delivering kindness and mercy to all who cry out, regardless of the merits of our case.

Pray When You Are Feeling Snotty

“I’m having a snotty day” was the comment of the teacher to her classroom aides. She was heartbroken when she learned that one of her students had died in the hospital. The response of her teammates was “we better watch out.” 

However, I think her honesty has a profound insight on why most of us find it difficult to pray. We want to pray, make resolutions to pray, but never quite get around to actually praying. Why?

It’s not so much that we are insincere, ill-motivated, or lazy, it’s just that invariably we are too tired, too distracted, too restless, too emotionally preoccupied, too angry, too busy, or feel ourselves too distant from God to feel that we can actually pray. We have too many headaches and too many heartaches. And so we come home after a long day and simply can’t work up the energy to pray and instead call a friend, watch television, rest, putter round the house, or do anything to soothe our tiredness and wind down from the pressures of life, except pray.

How can we pray when both our bodies and our hearts are chronically stressed and on over-load?

By understanding what prayer really is. Prayer, as one of its oldest definitions puts it, is “lifting mind and heart to God.” 

That sounds simple but it is hard to do. Why?

Because we have the wrong notion of what it means to pray. We unconsciously nurse the idea that we can only pray when we are not distracted, not bored, not angry, and not caught up in our many heartaches and headaches so that we can give proper attention to God in a reverent and loving way. God then is like a parent who only wants to see us on our best behavior and we only go into his presence when we have nothing to hide, are joy-filled, and can give God praise and honor. Because we don’t understand what prayer is, we treat God as an authority figure or a visiting dignitary, namely, as someone to whom we don’t tell the real truth. We don’t tell the “our boss” what is really going on in our lives but what should, ideally, be going on in them. We tell God what we think he wants to hear.

Because of this we find it difficult to pray with any regularity. What happens is: we go to pray, privately or in church, and we enter into that feeling tired, bored, preoccupied, perhaps even angry at someone. We come to prayer carrying heartaches and headaches of all kinds and we try to bracket what we are actually feeling and instead crank up praise, reverence, and gratitude to God. Of course it doesn’t work! Our hearts and heads grow distracted because they are preoccupied with something else, our real issues, and we get the sense that what we are doing—trying to pray—is not something we can do right now and we leave it for some other time.

If we take seriously that prayer is “lifting mind and heart to God” then every feeling and every thought we have is a valid invitation into prayer, no matter how irreverent, unholy, selfish, snotty or angry that thought or feeling might seem. Simply put, if you go to pray and you are feeling snotty, pray snotty, bored, pray boredom; if you are feeling angry, pray anger; and if you want to praise and thank God, pray gratitude. What’s important is that we pray what’s inside of us and not what we think God would like to find inside of us.

Lord, I pray for all my Sonshine Friends who are feeling “snotty” about some headaches or heartache and we really need your comfort and healing. Help us to be more honest like that teacher and come to you in prayer when we are feeling bad, irreverent, sinful, emotionally, and unworthy of praying. All of these feelings can be our entry into prayer. No matter the headache or the heartache, we only need to lift it up to God.

What Makes You Mad?

What makes you mad? For some its politics, or your favorite team losing, maybe it’s your relatives, but I suffer from the demons of machines that make me crazy.

Let’s start with my weed eater. When the thread runs out and I have to replace it with more string and remember to turn the knob “clockwise.” Worse, when I pull five times, then another five and the engine won’t start. Check the gas, pull again and no start. I proceed to take a time out and work on another chore. This time grab the chainsaw to cut up a fallen tree limb. Pull once, then twice and a miracle on the fifth pull, it starts. Praise Jesus!

Now back to the weed eater. Thank God I filed the instruction manual that you only read in a crisis. It says high octane and mix with oil. Sure enough, used the wrong fuel for this machine. Found the gas can in the garage that’s labelled, “mixture for weed eater” and praise Jesus, this machine started.

But there’s the plastic container for the water conditioner that’s leaking, the CD player stops in the middle of a movie, the TV remote doesn’t always turn the channels, the tire on the mower goes flat after every cut, the gator gear box is rough and the tractor speedometer is malfunctioning. For that matter my brain is malfunctioning with all these machine breakdowns.

Of course, while I whine about my machines that are breaking down, I get a request to see a young man who attempted his “fifth” suicide. Then, there are the broken relationships, the addictions and cancers that people request my prayers. Life is very fragile. So, what does Jesus have to offer when we are going crazy inside?

At the last supper, and as he was dying, Jesus offered his gift of peace. And what is this? It is the absolute assurance the we are connected to the source of life in such a way that nothing, absolutely nothing, can ever sever—not bad health, not betrayal by someone, indeed, not even our broken machines. We are unconditionally loved and nothing can change that. Nothing can change God’s unconditional love for us.

If that is true, then we have an assurance of life and happiness beyond the breakdowns of our machines, the loss of health, the betrayal of friends, the suicide of a loved one, and even beyond our own sin and betrayals. In the end, as Julian of Norwich says, all will be well, and all will be well, and every manner of being will be well.

Lord, I pray for all my Sonshine Friends who like me get easily frustrated with life in which everything seems to be breaking down. We need your assurance. We live with constant anxiety because we sense that our health, security, and relationships are fragile, that our peace can easily disappear. We live with regrets about our own sins and betrayals. Our peace is fragile and anxious. We need to remember Jesus’ farewell gift to us: “I leave you a peace that no one can take from you: Know that you are loved and held unconditionally.”