Samaritan

 

But wanting to justify ourselves, we ask, “And who is my neighbor?”

And Jesus replies with a story:

A man was attacked by robbers on a lonely road. They took all his belongings and left him bleeding, naked, and dying.

And then you came along. But you had to pick up the kids at soccer practice. That big project at work was hanging over your head. You had to get dinner on the stove. You were late for Bible Study. Besides, you weren’t trained to deal with things like this. You didn’t have the resources. Others were much better equipped. So you pretended you hadn’t seen the man and continued on your way. Soon, the hectic pace of the day pushed him from your mind.

And then along came someone else. Like you, but…more. More educated. Wealthy beyond your imagination. More respected. Better looking. And with all the time in the world. But this person, this best version of you, buried their nose into their phone and refused to even make eye contact with the man.

But then, along came a Black teenager in a dark hoodie and sagging pants.

Along came two women holding hands.

Along came a telemarketer.

Along came a barefoot man pushing a shopping cart piled with aluminum cans and soda bottles.

Along came a woman in a hijab.

Along came a middle-aged white man in a red trucker's cap.

Along came a person wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with a flag striped with pink, blue, and white.

Along came an indigenous millennial venturing off his reservation for the first time.

Along came an elderly Asian man.

Along came an illegal immigrant.

Along came a Republican.

A Democrat.

An Israeli.

A Palestinian.

A Catholic.

A Mormon.

A Jew.

An atheist.

A Russian hacker.

An addict.

An ex-con.

And it was this person who saw the beaten man. Took pity on him. Bandaged his wounds. Took care of him. Now tell me, who was a neighbor to the beaten man?

We lower our gaze. “The one who helped him,” we mumble.

Jesus smiles, but in his eyes, there’s a deep sadness. 

“Go,” he says, “and do likewise."

 

 

A PRAYER IN TIMES OF DIVISION

 

Father, either my neighbor is deceived or I am.

I don’t believe I am, but I also know I’m not immune to deception. After all, Jesus said, “false messiahs and false prophets will appear and perform great signs and wonders to deceive, if possible, even the elect.”

So, Father, I must open myself to that possibility. Like the disciples around the table at the Last Supper, I must ask, “Is it I?”

Father, if so, reveal the truth to me. Let me be humble enough to admit my folly. May I repent so that I may speak truth and walk in truth.

But Father, if my neighbor is deceived, may I be patient and gentle. Let me remember that “our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.” But please, Father, for my neighbor’s sake, reveal the truth to them and let them also be humble enough to admit their folly. May they also repent and speak truth and walk in truth.

And Father, it is possible—even likely—we are both wrong, at least partly. If so, may we come together in love and humbly seek truth together. May I listen to the truth they can teach me. May I boldly and kindly speak any truth I can pass on to them.

Finally, Father, for those who deliberately practice deceit for their own gain, may they see your justice and grace in this life. May justice break their hearts so they may turn away from lies with sorrow for the abuse they have done. May they fall upon the grace afforded to them by the death and resurrection of Jesus. May they confess their wrongs, so that they might be cleansed and walk in your ways. May they see your justice and grace in this life, that they may avoid your justice in the next.

Do this, Father, in the name of Jesus.

Amen

 

Embracing Change

The three women smiled warmly in response to my greeting and my question. “We’re fine, honey,” said one.

We were walking opposite directions around the loop encircling the park near my house, which meant our paths would cross again many times. Each time we passed by each other I heard snatches of their conversation, their voices tinged with weariness and sorrow and frustration, their footsteps plodding as if they carried the weight of the world on their shoulders.

 “…looters just making it worse…”

“…knee on his neck…”

“…it has to change. It has to.”

Each passing stirred something inside me, a quiet voice urging me to speak. I’ve learned over the decades that I ignore that voice at my own peril. As I approached them for what would have been the last time before heading home, I stopped.

“How are you doing?”

A puzzled look now accompanied their smiles—puzzled, perhaps, that a white guy would halt their walk to restate his earlier question. “We’re doing OK,” said the woman who spoke to me the first time. “You know, it’s hard, but thank you for asking.”

“I just wanted to say…” My voice trailed off. I realized I had no idea what I wanted to say.

They stood there, waiting.

“I just wanted to say ‘I love you.’” God help me, did that really come out of my mouth? “That’s weird, I know. I don’t know you, but I love you. And I’m sorry. What can I do?” I was surprised and embarrassed by the catch in my throat, by the tears welling in the corners of my eyes.

She opened her arms.

COVID be damned, I accepted her hug.

I told them my name. They told me theirs. I asked if I could walk with them. We talked. But mostly, I just listened.

Like Forrest Gump said, “I’m not a smart man.” But I wonder if I’ve stumbled upon my way forward in this time. After the violence and rage has spent itself, maybe this is how we falter toward sustainable grassroots change.

Maybe it’s in asking “how are you doing?”

Maybe it’s in exchanging names, and listening more and talking less.

Maybe it’s in asking “can I walk with you?’

Happy Birthday, Mom!

Happy birthday, Mom!

How are things? I’m not sure how this whole Heaven thing works…whether you’re actually there right now or in some sort of cosmic waiting room surrounded by the great cloud of witnesses who have gone before, anticipating the Grand Opening. Paul (the apostle...maybe you’ve already met him) says when we're absent from the body, we’re present with the Lord. So no matter what, you’re hanging out with Jesus, and that’s good enough for me.

Things are a little weird where we are, what with this pandemic going on. I wonder how you would have reacted if you were still here. You probably would've worried. That was your superpower, after all! You would've fretted about your husband, your kids and their spouses, and your precious grandkids and great-grandkids. You would've worried about whether they were healthy and safe, and whether they had enough food to eat and enough toilet paper, and if they were all reaching out to Jesus.

But I bet you'd have found peace, too. You would've found it because you would've done what you wanted all of us to do—reach out to Jesus. Like that sick woman in the Bible story, you’d have stretched your hand out for the hem of his robe, but unlike her, you wouldn’t have just let your fingertips brush against the fabric. No, you would've grabbed it and never let go.

You don’t need to do that anymore, do you? Like Paul (same one I mentioned before…tell him I said hi) said, you're seeing Jesus face to face. I can imagine you smiling, your eyes aglow with boundless love. I bet you talk to Him about us. But you don’t fret. You can see the big picture a bit better than we can, and even if you can’t, he’s assuring you it will all work out.

It’s good to know you’re there, safe. We who are on this side of the veil, who see Him through a glass darkly (when we bother to look at all) find it easy to forget that God’s steadfast love never ceases, his mercies never come to an end. They are new every morning.

I didn’t make that last part up. Jeremiah (the prophet) said that. But you already knew that.

By the way, how’s he doing?

How to Conquer a Troll

This is the story of how I stopped being a troll.

It starts on a Monday night, which is the night of the week that a group of kids comes to my house. We eat cookies, drink hot beverages, and talk.

I say “kids” even though most of them are, technically, adults, but I’m old enough to be the father of any of them. I should immediately also point out that my wife Jenny is not old enough to be their mom, but they call her “Mama J” anyway. They don’t have a nickname for me.  Not yet.

Some of our participants call it a “Bible study,” although that too is not technically correct. Basically, we choose a topic at random and exchange ideas. We’ve discussed deep and personal things like depression and suicide, pondered heady subjects like existentialism, delved into familial and romantic relationships, and wondered whether grown-ups are allowed to do the silly things that children do. I think the reason it’s called a Bible study is because the conversation always seems to wend its way into some biblical wisdom, so maybe the name is appropriate.

During one of these meetings, I shared a personal philosophy of mine: that everyone is both precious and broken at the same time, and we’ll find both of these truths in anyone we encounter. The trick is to step into and around the broken pieces and yet treat everyone as if they are indeed the most precious thing in the world.

I should also point out that earlier that same evening, I told them a story about how I had trolled a scammer who claimed to be from Microsoft and said he wanted to access my computer because I had acquired a virus. For those of you my generation and older unfamiliar with the phrase “trolled a scammer,” it means that when someone calls you and is trying to trick you out of your money, you treat them like a piece of moldy dog poop. My favorite tactics have been wasting their time by pretending to be more stupid about computers than I really am (“I’m sorry, I can’t find any key on my keyboard that says ‘control’”) or asking simple questions that they can’t answer (“Where are you calling from? Oh, really, Walnut Creek? What time is it there? What’s the weather like?”) You get bonus points and valuable cash prizes if they swear at you and hang up in disgust.

So, after I had finished waxing philosophical about preciousness and brokenness, Cyril asked “so what about the guy who called you on the phone and wanted to hack into your computer? Isn’t he precious?” 

Now Cyril, like most of the young men in our group, is thoughtful, insightful, funny, charming, intelligent, good looking, and single. (The girls and other young men are all those things too, except for the part about being single. NOTE: If there are four or five single girls who have graduated high school and have suddenly acquired an interest in our gathering, we meet on Mondays at my house at 7 PM. Contact me for directions). 

Cyril also has the ability of speaking truth without using a lot of bull crap. It just sometimes looks like bull crap, because he always says it with that charming smile of his.

At first, for just a moment, I thought about defending my behavior, but I immediately caught myself. This young man…this “kid”…was right. I needed to change, especially if I wanted to live out biblical commands like “love your enemy.”

Then, just to prove that God is a genius when it comes to comic timing, a scammer called the very next day. “Sir,” he said, “my name is Nancy.” (Yes. He. Nancy. Both of those.) “I am from Microsoft….”

As he launched into his spiel I found myself tempted to slip into my default tactics, but before I could even start, I remembered Cyril’s challenge.  I sighed and glanced wistfully at the “control” key.

“…we have found a virus on your computer and…”

 “Actually,” I said, “I’m not worried about it.”

“Sir, if you don’t allow me to gain access to your computer, hackers can steal your information.”

“No,” I replied. “I don’t think that will happen. Actually, I’m more worried about you. What can I do for you?”

There was a pause. I could tell this was not in his script.

“Sir, if you will locate the Windows icon near your ‘control’ key…”

“No, I’m not going to do that. Like I said, I’m worried about you. What can I do for you?”

Another pause.

“Sir, there are several malignant viruses on your computer…”

“No, you and I both know that’s not true,” I said. I realized at this point that I had offered to do something for him, but there was really not much I could do.

Here is where the story starts to get weird.

“Would it be okay if I prayed for you?” I asked.

Pause.

“Sir, I need you to locate the key that looks like a window in the lower left-hand side of your keyboard.”

“OK,” I said, “I bet there’s someone listening to you, right? So if you want me to pray for you , just ask me something about my computer again, and I will know that means ‘yes,’ ok?”

A longer pause.

“Sir,” he said, “if you do not remove the viruses from your system…”

“Got it,” I said.

And here’s where the story gets weirder, even for me. I started to pray for him. Out loud.

“Dear God,” I said, “bless Nancy.  I don’t think that’s his real name, but you know what his name is. And I know you love him. I know he’s trying to steal from me and cheat me, but that’s okay.”

As I prayed I suddenly gained this strange ability to imagine life from his perspective. Crammed into a hot smelly room filled with hundreds of other callers, probably required to fill a quota.  Even his bosses are trolling him, the new guy, tricking him into using a girl’s name. I doubt he’s working only eight hour days. I’m sure he sees very little of the money he manages to swindle out of his victims.

“He’s just trying to feed his family,” I tell God, “and make a better life for himself. I’m sure he’s not doing what he wants. He doesn’t want to lie and steal, so God, please lead him to a life where he can do the things that you have created him to do. Let him know how much you love him. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

Silence.

He didn’t utter a word as I prayed for him. Five seconds after I ended my prayer I was positive he would start swearing at me.

After ten seconds I was certain he had hung up.

Finally he spoke again. “Sir, if you would look at the lower left-hand side of your keyboard…”

It might have been my imagination, but I’m almost positive that his voice was thick with emotion.

“No,” I said, “I’m not going to do that. But thank you for letting me pray with you. Have a good day. God bless you.”

I hung up.

I never would have had that conversation if it weren’t for that little Monday night community, gathering and eating baked goods and laughing and wrestling with thorny topics. Even us older guys can learn something from someone else, even if that someone else is a “kid.” Cyril helped me be a better person, even if it was just for the five minutes I spent talking and praying with “Nancy.”

Because as satisfying as trolling scammers feels, this felt much better. 

Still Waiting

We walk into Target hand-in-hand, her gnarled fingers intertwined with mine. Christmas decorations greet us as we enter. She beams at them, happy that it’s Christmas, happy to be on an outing, happy to be with someone that she loves. She doesn’t know my name, nor does she quite know how we’ve come to be acquainted with one another, but she knows that she is fond of me, and that is enough.

She walks with the gait of a child who has only recently taken her first steps: sort of a carefree shuffle as she propels herself forward. We head directly to the toy section. I know exactly what I am looking for, having done a scouting expedition a couple days before. I’m going to buy the perfect Christmas gift.

“Look Mom,” I say. Her smile widens.

On a display tree are dozens of stuffed animals, staring plaintively at us in hopes of adoption.

“Do you like them?” I ask.

“Uh huh.”

“Which one do you like best? There’s a doggie, a kitty, a brown Teddy bear...”

She’s standing nose to nose with a fuzzy polar bear. It is nattily dressed in a baby blue-and-white-striped stocking cap and a matching scarf. She gazes lovingly into its eyes—eyes as glossy and black as licorice jelly beans.

“Do they have a white one?” she asks.

She clutches it to her chest as we shuffle to the registers. I have to disentangle my hand from hers in order pay for it. Back at the car, I place it carefully into the trunk.

By the time we get back to the house, she’s forgotten all about it.

It was all part of the plan. You see, one of the few advantages of having a loved one with Alzheimer’s is that they can choose their own Christmas present, and it will still be a surprise.

There may be other advantages as well. I’ve never been able to think of any, though.

That was about five years ago. After awhile, there were no more outings, no more conversations. For a time I could place the bear on her lap and she would smile at it and caress its face, speak to it in a language known only by the angels. Eventually the day came when she no longer showed any interest in it. It would stare placidly at her through those licorice-black eyes, but her gaze was always above it, peering into the ceiling and possibly beyond.

The bear sits in my room now, by my bed. Mom passed away last June. It’s been almost ten months. I’ve neglected my blog since then because I knew I’d have to write about stuff like this. I kept telling myself that it would be easier to write tomorrow, when I don’t miss her as much as I do today, but if I waited until I stopped missing her, I’d never start. 

Ten months. They say time heals all wounds.

I’m still waiting.

Day 7

There is a cynic that lounges lazily in my soul, knowing everything, surprised by nothing, scoffing at mystery and wonder.  This week, I was challenged by my cousin Rita to be anti-cynical, to examine the light instead of the darkness, to consider the half-full portion of the glass rather than the empty space above it.  I was challenged to be thankful.

Over six days, I avoided the obvious; the “stuff” I’ve accumulated: the abundance of food, the roof over my head, the clothes, and the toys.  Not to diminish these things, because I am truly grateful for them… humbled even, under the realization that most people around the globe own much less than I do.  Instead I focused my gratitude on the people who have enriched my life.

As I thought about each person; my wife, daughters, parents, siblings, grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, nephews, nieces, friends, church family, theatre family, teachers and more; I was struck by the vastness of my treasures.  I felt like Jimmy Stewart’s character at the end of It’s a Wonderful Life, when his brother raises a glass and toasts “to George Bailey, the richest man in town.”

But I was perplexed by another thought as well.  In recognizing the enormity of my blessings, I felt the need to be thankful.  And as much as I was thankful to each person in the story of my life, I also realized I was thankful for them.  And if this is true, to whom do I express my thanks?  The Universe? My Lucky Stars? Good Fortune?  Karma?  None of those answers satisfied me.  Thanks must be uttered to a person.

And so I say it.  I say “Thank you God, for all your blessings, this light that I see shining in the darkness.  Thank you also for the darkness, because in the trials and grief your blessings shine all the brighter.  And thank you for love, God.  That was your best idea yet.”

And the cynic in my soul has nothing to say in response.