Broken and Crippled
June 02, 2008
What we have brought to the Sabbath Dance
and what God has brought in return. It is
not now, nor will it ever be, a fair
exchange. We bring our brokenness; some of
it we can hardly bear to name, some of it we
cannot name at all. God brings
forgetfulness, so that it might never again
be named. If we will let it go, then we will
be empty, we will be clean, we will have room
in our hearts for the Word. Robert
Benson
Whenever you find tears in your eyes,
especially unexpected tears, it is well to
pay the closest attention. They are not only
telling the secret of who you are, but more
often than not of the mystery of where you
have come from and are summoning you to where
you should go next. Frederick
Buechner
As a storeowner tacked a sign above his door,
'Puppies for Sale,' a little boy
appeared and
asked. "How much are you going to sell those
puppies for?"
The storeowner replied "$50 each."
The little boy reached into his pocket and pulled out some change. "I have $2.37, can I have a look at them?"
The storeowner smiled and whistled. Out of a kennel came Lady, followed by her five balls of four-legged fur. One puppy limped and lagged considerably. "What's wrong with that little dog?" the boy asked.
The storeowner explained that the puppy was born without a hip socket, and the vet told him that the puppy would limp for the rest of its life. The little boy's face lit, "That's the puppy I want to buy!"
The storeowner replied, "No, you don't. If you really want him, I'll give him to you." The little boy did not hide his annoyance. "I don't want you to give him to me. He's worth every penny. I would like to give you $2.37 now, and 50 cents every month until he's paid for." Taken aback, the storeowner minced no words, "Young man, this puppy is never going to be able to run, jump or play like other puppies!"
The boy reached down and rolled up his pant leg, to reveal a badly twisted, crippled left leg supported by a bulky metal brace. He looked up at the storeowner, "Well, I don't run so well myself, and the little puppy will need someone who understands."
In Brendan, (Frederick Buechner's novel about a sixteenth-century Irish saint), a servant recounts a conversation between Brendan and Gildas, a crippled and bitter old priest.
"I am as crippled as the dark world," Gildas says.
"If it comes to that, which one of us isn't my dear?" Brendan replies.
Gildas with but one leg. Brendan sure he's misspent his whole life entirely. I who had left my wife to follow him and buried our only boy. The truth of what Brendan said stopped all our mouths. We was cripples all of us. . .
"To lend each other a hand when we're falling," Brendan said, "Perhaps that's the only work that matters in the end."
We all see "crippled" parts of ourselves that sadden, discourage, infuriate, embarrass or even repulse us. We know they are there. Some are of our own making. Most are not. And we do our best to wish or will or pray them away.
Our prayers are fueled by a world that sees imperfection as an indictment. And we pass judgment on our value, based upon that measurement: appearance, achievement and affluence. Maybe it's about our illusion of control. With all of our fixing and renovating, look what we have to show for ourselves! "You can have the life you DESERVE to live," an ad for a local plastic surgeon promises. I have nothing against whiter teeth or a tighter backside. However, I'm not so sure that'll take care of what troubles me.
The problem is this: As long as I am bent on fixing, repairing and renovating in order to make myself more presentable or lovable or acceptable, I am postponing the ability to receive any gifts (from you or from God) in the present moment. One young volunteer, working at L'Arche, Jean Vanier's homes for seriously handicapped adults, wrote of the residents, "They never ask what degree do you have, what university did you attend. They only ask, 'Do you love me?' In the end, isn't that what matters?"
Indeed. Here's the truth: We have the ability to receive, to be loved, to know our value, only from a place of vulnerability. Because in our nakedness, our "crippledness," our brokenness and our vulnerability we have no power, no leverage, nothing to bargain with. Our identity is not dependent upon becoming somebody, impressing somebody, or removing all imperfection. We can be, literally, BE, at home in our own skin, damaged hip socket and all.
I was raised in a church that used the scripture, "Be ye perfect as God is perfect," as a hammer meant to beat all the blemishes out of me. Now I know: Wholeness is not perfection. Wholeness is embodying, living in, this moment, be it happy or sad, full or empty, running or limping.
Granted, there are flawed and weak parts that could change.
But we can't change anything until we can love it.
We can't love anything until we can know it.
We can't know anything until we can embrace it.
And we touch wholeness at that place of vulnerability.
There we are human. There we are sons and daughters of God. There we hear God speak our name. The very image of God is imbedded in this fragile nature, in its very breakability. It is in that vulnerability where we find exquisite beauty -- compassion, tenderheartedness, mercy, forgiveness, gentleness, openness, kindness, empathy, listening, understanding and hospitality. The alternative? To protect ourselves from all manner of breakability (and "crippledness") and to seal off our hearts and souls with Teflon. There will be no pain or brokenness. And there will be no love.
The storeowner replied "$50 each."
The little boy reached into his pocket and pulled out some change. "I have $2.37, can I have a look at them?"
The storeowner smiled and whistled. Out of a kennel came Lady, followed by her five balls of four-legged fur. One puppy limped and lagged considerably. "What's wrong with that little dog?" the boy asked.
The storeowner explained that the puppy was born without a hip socket, and the vet told him that the puppy would limp for the rest of its life. The little boy's face lit, "That's the puppy I want to buy!"
The storeowner replied, "No, you don't. If you really want him, I'll give him to you." The little boy did not hide his annoyance. "I don't want you to give him to me. He's worth every penny. I would like to give you $2.37 now, and 50 cents every month until he's paid for." Taken aback, the storeowner minced no words, "Young man, this puppy is never going to be able to run, jump or play like other puppies!"
The boy reached down and rolled up his pant leg, to reveal a badly twisted, crippled left leg supported by a bulky metal brace. He looked up at the storeowner, "Well, I don't run so well myself, and the little puppy will need someone who understands."
In Brendan, (Frederick Buechner's novel about a sixteenth-century Irish saint), a servant recounts a conversation between Brendan and Gildas, a crippled and bitter old priest.
"I am as crippled as the dark world," Gildas says.
"If it comes to that, which one of us isn't my dear?" Brendan replies.
Gildas with but one leg. Brendan sure he's misspent his whole life entirely. I who had left my wife to follow him and buried our only boy. The truth of what Brendan said stopped all our mouths. We was cripples all of us. . .
"To lend each other a hand when we're falling," Brendan said, "Perhaps that's the only work that matters in the end."
We all see "crippled" parts of ourselves that sadden, discourage, infuriate, embarrass or even repulse us. We know they are there. Some are of our own making. Most are not. And we do our best to wish or will or pray them away.
Our prayers are fueled by a world that sees imperfection as an indictment. And we pass judgment on our value, based upon that measurement: appearance, achievement and affluence. Maybe it's about our illusion of control. With all of our fixing and renovating, look what we have to show for ourselves! "You can have the life you DESERVE to live," an ad for a local plastic surgeon promises. I have nothing against whiter teeth or a tighter backside. However, I'm not so sure that'll take care of what troubles me.
The problem is this: As long as I am bent on fixing, repairing and renovating in order to make myself more presentable or lovable or acceptable, I am postponing the ability to receive any gifts (from you or from God) in the present moment. One young volunteer, working at L'Arche, Jean Vanier's homes for seriously handicapped adults, wrote of the residents, "They never ask what degree do you have, what university did you attend. They only ask, 'Do you love me?' In the end, isn't that what matters?"
Indeed. Here's the truth: We have the ability to receive, to be loved, to know our value, only from a place of vulnerability. Because in our nakedness, our "crippledness," our brokenness and our vulnerability we have no power, no leverage, nothing to bargain with. Our identity is not dependent upon becoming somebody, impressing somebody, or removing all imperfection. We can be, literally, BE, at home in our own skin, damaged hip socket and all.
I was raised in a church that used the scripture, "Be ye perfect as God is perfect," as a hammer meant to beat all the blemishes out of me. Now I know: Wholeness is not perfection. Wholeness is embodying, living in, this moment, be it happy or sad, full or empty, running or limping.
Granted, there are flawed and weak parts that could change.
But we can't change anything until we can love it.
We can't love anything until we can know it.
We can't know anything until we can embrace it.
And we touch wholeness at that place of vulnerability.
There we are human. There we are sons and daughters of God. There we hear God speak our name. The very image of God is imbedded in this fragile nature, in its very breakability. It is in that vulnerability where we find exquisite beauty -- compassion, tenderheartedness, mercy, forgiveness, gentleness, openness, kindness, empathy, listening, understanding and hospitality. The alternative? To protect ourselves from all manner of breakability (and "crippledness") and to seal off our hearts and souls with Teflon. There will be no pain or brokenness. And there will be no love.
Poems / Prayers
Nocturnal
I've been graced beyond measure,
I realize, sitting up late at night,
reflection dark in the window,
but lose the joy incessantly,
within moments
of arrival,
departure.
Sudden debate
among geese in the harbor.
Inside, furnace clears its throat,
breath of sleeping bodies stirs the air,
as the great flood of being engulfs
both center and circumference,
flinging itself recklessly,
into Douglas fir and woodpiles,
sea otters and water rats,
into the fatigue behind my eyes,
the clumsiness of fingers,
the separation I can't quite span
to reach the desired bliss.
Yet even this frustration
holds the ridiculous truth:
that what I want is as close
as I am to myself.
Closer.
Roger Midgett
To Come Home To Yourself
May all that is unforgiven in you
Be released.
May your fears yield
Their deepest tranquilities.
May all that is unlived in you Blossom into a future
Graced with love.
John O'Donohue
O God, we are one with you. You have made us one with you. You have taught us that if we are open to one another, you dwell in us. Help us to preserve this openness and to fight for it with all our hearts. Help us to realize that there can be no understanding where there is mutual rejection. O God, in accepting one another wholeheartedly, fully, completely, we accept you, and we thank you, and we adore you, and we love you with our whole being, because our being is your being, our spirit is rooted in your spirit. Fill us then with love, and let us be bound together with love as we go our diverse ways, united in this one spirit which makes you present in the world, and which makes you witness to the ultimate reality that is love. Love has overcome. Love is victorious. Amen.
Thomas Merton
Peace,
Terry Hershey
