Compassion is never small

It was one of those very large family reunions, where you likely don’t recognize half the people, and spend a good deal of your time trying to avoid the pugnacious uncle whose name you’ve tried to forget. In the midst of the festivities and beehive of activity, a five-year-old boy wanders and mingles. Sitting alone on a bench is one of the clan’s matriarchs, a 90-year-old woman. The boy didn’t know this woman, so walked right up close and stared into her deeply lined, wrinkled face and cloudy blue eyes. After some time, he asked, “If you’re so old how come you’re not dead?”
She laughed, and replied, “Well, young man, you’ll have to believe me that I’ve thought about it. Many times. But every time I get ready to just go into my room and lie down and die, somebody asks for a sandwich. And I get up and go make it for them. After a while you realize that there are a lot of hungry people and many sandwiches to be made. I guess with making sandwiches I just haven’t had time to die.”
I love this story. Makes me smile every time. And gives me hope. And if you change the verb, it applies to any one of us. “Ready to… quit or give up or give in or fold or break.” Even if we don’t wish it.
Here’s the deal: There is nothing small about compassion. It is the thread of life woven through each day.
In the story of Theseus and the Minotaur (tale from ancient Greece), after Theseus has slain the beast in the center of the underground labyrinth, he guides himself back to the surface by a length of thread given him by Ariadne, the king’s daughter, retracing his steps through the dark maze of tunnels.
Okay. Let us begin here: Where is that thread for you?
Where are those sanctuaries—the people or places—that help us remember who we are, and those parts of our hearts that have not yet been buried or lost?
Where (and how) do we give ourselves the permission to hang on to that thread, and embrace the fullness of life in this present moment?
Where are the places that remind us of our capacity to care—where compassion, inclusion, refuge and safety is full and active?
Reconnecting with that thread is for me a simple and powerful reminder that little gestures make a very big difference.

When the world feels small and dark and frightful, at the mercy of cruelty and revenge, it is not surprising we choose to protect our hearts. We do not easily give it away. This happens when we live from the notion that we carry only so much emotional capital—you know, that precious commodity which allows us to pay attention, to focus, to contribute, to care, to forgive, to set free.
Or, drawing from Luke’s Gospel (passage for my sermon this morning on Vashon Island). “To stand up for the neglected, to invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind.”
And when we live as if there is a scarcity in our “caring commodity”, it goes without saying that conservation is called for. And it becomes our default. Meaning, there is no need to spend empathy on just anybody. We need to pick and choose. To be blunt, “there are those who deserve care, and those who don’t.”
Bottom line: we lose track of the values that sustain us.
And sometimes, we need an experience, to rock our world. Or, to invite us to hit the reset button. You know, back to what makes us human.
I think I needed it this week.

There is nothing small about compassion. There is nothing small about making a difference in the life of one human being. As humans—in the image of God—we touch, love, give, receive and redeem…
So. It’s time to rethink our notion about the scarcity of compassion. False notions always limit us. Don’t forget that.
July 17, 2020 is the day when John Lewis transitioned from this earthly life to the communion of saints. I grateful remember his gentle and steadfast persistence. One step at a time. One day at a time. And his reminder about the necessity for “good trouble”, reminding us that our dignity or value is not tied to the way we look or how we dress. Or the size of our wallet or the digits of our zip code. Not by how we are judged by mankind, because our own souls are imbued with the power to work miracles to change water into wine, the meek into the mighty, to change base metal into pure gold.
“You are a light. You are the light.” John Lewis wrote, “Never let anyone—any person or any force—dampen, dim or diminish your light. Study the path of others to make your way easier and more abundant. Lean toward the whispers of your own heart, discover the universal truth, and follow its dictates… Release the need to hate, to harbor division, and the enticement of revenge. Release all bitterness. Hold only love, only peace in your heart, knowing that the battle of good to overcome evil is already won. Choose confrontation wisely, but when it is your time don’t be afraid to stand up, speak up, and speak out against injustice. And if you follow your truth down the road to peace and the affirmation of love, if you shine like a beacon for all to see, then the poetry of all the great dreamers and philosophers is yours to manifest in a nation, a world community, and a Beloved Community that is finally at peace with itself.” (Across That Bridge: A Vision for Change and the Future of America)

Whatever it is, the light of compassion brings people out of hiding, out of unease and out of fear. The light that invites courage and renewal and resilience. And that, well, that is light worth spilling. And it is the light of Grace. Or in the case of our 90-year-old matriarch, it is the light to remind us that there are always sandwiches to be made.

I write this in Port Ludlow after a weekend on Vashon Island, grateful to the good people at Burton Church. And grateful to spend the good part of a day helping create a garden designed as a memorial. Made me smile real big.
And we continue to follow the heartrending stories of the families in Texas, praying for mercy and grace and healing.

Quote for our week…
“If you see someone falling behind, walk beside them. If you see someone being ignored, find a way to include them. If someone has been knocked down, lift them up. Always remind people of their worth. One small act could mean the world to them.” (Author unknown)

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Today’s Photo Credit: I know it looks like autumn, but it’s summertime. A morning rainfall bringing comfort to a Japanese Maple in my garden… 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…
–A beautiful reflection, so timely and critical for these times. “Then what does it matter?” Should make all our hearts stop. There are so many things happening right now, so many harms being inflicted by people, that the questions, “What can I do and does it make a difference anyway?” seems overwhelming. My Daily Dose of Terry Hershey is a spiritual boost that helps me face the day. God Bless You. Tony
–Oh My Friend. Both your stories today, smiles big. Needed and wanted. Kiddos our Bestest Teachers! If we just Pause to listen. Til next time. Pat
–I remember that episode with Toby Ziegler and the homeless veteran. Thank you for putting it into context with the suffering of many who have stories too but whom we don’t, and cannot know in the present time. But to have that jolt back to compassion as you say and to demonstrate that compassion for people both known and unknown. I’m reading a book at the moment called Quiet by Susan Cain where I’m learning so much about myself and my sensitivity to events both near and far and why I react in the way I do. Your Sabbath Moments are a touchstone for me in an increasingly chaotic world. Thank you. Val
–Your stories never disappoint. My mind is redirected always, my heart is re-tuned and my feet take me in a slightly new direction. Please, never stop, my old friend. Tom
–Dear Terry, I want to thank you for your faithful messages every week in Sabbath Moment. They are a beacon of hope and peace in my weeks that are often fraught with confusion, uncertainty and downright consternation at the trials of our times. PS. Give my best to the wild creatures in your domain. Marion
–Terry, we all embrace your stories, a meaningful refuge. Thank you. Your story telling is an awesome gift. It is days like these that stories bring us comfort and Grace. The current “now” is just too hard. I fill my Sanctuary time these past few days with stories I tell myself with prayerful visualizations of Jesus holding, hugging, wiping tears, sitting with, and reaching out to all those in the flood zones. They do my heart better than any words. Deb