A Life of Being, Having, and Doing Enough (12 page)

Still, it takes no small courage to be willing to seek good company on our life journey, to ask to be accompanied, to be held close. Our culture confuses the pain of isolation with some impossible ideal of “self-sufficiency,” and then celebrates it. As we become more and more “self-sufficient” with our own cars, computers, and cell phones, we deceive ourselves with
the insidious fiction that we have become powerful enough to dismiss our interdependence. This is a terrible lie. It erodes our fundamental resilience, weakens our spirit, and promotes feeling crushed by the weight of deep loneliness.

Religious traditions honor this vital, intricate web of interconnectedness in the language they carefully place within their most sacred practices. Many indigenous peoples, when beginning any sacred ceremony, invoke their ancestors, honoring all who have come before, confessing from the start that we cannot possibly do this work of living and loving, building and feeding, growing and healing, all by ourselves.

When Jesus taught his followers how to pray, he began what we call “The Lord’s Prayer” with the word “Our.” Nowhere in the prayer is the word “I.” Prayer leads us into deep communion with everyone who has ever prayed, as we cultivate a deep intention to pray on behalf of, and in the company of, the entire family of creation.

When Buddhists begin a meditation retreat, they offer the merit, or blessing, of this practice specifically “for the alleviation of suffering of all beings.” At the close, they again offer this same merit through a prayer of
metta
, or loving-kindness:

May all beings be healed.
May all beings be at peace.
May all beings be free from suffering
.

When Lakota Sioux pass through the small opening as they enter the sweat lodge, they intone the words
mitakuye oasin
, “to all my relations.” Prayers offered here will be consecrated, dedicated for relatives in every conceivable realm, humans and
animals, trees and rocks and water, a rich and magnificent acknowledgment of the fertile relationships within the family of all life, everywhere.

For many years I belonged to a circle of people who met a few times each year to exchange stories from our journeys and to share our challenges and blessings. One year, Hafsat, a young member of our group, was absent. She had been detained in her home country in Africa. No one knew when or if she would be allowed to leave. Under the previous government, her mother had been killed, and her father had died a political prisoner. We did not know what would happen to her, and we were afraid.

It was the night of her twenty-fifth birthday. She had always been a light in our circle, and in her sudden absence we ached. Some of us were doing what little we could through connections at the State Department, but all of us felt powerless, troubled, and uncertain, not knowing what to do or say. All we could do was wait.

Late in the evening, on the way to our respective rooms, several of us found ourselves spontaneously forming a circle, on a path under the stars. As we held one another, we prayed aloud for her safe return. Amshatar, one of the women in our circle, taught us a traditional song that Hafsat’s mother sang to her when she was small. It had always made her feel at peace in her mother’s love. And so, in a circle on a path in the Michigan woods, a small group of devoted friends prayed and sang a song that we knew, somehow, was the right song:

One person
is not a good thing
.

One person
is certainly not
a good thing
.

O Lord,
please do not make me
one person
.

On the night of her birthday, we sang to Hafsat under the cool brilliance of the night sky, so that wherever she was, she would not feel like one person, not alone, not this night.

What Is Our Job?

I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve the world and a desire to enjoy the world. This makes it hard to plan the day
.

E. B. WHITE,
New York Times
, 1969

T
here is a story about Jesus at dinner with his friends and disciples in the closing weeks of his life. A woman, presumably Mary Magdalene, enters during the meal and, breaking open a clearly expensive alabaster jar, begins to anoint Jesus’ head and feet with precious ointments.

His disciples—as happened so often when they were confronted by something they didn’t immediately understand—became angry and confused. Who is this woman; what does she think she is doing? This ointment and alabaster are quite valuable; shouldn’t we stop this nonsense, sell them both, and use the money to give to the poor?

Jesus replies in a way that, as a young child listening in church, confused me as well:
The poor you will always have with you
.

What is Jesus saying? That he has suddenly decided to give up serving the poor altogether, stop preaching about those in
need and instead get a fresh start in life, beginning with aromatherapy treatments, massage, and facials?

Clearly, the way he lives out the rest of his days discounts this possibility. So what is he trying to teach, what fundamental lesson is he extracting from this moment, just as he does whenever anyone close to him seems lost or confused? As I have gotten older, I believe I may have a clearer understanding of what he is trying to illuminate for those who would carry on his life and message:

This woman is offering me a beautiful gift. She is caring for me in a loving, thoughtful way. I do not know the number of days I will have on the earth. For now, I will drink deep from the beauty and comfort of this elegant generosity of hand and heart. There is a time to work and a time to rest; a time to heal and a time to be healed. This is my time to receive whatever healing this woman aches to offer me
.

When Jesus says,
The poor you will always have with you
, he is essentially saying that this work—the work of feeding the hungry, healing the sick, freeing the oppressed, loving and protecting new generations of children, comforting the afflicted, healing hearts shredded by war—will never, ever be finished. Certainly not by us, not in our lifetime. It is not
our
work, it is
the
work.

We inherit our work from the strong, loving, and capable hands of our grandparents’ grandparents. And after we pass away, it will be—if there is a planet left on which they can live—the work of our grandchildren’s grandchildren. This work is not for us to finish. It doesn’t matter if we add one more day to our week, or two more hours to our day, we will never, ever be done.

I meet so many doctors, nurses, teachers, clergy, parents, all of whom feel exhausted and overwhelmed, the weight of the world’s sorrows on their shoulders, as if it is all, at the end of the day, up to us. It is not. We will not end hunger, poverty, suffering, or war at the end of the day, or the end of our lives. So then what
is
our job? Simply this: to be good, strong, and honorable stewards of the work during our lifetime.

In Mark Nepo’s poem “Accepting This,” he writes:

We cannot eliminate hunger,
but we can feed each other.
We cannot eliminate loneliness,
but we can hold each other.
We cannot eliminate pain,
but we can live a life
of compassion
.

Ultimately,
we are small living things
awakened in the stream,
not gods who carve out rivers
.

Does this mean we should stop trying to eliminate hunger, end war, or cure illness? Of course not. Our dreams of these things shine as beacons through our hearts, lighting fires of hope in our children and in the world. But even as we guide our hands by that most beautiful star, we at the same time make a gentle peace with whatever emerges from our own good and necessary contribution.

We play a very small part in a very long story. This does not
mean the work, the service, the love and care we provide in our life and work is not important; no, our life and work are necessary; they are priceless. The world aches for our gifts to be brought to the table.

But the most humble, honest confession of our only possible work? To do what we can, and have mercy.

Mark Nepo ends his poem:

There is nothing to do
and nowhere to go.
Accepting this,
we can do everything
and go anywhere
.

The Surprise of Being Enough

W
hen I worked as a chaplain for hospice, I used to think I always had to arrive prepared with something useful or important to say, something helpful, soothing, or comforting. It took me a long time to realize that people pressed up against the membrane of their own death are not in need of advice, counsel, or pathetic, lame, fortune-cookie wisdom. They are dying. Their lives are over. What I bring are my eyes, my ears, a loving, honorable witness to their simple magnificence as luminous children of creation, the reassurance of someone’s hand gently holding their own as they cross over.

Richard had been a beloved member of our community. Since the early days of the AIDS epidemic, Richard had served, fed, visited, helped, and advocated for people with AIDS, and there were few among us who had not in some way been touched by his kindness, his spirit, his natural generosity and grace.

Now it was Richard’s time to go, as it was for so many in those years. Because he belonged to a particular Christian denomination that, at the time, believed AIDS was a sin and that those who had it were unclean, his priest had refused to visit him as his body was slowly consumed by this gruesome, horrible
illness. Because this was not an uncommon stance for many religious groups, as an ordained minister I had become the de facto chaplain to the AIDS community. The privilege of that role was, I now realize, one of the more intensely powerful and humbling teachings I have ever been given.

Richard asked if I could visit him regularly. He was troubled about his sexuality as a gay man, confused about whether AIDS was, in fact, a divine punishment for his sin, and if there was any hope for redemption or salvation. We spent many hours, he in bed, on his back, me sitting in a chair pulled up close by his side, so we could hold hands while we talked and I could get him a glass of water or moisten his chapped lips. Reaching deep into my Harvard theological training, I tried to be an honorable companion in these religious discussions, over many weeks together.

The last time I saw Richard, we both understood this would be our last meeting in his short life. His body was deserting him, his soul was weary, ready to let go. He thanked me for coming, for our conversations, for our visits. “This time has been very healing for me,” he said, turning his head slowly, barely able but determined to meet my eyes. He reached for my hand; I gently took it. “I have to admit, I really couldn’t follow a lot of what you were trying to say,” he said, his eyes still locked in mine. “But,” he continued, “I really love the sound of your voice.”

At this, we both laughed. Of course he had seen through my desperate need to feel useful, smart, spiritually helpful. And I saw that we had both been simply sitting, listening together, drinking from the same well, with no way of ever knowing—and
now no longer ever needing to know—who served whom, who held whom, who was the teacher, who the student. It all dissolved in the joke of imagining that we were anything more than two young men, walking the same path, moving, being moved, in the very same direction.

Dishonest Kindness

H
ealers and teachers in nearly every tradition craft their days in harmony with the natural rhythms of life. They make certain they set aside sacred, private, contemplative time, or a time simply for meditation and seclusion. They offer specific times they are available to teach and to speak, and at other times they keep silent. They make known the times they are available to do what they can to heal those who come to them and times they reserve for their own nourishment and renewal.

Like the necessary cycles of seasons, there is a time for every purpose under heaven. Even Jesus needed time for solitude, quiet, listening. A life of love and kindness in the world of men and women is no easy task for anyone, and Jesus seemed no exception. I believe Jesus felt this rhythm in the practice of honest kindness.

Just as there are countless stories of Jesus healing the sick, helping the blind to see and the lame to walk, there are also stories of Jesus sneaking away from the crowds, and even from his disciples, to be by himself. Wherever he was, everyone always wanted something from him. So Jesus would rise before dawn and go away to a secluded place by himself to pray. How tired and weary he must have been, what longing for solace.
“The birds of the air have nests, and the foxes have holes,” he would say, “but the son of man has no place to lay his head.”

All life lives in rhythm. The tides, the beating of our hearts, the inhale and exhale, day and night, planting and harvesting, growth and dormancy. Love, kindness, care—these are living things, sustained by their own essential inner rhythms. In the rush and busyness of our lives we, too, lose our way when there is no quiet, no rest in our hearts, no authentic care in our hands when we reach for what needs to be healed.

If we are rigorously honest with ourselves, we will confess that there are times when we can say to someone in need, “I am here, I can listen, I can help,” and we are telling the truth. However, days later, when faced with a similar person or situation, if we say, “I am here, I can listen, I can help,” we are not telling the truth. The real truth is we are exhausted, weary, filled to overflowing with requests and responsibilities, and we are distracted and impatient to just get home and rest. But in our desperate need to please, to perform, to be the good boy or girl, we pretend to offer something we don’t even have to give.