Jesus "became flesh and blood and moved into the neighborhood". John 1:14 (MSG)
God's compassion is not something abstract or indefinite, but a concrete,
specific gesture in which God reaches out to us. In Jesus Christ we see the
fullness of God's compassion. To us, who cry out from the depth of our
brokenness for a hand that will touch us, an arm that can embrace us,
lips that will kiss us, a word that speaks to us here and now, and a heart that
is not afraid of our fears and tremblings; to us, who feel our own pain as no
other human being feels it, has felt it, or ever will feel it and who are always
waiting for someone who dares to come close--to us a man has come
who could truly say, "I am with you'". ~McNeill, Morrison, Nouwen
Jesus is God-with-us, He lives in solidarity with us. Compassion, in Latin, means to suffer with. Jesus spent his adult life caring for the sick and the marginalized. No one was excluded. No one was untouchable. No one was unworthy of his care. God's compassion is total and unconditional without reservation. We are called to be compassionate as Jesus was compassionate. Through him, we become God's compassion and hope in the midst of our weary world.
One of my favorite stories of compassion is Gate 4 told by Naomi Shihab Nye, a Palestinian American poet. As you read or listen to Nye read (link also below) this story, where do you see acts of compassion given and received? With whom do you most identify?
Wandering around the Albuquerque Airport Terminal, after learning my flight had been delayed for four hours, I heard an announcement: "If anyone in the vicinity of Gate A-4 understands any Arabic, please come to the gate immediately.” Well--one pauses these days. Gate A-4 was my own gate. I went there. An older woman in full traditional Palestinian embroidered dress, just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly. “Help," said the flight service person. “Talk to her. What is her problem? We told her the flight was going to be late, and she did this." I stooped to put my arm around the woman and spoke to her haltingly. “Shu-dow-a, Shu-bid-uck Habibti? Stani schway, Min fadlick, Shu-bit-se-wee?” The minute she heard any words she knew, however poorly used, she stopped crying. She thought the flight had been cancelled entirely. She needed to be in El Paso for major medical treatment the next day. I said, “No, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just later, who is picking you up? Let’s call him.” We called her son and I spoke with him in English. I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and would ride next to her--Southwest. She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it. Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and found out of course they had ten shared friends. Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian poets I know and let them chat with her? This all took up about two hours. She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life, patting my knee, answering questions. She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies--little powdered sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts--out of her bag--and was offering them to all the women at the gate. To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the mom from California, the lovely woman from Laredo--we were all covered with the same powdered sugar. And smiling. There is no better cookie. And then the airline broke out free beverages from huge coolers and two little girls from our flight ran around serving us all apple juice and they were covered with powdered sugar, too. And I noticed my new best friend--by now we were holding hands--had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing, with green furry leaves. Such an old country tradi-tion. Always carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere. And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and I thought, This is the world I want to live in. The shared world. Not a single person in that gate--once the crying of confusion stopped--seemed apprehensive about any other person. They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women, too. This can still happen anywhere. Not everything is lost.
Video of Naomi Shihab Nye reading her poem Gate 4
Prayer
Beloved companion,
you are my delight,
but sometimes I need you
to take flesh and form,
to feel the breath of you on my neck,
the hem of your garment thrown across me
when the night is at its darkest
and the land has turned to sleep.
~Jan Richardson
Reflection:
As you read or listened to the story, with whom did you most identity? Where did you see signs of joy, of grief, of compassion? What brought tears to your eyes or a smile to your face? What stimulated hope in you?
Jesus came to walk in our shoes, to feel our feelings and live in the same reality that we live in today. He experienced joy, laughter, beauty, suffering, tears and loss just as we do. How does this Jesus, God with us, resonate with you today?
As a spiritual practice throughout advent, find ways to show compassion for others or notice acts of compassion offered to you and others?
Resources
Bowler, K (2024). The Weary World Rejoices: An Advent Guide from Everything Happens. This is a resource that we are following throughout the advent season. Feel free to download the daily or weekly guide.
McNeill D., Morrison, D., Nouwen, H. (1983). Compassion: A Reflection on the Christian Life. New York: Image Books.
Richardson, J. (1998). Night Visions. Cleveland, OH: United Church Press.
Comments