Consider this, then, the enema. We found a cat (or did it find us?). He lay there in the road; I swerved. Les, for whom compassion comes more easily, demanded I go back. As we approached the cat finally started to move, limping badly to the other side of the street. We followed, and the panicked frenzy of the next few moments (due in part, I must admit, to a certain hesitancy from me) found us with cat inside car, held delicately by Les. He spent the night, and has not left in the few weeks since. In truth, he is not an unwelcome houseguest but an adopted son. Les adores him, and he her, but even daddy has relented and had his heart softened by the good will of our Meshulam ("befriended" or "paid for" in Hebrew). We had a brief, heartbreaking encounter when the vet advised putting him to sleep (due to some blockage, appropriately enough), but he saved himself through that most primal of means: pissing all over the floor.
Les has been an inspiration to me in all of this. I have found myself profoundly affected by the plight of our beloved kitty and by my dear wife's response. As hinted at before, my inclination was to continue on our way that Sunday night, mourning a little for the dying cat but then moving on. In the end, he would have been just one more pitiable creature felled by the cruelness of the world. I have realized lately that the cynic in me looks on the world with despair. I am quite good (nearly expert, I'd say) in seeing the reality of a cursed and broken world. What I cannot see, most of the time, is the kernel of the gospel falling into the cold, hard earth. Why bother taking the time to have compassion on something so far gone?
This is why my wife is so good for me. She forces me to stop, to consider the power hidden in the small acts of love. Rescuing Meshulam from the street was of course a small thing -- miniscule, even. But every cup of water given is a victory of light against darkness. By these faltering steps we advance the kingdom.
Everyone knows the silly little illustration of the girl on the beach. Surrounded by starfish washed up by the tide, she walks along, throwing them back one by one. When asked how she could possibly be making a difference, she throws another back into the ocean and declares, "There. I made a difference to that one." Cheesy, of course; but more to the point, it falls far short of the mark. It is, in essence, a humanistic parable about the futility of the world. It says "There may not actually be meaning in helping others, but we create our own meaning by struggling against the futility." This is not what the gospel says -- not in its glorious entirety, at least. The gospel dares us to hope even bigger than this. Rescuing Meshulam from death did not merely help him; after all, he will die at some point down the line. Rather the full significance lies in the fact that, for a brief moment, the light shone in the darkness. Christ cares for all creation, and it is His will that we show compassion on animals no less than humans.
This whole episode feels tailor-made for Advent. The smallest, least significant act contains the greatest mystery of all: Christ born in a stable. The flickering light shining out into the swallowing dark, overwhelming it with its brightness. And, of course, the animals gathered around, giving voice to the creation's birthpains.
2 comments:
I hear ya. I've also come to see the world in that kind of cynical way. That's why I can't stomach humanist optimism. No matter how many starfish you throw back in the ocean, all of them will perish sooner or later. You'll die too, eventually, and no one will care about your small, stubborn act of kindness. It's a tragic, but inescapable conclusion.
If, however, you consider such actions within the context of the Gospel, suddenly they make all the difference in the world--not because they bravely defy futility, but because they work in tandem with the God who is actively reforming this fallen world.
I know Jesus wasn't actually born on December 25th, but it is all too appropriate that Christmas fall in the middle of the coldest, darkest time of the year.
I think we are on some sort of weird male period together; the last time I checked this was in May, and I just totally happened upon it again today, only two days after your most recent post. I am glad that I have not missed much!
Isn't it interesting that giving birth is so much like taking a dump? I used to think that the "art as excrement" metaphor took art down a notch or two, but when you think about it that way, I think it elevates the shit.
I think that we all try to see way beyond our perspective: we are in our particular places at this particular time for a reason, and so much of my life has been wasted asking questions that only mattered practically if I had the bulk of the world's problems on my shoulders. The small lights of the gospel are significant because they are really the only lights we can realistically shine; I am learning that my limited perspective is a HUGE helping of grace. It certainly makes things a whole lot less hopeless and pointless.
"This little light of mine...."
Post a Comment