The People I Know
29/01/13 04:49
I think that it is possible that I have never really known a saint. I know some very, very good people, but they have all been subject to mistakes and very human emotions. The people I know are more like me than they are like Mother Theresa, if you know what I mean. But then again, some of the things that have appeared give a hint that there was a small difference between the public perception and the reality of even Mother Theresa. But she was a very good person. And she did a lot of good with her life. And one could do far worse than to imitate her.
The people I hang out with, however, tend to be a bit less perfect. They sometimes curse when they hit their fingers with a hammer. They have a regret or two about things that they did. They can have one or two too many when they get to drinking. They have made an enemy or two, and if not a real enemy, there are at least people who would definitely not describe them as saints.
I guess that I’ve always been drawn to people who are less than perfect. Probably that is because I am less than perfect. It isn’t that I don’t try. I do try. I work hard at making improvements. But I have had some rather negative thoughts about people. I have not connected in the same way with all of those I have been called to serve. I have been exasperated and at my wits end and wished that I simply didn’t have to deal with some of the folks that God sends my way.
Maybe it is some kind of a test. If so, someone has a rather cruel sense of humor.
Maybe it is that we are human.
There are a lot of people who have somewhat skewed notions of the life of a minister. I think that some members of my family don’t really understand who I am or what I do. I don’t want to shock anyone, but I don’t sit around praying all day long every day. I don’t have the Bible memorized. There are some parts of the book that I just don’t get. I am not very pushy when it comes to recruiting new people for the church. I am not very judgmental when it comes to others’ mistakes. Most of the things that other people label as sin aren’t very interesting to me. I think it is perfectly OK for people to have things about them that I don’t know.
I certainly don’t think that I am somehow better than others because I spend a lot of time at church. I spend a lot of time at church because it is a place of deep meaning for me. And one of the most important meanings of the place is that it is a place of forgiveness. It is a place that welcomes people like me.
I once had coffee with a couple that was struggling with divorce. They both had a list of complaints about the other. There had been betrayal and hurt feelings and inattention and mean words and hurtful thoughts and a whole lot of other things in their lives. Neither was innocent. Neither was as bad as their mate made them out to be. But there had once been genuine love. And there was genuine grief over the love that had been lost. And there were children. And there were all kinds of reasons to pursue some kind of relationship – to patch things up in some way – to muddle through “for the sake of the kids.” I didn’t have much advice for them. I am often short of advice. People get themselves into dilemmas from which I do not know the proper escape. But I could listen. And I did. Later one of them told me that the reason they came to church during the long struggle of the breakup of their marriage was that it was the one place in their lives where they could sit next to each other and not be arguing. That’s not a bad reason to have a church, if you think about it. We provide a place where people who are really mad at each other can find a moment of peace while sharing the same space.
I know a man who is a retired bartender. We aren’t the kind of friends who sit and tell each other our stories. I know virtually nothing about his years of sitting in smoky bars, presiding over the drunks and the social drinkers and the smokers and the guys who slipped in to get away from the pressures of their lives. He knows very little about the work I have done or the stories I have been told. I’m not in the habit of telling others’ stories in the first place, though occasionally I use them to illustrate some point or another when I don’t think there is a chance anyone could be identified from my story. But the bartender and I get along as if we were old friends. There is a sense that we understand each other without needing to tell our stories. Maybe I’m a bit like a bartender. A face in the smoky haze who will listen and who knows the value of keeping the story where it belongs.
I think it is possible that we have a mistaken notion of what it is to be a saint. Maybe saints aren’t perfect people in the first place. The song by Lesbia Scott says, “You can meet them in school, on the street, in the store, in church, by the sea, in the house next door.”
It is an intriguing idea. I hardly know the man who lives next door. He lives alone, works nights, and keeps pretty much to himself. We talk in the summer when we are mowing or lawns or working outside on the nice days. We can go a whole winter and not say a word to each other. Recently when he went on vacation for about 10 days I fell into a panic. There was no sign of life at his house and I wondered if he was OK. I’m capable of thinking of all sorts of bad scenarios. I realized that I don’t even know his name or his next of kin. Some neighbor I am. Now that he is back, and appears to be healthy, I resolve to get to know him better. Maybe he is a saint. Then again, I’m not particularly drawn to saints. Perhaps he isn’t a saint and is just the kind of person I’d be honored to get to know.
The people I hang out with, however, tend to be a bit less perfect. They sometimes curse when they hit their fingers with a hammer. They have a regret or two about things that they did. They can have one or two too many when they get to drinking. They have made an enemy or two, and if not a real enemy, there are at least people who would definitely not describe them as saints.
I guess that I’ve always been drawn to people who are less than perfect. Probably that is because I am less than perfect. It isn’t that I don’t try. I do try. I work hard at making improvements. But I have had some rather negative thoughts about people. I have not connected in the same way with all of those I have been called to serve. I have been exasperated and at my wits end and wished that I simply didn’t have to deal with some of the folks that God sends my way.
Maybe it is some kind of a test. If so, someone has a rather cruel sense of humor.
Maybe it is that we are human.
There are a lot of people who have somewhat skewed notions of the life of a minister. I think that some members of my family don’t really understand who I am or what I do. I don’t want to shock anyone, but I don’t sit around praying all day long every day. I don’t have the Bible memorized. There are some parts of the book that I just don’t get. I am not very pushy when it comes to recruiting new people for the church. I am not very judgmental when it comes to others’ mistakes. Most of the things that other people label as sin aren’t very interesting to me. I think it is perfectly OK for people to have things about them that I don’t know.
I certainly don’t think that I am somehow better than others because I spend a lot of time at church. I spend a lot of time at church because it is a place of deep meaning for me. And one of the most important meanings of the place is that it is a place of forgiveness. It is a place that welcomes people like me.
I once had coffee with a couple that was struggling with divorce. They both had a list of complaints about the other. There had been betrayal and hurt feelings and inattention and mean words and hurtful thoughts and a whole lot of other things in their lives. Neither was innocent. Neither was as bad as their mate made them out to be. But there had once been genuine love. And there was genuine grief over the love that had been lost. And there were children. And there were all kinds of reasons to pursue some kind of relationship – to patch things up in some way – to muddle through “for the sake of the kids.” I didn’t have much advice for them. I am often short of advice. People get themselves into dilemmas from which I do not know the proper escape. But I could listen. And I did. Later one of them told me that the reason they came to church during the long struggle of the breakup of their marriage was that it was the one place in their lives where they could sit next to each other and not be arguing. That’s not a bad reason to have a church, if you think about it. We provide a place where people who are really mad at each other can find a moment of peace while sharing the same space.
I know a man who is a retired bartender. We aren’t the kind of friends who sit and tell each other our stories. I know virtually nothing about his years of sitting in smoky bars, presiding over the drunks and the social drinkers and the smokers and the guys who slipped in to get away from the pressures of their lives. He knows very little about the work I have done or the stories I have been told. I’m not in the habit of telling others’ stories in the first place, though occasionally I use them to illustrate some point or another when I don’t think there is a chance anyone could be identified from my story. But the bartender and I get along as if we were old friends. There is a sense that we understand each other without needing to tell our stories. Maybe I’m a bit like a bartender. A face in the smoky haze who will listen and who knows the value of keeping the story where it belongs.
I think it is possible that we have a mistaken notion of what it is to be a saint. Maybe saints aren’t perfect people in the first place. The song by Lesbia Scott says, “You can meet them in school, on the street, in the store, in church, by the sea, in the house next door.”
It is an intriguing idea. I hardly know the man who lives next door. He lives alone, works nights, and keeps pretty much to himself. We talk in the summer when we are mowing or lawns or working outside on the nice days. We can go a whole winter and not say a word to each other. Recently when he went on vacation for about 10 days I fell into a panic. There was no sign of life at his house and I wondered if he was OK. I’m capable of thinking of all sorts of bad scenarios. I realized that I don’t even know his name or his next of kin. Some neighbor I am. Now that he is back, and appears to be healthy, I resolve to get to know him better. Maybe he is a saint. Then again, I’m not particularly drawn to saints. Perhaps he isn’t a saint and is just the kind of person I’d be honored to get to know.