Welp - it was bound to happen eventually: I missed my deadline for these daily posts. (And if I told you about the week I've had, you'd understand. But I'll spare you the gory details!)
Instead, I'll just say that I did realize before the deadline that I didn't have a post ready to go, and I wondered if I should just throw something together in order to adhere to the letter of the law I set when I adopted this daily discipline.
Then I decided it would be better to stick to the spirit of the law and miss the deadline while (hopefully) creating a "good enough" post a day late as a compromise.
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"The Cost of Caring"
I've often wondered what would happen if a church's fall stewardship campaign slogan was, "Give until it hurts. Then give a little more." (p 189)
What would the response be?
A variation on that, once shared with me by a pastor-friend used to solicit funds for a beloved yearly conference, is, "Don't give until it hurts; give until it helps."
The same, but different.
The title of this entry is "The Cost of Sharing," and it's a testament to the conflicted relationship with pain we have these days: "Part of the confusion here lies in our understanding of the purpose of pain" (P 190).
Kate and Jessica note that several kinds of pain should be avoided: abusive relationships, self-harm, brokenness, dysfunction, and pathologies of every kind. "That kind of pain is not part of God's desire for us and violates the deepest, truest things about us: that we are deeply worthy of all good things. Full stop" (p 190).
But some virtues are developed that require sacrifice, which involves pain. "When we want to grow, there might need to be some pruning. Some hacking at deadening habits and beliefs. Some watering and readjusting so we might grow toward the light" (p 190).
Kate writes about her friend Christie who is a nurse: "She explained the brutality this way: the way you know you are doing your job correctly is that it costs you a part of your own soul. Even with the best self-care practices, the job of any caring professional - be it a nurse or doctor or social worker or teacher or chaplain - comes at a steep price. It costs you to care. Caring, she said, is an occupational hazard" (pp 190-191).
What will good things cost us?
Hope costs us the satisfaction of cynicism.
Love costs us selfishness.
Charity costs us greed.
These words hit a little differently now after this week's shooting at the elementary school in Texas. I wish caring wasn't an occupational hazard for me as a pastor - even caring for people I don't know and will never meet.
It's tempting to look away from the pain, to save myself the pain of seeing the grief of so many families. It is "beautiful, terrible work" to see another person's humanity, even from a distance. This sentence that ends this entry reminds me of the chapter, "The Bad Thing" we talked about here.
But I am reminded of the image they mentioned there: "Seeing pain up close [your pain or someone else's] can give you an incredible experience of awe. It's like seeing a garment turned inside out and all the rough seams are showing. You see someone's absolute humanity shine through all the pain, and that vulnerability makes them more - not less - beloved" (pp 93-94).
Blessed are you who listen to long, winding stories from lonely hearts instead of rushing off to more interesting friends. You picked boredom or loving strangers instead of the warmth of being known. That was your time and you're never going to get it back. (p 192)
Pastor Allison
I'm curious:
How are you handling the pain of the last few days - whether from stories you see on TV or tragedies that are unfolding in your life and the lives of those whom you know and love? Can you look it in the face? Are you ignoring it? Are you "doomscrolling" or getting too obsessed with the pain?
What does a healthy relationship with pain look like? What pain is pruning, and what pain is damaging?
And, just so you don't think I blindly buy in to everything Kate and Jessica write, at the end of the "A Good Enough Step" on page 194, when they write, "Somehow, we are more blessed when we give than when we receive," my soul shouted, "No!"
Well, maybe not shouted exactly, but definitely disagreed.
I know this chapter is advocating caring ("giving") despite the cost, but in my 2021 Christmas Eve sermon, I explained my experience of "excruciating humility" resulting from the onset of seizures. It is excruciating and humbling to have to ask for help ... to receive, instead of to give.
But isn't that the foundation of our relationship with God -- receiving, not giving? We didn't do anything to deserve the Incarnation, to deserve salvation. That's the whole point actually.
Yes, I'd much rather give than receive ... but sometimes it's better to receive than to give. (Just saying!)
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