Whose We Are
On a much-needed evening of community rest and relaxation, I spontaneously offered the comment, “Boy, if we didn’t have somewhere we were encouraged to put it, the situation of the people we encounter on the streets would be incredibly distressing and discouraging.”
My friend and fellow Mercy Missionary, Alex, replied: “Well, it’s not ours to keep.”
I had never thought of this answer in so many words.
In the course of our work, we take on the stories and sufferings of others--the youngish guy panhandling outside of Safeway, the couple on Naito whose four flimsy tent walls witness two mysteriously interdependent lives.
When we speak with them, we see the darkness which is so concentrated in their lives. This darkness is a stark contrast to the goodness of creation. And yet it is intertwined with the good and the true so closely as to be inseparable from it. We cannot turn away from the pain we witness, or we risk cutting ourselves off from one another altogether. This place is where we are most deeply vulnerable to one another, when we can share it with words, or even in silence.
The lifting of the veil which normally covers this darkness comes for all of us at different moments, for different times. Death is one such moment. This year I have known two people who lived and died between the instant where I last visited them, and the instant where I expected to see them again, still occupying their tent in the same plot of grass by the highway, or popping by our lunch under the bridge to say hello.
Even though we didn’t speak much, I received more of their lives than most people I’ve gotten to know in my years. The question would rise up, again and again: what do I do with what I’ve received now?
Their stories are not ours to keep. In wrestling with this, I’ve had to further ask, what steps are next, if we are not meant to remedy all the evil we encounter in the world ourselves? Throughout the mission year, the answer has been to bring each and every person to the Lord in prayer. My intercession for others has been, at times, desperate. I want to be able to fix the situation, I want healing for those who are broken or bound by sin, their own as well as pains their family or others close to them have caused. It can be a trial to realize my limitations here.
Seen one way, this year has been one long struggle between me and God, with him saying, repeatedly--most often in the words of the Gospel during morning lectio--“Trust me. Everything of mine is yours.”
In Jesus’s words to the Father, I struggled with his obvious message to me:
“I do nothing on my own, but I say only what the Father taught me.”
“The one who sent me is with me.”
In his words to the disciples, it was impossible to ignore what he wanted to say to me:
“Do not let your hearts be troubled.”
“Peace. I am with you always.”
The words that God gives us on our mission are truly his. However much I want to analyze and allot just the right consoling or edifying phrases for an interaction--preferably far in advance--it is not possible for me to always do or say what I think would be best. It brings great relief and also a great challenge to know that we are messengers to carry his word out to those suffering most. We must also remember that everything we receive from them is his, too, and be willing to give it all back to him when the time comes.
Ariel Lewin