Uncovering Joy – A Grove of Fig Trees
“Most didn’t know they were giving me a fit of insight and support, affirmation and critical acumen, but were simply being who they were and doing what they do.”
Douglas John Hall, Bound and Free
What does the world look like from under a stretch of scaffolding? When I’m trying to make my way through the web of metal tubing of a scaffold, things simply look tight. We have to move from the usual well-ordered sidewalk where foot traffic naturally follows the rules of the road (walk on the right and no one will be hurt) to a sudden reduction of space. Back on a wide open sidewalk traffic maintains itself, but now, unlike a freeway lined with orange barrels, we have to bob and weave so that everyone makes it through this pedestrian roadwork.
The passageway through the scaffold can bring us so close to one another the very texture of each face that passes by are like photos that flash on a screen – very clear...very distinct, and then gone. Even smells are so available they pull our senses out and add to the intensity of the moment. With bags and briefcases and purses in hand, room must be made and it does not always happen with the gracefulness we would like. We are all brought a little closer to one another as we move within this temporary structure of time and space. And yet, closeness is often an excuse to be utterly unavailable and anonymous. Strangers exchanging glances and then....we are gone. Sometimes we are simply between here and there and that which happens and is seen and heard and touched is left behind without leaving a mark on the life we have and the life we are entering.
Not long ago there was a large tunnel of scaffolding across the entrance to a local church. About a year later the scaffold was still in place. In big cities, I usually have a good memory of where I am and what will be coming up next as I move down a street. The memory is usually associated with other buildings within a block or construction work or even the amount of street activity going on around that place. Under this church scaffolding, I remembered a person. She was young enough to grab my attention but old enough to show that she was not lost. She was trying to stay warm, sitting on one of the steps, and huddled against the stone of the church entrance. This day, she was gone. I don‟t remember the name of the church – only the person sitting under that scaffold. What does the world look like from those steps and within the shoes of that young woman? I’m certain it is different from how I see things.
I see many homeless people or those who appear to be homeless because they are out in conditions I would never choose to be. I wonder about their stories and their conditions and their future. It all happens within the few moments of a walk-by. Urban areas present us with a stream of such images. At times it can feel like an avalanche of images that are able to overwhelm our senses. That could be why it becomes so easy to pick up the pace of our walk and move by what is so raw and quite visible.
On a walk between an evening dinner and our evening destination, there was another scaffold. It was dark and we instinctively moved from a group-walk to a single-line of pedestrians making their way through our tight urban channel. In the middle of this little excursion and glancing down to make sure I was staying clear of the ground level pieces of scaffold, I saw a penny. Yes, I’m one of those folks who once heard of picking up a penny as a bit of good luck – especially if Lincoln’s face is looking up at you. Well, I bent down, picked up the penny, and returned to the cadence of our stream of walkers. My daughter asked what I did. I admitted that I picked up a penny and felt a bit like a fool. Joking, she said “Dad you just took that penny from that homeless guy.” Homeless guy! Where! What!
There wedged into the scaffolding and rolled into a pile of blankets and stuffed into layers of clothing was a body – right where I picked up that penny. I could have been flip and flipped the coin back to the ground or simply went on the way. It is easy to walk by life and keep one’s life secluded and “to one’s self.” But what do we do once we have wondered about how life is seen from under a scaffold and exposed to life in a way that can be harsh and anonymous? Was this penny connected to that person? Was it one of the coins in his exposed hand – coins probably put in place by others who flowed through this tight place before me?
I once learned how to say a “good” Act of Contrition. “Good” when used to be descriptive of an Act of Contrition meant it was sincere. I can say an Act of Contrition almost as fast as I can say a “good” Hail Mary.You may not catch every word...but I said it...every word. On that street in New York, I felt the need to say a good Act of Contrition. No priest was asking for it. This was not a part of a show. It was a part of a deep stirring that flashed through me and made me realize the life that is outside and foreign to the shoes in which I walk. I reached in my pocket and pulled out a bill, turned around, walked back to this sidewalk, scaffold saint, and bent down and told him that I was the one who just picked up the penny at his side and did not mean to take it from him. I put the bill in his hand and said, “God bless you.”
The city is a grove of fig trees where people sit to contemplate life as it goes by. To sit under an urban fig tree is to open one‟s self to life we may not want to see or to simply move by without recognizing God’s presence in others. What does life look life under the fig tree of metal tubing when it is your home for the night and people move by as though you are a bag left out on the street? A bill in hand is not going to bring healing. I am not that naïve. What it reminded me on that night is that there is so much to which I need to be connected – and yet, I am not. A part of urban spirituality is the utter availability of our own brokenness that sustains a system in which we are honestly aware of the brutality of poverty and the dis-ease of individuality. We are given so many opportunities to turn around and face ourselves even when we do not like what we see.
“O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee, and I detest all my sins, because of thy just punishment. But most off all because they offend thee my God who art so good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve with the help of thy grace, to sin no more and avoid the near occasion of sin. Amen.”
A “good” Act of Contrition takes place under the fig trees of urban life when we avail ourselves to moments of vulnerability that help us see the coming of the Lord even as we look on at the ordinary and broken and forgotten. When I recite this old confessional prayer, I hear it with new ears. I am no longer afraid of a God who I once thought was set to punish me for falling short. I am much more sensitive to the utter connectedness that is our humanity and how disconnected we can live.
A walk on a city sidewalk is like a stroll through fig trees and the vision of a promise that often has turned sour. And yet, we continue to walk and look around and remember our God who is so good. We are pulled in to see and be the goodness of God‟s Reign when brokenness appears to be having its day. There are many fig trees waiting for us to come and rest and watch and come alive again in a way we never may have anticipated.
TRRR
No comments:
Post a Comment