The Last Day Lament

I led this prayer on the last day of our worship course (the day that we sang all the hymns that the students had written, hence the thematic transition at the end).

Source

A Seminary Psalm: The Last Day Lament

O God of Time, infinitely and intimately ours,
We are students and faculty facing the end of another semester;
Some of us the end of our journey at Drew.

We are buried beneath literal and digital stacks of paperwork,
Crunching out reports, and recuperating from computer crashes.
We are following guidelines and looking toward deadlines
And yet, despite so many straightforward lines,
We lose ourselves in a whirlwind of expectations.

O God of Grace, whose Book of Life has no column for grades,
We are students and faculty facing constant measurement:
Our mistakes and retakes, our credits and diplomas.
Our publish-or-perish publications, our tenure and evaluations.
We see A's and B's and C's and I's, NR's, and Z's,
And we wonder what they say about us;
About our learning and about our teaching.
We absorb letters on transcripts
As though they spell who we are and what we do.
But our identity is in You, O God:
You call us Beloved.
And our purpose is in You, O God:
You call us to Live, to Learn, and to Love.

Deliver us, O God!
Deliver us from the finality of our finals,
The pressure of our presentations,
The stress of our tests,
And the insidious voice inside us
Insisting that we've come to Drew
For any other reward or reason
Than the one for which You've led us here.

And thank You, God of Song,
That in the midst of our reading and writing,
We can claim this sacred time and space
To give You glory and praise.
Let all that we are and do be a song to You!

Amen.

Your Mistake Is Not the Last Word on You

Before I preached this narrative sermon to my classmates, I read aloud from John 21:1-19 (NRSV), projected the image below, and lit one candle to bring into the chapel the faint but unmistakable scent of fire.

Your name is Peter.  You remember that night—the night that Jesus was arrested.  It was the night that you did that thing you said you would never do, became what you said you would never be.  How could you forget that?  You never will.

Over and over again the people asked, “Are you not Jesus’ disciple?” and over and over again you said, “I am not.”  Three times.  Three times, just like he said it would be.  And you didn’t just deny Jesus or that you knew who he was.  You denied who he said you were and what he called you to do.

Are you not Jesus’ disciple?

No. No, I am not.

When it happened, you were warming yourself by a charcoal fire.  The air is still thick with the smell of it, even when you aren’t by a fire, because you will never forget that scent.  It’s always been unmistakable, but now it’s the smell of the most humiliating moment of your life.  Every time you warm your hands you relive that shame a little bit more.

And where do you find yourself now but right here at another charcoal fire?  It’s the first time Jesus is sitting with you by a fire since the night you wrapped yourself in the protection of lies.

But that’s not what Jesus talks about.  “Come and have breakfast,” he says, and as he cooks the fish you breathe in the smell of sustenance and wonder if things between you will ever be what they once were, what they should have been.

Here you are sitting down to a feast like nothing has even changed between you.  You became what you swore you would never be and you two have never even talked about it and this silence is actually starting to weigh on you as much as the shame ever has and God—Are you ever going to talk about it?

Jesus breaks bread and gives it to you, and as you reach out to take it, you can still see the wounds in his wrists where they nailed him to the wood.  But the fish are hot and the bread is fresh and you are hungry.  So you let the whole meal go by in friendly conversation, and you don’t ask Jesus about the awful thing burned into your memory to this day.

But he knows, doesn’t he?

And after you’ve eaten together, he speaks.

Your name is Peter.  At least, it is to Jesus.  Isn’t it?

“Simon, Son of John,” he says.  It’s a little like when your mother used to scold you for teasing Andrew when you were kids.  Except there’s a look on Jesus’ face now, and even though all you can think about is the burning coals and the heat of shame, there’s this look on his face and you can’t describe it, but whatever it is means you’re not in trouble.

“Simon, Son of John,” he says, “do you love me more than these?”

You do.  You cherish him.  He tells you to feed his lambs.

Maybe some time passes. You can’t be sure how much, because all that matters is that Jesus turns to you again.

“Do you love me?” he says.

You do.  You cherish him.  He tells you to tend his sheep.

The next time he says it like he knows what hearing a question three times will mean to you.  He says, “Do you love me?”

Someday the story of this conversation is going to be written down in Greek, and many well-meaning preachers are going to focus on the use of different words for love—agape love, phileo love—and what they think those words mean.  Some will preach how this goes to show that, even now, you can’t get where Jesus is or where he wants you to be.

Poor Simon Peter, they’ll say, because they too will never forget the night you denied Jesus and everything you were supposed to be for him.  It will be easy for them to interpret the words to reflect what they already know about you: That you fall short and Jesus needs to meet you in your weakness.  They will shame you even in your redemption.

Maybe they wouldn’t preach it like that if they could hear what you hear.

You and Jesus don’t speak Greek.  You speak Aramaic, and what you hear is the very same question spoken three times.  What you hear is three opportunities to affirm your love and three instructions to cherish Jesus’ people the way you cherish him.  What you hear is Jesus calling you to be the disciple you were always meant to be.  What you hear is the emotion in his voice when his third question both breaks you open and restores you.  What you hear is the voice drowning out the crackle of fire.  What you hear is love.

Jesus calls you Simon, but you both know that you are and forever will be Peter.  You are the rock on which your beloved Jesus will build his church.  You are the one who will shepherd his flock.  You are the one who will speak to the Jews and the Gentiles.  You are the one who will die for them all—for Jesus, for his people.  You are the one who cherishes your friend no matter how ashamed you feel of your failure.

Peter, someday a Christian named C.S. Lewis will write about this kind of love between people who know each other the way you and Jesus do—that between friends, the question Do you love me? means, Do you see the same truth?  Do you care about the same truth?  Lewis won’t mention you or this conversation with your Lord, but if you could know what he would write, you might say, “Yes!  That’s what Jesus is asking of me.  Do we see the same truth?  Am I ready to care for his people as much as I care for him?  Am I ready to lay down my life?  Am I able to bear the name Disciple, to be the person Jesus made me and do what he called me to do?”

And Jesus thinks you are.  At Passover, you told him you wanted to follow him wherever he was going, but back then you weren’t ready.  Now, Jesus says, “Follow me.”  And you will.  The last word on you in this story is not your mistake.

And you don’t know this yet, Peter, but someday millions of Jesus’ people will put the ashes of burnt palms on their foreheads. Those sooty dark smudges will remind them that they are mortal and that they have fallen short of what Jesus has called them to be.  But there but for the grace of God, those ashes will mean so much more.  Through the ashes, anointed on each forehead in the form of a cross, Jesus will speak to their hearts: “My friend, do you love me?”

And if they can hear those words above the crackle of fire, and each and every reminder of fall and failure, then like you, Peter, the people you nourish and lead and all of their spiritual descendants—they too will know who they are and what they are meant to do . . .

If only they will hear love over the persistent whisper of shame.

An Open Letter to My Classmates in Prison

A letter written to the inside students in a course that I'm taking as part of my Master's degree. The course emphasizes that students from Drew and those within the Correctional Facility are all classmates, studying together. It is not traditional "prison ministry" but in fact a partnership.

Image Source

Dear Inside Students,

I am an Outside Student who may never know what it is to be an Inside Student, or even what it is to be on the inside. Studying in a prison setting is a new experience for me, and I admit that it was just a little bit easier to do it because I was going in the company of friends I already knew and faculty I already trusted.

Maybe you didn't know anybody when you first went in. I imagine it might have been difficult not only to be sentenced but also to be sent somewhere without a familiar face, especially the kind of loved one who knows who you are so well that they can remind you from time to time when you're down and out. For better or for worse, my identity is wrapped up in the relationships I have, the jobs I do, the clothing I wear to portray a certain image of myself—professional or casual or colorful or quiet. So much about these parts of your life might have changed when you got to the premises—old relationships reshaped by new circumstances, new relationships forged, new jobs assigned, personal fashion minimized. Individual identity as we know it in the contemporary western world is difficult to express under such limited parameters. This, at least, is my understanding so far, though I would rather hear your experience from your perspective, and I hope to do so over the next few months.

It's just that, as you began to talk about some of these things, even as briefly as we spoke before we moved on to discuss our actual course material for the term—music's role and expression in different world religions—I began to realize just how much certain elements of your current experience remind me, in some way, of my own. With that, I began to realize how much you could teach me and nurture me in even a few short hours. And lest you think I'm just getting sappy and waxing poetic here, let's just say the potency of the whole thing knocked me on my ass. So that's why I'm writing this. Because, sooner or later, potential energy turns kinetic. Sometimes.

You see, I had never been to prison before this week, but I've been locked up for about five years now.

The officials who give names to such things call my prison grounds Depression. I and others here have known it to be Hell.

Maybe you are locked up here, too. Maybe you know many prisons. As far as I can tell, knowing one is one too many.

Whatever built the walls around you, I can't possibly imagine that I know what you are experiencing. No two prisons are the same, nor are two people's dealings with depression. Incarceration and depression are not the same. But they share common ground. I think you and I may share common ground.

I may have shown signs of anxiety and depression in childhood, but I was what The Powers That Be consider high-functioning in most aspects—yes, I was (am) awkward and content to spend inordinate amounts of time alone, reading or writing or messing around with art supplies to no remarkable end except personal relaxation. But I had some extraordinary friends and high marks in school and a surprisingly positive attitude, which all mostly outweighed the low self-confidence and the phobias and the panic. So maybe that's why the first major lockdown five years ago still took me by utter surprise.

Since then, I was paroled a few times—had brighter days, months, seasons here and there. For a little while I thought I'd even gotten out for good. But somehow I keep finding myself in Depression. It's not always exactly the same as before; the way that the pain and the exhaustion and the loneliness manifest changes a little every time, I learn a new lesson now and then, and what exactly I am able to accomplish while in the thick of it varies, but it's just a different circle of Hell. It's just a different cell on the same old block.

It's a place where sometimes it doesn't even matter that I have relationships and work and clothing to identify myself; because my relationships become strained with heightened conflict or in my isolation, my work suffers in the midst of mutism and fatigue, and dressing myself becomes either a mindless ritual or a burden. These are just outward signs of the inward loss of identity, an inner hopelessness in the realization that I am not me, or at least I suspect that I am not me but I'm having trouble remembering who I was in the first place.

Even worse, I begin to wonder, what if? What if this is me now? What if I am stuck with this me for the rest of my life? What if signs of healing and hope aren't even real, like a mirage in desert heat? What if I'm only healing because I'm too scared of being broken, and in my haste, I'll put the pieces back together wrong?

Maybe I don't need to worry too much about being hasty. These days I am undergoing some sort of really long, drawn-out parole process. One step forward, two steps back, and a splurge of two steps forward when even I don't expect it—makes it hard to replicate it when I want to. I am not quite in but I am not quite out, either. I still haven't figured out how to earn my way out, how to prove myself worthy of freedom. It seems kind of arbitrary, if you ask me.

I imagine it may take longer than usual, because this last bout really threw me for a loop. I've never been so thoroughly stripped of what I thought made me who I am. I've never been so voiceless and vulnerable. I've never had so little concentration and common sense—utterly unable to retain information, picking up a hot baking pan with my bare hand, falling asleep and boiling off a whole pot of water, forgetting things and forgetting that I've forgotten things. I've never failed so damn perfectly to care for myself with the most basic tasks or to complete the coursework that I've had my heart set on doing ever since I discerned a call to ministry, a call which thus far refuses to go away in spite of my inabilities and failures. And I've never felt so scared of the next time I'm going to end up here; scared that someday I won't make it out.

When I first sought help, a school administrator asked me to paint a verbal image of what I was facing. It was no easy task since so much of my depression was and often still is a sort of mutism, a struggle for words.

One of us, whoever it was, eventually described the proverbial pit. In the midst of this metaphor, she talked about how hard it can be to climb the ladder and get out.

I looked at her in genuine awe, because the part of my brain that was visualizing the pit suddenly short-circuited: "There's a ladder?"

Not in my pit! At least, I didn't see one there, even while actively seeking help. I knew I needed to start talking to people about what was going on, but I still didn't see the way out.

I guess I wonder if no amount or type of treatment is going to get me entirely out of Depression. And even if I do get out, I'm always going to carry around this record. It's going to make people look at me differently. It's going to make it easier for some people to know and trust me, but it's going to make it harder for others. The more I try to bury it, the more persistently it will sow doubts in me about what I'm capable of doing and whether or not other people love the real me. The more openly I speak of it, the more authentic I will feel; but the more authentic I feel in that, the clearer it will become that this struggling, fragmented person is in fact who I am.

Before we left for the correctional facility to meet you, we heard from a former inside student who said she eventually realized: "I wasn't who people in Blue said I was. It was a bump in the road that didn't define who I am or could be." She said that we outside students would be gift-bearers, bringing hope; bringing your minds outside of the wall—to our everyday world, to the worlds of the texts we read and the music we hear. She said it's easy for a person's mind to become trapped along with her body and to become immersed in despair and loneliness and uncertainty because of where she is.

What you may not realize is that I am in the opposite situation: my state of mind easily incapacitates my body, and I don't know how long I will live in this situation. I do know that partnering with you in this course that has everything and nothing to do with liberation—this foray into the music of the world's religions—is already helping to liberate me in some small way. That's because this program challenges the very definition of liberation.

In my case, my mind is locked up, and coming to see you and work alongside you means that my body is not imprisoned by the state of my mind.

It means that I have something meaningful to go and do; bright, friendly people to speak to and listen to, even when my inner consciousness tries to persuade me to shut down and shut people out.

It means that I will spend a few hours of the week with people who value freedom as much as I have come to.

It means that even my mind will be freed in a way I may not have known was possible; learning your insights and seeing the world anew through your lens, just as the outside students share our ideas and perspectives with you.

You may want the freedom of stepping off the premises more than anything else. Maybe a freed mind, as our orientation speaker called it, is just one small freedom you willingly accept for now. I want to step out of the grounds of Depression and free my mind as much as I want my next breath. But if it turns out that I reside here all my life, or if it follows me out the door like any complicated past that one would rather leave behind, it does not need to mean that I am lost to it.

That is what I have learned from you already. And I have learned that we are not so different, you and I, in at least this much: We are not who they say we are. And if someone has convinced us otherwise, then we must help each other to remember who we are and imagine who we will be.

See you in class,
The Outside Student Inside Different Walls

Deceptive Christian Tippers

First, check out this article about customers who have left phony $10 bills marked with religious tidbits in place of monetary tips for their wait staff.

I'll wait.

...I know, right? I bet you're squirming with indignance, even if you've never worked as a server before, and/or you're concerned about the non-complimentary angle from which this piece serves up the Christian faith. Mmm, self-righteous deception for the glory of God. Delicious.

So let me begin (is it too late now to begin?) by saying that I think there's more to this than a critical view of Christianity. Some of Jesus' most controversial points were his criticisms of hypocrites and those who considered themselves most righteous. Today, this doesn't mean that we need to avoid Christianity or gathering as a faith community, but we do need to keep reimagining what it means to be a Christian while searching the core of Jesus' movement.

The article points out that not all Christians are poor tippers deceptive tippers, but the truth is, some are. So how do Christians reconcile that? How do we act, as Christians, knowing that this is the image of Christianity that some people - religious and nonreligious - have been given? How do we express what we believe and how we live without alienating or betraying people or being condescending to them? (Whichever "them." All of them.)

Instead of presuming to answer questions like these (since I think these are the sorts of questions best answered via actions), I'm going to highlight further what I consider a few important issues in the described scenario.

THE ISSUE OF DECEPTION

Do the people who do this think it's fitting that their religious intervention takes the form of fake money? What are they trying to convey, and what are they conveying instead?

If their message is that there are things in life more important than money, are they making that point by getting a hard worker's hopes up, thinking they've received a good tip, just to fool them?

Why not just leave a message on a card or paper instead; why go through the trouble of using fake money? Which brings us to...


THE REAL, HUMAN CONCERNS OF THE STAFF

As written in James, faith without good works is dead, and it does little good to give someone spiritual guidance if their basic needs are ignored (very Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, about 1800 years in advance).

By this example, should we replace all salaries with advice instead? How do the people leaving these tips support themselves? (And let's not pretend that a waiter's tip is beyond comparison to a wage, particularly if the employee's official salary is otherwise below legal minimum wage.)

Money is not the root of all evil; it has potential to do good, and technically it's just a tool in the extended bartering system of one person's time and labor in exchange for another's. So let's make every effort to make a fair trade.


THE GRATITUDE FACTOR

Traditionally, the amount of a tip is considered to be commensurate with the customer's gratitude and/or a measure of the quality of the service. Wait staff are often paid below minimum wage and depend greatly on their tips; unless stated, it's not included in the bill and the customer chooses the amount. A lack of tip signals extraordinarily bad service and/or extraordinarily ungrateful customers.

If a religious person is inclined to use this occasion to share the Gospel (more on that in a sec), they could do so separately and leave a note with the tip. Might look too much like bribing someone to convert, but tipping is being kind, generous, mindful of the server, and a decent customer. The note is just an additional and probably unsolicited expression of spiritual concern, whatever one's views on that matter. And speaking of which...


EVANGELISM IN ITSELF IS NOT A BAD THING

Mainstream Protestant churches and nonreligious groups sometimes villainize evangelism or proselytism, or else don't know what to do with it and shy away, but passive-aggressive practices like fake-tipping only fuel that fire.

At its best, (Christian) evangelism means sharing the Gospel, the good news - that something amazing has happened in Christ and continues to happen when the Spirit is at work in us. It means believing something so deeply that it simply must be shared; to avoid sharing altogether would imply that there's nothing so great or urgent there in the first place.

But the core of Christianity isn't about dropping a spiritual nugget of wisdom and running. Jesus and biblical writers like Paul emphasize community, unconditional love, and nurturing one another. Actually, these concepts being made reality are all a huge part of the message!

So telling others about Jesus isn't a bad thing, and these customers may genuinely believe that they're appropriately sharing an important message, but they've made no attempt to connect to the person in a truly meaningful way - nothing that demands risk or even much time and energy on their part. Unless they're chatty regulars, they're not around to nurture the server in faith or in general.

(Oh yeah. Sidenote: Casting Crowns touched on the idea of true Christian outreach and active care in the song "If We Are the Body.")

If anything, deceptive tippers teach someone to believe that Christians not only aren't generous but return (presumably) good service with self-righteousness under the guise of giving glory to God. They imply that, if God is actually supposed to work in the world through believers, then God does not provide or heal but only chastizes and counts followers.

Mainly, it's my hope that the religious and non-religious folks who read and reflect on the aforementioned Daily Finance article walk away with something other than a bitterness for Christians and others who seem too "pushy" in sharing faith (as, I admit, I have been prone to feel).

I hope that there is something fortifying and renewing to be found here - perhaps faith-affirming, or at least reconciling.

One of my favorite things about taking Church History classes in seminary (besides inordinate gobs of song parody fodder) has been confronting some of the terrible things that Christians have done, often in God's name.

Being honest about this troubling history - and realizing that "my" church and I are not necessarily much holier - has opened me up to thinking about all the good potential the church still holds and, perhaps most inspirationally, how we as a faith community can grow beyond and despite our mistakes.

Awkward Christianity: On Blessings

When Sincere Things That Christians Do and Say Are Potentially Problematic

Here are some situations that I have been mulling over in the context of what I call "awkward Christianity." I present them in this way not to offend, alarm, or condemn, but simply in the spirit of considering that sometimes sincere kindness gets lost in translation. Sometimes we don't realize the magnitude or implications of what we say, or see it entirely differently. It behooves us to be sensitive to that in both speaking and listening.

Awkwardness #1: Blessings

"God has blessed me with good health, a spouse, children, a nice home," etc.

Likely Intended Meaning(s): I feel blessed, grateful, happy, content. I like the circumstances, people, things, etc. of and in my life or at this particular time. I give credit to God that I have this.

Considerations: My co-conversationalist may be in a similar circumstance, or may not. I should not presume to know. Their circumstances may have changed (such as having an illness they have not disclosed to me). They may believe that God has blessed them in some way; they may be in the midst of confusion, uncertainty, or upset with God. My co-conversationalist may or may not believe in giving gratitude to God even for difficulties and for not having what they would like. They may not believe in God or may not know quite what they believe about God and "blessings."

Where I'd Be Wrong and Why It's Worth the Risk: If you sincerely believe (1) that God blesses us with pleasant, happy things but not challenging, unpleasant things, (2) that we should always thank God by name and in public/in conversation with other people, or (3) that the absence of pleasant, happy things in someone's life is an indication of the absence of God's blessing, then this Awkward-Avoidance may not sit well with you. But I disagree at least in part with all three of the aforementioned, and that's why I consider this a scenario of potential Awkward Christianity worth addressing.

How to Avoid the Awkward: I don't mean to suggest not to share joy or gratitude with others or to neglect to thank God, but simply to be sensitive to the fact that this statement may reflect my joy and gratitude but may inspire other feelings or questions for my companion. Consider, too, that perhaps we can exhibit joy and gratitude in other ways: that this is one of the cases in which the maxim "actions speak louder than words" may ring true. Share your joy, perhaps not by saying "God has given me a reason to have joy," but by simply exuding the joy it has brought you and striving to bring such joy to another. Pray in your inner room - let God know of your gratitude. And if you exhibit the joy of God in good times and in bad whether or not you say a word about the circumstance, you reveal far more about God's blessings than words could convey.


Image Source

For Brian: Prayers for a Mourning Traveler

As you may have noticed, I've been on a blogging hiatus during my travels. I'm pleased to report that I'm back, safe and sound, and ready to return to writing - and even strangely excited for classes to begin again.

I would just like to take this moment to ask you to keep a man named Brian Miller in your thoughts and prayers.



I met him in the airport on my way home. My scheduled flight had been cancelled due to the winter wonderland that hit 49 out of 50 states (all but the Sunshine State where we were), and I found myself at the boarding gate the following day, talking to Standby #1 for the new flight.

While I had been waiting for weeks in anticipation of my trip, Brian's had been a spontaneous and somber one. His mother had become ill and died, and he was clearly returning home after an especially trying week. I offered my condolences and a listening ear, feeling inadequate and nonetheless like God was nudging me simply to be there for him.

When the airline staff called Brian over to tell him his seat, he excused himself and headed up to the counter.

I had the sudden feeling that perhaps I had somehow fallen short of what comfort and healing I could have offered to him. I prayed hastily: "God, if there is more that I should say or hear, let him sit by me."

Brian returned in somber triumph, resting again with boarding pass in hand. "I made it. I'm in Row 12. You?"

"Row 32," I read from my own. For a moment I thought, 'Well, he's not next to me.' As though to believe that meant my work here was done.

But inwardly I heard the words, He's sitting next to you now.

And I realized the mistake I'd made. Perhaps my heart was in the right place, and I was all geared up and ready for God to use me in whatever way my inexperienced ministering spirit would manage. But even as I prayed for God's will, I'd already had a preconceived idea of what it would look like.

Sometimes we pray for God to let us touch the lives of other people when we'll find them later. Sometimes they are already there beside us.

And sometimes we pray for God to let us touch the lives of other people. Then they touch ours.

Brian and I talked until it neared the end of the line of passengers and specific rows were being summoned. As I left, I asked if he would like me to put his name on our prayer chain, and he agreed.

Please keep Brian and his loved ones in your prayers, and perhaps say a prayer for all those who are mourning and those who are weary from traveling this season.

How to Fail in an Emergency

This is one of the most embarrassing and humbling of my life experiences that I also believe to be worth sharing. Embarrassing because of my thoughts and actions at the time. Worth sharing, I hope, in spite of them.

One day, while I was working as a porter for a cleaning company in New York City and canvasing the sidewalk for trash, a drunkard called out to me.

"Hey, wanna go out with me?"

He was sprawled out on the steps leading up to 2 Penn Plaza. Positioned between Madison Square Garden, the taxi stop, and the entrance to Penn Station, he was in just about everyone's path. Six empty beer bottles accompanied him in disarray.



His lips bulged around crooked teeth. His short hair was tousled; his clothing smeared with the grime of the City That Never Sleeps. Travelers, entertainment seekers, and business employees bustled around us.

When I realized he'd addressed me, I mumbled, "Uh. No, thanks," and went back to sweeping up cigarette butts and ticket stubs.

"C'mon, go to dinner with me. Just once or twice."

I imagined my acquaintance picking out something tasty from a dumpster around the corner. I imagined him falling over himself here on the steps. But I didn't imagine what he did next.

He raised his arm and sort of chuckled. "My hand is bleeding."

"Oh, my gosh!" I cried, surely seeming hysterical compared to his far-too-casual demeanor. His hand was absolutely covered in blood, a painful sight no matter what the size of the actual wound. "Are you okay? How did that happen?" I was genuinely startled and sympathetic. But I closed none of the distance between us.

"I got beat up."

I must have subconsciously decided that what he needed first and foremost was to get cleaned up. I looked around at the nearby buildings, trying to remember the way to the nearest public restroom. I imagined myself sneaking him into our employee bathroom in the industrial depths of Penn Plaza. Then I imagined my supervisor's response to that bright idea, and the proverbial light bulb flickered and died.

I chased after a co-worker just a bit down the block. As the two of us tried, as usual, to work through our slight language barrier, I told him about the bleeding man on the steps and asked what we should do. He said something dismissive, perhaps frustrated with either the problem I'd posed to him or trying to communicate with such a frantic and monolingual mess.

By the time I spotted another co-worker, the premises' security staff were walking across the plaza toward the man, who by this point had slumped over a bit more onto the sidewalk. I was utterly relieved that someone had alerted security, and even more so when the police and an ambulance arrived, but also utterly ashamed - ashamed that I hadn't thought to call an official of any kind. Ashamed that I saw a bleeding man and my instinct said, "Clean him," rather than, "Heal him." Ashamed that I saw him as dirty before I'd even seen the wound.

After that event, I promised myself that I'd do whatever the conscious part of me could to react better in any sort of medical predicament. I've tried to remember that it's only in these experiences that we can learn how to respond to them.

And I've been listening for that voice of utmost wisdom beyond my humble understanding - the one that knows what it is to smear mud and spit on a blind man's eyes to restore his vision (John 9:6-34). The one that commends "clean," sure, but most actively seeks to "heal." The one that would have embraced the opportunity to share a meal with the man on the steps.