Showing Compassion

The Book of Ruth by Jane Hamilton has the following section, which I found to be interesting, and somewhat thought provoking, (pages 274-275):

“It seemed to me that May was growing more and more concerned about religion as the months went by. I had never realized before that she had a religious streak. Perhaps her age made her think a little; perhaps she couldn’t help being slightly anxious about where she was going to end up when she passed. She probably hoped she might have a stab at heaven. She had the idea that the Congregationalists could give her a chance, and if she did good deeds, such as go to church every Sunday, even in summer, and make confections at Christmas time for the church needy basket, her chances would double.

“There were things the Rev said that made me feel better on occasion also. When I went to the service, I couldn’t help it, I came out feeling holy, as if something had rinsed over me, made me clean again. Even if I didn’t pay attention I glistened, putting in my time. Sometimes I had to think over the Rev’s words because he looked me right in the eye and spoke. Around Easter he kept shouting out, daring me to meet his gaze: ‘Yours is the body of Christ,’ He lowered his voice and said, ‘We will actually feel the nails coming into our flesh as we approach Good Friday.’

“I never felt anything like that. I didn’t feel nails. I wanted to say, ‘Hey, Rev, I don’t have nails! Give me a break.’ I couldn’t feel very sorry for Jesus and his poor bloody hands, because he lived one trillion years ago. He always made commands, like ‘Honor thy mother.’ He sure could dish out advice easily: his mother was a saint.

“It wasn’t’ until I was at Trim ‘N Tidy trying to get grape juice out of a white linen skirt that it came to me what the Rev meant when he talked about feeling the nails in our hands. He wad actually trying to say, despite all the talk of God and Jesus, that there’s no one looking after us, that we are alone, and each of us singular. And still, all of us are miraculously the same in our aloneness, with our red blood cells streaming through our veins. May can list all the diseases that destroy the blood cells, but she wouldn’t go on to say that even Polish people and her colored egg customers and the Japs are subject to disease. The only blessed way there is, I realized, is for all of us to feel deeply with wounded, or sick, or even dead person. What the Rev meant to say, if he could ever have spoken plainly, without all the paraphernalia of the Gospel, was, ‘Each man’s struggle is mine.’

“If I were a minister I’d shout from the pulpit, ‘You, you puddle of humans down there, we are all in the same mess.’ I suppose I’d throw in a meek ‘Rejoice,’ I’d say, “Here’s my theory: isn’t it nice even if I can’t always behave like I believe it?’ The Rev was always trying to get us to be compassionate by telling us about the life of Jesus. I know if the Rev scrapped Jesus altogether I’d get the same point, how you have to feel with all your might for other people, how you have to go outside of yourself and take part in the world’s community. Even though Christians kill each other I finally understood that compassion was the main idea. I knew that salvation was only a carrot, and that in the end there was no such thing.”

Ruth is the narrator to her story. Ruth is not a believer and is somewhat mentally challenged. May is her mother who also appears to be mentally challenges. In their struggle to understand life and its purpose their lives unfold – with triumph and tragedy all mixed together. At least Ruth understood that the main thrust of the pastor’s words was to show compassion for all people at all times. Compassion seems to be something that has gotten lost in the transition into the 21st century.

Quote for today: Kindness makes a person attractive. If you would win the world, melt it, do not hammer it. Alexander Maclaren