When it comes to "putting in my two cents, worth" or making no comment at all, I normally err on the side of having something to say. I then worry that I might have hurt someone's feelings if my contribution differed from theirs. Yesterday the General and I had a brief visit from a couple of people in the neighborhood. The context of the discussion isn't important, but one lady said: "I always expect the best of others." The second lady acknowledged that she is often reservedly skeptical of strangers."
Neither lady looked at me and asked: "Don, 'What do you think?" Like a bull in a China shop, I blurted out: "I think we always find what we are looking to find."
Years ago, I heard the story of a couple of locals sitting in rocking chairs on the front porch of a small local general store watching cars drive down the highway.
An out-of-town car stopped, and one of the people getting out of the car engaged the two men in conversation. The stranger asked, "What kind of people live in this small town?" The question was met with another: "What kind of people live in your town?" The stranger responded: "The people in my town are friendly. They are good people. They will always go out of their way to help someone in need without having to be asked to help." The two men in the rocking chair appeared to be in total agreement. "That's exactly the kind of people you will find in this town.
Forty-five minutes or so later, another out-of-town car stopped, and a similar conversation took place. Someone asked: What kind of people could I expect to find living here?" That question was met with the same question: "What kind of people live in your town?" The response came, "Folks aren't friendly at all, and I've found, 'You've got to watch your back.'" The response came, "That is exactly the kind of people you can count on finding in this place.
Dr. M. Scott Peck shares an interesting story in his book, "The Different Drum". He shares the story about a monastery that had fallen upon hard times: It was once a great order, but it was on the verge of extinction. There were only five monks left and they were all over the age of 70. The likelihood of the monastery's continuation was time limited.
In the deep woods surrounding the monastery there was a little hut that a rabbi occasionally used when he wanted to get away and simply live in isolation. It occurred to the monks that there was an outside chance that the rabbi might have an idea or wisdom to share that could help them. Maybe he would have some advice to save to save the monastery.
So the abbot went for an unannounced visit. "The rabbi welcomed the abbot to his hut. But when the abbot explained his visit, all the rabbi could say is, 'I know how it is'. 'The spirit has gone out of the people. It is the same in my town. Almost no one comes to the synagogue anymore'.
So the old abbot and the old rabbi wept together. Then they read parts of the Torah and spoke of deep things. When the abbot had to leave, they embraced each other. 'It has been a wonderful that we should meet after all these years,' the abbot said, 'but I have failed in my purpose for coming here. Is there nothing you can tell me that would help me save my dying order?' 'No, I am sorry,' the rabbi responded. I have no advice to give. But, I can tell you that the Messiah is one of you.'
When the abbot returned to the monastery his fellow monks gathered around him to ask, 'Well what did the rabbi say?' The rabbi said something very mysterious, it was something cryptic. He said that the Messiah is one of us. I don't know what he meant?
In the time that followed, the old monks wondered whether there was any significance to the rabbi's words. The Messiah is one of us? Could he possibly have meant one of us monks? If so, which one?
- Do you suppose he meant the abbot? Yes, if he meant anyone, he probably meant Father Abbot. He has been our leader for more than a generation.
- On the other hand, he might have meant Brother Thomas. Certainly Brother Thomas is a holy man. Everyone knows that Thomas is a man of light.
- Certainly he could not have meant Brother Elred! Elred gets crotchety at times. But come to think of it, even though he is a thorn in people's sides, when you look back on it, Elred is virtually always right. Often very right. Maybe the rabbi did mean Brother Elred.
- But surely not Brother Phillip. Phillip is so passive, a real nobody. But then, almost mysteriously, he has a gift for always being there when you need him. He just magically appears. Maybe Phillip is the Messiah.
- Of course the rabbi didn't mean me. He couldn't possibly have meant me. I'm just an ordinary person. Yet supposing he did? Suppose I am the Messiah? O God, not me. I couldn't be that much for You, could I?
As they contemplated, the old monks began to treat each other with extraordinary respect on the chance that one among them might be the Messiah. And they began to treat themselves with extraordinary respect.
People still occasionally came to visit the monastery in its beautiful forest to picnic on its tiny lawn, to wander along some of its paths, even to meditate in the dilapidated chapel. As they did so, they sensed the aura of extraordinary respect that began to surround the five old monks and seemed to radiate out from them and permeate the atmosphere of the place. There was something strangely compelling, about it.
Hardly knowing why, they began to come back to the monastery to picnic, to play, to pray. They brought their friends to this special place. And their friends brought their friends.
Then some of the younger men who came to visit the monastery started to talk more and more with the old monks. After a while one asked if he could join them. Then another, and another. So within a few years the monastery had once again become a thriving order and a place of God given vibrancy and worth.
Does God use people to do his work? "Of course", is the best answer I know. He doesn't look for perfect people. Broken is the only way we come, but a heart of compassion goes a long way in meeting others at the point of need.
All My Best!
Don
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