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Once, at a conference, I noticed a man striding toward me, his face alight (Marc Ian Barasch tells the story in Field Notes on the Compassionate Life). He seemed really happy to see me, but I didn't have a clue who he was. When he got closer, he pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose, peered at my face, looked down at my nametag, took a step back.
"I'm so sorry," he said, embarrassed. "You looked just like a friend I haven't seen for years. You even have the same first name... so when someone pointed you out..."
He trailed off; the effusive warmth seeped away. I told him it was fine.
In the nineteenth century, a great Jewish mystic, the Rabbi of Berditchev, was known throughout Europe as the Master of the Good Eye. It was said that he could see nothing of people's sins, only their virtues. He'd roust the local drunk from his stupor on high holy day, seat him at the head of the table, and respectfully ask for his wisdom. He'd noodge a man who'd publicly flouted the Sabbath by praising him as the only one in the village who wasn't a hypocrite. He extended his caring to all, whether powerful or impoverished, scholarly or simple, righteous or reprobate.
The Talmud calls for everyone to be weighed "on the scales of merit", or zechut, from zach or purity, "to intentionally focus on what is most pure in each person--to see their highest and holiest potential."
Marc continues his story about the mistaken identity, writing that the man's "'Good Eye' had enveloped me in a gaze of anticipatory delight that made me feel golden. We wound up having lunch. He told me about his research. He talked about the happiness and sorrows of raising a young daughter with multiple sclerosis (for everyone is fighting a great battle). We still stay in touch."
So maybe we should all take off our glasses, and hope for more cases of mistaken identity. For that matter, it might be unmistaken. Why not welcome everyone as some long-lost relative.... Hey, I'm so very, very glad to see you...
This is not about Pollyanna. Or being nice, for the sake of being nice. To be honest, my skepticism tells me it's some kind of emotional sleight of hand. But last week I wrote about Mr. Rogers, and included a clip of his acceptance speech for a Lifetime achievement Emmy award. And this is what he said, to an audience that lives in a cynical and skeptical world, "So many people have helped me to come here to this night. Some of you are here, some are far away and some are even in Heaven. All of us have special ones who loved us into being. Would you just take, along with me, 10 seconds to think of the people who have helped you become who you are, those who cared about you and wanted what was best for you in life."
Call it the Good Eye. Or compassion. Whatever you call it, when you experience it (as Marc described in his story), you realize that something real and profound is taking place.
I'm not saying that it is easy.
Lucy talking to Linus: It's very strange... It happens just by looking at you.
Linus: What happens?
Lucy: I can feel a criticism coming on.
Lord knows I've met people with--how do I say this kindly--no silver lining. (Or as a matron in the south would declare, "Bless their heart!")
But think about the alternative... Without the Good Eye, we live a life based upon fear. Suspicion, intolerance, prejudgment and small-mindedness. In other words, we see what we want to see.
When we live small-minded, our reality is one of scarcity and deficiency. We don't need to go far for examples. We witness it daily, but Donald Trump found a way to extol the benefits of pure paranoia, "People you think are your friends in business will take your money, your wife, your pets... Life's a vicious place. No different than a jungle."
Perhaps. And we all have stories to tell. But I like Marc's comment, "I've met people who swim in the piranha-infested corporate waters for whom the Good Eye has not only been good karma, but good business."
What happens when we lose sight of that (the ability to see what is most pure in each person--to see their highest and holiest potential)?
How does it happen that we lose sight of that even in our self?
Because our perception is fueled by fear and deficiency, we approach life and relationships and faith as if we have no 'stickum' for worth or value or holiest potential. It's easy to have our identity tied to a label or perception or bigotry... and not easy to be set free.
In her book Lovingkindness, Sharon Salzberg tells a story about meeting a Soviet official at an airport with "the most hateful stare I have ever received from anybody in my life. It was an icy rage." Shaken, she returns to the airport lounge feeling as if he had poisoned her being.
But then she shifts. This man, she realizes, might wake up each day in that state she had just experienced from him. "A tremendous feeling of compassion came into me for him. He was no longer a threatening enemy, but rather someone in what seemed to be intense suffering."
Here's the deal: I didn't tell these stories as some kind of motivational tool. As if there is an obligation to "be kind." I tell them as an affirmation and a reminder--mostly to myself--that within each of us there is a light. And that this light--of hope or dignity or delight or passion or justice or beauty or wonder or grace--still shines, regardless of the dirt that covers it. Yes, there are times we forget. However, there are also times when a simple act of kindness, or gift of compassion, rekindles the light in our own spirit. This gift we give to another, becomes a gift we gratefully receive... and both--the giver and the receiver--are liberated.
"You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others." Marianne Williamson
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