Mother Teresa once told a roomful of lepers how much God loved them. She told them that they are "a gift to the rest of us."

Interrupting her, an old leper raises his hand, and she calls on him. "Could you repeat that again?" he asks. "It did me good. So, would you mind; just saying it again."

Yes please. Just say it again.

We easily forget, don't we... the cathartic power of grace?  

Two weeks ago, in the Sabbath Moment, Be Gentle with Yourself, I wrote, "It makes me wonder whether we trust our own goodness. Because deep down I know that people tell me their story because there's a shortage (or an absence) of mercy in their lives. They don't need answers or advice. They--as do we all--need the boundary of grace."

And yes, it's been on my mind a lot lately.

The fireworks are not quite over here, the weekend prolonging the party.  I admit that I'm not a fan of loud holidays, preferring the more placid and tranquil days of celebration--say hunkered down next to a fireplace, with a glass of wine and a good book.

Even so, I love summer nights here. It's as if the earth ratchets its rotation back a couple of notches, and whatever is urgent loses it's grip, if only for a little while.

So my mind and heart are given to ambling about my garden, fussing and futzing and cleaning and clearing; and relishing Crocosmia 'Lucifer', it's inflamed blooms electric in the dusk light.

Speaking of good books, I love summer because I keep two or three books going at a time. This week, one was Fr. Gregory Boyle's Tattoos on the Heart, stories from Los Angeles, CA about his ministry (Homeboy Industries) and presence in the "gang world," hoping (he writes) that we "recognize our own wounds in the broken lives and daunting struggles of the men and women in these parables."

Which takes us back to the subject of grace. Yes, I believe that God is compassionate, loving kindness. Fr. Boyle ("G" to the young men and women in the neighborhood) writes, "All we're asked to do is to be in the world who God is. Certainly compassion was the wallpaper of Jesus' soul, the contour of his heart, it was who he was. I heard someone say once, 'just assume the answer to every question is compassion.'"

So, here's my question: how do we do that?  

Assume compassion?

Boyle tells the story about a particularly exasperating homie named Sharkey. "I switch my strategy and decide to catch him in the act of doing the right thing. I can see I have been too harsh and exacting with him, and he is, after all trying the best he can. I tell him how heroic he is and how the courage he now exhibits in transforming his life far surpasses the hollow bravery of his barrio past. I tell him that he is a giant among men. I mean it. Sharky seems to be thrown off balance by all this and silently stares at me. Then he says, 'Damn, G... I'm gonna tattoo that on my heart.'"

The streets of Los Angeles (or the leper colonies in India for that matter) are not a world I know. Far removed from my childhood and the cornfields of southern Michigan. Even so... these stories connect with my own heart.  

Our common human hospitality longs to find room for those who are left out. It's just who we are if allowed to foster something different, something more greatly resembling what God had in mind. Perhaps, together, we can teach each other how to bear the beams of love, persons becoming persons, right before our eyes. Returned to ourselves. Tattoos on the Heart

Returned to ourselves. I get that... as in, not keeping life at arms length. 

I confess. I spent the other evening agog in front of my TV. I couldn't help myself. I was trying to figure out why a TV evangelist was so angry. He paced the stage, his voice raised, his finger pointing, his ire piqued, his tone condescending. He was talking about certain groups (mentioning some other church groups and even some clergy) in America that are, he said, 'destroying our moral fabric.' He wanted us 'his listeners' to be angry with him, and to fear 'them.' Them. What a powerful and distancing word... you know, that other group, the one without our morals, our belief system, our faith perspective, our place in God's favor. He began to call 'them' names, and implied a rather fiery and comfortless eternity. I turned off the TV.

It didn't matter whether what he said was true or not. Because what the evangelist said was petty. And mean. Most importantly, it was all tied to a label, name calling. It is the easiest way to distance ourselves.

When we label someone, we dismiss them.

When I was a boy, I heard, 'If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all.' It was the endless refrain of my youth. My Mother's favorite aphorism. (Thank God she never said anything about thinking bad things about others.)

I took her words to heart. I grew up polite. I still am (on my good days). But there is no moral high road here. While I may not look as cartoonish as that evangelist, I too can be proficient at labeling. I can easily dismiss those with whom I disagree. You see, being polite has nothing to do with kindness.

We're told not to mistake kindness for weakness. But if we're lucky, sooner or later we discover that kindness is the only strength there is.

There is no force in the world better able to alter anything from its course than loving kindness.

Yesterday I revisited an old LIFE magazine photo. Two little girls. They look no more than seven years old. Pig tails, their faces uncertain. They walk through a gauntlet of people. The girls are black. The people in the crowd are white. The contrast is stark in this black and white photo. The faces are screaming epithets. They are strained, twisted, raging, apoplectic, as if a flame doused with gasoline. In this photo, the crowd's anger appears a caricature, exaggerated for affect. Staring at the photo, I feel a chill.

I want to turn away from such ugliness in the human spirit. I want to say that this has nothing to do with me, with my world. I want to say that this is the behavior of only bad, evil or crazy people.

There is a story that the microphones connected to the TV cameras recording this event, caught a conversation between the little girls. She says to her friend, "Don't worry. Momma said if we're nice to them, they'll be nice to us."

I see these faces in that crowd, and I wonder. Have I ever shared their anger?  

Their fear of the unknown?

Their rejection of someone because they are different?

And I wonder. Of what are we afraid?

I hear the sincere and profound courage of these little girls, and I wonder. Where does such courage come from? Is it in all of us?

I need to remind myself of these stories whenever I am tempted to label and dismiss. Including the dismissal of my own bravery or beauty.

We are, all of us in this world, broken. And the grace of God is the glue. We will go a long way toward healing if we see vulnerability as our common bond. We are 'all of us' held and sustained by God's grace.

We may yell and point and label and condemn one another, but in the end, it all collapses in grace. Either God's grace is bigger than anything which distances and separates and wounds us. Or it is not.

There is a fundamental requirement toward inclusion, not exclusion. That my first instinct must be inclusion, not exclusion. Relationship must trump creed every time. Notice that every encounter Jesus had, he invited persons to relationship, conversation, engagement and wholeness.

Okay. Okay... this is the real world. And the preceding paragraphs are easier said than done. Maybe our theology does not--perhaps cannot--include everything. Maybe we need to point out those convictions with which we disagree. And if we were in charge, there are plenty of people who deserve condemnation... or a least a smack up side the head. (I'm tempted to name a few.) Maybe everyone can't be our friend. I don't disagree. As William Slone Coffin reminded us, "Jesus said love your enemies. He didn't say don't make any."

We all mistrust, fear and most certainly dislike certain people and/or groups--either their lifestyle or their expression of religious faith. That will always be true. And we should all state our beliefs, our faith, our passions with conviction.  

But we have a choice.

We can hide behind labels.

Or we can begin our conversations with kindness.

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