Quality of Mercy

As teenagers, April, Robert, and I were classmates and friends. we lived in the very nice suburbs of Westchester, New York. April came from a good family. So, it was all the more shocking when it was reported she had used a gun to shoot herself in the head outside, on the steps of Grand Central Station. It was a violent death, for someone who had never previously been violent. Robert, my kind, loving, and gentle friend threw himself in front of the Metro-North train. He was killed, horrifically.

Robert came to be known by some in the local and national media as the last of the Westchester Suicides. That year, a long string of teenagers from Westchester County had committed suicide in consecutive order. Though their deaths were not coordinated, the general public wondered if there were a connection, other than the obvious connection of having lived in the same geographic area.

April had cried out for help. Her family responded by institutionalizing her. April had just wanted to be heard, not locked up in a heartless facility. She ran away. And, like so many homeless teenage runaways, she fell prey to the underworld. In a final effort to escape the pimp that had so decimated her life, she shot herself.

In death, her desperate cry for help had finally been heard. The New York Times magazine wrote a special feature on her. April would have liked seeing her photo in the paper. Robert had also been prominently featured in the papers.

Their deaths have haunted me throughout my life, inspiring me to reach out to those in pain, or in crisis. I felt guilty for many years, because both April and Robert had reached out to me for help, but at the time, I had chosen to ignore the signs. "I'm too busy with my problems," I remember saying to myself. Thereby, justifying my indifference.


It is always so much easier to criticize others for their lack of mercy. Did I kill April and Robert? Had I pulled the trigger of April's gun? Had I pushed Robert into the on-coming train? No, of course not!

But, silent indifference can be just as unmerciful, just as deadly, as the most deadly act.


Let us be Mercy itself, within balance, to all those who come across our path.

The spiritual path is not a selfish or self-serving path. Whatever spiritual gifts one nurtures, or accumulates, must be freely shared. In this way, we all benefit. We all grow. We all heal. We are One.

In The Whisper

"One Who Knows Patience Knows Peace."---Ancient proverb.


Stillness teaches us Calm.
Stillness teaches us Patience.
Stillness teaches us to Listen.


One of the seniors who lives near me was feeling alone and isolated. So, I asked her to accompany me to the toy store in town. Toy stores are mystical places filled with wonder.

Time passed as we searched the shelves. My neighbor was delighted to find a blue horse. Her eyes were filled with glee as she began her tale. As a little girl, she once rode a blue horse. As a summer treat, her father had taken her to a ranch. She had been allowed to choose any horse to ride. There had been one lone blue horse. She had never known such horses really existed. She thought they had merely been the stuff of legend. But, on that blue horse, riding across the fields of wild grass, she had felt triumphant, invincible, like a warrior princess.The owner of the store sat on the carpeted floor. I sat on a wooden treasure chest. We were transfixed.

The elderly woman before us became young again. It was an enchanted moment. Beaming, transported through time, reconnected to lost innocence, my neighbor was beautiful. And, her happiness was contagious. We all felt it, in that room, in that moment.

I sat quietly; thus, I was able to hear.

When those moments of starry wonder happen, they don't always announce themselves with sound and fury, but in a whisper. We can easily miss these moments, we are too busy, too distracted by real world events. We make excuses for ourselves. "No, time to stop," we say. In most cases, justifiably so.

But, when we do stop, the moments of wonder are there, waiting.

Inner Vision

There is a man who lives in the county. each day this man begins his day at three-thirty in the morning. He drives a little bus from the country into the big city. He drives the people who live in the country to their very important jobs in the big city. He knows their jobs are very important because they tell him so. He believes them because his heart is pure. ------- In the early evening, the man, whose name is Michael, waits patiently for the people to finish their work, at their very important jobs, to board his bus. Michael, whose name I have changed out of respect for his privacy; I have given him the name of an Arch-angel, as the purpose of the man who drives the bus is to keep his passengers safe. From the city to the country, Michael must drive over many hills. He must navigate his bus full of passengers through the daily chaos of traffic. Their safety and comfort is his main concern. ------- Michael works very hard at his job, but never complains. He smiles at his passengers when they board and disembark. He smiles at each and every one of them, whether they smile at him or not. ------- At the end of his work day, he returns to his cabin in the deep woods, in the country, where his family, and three dogs, wait eagerly to greet him. They eat their evening meal together, and retire early. ------- Each day is much the same as the next. Until one day, a stuffed monkey boarded his bus! Michael had driven a bus for many years, but had never seen such a thing. A stuffed little monkey, dressed in blue, paid his fare, and sat down as politely as possible in one of the empty seats. The other passengers eyed this stuffed monkey suspiciously. ------- The little brown monkey was old and worn, his stitching was loose, and frayed. He was missing a nose, and one amber-colored eye. ------- The other passengers were rude to him. They made fun of him, and spread cruel lies, rumors and gossip about him. ------- The little brown monkey did not respond in kind. He remained silent, but Michael, the driver, could sense there was a deep sadness in the little brown monkey in the sky-blue suit. The other passengers were not impressed with this strange new passenger, after all, they had very important jobs to go to. "That stuffed monkey obviously does not!" They said to themselves. ------ The little brown monkey simply liked to ride the bus each day, as he had no family, or friends, nor did he he have a home. -------- Time Passed. -------- The passengers with very important jobs grew more and more emboldened in their cruelty towards the little brown monkey, who as usual would never respond in kind. ------- The other passengers confused his gentle nature with weakness, and they chose to be all the more hate-filled towards the monkey. ------- Michael would witness their behavior through his rear-view mirror. ------- Years Passed. ------- The little brown monkey rode the bus less, though he he never told a soul, it began to hurt too much to be the byword, the laughingstock of an entire town. -------- "Better to be alone," He thought. "What good am I?" He asked himself, "A stuffed monkey, old and worn, with no nose, and a missing amber-colored eye. Only God could love one such as myself, and God does not seem to be on this bus, or to live in this town." ------- The little brown monkey's perceptions were based on the way the passengers treated him on the bus, and by the way the people ridiculed and shunned him in the town. ------- Then, one day unlike any other day, Michael the driver of the bus had seen enough through his rear-view mirror. ------- He waited for the passengers, with the very important jobs, to disembark. Michael stood up from his seat, and approached the little brown monkey, and gave him a warm embrace. ------- "I have something for you, " Michael said in a soothing voice. He took out a travel-sized sewing kit, and began to repair the little brown monkey's frayed stitching. Michael also produced, from his pocket, a beautiful black button. "I know this is not amber, but it will do for an eye. I'm afraid I couldn't find a suitable nose, though. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me?" Michael said, as he severed the last thread. ------- He gave the little brown monkey a very long good-bye hug. "I won't be driving this bus anymore. It is time for a change, so, I have asked to be assigned a different route. But, I just wanted you to know before I left, that I SEE you." Michael smiled as he held the little brown monkey's tiny hand. -------The little brown monkey looked lovingly into the eyes of the man who drove the bus, and said, "I SEE you too." ------- The heart enables one to attain Inner Vision, to see that which matters, all else is unnecessary distraction.

Burning Incense

The Way of Love is open to All. ------ After the funeral, I suddenly felt hungry, for the first time, it seemed, since the death. As I bit into the liverwurst on pumpernickel, I looked out the window of the coffee shop, and thought of my friend. In the rain, as the coffin was lowered into the ground, she had stared straight ahead. She didn't cry. Her son had committed suicide. Had she prayed that he would come back to her? Absolutely, yes. Did he come back to her? No. He is dead. Had I prayed for my friend, that she would find healing? Absolutely, yes. But, prayer is not magic. Perhaps, prayer can be described as an on-going relationship between the individual and God? An open conversation, in which we speak, and actively listen.------- An artist, a young man has been recently diagnosed with macular degeneration, too advanced for someone his age. He no longer is able to see clearly. Despite squinting, and rubbing his eyes, all has become a blur. He thought about throwing all his paints out in the trash. After all, he would no longer be able to paint in the same way. All colors were now a blur to him. He made a remarkable decision. He chose to paint by faith. Before, when he had perfect vision, he painted for a worldly audience. Now, of his own free will, he chooses to paint for God.------- Did this young man pray for his vision to be restored? He confessed that he had thought about it. But, instead he chose to Accept. Did I pray for this young man? Absolutely, yes. I prayed that he would be granted the wisdom and strength to endure, lovingly and patiently, whatever might come.------- A year passed since the suicide of my friend's son. I joined a support group for people who had suffered any kind of loss. All loss is painful. To my amazement, the moderator of the group was my friend! I sat in the circle, silently watching, listening as men and women cried and shared their pain. I watched my friend console others, perhaps just as God had consoled her. Her personal tragedy had become a source of light that she could now share with others, helping them to heal. I cried too, not because I felt sad. I cried at the glory and majesty of God. He works in such wondrous ways! The man with macular degeneration was in the room as well. He mourned the person he used to be. Pain is not a one time phenomenon. Sometimes, pain, even if it is overcome, regretfully can resurface, as a bittersweet memory; a private personal agony. We held hands, in that circle, and prayed. Once again, prayer is not magic. Does God hear all our prayers? Absolutely, yes! Does God answer all our prayers? Absolutely, yes! But, sometimes, His answer is "No, my child. My Will is enough for you."------ I love the image of prayer as the gentle fragrance of burning incense Rising into the air. Prayer is hope-filled. Prayer is honest dialogue with God. He loves the real us! Prayer is love. And as we pray, honestly, openly, allowing ourselves to be vulnerable, we rise. ------ We rise!

Heart

For hours, I would sit on the wooden bench focused on the one painting in the room. In the painting, a man, in profile, dressed simply in black, seated at table, head bowed; a round loaf of bread for his supper, the scene lit by a single tapered candle. ------- -- I would visit this painting often, so often in fact, I had become a regular in the viewing room. Almost always, I sat alone. It seemed this modest painting did not call out to the crowds. "Just as well," I thought. I enjoyed the hallowed space. -------- One day, to my surprise, a priest entered the room. He stared at me, even as I continued staring at the painting. Merely curious, or sincerely interested, the priest tilted his head, squinted his eyes, and asked, "What is it about this particular painting that intrigues you so? I kept looking at the image on the canvas. For a long time, I did not answer. I felt it was important to find the right word. the robe-garbed holy man shifted his weight. In the silence between us, time passed. Eventually, he sat down on the bench, as he waited patiently for my response. I felt the stillness in the room. I closed my eyes for a moment. The word made itself heard. "Grace," I answered. -------- "Grace?" The stranger beside me asked, one eyebrow raised. "The bearded man in the painting, his head is bowed. Though he has so little, lives so modestly, and is eating such a meager supper, he is not sad, or weighed down with grief. His head is bowed in silent prayer. He is giving thanks for the abundance of his blessings," I answered. -------- "You can see all that?" He asked. "Look at his face," I said. "There are two sources of light in the room, that of the half-spent candle, and that which emanates from him. The lines in his face denote a hard life. Yet, there is such a look of inner peace in his countenance. He is consciously grateful. I wish I could be like him, to be so content with my lot, and with whatever is before me." ------- The priest listened attentively. He looked at the painting once again, and sighed audibly. He stood up and left the room just as suddenly and quietly as he had entered. -------- Art is subjective. And prayer is deeply personal. God is able to speak to us in varied ways. He may even send a messenger or two, to challenge us. -------- Are we listening? Are we present? Are we willing to participate in God? Do we have eyes to see, and ears to hear? Finally, and perhaps just as importantly, do we allow our hearts to remain open to God in others, within ourselves, and to God in the world around us? -------- As we ponder these questions, let's spend a few moments in silent meditation.

God's Garden

The dust-covered red Webster's dictionary, which has been a long-time companion for me these last eleven years, defines the word 'ascetic' as 1) one who leads a life of contemplation and rigorous self-denial for religious purposes, and 2) one who lives with strict self-discipline and abstinence. The definition for 'asceticism' is even more beautifully expressed as 1) systematic self-denial for some ideal, and 2) the religious doctrine that one can reach a higher spiritual state by rigorous self-discipline and self-denial. -----Before I go any further, it is important to make clear that the body has many members. Can all parts of the body be the head? Can all parts of the body be hands, legs, ears, etc...No, of course, not. Each part of the body has its own unique purpose and function. Yet, all parts of the body work together for the good of the whole. Hectic moms, career dads, teachers, craftsmen, artists, women and men of science and medicine, we all compliment each other. No path is any less or more sacred and holy than any other life path. Each individual is Called or Chosen for a specific God-Purpose. Each of us is responsible to our concept of God for discerning the path that is appropriate for us, and then to follow, rightly, as we are led. -----Discernment is an on-going process, a life-long process. God is not static, but alive in our lives. Always, we have free will. Slavery to a rigid construct is not true love of God. He allows us our humanity. We fall, falter, lose our way. But, without the struggle, without the journey, there would be no true spiritual growth. -----In God's garden, there are many flowers. Each has its own hue and delicate perfume. All flowers are not the same, nor should they be. The way of the ascetic is not for all. But, there are lessons that we can all share with one another, surely? For example, a kind-hearted woman, who defines herself as a hectic mother of two, inspires me to love selflessly. She does not teach me this lesson in a didactic manner, but by the example of her life. Sometimes the only sacred scripture that others may ever read is the way we choose to live our lives. In a way, we all act out the proverbial mime of the exile. The example of our lives can be a powerful influence for good or for harm. -----We, as human beings, have free will. We can choose which message, or lesson we wish to embody. My good friend, this married mother of two, shares her life with me. Candor can be a gift, if it is shared with love. So, I have been inspired to share my life, the life of the ascetic with all of you, dear readers. -----In this first epistle, I wish to address some popular misconceptions that exist today of one who is chosen to lead a life of asceticism. The ascetic is not someone who is hiding, or morose, or masochistic, or hate-filled. These descriptions and assumptions are a caricature of a life, but not proof of the ascetic life itself. While it is true that the ascetic lives a life set apart, of silence, and sacrifice, sometimes the most fortified cloister or hermitage is the intimate chamber of one's heart. -----Certain ascetic disciplines can be practiced by all, if and when appropriate. For example fasting may not be the correct form of spiritual practice for one engaged in daily strenuous physical labor. But, fasting, prayer, alms-giving (service to others) are always pleasing to God. Discernment is key in any spiritual practice. -----The ascetic is fortunate to be able to dedicate all energies and focus to this daily dialogue with God. It is God who speaks, mostly in the silence. -----It is my heart's prayer that you, my faithful friend and reader, will continue on this journey with me, as we share life experiences, and perhaps learn, one small step at a time, of the way of the ascetic. -----Peace be to you, today and always. If you can, tonight before falling asleep, take a silent retreat of a few seconds, or minutes, to spend with God. -----All my love, your little brother.