Daily Reflection Memorial of Saint Irenaeus, bishop and martyr

I was tempted to skip the first reading from Kings today. Like its counterpart last Friday, the story is filled with human horror: war, famine, infanticide, plundering, and general misery. No thank you.

As I was about to skip the reading, I heard harsh words in my head: “You should not ignore this. Be with the suffering.” Still repulsed by the thought of even imagining the atrocities in Kings, I ignored the instruction and moved on to the psalm: “Let my tongue be silenced, if I ever forget you.” Believing the tug of God was in this sentence, it was hard to stand my ground. Trusting (not understanding) God’s will for me, I summoned up my courage and trudged back to contemplate Kings. I was overcome with sorrow as my imagination filled with the sufferings I read about.

I discovered that part of my resistance to the reading stemmed from my pain in accepting the harsh reality that, across many millennia, we haven’t improved much at respecting the dignity of human beings. Though this was certainly another temptation towards despair, I have learned to call on God when I arrive at such a precipice. So, I sat with the suffering of yesterday and today, forcing myself to remember that God was there with the victims and the perpetrators, just as he was with me in prayer.

I found myself glad to be repulsed. Somehow, I endured the physical nausea (which, for me, accompanies descriptions of human beings at their worst), with a sense of calm. When I faced the ugliness of our humanity, God rushed to my aid. I was simultaneously horrified and comforted; discouraged and encouraged.

I was encouraged to realize that my horror was shared by millions, perhaps billions of other souls across the centuries. I knew that compassion existed then and exists now. Even the promise of compassion is a kind of balm in times like these. Though we will not solve the mystery of evil deeds today, what we can do is feel the sureness of compassion. Its eternal existence carries us as we struggle to overcome the power of evil, and it does not falter.

The word compassion comes from the Latin word, compati which means “to suffer with.” Now we are getting to the heart of the matter. Jesus is the embodiment of compassion, so when we allow compassion to fill our hearts, we bring Jesus into the picture. I think this is why I was strongly instructed to stay with the uncomfortable setting in Kings. In doing so, I unwittingly united my heart with the heart of Jesus. I admit I didn’t see this coming. Perhaps a deeper faith would have brought me to this place with more assurance of God’s compassion and therefore less dread.

When the power of evil rears its ugly head again, I pray for the pure faith of the leper in the Gospel today, who exclaimed against all odds, “Lord if you wish it, you can make me clean.” It’s the “down on your luck,” “dig deep,” and “never give-up” kind of faith. And it's ours for the taking, if we allow ourselves to want it with our whole heart. This means wanting a deeper faith without allowing fear of the consequences to interfere with our desire.

If you are thinking that this seems like a big leap, you’re right. We would be leaping into God’s plan with no idea of what is to come next. This kind of surrender is scary for the holiest of people. But can you imagine the power of our collective leap into this nitty-gritty kind of faith? My own hesitant and somewhat begrudging leap resurrected my initial contemplation from nauseating darkness to hope.

What could God accomplish in us if we dared to imitate the pure faith of the leper and be the face of Jesus’ compassion?