I love watching America's Funniest Home Videos. There is something wonderfully therapeutic about sitting on my couch watching other people make spectacularly poor life choices.
Some guy decides he can jump his bicycle over six garbage cans. He can't. A woman opens a closet, and a cat launches itself at her face. A father decides it would be hilarious to scare his wife, and she pees her pants. I'm laughing my ass off. For thirty glorious minutes, I can forget about my own poor decisions and enjoy somebody else's. It's cheaper than therapy, and nobody asks me how I'm feeling.
And then comes the commercial. You know the one. Some poor, starving dog appears on the screen. You can practically count every rib. The camera moves in close to those enormous, sad eyes, and somewhere in the background a woman starts singing a song that could make a concrete statue cry. Suddenly, I'm not laughing anymore. The pitiful thing looks like it hasn't had a decent meal in weeks, and a profoundly serious announcer is explaining that for just a few dollars a day, I can save its life. Well, shit. I was having such a wonderful time watching people fall off trampolines.
And just when I think my heart has taken all it can handle, here comes St. Jude. Children fight cancer. Parents who look exhausted beyond anything I can imagine. Little bodies that have endured surgeries, needles, chemotherapy, and more suffering than any child should ever have to know. And there they are, telling their stories, asking us to help other children receive the same care.
These commercials work. And I'm glad these organizations are doing the work they do. They even offer you a blanket if you sign up for monthly donations. I must admit; I've wondered about that blanket. Is somebody sitting at home thinking, "I wasn't going to donate, but now that you've thrown in a fleece blanket, you've got yourself a deal"?
But there's something else I've wondered about these commercials. What happens when the cameras stop rolling? When the crew finishes filming that starving dog, does somebody put down the camera, open a bag of food, and feed the poor thing? Does somebody sit on the ground, scratch behind its ears, and give it a little affection? Or does somebody yell, "That's a wrap!" and everybody packs up their shit and heads to lunch?
And what about those beautiful, courageous children? When the filming is finished, does somebody stay and listen? Does somebody thank the parents for sharing something so painful and personal? Does anybody sit with them for a while, not because they need another shot or a better sound bite, but because these are human beings living through something unimaginably hard? I hope so. I really do.
I'm not suggesting the people making these commercials are heartless. I imagine many of them care deeply about the people and animals they're filming. I've worked around enough productions to know how easily getting the job done can become more important than the person standing in front of you. I know how that happens. Because I've done my own version of it. Not with a camera crew. With my calendar. My phone. My responsibilities. My never-ending list of things that apparently must be accomplished before Jesus returns. I've sat with people who were hurting while part of my brain was already thinking about where I needed to be next. I've listened to somebody tell me something heartbreaking and caught myself looking for the right words to wrap up the conversation. I've said, "I'll be praying for you," and walked away feeling rather good about having said the appropriate pastoral thing. And yes, I prayed.
I wonder how many times I've been so busy telling people God loves them that I've forgotten to show them.
There's a story in the Gospels about a woman who had been bleeding for twelve years. Twelve years of suffering, doctors, disappointment, and watching life pass her by. She had heard about Jesus. And when he came through town, she worked her way through the crowd and touched his clothing. She was healed. Jesus was on his way somewhere important. Jairus had begged him to come because his little daughter was dying. If ever there was a legitimate reason to keep moving, that was it. But Jesus stopped. He wanted to know who had touched him. His disciples thought this was ridiculous. There were people pressing against him from every direction. Everybody was touching him. But Jesus knew something had happened. And when the woman came forward, trembling, and told him her story, he listened. And Jesus stopped long enough to look at a woman whose suffering had made her nearly invisible to everybody else. He called her "Daughter." Twelve years of being known by what was wrong with her. And Jesus called her daughter.
I wonder why that's so hard for us. Maybe because other people's pain scares the shit out of us. If that child can get cancer, so can ours. If that marriage can fall apart, so can mine. And if somebody can lose everything through no fault of their own, maybe the world isn't nearly as safe as I've been telling myself. Maybe that's why it's easier to say a prayer, donate, or offer a few comforting words than it is to stay with somebody whose life has fallen apart. I wonder whether there are times when our quick departure has less to do with what the hurting person needs and more to do with what we cannot bear to feel. I know that's true of me. And I don't particularly like admitting it. I want to be able to sit with somebody who's hurting without feeling like I must fix everything or come up with something profound to say. Good Lord, you'd think after all these years of ministry, I'd be better at that.
I wonder how many times I've been so busy doing God's work that I've walked right past somebody God was asking me to love. And that's the part that bothers me. I can preach a fairly good sermon about compassion. I can pray a beautiful prayer. I can say all the right things. But if the person sitting in front of me walks away feeling like they were just one more thing I needed to get done that day, what the hell was the point?
The cameras eventually stop rolling. People pack up their shit and go home. But the person who's hurting is still there. And I'd like to think somebody cares enough to stay.
Shalom, Shithead.
