Unlimited Compassion

I posted a meme to social media recently quoting an influencer named Pastor Brandon.  His quote, the one I liked so much that I stole it, is “When I stand before God, I’d rather answer for loving too freely than explain why my theology made people feel unwelcome at His table.” 

It reminds me of another favorite quote by another minister, Rev. Eston Williams: “At the end of the day, I’d rather be excluded for who I include than be included for who I exclude.” 

Though my personal spiritual journey may differ from these two Christian pastors, I welcome anyone into my energetic circle who maintains inclusive guiding principles such as these.  Because, let’s face it, our world could use all the welcome-home, lemme-give-you-a-hug, soup’s-on kind of acceptance it can get these days. 

Of COURSE, someone had to leap onto my post and make this comment: “Loving does not mean condoning. Compassion can coexist with strict adherence to God’s laws.” 

But can it?  Can it really? And what precisely does one mean by “God’s laws”? 

Let’s deal with the laws first and get my response to the poster out of the way.  My reply was: “Humans made all the laws. The closest thing we have to a divine law is when Yeshua said to love God and love our neighbor as ourself. Everything else is debatable through various lenses of interpretation and culture.”

But the far more important question here is the one about compassion and just what it can and can’t coexist with.  Compassion and judgment don’t seem to be natural friends.  Judgment comes from a place of moral superiority, a sense of rightness in the face of another’s wrongness.  It comes from believing we have the ultimate definition of “God’s Laws.” The Buddhist nun Pema Chödrön said that “Compassion is not a relationship between the healer and the wounded. It’s a relationship between equals.”  The delusion of moral superiority cannot exist in the same space as true compassion because it assumes inequality. 

Another part of the commenter’s phrase that slips by almost undetected is “strict adherence — Compassion can coexist with strict adherence to God’s laws.” 

I’m probably stepping into a deep pool here, but I’m a swimmer, so let’s do it. In and of itself, there is nothing wrong with “strict adherence.”  I’d like to live a life that strictly adheres to love and joy and freedom and spiritual expansion.  Yet I’ve found that doing so inherently leads me away from words like “strict” and “adherence.”  Compassion, just like love and joy and freedom, requires suppleness, flexibility, an artistic walk with the sacred rather than a lockstep adherence to a prescribed set of dos and don’ts. Compassion requires an ever-present awareness of how my sacred urging can meet the needs of the one in front of me, not a creed or manual or how-to book.  Compassion requires that I stay awake to the moment, not that I memorize ten commandments or twelve steps or eight beatitudes.  

Mostly, I wonder what compels someone to rush judgment into a declaration of inclusion.  Why the urgent need to counterbalance an expression of love? 

So much in this life leans toward the other side of the scale.  It just seems to me that unlimited compassion might be a good way to go.  

Soup’s on.  Get you a bowl.  

Barbara

I make myself sit still to
write, to think, to feel
who you were to me all
those years ago when
I was a lost child with
emotions too large for my
body and no place to store
them until I could understand.

You gave me a space to be
honest and verbose and lost
in safety. Lost
in arms always open.
Lost in love with no
conditions.

You gave me the country and
tick checks and canoeing
the Finley with the children
everyone thought were the reason,
your children, a year above and
below me, who provided cover
for my true purpose — to be held
to your bosom, to be mothered.

Hearing you died landed as
an anvil. Despite the memory
you had already released and the
hospice and the impending
truth I knew would come, still,
knowing that for the first time
in my life I was on the earth
without you forged iron grief.

Before I knew you, you were
here. After we moved away, you
were here. And during those sacred
years of blooming in a sanctuary
you built for me, you were
here, always here. And now
I’m here without you, and
I feel a little lost. Not sure
what to write, what to
think, what to feel.

Nothing has changed.
You lived your life there,
and I lived my life here. We
stopped being daily parts of
each other decades past.

No, nothing has changed, but
it didn’t need to. Because
you loved me enough in two
years to last a lifetime, and that
changed everything for me,
how I understood love and
the world and my space in it.
Everything changed when
you loved me back to myself.

The Bonds of Matrimony

Every girl wants to feel like
a princess on her wedding
day. That’s what the woman
said on the true crime show
already destined to end with
an incarcerated ex-husband.

How many times have I
heard that? Count. Less. And
it’s not even true. Let’s get
this out of the way first:
“girls” aren’t supposed to
get married. Women get
married.

But more important: some
women probably want to feel like a
badass at their wedding. Some
likely want to feel statuesque
or Amazonian. Pretty? Yes. But
“pretty” as in powerhouse, audacious,
fierce. Unapologetically shield-maiden
fuckaroundandfindoutery pretty.

Some women want to be
handsome. Some want to be
quirky and fun. Some want to be
loving and easy and equal, just like
the marriage they'll insist upon.

Some women don’t want to be
anything on the wedding day they
opt to never happen. They’re happy
being enough all on their own.

Perhaps, and I’m just spit-ballin’
here, but, perhaps if little girls were
given choices other than princess,
fewer women would find themselves
with an incarcerated ex-husband.

I Love

I’m never worried that the
squirrels will eat my
birdseed.
Maybe it’s squirrel seed.
Why would I use the gas and
spend the money to
haul home feed for
one species while wishing to
shoo away another?

I love nature, not just birds.

I’ve never worried that the
ants will find the
hummingbird cocktail.
It’s sugar — what’s not to love?
Why would I fill the glass bulb and
screw on the base and
hang it upside down for
the bumblebirds and not let
the workers have a donut?

I love life, not just the pretty kind.

I’ve never worried that other
people will benefit from the
rights I fight for.
We’re all in this time together.
Why would I carry a sign and
march down the street chanting
words of resistance and equality
and not want every body to
experience justice?

I love freedom, not just mine.