caring

I sent my friend a birthday greeting recently. It wasn’t anything special, just two sentences on a popular social media site. Still, he was kind enough to return a note of thanks, with a little something added.

I wasn’t sure I wanted the little something.

You see, some words are light and carefree. There is no expectation and little need to consider further action. Words like, “Thanks for thinking about me.” Or, “I had a great day, thanks!”

Unfortunately, he didn’t choose light and carefree.

These words were compelling. They not only made a statement; they left the reader—me—with an expectation of fulfillment.

These words had weight. Really. It was weight that I felt.

I still feel it today.

After his thanks, my friend added this,

“You have a gift of gentleness, and I am grateful for it. Thank you for being a great example to many men!”

I want to be happy—or proud—or even embarrassed.

What I am, is conflicted. And, challenged.

I don’t know if I can live up to my friend’s vision. The man I see every day in the mirror isn’t gentle. He’s not a great example to others. He isn’t even a so-so example to others.

Perhaps I should tell him he has me all wrong. Maybe my children could tell him. The Lovely Lady could give him a hint or two (could she ever!). The customer care supervisor at the phone company—the one I called a couple of weeks ago—could really give him an ear full.

Why, even the dogs in the backyard might (if they could talk) set him straight. I know the female, who’s been digging holes where I just planted grass seed last week, would disabuse him of any illusions that might linger.

Gentleness? Me?

Hardly!

image by Rudy & Peter Skitterians on Pixabay

But the words have weight. Gravitas, even. Serious weight.

My friend meant them. He has observed me living life among others and he has reason to believe there is gentleness in how I comport myself.

I suppose now I will need to make it so. After all, the apostle—my namesake—left instructions that all of us should make it our lifelong practice.

Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. (Philippians 4:5, NIV)

Wait. How did that second sentence get in there? This is between me and the people I meet every day. I’ll do my best to show gentleness. I’ll attempt to make it evident to them. That’s all.

Why does it matter that the Lord is near? Why can’t I just do my part and they do theirs?

I suppose part of the answer to that question lies with my responses up above. I have known all my days that I should treat others with gentle hands, and voice, and heart. And yet, on my own, I cannot fulfill my responsibility.

I blow up. I respond with sarcasm. I rip into them.

Oh, most of the time, I can feign gentleness. I can talk a good game, and act the part. But when I stand in front of the mirror at the end of the day and look into the face I see there, I know.

I know.

But God is near. He is. Jesus Himself said it would always be true.

You can see it for yourself. I am always going to be with you, wherever you go, however long you live, until time is no more. (Matthew 28:20, my paraphrase)

He is there to remind. To prick my spirit. To give strength.

There’s a reason gentleness and self-control are gifts of the Spirit. I’m expected to put them into practice in His presence. Again and again, until they are as much a part of my daily routine as breathing and eating.

And yet somehow society has come, over the eons, to believe that aggressiveness and demonstrations of power are signs of strength—of character.

Don’t believe me? Look around you today. Who are our idols, our heroes? Are they kind and caring? Or, are they argumentative and combative?

In all our media—in conversations overheard on the public transport—in public messages from pastors and politicians, activists and artists—all around us, we see little self-control and certainly few gentle spirits. And, we seem to revel in the lack of such things.

We—the ones who claim to be close to God—appear to have no interest in gentleness. None.

Recently, on a social media site I frequent, a Christian friend posted a picture of a man with a brightly dyed beard, wearing a woman’s swimsuit, walking along what appeared to be a fashion runway.

The question posed with the photo was, “Can someone tell me what this is?”

The vitriol and hate spattered the page below the photo. I didn’t know all of the folks who replied. I’m making an assumption when I say they probably all claim to be followers of Jesus Christ.

May I tell you one thing of which I’m certain? Positive, even.

God doesn’t hate the person in that photo. He doesn’t.

That person—and every other person who has ever drawn breath on this spinning ball of dirt—is so precious to our God that His Son gave up His body and breath for them.

Every one of them. Us.

We will never look in the eyes of a human who isn’t loved by God.

And yet we claim the right to treat these, whom our God loves beyond all reason, hatefully and without mercy.

While He is near, we do it.

A few years ago, a popular song suggested that God is watching us, a not unlikely concept, but the next phrase claimed His oversight was from a distance. And, sometimes it can feel like that.

But, feelings aren’t facts. It turns out God is watching us. While He walks beside us. While His Spirit lives in us.

How we treat folks around us matters. To Him, it matters. It matters to them.

And, in the end, it will matter to us. More than we know, I think.

It is. It’s high time I become what people believe me to be. Or, at least make a start.

The red-headed lady who raised me always told me I should be a gentleman. She wasn’t wrong. She rarely was.

A gentle man.

God is near.

Be kind to each other. It is better to commit faults with gentleness than to work miracles with unkindness. (Mother Teresa of Calcutta)

But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law. (Galatians 5:22-23, NIV)

Let’s not and say we did.

It was just the other day. Someone suggested he and I should run in a long race a few months from now. I didn’t take to the suggestion all that well.

Still, I’d like for folks to think I could.

The words came from my mouth without thought.

Let’s not and say we did.

I’m thinking about the words tonight. Truth be told, I thought about them last night, too.

For most of the night.

With one of the Elders of my fellowship, I sat in the church library during the late morning service on Sunday. As a member of the worship team, I had already attended the early service, listening attentively to the pastor’s words. This time, as he preached again, I would relax in comfort and await my cue to go back in for the final song.

I thought that is what I would do. Relaxing isn’t how I would describe the next half hour.

She didn’t look like she belonged in church.

We don’t have a dress code—no one expects what we used to call our Sunday best, but her clothes were different in other ways. Mismatched and fitting her badly, it had been a long time since they had been on the rack in a department store. There were other physical attributes that reinforced the idea that she hadn’t come to sit with the other worshipers in the service.

“I need to get some help. Are you guys the deacons?”

She sat down and filled the air with words and the smell of stale tobacco. We asked a question or two, but she did most of the talking. No home. Living in a motel with her children. Poor health. Bad luck. No money.

I was happy to notice the pastor was on his last point in the sermon. It was my get-out-of-jail-free card.

“I’ve got to go sing.”

Done. Free.

She’s somebody else’s problem now. I’m so happy our church will help her in some way. So happy.

But. . .

I say I follow God.

Let’s not and say we did.

When I take the easy way out, I make my testimony of following God a lie.

When we take the easy way out, we make our claim of following God a lie. Share on X

I know I should tread lightly here. That’s what my head tells me. It would be more comfortable that way. For me, as well as for those reading this.

Comfortable isn’t how God always works. Jesus, as He addressed His followers, didn’t ease up to give them a way of escape.

They didn’t get a pass because they were in the choir.

Paying their taxes to the government didn’t offer any relief for His command.

Putting their money in the offering plate at church didn’t alleviate one scintilla of their responsibility.

He didn’t give instructions to the church leaders lurking nearby to start a food pantry.

He didn’t direct words to the government officials in the area to offer a relief program financed with taxes.

With the clarity and plain words of a teacher in the guise of a practiced storyteller, He made it clear that every person has a responsibility to those in need around us. Every single person.

He looked down through the centuries, straight at us and told us to care for their needs as we would if visited by God Himself. (Matthew 25: 40, 45)

Let’s not and say we did.

Oh! I would never!

But, we do.

Every time we suggest that government programs fulfill God’s command, we say it.

Every time we breathe a sigh of relief that the benevolence fund at our church fellowship is available for just such people, we tell the lie.

You know—running thirteen miles would be uncomfortable for me. I’m not going to tell you I did it if I didn’t.

In the same way, I don’t want to claim to be a follower of Jesus, yet refuse to do what He asks me to do to even the least of His sisters and brothers.

But, I have done it before. You?

It’s time to stop lying.

To ourselves and to each other.

And, to Him.

Charity never humiliated him who profited from it, nor ever bound him by the chains of gratitude, since it was not to him but to God that the gift was made.
(Antoine de Saint-Exupery ~ French pilot/author ~ 1900-1944)

Those who say they live in God should live their lives as Jesus did.
(1 John 2:6 ~ NLT)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Excuse Me, Your Gentleness is Showing

We’ll Say We Did