Seen See Surrender

32nd Sunday Homily 

I sometimes wonder if I am spending a fraction of my purgatory by sitting in traffic jam after endless traffic jam at the Christiana interchange on 95 North at Route 1 where the mall and beach-bound traffic come into play (not to mention everyone trying to get back to New York and New Jersey).  Rare is the time I sail through that particular stretch of highway without problem.

Last Sunday, as five-lanes of traffic sat parked on I-95 hoping to inch forward, I took the time to notice the drivers heading southbound toward Baltimore who were also facing the same fate as I was.  We were all collectively stuck.  Most drivers scrolled through the phones to pass the time, occasionally glancing up to see if they needed to move.  A few – to my joy – were jamming-out to whatever song was playing on their radio.  (That’s always fun to catch someone performing when they think no one is watching, isn’t it?)

And then, beyond the screen-zombies and car performers, I saw her: late 70s, perhaps.  Thin-faced and wearing a hat.  Sobbing.  Not just a few tears that need a Kleenex, mind you.  We’re talking heaving sobs that nearly take your breath away.

For a brief moment, because she was across the Jersey barrier from me and surrounded by other motorists, I looked to them to see if they noticed her, too.  No one did.  She was all alone in her grief with no one to comfort her.  No one around her took the time to see a woman whose pain – whatever it may have been caused by – spill forth into the enclosed confines of a non-descript green sedan.

In some ways, I often think this is the tragedy of the modern age: we don’t take the time to really see anymore.

That’s what always strikes me as such a beautiful moment in the Temple: Jesus is teaching his disciples to see the one that no one else paid attention too – in this case, the widow who gave all.

Widows were that generation’s equivalent of today’s often-overlooked: the working-poor; the addicted; those who are imprisoned; women and children carrying hidden scars of abuse.  They work with us, worship alongside us, and sometimes live with us under the same roof – and we choose not to see.

Choosing to see, of course, means we must act.  Choosing to see means we must allow our hearts to be broken-open by another’s cross.  Choosing to see means that we must love beyond measure, often breaking free from our zones of comfort.

It’s easier, though, to focus on other things, isn’t it?  Watching the shiny things (and persons) takes away the risk of having to see the “widows” who walk beside us every day, often with little notice or fanfare.

I take comfort – as should we all – that Jesus sees the ones we’re afraid to see: the young person contemplating ending his or her life; the gay teen afraid to admit his attraction; the mom of a transgender child; the closet drinker; the porn-addict; the 12-year-old starving herself for control and attention.

He also sees within each of us what shames and scares us: the brokenness and messy emotions; the ways we beat ourselves up; the names we berate ourselves with.  It’s in those very spaces where His love is directed.  It’s those places where He longs to enter with mercy and healing. 

The question remains, though: will we invite Him in to those widowed parts of our lives? 

Time and again, Scripture reveals to us how powerful it is when Christ’s compassion is welcomed into our sin and suffering: the once-demon-tormented Mary Magdalen became the first apostle of the Resurrection; the denier Peter healed in order to be the Rock of our Church; Saul transformed to become Paul, the greatest missionary of the Good News the world has ever known.

Sinners all, slammed by grace, who chose to allow themselves to be seen by God … and then really began TO see.

That is, in the end, what grace and mercy does: when we allow ourselves to be authentically loved, we end up loving in a new way, a way that is seen and acted upon through the lens of a transformed Cross.

We love God differently, others differently, and even ourselves differently.

I had the privilege many years ago of working alongside a Quaker woman at an outreach ministry on Maryland’s Eastern Shore who spent most of her time trying to get into prison in order to reach the incarcerated young men who had made some terrible life-choices, often due to circumstances in their childhoods beyond their control.  Each time she entered the cold and lifeless correctional facility – this 5-foot-nothing, 80-year-old woman with a heavy central-PA accent – she came as a mother would, ready to guide and love -- no exceptions.

When I asked what drove her to do such things – to work with a population who seemed on the surface to be so unlike her – she offered this:  “When I was their age, I hated myself.  I didn’t think I was worthy of love.  I saw life as hopeless.  Somewhere along the way, though, God stepped in through the love of another person who showed me that my life has meaning; that I am lovable.  It changed everything for me.”

So, she went to do the same for others – the unseen, the forgotten, the unloved.

The seen become the seers. The “widows” among us become the Christ-bringers. 

Isn’t it a fascinating commentary Jesus offers to his disciples that day as they watch the older woman give her two cents: she didn’t give from her surplus wealth; instead, she gave all she had.

That unnamed woman whom everyone else failed to notice gave everything.  She trusted.  She surrendered.  She poured-out.

She did what Christ was about to do on Calvary.  She did what we are called to do as baptized followers of the Crucified One: give all.

To Him, give your sins, your worries and your doubts.  To Him, offer your suffering and pain, in whatever forms they come.  To Him, unite your will.  Let Him take it and replace yours with His own.  He will do incredibly beautiful things when you surrender all to God, especially those very things you think or assume He doesn’t want or can’t use.  God will not be outdone in His generosity and His mercy.

It starts, though, with the willingness and the desire to be seen by Him.  To be seen makes us seers.  To see as He sees helps us love the “widows” who walk – or drive -- among us.

May we never miss the ones who cry-out for love and compassion, companionship and healing, be they stuck in traffic on the interstate or sitting in the pew right next to you.