A better world

‘For the kingdom of heaven is like a landowner who went out early in the morning to hire laborers for his vineyard ... .’ (Matthew 20:1)

My middle grandson, Ben, sits across the room in my rocking chair, describing college visits as we brainstorm ideas for his application essay. He’s visited six public universities, all in the Midwestern United States, with two or three more to go.

“Every one of them says we want only the highest grade point averages, the tippy-top most ACT and SAT scores, every one of them,” Ben repeats, his arms spread wide, amplifying the meritocratic message driven home by admissions officers.

This message, I suspect, is exaggerated, both by Ben and by the universities themselves, which polish their image while fueling the anxiety of people like Ben, who do well but don’t have the highest grade point average or tippy top scores on entrance exams.

Frankly, Ben will grace, humanize and lift the level of conversation on whatever campus he appears next fall, not to mention the infusion of playful humor that is natural to him. But grace and thoughtfulness, humanity and humor are not quantifiable and do not much appear on entrance exams.

From where I sit, as the grandfather of a young man whom I love fiercely, college admissions looks like a deeply flawed, brutal, dehumanizing process where a precious few are wanted and vaunted and the rest—and most of us are, overwhelmingly, the rest—are “less than.”

Of course, this process is just a more obvious expression of deep culture forces that suggest our worth, value and truth are directly related to the score—in points, money, status or fame—that we or others assign to us. Allowing this poison to saturate your heart kills your soul and steals your joy, a truth I have too often lived and observed in others.

Perhaps this is why Jesus’ story of the landowner hits me hard. The story brings me to tears. It goes this way.

A landowner went into the marketplace at daybreak to hire workers. He went out again at nine, then at noon and three. By 5 p.m. people were still standing around, waiting to be hired. Perhaps they slept late or were lazy or not as hungry as those who woke early to be first in line. Didn’t matter. The landowner hired them, too.

He didn’t ask for resumes or test scores. He doesn’t weed them out and take only the best. He seeks all to participate in the goodness of creation, generously sharing the fullness of life. At the end of the day, they all receive the same pay. The early birds understandably grumble about the injustice of the boss’ generosity ... or stupidity.

But this misses the point. Jesus’ story startles our assumptions and upends our sense of justice to invite us into a different world, a world of grace.

Reading the story, I meet the reality of a Love, a Heart, who wants me ... and Ben ... and every last one of us. We meet the Love who doesn’t ask for resumes or test scores, but is moved only by an overwhelming generosity. We encounter an Embracing Heart eager for us to share its work and bask in the only reward Love has to offer, which is Love itself.

All in all, Jesus invites us into a better world, a much richer way of being ... where life is gift, giving is gain and gratitude graces our days.

David L. Miller

 

 

 

More than enough

I pray that you may have the power to comprehend, with all the saints, what is the breadth and length and height and depth, and to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge, so that you may be filled with all the fullness of God. (Ephesians 3:18-19)

It was our last conversation, 12:26 p.m., Central Daylight Time, April 15, 2021. Fifteen days later my friend, Grace Adolphsen Brame, passed into the Loving Mystery who had beguiled her heart and mind since childhood.

She had been and done so much in her 91 years, a choir director, opera singer, beloved spouse, good will ambassador, author, professor, retreat leader, and an expert on Evelyn Underhill and Christian mysticism.

But age and illness had exhausted her characteristic verve and exuberance, including Grace’s startling proclivity to break into an aria in the middle of one of her presentations.

“David,” she breathed when her aide handed her the phone, “there is not much of me left.” Her voice laden, syllables dragging through long seconds, I strained to hear, willing her to complete each ... labored ... breath.

She was right, of course. There wasn’t of her much left. But what remained was profound and beautiful, and she needed to give it away, one more time.

 “I love you,” she murmured. “Thank you for being my friend. You are God’s friend ... and mine.”

As blessings go, it is hard to imagine one much better. But her blessing didn’t end with these words. There was one more agonized sentence that drained the remainder of her energy. “You are the only one who understood me,” she mumbled.

The only one? A bit of exaggeration, I suspect. We had been friends since meeting at the back of a conference hall 31 years before. We rarely met after that but regularly spoke on the phone, telling stories, sharing insights and planning writing projects, two of which evolved into books.

Through it all, there was one central truth, one awareness that was present from that first conversation. Grace and I shared a deep desire to know the Love who is and was and always will be—and to share the Healing Mystery we knew, however obscurely, in the depth of our being.

She struggled throughout her professional life to share the gift of contemplative prayer and awareness with a resistant church that did not know what it was missing, a decades long frustration.

In her final words to me, she said I would receive a gift in her will. Use it, she said, to “carry out my mission.”

Softly, I asked if she had any specific suggestions, but she didn’t answer. She drew another heavy breath and said, “You know me.”

It was more than enough. I knew what to do.

 David L. Miller