By Amy Butler
Every once in a while, I’m shaken into the reality of my own inability to see clearly. Again.
It happened a couple of years ago. In a moment of weakness, I had earlier promised offspring Sammy I’d accompany his class on a field trip to the National Geographic Society here in Washington. I’d been traveling earlier in the week and had conveniently forgotten my chaperoning offer — only to return home to a very excited 8-year-old who informed me he’d been sleeping with his National Geographic T-shirt since I’d left just so he would be sure to remember to wear it when we went together that Friday.
And this is how it was that I found myself assigned a rather unruly group of six kids. It was my responsibility to herd them to the Metro station, on and off the trains and down a busy downtown street to the National Geographic building.
Is it any wonder I am not a professional child educator? We hadn’t even made the six-block walk from the school to the Metro stop by the time I was ready to throw in the towel.
Nevertheless, we persevered and spent two torturous hours in the society’s museum trying to keep little hands from breaking things, then successfully navigated our way through lunch. Whew! Then the teacher told the parent chaperones we had a choice: For the 10 minutes remaining we could either take the kids to the museum store, or let them run around in the courtyard.
Needless to say I did not think too long about this question, and off I ushered them toward the courtyard, desperately threatening pretty much anything I could think of to try to keep them together.
This was the moment that my own blindness — my complete inability to see the world as God sees it — hit me smack in the face. And it felt like a big bucket of cold water.
I noticed a homeless woman smoking on a bench, right in the path we were taking to the courtyard. I herded the kids away from her because I just wasn’t sure if she might talk to them or they might talk to her. Actually, I don’t know what I was afraid of; I just instinctively steered them away and then followed the kids.
I’d just passed the woman, sort of walking between the kids and her, when I caught a better glimpse of her out of the corner of my eye. Ski hat pulled down over her head; big jacket covering her small frame; huge eyes taking everything in. I walked by and I realized: “I know her!”
I know her.
And by “know,” I mean that normally I see her in church (every single Sunday) rather than out on the streets. She and I worship together.
I turned around and called out her name in surprise. She smiled, like she’d been patiently waiting for me to notice her. “Hey Pastor Amy!” she said. “I thought that was you, but I usually see you in a long robe. I wasn’t sure when you walked right by me!”
I went right over to her, hugged her and kissed her on the cheek. As I turned back to the kids one of them said to me, with a mixture of horror and surprise, “Who was THAT?” and as I tried to explain, I could feel my face burning with shame.
When I had my harried-parent-volunteer hat on, she was just another faceless homeless person from whom I needed to protect the kids. But the minute I recognized her, my pastor hat came out and I felt not annoyed or concerned, but genuinely happy to see her.
It was in Mark 8 that Jesus lost his temper with his dense and unseeing disciples. In that moment in the National Geographic Society courtyard I swear I could hear his words ringing in my ears. It was a strident, impatient and — honestly — disappointed voice, the message at the moment just for me:
“Open your eyes!” Jesus yelled at the crowd (at me). For once, just look at what is right in front of you, instead of muddling your way through life so sure you have it figured out. Open your eyes, or you’re going to keep walking into trees … and tripping over roots … and ending up in places you never intended to go.
Open your eyes.
Oh, for eyes that could see the world with the open possibilities Jesus’ eyes did. Some days I’m sure I finally have them — and then something like this happens and it seems to me that even after years of following Jesus I am still tripping and stumbling through this human life with my eyes squeezed tightly shut.
Lord, have mercy upon me.
Christ, have mercy upon me.
Lord, have mercy upon me!