Looking for Christmas when it hasn't gone anywhere

*this is a post from two years ago, but it prompted so much conversation that I'm sharing it again ...


Apparently, Christmas is on its way out.

Apparently, everyone is celebrating it wrong. People are celebrating too early, or not at all, or not long enough. People aren’t giving enough, or if they’re giving it’s not for the right reasons. Society has replaced O Come All Ye Faithful with Jingle Bells, Merry Christmas has now become Happy Holidays, and the holiday cup from Starbucks isn't Christmassy enough.

Do you hear what I hear?

The bah-humbugs and grumblings remind me of the Grinch who stands on a mountaintop overlooking Whoville and laments, “All the noise, noise, NOISE!”

It’s a noise accompanied with a lot of finger pointing on how Christmas is or isn’t being celebrated.

During this time of year we are especially mindful of Christ’s entrance into the world. Rather than sending an army and forcing change, God sent an infant who was innocent and non-threatening, welcoming and not judging. People came to see the infant who simply was. Later, when Christ began his ministry, again people came; they didn’t come to be accused, but to be enlightened. The rod of discipline of the Old Testament became the Good Shepherd’s staff of the New Testament, a staff which is not used as a means of discipline, but as a way to corral and guide.

And as Disciples of Christ, we are also called to go out into the world to witness – not to accuse or judge – but to be the shining star that casts light into shadows.

So instead of fretting on how Christmas is or isn’t being celebrated, consider the following:

1. Jesus said he was the light of the world, but he also said we are the light of the world. Be the Christmas light that points people to Christ. Amazingly, a lot of the time you won’t even have to say anything.
2. Instead of getting annoyed with those “season’s greetings” or “happy holidays”, remember that the season refers to that broad expanse of time in which there are multiple holidays (holy days) which are being celebrated,  including Christmas, Hanukah, and even Kwanza. Don’t think of those “season’s greetings” as an insult; rather, see it as an acknowledgement that some of our neighbors (even our brothers and sisters) may be living and practicing a faith which is different from our own.
3. Don’t be offended by that X in Christmas. The “X” is actually indicating the Greek letter “Chi”, which is short for the Greek word meaning “Christ”. So “Xmas” and “Christmas” are equivalent in every way except their lettering. Most people who use Xmas don’t have evil intentions; even so, for that person who maliciously tries to “take Christ out of Christmas” the joke is on him because in the very act of replacing Christ with an X, he’s actually putting Him in!
4. Embrace all that holiday music – it’s refreshing to shop at the mall when, for this one time of year, Jingle Bell Rock is playing instead of Beyoncé or Miley Cyrus. 
5. The best way to “keep Christ in Christmas” is to model Christ-like behavior. A mean word or a judgmental look does harm to the very faith we are trying to share. As Francis de Sales clearly stated: “You can save more souls with a teaspoon of honey than a barrel of vinegar.”
6. It may seem as if the secularization of Christmas has deprived it of all meaning; however, Christmas is the one time of year when many – even non-believers! – feel a stirring of the spirit. If we are truly Disciples of Christ, we should celebrate any aspect of the season that nudges them toward the holy. For some it might start with a trip to the mall or watching Christmas movies on the Hallmark channel, but who knows? One day it might lead them to the doors of a church.

So, instead of fretting how Christmas is or isn’t being celebrated, Be the Shining Star! And maybe we’ll discover how we are all more alike than we are different; maybe we'll begin to realize that all that noise – the complaints about Santa, the Christmas wrappings, tags, and bows, and even the Starbucks holiday cups – despite all those things, Christmas isn’t going anywhere. It’s here to stay.

After all, in the end how did the Grinch steal Christmas?

He didn’t. He couldn’t.

It came just the same.

The Promulgation of Hate and Violence

Like many, I'm baffled by all this hatred. So many people are missing the point. If you advocate freedom, religion, and patriotism using hatred and violence, then you are just promulgating hatred and violence. And that's not religion, it's not freedom, and it's not patriotism.

This morning I came across this quote:


“Standing, as I do, in view of God and eternity, I realize that patriotism is not enough. I must have no hatred or bitterness towards anyone.” -- Edith Cavell (October 11, 1915), on the eve of her execution.

(Edith Cavell was a British nurse, humanitarian and spy. She is celebrated for helping some 200 Allied soldiers escape from German-occupied Belgium during World War I, for which she was arrested and shot by a German firing squad.)

The Thinker, Auguste Rodin
photo credit: Maria Novajosky

The Story of a Vote

               Last Saturday my husband and I voted, which just happened to be the day after the FBI’s announcement concerning Hillary Clinton’s emails. But the headlines weren’t a factor in us going to vote; simply, for several weeks the date had been marked on our calendar with a smiley face and the words Go Vote! written in cheerful purple ink.

                But that morning as I inserted my ballot into the machine I was anything but cheerful. And I wasn’t smiling. This entire election season has weighed heavily on me not only because of its contentiousness, but because our two eldest sons would be voting in their first general election and I was viewing the entire process through their eyes.

                “Our first time voting for president and these are our choices?” asked one son.

                Yes, indeed. After a primary season of drawn battle lines and hurled insults, after more qualified candidates were ignored or forced out, and after the dust finally settled, like it or not, these were our choices for president. And just when we thought it couldn’t get any more sordid, it did, and the entire nation entered a political season the likes of which will be talked about for generations.

                As a writer, I haven’t been shy about sharing my struggle about this election. During the primaries this past March, I wrote a guest column for The Augusta Chronicle in which I listed all the reasons why I could not vote for Donald Trump (One key question canhelp us recognize our role in the political arena, Sunday, March 6, 2016). At the time, I honestly thought that out of so many qualified nominees, there was no way he could win the nomination. Boy did I get it wrong.

                So like many voters, I was in a bad place. I strongly disliked Trump, and I felt the same about Clinton. In many ways I was very bipartisan in my inherent distrust of both candidates. I suppose the pollsters would have labeled me an undecided voter, but I wasn’t so much undecided as disgusted. What to do?

                There was no end to the advice – from family, friends, talk show hosts, political pundits, and experts.  Many cautioned to think long term; that is, ignore the candidate and vote on a single issue or strictly for the party’s platform. In theory, a single issue vote made sense – and for me that would be the Pro-Life ticket – but in reality it would mean casting a vote while holding my breath, pinching my nose, and ignoring the elephant in the room (no pun intended). Figuratively, I’d still be standing next to a person I didn’t believe in.

                Voting third party, then, was another option. This was new territory for me, which was daunting only because I was starting fresh. I had to learn, read, and investigate my options.

                Then there are those who advised me to brandish my vote like a weapon to stick it to the other side. I admired these voters because they were so sure, but in their single-minded quest to keep out the other candidate they ignored any scandal, FBI investigation, sexual assault, or outrageous video that put their candidate in a bad light; furthermore, when their candidate did something wrong they’d protest how the other candidate did something even more wrong.

                It’s funny (but really it’s not) because all I could ever see were flaws – serious ones – on both sides.

                What ever happened to casting a vote for someone?

                Maybe I’ve been too idealistic, but in past elections I always thought of my vote as an expression of what I am voting for; in other words, a vote was my way of saying I believe, hope, and trust you; here is my vote because I have every confidence you will lead our country well, with honor and integrity, and that you will be a role model for our children.

                Except this time I can’t say any of that about either candidate. I cannot extol their virtues, sing their praises, or put them on a pedestal. Neither candidate is worthy of my vote, but one will get it because despite all the mess, I will vote. Too many have sacrificed so I can have that privilege, and I will always honor that gift.

                So I went to vote last Saturday, and standing next to me was our twelve year old son who, along with his older brothers, is learning that sometimes a leader is not a role model, sometimes life gives us choices in which there are no clear answers, and sometimes we need to struggle to do the right thing.

                “I insert the card here,” I whispered to my son. “Then I go through each page and check the boxes. And look, here on the last page, it says ‘CAST YOUR BALLOT.’”

                And so I did.

                In the end, what did I decide? Well, I’m going to leave it there, preferring to let that question mark represent all who struggled, like I did, with what to do.  And hopefully the openness of a question mark – an unknown future, if you will – will lead us on a pathway to something nobler because, as a nation, we can do better than being forced to make the best bad choice.

A Revolution of One

Once upon a time someone accused me of being prejudiced.

               

I had recently graduated from college and was teaching Spanish and English Literature at an inner city public high school. It was not an easy year, but I learned a lot working with students from every race and ethnic background. Paradoxically, most of what I learned came from the problem students, and I had two of them in my Study Hall.

               

For thirty minutes every afternoon those two arrived in my classroom with no intention of studying. One student was black, the other was white, and both had reputations which meant that both spent a good portion of their high school career either suspended or in detention. Together, they were Trouble.

               

One day I walked into the room after the bell rang and announced, “All right people. Let’s settle down and open your books.”

               

All of a sudden, the black student stood up so quickly that his chair scooted back and hit the wall with a crash.

               

“What do you mean by people?” he demanded. “Are you talking to the black people in here?”

               

Outwardly I remained calm; inwardly I was stunned. The class, which up until that moment had been filled with the noise of 17 students settling in their desks, was now deathly silent. Nothing had prepared me for this, but as I looked at that student standing defiantly in the aisle, as I heard the white student snicker, I instinctively knew that I would not, could not allow him to pull me down that rabbit hole. So I calmly told him to either sit down or go talk to the principal.

               

He chose to go talk to the principal. And on the way to the office he ranted to everyone he met how I had singled him out because he was black.

               

Now, no one took him seriously. Not the principal and not the students in that Study Hall. Still, as unfounded as his accusations were, the words had been hurled into the air to scatter like confetti and that bothered me.

               

It bothered me that he labeled me in such a despicable manner and that nothing I could ever do or say was going to convince him otherwise. He had taken the very essence of who I was – the ideals and beliefs upon which I stood and taught – and reduced everything to the color of my skin. And the color of his. How could I defend myself from what he chose to believe about me?

               

The fact is I couldn’t. He believed what he believed. The only thing I could do was continue to teach my students with love and example. I would not let him change who I was and, most importantly, not allow him to change how I saw others. 

               

A few months later I had an opportunity to address this issue when I overheard some of my students in the hallway laughing at another teacher's quirky character trait. When class began I drew a blob-like design in the middle of a large piece of paper and went around the room asking everyone what they saw. Some students saw a circle, some a black hole, while others said it was a planet or a man’s profile. I asked every student in that room and not one single person – not one! – said they saw the piece of paper.

               

When I pointed this out to them they became quiet. They had been laughing at the very same teacher who stayed after school to help them with their homework and who checked on them when they were absent. Some of the students looked embarrassed, but just as I had refused to let the actions of one student define all others, I wanted my little lesson to be a reminder not to reduce the whole of a person to one, limiting label.

               

The school year ended and I never saw that black student again. I don’t know what happened to him, but I often think of him. I wish I could invite him over for dinner, or introduce him to my sons and watch them play basketball together in the driveway. I wish he could meet Sister Gaudiosa who has stayed with us over summers and Christmas vacations – a nun from Tanzania who is a sister to me in every way but blood.

               

These past few months, as my husband and I watched the horrific events unfold in Dallas and Milwaukee, as images of angry protestors marched across our television screen, as two presidential nominees continue to accuse one another of being racist, I often think back to my first year of teaching.  If there was one thing I learned that year it was this: people are people and ultimately – in all the ways that matter – we are more alike than we are different. It sounds so simple, but if we can embrace that one fundamental truth and see Christ’s presence in others, then it’s impossible to go to a place where you can’t see past someone’s race, ethnicity, or religion.

               

Change is not easy. We can fight racism in the courts, condemn it from the pulpits or broadcast its effects in the news, but ultimately it’s up to each and every individual to decide on whether to include or to exclude, to respect or to resist, to accept or to condemn. It may seem terribly elusive, but to see a change we have to be the change.

               

Think of it as a Revolution of One in which we all play a part.

Sometimes, Maybe is Good Enough

By: Maria Novajosky, Guest Columnist
*published in the Columbia County News-Times (October 14, 2015)


"Please, Miss, can we have some money for food?"

I had just come out of Hobby Lobby and was walking to my car when I was approached by a little girl pushing a battered umbrella stroller. With her was an elderly woman carrying a tiny infant and another younger woman; they all looked tired, poor and unkempt.

"Where do you want to eat?" I asked.

 "Anywhere," said the girl.

I was hungry, too. It was almost 1:30 and I was in a hurry to get home. I even knew exactly what I was going to have for lunch:  homemade bread, tomatoes, cheese, and a cold glass of water with a slice of lemon. Not only did I have the luxury of having fresh, healthy food available, but I had the luxury of choice. All I had to do was get in my car and in fifteen minutes I would be home. There were no worries on my part – it was all there waiting for me. 

But this little girl was worried enough to ask a stranger for help.
               

Food. Water. Shelter. Safety. Such basics in life, and yet there are many people locally who don't have these things. As we live and work in our nice city, driving home at the end of the day to relax in our homes or enjoy dinner on the back deck, it is tempting to ignore the man on the side of I-20 with a Will Work for Food sign, or a bag lady pushing a shopping cart filled with junk, or a hungry girl in a parking lot because, after all, we aren't in Africa, Indonesia, Haiti, Calcutta, or Syria.

               

To further complicate matters, life is messy. In our ongoing quest to find the perfect job, have the perfect marriage, raise perfect children, and develop perfect bodies we do not like to be reminded that, in fact, we are living in an imperfect world. We don't want to be in the position to need help, or to complicate our lives by becoming involved, or to face moral decisions of what is the right thing to do.
               

Because we aren't faced with situations like these on a daily basis, it is easy to become suspicious, fearful, and even judgmental. It’s easy to place blame at the feet of those needing help. And it’s all too easy to lose sight of the fact that everyone is so much more than what we see; that beneath the dirt, grime, hunger, mental illness, and poverty is a person with a story.
               

I didn't know that little girl's story; I didn’t know her name, her age, or where she went to school. All I knew was that she was hungry enough to ask a stranger for food. And so I gave them what they needed.
               

Was I conned?

               

Maybe I was but, then again, maybe I wasn't. The fact is I don’t know.

               

But in the grand scheme of things, does it really matter? I had something that maybe they needed, and maybe was good enough for me.

Columbia County News-Times (October, 14, 2015)

Part of Something Bigger

By Maria Novajosky Guest Columnist

*published in the Columbia County News-Times (January 21, 2015)

• Photos

File photo by Associated Press

We were living in Vicenza, Italy, when I participated in a ceremony commemorating the 10th anniversary of the death of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. The event was held at the American school on the military base, and part of the celebration involved students from the two sixth-grade classes reciting portions of Dr. King’s historic I Have a Dream speech.


All the students were terribly excited. Not only would we be part of an important event, but the American television station would be filming the ceremony and then broadcasting it on the evening news. Teachers began assigning lines, and every student raised his hand hoping to get a part. One by one lines were assigned, one by one hands went down as one student and then another was selected, and there I was, still sitting there with my hand raised.


Finally, much to my surprise, my name was called and I discovered I would be delivering the very last line of the speech, “Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!”


“Can you do this?” my teacher asked me quietly on the day of the ceremony. “These are important words; when you say them, you are sending them into tomorrow.”


I didn’t really understand what he was telling me, but I thought he meant that I should speak the words loudly.


That night we gathered around the television to watch the evening news, and at the end of the program the story faded out with the camera focusing on me reciting those 14 words.


Thirty years later, my husband and I took our three sons to visit the Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. National Historic Site in Atlanta, and there, standing next to the eternal flame across from his tomb, I told this story to my family.


They had never heard it before.


“Why were you picked to recite the very last line?” asked my son. “I mean, that’s one of the most memorable lines from the speech.”


Believe me, I have often wondered the same thing; after all, wouldn’t it have been more fitting to have had one of the black students recite the line – someone like Chris, who was tall and had a booming voice? Maybe I was picked because my teacher sensed my desperation, or he felt sorry for me (I was a mousy, timid thing), or maybe, in his wisdom, he knew that those words transcended race, gender, religion, and even time; that those words would always be hurled to the future as we strive to live them today; that the speech was bigger, truer, and more far reaching than any person who delivered it.


Of course, I didn’t understand the scope of his speech as I delivered those lines with all the passion of a timid, sixth-grader; in fact, it wasn’t until I was exploring the museum with our boys, standing in the pulpit where Dr. King used to preach, seeing his Nobel Peace Prize, and walking across the bridge alongside the life-sized statues depicting the march from Selma to Montgomery, Ala., that the memory even surfaced.


But I’m glad it did.


In my own small way I had been able to participate in something bigger, truer, and more far reaching than I could have possibly understood at the time, and standing with my family next to that eternal flame across from Dr. King’s tomb, we talked about how we are all part of something bigger, truer, and more far reaching.


And it isn’t until we recognize our role and embrace this fundamental truth that we can be truly “free at last.”

Maria Novajosky is a freelance writer and works for Catholic Stewardship Consultants. She can be reached at novajo@bellsouth.net.

Glory Days

The Glorification of Busy … this past summer that was the topic du jour, making the rounds on both the internet and Facebook. On two separate occasions I was in a discussion group in which this topic was raised, and both times arguments ensued with a few people agreeing with the statement, and the rest feeling insulted and more than a little defensive.

 

So, having been down this road before, and having heard arguments from all sides, let’s start with these irrefutable facts: we live busy lives and there is a lot of complaining about the busyness of our lives. But to go any further gets dicey because it’s one thing for someone to lament how busy they are, it’s quite another thing entirely to have someone else point out how busy they are; furthermore, you can listen to someone complain about their insane schedule, but you'll be on thin ice if you try and suggest ways they could cut back. So if we’re complaining but not willing to address the complaints, it begs the question as to why anyone is complaining in the first place. Is it for sympathy? For show? Or is all that busyness a way in which to measure our worthiness?

 

When the boys were toddlers I had a neighbor who was involved in everything. Every time we spoke she gave a veritable litany of her daily schedule and went into great detail on who, what, where, and when. She personified the glorification of busy. One day she called me stressed to the point of tears because after a day filled with soccer practice, a dental appointment, volunteering at the school and shopping for a Halloween costume, she was now going to be late in getting her five year old daughter to – are you ready for this?  – a birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese.

 

A giant mouse had reduced her to tears and the only thing I could think was please-God-don’t-let-me-turn-into-her.

 

Of course, everyone makes choices and not everyone has the same idea of busy, but there comes a point in which we have to ask ourselves, How busy is too busy? It’s a question that requires honesty because no one can ask it of you, no one can answer it for you, and no one can do anything about it except for you.  Consider the following …

 

-Is it a struggle to get in a couple of meals a week in which you sit down together as a family?

-Is homework predominantly done in the car, the bleachers at the ball park, or late at night when tears flow all too easily?

 

-Do I constantly refer to the calendar to see where I am supposed to be, and when?

-Do I always arrive late, feel stressed when driving, or neglect to return phone calls, answer emails, or RSVP to an invitation?

 

-Do we return home at the end of the day to breakfast dishes on the counter, unmade beds, piles of laundry waiting to be folded, and no dinner plans?

 

-Are most of my tasks completed halfway, and no task completed all the way?

 

If I am being honest and admit that the answer to most of those questions is yes, then I know I am too busy and that, as a family, we are over-scheduled.  It’s as simple as that. And with that acknowledgement comes the reality that some changes need to be made – changes that will require sacrifice to let go of some things, wisdom to know when to say no, and the courage to go against conventional societal dictates.

 

When school started this past fall our little guy had several friends call to see if he would be on their soccer or football team. Well, right away we knew football was out. We’ve tried that, and it was a total disaster. But soccer … well, our little guy likes soccer and we knew he would be happy to play on a team. On the other hand – and this is crucial – we also knew he would be equally as happy NOT playing. To sign up for soccer, or not to sign up for soccer … that was the question. There wasn’t a wrong answer, but there was one that was more right for us and, in the end, we opted for no soccer.

 

Was it a hard decision? Not really. The only reason we would have signed him up was to give him “something to do”, but good golly do we always have to be “doing something”?

 

And since making that decision, here's what our afternoons have been life:  we come home straight from school, our little guy sits at the kitchen table with his older brother and does his homework while eating a healthy snack, we go over his spelling bee words, and when he goes out to play I leisurely prepare dinner. Later, when my husband comes home after a long commute, dinner is ready, the house is in order, and we all sit down to dinner together. Stress-free, peaceful afternoons lead to stress-free, peaceful evenings. And boy does that feel good. In making the decision to cut back on activities, our days are just as full (but with different things) and incrementally more satisfying.

 

Of course, busy is around the corner. Both boys love basketball (really, this is their sport of choice), and they will both be on a team starting in November. But because we decided not to do soccer, we are not faced with back-to-back sports seasons which, between homework, practices, games and all the driving back and forth, would have left us feeling drained from fall until early spring.

 

In Italy there is a saying e` dolce far niente, which translated loosely, means how sweet it is to do nothing. The saying is a reminder to pause, to experience life to the fullest, and to appreciate the important things such as having a meal with your family, talking with you teenager while sitting on the back deck, running outside to splash in the puddles after a rainstorm, or reading a book.  In the hurricane of our busy lives, e` dolce far niente is the complete opposite of glorifying busy; it's about making the conscious decision to find the eye of the storm and letting the world go on without us.  Ironically (and this is beautiful), in doing “nothing” we're really doing “something”  ...  just not the “something” dictated by our schedules and our busy lives.

 

And in the end, that’s the kind of glorification I want.

Finish the Sentence

When our two oldest sons began playing school sports, a whole new world opened to us. At first it was all good (and fun!), but one day, without even realizing how it happened, or when, things turned serious and not so fun anymore. I won’t go into all the issues, but sitting in the stands you could sense an undercurrent of unease. Something was wrong, but nobody wanted to say or do anything. And who could blame them? Put the words kids and sports in the same sentence and you instantly create a hot topic. Furthermore, coaches and athletic directors carry a big stick, and to say anything means being ostracized from other parents or being branded a “bad sport”.

But my husband and I had some ideas on how to improve the sports program. We quietly set up a meeting and amicably presented them. At no point (and I want to be very, very clear about this) did we discuss playing time or whether or not a child deserved to make a team; also, the meetings weren’t about our boys, but about all the students. At those meetings we presented some ideas concerning oversight of the sports program, accountability for coaches’ behaviors; a more standardized method for conducting tryouts; and ways to better promote inclusion for our young athletes. Ultimately, we felt our school’s theme of a Christ-centered atmosphere was not represented in our sports program – not by a long shot – and some changes needed to be made.

So two meetings, with two different past administrations (again, to be clear, the meetings weren’t with our current administration) and what happened?  Absolutely nothing.

Oh, we could have pursued it further. We could have gone to the school board, or presented it at a PTO meeting, but at the end of the day my husband and I looked at each other and realized: It’s just sports, for God’s sake. It’s a game with a ball. In the grand scheme of things, none of it matters. Middle school (and high school) is a blip on life’s radar. A blip.

So we let it go. Our two oldest sons had some great seasons, and some not so great ones. They made most teams, but not all of them. Middle school ended, and high school meant new challenges and issues: a football coach who told one son that he wasn’t necessarily needed on the team; a son who made the basketball team one year, but the following year was pushed aside for players who never participated in tryouts or any of the pre-season practices; coaches who saved spots for players still involved in other sports, thereby ignoring those present and willing to play. Yes, there were issues, but we dealt with them at home, as a family, as best we could.

Then this past week a friend shared on Facebook her helplessness in dealing with her daughter’s tears due to a team sports situation, and even though we have moved on (at least until our little guy is old enough to start playing for the school) I felt compelled to comment; in fact, there were comments from many people, most of whom were sharing honest, personal, and sometimes painful experiences. The comments were not accusatory, but empathetic in nature. Most importantly, they were encouraging dialogue.

That is, there was dialogue up until the point someone expressed how they were offended by both the original post and the ensuing comments and, just like that, no more dialogue.

Whoa. Refer to the last couple of sentences in Paragraph One.

Offended? How, how was this person offended? The comments weren’t about their pain; the comments weren’t their stories. Was this person offended by honesty? Offended because we were openly talking about problems in our sports program, something which most people only whisper about? Did this person think we should be going through the channels instead of commenting on Facebook? (Well, refer to Paragraph Two above. Been there, done that. Twice.)

Or maybe it’s because they thought we were complaining about our school.

Look. My husband and I live in a great county in which there are a number of great public schools a short bus ride away. We don’t have to send our boys to a Catholic school. But we choose to do so, and the fact we are still there shows that we love our school. We support it. We promote it. But that doesn’t mean it’s perfect, and I’m not going to pretend otherwise. Too often I have heard people say, “It’s a great school; it’s not perfect, but …”

And they leave it at that. An unfinished sentence.

But what? It’s not perfect, but we just ignore that un-perfect part? But we choose not to acknowledge certain issues? But it’s not happening to me so it’s not important?

It’s not perfect, but we don’t care?

I recently watched Out of Africa, and toward the end of the movie Meryl Streep’s character has lost everything: her farm, her house, and her way of life. Before she returns to her native Denmark, she is determined to find a place for a tribe of South Africans who have been living on her land for generations. She appeals to her neighbors, her friends, and even government officials for help, but they are all embarrassed about her situation. They are offended because she is intruding in their perfect world with her oh-so-imperfect problems.

Well, there is so much that is imperfect in our perfect world.

Ever since his election Pope Francis has said that he prefers a Church which is bruised and dirty from having been out on the streets; that we need to come out of our comfort zones – leave our schools, churches and homes – and go out to confront illness, poverty, ignorance, injustice, prejudice, pain … all those elements of humanity which are messy. All those things which make people not experiencing them, uncomfortable. Offended, even.

But how – from the comforts of our schools, our churches and our homes – can we address all these things? It’s not so hard; as with most things, it begins by standing on what is good, opening our eyes to the not so good, and making changes right here in our schools, our churches and our homes. And during the process – by making it about others and not about us – in big matters and in small, in political arenas and in sporting ones, the good has the potential to become even better.

So, fill in the blank with whatever is your circumstance (school, church, home, family, government) and finish the sentence: It’s a great school; it’s not perfect, but … but there’s room for improvement; but we are addressing the issues; but we are making some changes; but we are learning, forgiving, trying.

Finish the sentence. And it starts from there.