Light of the World

Lights of the World

Inasmuch as I am trying to operate as if there is some overarching purpose to this human life, I don’t think that purpose has to do with making stuff or mere survival. Across the faith traditions, the wise guys didn’t make much—and they seemed pretty lackadaisical about this challenge of surviving. They told their followers not to worry about tidbits such as food and shelter, and they didn’t do much to appease the powers around them. Jesus was not the only one to die of this.

I don’t have anything against manufacturing, or self-care; I just think we’re all here to get along. I think relationship is the central purpose, and the central struggle of our human lives—and when I think about the wise guys (and gals) of all these faith traditions, relationship seems pretty central to their call.

So. I’ve got this troubled friendship, and it’s troubling me. The friend in question is relatively new to us, but became pretty central in our lives last fall. With the turning of the year, though, she has taken some substantial distance. In an effort to avoid a great big fight, or to barge in where I am not welcome, I’ve been pondering these several weeks. I’ve come to two conclusions.

First, it’s really, really hard to simply sit still in discomfort. It’s Lent now, and the readings I am doing include some stories about disciples beginning to catch on that all of this will not end well. They will not simply be uncomfortable—they jockey for position in the kingdom, they try convincing Jesus there must be some other way. They bicker with each other. On the night he gets arrested, Jesus lets a couple in on his own fear and trepidation. And in response, they go to sleep.

I have struggled not to bitch and argue. I have struggled not to make demands. I don’t like this shifting in our friendship—I am lonely, out-of-balance, and uncomfortable. It’s tough to simply sit still in it, and one might argue that this writing is itself a way to keep from doing so.

Secondly, I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s really tough to take seriously our gifts to one another. Jesus insisted that we are the light of the world. But it’s much more the fashion—and a whole lot easier—to think that we don’t matter quite so much.

I’ve been thinking about a love-relationship I had some years ago, with a woman in recovery from a life-threatening car accident. She was disabled from it, and her previous relationship—strained before that truck ran into her VW—collapsed beneath the weight. I traipsed into the picture, and, man—we fell in love. It was exciting, passionate, so much fun, and doomed. Just as I began to recognize the breadth of challenge of my girlfriend’s disability, we had this enormous, huge, humongous fight. And I decided: that’s enough. I shut the door, I closed negotiations, I bushelled up my light.

I had every right to wrap up that relationship, to get back to my students and my teachers and degrees. I don’t think we ever would have made it—not just because she had a disability, but because she lived 200 miles away and had this nasty jealous streak and we had not so much in common. I was selfish and small-minded and on the road to anguished artist. So it isn’t that I feel we should have worked it out.

I feel, instead, I should—and could—have shown some more compassion. I might have well considered what it meant for her to trust again after having lost so much. To believe herself, again, capable of love and deserving of it, too. I might have thought about what I might mean to her—not as an individual—but because of when we met, and what her struggles were. I might have given her more time, considered that her jealousy was rooted in deep fear and insight into just how I was feeling. I’m not saying that I should have stayed her girlfriend—but I might have been a better friend, I might have offered up a bit more of the warmth and light she had received from me at the beginning.

That would have been uncomfortable. It would have meant learning more about how it feels to have your life so violently revised, to try to pick up all the pieces, and watch them break out of your hands. I would have had to face—with someone else as witness—how casually I’d strolled into a relationship that wasn’t casual at all for her. I would have come to understand the hope I had embodied, if only in those first few days. It would have been excruciating, to measure what I brought to her—and what I took away.

If I had stuck my lamp up on a stand, like Jesus tells me to—if I’d insisted that we companion one another out of the relationship with all the love we’d promised going in—we probably would have learned a lot, about ourselves and one another. We could have offered our regrets, we might have remained friends. Much easier, instead, to assert my independence, to drive 200 miles home, to not consider that I mattered, that I might have offered something valuable, that its absence was a loss. As if I’d put her right back on the shelf, where I had found her.

These days, I’m the one that’s feeling shelved. I miss my friend. Her enthusiasm for this quirky trip of mine helped to make it happen. Hell, Girlfriend and I had been so lonely before meeting her that we’d considered moving to another town. She’s got this sturdy courage that inspires me; I hear she’s changing jobs these days, and there’s this gap where knowing used to be—what it means, her hopes and fears, the best way for us to celebrate. To have her at our table was a joy—she lit up our living room with a wicked sense of humor and a taproot of deep warmth.

And now, that light has dimmed a bit, at least for me. I get these shrugs across the phone line—“busy,” “nothing,” “fine.” I can’t insist, and don’t want to impose. But I do want to practice staying conscious, grateful, and uncomfortable. She brought a light into my world, and I do miss it. I hope, whatever she is up to, she’s still shining bright.

[Don’t believe you’re a light of the world?

See what Jesus has to say about it: Matthew 5:14.

For bickering, sleeping, uncomfortable apostles, see:

Matthew 20:20-21, Mark 14:3-6, Matthew 26:37-47]