Just Enough, Never Too Much

I’ve been avoiding the news lately and shunning political commentary.  I’ve realized that a good portion of this agitated chatter is about sales.  Even if I agree with a journalist, he or she is peddling an interpretation, a viewpoint.  A straightforward news report may be factual, but the presentation influences my perception of the depicted events.  I am not experiencing directly but seeing through filters set up by editors and programmers.

I’m trying to better understand what Paul means by, “For now we see through a glass darkly, but then face to face…” (1 Corinthians 13:12).  How does my personal history alter my discernment of day to day reality?  Of the Divine?  Paul seems to be saying that the lenses in our minds only allow dim sparks of God’s magnificence to shine.

Our hunger for communion with God is whetted, perhaps, by the glimpses we receive.  We get a taste and greedily want more. 

My son encountered ice cream for the first time when he was about nine months old.  He made a face (the ice cream felt uncomfortably cold in his mouth), but then his eyes popped open.  The flavor had struck.  He squealed in anticipation when Judy raised the next spoonful.

He was less enthusiastic when we fed him boiled chicken and mashed peas.  But as responsible parents, we couldn’t give him ice cream at every meal.  And its sweet delight would have faded and become common place.

Perhaps God gives us the amount of light, peace and comfort we can profitably absorb.  Too much too often wouldn’t be useful or good.  Instead, moments of insight are reminders that there is more to life than the daily worries plaguing us.

The news may be tinted, and our experiences further color our perceptions.  We see darkly.  But grace gives us the reassurance that we will eventually know not in part but in whole. 

That promise gives me hope.

Filters

The optometrist flips lenses and asks, “Does it look better with this…or with that?” One view looks wavy, a second out of focus, a third clearer but still a bit blurry. The doctor narrows the selection until she arrives at a proper prescription.

That’s how it works in theory, but the last time I got new glasses something went wrong. I drove home struggling to see the instrument panel on the dashboard. A headache began to arise before I’d driven two miles. I wondered whether I’d get used to the glasses, but after an hour at home I knew that I’d have to go back.

The optometrist got it right the second time, thank God. However, the experience of trying to function with maladjusted lenses made me wonder whether other sorts of filters distort my vision. I know that past experiences color my outlook, make me suspicious when witnessing behavior that appears, at first glance, to be unpleasantly familiar. A word, a gesture can trigger alarms. If I’m clear-headed, I wait to see how a situation plays out before reacting inappropriately. A recent example: a new preacher’s chiding sermon doesn’t mean that he’s the reincarnation of the grumpy, judgmental priest who served the church I attended as a boy.

I’ve also experienced the reverse. My appearance and manner have triggered negative reactions in some of my students. I say a few words at the beginning of the first class and notice someone glaring at me. Everything I do or say from that point on confirms his or her initial impression. It doesn’t matter how vigilantly I maintain an attitude of helpful patience. I’ve gradually learned that the less I engage with a hostile student, the better. A diplomatically neutral tone must be sustained, if possible, even in the presence of snarky rebellion.

I no longer try to fix what’s irreparably broken. But I’ve found that some eventually notice I mean them no harm, that the instruction is actually useful. Some are capable of seeing their own biases if I refuse to respond in kind to their defensive incivility. I function best when giving them a chance to notice the distortions in their vision.

Anthony De Mello preaches the virtues of awareness. I believe that he wants us to observe the world carefully with fresh eyes. And he wants us to watch our mental filters in action as we look and react. I’m not anywhere near clearness, but sometimes I can hear a click as another lens flips into place.

That’s the Illness Talking

A deacon went to visit an elderly church member at a convalescent home. When the deacon entered the old man’s room, harsh words and acid scorn greeted him. The deacon retreated swiftly and consulted with his pastor. The pastor reassured him that he had done nothing wrong. “That was the illness talking, not the man,” the reverend said.

I sometimes hold past hurtful situations too tightly. I wonder why Patty twisted everything I said into an evil plot. What made an aunt charge cold-sober-me with drunkenness at a funeral reception? Why did a clerk at Kinkos accuse me of trying to steal copies as I stood before him with wallet and copies in hand? Why did a group of grad students take me to a friendly dinner, gather around me as we left the diner, and threaten (without making a complaint) to beat me up?

Now I’m beginning to accept that it wouldn’t have mattered what I said and did at those times. Folks saw me through filters of their preconceptions and prejudices. Something triggered them to force-fit my speech and behavior into pre-set negative patterns. Their illnesses were talking.

The reverse has happened on a few occasions. I’ve met people who inexplicably think too highly of me. I know that the glow of appreciation hasn’t been earned and I’ll eventually fail to meet their inflated expectations. I’ve learned to step aside from the ego-rush felt during an initial wave of over-estimation. Waves eventually crash and withdraw–no use getting caught in the undertow.

I know that I have positive and negative triggers too. A student arrives late for a first class and leaves early with a disgruntled look on his face. I assume, based on experience, that he will cause more and more trouble as the semester progresses. Something about his appearance bothers me too…

Filters have already begun to color my perceptions of him. Illness chatters away inside my head.

I might be right about him, or he might have had one bad night. He could turn out to be a prince among men. Time will tell if I let it.