Spiritual Common Sense

Every bride is beautiful. Every expectant mother has a glow. These common moments reveal the extraordinary nature of our being.

Human nature is so constructed that it is easier to see our faults and fasten on our failings. It takes faith to see beyond our frailty.

But in our hearts we know we are powerful beyond measure. We know we will always be loved. We know we were born to love in return.

In the words of Nelson Mandela, “We were born to manifest the glory of God in us.”

In each of us, God is expressed in infinite variety. Like the rivers that lead to the sea, God is revealed in a way that is at once common to humanity and unique to each individual.

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Rachel Rossow has twenty-one children and more foster children than I can count. Though she would not acknowledge a distinction between the children of her body and the children of her heart, society would say that nineteen of her children were adopted.

All of the children Rachel chose to bring home were born with severe mental or physical handicaps. Some are mentally gifted while physically challenged. Others are physically gifted while being mentally challenged. And some are seriously challenged in all aspects of life.

When I came to know Rachel, I couldn’t help wondering how she met the enormous challenge presented by children with such diverse abilities. Trying to be as artful as possible, I asked her what she taught them. Rachel’s response went directly to the heart of the question I meant to ask, but could not articulate.

“I teach them all the same thing,” she said. “First, you have to get to know yourself. Then you have to learn to love yourself. And then, you have to learn to forget yourself in service to others.”

Knowing yourself, she explained, means understanding where you come from, who you really are, what gifts you were given, and what gifts you have to give. Loving yourself has nothing to do with narcissism and is the antithesis of ego. Loving yourself means embracing yourself as you are rather than as you wish to be. It comes from the understanding that our weaknesses are as much a part of our uniqueness as our strengths.

But to be bestowed with meaning, life must transcend itself. We have not started living until we can rise above the narrow confines of our personal concerns to the broader concerns of society. Ironically, it is when we forget ourselves that we do things for which we are most likely to be remembered.

After my father died, my mother became my greatest concern.  My parents had known each other most of their lives.  Taking care of him and raising her family had been the focus of her life.  I knew she missed him terribly.

I could always talk with my Mother about anything so when I saw an opportunity I shared my concern.  To my surprise, she said that it was difficult but it was also a gift in a way.  Dad had been sick much of his life, she explained, and had already suffered so much.  “Can you imagine how difficult it would have been for him if I had gone first?”

With that I began to see her suffering in a new light.  Far from an act of desperation, it was, in fact, an act of faith and fidelity. For years we had shared a wish we could do something to ease Dad’s pain with little success.  Now, she was saying, at least I can spare him this.

When I told Viktor Frankl my mother’s story, he took out one of the black
Flair pens he favored and wrote an equation:  D = S – M.

“Despair is suffering without meaning,” he explained.  “Like your mother, each of us is challenged to find the meaning in our suffering and use it to give purpose to our lives.”

More often than not, our first instinct when we are ill or hurt is to focus on ourselves and our problems.  Self-concern makes us more self-centered as we turn the eye inward in doubt, despair, and wonder. Those who cannot find a purpose in their pain are diminished by it.  Those who do are strengthened by the process.

A few years ago, I helped bring a matched pair of children from the Middle East to Give Kids the World. Eight-year-old, Maataz Kishta came from the Palestine. Nine-year-old Chiam Salinas was from Israel.

Both boys were fighting cancer. Both had under gone a bone marrow transfer. Both faced long odds and were hoping for a miracle.

I met them at the airport in New York City. Almost by design, they seemed to come from different ends of the plane. Chiam arrived first, Maataz a few minutes later. They took positions on opposite sides of me while my translator helped me greet them and their escorts.

While we waited for the plane to Orlando, they kept as much distance between themselves as possible. Both wanted to know what we had planned for them, but each asked their questions independently. There was no direct communication. They could not avoid being close from time to time, but there was no connection between them.

A week later, after playing together, eating together, sharing rides, and experiencing the wonders of Orlando’s theme parks, they left as friends. Somehow along the way, they learned they had more than a disease and a desire to meet Mickey Mouse in common. They realized all they really wanted is what all children fundamentally want – the right to enjoy life and grow up in peace.

“This is the most beautiful thing,” Maataz’ father, Aatef, told Antonio Mora of then with ABC News.

Chiam’s mother, Shula, agreed. “We hope people can learn from this” she said. “I know I have.”

No matter how great and grave the differences between us may appear, below and above all is the eternal fact of brotherhood. If we believe there is one God, if we believe He is the Father of us all, then no child of God can be said to be outside the pale of human kinship and no individual can be considered less human, fundamentally different, or apart.

Pat Ireland was shot three times at Columbine High School, including once in the head. His dramatic fall from the library into the arms of waiting SWAT teams created the most memorable image of that tragic event. While millions of people remember that day, hardly anyone knows much about Pat, what he learned from this tragic incident, or what he had to say about the mentality that produced it.

For a year, Pat was silent. He refused to speak to the media and would not discuss what happened. Finally at a student rally organized to mark the first anniversary of this tragic event, Pat talked about what happened.

For the first time, Pat described where he was and what happened. He concluded by saying that day and the days that followed had taught him something about the nature of love and hate, the meaning of courage, and the preciousness of life. Pat asked people to remember those who lost their lives and those who were injured, but to take a moment also to think about their own responsibility.

“The battle against hate begins with simple acts of kindness,” he said, “knowing people’s names and speaking to everyone. Making a point to just be nice to people.”

You can’t solve a problem on the same level as it was created. Anger breeds anger. Revenge brings retribution. Violence feeds violence. When hate is used to combat hate, hate wins. The only way out of this descending spiral is to rise above and seek higher ground. The only way to drive out of the darkness is to be the light.