My three-year old son was often teased by his two older brothers, who were the ripe old ages of four and five, about being the baby of the family. Normally his reaction was immediate, loud, and defensive. One day, though, I heard him quietly and solemnly reply to their taunt by saying, “We’re all babies in God’s eyes.”
Well, I thought that was pretty insightful, as well as a total change in reaction. Since I knew I had not given him that “ammunition”, I asked him who told him to say that.
“The babysitter?” “No.” “Mama Dell?” “No.”
“Well, then, who told you to say that?” “Nobody — I just know it.”
I never did find out where he got his insight. But I did think of that passage, “From the lips of children and infants you have ordained praise.”
Truly we are all babies in God’s eyes. Even the wisest of us see through a glass darkly, as Paul said, and cannot fathom the ways of God or the depth of His love and His mercy.
Those of us who are new or even “old” in the faith should not feel intimidated or inadequate in the presence of brothers and sisters who have more knowledge than we do. We should be respectful, yes, and grateful for the opportunity to learn from them, as well as encouraged to study more faithfully and consistently ourselves. But we must temper these feelings with an understanding that even the most mature and wise believer is surely still considered young and foolish in God’s eyes.
Let’s encourage and support each other, and do all we can to assist one another as we strive to do what pleases God. Have faith that He will forgive us our shortcomings as long as we call out to Him and strive to take hold of Him.
We are, every one of us, truly “babies in God’s eyes”.
Compassion
I can still picture the little girl in my mind: the shabby pink coat, the thin cotton jersey, and the impish smile. She might have been eight or nine years old.
It was almost winter, 1966, and I was living at the YMCA on the south side of Chicago. It was a bitterly cold day. For some reason, perhaps to mail a letter, I left my room to go outside for a minute. I ran down the street; the less time in the biting cold the better.
And there she was, coming up the street in the opposite direction. She saw me coming, too. She got smack in my way, planted her feet, and spread out her arms. Her mischievous smile said, “See if you can get by me!” Her coat flopped open.
I ran up to my little girl, dropped in front of her, and grabbed the open ends of her coat. I pulled it tight around her and said something like, “Sweetheart, it’s much too cold…” And then I realized why her coat was open. It had no buttons; only a few wisps of thread where buttons used to be.
My heart melted. Poor child!
She wouldn’t dare do the same thing today. An ugly world has robbed its children of their innocence and their right to be innocent. But that was a different era, and the strange man she stopped on the street was no threat to her.
But he was no help, either. I don’t remember looking around to see if there was a store nearby. Besides, I was a graduate student, and most graduate students in those days didn’t have much money. I certainly didn’t own a credit card. Could I have persuaded a store owner to do something for her? I don’t know. I never tried. I had something else to do. I never found any buttons for the little girl’s coat.
She skipped on by, up the street, and disappeared in time and space. As far as I know I’ve never seen her again. But I’ll never forget her.
In our western way of thinking, shaped so much by our English language, it is fair to say that I felt a tremendous compassion for this little child. But I’m no longer sure that it was “compassion” in the eyes of God.
Only years later did I learn from my Bible studies that “compassion” is a verb in God’s language; it’s not a noun. Look it up for yourself. There are something like three Hebrew words that are translated “compassion” in the Old Testament and five more Greek words in the New Testament. They’re all verbs!
Compassion is something you do. It is not an abstract concept; it’s not an intangible thing. It is not something you can take down from a shelf, turn over in your hand, admire and put back on the shelf again. You either do compassion, or you don’t have it.
We surround ourselves with comfort zones. They become so ‘second nature’ to us that we hardly realize we have them. They allow us to hold the world at arm’s length and turn a blind eye to its needs. They diminish us as human beings, let alone as disciples of Christ. They cripple our faith.
The Samaritan had compassion on a wounded man (Luke 10:33). He allowed himself no comfort zone. Whatever his plans had been for the day, they were scrapped. His time became someone else’s time. Whatever he had planned to do with his oil and wine, he spent them on the spot. His money went to care for a man he didn’t even know. And he was willing to do more if he had to. The Samaritan “compassioned” the wounded man in the lovely Biblical sense of the word.
The prodigal’s father had compassion on his son (Luke 15:20). He could have felt betrayed, but evidently he didn’t. He cut his losses without a complaint. He showed no signs of lingering disappointment. He held no grudge. When his son came home again, that’s all that mattered. The father rejoiced and embraced him.
Comfort zones erect barriers. They keep us from doing the things we should do and from nurturing the relationships that need our attention. There were no barriers here. The father “compassioned” his son.
So we go forward. People come into our lives with all kinds of needs and, yes, they may go out again, too. Our paths may not cross for long. God, please help us find buttons for a little girl’s coat.
The Origin of the Organic World – Part One