Present in Our Meeting

by Mari Carlson

I swung my sack into my basket, unlocked my bike, hung my helmet on the handlebars and let the breeze cool my head on the way home. The sidewalks and streets were crowded with lively lunch breakers. It seemed everyone needed a break in the fresh air, a reminder that the outside can indeed feel as cool as air conditioning. I took the sidewalk toward home to avoid car exhaust—and one-way streets cars had no choice to avoid. Suddenly, an SUV exiting a parking ramp blocked my path. He broadsided me and I fell sideways off my bike, into the street.

I got up as fast as the driver leapt from his car and the parking ramp attendant tore open his cubicle door to see if I was okay. “Yes, I’m okay,” I reassured the two men before they even asked.

“Lord, have mercy, child,” replied the attendant, grabbing his heaving chest.

The men followed me with their eyes as I picked up my bike and started to leave the scene. I glanced at the driver’s son, still frozen in the passenger seat; he clamped his gaping mouth closed. My only wish was to put the incident behind me. Not only was I embarrassed that I had been riding on the sidewalk, without a helmet, but I was determined to prove my independence as a biker and as a young woman.

Witnesses

But my path was again blocked when two women, who had witnessed the accident, offered their cell phones for me to call my insurance company or family or a doctor. “No, no,” I said over my shoulder, trying to avoid them. I was shaking. One woman reached her arm around my shoulders and guided me to a nearby bench. The other one eased my bike out of my hands and parked it beside the bench. They introduced themselves—Dawn and Stacy— and found Kleenex in their purses for my bloody knee. I dabbed at my wound and began to cry. The thoughts that had threatened me since I fell spilled out with my tears: “What if my son had been riding behind me in the trailer? I’m so dumb to ride on a sidewalk, I’m…”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” said Dawn, hugging me. They sat with me for half an hour. They went into a nearby building and got alcohol swabs and more band-aids for me. They came out not only with first-aid for my cuts, but balm for my soul as well. The attendant was right; the Lord did have mercy on me that day.

Good Samaritans

When I finally succumbed to Dawn’s hug, I stopped shaking. I began testing all my joints; yes, they would bend. I forgot my pain and focused on the scene. I imagined that somewhere cameras were filming us: players in a modern-day version of the Good Samaritan story. I was the injured person on the side of the road with my new women-friends coming to my aid. My fierce desire to prove my independence made way for a fierce desire to see this story play itself out.

I wanted to tell Dawn and Stacy that I knew who they really were, that they were my saviors, but I thought it might ruin the drama. Instead, I fell into my role and accepted the care silently. I did not remind Stacy about blood-borne pathogens as she applied my bandage without gloves. I accepted the slip of paper with Dawn’s cell-phone number on it. I cried and they complimented my bravery. And with each gesture, I felt transformed, not simply into my “character” but into love. I became beloved. I was no longer sorry for the interruption in my otherwise idyllic day but elated that it had turned out as it had.

About a year before, my son and I had been received into an Eastern Catholic church, joining my husband, who was already a member. I really had no idea what I was getting into. Only recently had I started reading more about our faith. I read Orientale Lumen (OL), an encyclical by Pope John Paul II, which describes some characteristics of the “Eastern lung” of the Catholic Church. One characteristic is an emphasis on silent prayer, listening to God rather than talking to Him. John Paul II wrote, “When a person is touched by the Word, obedience is born, that is, the listening which changes life”. As Dawn and Stacy attended to me, I felt Jesus drawing close to us. He touched me through these women and changed me.

Be Loved

My experience of listening to God through these “Samaritan” women helped me make sense of John Paul II’s words. So too, his words helped me interpret my experience. I had always believed, pre-accident, the moral of the parable boiled down to, “imitate the Good Samaritan.” Now, however, I wonder if it’s not equally important for us, especially middle class Americans like me, to identify with the injured person on the side of the road. How might relating to this person in the story lead us into the gospel? How might this help us answer Jesus’ question at the beginning of the parable: “Who is my neighbor?” (Luke 10:29)?

Jesus ends the parable of the Good Samaritan with another question: “which of these… was a good neighbor to the man who fell…?” (Luke 10:36) His first question is slightly different from the second. The disciples, as well as modern day readers, might answer Jesus’ first question by naming the beggars, the forgotten, the ones in need, the forsaken in our midst.

John Paul II recognized in the Eastern churches a neighboring quality. In their listening prayer, the Eastern monks experience “the loving gaze of God.” The Eastern churches frequently lift up as an example not only Mary, Theotokos, Mother of God, but the Mary in the Mary and Martha story, the one who is gazed upon by Jesus and whom he showers with attention and delight. This loving gaze, says John Paul, “communicates that power which alone is able to heal the whole person” (OL 4).

Without being gazed at by the compassionate eyes of Dawn and Stacy, I probably would not be a very good neighbor to others. Left to my own devices, I prefer the role of Martha, wanting to neighbor to Jesus instead of letting him neighbor to me. I am like Peter who wants to wash Jesus’ feet instead of having his own washed.

Touched by Jesus

I wish I could say that on the day I had my bike accident, I had been waiting for a sign from God, a reason to kick-start my faith life. I wish I could say Dawn and Stacy were the answer to that prayer. But I can’t. What I can say is that Jesus touched me through them and I responded. St. Symeon, an Easter Church Father, advises, “do not worry about what will come next, you will discover it when it comes.” I guess I followed his advice.

I say I wish Dawn and Stacy had been an answer to prayer—how much more dramatic would that have been for my faith journey—but they were better; they were the prayer themselves.

Maybe prayer isn’t so much something we do as something done over us. Or, put another way, prayer isn’t so much going looking for something to tell God about or ask him about, but listening to what he has to say.

Dawn and Stacy were a prayer over me. They presented me the gospel in the flesh, the good news of God, and gave me an opportunity to respond. Are not good neighbors the ones who open up the gospel for us, the ones who show us who Jesus is? We can be good neighbors both when we are good Samaritans as well as when we’re in need of a Good Samaritan. Either way, Jesus is present in the meeting; he is the gift given and received.

 Mari Carlson has a Master of Pastoral Studies from The Saint Paul Seminary School of Divinity, St Paul MN.