Flood Relief
‘Everyone then who hears these words of mine and acts on them will be like a wise man who built his house on rock. The rain fell, the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house, but it did not fall, because it had been founded on rock. And everyone who hears these words of mine and does not act on them will be like a foolish man who built his house on sand. The rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell—and great was its fall!’
--Matthew 7:24-27
A hurricane is a fascinating natural disaster to witness from afar--it is immediate--as it makes landfall, the storm surge, the huge winds, and the rain immediately wreak havoc; but it is also gradual--a slow motion catastrophe as the floods come afterwards, lasting for days, and then creating a calamity that will take years to undo.
But you cannot really watch a hurricane from afar.
The human misery that ensues becomes inescapable, and even, say, in Sacramento, thousands of miles from Houston, we feel the impact of the storm, are moved by the suffering, and want to help.
And it is that altruism that needs our focus.
Story after story has come from Texas of one good person after another rising to the occasion. The Cajun Navy brought their flotilla of power boats to the scene, seeking and carrying so many to safety, giving Noah a slightly creole twang. Beloved pets were saved by someone risking themselves to make it so. A mattress salesman becomes a viral internet hero for turning his store into a shelter. Professionals moved in with skill and courage to bring a semblance of order to utter chaos. And folks like us thousands of miles removed sent funds and aid to help. Even our international neighbors respond with kindness and offers of help, no matter what the political climate might be.
There is an innate compassion within the human.
In a crisis, there will be someone to help. There will be someone moved by selflessness to lend a hand. We really aren't as cold and singularly selfish as we might suppose left only with popular culture as a guide.
Within the faith community, we believe this innate heart was placed within us by God--God who is love.
The more we attune ourselves to that heart, the firmer the foundation from which we live and move and have our being.
But, likewise, the more we ignore it, the softer the ground beneath us.
As always, a national catastrophe also comes with a flip side. We hear of some who decide to take full advantage of the situation to go on a crime spree. We hear of those who choose not to respond in kindness, shutting their doors against neighbors. We see some more willing to talk than to do, ignoring the cries for help by uttering banalities.
We pray the innate compassion will rise to the fore, eclipsing the rise of self-centeredness.
Within the faith community, we have a particular and peculiar access to the solid rock of compassion. We proclaim it. We study it. We express it. And we attempt to live it. We see people of faith rising to the moment, leaving home and work to help. Presbyterian Disaster Assistance mobilizing folks from all over who quickly hit the epicenter; mosques mobilizing to offer shelter, clothes, food, and comfort; synagogues coming as one to help their neighbors; and right on through all the expressions of God around us all the time--neighbor moves to help neighbor, embodying the grace of God for someone in desperate need of it.
The solid rock begins to feel firmer beneath us.
This week, I sat with my fellow presbyters from the Synod of the Pacific. One of the questions we pondered together was the purpose of the church in a context like ours. What are we meant to be? What do we have to offer? We wondered about who and what we are, taking in the reality of the moment. Our smallest presbytery is fourteen churches with a total of 500 members--an entire presbytery the same size as a midsize congregation somewhere else. What can they offer? All of us are passing through major transitions as we are smaller, leaner, and more limited in material resources. What can we offer? What we kept coming back to was the solid rock of embodied compassion. All of us can love one another. All of us can welcome the stranger. All of us can hear and respond to the cries around us, without judgment, without exception, and without cold moralism.
We can love.
In love, we can serve.
We can serve, stopping the flood of pain all around us.
Stopping the flood of pain, we can recover our center.
All of us.
That is the best sort of flood relief.
--Matthew 7:24-27
A hurricane is a fascinating natural disaster to witness from afar--it is immediate--as it makes landfall, the storm surge, the huge winds, and the rain immediately wreak havoc; but it is also gradual--a slow motion catastrophe as the floods come afterwards, lasting for days, and then creating a calamity that will take years to undo.
But you cannot really watch a hurricane from afar.
The human misery that ensues becomes inescapable, and even, say, in Sacramento, thousands of miles from Houston, we feel the impact of the storm, are moved by the suffering, and want to help.
And it is that altruism that needs our focus.
Story after story has come from Texas of one good person after another rising to the occasion. The Cajun Navy brought their flotilla of power boats to the scene, seeking and carrying so many to safety, giving Noah a slightly creole twang. Beloved pets were saved by someone risking themselves to make it so. A mattress salesman becomes a viral internet hero for turning his store into a shelter. Professionals moved in with skill and courage to bring a semblance of order to utter chaos. And folks like us thousands of miles removed sent funds and aid to help. Even our international neighbors respond with kindness and offers of help, no matter what the political climate might be.
There is an innate compassion within the human.
In a crisis, there will be someone to help. There will be someone moved by selflessness to lend a hand. We really aren't as cold and singularly selfish as we might suppose left only with popular culture as a guide.
Within the faith community, we believe this innate heart was placed within us by God--God who is love.
The more we attune ourselves to that heart, the firmer the foundation from which we live and move and have our being.
But, likewise, the more we ignore it, the softer the ground beneath us.
As always, a national catastrophe also comes with a flip side. We hear of some who decide to take full advantage of the situation to go on a crime spree. We hear of those who choose not to respond in kindness, shutting their doors against neighbors. We see some more willing to talk than to do, ignoring the cries for help by uttering banalities.
We pray the innate compassion will rise to the fore, eclipsing the rise of self-centeredness.
Within the faith community, we have a particular and peculiar access to the solid rock of compassion. We proclaim it. We study it. We express it. And we attempt to live it. We see people of faith rising to the moment, leaving home and work to help. Presbyterian Disaster Assistance mobilizing folks from all over who quickly hit the epicenter; mosques mobilizing to offer shelter, clothes, food, and comfort; synagogues coming as one to help their neighbors; and right on through all the expressions of God around us all the time--neighbor moves to help neighbor, embodying the grace of God for someone in desperate need of it.
The solid rock begins to feel firmer beneath us.
This week, I sat with my fellow presbyters from the Synod of the Pacific. One of the questions we pondered together was the purpose of the church in a context like ours. What are we meant to be? What do we have to offer? We wondered about who and what we are, taking in the reality of the moment. Our smallest presbytery is fourteen churches with a total of 500 members--an entire presbytery the same size as a midsize congregation somewhere else. What can they offer? All of us are passing through major transitions as we are smaller, leaner, and more limited in material resources. What can we offer? What we kept coming back to was the solid rock of embodied compassion. All of us can love one another. All of us can welcome the stranger. All of us can hear and respond to the cries around us, without judgment, without exception, and without cold moralism.
We can love.
In love, we can serve.
We can serve, stopping the flood of pain all around us.
Stopping the flood of pain, we can recover our center.
All of us.
That is the best sort of flood relief.
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