I have watched children place offerings on teachers’ desks: smudged notes of thanks, treats, and drawings. They hope that their teachers will be pleased. I have placed my attempts to write, make calculations, balance reactions, and identify terms and anatomy on many desks. I always hoped I would get an A.
Other offerings I collect for a different Teacher. I place before him my poor attempt to give food to a young homeless person. She didn’t want the food I handed her, and she asked for cash to buy organic food instead. “My body is a temple. I don’t eat crappy food,” she said with defiance, pointing to her cavernous waist. When I tried to talk to her, she turned her back on me and said, “You can’t help me. Go on and have a nice day.” Unsure, I left her without speaking again, the cash (Can I truly call it mine?) still in my purse, and the food still in my hand. Was it judgment based on a substance on her breath that made me leave? Was it her challenge to my motives and level of charity? Was it because I had my family with me that I felt enough courage to approach her? Did she read fear or judgment in my eyes? Was my attempt really more like the priest’s and Levite’s, even though I didn’t physically cross to the other side of the road to avoid her?
This was a mangled offering, bruised and imperfect. I didn’t feed her. She was right. As I am now, and as she is now, I can’t help her. Somehow, my efforts made her hate me. There are no grades given in efforts like this. Instead, I must wait to see what my teacher will make from my attempt.
As I allow his lessons from this event to rest in me, I feel tender, aware of my shortcomings, and awakened to more suffering in others. Maybe this new heart and the memory of her eyes will help me navigate better next time. Extending the parable, how many times did the Good Samaritan try to help people before he was successful? Was his process to become a selfless servant just as awkward as mine?
He had a good teacher, that is certain– one who could make him just what a fellow traveler needed him to be. I will keep laying my imperfect offerings at the feet of this teacher, and depend on his grace to make me equal to lifting my own wounded stranger. I want that, even if I never know I have done it.