Finished

Finals week reached its conclusion for me yesterday. I had one exam after completing two others last Wednesday, and the two study days we had prior allowed me to finish the three synthesis papers I needed to compose. While many of my brother seminarians have further testing today and tomorrow, I get to relax a bit before driving away for the break. Since the semester is complete, I thought I might share a few moments that stand out. I will try to do this over the next few blogs. For today, I'd like to share one experience from my pastoral ministry. This is from a theological reflection I wrote in late September.

I never thought a sniffle could terrify me, but on Wednesday night, as I heard a second grader’s faint whimper, I knew tears were coming. A shred of dread filled my insides. How should I respond? It was the first day of Religious Education at St. Joseph Church in Salem. Twenty-one wonder-filled, hushed students packed the seats. We had not even shared names as this quivering boy verged on a breakdown. What should have been my pastoral response?

Without a name or any background on the boy, I kneeled before his desk, placing my face at his level and spoke as soothingly as I could. “Are you OK?” I half-whispered. “Would you like to come over to the side and sit with me? Maybe we could talk about how you’re feeling. All this new stuff can be overwhelming, can’t it?”

No response. Glassy eyes fixed on me. His young mind was overcome in the new surroundings.

There is no tremendous end to this story. The boy eventually wiped his nose and eyes and meekly stayed in his seat. I didn’t have precisely what he needed at that moment, so the best I could do was to help him feel welcome and recognize his discomfort at the newness of the situation. I don’t know whether he will come back. I hope he does. (He did return and is now well integrated into the class.)

In this moment I saw a new way of welcoming the stranger. Matthew 25:40 says, “…whatever you did for one of these least brothers of mine, you did for me” (NAB). Who is a lesser brother than a frightened child? Who needs welcoming more than a second-grader in a moment of vulnerability? Dorians offered for a fleeting second the opportunity to practice a corporal work of mercy: To welcome a stranger. Did I cause him to experience transformation with my words? Certainly not. But I tried to let him know that I and the other catechists in the room care about him and want him to be comfortable in our classroom. I found myself wanting to feel good after performing this seeming corporal work of mercy, to experience gratification and closure. I didn’t get that, but it was unfair of me to expect personal fulfillment.

Welcoming the stranger does not always result in conversion or fond memories. It is not for the benefit of the person doing the welcoming or the person doing the feeding or quenching the thirst. Rather, the corporal works of mercy are meant to provide essential food, drink, clothing, and shared humanity. Corporal works of mercy provide dignity to another. And when dignity is recognized, an overflow occurs that conforms us—that conforms me—to serve and love my neighbor without expectation of reward.

In moments like I experienced with this young boy, there is an immediate choice, and choices prudently made, said Blessed Pope John Paul II repeatedly in his teachings, are what transform ordinary people into holy saints. Did I choose rightly? There are small adjustments I could have made to help him more. Perhaps I could have asked him to help by passing out the nametags we were about to create. Or I could have said something more cheery to welcome him. What I did was instinctual. I tried to match his mood, speak at his level, and offer gentle welcome to a young boy who felt like an outsider. 

My approach may have been imperfect, but choices also mean an opportunity to learn. Next time I hear a sniffle, I won’t be terrified. I will be steadier in response, truer to welcome, and more relaxed in my approach. Experience is a fine teacher.