Little Red Riding Hood, from a Berlin edition of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, 1865.
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“What have we here?
said the wolf in the children’s story
stumbling upon people doing kind, small things.
Is this small monster one of us?”
This is a line from a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye. I’ll share the whole poem a bit later, and as you’ve likely already seen, it’s printed in your bulletin.
“What have we here?
said the wolf in the children’s story
stumbling upon people doing kind, small things.
Is this small monster one of us?”
The wolf in the children’s story: perhaps the wolf is that exiled part of our inner selves, that ravenous, heedless, unnerving, dangerous, violent part of our inner selves, sharply critical, occasionally insightful, but rarely merciful. The wolf perceives others as it perceives itself: a “small monster.” The wolf inside me: it wants to kill or destroy; often hungry, it will eat whatever it hunts, it cares not what. Or who. “When I want to do what is good, [the wolf] lies close at hand.”
But the “people doing kind, small things”: they, too, live inside us. More than one inside each of us, most likely. I have a young, preverbal part of my psyche, a boy who loves tenderly yet fiercely. He motivates some of my purest acts of compassion. He fears my inner wolf, of course, so I usually keep them separated. (He fears your wolf even more.) But I have other psychological parts, other selves, who do kind, small things. These psychological parts have reached maturity, so they can hold their own against the wolf.
The other day, one of our unhoused neighbors asked a member of St. Paul’s for something. They asked for something that was innocent enough, but it would have crossed a boundary. They wanted to open the gate of our parking lot after hours. “No,” replied the volunteer, flatly but not unkindly. “No,” he repeated. “That’s the right answer,” my kind and wise inner selves thought. (“Clear is kind,” says Brené Brown.) When the volunteer said “No,” it wasn’t his inner wolf talking. It was his better self. Sometimes the humane, good, and even kind answer is “No.” Boundaries protect everyone, particularly those in the system with the least power. Saying “No” can be one of the “kind, small things” we do as God’s people.
Jesus speaks to all of us, inside and out, the good and the dreadful, our kind selves and our wolves. Jesus speaks to my youngest, most innocent self; he speaks to my higher-order selves who set healthy boundaries and act with skillful compassion; and yes, he speaks to the wolf. Jesus of Nazareth was all too aware of the capacity for his own lupine generation to miss the point, to stumble and fall, to “do the very thing they hate,” to choose violence and even murder rather than “kind, small things.” Further on in the Good News according to Matthew, Jesus rages against his contemporaries — does Jesus have an inner wolf? He was fully human, so, sure — and in his rage Jesus rants, “You faithless and perverse generation, how much longer must I be with you? How much longer must I put up with you?” And today we hear him lament their mulish resistance to the Good News. Today we hear Jesus say,
“To what will I compare this generation? It is like children sitting in the marketplaces and calling to one another, ‘We played the flute for you, and you did not dance; we wailed, and you did not mourn.’” Even now, some eighty generations after Jesus of Nazareth, our Lord Jesus Christ notices the parts of us that stumble and fall, or miss the point; and he notices the dangerous parts of us that are less innocent and less safe than that — Christ notices our worst selves, knows our worst selves, and speaks to our worst selves — he speaks to our inner wolves. Sometimes in frustration! But he sticks with us.
And Christ also speaks to our best selves. Tenderly, with God’s own universe-transforming loving-kindness, Jesus says to us — to all that is good and healthy inside us — Jesus says, “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”
This is the Good News for people who are doing kind, small things. With God’s own fierce tenderness, our volunteers embrace our neighbors, call them by name, and reassure them truthfully that they are praying for them. With God’s own immense compassion, we care for our sick, for our friends near death, for our companions whose hearts are riven by grief. And with God’s own quiet courage, we strive to learn, grow, set down our old ways that exclude or harm people, and take up new practices of inclusion as honest and reflective allies. Yes, as God’s courageous people, we are woke. These acts, and more: these are the burdens we carry as followers of the Crucified and Risen One.
But these burdens are light.
So much has gone wrong in the world, and so often our hearts ache with grief, worry, and resignation. Yet our calling is light: we share a yoke with Jesus Christ, which means we don’t have to carry the whole load. We share the yoke with one another, which means no one needs to be alone and unsupported. And we carry on, doing kind, small things.
This brings me to Naomi Shihab Nye’s poem, titled “You Are Your Own State Department.” Now, I feel obligated to say that her poem is not Christian, and when I interpret and engage her words, I speak only for myself, not the poet. But I believe in this poem she speaks to something ultimate, something universal — something that our faith, in its own way, also touches and proclaims. As you listen, let yourself imagine sharing the yoke with all of us as we work together, with God’s help, to mend this world. We can be what Nye might call “secret diplomats,” here to make things just a little better, each day carrying worries sufficient for that day, every burden made bearable by our companionship with one another, and with Christ.
You Are Your Own State Department
Each day I miss Japanese precision. Trying to arrange things
the way they would. I miss the call to prayer
at Sharjah, the large collective pause. Or
the shy strawberry vendor with rickety wooden cart,
single small lightbulb pointed at a mound of berries.
In one of China’s great cities, before dawn.
Forever I miss my Arab father’s way with mint leaves
floating in a cup of sugared tea—his delicate hands
arranging rinsed figs on a plate. What have we here?
said the wolf in the children’s story
stumbling upon people doing kind, small things.
Is this small monster one of us?
When your country does not feel cozy, what do you do?
Teresa walks more now, to feel closer to her
ground. If destination within two miles, she must
hike or take the bus. Carries apples,
extra bottles of chilled water to give away.
Kim makes one positive move a day for someone else.
I’m reading letters the ancestors wrote after arriving
in the land of freedom, words in perfect English script. . .
describing gifts they gave one another for Christmas.
Even the listing seems oddly civilized,
these 1906 Germans. . . hand-stitched embroideries for dresser
tops. Bow ties. Slippers, parlor croquet, gold ring, “pretty
inkwell.”
How they comforted themselves! A giant roast
made them feel more at home.
Posthumous medals of honor for
coming, continuing—could we do that?
And where would we go?
My father’s hope for Palestine
stitching my bones, “no one wakes up and
dreams of fighting around the house”—
somebody soon the steady eyes of children in Gaza,
yearning for a little extra electricity
to cool their lemons and cantaloupes, will be known.
Yes?
We talked for two hours via Google Chat,
they did not complain once. Discussing stories,
books, families, a character who does
what you might do.
Meanwhile secret diplomats are what we must be,
as a girl in Qatar once assured me,
each day slipping its blank visa into our hands.
***
Preached on the Sixth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 9A), July 9, 2023, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington.
Genesis 24:34-38, 42-49, 58-67
Psalm 45:11-18
Romans 7:15-25a
Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30