The Cost of Compassion

There is a woman who interrupts me with increasing regularity at Starbucks. I typically work with my headphones in -- the universal Millenial signal for "I'm not actually here, please don't talk to me unless I or the building I am in happens to be on fire," -- but as an older woman, she is, of course, impervious to such generationally calibrated communications. This woman is kind, passionate about making the world a better place, and has no concept of time or other people's need to finish writing a sermon.As it is Lent and I'm hypersensitive to my sinful disposition to be annoyed with other humans rather than to delight in them as Christ does, I try to listen attentively and to engage with interest. She talks around sociopolitical turmoil in her Mediterranean homeland, and I resolve to follow her meandering thoughts like a child chasing butterflies. She evades my strong evangelical sensibilities as I attempt to turn the conversation toward spiritual things. We retread the same ground over and again until the dance becomes unbearable, my toes are sore, and I firmly bow out. I simply prefer more direct means of conversational travel than circles.I am reminded of a verse from the Soul Room yesterday: "It was good for me to be afflicted so that I might learn your decrees." The fact that sitting with another human feels like an affliction to me is proof that I've got plenty of sanctifying ahead of me. As I prepare this sermon and gaze at Jesus, I see how tragically short I fall of his passion for people. "Break my heart for what breaks yours," I pray. "Forgive my lack of stamina. I'm not someone who needs to learn social boundaries: I am perhaps a bit too good at those. I am someone who needs to learn boundless affection for strangers."I gaze at Jesus all the more intently, so I'll learn to recognize him in her face next time.- Josh