Mirrors

Doug never met a mirror he didn’t like. For some reason, he and I seem to be on the same exercise schedule, and I’ve been unable to ignore his propensity to gaze upon his image in every mirror (of which there are many) in the gym. By the look of his physique, he has worked hard to get in shape, but celebrating the accomplishment has given way to celebrating himself. He struts for others to notice, grunts for others to hear, and, I must confess, I have never seen anything like it. Then I realize, I have.

There’s the successful businessman who lived in (and off) the shadow of his father’s accomplishments. In a small community, he was able to have a real impact, but soon impact gave way to prestige, accomplishments to appearance. The size of his contributions became based on surpassing others on the printed donor list, and Board appointments based on being listed beside other important people on the letterhead. Like Doug, everything became about the mirror.

There’s the community advocate who loved to help others. His passion and talent led to running for this office, then the next. With each new post came hunger for more, and before long he was running for mayor. Every move, like Doug’s, became calculated for maximum notice. In the process, his desire to serve became a need to lead. The mirror became his only focus.

Then there's the man who felt called by God to serve in ministry. It was a focus or purpose that filled him with deep excitement and gratitude, but eventually service gave way to achievement, obedience to accomplishment. The ministry became “his,” not God’s, and, instead of glorifying God, his work was all about glorified himself. In other words, his ministry became a mirror, not a window.

I now look at Doug in a different way. When I see him flexing before the mirror, smiling with great satisfaction, I realize how many mirrors surround me, and how easy it is to stop and stare at the image. His fixation is a call to avoid mirrors, to resist flexing, and simply go about the work I’ve been given to do with a grateful heart.

The folks off to the side.

Friday nights at the club were a weekly tradition. Although called “informal night,” the attires were as well thought out as the people. A good time was had by all, I they often said, but at the end of the evening the staff were allowed to relax in a room off to the side. One of the members realized this and went and joined them. Conversations about sailing and tennis gave way to the Yankees and funny mishaps some of them made during work that night. Unlike the other, this was a room with air to breath. It was truly informal, and the member finally felt like he belonged.

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The Science Center had become a centerpiece of the city’s cultural resurgence. Because of dedicated staff and committed volunteers, and fundraisers like the one he was attending, the center was enjoying great success. While mingling with the animals, the patrons feasted on BBQ and beer while dancing throughout the night to lively music. Out of the corner of his eye, one of the guests noticed the staff dancing off to the side, almost out of sight. Knowing many of them well, he strolled over and joined in. It was the same music, but a different dance.

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It was one of New York’s premier parishes, and they were delighted to host the Archbishop of Canterbury. After the eight o’clock service, while standing at the doorway greeting the congregants, the Archbishop noticed men and women entering a door off to the side, down the alley, into the parish. Unlike with the people he was greeting, their hunger was visible. Learning that they were part of the parish’s homeless ministry, the Archbishop asked to go visit them before the next service. Reluctantly, the rector ushered him to the basement where the important guest joined the line for breakfast. To him, they were the important guests. After the meal, he celebrated communion with toast and juice, and, without judgment, he turned to the Rector as they made their way back upstairs for the next service and asked, “At which communion do you think our Lord was more at home?”

Additional Comment

Yesterday's Brushstroke was something I left on my daughter's desk before leaving her at her new school. It was a sort of everything-I-wish-I-had-known-when-I-went-to-school thing.