WHAT'S HAPPENED TO ME?

WRITE TO ME AT: ivan.arthur@gmail.com 
I NEED YOUR HELP. 

 I am stuck. Fr. Ubaldo has requested me to write a piece on Compassion. Such an easy subject. The Gospels are full of it. The Prophet Mohamed talks about it. So does the Buddha. Anybody should be able to write about it.

But I am stuck. How can I write about it when I am what I am?

 On the way to Yaari Road, I see a man whose limbs are twisted like the branches of a vine. He drags himself on the muddy asphalt, dodging cars and buses to stretch out his crooked hand for a coin. I click my tongue in pity. My eyes get moist. I drop a coin. Then I go home and put on some music. You call that compassion? What has happened to me? Tell me.

Write to me at: ivan.arthur@gmail.com

****

I wasn’t always like that. I promise. When I was five years old, I remember seeing a man lying in the gutter. We lived in Bandra then. As a child, I felt terrible to see him there. I went down to him and asked him. “Are you drunk?” And he said, “I’m starving.” I ran home and asked mother for a glass of milk and some puranpoli. He ate, drank. Then he fished out of his bag beautiful sketches that he had done. He was an artist. Looking for a job. I was glad I helped him.

But today? What has happened to me?

Sorry, Fr. Ubaldo. I cannot preach what I do not practice. Something has happened to me Tell me what to do.

Write to me at: ivan.arthur@gmail.com

****

It wasn’t always like that. I promise.

I remember January 2002. I was walking home from work. Lakshmi Building. Sir P.M. Road. Heavy traffic. My eyes caught the sight of a young man. Lying in the middle of the street. Totally naked waist down. Cars swerved to avoid running over him. I ran to where he was. Tried dragging him to the pavement where he would be safe. He screamed at me in anger. “What are you doing?” he asked. “Get away. Let me lie here.” I told him he could be run over. “You’re a fool,” he said to me. “The police will arrest me.and take me to jail. There I will get shelter and food. Go away, you idiot” So I went away. I didn’t put on any music that day.

You call that compassion? What has happened to me? Tell me.

So then, you can see: I am making excuses: the city has made us like that. All those crafted beggars have eroded our compassion. Right? Write to me and tell me that I am wrong.

What would Jesus do in my place? But don’t you see, Ivan Arthur. That was Jesus you saw on the way to Yaari Road and on P. M. Road. And I ask, “Was it?”

You tell me. Write to me at ivan.arthur@gmail.com

****

O forget those street scenes.

What about my neighbour who is bringing up her son alone?

Or that old, lonely widower with no one to talk to? (Oh,but then he is at the other end of town.)

Or Mrs. D. Cooped up in the house because she cannot walk?

Or ... Please don’t remind me of all that.

Please do not tell me that Compassion is nothing if it does not end in action. If it does not make me get up and do something.

Write to me at ivan.arthur@gmail.com

Maybe then, Fr. Ubaldo will be able to print your sermon to me. Thank you.


Published in Fr. Agnel's magazine, October 2015

What a friend we have!

How good a friend am I of Jesus? I wonder.

If I see him on the street today, would I go up to him, thump him on the back like I do with my good friends and say, “Hi Jeez! Coming home for a cuppa?”

Or would I fall down on my knees and say, like Thomas, “My Lord and my God!”

Or would it be: “Jesus, it’s good that you’re here. You see, I have this house I have set my heart on. Can you be a friend and help... And this daughter of mine who cannot find a husband at age 30 ... And can you do something about that terrible migraine that the doctors can’t seem to fix...”

Or would I quickly cross the street, lest he see me and question me about that shady deal I entered into and that ugly spat I had with my neighbour or the unfair wage I am paying my maid ...

Or would I come face to face with him and just remain tongue-tied, not knowing how to address the one I know as my Savior?

What would I do, I wonder.

What kind of friend am I, if friend I am at all? And then I wonder even more. What kind of friends were the apostles to Jesus. What image does the gospel give me of their ‘friendship’? Do I see Peter going up to him, thumping him on the back and saying, “Hey Jesus. Want to come fishing with me?” Or would Jesus himself say with a thump and a chuckle, “Hey Simon Pete! Come let’s take that stroll upon the water again.”

But no. Jesus is shown as benevolence in action; a man of compassion for all, a master, a guru, a rebel, a reformer, a miracle worker; divinity clothed in flesh. But not a friend as we see it. Jesus is no buddy. Except in Matthew 11:19. “The Son of Man came eating and drinking and they say,’Look at him! A glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners!” Or again “And it came about that he was reclining at the table in his house and many tax-gatherers and sinners were dining with Jesus and his disciples...” Or perhaps, when we see him in the house of Lazarus and of Martha and Mary, we see Jesus with friends. Our saviour and Lord was keeping bad company, wasn’t He? Friend of sinners on the one hand and Lord and Master to his disciples on the other?

And in all this, was He telling me something about His friendships and mine?

Look at me. I have a lot of friends. I thump a lot of backs. Of those in my own social circle. Of those with whom I am comfortable. Of those I know will be of use to me tomorrow. Of those who admire me and sing my praises. And I have on a few heaven-sent occasions thumped the backs of those who were in need of my help; of those who had nobody to turn to; of those who had nothing to offer but affection. Was it then that I got the feeling? That it was His back I was thumping. And did I hear at those moments His whisper “Inasmuch as you thumped the backs of the least of my brethren...’’ or something to that effect.

But then, I have also felt His hand on my back. Not in any hail-fellow-well-met thump of jollity. But in grim seriousness, with the firmness of reprimand; a hard push against the direction I was taking; a slap of chastisement, painful and seemingly merciless. And I may have said, “Why, my friend, why?” Until I felt his hand again, gentle and healing. When I had sinned. When was confused. When I was shattered. When I was sick. When I was grieving.

And then I remember John 15, where he proclaims his friendship and his love. “Greater love has no man than this: to lay down his life for his friends.” He said it. He did it.

What a friend!


Published in The Agnel Ashram Magazine