Mother and child. Separated. One in a
mental asylum, another in hospital, both being cared for, minimally. The father
does not know they are warded, let alone separated. A family of migrant workers
and their babe in crisis, in dire circumstances, shunned by society, surviving
purely on hope, on faith, on God's mercy through the hands of the very few
listening women and men.
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http://photograjph.deviantart.com/art/Love-wanted-131193452 |
I heard about something like this the other
day, in this present time and day, as I visited a mental asylum. It's not
uncommon for some countries, where status, measured whether in wealth, in
social standing, or just plainly in otherness, discriminates vehemently against
the perceived poor, the supposedly underclass cretins. There's no justice,
beyond that handed out by the hands of those who hoisted themselves on their
own moral high chairs.
Yet, when we look back at one of the
earliest families on the move I know of, that of a carpenter, and his young and
supposedly pregnant out-of-wedlock bride, there wasn't much justice in store
for them, before their baby was born. In fact, they were forced to move even in
the time that the mother was heavily pregnant. Their fates, and seemingly that
of the baby, was in the hands of persons deaf to the voice of the poor, of the
other, of the absolute demands of a defenceless, powerless, fragile other, one
who was deemed not able to repay in cherished kind, except only as trouble for
having taken the time and effort to care.
One baby's birth changed all that. An
unassuming birth changed all manner of things. Peace reigned. Silence fell.
Enlightenment led the way, with or without understanding. Faith moved, with or
without thinking. Any person could approach easily or overcome incredible
obstacles, could understand without understanding, could give without giving -
if that was all they could give. Father and mother and child, complete, at home
wherever they were, for home meant being with their loved ones.
Or is it? Only being together tends to be
not enough, as a home is more than just a shelter. A home is a home - and it
has the added meanings of being able to live in peace, to make a decent living,
to grow, and to teach and raise up the children in the beliefs, culture, and
ways that the parents believe are the best for them. This is tall order. Yet,
is it supposed to be an impossible task? Are some people "not
allowed" to chase after these dreams? Or are dreams and inspirations, and
prophecies and visions, the things that gets one into a mental asylum, and no
further?
As a matter of fact, are any of us at home
at all? Are we sure of where we want to be? If we are not, do we have an idea
of which direction we want to go? Or is there anything that is pushing us,
directing us, guiding us, in the direction which we think is best for us?
Rich or poor, young or old, one might or
might not have such a direction, such a home, such a belief that grounds every
moment of their lives. The carpenter's family certainly seemed to live with
that belief. Beyond some of their beliefs, they were even called to witness and
to participate in something larger than one would have guessed from their
humble and perilous beginnings.
As we read about what could have happened,
it all seemed to end unjustly, too, for them. Only for those who believe, their
journey would continue on beyond what worldly limitations normally associated
with "these" people, these errant migrants. Yet all in all, signs of
inherent injustice run rampant in this picture, even when including the vision
of the faithful.
What can we do, then? I would suggest
nothing, except to look, to wonder, to gaze upon this supposedly unjust story,
this beacon that only those who want to will see, caught in the mists of time.
I would suggest looking at all these things, and then some more, at the hope
and the belief that these images point to.
There is no avoiding the poor, the migrant,
the cast out, the other. Yet, they are not the only ones we should be looking
at, when we look at these individuals, these persons who have been supposedly
pushed out of life's spinning circles. There's another dimension with which we
should look at them, the dimension of love, for them, for us, for the
togetherness of us all.
That's the flip side, the other of
injustice, which is love. And love does not move alone - love does not exist in
one alone. Love is love between one and the other, that goes on to include many
others, those we know well, those we do not know, and those we wish we did not
know. Love, unlike injustice, or justice as we know it today, does not
discriminate. All of us are called to love, to relate to one another, to get to
know the other, and in that process, in being friends, lovers, and companions
together in love, negate injustice, in small things, in big things, in
impossible-for-I-alone things.
And isn't being in love more joyful than
being unjust? Therefore, stop, wonder, acclaim (to tell yourself and your
immediate neighbours it's real), and be in love. Let peace reign once more, and
have a joyful, wondering, and together-with-the-other season.
