The Hidden Life

by George MacDonald 

By degrees,

They knew not how, men trusted in him. When

He spoke, his word had all the force of deeds

That lay unsaid within him. To be good

Is more than holy words or definite acts;

Embodying itself unconsciously

In simple forms of human helpfulness,

And understanding of the need that prays.

And when he read the weary tales of crime,

And wretchedness and white-faced children, sad

With hunger, and neglect, and cruel words,

He would walk sadly for an afternoon,

With head down-bent, and pondering footstep slow;

And to himself conclude: “The best I can

For the great world, is, just the best I can

For this my world. The influence will go

In widening circles to the darksome lanes

In London’s self.” When a philanthropist

Said pompously: “With your great gifts you ought

To work for the great world, not spend yourself

On common labours like a common man;”

He answered him: “The world is in God’s hands.

This part he gives to me; for which my past,

Built up on loves inherited, hath made

Me fittest. Neither will He let me think

Primaeval, godlike work too low to need,      

For its perfection, manhood’s noblest powers

And deepest knowledge, far beyond my gifts.

And for the crowds of men, in whom a soul

Cries through the windows of their hollow eyes         

For bare humanity, and leave to grow,-

Would I could help them! But all crowds are made    

Of individuals; and their grief, and pain,        

And thirst, and hunger, all are of the one,      

Not of the many. And the power that helps

Enters the individual, and extends

Thence in a thousand gentle influences         

To other hearts. It is not made one’s own

By laying hold of an allotted share

Of general good divided faithfully.

Now here I labour whole upon the place

Where they have known me from my childhood up.

I know the individual man; and he

Knows me. If there is power in me to help,

It goeth forth beyond the present will,

Clothing itself in very common deeds

Of any humble day’s necessity: 

I would not always consciously do good;       

Not always feel a helper of the men,   

Who make me full return for my poor deeds

(Which I must do for my own highest sake, 

If I forgot my brethren for themselves) 

By human trust, and confidence of eyes 

That look me in the face, and hands that do 

My work at will -’tis more than I deserve. 

But in the city, with a few lame words, 

And a few scanty handfuls of weak coin, 

Misunderstood, or, at the best, unknown, 

I should toil on, and seldom reach the man. 

And if I leave the thing that lieth next, 

To go and do the thing that is afar, 

I take the very strength out of my deed, 

Seeking the needy not for pure need’s sake.”

Thus he. The world-wise schemer for the good 

Held his poor peace, and left him to his way.

This poem, excerpted from a much longer work by George MacDonald, has to do with an intellectually gifted young Scot who turned his back on a prestigious academic career to return to his aging father and to the family farm, there to engage in “simple forms of human helpfulness.” What a waste,” a world–wise schemer lamented and “left him to his way.” 

So you too may serve in some unnoticed, hidden place, doing nothing more than “very common deeds / Of any humble day’s necessity.” Others may ask, “Why this waste?” 

God wastes nothing. Every act of love, no matter how minute, rendered to him, is noted and has eternal consequences. Every place, no matter how small and humble is holy ground.^[1]

But, you ask, what of the world? I too “read the weary tales of crime, / And wretchedness and white-faced children, sad / With hunger, and neglect, and cruel words.” What can I do to bring salvation to the world? 

The best I can for the great world, is the best I can do for this my world. My influence on my small part of the world will go where God determines it will go. “And the power that helps / Enters the individual, and extends / Thence in a thousand gentle influences / To other hearts.” ^[2]

Influence is more than high and “holy words and definite acts.” It’s a simple matter—often an unconscious matter—of human helpfulness: being there, listening, understanding the need, loving and praying. This is what turns daily duty into worship and service. There is no greater spiritual work and no greater influence than that of a gentle, caring, unselfish servant of God.

Evelyn Underhill has written, “Among the things which we should regard as spiritual in this sense are our household or professional work, the social duties of our station, friendly visits, kind actions and small courtesies, and also necessary recreation of body and of mind, so long as we link all these by intention with God and the great movement of his Will…” 

We must see that “our small action is part of the total action of God.”^[3]  In other words, every small action, done for Jesus’ sake, is part of God’s larger work to save the world. “All may of Thee partake: / Nothing can be so mean (small) / Which with his tincture, ‘for Thy sake,’ / Will not grow bright and clean. / A servant with this clause / Makes drudgery divine; / Who sweeps a room as for Thy laws / Makes that and th' action fine.”^[4]

Having “swept,” however, we should then forget the consequences of our actions. Consequences are God’s business. Our task is the duty of the moment, whether we experience success or heartbreaking failure. “Every man proclaims his own goodness, but a faithful man who can find?” the wise man mused, lamenting the strange dearth of that simple, noble virtue.

I think of the Father’s words to Jesus at his baptism: “This is my beloved son in whom I am well pleased.” What had Jesus done for the past thirty years? He had not worked one miracle, preached a single sermon or done any of the mighty works we normally associate with greatness. Yet, he gained his Father’s unqualified acceptance. 

Recently, a friend sent these words, “During the past few months, I’ve struggled to make sense of what feels like a shrinking vision for my life. I once aspired to greatness—not great in the sense of being President or world famous but great in the sense of dreaming and attempting great things for God… More and more, I’m content to stay close to home. Content to preach to the faithful flock entrusted to my care and who love me more deeply than I deserve. Content to leave the reformation of denominational culture to others gifted in that area. Content with a shrinking sphere of influence. The uncharacteristic contentment baffles me. I’ve wondered if… Jesus still considers me faithful.” He does, my friend. “Well done thou good and faithful servant.”

So, for those of us who wonder where we are to begin, we must begin where we are: by loving those nearest to us and giving human help where it’s most needed, whether our lives are filled with mundane duties, or matters of international concern. “Who is my neighbor,” the rich man asked Jesus, to which our Lord responded with the parable of the Good Samaritan, and its unexpected answer: The very next person I meet.

David Roper

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^[1] Luke 16:10
^[2] This was certainly true of poet Amy Carmichael, that cloistered, arthritic, bed-ridden saint who rarely ventured outside her room, yet whose gentle influence has gone in “widening circles” to the ends of the earth.
^[3] From The Spiritual Life^[4] George Herbert, “The Elixer”

Paying Attention

Happy is the one that considers the poor…” (Psalm 41:1).

Hark! Hark! The dogs do bark,
The beggars are coming to town.
Some in rags and some in tags,
And some in silken gown.

Some folks are poor in possessions and appearance; others in faith, hope and love. Even if we can’t alleviate the poverty of those we meet along the way we can “consider” them—a verb that means, “to pay attention.” 

G.K. Chesterton defines a saint as one that exaggerates what the world neglects, and what is neglected today is the art of paying attention. Few people seem to be aware of the pain around them; they go their way inattentive and unmoved. “The love of many has grown cold.”

In such a world it’s not hard to find some want to supply, some misery to alleviate. A divorcee or widow, grief–stricken in her loneliness. A weary parent kept awake at night by the struggles of a hurting child. A frightened man awaiting cancer surgery in the morning. A care–worn checker in a grocery store working a second or third job to make ends meet. A young boy who’s never had enough father. A single mother whose flood of worries has washed her hope away. A lonely old man who has outlived his usefulness, or so he believes. A hurting heart behind your own front door.

Perhaps we don’t have much to give, but we can pay attention. We can see beyond what others see to the possibilities of mercy, compassion and understanding. John Newton wrote on one occasion, “If, as I go home, a child has dropped a halfpenny, and if, by giving another, I can wipe away its tears, I feel I have done something. I should be glad to do greater things, but I will not neglect this.”

Author and lecturer Leo Buscaglia once talked about a contest he was asked to judge. The purpose of the contest was to find a caring child. The winner was a four–year–old whose next–door neighbor was an elderly gentleman that had recently lost his wife. Upon seeing the man cry, the little boy went into the old gentleman’s yard, climbed onto his lap, and just sat there. When his mother asked him what he had said to the neighbor, the little boy said, “Nothing, I just helped him cry.” 

Indeed. We can help people cry. We can shows them in other ways that we care.  We can ask them to tell their stories and listen patiently while they do. We can treat them with courtesy and respect, though they may be testy or tiresome. We can encourage those with aching hearts with a word of God’s mercy and love. We can follow up with an e-mail, a card or a call. And We can pray with them, the most helpful and healing act of all, for in prayer we bring others to the throne of mercy where they find “grace to help in time of need” (Hebrews 4:16). 

And here’s where the beatitude comes into play, for in the oldest and oddest paradox of all, paying attention pays off, for we’re happiest when we give our lives away. Think of those who think only of themselves, who grasp and grab and play it safe. The life they save is the life they lose. In the end it’s worth nothing to anyone including themselves, a featureless, lifeless parody of those who have lived and cared for others. “Only a life given away for love’s sake is worth living,” says Fredrick Buechner.

The realm of happiness is easily entered: “Consider the poor.”

David Roper

Glorify Me!

I’ll no hae the warl’ lichtly me!’ he said. ‘Mebbe the warl’ winna tribble itsel aboot ye sae muckle as e’en to lichtly ye!’ returned his companion quietly.

(I'll not have the world make light of me!" he said. “Maybe the world won’t trouble itself about you so much as even to make light of you.” returned his companion, quietly.) —George MacDonald in Heather and Snow

"Father, glorify me in your own presence with the glory that I had with you before the world existed" [John 17:5). 

"Glorify me" Only Jesus could legitimately pray this prayer for He is eternally the Lord of Glory.

I wonder, do I ask for the glory that belongs to Jesus alone? Oh, not out loud. I would never make this request aloud where others might hear me, but when I insist that others listen to me, recognize me, consult me, remember my contributions, give me "the honor I'm due," am I not muttering this prayer?

David Roper

5.29.17

A Money-Making Man

“But you, O man of God, flee from all this” (1 Timothy 6:11).

A few years ago a friend and I wandered into a little café in the Owyhee mountains here in Idaho. We had been fishing all day; it was late and we were tired and hungry.

   

The first thing I noticed was that the room was filled with loud, rowdy, intoxicated Owyhee county buckaroos. The second thing I noticed was that the room suddenly became ominously quiet and that every eye in the place was fastened on us.

   

“Shucks,” my friend, Pete said, looking around and then looking at me. “I’m not that hungry; are you?” “Not really,” I agreed. And we vamoosed. Sometimes, it’s best to take one’s hat and run.  

Paul would agree: “You, man of God, flee from all this… (1Timothy 6:11).

Paul had been writing about those who “want to get rich” (1 Timothy 6:9); who are eager to make money (6:10). Then he turns to his young friend Timothy: “You however…flee from all this”—from the notion that making money and buying stuff is all that matters. Rather, he continues “pursue righteousness, godliness, faith, love, patience, gentleness.”

Simply stated, Paul’s argument is this: Who of us can stand before Jesus and say: “I want to be rich.” Far better to say, “I want to be like you.”

David Roper

5.22.17