The Small Act

A passage from St. Paul's letter to the Philippians runs:

Though he was in the form of God,
Jesus did not deem equality with God
something to be grasped at.
Rather, he emptied himself
and took the form of a slave,
being born in the likeness of men . . . (Phil. 2: 5-7).

That's what I'm called to—what we're all called to: a willingness to be emptied, to be servants. It translates into a general policy of not withholding, of being available, of offering up our whole selves: not just in certain areas, not just to the people we can get something out of. It doesn't mean inviting every person I meet in the street to move in, but it does mean recognizing that I'm in a relationship with every person I meet in the street; in fact, I'm in a relationship with every person, period. I don't get to say to myself, "Oh she is a lowly telephone receptionist who is used to people being rude," or "That is my landlord who we both know is ripping me off: why have a charitable thought about him?" or, "It's my mother, she has to love me no matter how crabby I am." When my heart is broken, I get to sit for a while with someone whose heart is broken, too. On the days when I feel I could die and no one would notice, I get to praise the flowers, the sun, a leaf.

So the small act matters, and we don't know where, if at all, the seed falls. After a while, we don't care where it falls. We begin to sense that nothing is wasted, no act goes unseen. "Pray to your father who is in secret; and your father who sees you in secret will reward you," Jesus said (Mt. 6:6), and "Even the hairs of your head are all counted" (Mt. 10:29). The small act doesn't bring success, it brings peace. It may not bring riches, but it brings at least an occasional moment of acceptance. It might not change anybody or anything else, but it changes us.