“We
renounce violence of the heart, tongue and fist, neither willing nor working
harm to any”
- I will reject violence of the fist: I will not retaliate toward anger or assault, provocation or violence, in word or action; I will not seek or inflict any injury, harm or death toward any person.
 |
| (by Jesslee Cuizon via Flickr) |
Notice the ways in which the older man responded in a very Jesus-like manner. In contrast, note the ways in which Terry responded like Jesus’ disciples—passionate, loyal to Jesus, trying to do things right, but not quite getting it.
Today’s vow often leaves us like
Jesus’ zealous disciples or Terry Dobson in the story wanting to bring justice in a holy way
but missing the mark. This is a relatively obvious but aggravatingly difficult
peacemaking vow. “I will reject violence
of the fist: I will not retaliate toward anger or assault, provocation or
violence, in word or action; I will not seek or inflict any injury, harm or
death toward any person.”
For
Reflection and Action:
- Name the differences in the responses of the disciples and Jesus in Luke 22:47-53—a situation of self preservation.
- As you practice today’s relatively obvious but aggravatingly difficult peacemaking vow,
- In what ways are you like Terry Dobson, or Jesus’ sword wielding disciples?
- What have you to learn today from the older Japanese man and Jesus in these accounts?
Lord, you have shown us something
huge in Jesus,
shown us that your way of
making things right,
your reconciling is done
with careful, self-giving love.
Give us the strength to
seek justice by healing others rather than attacking.
Forgive us for our physical
and verbal violences
—even when we mean well.
Give us the courage to
respond to threat with your wisdom.
Amen.
Today's Readings
Luke 22:47-54
While Jesus was still speaking, suddenly a
crowd came, and the one called Judas, one of the twelve, was leading
them. He approached Jesus to kiss him;
48but Jesus said to him, ‘Judas, is it with a kiss that you are betraying the Son of Man?’
49When those who were around him saw what was coming, they asked, ‘Lord, should we strike with the sword?’
50Then one of them struck the slave of the high priest and cut off his right ear.
51But Jesus said, ‘No more of this!’ And he touched his ear and healed him.
52Then Jesus said to the chief priests, the
officers of the temple police, and the elders who had come for him,
‘Have you come out with swords and clubs as if I were a bandit?
53When I was with you day after day in the temple, you did not lay hands on me. But this is your hour, and the power of darkness!’
Then they seized him and led him away, bringing him into the high priest’s house.
"A Soft Answer" - by Terry Dobson
A turning point came
in my life one day on a train in the suburbs of Tokyo, in the middle of a
drowsy spring afternoon. The old car clanked and rattled over the
rails. It was comparatively empty—a few housewives with their kids in
tow, some old folks out shopping, a couple of off-duty bartenders
studying the racing form. I gazed absently at the drab houses and dusty
hedgerows.
At one station the
doors opened, and suddenly the quiet afternoon was shattered by a man
bellowing at the top of his lungs, yelling violent, obscene,
incomprehensible curses. Just as the doors closed, the man still
yelling, staggered into our car. He was big, drunk and dirty. He wore
laborer’s clothing. His front was stiff with dried vomit. His eyes
bugged out, a demonic, neon red. His hair was crusted with filth.
Screaming, he swung at the first person he saw, a woman holding a baby.
The blow glanced off her shoulder, sending her spinning into the laps of
an elderly couple. It was a miracle that the baby was unharmed.
The couple jumped up
and scrambled toward the other end of the car. They were terrified. The
laborer aimed a kick at the retreating back of the old lady. “YOU OLD *** !” he bellowed, ‘I’LL KICK YOUR ***!” He missed, the old woman
scuttled to safety. This so enraged the drunk that he grabbed the metal
pole in the center of the car, and tried to wrench it out of its
stanchion. I could see that one of his hands was cut and bleeding. The
train lurched ahead, the passengers frozen with fear. I stood up.
I was young and in
pretty good shape. I stood six feet, and weighed 225. I’d been putting
in a solid eight hours of Aikido training every day for the past three
years. I liked to throw and grapple. I thought I was tough. Trouble was
my martial skill was untested in actual combat. As students of Aikido,
we were not allowed to fight.
My teacher, the
founder of Aikido, taught us each morning that the art was devoted to
peace. “Aikido,” he said again and again, “is the art of reconciliation.
Whoever has the mind to fight has broken his connection with the
universe. If you try to dominate other people, you are already defeated.
We study how to resolve conflict, not how to start it.”
I listened to his
words. I tried hard. I wanted to quit fighting. I even went so far as to
cross the street a few times to avoid the chimpira, the pinball punks
who lounged around the train stations. They’d have been happy to test my
martial ability. My forbearance exalted me. I felt both tough and holy.
In my heart of hearts, however, I was dying to be a hero. I wanted a
chance, an absolutely legitimate opportunity whereby I might save the
innocent by destroying the guilty.
“This is it!” I said
to myself as I got to my feet. : This slob, this animal, is drunk and
mean and violent. People are in danger. If I don’t do something fast,
somebody will probably get hurt. I’m gonna take his ass to the
cleaners.”
Seeing me stand up,
the drunk saw a chance to focus his rage. “AHA!” he roared, “A
FOREIGNER! YOU NEED A LESSON IN JAPANESE MANNERS!” He punched the metal
pole once to give weight to his words.
I held on lightly to
the commuter-strap overhead. I gave him a slow look of disgust and
dismissal. I gave him every bit of piss-ant nastiness I could summon up.
I planned to take this turkey apart, but he had to be the one to move
first. And I wanted him mad, because the madder he got the more certain
my victory. I pursed my lips and blew him a sneering, insolent kiss. It
hit him like a slap in the face. “ALL RIGHT! he hollered, “YOUR GONNA
GET A LESSON.” He gathered himself for a rush at me. He’d never know
what hit him.
A split-second before
he moved, someone shouted “HEY!” It was ear splitting. I remember being
hit by the strangely joyous, lilting quality of it--- as though you and
a friend had been searching diligently for something, and he had
suddenly stumbled upon it. “HEY!”
I wheeled to my left,
the drunk spun to his right. We both stared down at a little old
Japanese. He must have been well into his seventies, this tiny
gentleman, sitting there immaculate in his kimono and hakama. He took no
notice of me, but beamed delightedly at the laborer, as though he had a
most important, most welcome secret to share. “C’mere,” the old man
said in an easy vernacular, beckoning to the drunk, “C’mere and talk
with me.” He waved his hand lightly. The big man followed, as if on a
string.
He planted his feet belligerently in front of the old gentleman,
and towered threateningly over him. “TALK TO YOU,” he roared above the
clacking wheels, “WHY THE *** SHOULD I TALK TO YOU ?” The drunk now had
his back to me. If his elbows moved so much as a millimeter, I’d drop
him in his socks.
The old man continued
to beam at the laborer. There was not a trace of fear or resentment
about him. “What’cha been drinking?” he asked lightly, his eyes
sparkling with interest. “I BEEN DRINKING SAKE,” the laborer bellowed
back, “AND IT’S NONE OF YOUR *** BUSINESS!” Flecks of spittle
spattered the old man.
“Oh, that’s
wonderful,” the old man said with delight, “absolutely wonderful! You
see, I love sake too. Every night, me and my wife (she’s 76, you know),
we warm up a little bottle of sake and take it out into the garden, and
we sit on the old wooden bench that my grandfather’s first student made
for him. We watch the sun go down, and we look to see how our persimmon
tree is doing. My grandfather planted that tree, you know, and we worry
about whether it will recover from those ice-storms we had last winter.
Persimmons do not do well after ice-storms, although I must say that
ours has done rather better than I expected, especially when you
consider the poor quality of the soil. Still, it most gratifying to
watch when we take our sake and go out to enjoy the evening—even when it
rains!”
He looked up at the laborer, eyes twinkling, happy to share his
delightful information.
As he struggled to
follow the intricacies of the old man’s conversation, the drunk’s face
began to soften. His fists slowly unclenched. “Yeah,” he said slowly, “I
love persimmons, too… His voice trailed off. “Yes”, said the old man,
smiling, “and I’m sure you have a wonderful wife.”
“No,” replied the
laborer, “My wife died.” He hung his head. Very gently, swaying with the
motion of the train, the big man began to sob. “I don’t got no wife, I
don’t got no home, I don’t got no job, I don’t got no money, I don’t got
nowhere to go. I’m so ashamed of myself.” Tears rolled down his cheeks,
a spasm of pure despair rippled through his body. Above the baggage
rack a four-color ad trumpeted the virtues of suburban luxury living.
Now it was my turn.
Standing there in my well-scrubbed youthful innocence, my make- this-
world-safe-for- democracy righteousness, I suddenly felt dirtier than he
was.
Just then, the train
arrived at my stop. The platform was packed, and the crowd surged into
the car as soon the doors opened. Maneuvering my way out, I heard the
old man cluck sympathetically. “My, My,” he said with undiminished
delight, “that is a very difficult predicament, indeed. Sit down here
and tell me about it.”
I turned my head for
one last look. The laborer was sprawled like a sack on the seat, his
head in the old man’s lap. The old man looked down at him with
compassion and delight, one hand stroking the filthy, matted head.
As the train pulled
away, I sat down on a bench. What I had wanted to do with muscle and
meanness had been accomplished with a few kind words. I had seen Aikido
tried in combat, and the essence of it was love, as the founder had
said. I would have to practice the art with an entirely different
spirit. It would be a long time before I could speak about the
resolution of conflict.
__
Terry Dobson, holder
of a fourth degree black belt in Aikido, has worked with conflict
resolution for 20 years, and now conducts seminars called “When Push
Comes to Shove” for business executives.
![Fra Angelica [Public Domain] via Wikimedia Commons](http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File%3AFra_Angelico_020.jpg){kind=link}