There was a BBC show called The Real Hustle that I find incredibly compelling. It’s a documentary/demonstration program that follows a trio of highly skilled con artists, plying their trade as they inflict scams on an unsuspecting public. The thievery ranges from the fairly mundane (various types of pickpocketing) to the more elaborate. For example, one segment revolves around the handsome con artist asking a woman to help him pick out some jewelry for his wife. The two then walk into a jewelry store and try on various jewelry (the shop clerk assumes the two are together). The con artist then comes up with a pretense to step outside — an “important” phone call — and leaves the clerk and woman in the store. Meanwhile, the swindler had already swapped the necklace with a fake, and then flees, leaving the woman to take the blame (since, again, the clerk thought those two were a couple). In all cases, the victims are given their money and possessions back; the whole program is done with an eye toward educating the public about what scams are out there and how people can take advantage of us.
I think about how the con artists of the show keep ever vigilant for opportunities, looking for new and innovative ways to part people from their belongings. That vigilance was on my mind as I reflected on today’s readings.
In the Gospel selection from Mark, Jesus and the Pharisees actually have something in common: They’re both looking for opportunities. Jesus, of course, was ever watchful for the chance to do the Father’s will, spreading the Good News and helping those most in need. The Pharisees were also watchful: “They watched Jesus closely to see if he would cure [a man with a withered hand] on the sabbath”; they did so not because they wanted to thank Jesus or see what insight he might offer, but so that they might accuse him of breaking their laws.
Imagine if the Pharisees had used that same observatory skill to look for ways they could serve God. What if they turned their efforts from looking to see how they might accuse Jesus instead toward understanding what he was trying to teach them?
We only have so many hours here on this mortal realm before we face our final fates. The words we use gossip or accuse can be replaced with words of comfort. The eyes we use to find fault can be used to find ways to help. The minutes we use to eke out one more creature comfort, to look for one more selfish opportunity, to cluck our tongues disapprovingly can all be used to give comfort to those in despair, to give opportunities to those in need, to find a way to help.
In your daily life, whose eyes do you use? The compassionate gaze of our Lord and Savior, or the judgmental, accusatory stare of the Pharisees?
Here’s a challenge to you, if you haven’t tried such before: When possible, try to see things in the best possible light. If a baby is crying at Mass and you find it distracting, reflect on our Faith’s pro-life teachings and the miracle that is that child; smile warmly and perhaps offer to help, if appropriate. If a spouse offers an uncharacteristically unkind or thoughtless word, consider that they may have had a bad day or might have something on their mind; resist the urge to retaliate in kind and instead retaliate with kindness. If someone has done something cruel or untrustworthy to you, reflect how empty their own lives must be for them to act in that way, and pray for them (perhaps even keeping your heart open to forgiveness in the future).
This doesn’t mean you need to be a doormat, or be everything to everyone. There’s no need to take total leave of our senses or make ourselves vulnerable to others. We all have needs and troubles, and in Christ’s time on Earth, he didn’t try to make sure every soul he encountered was 100% happy, healthy, and sated.
But if there are two possible ways to interpret a situation, try interpreting it with kindness. When you feel called to “do something,” see what you can do that will help rather than hurt, that will elevate others rather than tearing them down. When in doubt, try to use the eyes of Christ.