Slow Down - What's the Rush?
Do you ever rush your work? Maybe you've got a looming deadline; maybe you're working on something that's tedious and you just want to get it out of the way; maybe it's just the tendency we have - especially we Americans - to just run around and "do something" all the time at work.
I find myself rushing through my morning reading before work sometimes. Before I leave for work is when I read some scripture, some spiritual reading, something that helps me learn or understand the teachings of the Church a little better. It only takes around 30 - 45 minutes and I do get up early to give myself time. In spite of that, I find myself rushing sometimes.
Of course, there are times when I'm running late, or just have such a day ahead of me that I'm naturally pressed for time and wind up rushing things.
But whatever the reason, whether it's at work or during my morning reading, most of the time I pay a price for rushing.
At work, the price might be a job not done well. It could be my analysis isn't complete, or I've written a memo with misspellings, or other errors. It can be embarrassing - or worse. What did I gain by rushing? Did I accomplish what I set out to do? Maybe I even have to go back and do the job again.
In the morning, the price usually is that I "get through" my reading without really understanding or absorbing anything I've read. It's like I didn't read it at all.
In both cases, it really can totally waste your time when you rush. The irony is, of course, that you started out to save yourself some time.
So the other morning, remembering all this, I purposely slowed down while I was reading Luke's Gospel, chapter 7, verses 36 - 50. It's the story of the woman who comes to Jesus, who is visiting with a Pharisee named Simon. She approaches Jesus from behind and washes his feet with her tears, wipes them dry with her hair, kisses them and anoints them with oil. She was apparently not only a sinner, but one with a public reputation for being a sinner.
I read the words of this passage slowly, paying close attention to what this woman did. If you read the passage slowly, I think you'll feel the depth of her sorrow, as I did this morning. Maybe you'll even wonder if, in your whole life, you ever felt sorrow such as this. I know I wondered.
Now you could just think that there's no way you could have sinned like this woman. We're not told what she did. But whatever it was, it was bad enough, and notorious enough, that Simon the Pharisee knew that she was a sinner and was disturbed at the thought that Jesus even let the woman touch him. She was unclean.
Even if you don't think you could ever have sinned like this woman, can you imagine in our "enlightened" age ever being considered "unclean" as this woman was? Heck, most people don't think they commit any sins anymore. And even the ones who commit public sins hardly ever face any sort of public rebuke.
So the sense of sorrow this woman felt seems awfully out of place in a way, doesn't it? Yet, if you take the time to read this passage and really let the words sink in, I think you'll find you understand sorrow for sin in a way you maybe never understood before.
It would all be because you took the time; you didn't rush.
And who knows what could happen then? Maybe this new understanding of sorrow for sin will really take root in your heart. Maybe the next time you go to confession, you'll have a moment of real sorrow for your sins, not just a sense of obligation to confess them.
Maybe when the priest says the words of absolution, you may even remember what Our Lord Himself, all those centuries ago, said to the sinful woman: "Your faith has saved you; go in peace."
And maybe it will hit you, like it did me, that Our Lord Himself gave this same power of forgiveness to His apostles, and they to those they ordained who would carry on after them, and so on down the centuries, all the way down to the priest in the confessional who exercises that same power and compassion to forgive sins - your sins - and tells you to go in peace. An incredibly wonderful thought, isn't it?
So don't rush so much. Take the time to do your work and all that you do well. A job well done really is it's own reward. If you think about it, have you ever regretted taking the time to do your work really, really well?
I find myself rushing through my morning reading before work sometimes. Before I leave for work is when I read some scripture, some spiritual reading, something that helps me learn or understand the teachings of the Church a little better. It only takes around 30 - 45 minutes and I do get up early to give myself time. In spite of that, I find myself rushing sometimes.
Of course, there are times when I'm running late, or just have such a day ahead of me that I'm naturally pressed for time and wind up rushing things.
But whatever the reason, whether it's at work or during my morning reading, most of the time I pay a price for rushing.
At work, the price might be a job not done well. It could be my analysis isn't complete, or I've written a memo with misspellings, or other errors. It can be embarrassing - or worse. What did I gain by rushing? Did I accomplish what I set out to do? Maybe I even have to go back and do the job again.
In the morning, the price usually is that I "get through" my reading without really understanding or absorbing anything I've read. It's like I didn't read it at all.
In both cases, it really can totally waste your time when you rush. The irony is, of course, that you started out to save yourself some time.
So the other morning, remembering all this, I purposely slowed down while I was reading Luke's Gospel, chapter 7, verses 36 - 50. It's the story of the woman who comes to Jesus, who is visiting with a Pharisee named Simon. She approaches Jesus from behind and washes his feet with her tears, wipes them dry with her hair, kisses them and anoints them with oil. She was apparently not only a sinner, but one with a public reputation for being a sinner.
I read the words of this passage slowly, paying close attention to what this woman did. If you read the passage slowly, I think you'll feel the depth of her sorrow, as I did this morning. Maybe you'll even wonder if, in your whole life, you ever felt sorrow such as this. I know I wondered.
Now you could just think that there's no way you could have sinned like this woman. We're not told what she did. But whatever it was, it was bad enough, and notorious enough, that Simon the Pharisee knew that she was a sinner and was disturbed at the thought that Jesus even let the woman touch him. She was unclean.
Even if you don't think you could ever have sinned like this woman, can you imagine in our "enlightened" age ever being considered "unclean" as this woman was? Heck, most people don't think they commit any sins anymore. And even the ones who commit public sins hardly ever face any sort of public rebuke.
So the sense of sorrow this woman felt seems awfully out of place in a way, doesn't it? Yet, if you take the time to read this passage and really let the words sink in, I think you'll find you understand sorrow for sin in a way you maybe never understood before.
It would all be because you took the time; you didn't rush.
And who knows what could happen then? Maybe this new understanding of sorrow for sin will really take root in your heart. Maybe the next time you go to confession, you'll have a moment of real sorrow for your sins, not just a sense of obligation to confess them.
Maybe when the priest says the words of absolution, you may even remember what Our Lord Himself, all those centuries ago, said to the sinful woman: "Your faith has saved you; go in peace."
And maybe it will hit you, like it did me, that Our Lord Himself gave this same power of forgiveness to His apostles, and they to those they ordained who would carry on after them, and so on down the centuries, all the way down to the priest in the confessional who exercises that same power and compassion to forgive sins - your sins - and tells you to go in peace. An incredibly wonderful thought, isn't it?
So don't rush so much. Take the time to do your work and all that you do well. A job well done really is it's own reward. If you think about it, have you ever regretted taking the time to do your work really, really well?
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