“Still, it was kind of you to share in my distress.”[1]

These are beautiful words from Paul. I have been thinking on them all week. I think they’re the only words that make sense at the moment—given all the violence and confidence and complications we are witnessing. Of course, I’m talking about the Holy Land, but not just that. I’m talking about the wear and tear of the world generally, the suffering that’s not just global but also local. It’s hard at times to make sense of it, to know what to say. I don’t know, that’s why these words have touched me this week: “Still, it was kind of you to share in my distress.” Again, I don’t know; it just seems these are the only words that, at least for the time being, give me some feeling of grace. As others loudly rage.

Paul was in prison; he was suffering himself. He had always been close to the Philippians, and so in his distress, they helped him. They showed up. They sent a brother, Epaphroditus, to tend to him. It was a simple act, but it meant so much to Paul. It was an experience of communion; the root of the Greek word for “share” in this verse is koinonia. Paul here is talking about the communion of distress. He was suffering, and friends came to him to help, to suffer alongside him, to share in his distress. And that, in that moment, is what mattered, that someone was there to share in the communion of his distress. No answers just yet, nothing to fix just yet—just friendship, sharing. “Still, it was kind of you to share in my distress.” There is much wisdom in these words. They tell us, I think, what we should do, at least at the start—that we should just show up, that we should be the sort of people who are there for each other. People who enter—because of love—the communion of distress.

I remember the words of Simone Weil, that strange, beautiful soul. She said once, “The love of neighbor in all its fullness simply means being able to say…: ‘What are you going through?’”[2] Again, as with Paul’s words, these words have touched me. In this frightening world of unspeakable violence there is little to be sensibly or even morally said—although Wendell Berry’s advice is good, that if we can’t give up our animosity, we should at least try to meditate upon our “enemies’ children;” “Please. No children. Don’t kill any children for my benefit,” he said.[3] We can wonder even what to think. Beware, in fact, the loud and the confident, for their bluster often hides death; it covers, often, much evil.

But there is little one can say to the violent. That’s why I can only think to wonder who I can get close to, who I can help. That to me seems to be the better course of action. “Still, it was kind of you to share in my distress.” “What are you going through?” “Who is my neighbor?” These should be, for us, very personal, immediate, practical questions. Who in this parish could you befriend? If only we would linger after Mass for a while. Who in your family needs a call? If only we could bear the fear and awkwardness of it. Who in a nursing facility, a lonely hospital room; who’s just lost a loved one and could use a meal or even just a touch of the hand or a text? If only we could just take that small step, embrace the small inconvenience of unselfish time.

What on earth could any of us do to make this earth a better place? Perhaps it’s to do something to make someone else say something like what Paul said: “Still, it was kind of you to share in my distress.” Maybe that’s all we can do now. Maybe it’s the best thing, the most realistic. Maybe that’s what God wants us to do: to find those closest us, to enter into the communion of their distress, and to love in that intimate, unscreened way, that real way, that little way. I can’t give you any answers; I can’t even really tell you what the Church’s “position” is on anything. But I can say that maybe that’s what we can do, each of us—to find someone close to love and to serve. And really, maybe that’s the most effective thing to do, because between two faces hate can’t very long exist. Amen.

[1] Philippians 4:14

[2] Simone Weil, Waiting for God, 115

[3] Wendell Berry, Citizenship Papers, 16, 29

© 2023 Rev. Joshua J. Whitfield