Laugh at the Funny Man

Laugh at the Funny Man

May 1, 2018

Rabanal del Camino to Cacabelos

After the punishment of yesterday’s climb through the mountains, today was a sharp contrast.  The trail today was all on small and delightfully level country roads and stretches through vineyards.  These provided a steeply-hilly lusciously spring green foreground to breathtaking mountain beauty in the background. On occasion the trail needled through very small country villages. It was in one such as these that God used my “me-being-me” experiences to launch me into an emotional contemplation today.

It was just shortly after noon when the trail skirted an ancient country church. “Oh, yes! time for a brief stop and perhaps a noon pilgrim mass.” I wanted to stop in for prayers for those who entrusted me with the burden prayers, and if luck, mass.  I also had some things to get off my chest with Our Father.

I slipped into the small chapel only to see that the service had already begun.  I tried, oh so hard, to be inconspicuous. That’s not easy with walking sticks and a 19 pound backpack. Unlike every church I’ve attended on the Camino, attending locals did not seem welcoming. How peculiar?! In fact, after I ever-so-quietly slipped in the last pew behind the pray ers, I was getting disgusted looks and unwelcome glances. This is soooooo odd. After settling in, I noticed how beautiful the altar looked. It was made of an exquisite wood grain.  Ok. Altars can be adorned with whatever.  Also odd, a lady was speaking, and at length, from the pulpit. Again, this is not a customary occurrence in a Catholic service. After her speech, the priest walked down from behind this gorgeous wood altar to sprinkle holy water. I’m thinking, “Yes, a pilgrim blessing! I certainly need one.”

Here is where my epiphany occurred. The sprinkling rite was not for what I thought was an altar, nor for pilgrims. My unwelcome glances from the others were because I had slid into a funeral service of one of the locals’ loved ones. Lord, forgive me. Needless to say, I slunk out as silently as a clunky pilgrim could.

It was a classic “Willie being Willie.” I had honorable intentions for being there, but didn’t pay attention to the details or how others might perceive my actions.  It was also the personal struggle I was bearing because of some of my actions of which I was not proud. I put my head down and trudged ahead.

My conversation with our Lord took on my self-shaming for not paying attention to what was happening around me.  I was gushing with my, “I’m sorry, Lord.” I went on beating myself up for this tendency, even though I never deliberately intend to offend, I just miss the details sometimes. I poured through my litany of apologies and confession for being “an idiot” sometimes. 

This is when I sensed Our Father speaking to my heart. “Willie. Enough. I understand your regret. I’ve heard your sorrow.”

Then I returned with, “Yes, Lord, but I tend to miss things. I sometimes don’t hear things.”

Our conversation returned. “Willie. Stop. Stop. Stop. Look toward me. It’s not about you. It’s about me. I made you. I understand you. You’re mine. Your mine, Willie.”

That prayer conversation derailed my self-shaming thinking.  I had a spirit nudge. “You’re taking yourself too seriously. Laugh at yourself.”

This struck me hard. I do tend to take myself way too seriously.  The thought was the launch point into a precious memory of two holy and dear people I’ve known, my parents in-laws.  A flashback memory of them was not only a dear illustration of laughing at myself, but also about being loved and even lovable when I’ve messed up.

Roaring into my memory were two people- Robert Moses Amore and his wife, Mary. Known famously for his nickname, Big Mo, I was gifted with the memory of Big Mo lying down on his stomach, raised on his elbows, staring intently into one of the grandbabies siting there. This day, the precious little boy was about 8 months old, sitting proudly “all by myself” and broadly grinning with constant drool rolling over his adorable little chin.  He sat staring back at Big Mo, with his baby chuckles and wide grinned display of two bottom teeth. His little Buddha belly and his peach fuzz hairdo made this Gerber baby all too adorable.

The precious image of this was the memory of Big Mo, propped up on elbows beaming into this little boy’s face and repeating, “Laugh at the funny man. Come on. Laugh at the funny man.” This not only entertained all who witnessed it, but it displayed a love beyond measure between man and child. And if Grandpa’s antics were not enough entertainment, Grandma’s mastery of swaddling would calm any fussing. Her comfort was not unlike the imagination of Jesus in Mother Mary’s arms.

I pondered this memory in light of my new, “Laugh at yourself, Willie. You’ve asked and been forgiven. Remember, it’s not about you.” Desperate insight I needed for a pilgrim physically and emotionally trail weary. Yet, there was more.

The contemplation got even more intimate.  My imagination led me to consider myself lying before the Christ child. He was sitting there so precious, so adorable, so intently in love with me with His gaze riveted on me.  It felt as if He was saying to me, “Laugh at the funny man.” That is, “Laugh at yourself. I already love you; I know your heart.”

This brought a sense of comfort and deep peace to me today.  And it took these stages in my prayer time to give me this insight. First, I had to own, that is man up, for what I’d done. Then I needed to ask forgiveness. And finally, accept forgiveness without heaping shame upon myself.

I recall the teaching of respected teacher, Fr. Mike Schmitz, on YouTube Ascension Presents.

1^st. God knows me more than I know myself.

2^nd, God loves me more than I love myself.

And if I may add, God forgives me more than I forgive myself.

The Camino reflection snaked through a range of emotions today. It “hit the refresh button” on who I am and, more importantly, whose I am.

Once I’ve done my part of owning my fault, I can let it go. If it echoes back, I can hear His encouragement, “Laugh at the funny man.” Well, I guess I might be a comedian some day!

Perhaps you’re in a stuck spot.  Do your part and then laugh at yourself. It is liberating!

Fondly, Deacon Willie