No More Mercy

Observing Lent When the Whole World is a Wilderness

There was a time when I received food assistance from the state. I think the amount loaded on my Bridge Card was $88. When my money was available on the third of each month, I used it to buy meat and mostly things that didn’t spoil or go bad quickly. Frozen and canned foods were cheaper and lasted longer than fresh fruits and vegetables. Sometimes I’d splurge and get ice cream or potato chips or Diet Coke. I was very careful with every penny I spent. And always careful about when and where I shopped.

Around my birthday, I once decided to treat myself. Going to a fancy market in the suburbs rather than my local grocery store. My luxury items? Clam chowder and a freshly baked croissant.

At the register, the cashier wasn’t sure my purchase was Bridge Card eligible. She called a manager. Meanwhile, the woman in line behind me let everyone within earshot know that poor people shouldn’t expect tax payers to support their expensive tastes. This wasn’t the first or only time I experienced something like this. In the end, my soup and croissant were covered. By the time I got home I was no longer hungry.

I kept quiet that day. But there was a part of me that wanted to grab the microphone and justify to the whole store why I was in a position of needing and qualifying for food benefits. I wanted to tell these strangers how hard I was working to make a life from the ashes of trauma that left me in a state of survival. A part of me that wanted to beg those people for mercy.

Mercy came front and center to the United States’ discourse back in January when the Reverend Mariann Budde, a Bishop in the Episcopal Church, shared a challenging message as part of the Inauguration Prayer Service at the Washington National Cathedral. She called upon the President to show mercy, especially to those who are scared right now. Hearing her speak so boldly to a man so many bow down to, stirred something within me. Something uneasy.

Lent, the liturgical season of the church year, leading to Holy Week and ultimately Easter, begins today. My Lenten practices have shifted and my path has widened, but this journey still has importance and meaning. In deciding what to write about this Lent, Bishop Budde’s sermon kept coming back to me. That feeling of uneasiness coming back to me. Mercy coming back to me.

To offer or withhold mercy is an act of power.
To ask for mercy is a vulnerable place to be.

I grew up in a mainline protestant church that had a lot to say about grace. Grace is here for us. Right in front of us. Ours, even before we claim it as our own. A gift that is freely given and unearned.

I first remember hearing about mercy when I went to Mass with my catholic grandparents. To my young mind it was connected to Mary, the Blessed Mother. The fullness of her grace catching my attention more than any mercy she might impart.

I first remember learning about mercy when I was 18 and started attending an evangelical pentecostal church. While my attendance there was sporadic over a course of a few short years, the harmful impact of that experience on my body and spirit cannot be understated. Catchy music and bright lights drew me in. Fear kept me attending. Grace, those preachers said, is getting a gift you don’t deserve. And mercy, they said, is not getting what you do deserve. Jesus’ violent crucifixion was an act of God’s mercy, keeping sinners, like me from the hell I deserve. This mercy was not only preached. It was depicted in songs, dramatic skits, and large-scale theatrical productions.

I didn’t deserve anything good. What I did deserve was suffering, death, and eternal torment. But if I prayed, pleaded, begged for mercy, I might be spared that horrible punishment. While this understanding of a vengeful, blood thirsty God is not limited to any one season of the church year, in my experience it is louder in many church circles in the days leading to Holy Week and Easter.

The Latin word for mercy means “price paid.” Modern definitions speak to mercy in relation to how we treat those in need, how we withhold punishment from those who deserve it. More synonymous with leniency than with compassion.

Mercy is older and deeper than this. Mercy is both a theological and moral concept. It is an attribute of the Divine. God is merciful and God’s mercies endure forever. “Racham” the Hebrew word for mercy means “to love tenderly, to have compassion.”

There is little about mercy, as it is understood by the masses today, that reflects love, tenderness, or compassion. It is another way that politicians—whether emperors, kings or presidents—instill fear and push people into submission and obedience. Preachers and churches tend to do the same.

We have created a world where people believe they are undeserving of anything good, and if they stay in their place, don’t ask questions, don’t challenge authority, they’ll be treated with leniency and not receive the punishment they do deserve for simply existing. We have built a society where basic human needs are legislated and appropriated like mercies.

There is no denying that the whole world is a wilderness. People in the wilderness do not need mercy, especially not as a gift from the powers and principalities that create our wilderness conditions. People in the wilderness need manna. Food and water. Safety. Security. Healthcare. Access to treatment and medication. Preventative testing. Dignity. Bodily autonomy. Employment. Just wages. Rights.

My respect for Bishop Budde and the courage she displayed in speaking directly to the president, does not wipe out my uneasiness with her request of mercy from the leader of a merciless system. We are not a nation of kindness or compassion or tenderness or love. We are a people separated into deserving and underserving. A place of punishment and judgement where you either request or bestow mercy.

That day in the fancy market when I had thoughts of turning around and begging the people in line behind me to have mercy it was from the belief that I was undeserving. That because of my circumstances, my struggles, my finances, I didn’t deserve clam chowder and a croissant for my birthday. For most of my life, I didn’t believe I was deserving of anything except the pain I knew. And believed that I owed the world my soul in exchange for $88 a month in food benefits. These beliefs were shaped by the church, all the churches I’ve been in, not only the one with catchy music, bright lights, and smoke machines on stage.

This Lent, I’m giving up mercy. I’m not pleading or begging for mercy for myself or for others. No more mercy like this. I’ve embraced the other part of me that would tell the woman in line behind me that what was in my shopping chart was none of her business.

The most important thing I’ve learned about mercy, I didn’t learn in church, but rather from a spiritual midwife, who journeyed with me in a wilderness season of searching for healing and liberation.

The Hebrew word for mercy shares roots with the Hebrew word for womb. There’s a real and direct connection between mercy and the womb. I have new understandings of what I heard about Mary during Mass with my grandparents, the fullness of her grace, the true fruit of her womb.

The womb is a place of protection and nourishment. The waters that hold us as we grow and prepare for birth, become the waters that break and push us forth into the world. The womb is tender and loving. Warm. Compassionate. Kind. The womb is a kind of mercy. The only kind of mercy I’m saying yes to.

With Water for the Wilderness,
Rebecca & 10 Camels