Interruptions (Shelley Milligan)

Smiling under my mask

Smiling under my mask

For the past two years, The Carver Project has hosted a community reading group that brings together pastors, ministry leaders, and friends to discuss a book at the intersection of our interests and passions.  This week, we convened one last time to discuss our spring semester book, Reconciling All Things by Emmanuel Katongle and Chris Rice.  Our discussion focused on the role of interruptions in the life of a believer.  The authors posited that Jesus spent his entire earthly ministry being interrupted without being inconvenienced.  He didn’t see an interruption: he saw a person or an opportunity or a moment for service.  And through the story of the woman who poured perfume on Jesus’ feet, the authors argue that not just Jesus but the entire church (represented by the group assembled for dinner) is ideally characterized by “hospitality, openness, and an ongoing engagement with the stranger.” 

The words are tough to hear. I am a planner, to put it plainly.  I do best when I have a routine and a to-do list and enough time to accomplish them.  I am most satisfied when check marks appear next to tasks.  Interruptions are not on my list and can’t be checked off and I do not welcome them in my life.  Reading this book convicted me (again) of how possessive of my time I really am.  I look for a way to hurry along the neighbor Girl Scout selling cookies and sometimes find myself looking to limit the duration of a phone call from a friend or family member.  I hardly view interruptions as moments for personal growth and education, or openings where I can love and serve another person.

Now we are all living through one giant interruption.  We are staying home to lessen the impact of a global pandemic for the sake of our own individual health as well as that of our broader community.  In this season, we love our neighbor by limiting our in-person interactions. 

And I don’t like it.  I didn’t plan for this interruption of my life.  I don’t like feeling out of control, and this virus has shown us how little control I have.  It has also shown me my own lack of patience, flexibility, and willingness to endure an interruption.  

The latest “interruption,” of a sort, has been the sight of our masked faces on those rare occasions when we do see one another. Perhaps I’m just exasperated by the entire situation, but the mask may be my proverbial breaking point.  A sweet friend sewed a mask for me that includes cute fabric, soft rope ties, and even a bendable nose piece.  As far as masks go, I may have the Cadillac. 

But I hate it.  Or I should say, I hate wearing it.  I realize how much I rely on my face for everyday communication.  And in particular, I miss the ability to smile at others and see people smile back. Smiling has been, for me, a kind of default posture, and I’ve found that it often puts others at ease, whether they are strangers or friends.  It also puts me at ease, reminding me that the person I’m smiling toward is made in the image of God, worthy of my respect and recognition.  

And smiling, of course, comes in all forms: a slight upward tug of the corner, a stretch of the cheeks, an all-out toothy grin—each of these things conveys a nuance of emotion.  Masks hide it all. They interrupt the possibilities of communication.  Wearing a mask, there’s no wordless back-and-forth with a stranger in the grocery store checkout line.  I do not like wearing masks.

But what if I am being called to a new way of communicating with others?  Is it possible to welcome this interruption hospitably?  What would that look like?  How might my eyes communicate?  Is it possible that my words are more important in this season, even if people can’t see my face?  

It is one small example of a much larger question. This virus is interrupting everything about our lives, even our simple ability to smile at a stranger. What would it mean for us, each day, to approach all these interruptions as places where God challenges our control of our own lives and asks us, in dependence, to learn about ourselves and to love others well—to serve them in ways we might never have thought of before?

Jesus is hospitable to the woman who pours expensive perfume on his feet, and he is gracious to his dinner companions who don’t understand her actions (or his acceptance of her).  Her visit could be seen as an interruption, but Jesus says to the group, “She has done what she could” (Mark 14:8).  What are the ways that our “dinner guests” will see how we, as the church, have done what we could, welcoming and serving our neighbors and strangers in this time of interruption?  I pray we’ll all look for new ways to love and serve, even from behind a mask. 

Shelley Milligan is The Carver Project’s managing director.

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