Introduction
The question of greatness
One day the sons of Zebedee, James and John,
approached Jesus with a self-serving request: “Master, grant that we may
sit on thrones in your kingdom, one of us on your right and the other on
your left.” Jesus replied, “As you know, the kings and so-called great men of
this world like to lord it over others. But it must not be that way among you.
Among you whoever aspires to greatness
must be the servant of all” (Mk 10:37-42).
It is interesting to note that in the gospel of St.
Matthew, it is the mother of the
sons who makes the self-serving request: “Then the mother of the sons of
Zebedee approached Jesus with this request: ‘Grant that these sons of mine may
sit at your right and your left when you are king” (Mt 20:21). If it is the mother’s request then she is
sending her kids the wrong message about greatness.
It reminds us of the mother from Texas who wanted
nothing more in the whole wide world for her daughter than that she attain a
spot on the cheerleaders’ team. And she
was ready to kill the mother of another
girl who was competing for the same spot. That would put the girl in no
psychological state to successfully compete for the spot. Not too long ago there was also the case of
one father killing another father over a
hockey game their sons were playing. It’s the wrong message about greatness coming from parents.
Sometimes that message exhausts or depresses our
kids, or drives them to drink or drugs. It has even contributed at times to
their suicide, which puts an end to the
race for greatness that they didn’t want to run in the first place. Most of the
time, though, it just simply makes them angry at parents for sending them so
much message about being a great doctor or lawyer or cheerleader, but so little
message about being a great human being. It makes them angry at parents for sending them so much message
about having a great education or job or car, but so little message about
having a great human heart.
But it is culture, more than anything else, that
overwhelms us with the wrong message about greatness. All day long all the media extol for us the greatness of the “stars”:
the movie stars, the beauty stars, the rock stars, the basketball stars and the
football stars. Culture has us (lackluster dummies) jumping up and down like
monkeys at their performances.
Sometimes it even turns us into
animals stampeding our peers as we rush to get closer to the stars in order to
touch the hem of their garments.
Culture has us (lackluster dummies) pumping tons of adulation into their
psyches and millions of dollars into their coffer And before we know it, we the
baptized, are in hot pursuit of cultural greatness instead of gospel greatness:
“Whoever aspires to greatness must be the servant of all.” Imagine telling that to our culture today,
where dog eat dog, and where the name
of the game is to climb over the backs of others to get to the top of the corporate ladder.
Things were
different in times past. Some of us
remember the old days when gas stations were called “service stations.”
You drove up to the pump. A guy came
running out, filled up the tank, washed the window shield and the back window
as well, and then asked whether you wanted the oil checked. Honest to God!
That’s all gone now. There’s a new sign
out there, and it well summarizes the new age. That “Self-serve” sign out there
says “Serve yourself, ‘cause I’m not going to.” <<Have you seen the
latest commercial? It’s raining pitch forks. The gas-station attendant is
sitting cozily inside when he sees a car drive up. He quickly slips on a rain-coat, dashes out, flips the
“Full-serve” sign over to the “Self-serve” sign. Then he makes a mad dash back inside.>>
I am not easily impressed by some of the stuff I receive through e-mail. But my nephew, a great business man, who himself is not easily impressed, sent me this story just a few weeks ago. It moved me much. And on second reading I see how well it fits in here. It is about a man who isn’t a great doctor or a great lawyer or a great business man. It’s all about a guy who is “just” a taxicab driver. It is he who wrote the story, and he wrote it well.
Twenty years ago I drove a cab for a
living. It was a cowboy’s life for someone who didn’t want a boss.
What I didn’t realize was that it was also a ministry, a service to others.
Because I drove the night shift, my cab became a moving confessional.
Passengers climbed in, sat behind me in total anonymity, and told me about
their lives. I encountered people whose
lives amazed me, ennobled me, made me laugh and weep. But none touched me more than a woman I picked up late one August
night.
I was responding to a small call from a
small brick duplex in a quiet part of
town. I assumed I was being sent to pick up
some party people, or someone who just had a fight with a lover, or a
worker heading for an early shift at some factory in the industrial part of
town. When I arrived at 2:30 a.m., the
building was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window.
Under these circumstances, many drivers
would just honk once or twice, wait a minute, then drive away. But I had seen
too many poor people who depended on a taxi as their only means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I
always went to the door.
This passenger might be someone who needs my
assistance, I reasoned to myself. So I
walked to the door and knocked. “Just a
minute,” answered a frail elderly
voice. I could hear something being
dragged across the floor. After a long
pause, the door opened. A small woman stood before me. She was wearing a print
dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of the 1940s movie. The apartment looked as if no one had lived
in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks on the walls, no
knickknacks or utensil on the counters.
In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.
“Would you carry my bag out to the car?” she
asked. I took the suitcase, and walked
slowly toward the curb. She kept
thanking me for my kindness. “It’s nothing,” I told her. “I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother to be treated.” “Oh,
you’re such a nice boy,” she said.
When we got into the cab, she gave me an
address, then asked, “Could you drive
through downtown.” “It’s not the
shortest way,” I answered quickly.
“Oh, I don’t mind,” she answered. “I’m in no hurry. I’m on my way to a
hospice.” I looked into the rear mirror. Her eyes were glistening. “I don’t have any family left.
She continued. “The doctor says I don’t
have very long.”
I quickly reached over and shut off the
meter. <<This, I believe, is a kind of peak to the
story, a turning point, for from this
moment on everything is different. It’s a defining moment which defines the cabbie as perhaps no other event in his
whole life will.>>
I
quickly reached over and shut off the meter. What route would
you like me to take?” I asked. For the next two hours, we drove through the
city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator
operator. We drove through the
neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She
had me pull up in front of a furniture
warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had danced as a girl.
Sometimes she would ask me to slow down in front of a particular building or
corner, and she would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.
Ad the first hint of sun was illuminating the horizon, she suddenly said, “I’m
tired. Let’s go now.” We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small
convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico. Two orderlies
came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent,
watching her every move. They must have been expecting her. I opened the trunk
and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a
wheelchair.
“How much do I owe you?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “Oh, you have to make a living,” she answered. “There are other passengers,” I
responded. Almost without thinking, I
bent down and gave her a big hug. She
held on to me tightly. “You gave an old woman a little moment of joy.” She said, “Thank you.” I squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim
morning light. Behind me a door shut. It was the sound of a life that was
closing.
I didn’t pick up anymore passengers that
shift. I drove aimlessly lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could
hardly talk. What if the woman had gotten an angry driver? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?
As I look back now, I do not think that I have done anything
greater in my whole life. We are conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great events.
They don’t. For the most part they revolve around little events in which something very great, something very
beautiful or meaningful, is wrapped up.
“Whoever aspires to greatness” must know what gospel greatness is.
It is not being a great doctor or lawyer or
businessman or cheerleader (important though that be); it is being a
great human being like this cabbie.
Gospel greatness is not having a great education
or job or car; it is having a great human heart like this cabbie, who
turns his meter off and surrenders himself fully to the moment at hand, because he know there is nothing greater
in his whole life that he could possibly
do.“Whoever aspires to greatness” must know where gospel greatness is to be found. The cabbie knows: it’s
wrapped up in the little package before him, and he is not going to let it pass
him by.
Conclusion
In the whispers of life
The prophet
Elijah was commanded to go outside and stand upon the mountain, and
there he would experience the Lord passing by. A howling wind came up
but the Lord was not in the wind. A thundering earthquake shattered the
silence but the Lord was not in the earthquake. Than a roaring fire
swept thought the place but the Lord was not in the fire. Finally a tiny whisper
could be heard, and the Lord was in it. And Elijah hid his face” (I Kings
19:9,11-13).
The cabbie writes, “As I look back now I do
not think that I have done anything
greater in my whole life.” That is not an exaggeration but an immense
statement in which he says he had found great meaning in life, and that he
had found it wrapped up in a little
package. At the end of the day, it is life’s meaning that we all search for.
We’ve asked it a thousand times in our lives, and we’ll keep asking it right up
to the very end: “What in the world is it all about?” It’s called “our search
for meaning.” That meaning we don’t
find in howling winds or thundering earthquakes or roaring fires. We find it
only in the tiny whispers of life. The Lord does not scream but rather whispers
the meaning of life into our ears. And
only they lay hold of it who have
turned off the meters of life and have finely-tuned their ears and their
hearts.