The Ultimate Choice

"Hell Hath no fury like a woman scorned." When our goodness is rejected, it becomes much easier to turn the other direction: "He doesn't love me?!?! Well at least I can hate him!" When one is scorned, one feels powerless, overlooked and worthless. Without the strength that comes from a deep faith and trust in God, without the grounding knowledge that our worth does not depend on another human's approval, we can swing the pendulum to the other side--from extreme abjection to extreme pride. "How dare he not return my love? There must be something wrong with him; he must be foolish to pass up someone as wonderful and beautiful as I am..."

If the above is true, then is its opposite true as well? "Heaven hath no rapture like a woman praised." Think about it this way--besides Jesus, who has received the most glorious entrance into heaven? The answer is, quite obviously, the Virgin Mary. So far, only she has been worthy to enter heaven with both her body and soul intact. She was so worthy of praise that all the earth sang out its approval, embracing her and serving her: "A great sign appeared in heaven: a woman clothed with the sun, and the moon under her feet, and on her head a crown of twelve stars." The day of her Assumption must have been one full of rejoicing, both on earth and in heaven.

We have all been scorned, we have all been overlooked, to one degree or another. Yet, it is in how we respond to this that determines our fate. Are we to be furious? Or praiseworthy?

In order to be furious, all we have to do is turn inwards--boil and seethe with the idea of our humiliation--someone must pay for this insolence! We become a screeching harpy, a terrifying, imperious queen of fire and ice, fear and pain. Or we turn cold, impervious to emotion, a citadel forbidding entrance to anyone. It is an easier route in the beginning, it even seems to be the most prudent, most instinctive response--we are wounded, so we either fight back with all of our remaining strength or turn tail and hide. Yet it is much harder to turn from that decision once it has been made. For we have let evil into our heart, and upon its entrance, it takes root and spreads, the most deadly of diseases.

The decision to respond in love, to turn the other cheek, to say "I'm done on this side, you can turn me over" seems foolish and terribly imprudent. For one, I have done nothing wrong, so the fault must lie in the offending person. Why should I give them what they refused to give me? It seems unfair and disgraceful. Aren't we taught to flee from danger? Isn't this just clinging to a slightly morbid hope that he/she will change his/her mind?

In the eyes of the world, it does seem rather stupid to embrace pain and humiliation, to stay instead of flee. We react in horror when we hear of saints who not only cared for the lepers, but kissed their wounds--yep, that's right, made contact with their mouths on terrible, oozing sores! Why, oh, why would you do that? Why wouldn't you just let them die among their own kind, and continue on alive and well, free to do the work God has sent you to do? Of course, the answer seems simple, even though it makes us shudder to understand its implications: To show love to these forsaken, diseased people, that is what these saints were called to do.

Like it or not, we are called to the difficult path, the path full of brambles and thorns, and yes, even humiliation and rejection. We are in good company, though. We are joined by saints and angels, who, like us, were put to the test, and made the difficult, painful decision to respond in love. More importantly, and more reassuringly, we are joined by the master himself, Jesus, who has borne all of the suffering of the world upon his body and soul.

Yes, it is difficult. It is much easier to flee in the face of it. But we must learn a lesson from Jesus, as he beckoned the doubting Thomas to place his hands in his open side, to feel the marks on his hands, to acknowledge not only the existence of suffering, but its significance. Let us strive, not to be furious and fell queens of ourselves, but praiseworthy and trusting servants of the Master.