Tuesday, June 26, 2007

Tuesday of the 12th Week in Ordinary Time (C)

Gen 13:2, 5-18; Ps 14; Mt 7:6, 12-14

Great religions and teachers have formulated some form of Golden Rule in their teachings. To mention a few:

“This is the sum of duty: Do naught unto others which would cause you pain if done to you” (Brahmanism).
“Hurt not others in ways that you yourself would find hurtful” (Buddhism).
“Do not do to others what you do not want them to do to you” (Confucianism).
“One should not behave towards others in a way which is disagreeable to oneself” (Hinduism).
“None of you truly believes until he wishes for his brother what he wishes for himself” (Islam).
“Though shall love thy neighbor as thyself” (Judaism).
“Regard your neighbor’s gain as your own gain, and your neighbor’s loss as your own loss” (Taoism).
“May I do to others as I would that they should do unto me” (Plato).
“Treat your inferiors as you would be treated by your superiors” (Seneca).

Our Lord Jesus has formulated his own positive form of the Golden Rule: “Do onto others what you would like others do onto you.” He invites us to take the initiative to create an atmosphere of well being, rather than just protecting ourselves or others from possible harm. Thus, the Christian must not only refrain from being hateful and avoid causing harm to others; rather, he is strongly encouraged to find ways and means to love and serve others.

Margaret Sangster wrote a poem that perhaps would serve as a golden reminder to all of us:

It isn’t the thing you do, dear,
It’s the thing you leave undone
That gives you a bit of a heartache
At the setting of the sun.
The tender work forgotten,
The letter you did not write,
The flowers you did not send, dear,
Are your haunting ghosts at night.
The stone you might have lifted
Out of a brother’s way;
The bit of heartsome counsel
You were hurried too much to say;
The loving touch of the hand, dear,
The gentle, winning tone
Which you had no time nor thought for
With troubles enough of your own.

Those little acts of kindness
So easily out of mind,
Those chances to be angels
Which we poor mortals find—
They come in night and silence,
Each sad, reproachful wraith,
When hope is faint and flagging,
And a chill has fallen on faith.
For life is all too short, dear,
And sorrow is all too great,
To suffer our slow compassion
That tarries until too late;
And it isn’t the thing you do, dear,
It’s the thing you leave undone
Which gives you a bit of heartache
At the setting of the sun.

(The poem is from The Book of Virtues by William J. Bennett)

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