The human imagination gazes upon infinite possibilities. In this gaze, it may, if directed upwards, be filled with the vision of God, and so be receptive. Or it may look upon the world and recognize in it the created potential for making, and so actively mold the world. In The Cultivating Imagination, we will explore this nexus. On the one hand, these reflections aim to facilitate our openness to the sweet influence of divine grace raining down upon us. On the other, they are directed at the ways we work the land (of our world, societies, families, and hearts) to create desire paths that allow grace to more effectively water the land. In these two ways, the imagination fulfills the twin duties of love to God and neighbor.
I remember a time that I had breakfast with a friend of mine who is a priest. I was in his city for a few days for work, and we were taking the opportunity to catch up. You know how it is in such cases: you catch each other up on major news, and provide a general snapshot of the time since last you met that is generally evaluative: it’s been a good few months, or it’s been a rough couple of years. Sometimes in such cases, a single thought keeps repeating itself, like a refrain or a leitmotif. That’s the way it was this time, and the thought my friend kept expressing struck me with its simplicity, power, and rightness.
“The Lord is so kind,” he would say over and over again.
From his repetition I learned that he had been experiencing the kindness of God in a variety of ways, that it had ambushed him and leapt out at him at the most unexpected of moments. I learned also something of his humility: for kindness always has with it something of the notion of grace, of going beyond what is strictly necessary. The Lord’s kindness was all the more moving because my friend was aware that God did not have to act that way towards him, that He could have done less and still been good.
And this is what really stopped me in my tracks about my friend’s realization and testimony: the difference between kindness and goodness. I was prepared for my friend to tell me that the Lord was good; to hear that He was kind took me by surprise.
Not that I would have denied the Lord to be kind; it just isn’t where my mind usually goes. But as my friend said it, the concept washed over me like a cooling wave or a soothing balm. I sat there weighed down by the burden of my past guilt. I had done things in the not too distant past of which I remain greatly ashamed; reconciling being the person who had done such things with any notion of self-worth or dignity was a long struggle, complicated by the rejection I experienced at the hands of so many who were dear to me. This was my first time sitting down with this friend since all that had gone down, and his word to me was kindness. It is hard to express how much that lightened my load that day.
The difference between goodness and kindness may be briefly characterized by the difference between doing what is right by someone and caring for someone. It is possible for me to be good to you and still remain more or less aloof. But I cannot remain aloof if I am kind to you: this requires me to stop and notice you, to come alongside you, to rest with you. Kindness requires condescension, in the best and oldest sense of that word. We see true condescension when a parent goes down on one knee to be at the level of a child who is hurting, so that the child does not have to speak loudly, and so that the power dynamic is muted. In condescension, the parent speaks sameness to the child: “You are not alone; I am with you; I am here for you. Let me in.”
This is not to take anything away from goodness. Indeed, I think kindness must be a sort of goodness, a species of the genus, if you will. Kindness is engaged goodness. But it is a distinct kind of goodness, and it is not always what comes to mind when we think of the goodness of the Lord.
I mentioned earlier that kindness always has the character of grace: it brings with it a goodness in excess of what one would strictly expect. Kindness often feels like a surprise, and it is this unhoped-for aspect of it that elicits our tears of gratitude. It is overwhelming because it is beyond our calculations.
This is its power, and it is this that I think we can turn to good use in encouraging and strengthening those around us. Kindness can create a path in the wilderness of despair where no path previously existed. Kindness, as a fundamental way God interacts with His creatures, is a divine power that can create out of nothing; kindness as our creaturely imitation of the action of God is a participation in that power that can reveal possibilities hitherto unimagined.
Kindness unleashes the imagination.
But sometimes, in this deeply and ubiquitously broken world, it takes imagination even to arrive at kindness. How can we be kind to those who have broken us, reviled us, rejected us, betrayed us, sought our lives and the lives of our families? How is this even thinkable? It is thinkable because of the cross. That is ground zero for all kindness in the world. It is an act of kindness so overwhelming, unexpected, and appalling that it sweeps away all of our excuses and pretenses. No harm done to you can stand as an excuse for withholding your kindness in the face of the great kindness of the cross. And as if this weren’t enough, the Lord transforms kindness into a duty with the commands to love our neighbor[1] and bless those who curse us.[2] We are held to kindness, and kindness is possible. But knowing that something is possible and knowing how to do it are not at all the same thing.
However, it is enough to know that it is possible to learn where it is that we must begin. For every possibility passes through the imagination before it becomes an actuality. It may take great creativity to arrive at the will to be kind to those who have hurt us deeply, and it may take equally great creativity to discern how such kindness can meaningfully be offered. But we are held to do it, for two reasons that I know of. The first is because it is good for us, releasing us from the danger of unforgiveness, through which we run the ultimate risk of forfeiting the grace offered to us.[3] But the second is because it is life and health for our neighbor. Our kindness may open for them the path to reconciliation: first and foremost with God. Our kindness may be the beacon that leads them out of darkness, that at last breaks the power of despair, shame, and self-loathing with which the Enemy longs to keep them from their destiny. Our kindness may be the eruption of new creation for those trapped in the land of certainty, where possibility seems a distant dream.
Let us give thanks to the Lord, for He is kind.
[1] Mark 12:31
[2] Luke 6:28
[3] Matthew 18:21-35
The featured image, “New Fallen Snow Sparkling,” is courtesy of Lancia E. Smith and is used with her glad permission for Cultivating.
Junius Johnson is a scholar in the fields of historical and philosophical theology and has published four books in those areas. He is also a lover of story, passionate about beauty and the imagination, a seeker of wonder, a musician, and a deeply flawed sinner daily leaning on the grace of God in Christ. A lover of the Middle Ages, he especially loves to be transported to other worlds via fantasy, science fiction, and young adult literature. He teaches online enrichment courses for both children and adults in literature, theology, and Latin through Junius Johnson Academics.
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What a beautiful reflection on kindness, Junius. I love the surprise of it, as something unexpected that we didn’t ask for or imagine. And your call to extend it to those who’ve hurt us is a challenge accepted. Thank you.