Toothless lions
One of my first summer jobs as a teenager was working at a local zoo where I sold trinkets from a cart. I enjoyed being near the animals, but, as it turns out, I learned a great deal more about people that warm summer, now many years ago.
My cart was placed near the polar bear exhibit which, ironically, was adjacent to the seal pond. They gazed upon each other across a broad concrete valley, which kept a fateful meeting from taking place.
During my lunch hour, I would walk the grounds and visit the various creatures who lived at the zoo. One, in particular, still fills my memory to this day. It was a large and rather elderly lion who basked in the shade and who yawned continuously. What a majestic creature! And fearsome, too, if one did not look too closely. Every time the lion opened wide his mouth, I could see that all of his teeth were gone.
The lion was fed some sort of liquid diet which he rarely touched. This king of the beasts still looked fierce with his mane and toned body. But it was now all a show. His teeth had rotted away and he spent most of his days sleeping under a tree.
Toothless lions. We have all met them before, and not just at the zoo. They are the fearsome or hurtful people who we have met in life, that, after many years have passed, we come upon again and discover they have lost most of their fangs. We still remember the hurt and we still fear them. But now they have grown old and are not so fierce anymore. Perhaps.
This might have been a father who was harsh or absent or cold when we were young. Or a mother who let us down or abandoned us. A spouse who betrayed us. Or a teacher or coach or church leader who harmed us. Years later, we might still fear or loathe them — and perhaps justifiably so. And then we meet the person again, now decades later, and we discover that they are older. And we are older, too.
As a priest, I have celebrated many funeral Masses, I have visited many nursing homes and I have been blessed to have walked with many different kinds of people in their lives of faith. The person whom I met, sometimes at the end of his or her life, or after a conversion of heart, often is a sweet, elderly person or a holy soul, sitting in the front pew at church. And yet sometimes their children or former friends or spouse have a very different impression. To them, the lion still has sharp teeth and the memories of hurt remain.
All of us, without exception, have such people in our lives. We remember the fangs well or, alternatively, we simply cannot conceive of such a thing in the sweet person who is our friend. Or perhaps we have become that toothless lion ourselves.
As followers of the Lord Jesus, we strive to practice forgiveness for those who have hurt us. This is rarely easy, although it can often lead to the very healing we long for.
Forgiveness is a process, both to give and receive. Prudence is important here as well. None of us want to be hurt again — sometimes even toothless lions can do harm. And yet, I wonder, how many of us remain in chains because of such fear or anger from so long ago?
And then we turn a corner, many years later, and discover that the lion in our past life no longer has fangs. How we accept this reality can often determine the rest of our life. And our next life as well.
I remember well my first summer job at the zoo, now so many years ago. I remember that toothless lion who looked so fierce, but who ate tasteless gruel and slept all day.
But I also remember the three employees who bullied, harassed and belittled me that summer, reducing me to tears and making me feel dirty and of little worth. I still fear them and resent what they did to me. But I am older now, much older than they were then, and the moment has long passed.
The shadows have grown longer for us all. It seems best to acknowledge that the lion is now toothless. And to walk in the bright light of the passing day.
Fr. Girotti is vicar general and moderator of the Curia for the Diocese of Green Bay.
