When Power Meets Mercy

Attending to the Needy is Not Optional

I’m quickly finding out why Jesus wants us to care for orphans and widows. After years (decades) of not buying stocks and bonds, of being forced out of the workforce by my physical disability, of raising four kids that made it untenable to afford daycare so that I could work, I’m reaping the rewards of my un-financial stability.

And I’m one of the lucky ones.

My late husband was a veteran, so I’ll be receiving a small pension, plus his social security. Many widows aren’t that fortunate. Even in the best of times, the government is only going to help so much. And now?

Let’s just say I didn’t pay as much attention to planned safety net cuts until now.

Believe me, I’m kicking my own rear. I didn’t invest in rental properties. I have little to no “passive income.” I don’t even own a home (lost in the Great Recession of 2009). Now that I’m one of those people, my middle-class upbringing is literally laughing at me.

But I’m not telling you this to elicit pity or even sympathy. I’m saying this because you know someone who is scared right now. Scared to be deported. Scared of being targeted for being trans or gay. Scared of losing the food assistance and the medical insurance that’s been keeping them afloat.

You know these folks and so do I. And it’s easy to say that their own poor choices have left them shivering in the arctic wind blasting from certain administration plans in 2025. But are they really responsible for their own misery?

Jesus didn’t seem to think so. He understood how societies work to enrich those at the top while standing on the necks of those great unwashed masses. Jesus tells us again and again to love our neighbors—and never once asks us to first be sure they’re in the country legally or have signed a gender pledge. Jesus understood that God’s mercy never carries conditions.

That so many supposed Jesus followers have jettisoned the Gospel in favor of the vengeful God of the Old Testament is mind-boggling at the very least. And yet even this grumpy old God of the Hebrew Bible repeats mercy again and again.

Last week, the Episcopal Bishop Mariann Budde tried to remind the incoming administration about that God of mercy. She was instantly skewered by those who either haven’t read their bible lately or else have cherry-picked it so much that they can ignore the umpteen times we are commanded to love.

The reaction wasn’t really surprising—I’ve heard pastors say that when they preach on the Beatitudes, congregants grumble that Jesus’ words “don’t work anymore.” Somehow, mercy has been overpowered by power itself. This is a scary and dangerous time, as many writers have observed, and it’s only been a week.

Where does Mercy hide when Power becomes a fire-breathing beast? Is there any Good News left?

That’s where I come in. A relatively poor widow now, my condition helps me see the pain and suffering all around me. The woman at the Social Security office, fighting for her Type One diabetic daughter’s disability payments. The man who goes door-to-door, asking to mow lawns so he can make rent. The outpouring of love and support I have received since my husband died last month.

In life, it seems like the better off I am, the less I have time to think about those people: the non-pet-eating illegals, the trans and gays, the drug-addicted, the mentally ill. Even widows and orphans. It took my own situation taking a nosedive to get my heart more aligned with God’s heart. A heart that feels. A heart that bleeds. A heart that follows the Golden Rule.

But down here in steerage, you can’t escape the needy. And you can’t escape the scorn of those who insist you should’ve made better life choices. Who say you don’t deserve favor. Who sneer at your heart as it bleeds on your sleeve.

Since I won’t be traveling abroad or cruising or hanging out at posh resorts, I’ll have a lot of time on my hands. When I’m not treading water as the Titanic sinks, I’ll try to be as brave and compassionate as Bishop Budde. It won’t be easy, but mercy spurs me forward.

Some days it feels as if there’s nothing to do but try to endure the next few years. I don’t know about you, but I’ll continue to help the least of these (look it up) as well as the orphans and widows. In my very tiny way, I want to speak mercy to power.

Let’s go out on the limb of kindness. Stop evaluating whether your neighbor is worthy or even if they’re your neighbors. I want to go where few middle-class white Americans dare to venture: a radical and giant loving compassion for those who are suffocating under the boots of the powerful.

But even more, I pray I can be courageous enough to stand at the door of the powerful and beg them to be merciful. Because, contrary to what some seem to think, God isn’t wrathful and mean, hoping to purge all the sinful immigrants, trans, gays and other enemies from the Book of Life. No siree. God is Love.