Category: Saints

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Desire

Human beings desire.

Depending on who you listen to, you will hear how desire is one of the very best dimensions of being human, or how desire is at the root of evil and misery. What is the deeper truth?

Throughout history, across cultures and sects, there have been many movements seeking to eliminate human desire. In Greek and Roman culture, the Stoics taught a path of detachment from human emotions and desires. They only trouble your soul and cloud your judgment. Moreover, desiring what is beyond your station in life leads to restlessness, conflict, and misery. Solution: detach from emotion and desire. In Buddhism, the “Four Noble Truths” teach that suffering comes from human desire attaching itself to that which is unstable. The “Eightfold Path” allows the cessation of desire and opening up to nirvana. In the sunni Islamic tradition, Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya (1292-1350) described how human desire fits into the divine plan: “Allah created angels with reason and no desires, animals with desires and no reason, and man with both reason and desires. So if a man’s reason is stronger than his desire he is like an angel, and if his desires are stronger than his reason, then he is like an animal.”

Within Christianity, if you study the greatest mystics and saints, you will discover an intensity of desire that is indeed far stronger than reason, without denigrating reason. In those holy women and men, we see that their desire is at one and the same time their greatest consolation and their greatest agony. We will see why in a moment.

Unfortunately, many Christians over the centuries have found it easier to cast suspicion on desire. A dualisim easily emerges, separating soul and body, viewing spirit as good and flesh as bad. Such movements have plenty of Scriptures to appeal to as proof texts! The apostle Paul speaks often of a battle between flesh and spirit.

In New Testament Greek, the word for desire is typically epithumía (as a noun) or epithuméo (as a verb). The noun form shows up in 37 passages, and the verb form in 16. In terms of sheer number, the passages overwhelmingly describe desire as something negative that we should flee from – except when they don’t. And those exceptions are well worth looking at!

In Luke’s Gospel, Jesus begins the conversation at the Last Supper by declaring, “With desire I have desired to eat this Passover with you before I suffer” (Luke 22:15). To a Hebrew ear, the double expression of “desire” speaks of an intensity or abundance. Jesus has been pining for this moment. A long-anticipated and long-swelling desire is now reaching a crescendo. Compare it with Jesus’ words ten chapters earlier, when he describes his intention to cast fire upon the earth, and his anguish in waiting until all is accomplished (Luke 10:49-50).

The apostles, meanwhile, are still distracted by their disordered desires, their insecurities, and their fears. As Jesus expresses to his companions the deepest longings of his heart, as he is about to enter into the darkest moments of his human experience, they break into an argument about who among them is the greatest (Luke 22:24). Their desire for greatness is both like and unlike that of Jesus. Jesus does not shame them for having the desire, but instead resituates and reorients it within the Kingdom of God. The greatest among them shall be like the littlest children, and those with authority are to be those who serve. Moreover, he is indeed conferring on them a Kingdom and seating them on thrones of judgment (Luke 22:25-30). Their desire for greatness is inherently good, albeit disordered and thereby diminished and harmful. And Jesus is remarkably accepting of their slowness of heart! He is aware of the impending denials and betrayals. He loves them anyway. Following his Paschal victory, and especially following the gift of the Holy Spirit, they will be ready for their desire to go in a new direction.

Let’s consider the other exceptional case in which the verb “desire” (epithuméo) is expressed as incredibly positive. In Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus describes how intensely the prophets and holy ones desired to see what the disciples see, and to hear what they hear (Matthew 13:17). Those prophets and holy ones agonized in their desire. Again and again, they cried out, “How long, O Lord??” (Revelation 6:10; Psalm 13:1). They lived by faith, as foreigners and pilgrims who only got to glimpse the promised land from afar (Hebrews 11:13).

It would have been so much easier for those prophets or holy ones to heed the advice of the Stoics and suppress their emotions and desires. It would have been easier for Jesus, too! He cries out from the Cross, “I thirst!” and “My God, my God, why have you abandoned me!” You can hear the intensity of human longing in those cries – the cumulative force of every unmet longing throughout the centuries, welling up from the deepest places of the human heart – for those who had the wherewithal to feel and express that longing, uncertain how it would ever be fulfilled.

To desire and not yet possess; to wait for the fulfillment of desire – it is perhaps one of the hardest human things to do, and the most worthwhile.

And here we can begin to see what’s really happening with all the disordered desires that Scripture and Tradition consistently warn against. The problem is not desiring too much – it’s desiring far too little! It’s allowing our desire to get stuck in this fallen world and the things in it that are passing away (cf. 1 John 2:17) – versus allowing our desires (even our petty or disordered ones) to be consecrated to the Kingdom of God.

Desire grows in the waiting. Our capacity to receive increases as we await fulfillment. Can we learn to be present to our desire, and be okay when it is unfulfilled? Easier said than done!

We speak often of distracting or binging or pursuing addictions as a way of surviving hard stuff or a way of numbing pain. Perhaps that’s partially true. But much more frequently, are we not saying “I can’t bear to feel this unmet desire any longer – I have to release myself from this tension!!”?

Plunging into addictive pleasures is one way of releasing the tension of desire. It’s the path of the younger “prodigal” son in Luke 15. But we can also be like the older brother and live in management mode – burying our desire and staying on the surface with familiar rules and rituals. When I am avoiding my own big desires (as I have been the last couple of days), I tend to ping-pong between the two. When I reconnect with what’s really happening in my body and my heart, when I let the Lord closer, I weep and reawaken in my longing.

I realize it can be a cliché, but the Kingdom of God is “already but not yet.” Hopefully we have had moments in which we have tasted and seen that the Lord is good – those Mount Tabor moments like Peter, James, and John getting a glimpse of glory from Jesus. I must be, as they say, a “stubborn Pollock” because I have had many such moments, and still revert to my game of ping pong. The deeper invitation is for me to abide in the tension, the “already but not yet” – and remember that I am securely loved the whole time. I don’t have to make anything happen.

Such is the witness of the Virgin Mary and her spouse Joseph. They obey God when he invites, but mostly wait in great tension to see how it’s all going to work out. Such was the witness of Simeon and Anna all those long decades preceding the Presentation of Jesus in the Temple. Such was the witness of the prophets and saints of the Old Testament who desired to see what you and I get to begin seeing.

Waiting in desire is so hard. Experiencing endings of good things, unexpected losses, or betrayals only makes it harder. It’s so much easier to turn against desire and find ways not to feel it. Without belonging in love to a safe and loving community, it’s virtually impossible to abide in desire. And God has placed nothing short of a desire for eternity into our heart (Ecclesiastes 3:11).

We are indeed meant for connection, for delight, for honor, and for greatness. May we be kind to ourselves as we admit the truth of our minimizing, avoiding, and sabotaging of desire. May we love and support one another as we wait in hope. May our desire grow in the waiting, as we receive and are received ever more abundantly into the Body of Christ that is already real but not yet come to full stature. Come, Lord Jesus!

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Damaged Goods?

“Damaged goods” – what an interesting label that is so often tagged to a human being, a precious child of God.

Perhaps they are words whispered behind someone’s back as a cautionary tale (“Stay clear of her – she’s damaged goods!”). Perhaps we hear the whisper within ourselves in our darker moments (“I guess I’m just damaged goods…”). In either case, the ink on that label is dripping with contempt.

The implication is that this person is damaged beyond repair. She is toxic and will never change. Moreover, she is probably contagious. If anyone gets too close for too long, they too will get infected.

These are exactly the kind of humans that Jesus sought and loved: Zaccheus the tax collector, Mary Magdalene who was possessed by seven demons, Simon Peter (“Stay away from me, Lord, I’m full of sin!”), the woman caught in adultery, the Samaritan woman at the well, Nathanael (“I saw you under the fig tree”), or Saul who became Paul.

With people like Peter and Paul, we get enough glimpses into their story to learn that their conversion was a long and messy process. Sure, there were major moments of conversion. But there were many setbacks.

Peter professes Jesus as the Messiah and the Son of the living God, and in the very next instant wants to flee from the Cross (see Matthew 16:13-24). He promises faithfulness to Jesus at the Last Supper, only to deny him three times before the night is over. He joyfully encounters the risen Jesus, but still decides to go back (quite miserably and unsuccessfully) to his former life of fishing (John 21:1-3).

Paul radically changes his life after his encounter with Jesus on the road to Damascus. Yet it’s obvious from his writings that he experienced frequent temptations and sins. He describes to the Romans how he does not do the good he desires, but the evil that he hates (Romans 7:15). He tells the Corinthians about a thorn in his flesh and an angel of Satan. He begs God for deliverance, but is invited to be content with his weakness and powerlessness.

If these descriptions don’t fit the contemporary label of “damaged goods,” what does? Both Peter and Paul have many moments of feeling that way, on the verge of discouragement, laden with burdens of shame and self-contempt.

And the Lord meets them there – again and again, as many times as they need. It’s not a one-time healing and transformation, but a slow and patient process.

That is because each of us, as fallen human beings, have lots of shattered pieces. Just as the Body of Christ is one Body with many parts, so also each human being is a microcosm, the whole Church in miniature. The drama of human history – with the dying and rising of Jesus at its center – also plays out in each individual disciple.

The event we call “The Fall” was a savage attack by a powerful and envious foe. The devil saw how “very good” God made Adam and Eve – not only in their souls, but in their maleness and femaleness, in their capacity for receiving and giving honor and delight and becoming one flesh. The devil envied; he seduced; he enticed us into ruining.

It was a shattering – a shattering of trust in God’s goodness, a shattering of vulnerability with each other, a shattering of confidence in their own inner goodness. They hid from God and protected themselves from each other.

God immediately responds with truth and love. He invites Adam to look more particularly at the truth of where he is and what he has done. Adam dodges and deflects. God is not fooled and doesn’t go anywhere. Indeed, he promises that he will send “the woman” who will be a true enemy of the devil, and that her offspring will crush the head of that ancient serpent. God is faithful to that promise in ways we could never have imagined – sending his own Son in human flesh, and turning the worst of shame and humiliation (which is what Roman Crucifixion was mainly about!) into a total overturning of Satan’s kingdom.

Good Friday. Damaged Goods. What happens when you put those two together?

An oxymoron becomes a paradox.

For those less familiar with literary terms, an “oxymoron” happens when you put two opposite words together and create a new meaning: jumbo shrimp, old news, pretty ugly, even odds, etc. In this case, “damaged” and “goods” are seen as incompatible – the damaged has vitiated the good.

That is exactly the story the devil wanted Adam and Eve to believe about themselves. It is the story Peter and Paul sometimes believed about themselves. Jesus shatters that story. He crushes the head of the serpent.

I would suggest instead that you and I (and every fallen human) are “damaged very goods.”

We are indeed shattered – not only by Adam and Eve’s sin, but by the particular ways that other human beings have harmed us and the particular ways we have harmed ourselves. Each of us has a personal story that is intermingled with the collective human story. When Jesus tells each and every story on the Day of Judgment, we will see with clarity just how much shattering happened for each of us – in the three or four generations preceding our arrival, in our tender years of childhood, in our moments of opening up in desire only to be crushed or betrayed, in our repeated stumbling and struggling, and in our rising again (and again and again).

We are damaged, yes, but we are “very good,” and the Lord never stops pursuing us. Moreover, each and every shard is “very good” – and without all the shattered pieces we cannot truly be ourselves. We desperately wish that we could shortcut the process, discarding or ignoring some of the pieces. We bury away the unpresentable parts and create a caricature of ourselves – perhaps one that looks great on social media or wins praise in our family, in our workplace, or in our churches. But God knows our entire self and will not rest until we are truly and completely made whole. It may take – indeed it will take nothing short of a lifetime.

This is the “long and exacting work” of human integration. The Catechism of the Catholic Church talks about it (nn. 2331-2347). The documents on Catholic seminary formation talk about it. And still, we look for the quick fix. We expect that we should just have it all together by now.

So many of the lives of the Saints need to be rewritten. Too often the story is told by narrators who want a shorter and easier path – one that avoids getting anywhere close to “damaged goods.” But we see in Jesus and Mary and the Saints that they are quite willing to feel powerless and be with others in their mess. They are not repulsed by struggle or weakness or sin. Indeed, they are drawn to human poverty because it is there that God loves us and blesses us – if we are to believe Jesus’ words in the Beatitudes!

The biblical stories do not sweep human sins and struggles under the rug. They do not pretend or compartmentalize. They do not fantasize about quick or easy transformation. They tell the story of very good men and women who shine with God’s goodness AND sin and struggle along the way – along a very, very long way: Abraham and Sarah, Isaac and Rebecca, Jacob and his sons, David, Peter, and Paul.

May we allow our shame to be set to the side – even if for brief moments. May we allow ourselves (ALL the parts of ourselves) to be seen and known, to experience honor and delight, goodness and connection. That process, in my experience, is a great tug of war. Most moments in which the greatest love gazes upon me are exactly the moments I want to hide the most – just like Adam and Eve in the garden, just like Peter in the courtyard. Even if I resist goodness and love a thousand times, that thousand-and-first time in which I let down my defenses allows me to taste and see that the Lord is superabundantly good – and that I am indeed his beloved.

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Love Yourself as Your Neighbor

The title is not a typo. It is intentionally provocative. I invite you to try it on for size: “Love yourself as your neighbor.” What does that stir in you?

When my spiritual director first suggested those words to me a few months ago, it jolted me. And then I saw the truth of it. There is a simple mathematical syllogism here. If A=B then B=A. When speaking of love of neighbor and love of self, Jesus does not say “more than” or “less than,” but “as.”

I suspect that many Christians will cringe at the invitation to love themselves, much less to love themselves just as much as they love their neighbor. Surely such talk is selfish? Doesn’t Scripture tell is that it is more blessed to give than to receive (Acts 20:35)? Aren’t we supposed to make a gift of ourself rather than seek our own fulfillment? Shouldn’t we be putting others first?

Jesus never actually says that last one. Nor did he live that way. As a human being, he received an abundance of human love – not only during his infancy and childhood, but even after he entered public ministry. He did not seek or expect that love from most people, but he willingly received it when it was offered. His receptivity and willingness to be loved solidified in him a secure foundation from which he could become total gift.

It is true that there is no greater love than to lay down one’s life. It is true that each and every one of us is given abundant gifts so that we can freely and fruitfully give it all away. The Second Vatican Council described human beings as creatures of gift. We are the only beings that God willed into existence for their own sake – and we can only find ourselves by making a sincere gift of ourselves (Gaudium et Spes n. 24).

What is “sincere” self-gift? And what gets in the way?

I see two extremes here, two possible distortions: toxic self-fulfillment and toxic self-sacrifice

Our culture definitely feeds us lies about finding fulfillment in ourselves. There are the more obvious examples of self-indulgence: binging on food, drink, tv shows, shopping, pornography, etc. There are also more subtle versions: the fitness culture that tells us we will be happy when our bodies look a certain way, or the approaches to psychotherapy that beckon us to find fulfillment by crafting our own identity. 

All God’s creatures are good, and we humans are very good. But when those creatures or we ourselves become the overarching goal, we become turned in on ourselves and will never discover our deeper identity and purpose, which always includes an invitation to give ourselves away in fruitful love.

The other extreme is found in all of us who squirm at the thought of “love yourself as your neighbor.” Most Christians I know feel far more comfortable giving than receiving – even if their “giving” has become joyless, bitter, resentful, or stuck. There can be a distorted form of self-sacrificing that loathes our own dignity and struggles to be receptive to the love and care of others. Receiving care would mean opening up places in our heart in which we feel alone, unloved, or unlovable. It would mean the risk of being disappointed or hurt or rejected or abandoned. It feels far safer to keep sacrificing and call it “good.”

I easily slide into caregiver mode. In those moments, I can indeed be a fruitful gift to others. And the Lord often does invite me to be generous. But if I am not paying attention and discerning, I will find myself either avoiding intimacy (always giving care and never receiving it) or feeling driven and constricted in my “giving” – or both. The former leaves me feeling alone and unloved; the latter leaves me feeling resentful and entitled. Both leave me susceptible to grasping and taking – which seems to be self-indulgence but is actually a desperate cry from within to pay attention and receive love and care.

“Integration for the sake of self-gift” – this theme summarizes the last seven years of my life, and much of my current work with other priests. Again and again, I wish I could just feel free as I give and sacrifice. “I should just be able to do this,” says my inner critic. Again and again, the Lord gently reminds me that I need much care as I make slow and not-always-steady progress. I need people in my life who see all of me – including the parts and places that feel messy or filthy. Jesus desires nothing short of ALL of me – and that includes the pieces that feel toxic. I cannot give wholeheartedly if I keep hiding away half the pieces.

I am gifted at being in dark or scary places with others. I bring both truth-telling and tenderness. I attune keenly and offer an abundance of space for them to show up however they need to.

Oh, how I need those gifts offered to me! In some cases, I seek it and experience shame or disappointment. The other offers quick advice or fast fixes, makes a comparison, or keeps talking without really having listened. And then there are those moments where really great care is present. Sometimes I receive it; more often, I launch into the “5 D’s of Dodgeball” – dodge, dip, duck, dive, and dodge. I have to admit – I’m pretty great at that game in intimate relational settings. Sometimes the others are skilled enough and kind enough to be unphased and unconfused by my maneuvering. They don’t try to whip a ball at me. Instead, I see in their eyes and face that they’re not going anywhere. Sometimes I let myself be loved in those moments. The parched land finally drinks in the water of life.

Let yourself be loved.

I am reminded here of the inspiring words of Claire Dwyer in her delightful book that summarizes the spirituality of Saint Elizabeth of the Trinity:

“Let yourself be vulnerable.  Let your walls down, your carefully constructed fortresses breached, your fiercely guarded heart laid bare.  Let your wounds be touched, your fears revealed, your deepest desires, damaged dreams, and most daring hopes unveiled before the Bridegroom who has the power to redeem, restore, and resurrect them. Drop your independence and the idea—which you clutch so tightly—that you can do anything to protect and save yourself.  And let Him love you.”

Jesus never actually says to put others first and disregard your own dignity. However, both Scripture and twenty centuries of Tradition repeatedly emphasize the core of the Gospel – that God offers us love freely and gratuitously. He loves us first, while we are yet sinners. We can only grow and bear fruit to the extent that we have received (and keep receiving) as branches on the vine.

Jesus and Mary are models of total and fruitful self-gift, but they are first models of receptivity. All that Jesus has (and gives away) is from the Father. Mary receives so wholeheartedly that the very Word of God becomes flesh in her.

Moreover, Jesus and Mary’s receiving is not merely from the Father. They willingly receive from other humans. Mary and Joseph pour human love into Jesus’ human needs. He is honored, delighted in, nurtured, protected, played with, taught, and held in reverence as one who has his own identity apart from their pre-conceived notions. Likewise, we can imagine the abundant human goodness of Mary’s childhood. Saints Joachim and Anne are traditionally named as Mary’s parents. She would not be so open and receptive in the Gospel stories if she had not already been loved safely and consistently.

Love your neighbor as yourself. Love yourself as your neighbor. Every child of God is uniquely created by him and is worthy of honor and delight. Love is never earned, but always a gift. We all get to be branches on the vine that is Christ. We all get to be interconnected as we receive and as we give forth fruit. We all matter. We all need Jesus.

It’s such a simple lesson, but one that may take a lifetime to learn. May you and I keep learning!

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Learning from Joseph

I have to…I have to…I have to… Those words are intimately familiar to me, whether in my workaholism, my perfectionism, my aggressive driving, my people-pleasing, or my shame at “failing.”

For me, it’s not so much the words as the intense sensations in my body – the pulsing energy in my chest, the tension in my shoulders, and the drivenness that pushes forward and pushes through. Even in those many moments when I am a calm haven for others amidst the storm, if I pay attention, I am sometimes holding an enormous tension within.

Saint Joseph has shown up often this past year, teaching me a different way – a way of trust and surrender, a way of poverty and depending, a way of obedience and peace.

This January, I was back in Florida to assist as one of the chaplains at the John Paul II Healing Center for the “Holy Desire” priest retreat. Each day, Bob Schuchts and Kim Glass invited us into a human sculpting exercise. It’s an improvisational group experience in which the participants interact to embody a scene. We begin with familiar stories from Scripture, such as the birth of Jesus at Bethlehem or the baptism of Jesus in the Jordan River. Then we shift the scene: instead of the Holy Family, we see a dysfunctional family with a strained marriage; instead of Jesus as the beloved Son of God in the waters, we see a struggling sinner buried beneath the burdens of shame and fear and confusion. The many different characters attune to their own intuition and to what the others are doing as they interact to form a human sculpture. Characters include the Father, the Holy Spirit, various humans, angels, evil spirits, Mary, and Joseph. You never know what will happen – each sculpt is unique, and it’s surprising how the Lord shows up.

Each day, Kim invited me to be Saint Joseph. Having a devotion to Joseph is one thing. Imagining being him in a living scene is another!

As typically happens in these human sculpts, we all felt a sweet connectedness when Mary and I arranged ourselves along with the Trinity and the angels at the birth of Jesus. As Joseph, I felt both a poverty and a fullness at one and the same time. In terms of skill or power or capacity. I had nothing to offer. Yet I felt how much I mattered in God’s design. I was very much a father, even though all my fatherhood was from the Father. It felt easy because it got to receive from a Father so close at hand. It seemed silly to try to make anything happen on my own, when such abundant resources were right there. I felt a warmth, a calm, and an inner peace.

We shifted to scenes later in Jesus’ life, and to the scenes involving other human characters. I became a heavenly protector, no longer living my earthly life as a carpenter, but still intimately connected with Jesus and with all who are one with Jesus. For those of you less familiar with Catholic devotion, Joseph is the patron and protector of the whole Body of Christ. Just as he was chosen by the Father to be a father and steward in Jesus’ life, he continues to play that role for the entire household of the Church, and for all God’s children in Christ.

As the scenes shifted, my inner peace remained. There was enormous agony in the room as the human characters became cut off and suffered in torment. For many, it felt like those struggling would never be free from the increasing torment by the evil spirits.

Meanwhile, I continued feeling poverty and peace simultaneously. I empathized deeply with the human suffering in front of me, and remained as close as I could, while fully honoring their freedom. The Father never barges in or coerces, and neither would I.

I felt powerlessness and power both at the same time. I was doubly powerless – from within and from without. From within, I humbly acknowledged my poverty, my radical dependence on and obedience to the good Father who was always sustaining me and ready to work through me. From without, I felt powerless so long as and to the extent that the other human characters didn’t desire God’s help.

But I felt doubly powerful, and a deep and peaceful sense that “all will be well, and all manner of thing will be well.” I continued feeling the strength and tenderness of God the Father, flowing in and through me as an inexhaustible supply. I felt a sense of something powerful about to happen, any moment, in the life of the child of God who was agonizing in front of Mary and me. Michael the Archangel was near at hand. In a split second, both he and I could step in with the power of God, and all would shift. With the smallest sliver of desire or the tiniest opening of receptivity, the victory would be claimed.

Joseph has many beautiful titles in Catholic devotion. My favorite has always been “Terror of Demons.” Joseph’s way of living in the present moment, trusting, receiving, and surrendering leaves nothing for the evil spirits to take hold of in a wrestling match. His willing embrace of poverty opens up space for divine strength and power.

I began feeling the meaning of that title (“Terror of Demons”) as I watched and waited – not in anxious hypervigilance but in the swelling anticipation of Advent. Any moment, I knew, the archangel Michael and I would burst onto the scene.

Bob paused our sculpt, checking in with the different characters to see what we were experiencing. As it turns out, the demons and I were experiencing the same sense of divine victory being immanent, with Joseph playing a role. The person playing the spirit of confusion was indeed terrified and declared, “Dude, I don’t wanna be anywhere near Saint Joseph right now!!” He sensed his time was short.

The whole experience was a gentle invitation for me to set down any sense of “I have to” and allow myself to wait amidst the mess with poverty and trust. Victory is already assured, and I don’t have to make it happen. I just get to rejoice in being part of it.

Joseph’s poverty is so different from the sense of scarcity that tends to terrify me. I have a deep-seated fear of abandonment and a sense that it’s all up to me to make something happen. I try so hard to be capable and powerful – often fooling others and myself. But I don’t have to do anything. I get to be loved securely by the Father, and allow his love to flow through me to others.

Becoming like Joseph requires a further repentance on my part – precisely from that idolatrous seduction into a false sense of power. Letting go of “I have to…” means letting go of the very power that helped me survive some really powerless moments in life. I learned to survive – even thrive – amidst the chaos, earning privilege and admiration – neither of which are the same as the love I actually desire.

Those who know me know that I don’t shy away from intense or chaotic situations. I’m often drawn towards them, like the paramedic who runs towards the gunshots. Being the strong and calm one amidst the storm is a familiar role in my story. And I can be a great gift in those situations. The question is, do I do it from a sense of “I have to” or from a place of freedom and peace? Do I do it alone, or in connection with others and with God, welcoming and celebrating the complementary gifts that the others bring?

I’ve been on path of healing for several years. I’m not nearly so much a slave of “I have to…” as I used to be. But that reaction still shows up, and (I imagine) will continue showing up. It’s part of my story. With Joseph as father and teacher, I’m learning that I can engage my daily labors in a much different fashion. I can notice that drivenness and then remember who the Father is and who I am. I can then welcome connection with others. I can be okay amidst the unresolved tension and wait in poverty and trust for the inevitable inbreaking of the Kingdom of God.

What is your experience of work, rest, and play? Do you have any of your own familiar roles – ways of showing up in relationships that may have served you once, but now tend to hinder your freedom? May Joseph be both a model and a mentor for you as you learn to abide In love and truth.

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With-ness and Witness

Advice is overrated.

When we are suffering or struggling or stumbling, we don’t need fixing or figuring out nearly as much as we need witnesses and companions. We need fellow human beings who are with us and for us, and who are willing to stay connected to us even when the answers aren’t obvious.

Consider the Crucifixion of Jesus. Although most of his closest companions fled and abandoned him, a few faithful witnesses remained at his side: “Standing by the Cross of Jesus were his mother and his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene” (John 19:25).

For almost any of us, what an agonizing and overwhelming sense of powerlessness this scene would evoke! We could not bear to watch the one we love in utter torment. We would very quickly feel like we had to fix it or make something happen. But they stood. They witnessed. They remained in a state of with-ness. They loved.

I’ve been a priest for nearly 21 years, and have found myself in the face of all sorts of human misery. As a pastor of two churches, I was one of the first to hear the shock of a cancer diagnosis, whether from the patient or from his loved ones. I preached at funerals following suicide, tending to the survivors who were stricken with guilt and shame. I had a front-row seat to family drama when it came time to seize the car keys or relocate a declining parent into memory care. I saw all the various ways people deal (or don’t deal) with the dying of a loved one. I certainly saw death – or at least the before and the after of death, since the moment itself is veiled. I met with the depressed, the suicidal, the anxious, or the scrupulous. I heard thousands of Confessions, often of people feeling shame as they found themselves returning to the same sins over and over. I met many people who were desperately striving to fix their spouses or their children (even when the “children” were older than I was). I encountered far too many burnt-out caregivers who found themselves stuck in rage or depression after months or years of trying to do it all by themselves.

How was I “with” those people? How did I witness?  I’d like to say it was with the heart of Mother Mary as she stood at the foot of the Cross, but that hasn’t always been the case.

I can think of many times, in younger years, in which I felt like I had to fix it. I had to help them feel better, or change their attitude, or help them believe the truth. I had a preconceived outcome and saw it as my job to convince them of it. I compared their situation to those of other people who had it worse. I got them to laugh. I said pious things. I bypassed their deeper heartache.

To be fair to myself, I know many people who remember with gratitude the care I provided ten or twenty years ago. I was still myself, even though less mature. I have always been curious about people and caring about their suffering. I was not always in touch with my own sadness, shame, fear, or anger. I used to minimize my pain, ignore entire sectors of my heart, and avoid looking at the full truth of my story. That kept me from a deeper “with-ness” with others.

As I look back, I actually went quite often with people into difficult or intense situations – for as long as I can remember. It’s part of my story. From a tender young age, I learned to contain my own emotions and be strong for others. If others felt shame or panic or rage, I just had to take it. So I got really good at taking it. But “taking it” is different from “being with.” I take it because I have to. I learn how to be selectively present, and feel resentful if it gets overwhelming or extreme. And as the resentment or stuck-ness sets in, I become highly susceptible to addictive behaviors once the “have to” goes away.

Jesus willingly and freely entered his Passion. He chose it. He didn’t do it because he had to or because he should. Yes, he agonized in the garden (how could he not?). But he surrendered to his Father’s will in full freedom.

No one took Jesus’ life – not the Pharisees, not the soldiers, and not his Father. Every Good Friday, we hear the story in John’s Gospel. He is very much the one in charge. At any moment he could stop it. But he doesn’t. He chooses a solidarity with our suffering, a “with-ness” that defies normal comprehension. He plunges into the depths of our human misery – all the harm others have ever done to us, all the ways we ourselves have harmed, and all the damaging effects. He freely says “yes,” willingly connecting himself to all of it.

The three Marys willingly stayed connected to him. They stood at the foot of the Cross, not because they “had to” or felt stuck, but because they wanted to be witnesses and wanted to be with.

I still have a lot of growing up to do, but I am learning to be with and be a witness. In the face of powerlessness or heartache, I still sometimes notice in my bodily sensations an urge towards cracking a joke or generalizing or spiritualizing. Those are moments in which I can be curious about why I am pulling away. More often, I choose instead to remain with. Now that I have explored far more places of heartache in my own heart, I find myself able and willing to go into deeper and darker places with others, without losing myself. That exploration often takes us beyond the presenting symptoms (addictive behaviors, relational struggles, anxiety, etc.) and down to the roots. I keep discovering that the majority of our families, though beautiful, carry far more brokenness and dysfunction than we wish to talk about.

The same holds true for our church families. So many have left our churches over the last few generations – too often because we in the Church harmed them or neglected what they really needed. Among those who remain, you will find a significant number of anxious and not-yet-converted Marthas (cf. Luke 10:38-42), or of judgy and controlling older brothers or sisters who don’t want to see that they are every bit as lost as their “fallen away” or “prodigal” siblings (cf. Luke 15:11-32).

What do hurting people experience when they come to our churches? Do they encounter loving witnesses who are ready to stand with them at the foot of their cross? If so, they will feel a sense of safety and belonging; they will discover a secure home in which they can begin to heal and mature.

Too often, both people and priests alike behave like those who don’t yet recognize our total and radical need for the Divine Physician. When we humbly and truthfully acknowledge that need, when we get serious about walking a path of ongoing healing, we will discover in ourselves a much greater capacity for with-ness and witness.

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Into the Desert

We begin another Lent. Jesus enters the desert to engage in combat with the devil. He shares in and represents our humanity. “He was tempted in every way we are, but did not sin” (Hebrews 4:15). He allows himself to be weak and vulnerable. He abides in his identity as a beloved Son. With humility, trust, and confidence, he conquers. He shows us that genuine human maturity is possible. We get to share more and more in the “glorious freedom of the children of God” (Romans 8:21).

Sometimes I taste that freedom. Other times, I resonate with the words of the apostle Paul: “I do not do the good that I desire, but the evil that I do not desire is what I keep on doing” (Romans 7:15). Even though I have free will, I often fee unfree!

This is where the ancient Christian Tradition of asceticism comes in. Beginning in the 200’s, many Christian men and women flocked to the desert to engage in spiritual combat and claim more fully the peace that only Christ can give.

Many people today haven’t even heard of “asceticism” or “ascesis.” Or if they have, they are likely to misunderstand or distort what it’s really about. People tend to hate it or love it for all the wrong reasons!

The Greek word askesis literally means “exercise” or “training.” Ascetical practices, when healthy and holy, are like the best of athletic training. Healthy training is directed toward a positive goal. It may include a good deal of self-denial, not to mention rigorous practices that are uncomfortable or even painful.

There can be joy, exhilaration, freedom, and peace in discovering that I am capable of so much more – and then actually experiencing it. I think back to my high school years, and the weightlifting and football training. Through intense discipline and consistent practice, often in community with others, celebrating each milestone, I discovered new possibilities that I didn’t know were within me.

I had similar experiences during the last decade, both with exercise and with how I eat. I remember quite vividly two triumphant moments about ten years ago. One was riding my bicycle up a tall and steep hill, staying in the lowest gear and determined to “just keep peddling.” It was so exhilarating when I actually made it to the top and kept going! Likewise, after months of buildup, I finally made it through an entire rigorous exercise video, muscles burning and heart pounding. It felt amazing. Seven years ago, after conversations with my doctor, I discovered new motivation to be healthier around food and alcohol. More importantly, my work in therapy and group therapy was opening my eyes to my emotions and my needs. I noticed how many times a day I felt an urge to eat (without actually being hungry). I became curious about what was really happening. I made phone calls daily to talk about it with friends. The self-denial around food opened up an awareness of how much within me needed care and healing.

I look back and see how Spirit-led all of it was. I received an abundance of healing; I genuinely matured. I look back, and I also see some pitfalls in the process – my pride and shame. There was a certain impurity in my motives – relishing the positive attention from others, silently making comparisons or judgments, and believing lies that I was somehow more lovable because I weighed less and looked different. More subtly, there was the role (the false identity) that I had adopted in adolescence – that of the golden child, who looks and acts the part and makes the family system look good. I played that role in my family; I played it for my church family; I even played it at times during 4+ years of group therapy. I recall a moment in which the group facilitator made a comment about me being the “poster child” of the group. As has happened so many times in my life, that admiration felt amazing but ultimately left me feeling empty. As I have previously described, admiration is not the same as love; and drivenness is not the same as desire.

Two years ago, I parted ways amicably with that group, as my healing journey went in a new and deeper direction. Those who truly know me and love me describe to me many ways they have seen me continue to grow. I have also “grown” in less desirable ways – externally showing weight gain that belies some of my unhealthy habits that have crept their way back in. And then I battle with the old accusing voice of shame, calling me a hypocrite – here I am, invited in my current ministry to lead other priests into healthier living, and I find myself not living in a healthy way. But that shame is telling me lies. Now I get to seek asceticism out of desire rather than fear or shame. Moreover, I now see more clearly the toxicity that is so often present in the fitness culture, the shame and contempt towards certain bodies, and the idolatry of thinness. Being healthy and holy is not about the shape of your or my body or the number that shows up on the scale. It’s certainly not about gaining the adulation of others. There is a multi-billion dollar industry that is more interested in selling their products and services than in real human flourishing. The messages are often manipulative and shaming. As it turns out, both fitness culture and asceticism have much to offer, and both are full of pitfalls.

The desert is a dangerous place. There are fell creatures there. The devil doesn’t sleep. The combat is not easy. The victory is not a one-and-done, but an ongoing and very non-linear process. When you withdraw from the world and engage in healthy self-denial, it is then that the real combat begins. Sometimes you get your lunch handed to you. Much like the cave in The Empire Strikes Back or the woods of Lothlorien in Lord of the Rings, entering the desert uncovers what already lies within your heart – and then the real combat begins.

The lives of the saints are so often sanitized or glamorized – as though they easily and quickly achieved holiness and purity. Their lived reality was so different! As Bishop Erik Varden describes in his new book on chastity, the virtue of purity is actually exceedingly rare, because it takes many years of patient and diligent effort to mature into it. As the Catechism of the Catholic Church describes (nn. 2337-2445), this process of maturing into purity is a long and exacting labor that must be renewed in every stage of life. It requires lifelong apprenticeship. It is mainly about healthy relationships, emotional maturity, and our capacity to receive and give love.

Let’s not forgot how Jesus begins his combat in the desert. He is not led there out of fear or shame, nor to improve his public image, nor because he is hoping he can change and become lovable. No, he is led there at his Father’s invitation, by the Holy Spirit, immediately following his baptism. He has already been claimed as the Father’s beloved, in whom the Father delights. He is anointed by the Holy Spirit for the battle. It can be the same for us.

Secure relationship comes first. We first are loved and delighted in and belong. We first receive strength from on high. If you are like me, much of the battle will be with the multi-layered lies of shame that keep trying to tell me I can only be lovable if…

Shame gets healed in communion – communion with God and healthy community with each other.

This Lent, I feel the Lord inviting me to reclaim healthy discipline, to engage in exercise (ascesis) in both bodily and spiritual ways. I am resolved to do so out of a desire to abide in love, to grow and mature, and to bear fruit. I may once again discover mixed motives; it’s still worth it. Layer by layer, the Lord will keep patiently and gently uncovering my heart. Such was the prophecy of Simeon to Jesus’ mother Mary. As her Son dies on the Cross, he gives her to me as a mother who always delights in me, shelters me, and guides me. I am already loved. I can now grow and keep growing.

Jesus conquers the devil by standing firm in his identity. I pray that you and I may remember who we are as we pray and live into the Collect prayer of Ash Wednesday:

Grant, O Lord, that we may begin with holy fasting this campaign of Christian service, so that as we take up battle against spiritual evils, we may be armed with weapons of self-restraint.

As we enter the desert with Jesus, may we come to share more fully in his Paschal victory, and claim that joy and peace that no one can steal away.

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