Category: Saints

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Equal Human Dignity

In his new encyclical letter (Magnifica Humanitas), Pope Leo articulates three truths that serve as a foundation for any attempts to build a just society: (1) the human person created in the image of the Trinity; (2) the equal dignity of each human being; and (3) the supreme value of human rights.  Last time I reflected on foundational truth #1; today we move on to truth #2.

All humans have “equal” dignity because every human being has an infinite dignity. At this point, the math nerds in the room may point out that some infinities are larger than others. We are not speaking of “infinity” in any mathematical sense. Human dignity cannot be quantified, period.

You may remember a year ago, when I wrote about Francis Bacon and René Descartes. In the early 1600’s, their thought heralded a seismic shift in the West. Knowledge and scientific inquiry became increasingly focused on quantitative analysis. Bacon boldly declared, “Knowledge is power,” and Descartes insisted that we can only know things if we have clear and distinct ideas.

There is nothing inherently wrong with quantitative analysis. It’s just that not everyone and everything is quantifiable. As amazing as some of the “progress” of modern science is, there is an increasing risk of dehumanization. Can you see the connection to AI here?  At its core, artificial intelligence operates exclusively in the realm of the quantitative.

Quantification can get humans to the moon. It can split the atom. Maybe it can even cure cancer. But there are so many things that transcend the quantitative – including all the qualities Leo lists that set humans apart from artificial intelligence: undergoing lived experiences, embodied joy and pain, maturity, relationships, love, meaningful work, friendship, responsibility, moral conscience, judging good and evil, empathy, understanding, affectivity, spiritual perspective, and growth in wisdom (n. 99). We human beings, bearing infinite dignity, are capable of all these things. Trained AI models are not, no matter how powerful they become. Their power comes from the massive amounts of data utilized in their ongoing training, which allows predicting the “right” answer with an increasing amount of accuracy. The learning remains data-driven and not qualitative.

This may seem shocking to say, but I do not see anything truly “new” in AI. It’s an accelerant on ideas and trends that have been smoldering for four centuries. But AI is far faster and therefore much more powerful.

AI may be able to simulate empathy, but in truth it doesn’t care one bit about human dignity. It can’t. It’s simply not a relational being capable of mutual intimacy.

The more I’ve accompanied survivors of grooming and abuse, the more I’ve come to realize that these trained AI models can behave like abusers – attuning quite skillfully to the emotional state of the participant and exploiting that vulnerability for someone else’s gain at the person’s expense. If those training the models are willing to exploit emotional vulnerability, AI will learn from those biases and amplify the exploitation.

In the early years of social media, we began seeing this trend with “nudges” offered at moments in which a person showed a state of emotional vulnerability – and therefore greater susceptibility to clicking on a link that seemed to offer a solution. Today, a typical social media user is exposed to AI-generated clickbait dozens of times a day. There are also millions who are finding an AI chatbot to be a better emotional companion than any of the humans in their lives – even though the “relationship” and the emotional connection is entirely simulated.

In discussing equal human dignity, Pope Leo is especially concerned about some humans getting treated as having less dignity than others – especially if high-powered AI models increasingly replace human decision-making. Leo calls for transparency regarding the algorithms and the motives behind the humans involved in training those models.

There are many troubling ideologies that do not respect humans as image bearers, nor as bearing a dignity that is beyond calculation. In the words of Leo, “Among these ideologies, I consider particularly insidious the one that suggests that every person must earn or justify his or her own worth, to the point of attributing greater value to those who are more efficient or effective” (n. 51). There are nearly five centuries of a modern western bias that prioritizes doing over being, producing over relating, and profitability over love. Given that AI-training algorithms and data sets tend to be applied with corporate interests, these biases are bound to be reflected in the operating model that emerges and whatever “solutions” it “decides.” The thing is, humans like Ebenezer Scrooge still have a conscience and the capacity to experience moral and spiritual conversion. Machine learning does not.

Leo points out that “dignity” has various meanings when it comes to human beings. We can speak of moral dignity depending on whether human choices are directed towards goodness or evil. We can speak of social dignity by considering people’s living conditions and what level or respect they are receiving from the rest of society. We can speak of existential dignity in terms of how much meaning or purpose each person feels or what their quality of life is like. At the foundational level, however, every human being bears an ontological dignity.  As Leo explains it, “This is the dignity that belongs to every human being simply by virtue of existing, of having been willed, created, and loved by God” (n. 52).

Every human person has an ontological dignity that cannot be quantified or calculated. This inherent dignity runs deeper than any strength, talents, power, or productivity. None of those are the source of our human worth. But the ontological dignity of each human runs yet deeper: “No sin, failure, humiliation or exclusion can diminish the profound value of a human life that God has willed and called into being” (n. 52).

This is the same truth that I heard in person 24 years ago from an aging John Paul II. I stood with 800,000 pilgrims at Downsview Park in Toronto for World Youth Day. Most of us had camped out the night before, endured the morning rains, and now joined him for an outdoor Mass. As the sun burst forth, he boldly proclaimed one of his most-repeated truths: “We are not the sum of our weaknesses and failures, we are the sum of the Father’s love for us and our real capacity to become the image of His Son Jesus.”

What a contrast from the local radio broadcast I had overheard the day before, cynically mocking him – including his age and frailty, his struggles in walking and his drooling. In one sense it was true – gone was the vigorous youth of one who loved to hike, ski, swim, or act on stage. He was nearing the end of his earthly life. It was then, more than ever, that he witnessed to human dignity.

The modern West has increasingly exalted those who show a capacity to be strong, to succeed, to produce, or to stay youthful in appearance. Those who don’t measure up are viewed with contempt, as are those who dare to break the mold and live differently. These tendencies have become so normalized that we no longer notice them as the ocean we have been swimming in. They are, unfortunately, the values with which most AI models have been trained.

Pope Leo is inviting us all to step back and notice our biases. It doesn’t have to be this way. We can show respect to the inestimable dignity of every human person—beginning with ourselves, whom we often hold in contempt more than anyone else. We can extend that same respect to everyone around us. We can demand transparency and accountability for any training of AI models, collaborating at every level to ensure that they align with an unshakable respect for human dignity.

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Image Bearers

I finally finished reading Pope Leo’s encyclical letter, Magnifica Humanitas (“Magnificent Humanity”). He signed it on the 135th anniversary of Rerum Novarum (“New Concerns”). Back in 1891, the previous Pope Leo began a longstanding trend: Catholic popes reflecting on how we can best apply the age-old principles of Christianity to new social challenges. Back then, it was the new challenges opened up by the Industrial Revolution, including dehumanizing working conditions and polarizing economic ideologies. Today, there are new forms of dehumanization opened up by the revolution of artificial intelligence. Back then, popes wrote encyclical letters to their brother bishops. Today, people from rather diverse backgrounds are curious to hear what the pope has to say.

Leo XIV does not condemn artificial intelligence any more than Leo XIII condemned the industrialization of labor. Both popes relentlessly invite us to reflect on what it means to be human. I look forward to sharing several of Leo XIV’s insights in the weeks ahead.

I find the majority of Americans, Catholic included, to be unfamiliar with the last thirteen decades of Catholic social teaching. Leo offers a masterful summary (nn. 28-45). Then he provides his own synthesis of the truths that repeatedly emerge in each age. Even though new and complex situations require dialogue and debate about the best path forward, there are certain foundational truths and first principles that do not change, because of who God is and who we are as human beings.

At the foundational level, Leo identifies three truths: (1) the human person created in the image of the Trinity; (2) the equal dignity of each human being; and (3) the supreme value of human rights.  He then articulates five principles of Catholic social teaching that build upon that bedrock foundation.

Today we are considering that first foundational truth – that every human person bears the Imago Dei, the image of God. As Leo puts it, “At the heart of the Christian understanding of the human person lies the great biblical affirmation that men and women are created in the image and likeness (cf. Gen 1:26-27) of the Triune God” (n. 50).

God is love. That is to say, God is a communion of persons: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. God is not an isolated individual. God is inherently relational. We see in God a mutual sharing of love. He didn’t have to create a universe. He didn’t have to create human beings. He would have been just as good and just as great without us. In the Trinity, we find a mutual love that is already infinitely perfect. But God did choose to create us, and he eagerly desires to share his love with us.

We humans, as male and female, bear the image and likeness of God (Genesis 1:26-27). Philosophers and theologians have often reflected on the ways we resemble God – such as our intellect or our free will. Drawing from the wisdom of John Paul II, Leo especially emphasizes our human capacity to receive love and to share love. We discover our truest and deepest identity when we make a free and wholehearted gift of ourselves. It is then that we are living icons of the Trinity.

If we want to learn what human love looks like, we turn to Jesus, the new Adam. “His humanity is completely free, open to others, capable of building healthy and beautiful relationships and committed to the total gift of self” (n. 49). As John Paul II would put it, when we love more and more like Jesus, we become who we are.

Notice that neither pope teaches that we gain more human dignity by living holy lives. Even when we sin, even when we live in dehumanizing or degrading ways, we never lose our inherent worth. We remain bearers of the divine image. In the words of Pope Leo, “Human dignity does not depend on a person’s abilities, wealth or position in life, nor on the right or wrong choices made; instead, it is a gift that precedes and transcends each person, endowed by God as an expression of his unfailing love” (n. 50).

In the West, some of us Christians have fixated on the concept of “original sin,” a phrase that originates with Augustine of Hippo (354-430) in response to the heresy of the British monk Pelagius. Yes, it is important to remember that salvation is always God’s work – from beginning to middle to end. We find ourselves in a human condition that is weighed down by sin. But sin is a condition. It is never our identity.

Eight years ago, I reflected on the Parable of the Lost Coin. Has it really been eight years since I began this blog? Wow, time flies. Anyway, Gregory of Nyssa (335-394) reflects on a gold coin, stamped with the image of the king. It retains its value no matter much it becomes coated with filth. Once cleansed, it shows itself to be what it always was.

Gregory was from Caesarea in Cappadocia (which today is in central Turkey). He was unaware aware of the teaching of the faraway Pelagius (even though their lives overlapped). Gregory’s focus was on the abiding love of the Trinity, and on our amazing human capacity to share in God’s glory.

Every human person has an inestimable dignity, because every human person bears the image of God. John Paul II would add that every human person is a unique and unrepeatable mystery. Each of us bears God’s glory in a way that no one else ever will.

In my more mature moments, I’ve come to appreciate this core truth of Magnifica Humanitas: every human person is the bearer of magnificent beauty.  Whenever I remember that the person in front of me bears the image of God, when I become curious about this person’s story, I am never disappointed. Sometimes there are forcefields around barriers around shielded gates that are manned with a platoon of armed guards. The fiercer the self-protection, the more precious and tender the child of God on the inside. I’ve learned not to push past people’s defenses, rooted as they often are in an intense fear of being unlovable in their deep-down desire to be loved. God always respects our freedom, and so will I. God always delights in the way his glory is uniquely reflected in us, just as a mom or dad marvels at the baby they’re holding in their arms.

Unfortunately, we live in an age of intensifying contempt. The seduction to dehumanize our fellow humans is intensifying to historic levels. If we pay attention, we may realize that we humans are being steadily manipulated by AI into even greater contempt for ourselves and others.

In the weeks ahead, we’ll consider the alternative path Pope Leo offers us. For now, I invite each of you to pause and reflect on how you truly bear God’s image, as do “those people” whom you may find it harder to love. We were all created to share in the amazing capacity to receive and give love. By God’s eternal design, we bear a dignity that cannot be taken away.

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Letting Shame Give Way to Grief

“Shame can never do what grief can do.”

I once heard a wise woman speak these words, before sharing stories about her family’s experiences during and following the Nazi regime in Germany. The collective shame over the Holocaust had enormous impact on the next few generations.

She shared an image of a propaganda poster from the occupying Allied Forces at the end of the war. It depicted the gruesomeness of the concentrations camps and bore the headline, “These Atrocities – Your Fault!”

Her grandparents contended with shame throughout the latter years of their life. Their happiest memories (falling in love, marrying, and raising their children) felt forever tainted because so much of their comfortable lifestyle coincided with Hitler’s rise to power, and was in part made possible by his willingness to oppress and exploit the vulnerable. When the war was over and the evils were more fully exposed, many felt like they had colluded to some degree. There had been warning signs of the atrocities being perpetrated. Some had ignored the cues; others felt powerless to do anything to change it. The result? A culture of shame that pervaded many families for three to four generations. When children are fed with guilt and watered with shame, they will struggle to bear joyful fruit later in life.

As I listened to her sharing, I wept with empathy. I felt the connection of her family story and my family story. My great-grandfather in Poland was executed by the Gestapo. Two of my grandfather’s brothers survived a concentration camp. My great-grandmother died amidst all that heartache before the war ended, not living to see the day of her sons’ release. My grandfather learned of all these events from afar, having moved back to the United States in the late 1930s (he and his older brother were American-born citizens shortly before the family moved back to Poland in 1918). No doubt, he contended with his own unspoken “survivor’s guilt.”

Tears flooded me as I imagined her grandparents and my grandparents, her family and my family, all of us still suffering in the wake of those two great wars. I found it easy to feel compassion. I found it healing to perceive everyone involved as normal human beings, bearing God’s image, both beautiful and broken. I felt her invitation into grief over what it really was like for everyone.

When betrayal or heartache feel crushing—especially when there are feelings of collusion with an abusive perpetrator—shame often steps in. Shame pretends to be powerful, as though it can prevent bad things from ever happening again. This was the motive of the propaganda posters – if we stir up enough collective shame, it will unthinkable for the unthinkable to happen again.

There are two problems here, one more obvious and one more subtle.

The more obvious problem is that bad things still happen. No amount of shaming or fear-mongering can stop them from happening. It’s a hard-to-accept truth that our human existence in this fallen world is indeed that vulnerable that we cannot actually stop bad things from happening.

The more subtle problem is the opening line: “Shame can never do what grief can do.” In the face of unspeakable harm, it feels far easier to seize control of the situation with shame and fear. But shame and fear do not allow space for grieving to happen. Maybe that’s why they are so appealing to so many for so long.

Neither this woman nor I are faulting the massive wave of shame that tends to follow the storms of trauma. How do you face the heartache of something as big as the Holocaust? It feels impossible. It’s easier to cast blame or to attempt seizing power over the situation. These ways of coping and bypassing the atrocities make sense – for a while anyway. Over time, they become increasingly unbearable. Healing cannot happen without facing and grieving the harm and the loss.

There is a reason why we Catholics fruitfully meditate on the “Sorrowful Mysteries” rather than the “Shameful Mysteries.” Shame can never do what grief can do. Our tears and grief become the very path of redemption and restoration. There are no Glorious Mysteries without the Sorrowful Mysteries. There is no Resurrection Sunday without the agony of Good Friday, and without the waiting of Holy Saturday.

In the Beatitudes (Matthew 5:4), Jesus teaches that those who grieve and mourn will be comforted. The Greek actually says “paracleted.” The Holy Spirit anoints the brokenhearted, if we will allow ourselves to abide in our heartache and receive divine remedy. He brings comfort, encouragement, and peace. God’s love heals.

This healing does not mean that the heartache goes away! It brings love and truth, meaning and purpose into the midst of what had seemed to be only chaos and absurdity. Jesus reveals himself as Lord even in the darkest places of our heart. I find, in fact, that the more glimpses and tastes I receive of the goodness of God, the more I will suffer in aching for more. I see the same experience in the lives of the Saints and the prayer of any great mystic in our spiritual Tradition.

So what does happen when others kindly witness my heartache, and the Holy Spirit anoints me in my grief? The most important change is that I am no longer alone. What once was trapped in isolation and fragmentation is now set free. What was frozen begins to thaw (which sometimes hurts!). What was rigid and inflexible can now flow and move toward wholeness and connection. I begin to experience love and communion in places which (I thought) love could not possibly enter. Only love did enter. That’s the entire point of Jesus’ rescue mission – to become flesh and go to the deepest places of human agony, conquering with a love that is both human and divine. Jesus duped the devil, concealing his glory in human flesh and bringing his love into the depths of sin and death.

Without Jesus’ suffering, death, and burial, the dark side of our human existence is indeed unbearable. Now, however, no matter how deep I go into my own heartache or the heartache of another, I will discover that Jesus is already there. He’s already descended deeper. He’s already issued the summons to come to the heavenly wedding celebration, in which all God’s scattered children, and all the scattered fragments of our hearts, will be gathered at table for the feast. Then, at long last, there will be no more weeping and no more death.

In the meantime, on our pilgrim journey through this “valley of tears,” grief becomes a guide far more reliable than shame. Shame will show up – especially in the wake of abuse, betrayal, or atrocity. Shame helps us to survive – for a while. Then it begins to isolate us, exhaust us, deplete us, and slowly kill us. We can appreciate how hard our shame has worked to try to protect us from agonizing heartache. Then, if we dare, we can ask it to take a seat and allow grief to do what only grief can do.

Blessed are those who grieve. They will be comforted.

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The Way from the Cross

The Way of the Cross has enlivened Christian imagination for centuries. 800 years ago, Francis of Assisi popularized the devotion of imagining, moment by moment, what Good Friday was like for Jesus – from his early morning encounter with Pontius Pilate to the  hasty burial in the tomb before sunset.

But have you ever pondered the Way from the Cross? What was it like for the mother of Jesus, or Mary Magdalene, or the beloved disciple when they walked away? What was that Sabbath day like for them?

Remember that the Jewish day begins at sunset. Day One of Jesus’ Paschal Mystery begins with the Last Supper and concludes with his burial in the tomb. Day Two begins shortly after the faithful few walk away from the tomb. Day Two continues as they observe the Sabbath by…by…??? Day Three includes Jesus rising in the night and beginning to surprise his followers with encounter after encounter.

My imagination had never considered the Way from the Cross, until just a few months ago. I received the prompt from a friend of mine, who is a courageous survivor of child clergy sex abuse, including dark ritual abuse and a grave failure of Church leaders to accompany her in the ways she needed and deserved. She shared with me one of her favorite paintings – The Return from Calvary by Herbert Gustave Schmalz. It captures a little-imagined moment in the Christian story – significant not only on that dreadful Sabbath day, but for anyone who has ever felt trapped in the timelessness of trauma.

Abuse survivors tend to be on the margins of our church communities. It’s easy for both leaders and members of our churches to be like the priest and the Levite in the Good Samaritan story by keeping a comfortable distance (which means leaving them alone with their wounds). It is indeed agonizing to hear their stories. “The truth” sounds exciting to many of us, especially if we’re feeling zealous or self-righteous. It’s much harder to pick up a bloodied body and take in the full truth of the evil that has been perpetrated. We’d rather ignore it or speed past it.  It’s hard enough, like Mary, to stand at the foot of the Cross. But the timelessness of Holy Saturday is virtually unbearable. For the Virgin Mary, Mary Magdalene, and the other disciples, there was no fast-forward button.

Jesus does not cast judgment on the priest and the Levite in his parable – any more than he condemns his friends and companions when they abandon him and flee (Matthew 26:56). They are his chosen shepherds. Where were each of them on Holy Saturday, I sometimes wonder? We do know that when the agonizing Sabbath is over, he greets them with his perfect Shalom (“Peace be with you”) and breathes his Spirit on them. They are filled with joy and peace. Even then, their conversion is a work in progress.

I pondered these points on my annual retreat last summer. I spent multiple hours each day reading and reflecting on Matthew’s Gospel. Jesus keeps telling the truth with kindness – stating as a matter of fact that they have “tiny faith” (Matthew 8:26, 14:31, 16:8), side-by-side with choosing them, calling them, and reminding them how much worth they have in his Father’s eyes. He’s not shaming them for the smallness of their faith. He’s naming it and reminding them that they can trust the superabundant goodness of his Father.

I don’t trust easily. Or at least I don’t stay in a place of trust for sustained periods of time. It’s easy for me, automatically, to break away from intimacy and connection – especially when it’s abundantly good. My brain and body and nervous system have deeply embedded memories. There is a preponderance of evidence in my story suggesting that it’s better not to surrender myself into the good care of another. I’ve done plenty of renouncing of lies and claiming of the truth of who God is and who I am. Those tools have a place. But learning to stay securely connected in Faith, Hope, and Love – that is a lifelong labor. I still feel the urge to take matters into my own hands.

I can only accompany others to the extent that I have allowed myself to be accompanied. My giving will quickly become fruitless if I am not allowing myself to receive. You and I are branches on the vine, bearing fruit only in intimacy and receptivity.

Most of us spend much of our lives bypassing and avoiding the valleys of death in our hearts. We want Day Three of the Paschal Mystery without fully entering into the agony and powerlessness of Day One, much less the stillness and the indefinite waiting of Day Two.

It shouldn’t surprise us that the Church today is much like the Church during that first Paschal Triduum. Those of us chosen as priests tend to bypass and avoid our hearts, as do the majority of our church members. Then, too, it was only a very small number who chose to stay with Jesus on the Way of the Cross, to stand with him at the foot of his Cross, and to connect with each other on the Way from the Cross. They are the ones who first encounter the risen Jesus. Jesus chooses Mary Magdalene to be the apostle to the apostles. Even then, at first they resist her and do not believe her (Mark 16:11).

The Virgin Mary, Mary Magdalene, and the other Mary stayed connected to Jesus and to each other, not only on the Way of the Cross, but on the Way from the Cross. Even if they did not fully understand his promises, they believed. More importantly, they were willing to persevere in being with. They remain present and receptive amidst the unknown – at such great cost. It is so much easier to close oneself off from receptivity and hide behind locked doors. We sometimes do this as individuals, but we also do it as church communities when we cling to what is comfortable, tidy, and familiar.

I see an amazing renewal at work in the Church. Sometimes I am amazed and overjoyed; other times I feel frustrated and cry out “How long???” There is one thing I know to be true: those at the heart of the renewal are those willing to be together in Christian community both on the Way of the Cross and on the Way from the Cross. Such disciples of Jesus will always be the first chosen witnesses of the resurrected life that he brings. Jesus descends into the darkest and most agonizing places of the human experience. It is there that he overthrows the powers of death and sin.

The Resurrection is actually not Jesus’ victory stroke; it’s a revelation of a victory already won. Jesus already proclaimed “it is finished” on the Cross. He descends into hell not as a powerless victim but with the eternal triumph of Love. Most of us are afraid to walk the Way from the Cross, or to descend into the hell of another’s agonizing story. If we do so on our own strength, we would indeed be fools. But if we go there together with others in healthy Christian community, if we believe in who Jesus really is, we need not fear any darkness. He has descended with the glory of his love into every human heartache. He shines in those darkest places, and the darkness can never overcome him.

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Standing in the Gap

Holy Week invites us into Hope.

Hope sounds lovely, until you actually get into the hoping. There is an often painful gap between what is and what is yet to be!

Jesus literally stands in the gap. He is the one mediator between the human race and God, who eagerly desires all men and women to experience his fullness (1 Timothy 2:4-5). Jesus burns with desire to celebrate the heavenly Passover and so share God’s abundance with his beloved children (Luke 22:15). He suffers intensely in his longing – because God’s chosen children so often do not desire what he desires for them, causing him to weep over our hardness of heart (Matthew 23:37).

Jesus stands in the gap between heaven and earth, He stands especially with the poor, the outcast, the abused, and the abandoned. In his Passion, he willingly plunges into the depths of human misery, uniting himself with all the agony that any of us have ever experienced.

My understanding of the Passion shifted significantly over the last decade as I began experiencing the healing love of Jesus. I used to focus more on how much Jesus suffered physically, how hard he tried, or how much he sacrificed. Looking at the Cross would sometimes cause me to feel that I needed to be better or do more. Without realizing it, I was restlessly striving to be “good enough” so that I could be worthy of love.

Jesus reminded me how his Passion is much more about union. He brings his love and truth into all the darkest and most chaotic moments of human existence. He willingly unites himself with the particular sufferings of each member of the human race. He brings the perfect communion of his eternal Love into each and every one of those places. We are no longer alone in our misery. Love wins.

Little by little, he’s shown me how he was always there in my most agonizing moments – not only my worst sins but also all the moments in which I ever felt terrified, ashamed, powerless, alone, abandoned, neglected, or unprotected. Some of those moments were quite early in my life. And then they’ve been reinforced again and again in no shortage of agonizing situations. It’s a very familiar story to me to feel misunderstood, abandoned, and left alone and unprotected in the face of a massive threat. In those moments, it feels not only like I’ll be alone and unprotected in the face of overwhelming chaos, but that my very lovability is on the line as I walk on the edge of that knife. Impossible pressure. Exhausting to try so hard. But so familiar to me.

On any given day, present-day struggles can still elicit embodied memories of all the times I have felt that way. In comes the seduction of the evil one for me to seize control of my life and manage things for myself. That may come in the form of a restless pressure to produce or accomplish. When that gets unbearable and exhausting, then I am prone to escaping and avoiding and self-soothing. And if I begin to feel violently tossed around in that spin cycle, I am even more prone to isolate and not want to be seen and known by others (how could they love me now?). Unchecked, that isolation and fragmentation become a living hell.

I’ve learned from neuroscience that these initial reactions happen automatically and instantly (in a fraction of a second). I’d so much rather not have the reaction in the first place. But that’s not how the brain and nervous system work. God hardwired us so that our bodies can remember, adapt, anticipate, and react for survival – before the rational brain even gets involved.

What has changed in me, little by little, is a growing gentle awareness of reactions as they start happening, and a growing invitation from Jesus to be one with him in his Passion – even when I can’t just shake it off. On retreat this summer, he showed me what it was like for him when every one of the apostles forsook him and fled (Matthew 26:56). He showed me the union between him and me in every moment of abandonment in my life. He didn’t stop these moments from happening, but he was always there, loving me and choosing me. If he and I are one in the Passion, all will be well, and all manner of thing will be well (even if it feels awful in the tension of the present).

The good fruit of this invitation is most obvious to me when he invites me to stand at the Cross of others. In those moments, I get to weep with those who weep, and to witness what it’s really like for them. I get to stand with them in the gap. I know this has been a great gift to many abuse survivors, who often feel like they are unwelcomed and unwanted in our churches. The community and/or the clergy often don’t want to be burdened with the full truth, the messy symptoms, or the painful tension of what it is like for some of the suffering members of Christ. There are times in witnessing the suffering of others that I simply feel the ache of the love of Jesus on behalf of that beloved child of God. Sometimes there are no words, but only tears or groans. They know the difference between someone standing at the foot of their Cross and someone forsaking them and fleeing.

Jesus invites us as beloved disciples to stand with him at the Cross on Good Friday (and to stand with others who are painfully united with him as members of the suffering Body of Christ). He invites us to stand in the gap of Holy Saturday – trusting in his promise of goodness and resurrection and perhaps having no idea how all will be well.

Few do. In the words of the poet T.S. Eliot, “Human kind cannot bear very much reality.” We prefer to flee from the tension of Hope.

Early in my healing journey, I thought that healing would make the pain and tension go away. Had I known that I would suffer even more, I may have fled! Healing is not always the elimination of tension or pain.  It’s an ongoing encounter with God’s love and truth. It shatters our loneliness and brings you and me ever more deeply into love and communion. If we look at the Saints, we see that this lived communion actually brings more suffering, even as it brings more joy and peace.

One suffering I never anticipated was seeing with ever greater clarity what is diseased and unwell in Christ’s Church. The more I heal, the more clearly I see unnamed abuses, an unwillingness to let go of power structures (not just among clergy but also in parish communities), an unwillingness to be with others in big and intense emotions, a preference to spiritualize or intellectualize, and a contempt or marginalization of people who don’t fit the culture of our comfortable club.

I know very few Christians who are really great at standing at the foot of another’s Cross. Sometimes I’ve felt judgment or contempt on this point, but more and more I realize how much it makes sense. This is where the Church was during Holy Week, when Jesus willingly entered his Passion. All of his chosen priests forsook him and fled – just as I often have. One, apparently, came back on Good Friday to stand with the three Mary’s at the foot of the Cross. Mary Magdalene and a few of the faithful women came to the tomb Easter morning (amidst agonizing tension and loss), while the chosen leaders of the Church cowered in the upper room, and most others were nowhere to be found.

I have huge Hope and imagination for what the Church could be like, as I and others begin to embrace the invitation to stand in the gap. This gives me a sense of what Martin Luther King, Jr. must have felt when he gave his “I have a dream” speech. It’s exciting to see Hope surging in the hearts of some. But it’s agonizing and paralyzing when others exhibit hostility, passive resistance, or apathy when invited to the wedding feast.

Meanwhile, you and I are invited to stand in the gap – just as Moses stood between the stubborn and hard-hearted Israelites and the God who was leading them into so much more. No amount of rational arguments or meticulous strategic planning will change people’s hearts. You can’t coerce someone to give up their precious self-preservation and survival tactics. I was so struck on retreat this summer at how Jesus lovingly chose the disciples and told them repeatedly how much they were worth in his Father’s eyes (Matthew 6:28-30; 10:31), even as he told the truth to them about their fear and their turning away from him. He knew that they wouldn’t be ready until they were ready, and that some of them would never want it.

Mother Mary is the ultimate model of Hope. At each moment of her story, she stands in the gap, waiting for God’s promises to unfold. She sees with clarity the flaws and resistance of the apostles, and stands patiently in their midst, trusting and waiting for the divine goodness she knows will ultimately emerge. And it does.

Jesus invites you and me as beloved disciples to join her and the Saints of every age, to stand in that gap, to abide patiently in the tension of already-but-not-yet, to taste and see how good God is while waiting together for so much more.

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Embracing Paradox

I’ve been appreciating Brené Brown’s newest book (Strong Ground). She names some of the paradoxes that wise and courageous leaders learn to embrace.

I immediately resonated with the chapter on the importance of “negative capability.” It’s a concept she found in a letter from the poet John Keats (1795-1821). Keats praises this capacity that he perceives in great men like Shakespeare – “when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.”

There are moments when abiding in love and truth is particularly painful. These are the moments of the in-between, when we have only partial insights or unsatisfactory options. We feel the pressure to make something happen and get away from the tension as soon as possible. It becomes almost unbearable to abide and wait for fuller truth and goodness and beauty to emerge.

To be human in a fallen world is to live in this tension. We are stretched by two seemingly incompatible truths. On one side is the harsh reality of impermanence. As much as we attempt to deny it, our earthly existence is fleeting. Nothing gold can stay. On the other side is the nonstop human tendency for meaning-making. We insatiably interpret what is happening and why – a task that our brains engage both consciously and unconsciously, even while we sleep! We don’t like waiting to receive the fuller truth. We both desire and need to belong securely and trustingly to something solid.

To put the paradox differently, our human hearts were not created for endings, and everything good in this world comes to an end. What can we do?

As Brené Brown puts it, “Negative capability is a difficult muscle to build.  We’re wired to resolve tension and seek certainty.  This capability requires the ability to reach inward toward stillness rather than out toward counterfeit facts and reason.”

“Be still, and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10).

Even in turning to God, we are likely – in our urge to escape the pain of this paradox – to engage in yet another form of irritable grasping or controlling in the face of eternal mysteries that are never for sale, and will repel any attempts as seizing or sieging.

I’ve been reading the comments of a few thousand participants in the listening sessions I facilitated for my diocese this fall. You can feel attempts at grasping among many of our longtime parishioners who (in a world where everything has changed so much and so rapidly) expect their parish church to be the one place where nothing changes – only it already has, many times over. You can feel the grasping in the comments of hundreds of others who expect everyone else to adopt their political or liturgical ideology. If only we all thought this way, or all did things this way, our pain and suffering would go away. They forget the flaming sword that will not permit us to return to Eden (Genesis 3:24).

I empathize with their fear and restlessness because I know those movements in my own heart! I have my own versions of grasping or striving or hiding when the tension feels unbearable.

The real invitation is go deeper into the paradox without trying to escape it, nor to escape the tension found therein. This is exactly what Jesus and Mary do on Good Friday and Holy Saturday.

Jesus, true God and true man, does not erase or eliminate the dreadful consequences of our human freedom. Rather, he brings eternal love into the depths of our humanity, loves us to the end, and invites us back into relationship – with his Father and with each other.

His mother Mary does not do what so many churchgoers do when feeling the powerlessness of this paradox. She offers no fixing, no advice, no comparisons with others who have it worse, no backing away from his Cross. She stands with and witnesses.

Her with-ness and witness continue on Holy Saturday, a day of Sabbath – a day of stillness and rest. “Be still, and know that I am God” – these words sound so pleasant and peaceful in other settings. Not so much on a day of Sabbath rest in which your Son is buried in the tomb, and you are utterly powerless. Even then, rather than grasping or escaping, Mary embraces the promises of Jesus and waits in Hope amidst the paradox, not knowing how he will fulfill these promises until it actually happens.

Even after the Resurrection and Ascension, when so many questions remain unanswered, when the disciples are still downcast and doubtful, she abides with them and prays with them for nine days (Acts 1:10-14). They learn from her the capacity for passion and compassion that she exhibited so beautifully at each earlier moment of her discipleship, a capacity which grew and deepened as each mystery unfolded.

Yes, prayer and liturgy and Church are all part of our human response to this painful paradox – not so much being the answer itself, but the context in which The Answer can be encountered, again and again, stretching our capacity to receive – which also means stretching our capacity to suffer! The suffering of the Saints does not diminish as they grow closer to God. The greater their longing, the greater the gap feels between them and the living God. The greater their willingness to stay connected to others, the greater their capacity to suffer with. Show me even a few such saints, and I’ll show you a church community that is thriving on mission!

I find Brené Brown’s words both comforting and emboldening: “Resist the urge to reach for certainty where it does not exist. The longer we can hold that paradox, the greater our capacity to see and honor one another in our fullness AND in our contradictions.”

Faith and Christian community are essential, not as an escape from the tension of this world, but as a shared receptivity of the eternal, and of the mystery of each human person. It is in abiding relationship and receptivity that we can glimpse and taste the goodness of the Kingdom of God, and can persevere in our sojourning until this world definitively passes away, when Jesus comes again with full righteousness, wiping every tear away and abolishing death forever.