Category: Church Renewal

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Truth is Relational

Truth – what is Truth?

The question of Pontius Pilate echoes through the centuries. In the modern era, you tend to find one of two extremes: a relativism that denies the very possibility of finding the Truth, or fear-based clutching onto “truth” in a way that demands rigid clarity.

René Descartes (1596-1650) is famous for his “I think, therefore I am.” His modern approach to philosophy was utterly unlike Socrates, who invited those hungry for Wisdom to pursue Truth and Goodness and Beauty in a communal encounter. and dialogue. His enquiries often left more questions than answers – but at least they were beginning to ask the right questions. By contrast, Descartes isolated himself in his room and began his enquiry with doubt and denial. He could only accept as true that which he could grasp with mathematical certainty. He insisted on clear and distinct ideas. With that insistence, he could not even accept with certainty the reality of the fire in his fireplace or the chair beneath his body. But he could not doubt that he doubted. If he is thinking, he must exist. Notice the disconnect between mind and body!

In reading modern philosophers like Descartes, Hume, or Kant, I find their reasoning itself to be meticulous. It’s their starting points that are questionable! As human beings, we do not begin as isolated thinking individuals and then reason our way out to others and the world. We begin already existing in relationship!

I understood this point well enough a quarter century ago, when I studied philosophy. Now that I have plunged into trauma research and the findings of contemporary neuroscience, I see it even more clearly and distinctly: the human capacity to accept Truth, to grow, to change, and to mature is only possible within the context of secure relationship.

Any spouses who have been in a heated argument can appreciate this point. If the other person feels threatened, shamed, or unappreciated, it does not matter how clearly and distinctly you are making your brilliant point. Genuine receptivity is only possible if the other person feels safe and connected.

Indeed, Truth itself is relational. We are created in the image of a Triune God. “God is love” – that is to say, God eternally exists as a communion of persons. He has placed into the human heart a desire for Truth, Goodness, and Beauty. Little by little, we become more capable of receiving and being received into this infinite abundance.

We see this desire best in children who are curious and full of wonder – or in adults who are willing to become again like little children. Perhaps not all Fairy Tales are true, but it is not hard for little children to believe in them! For little ones, it is normal to abide in awe and wonder in the face of mysteries they do not fully comprehend. It is normal to be surprised and delighted by new unveilings of Truth or Goodness or Beauty.

Trauma responses are a different matter. When under threat – whether immediately or over a long stretch of time – our nervous system is hardwired to survive. If I am being chased by a grizzly bear or about to be hit by a Mack Truck, there is no time or space for curiosity and wonder – nor should there be. Surviving the threat becomes priority #1, and the full resources of my brain and body are immediately diverted for that purpose.

Unfortunately, though, individuals or collective groups (families, communities, or churches) can get locked in survival mode. You can tell it’s there when you hear the black-and-white thinking, the all-or-nothing. It’s us versus them, and other humans are all good or all bad. If you grew up in a family that was stuck a trauma response, you may be able to appreciate how hard it is for each of the children to be pushed into rigid roles rather than loved and cherished in their uniqueness. When an entire society gets stuck in a trauma response, the politics get polarized, with fear and shame at the core of the messaging. In those moments, the people are especially vulnerable to the rise of a dictator. In church life, when the outside environment feels threatening, it’s tempting to circle the wagons and grasp onto a rigid dogmatism – vilifying everyone outside the circle and insisting on a possessive grasp of true or false, good or evil.

Don’t get me wrong – I love Catholic Tradition and love Catholic dogma. It’s just that most people don’t understand what dogma really is! Dogmas are not rigid lists of propositions. Rather, they set the boundaries of the playground in which we can be like children, receptively connecting with the infinite mystery of God. But God is always greater.

Brilliant theologians and mystics like Thomas Aquinas (1225-1274) always understood this point. Thomas goes so far as to say that the essence of God remains utterly unknown to us (Summa Contra Gentiles III, c. 49). He describes a dogma (an “article of faith”) as “a perception of divine Truth tending towards that Truth” (Summa Theologiae II-II, q. 1, a. 6, sc). In other words, a dogma is not itself “the truth” but rather a sign that points beyond itself to a mystery that we do not master. Elsewhere he describes what happens when a human being makes an act of faith: “The act of faith does not terminate at the proposition but at the Reality itself” (Summa Theologiae II-II, q. 1, a. 2, ad 2). In other words, we enter into a relationship with the Truth, rather than grasping or controlling it.

Even when talking about natural human knowledge (of the real things in the world around us), Thomas tends to use the Latin verb communicat. There is a communication and a communion between knower and known. Even though the knower is active in pursuing Truth, she is ultimately receptive and passive – allowing herself to be changed by the Truth, rather than create it for herself. Being in communion with the Truth is different than mastering it, possessing it, owning it, etc. The former is vulnerable and receptive; the latter is self-protective and controlling.

I see it as no accident that it is precisely in the modern era (the last 500+ years) that many Christians have retreated into a rigid dogmatism. The 16th Century in the West was marked by an intense contempt and dominating human behaviors: the resurgence of the slave trade; exploitative colonizing of indigenous peoples; and vilifying, persecuting, or killing those perceived as religious or political enemies. Meanwhile, in the academy, philosophy and science shifted away from any sense of meaning and purpose and focused instead on the imposition of power. Francis Bacon’s famous “Knowledge is power” sounds benign, but marks an ominous shift. No longer is human reasoning an effort to enter into a relationship with Truth and Goodness and Beauty and to flourish in them together (think here of Gandalf in relation to the various races of Middle Earth). No, the goal now is to master, dominate, and subdue (think of Saruman’s factory and experiments at Isengard). The same held true in political philosophy, as seen in Machiavelli. No longer is politics focused on the common good, in which each and all can flourish, but rather it becomes a matter of getting “our people” in power so that they can cast down “those people.” Us versus them. Black and white. Trauma response.

As in Lord of the Rings, the normal temptation in the face of a dire threat is to put on the Ring of Power and cast down the enemy. Only the wise and courageous are able to see the folly in that strategy. It is incredibly hard to hold out a holy imagination for goodness and collective flourishing when feeling threatened or unsafe. It’s hard to retain an unshakable confidence in the Victory that is already assured in the Blood of the Lamb – and to remember that the entire human race is invited to the Wedding Feast.

Truth does not always bring mathematical certainty, nor does it need to. When a little child is safely held by a dad or mom who is both tender and strong, the dangers and chaos of the larger world lose their menacing force. If we are open to it, we get to be held by a Father who is infinitely greater than us. We are already in relationship with him. Jesus has reconciled us, connected us with the Father and with each other. In the Body of Christ, we have all that we need. It’s a living reality that we do not master or comprehend. We just keep growing into it as we walk this pilgrimage together. May each of us rediscover that childlike wonder and vulnerability and become receptive to the Truth that always transcends us.

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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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Waste Not? Want Not?

Waste not, want not. So says the eighteenth-century aphorism.

Implied is a warning against the desperation of neediness. Presupposed is a sense of scarcity and a fear that there won’t be enough. Many of our families and our church institutions have lived by this adage for multiple generations.

What does Jesus have to say about wasting or wanting?

On Palm Sunday, we listen to the story of his Passion (Mark 14:1-72), beginning at Bethany in the house of Simon the leper. A woman enters with an alabaster jar full of costly nard, breaks the jar, and pours the contents over his head.

Her extravagance elicits outrage from several of the guests “Why this waste of perfumed oil? It could have been sold for more than 300 denarii! The money could have been given to the poor!”

They make a fair point. One denarius was the daily wage for a laborer. Multiplied by 300, we’re talking about somewhere between $15,000 and $20,000 by today’s standards.

Yet Jesus praises the woman for lavishing this gift upon him. The poor will always be with us. Jesus will not. She has anointed him for his burial, and her good deed is to be remembered throughout the generations.

In Jesus’ view, there is a time and a place to be “wasteful” – especially when it comes to showing honor and delight to those we love. If we are dominated by a fear-based frugality, then our message to others easily becomes, “Let me calculate how much you are worth,” or “I don’t think you matter that much.”

What about “wanting”? What does Jesus have to say?  Actually, quite a lot!

When the crowds gather to hear his preaching, he begins with the Beatitudes. He invites us to experience true and unshakable blessedness by embracing poverty of spirit, mourning, and meekness. He invites us to feel the ache of hungering and thirsting for righteousness. It is in the depths of our needing that we are most capable of receiving.

Jesus did not merely teach us to need and depend and receive. He modeled receptivity, as did Mary and Joseph. They went in want. They lacked basic shelter as Mary’s pregnancy came to term. They fled into Egypt as immigrants, without knowing how their necessities would be met. Jesus spent thirty of his thirty-three years in relative obscurity, engaging (it seems) in far more receptivity than sacrificial giving. Nor did he stop allowing himself to need and to receive during his brief public ministry. He willingly received kindness and care from others. Even when his “hour” came and he said a free and wholehearted “yes” to sacrificing everything, he lodged in Bethany with his good friends.

“Waste not, want not” contains a small amount of wisdom, but ultimately dehumanizes. It teaches us to be terrified of going in want, of needing, of depending, of receiving – in stark contrast to the teaching and example of Jesus.

Can we be curious about where this attitude comes from?

I see it as a survivor mentality, including an inner vow (“I will never go in want again!”). Doing what it takes to survive is great in a desperate situation. If you’re stranded on a ship for months, “waste not, want not” is an outstanding motto. But when that survivor mentality becomes enfleshed in everyday life, it becomes a burden.

I think of my childhood, and pleasant-enough visits to my great grandmother on my stepdad’s side. The house was, shall we say, “cozy.” Stuff piled everywhere. Like so many, she was a survivor of the Great Depression, determined never to go in need again. When she passed, my stepdad and his sisters spent many hours cleaning out the clutter. He joked about the piles of used paper cups from McDonald’s. You just don’t know when you might need them again. Waste not, want not.

He joked, but he lived by the same mentality. Shortly after her death, he needed to move his tools out of her garage. So, we tore down our one-stall garage and built a five-stall. He cleverly salvaged the old door, turning it into a back entrance.

The new garage was huge, but we never parked cars in it.

It was way too full of stuff. Some of the things (his tools) were quite valuable.  Much of it was, well, less valuable. When my stepdad passed in 2010, my sister and I spent a few days toiling to clear out the garage. We didn’t find any paper cups, but we sure got rid of stuff. It was a great moment of triumph when we announced to our mom that she could start parking her car there.

As we cleared out the junk, I made trip after trip to the curb. I discovered the power of another proverb, “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.” Between trips to the curb, all had magically disappeared – into someone else’s five-stall garage, apparently?

Cluttered garages and homes can be joked about – and we’ve all seen them. They range from mildly annoying to utterly disgusting and dangerous. The deeper question here is around the survivor vow that gets taken amidst heartache: Never again!

Never what, exactly? That’s the problem with vows made out of fear. Over time, they cut us off from really great things: in this case, from the capacity to receive and give love in healthy community, to flourish, and to experience abundance together.

Survivor vows are not merely individual – they entrench themselves in the collective: families, churches, schools, entire dioceses. Many of our institutions are darkened by a cloud of fearful protectiveness – and then lament that membership is so low. In one of my previous parishes, I repeatedly turned on lights that others had shut off. I was expecting first-time guests, and (with sensitivity) expecting them to be nervous. I felt like it would be kind to have them enter a warm and inviting space, rather than snake their way around dark corners. There were some in the parish who couldn’t handle such extravagance, whispered about my wastefulness, and shut the lights back off the moment I wasn’t looking.

More recently, I heard about “Plategate.” A priest friend was hosting with pizza after Masses in his church. He had the gall to use the paper plates stored by some of the church ladies. They made a point of hiding those before the next Mass. So he purchased his own plates. They proceeded to hide those. I imagine there are hundreds of priests nationwide who have their own versions of “Plategate” as they try to invite renewal in their churches.

Fear is a normal human emotion. But when fear of that happening again takes over and hops into the driver’s seat, we stifle the capacity to receive, to grow, and to bear fruit. We wind up embodying the parable of the talents, living like the fearful servant who buries his gift in the ground (Matthew 25:14-30). We cut off all vulnerability and risk, and in the process stifle any real growth or fruitfulness for the sake of the Kingdom. That choking off affects not just us, but all of our relationships.

Our God is not a God of scarcity but of abundance. When we allow ourselves to be secure in his love, we can feel confident and creative. We can collaborate and innovate. We can go beyond the math of adding or subtracting, and discover the power of multiplication – something Jesus often talked about and did.

Our God is first and foremost a God of relationship. God is an eternal communion of persons. Jesus is eternally “from the Father.” Who he is and what he has are the fruit of receiving. He desires to share the same abundance with us. He invites us to become truly blessed precisely by learning how to desire, to want, and to need.

During Holy Week, we will ponder just how much Jesus embraced our human condition of wanting and needing. I invite each of us to be curious about the ways we resist that level of vulnerability, and how he might be inviting us to conversion.

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