Category: The Church

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Dies Irae

For Catholics, November is a month of remembrance. We become mindful of many things we would prefer to forget – death and judgment, heaven and hell.

“Memory” in the Jewish, Catholic, and Orthodox traditions is not mainly a matter of looking backwards, but of becoming more mindfully present. Through holy rituals, we “remember” saving events such as the Passover in Egypt, the birth of Jesus, or his death and resurrection – in a way allows us here today to participate and become true sharers in those saving events. They become here and now for us. We also “remember” what is yet to come, the fullness of life in the Kingdom of God. We glimpse the goodness of the Lord in a foretaste and anticipation of more to come.

November begins with the twin celebrations of All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day – reminding us that the love of Jesus connects all the members of the human family, even those beyond the grave. In the very flesh and blood of the risen Body of Christ, we are truly united to those who have gone before us. We are never alone. Our deepest longings are never in vain. We are reminded not to get stuck in this fallen world that is quickly passing away.

All around us (at least here in the Northern Hemisphere) nature enters its annual cycle of death and decay. So swiftly does the dazzling and majestic fruitfulness of fall plunge into darkness and decay – particularly for those of us in the upper Midwest!

There is a marvelous medieval hymn traditionally sung during this month of remembering death and the Final Judgment: the Dies Irae. Amidst decades of what Bishop Robert Barron has often described as “Beige Catholicism,” this hymn has been all but forgotten. What is more, those few who remember it tend to be drawn to it for all the wrong reasons: fear-mongering, shaming, or scrupulosity. It doesn’t help that there are bad translations that reflect the shame of the translator more than the actual text. Indeed, the English translation provided in the video linked above describes “universal dread” and a “severe” Judge with “searching eyes.” None of those words are there in the original Latin poetry!

The Dies Irae has captivated human imagination for centuries. In 2014, Thomas Allen of the CBC (Canadian Broadcast Company) offered a playful and fascinating exposition on the influence of this hymn upon musical history.

Yes, the hymn is haunting and disruptive – especially to privileged Americans who would prefer to live comfortable lives and somehow stay young and powerful forever. But it is ultimately an invitation to trust Jesus and step into real Hope.

The world we live in, insofar as it was created by God, is good and beautiful. He entrusted it to us humans as the stewards. We failed in our stewardship. The world we live in, through the devil’s envy, malice, and seduction, is now enemy-occupied territory. Jesus describes the devil as “the ruler of this world” (John 12:31). This world and all the things in it are passing away (1 John 2:17).

The first verse of the Dies Irae reminds us that the “Day of Wrath” will dissolve this world in ashes. However, it goes on to describe the victory of Jesus on the Cross, and the invitation to humble ourselves before him as we receive the redemption that he freely gives. Neither our own merits nor any power of this world will save us on that day. We place our trust in Jesus alone.

“That Day” is also described as lacrimosa dies illa (“That Day of weeping”). We can see why this hymn has been buried in the West during my half century of human existence. We live in a culture that has forgotten how to grieve. And we definitely live in a culture that struggles to engage in real repair when harm has happened. “That Day” of Jesus’ coming will bring both. It is not merely a Day of Judgment; it is a Day that brings full Justice and definitive resurrection and renewal – which is only possible with the fulness of Love and Truth that Jesus will bring. Jesus will definitively heal our shame, if we will allow it.

I’ve developed a keen radar for shame. For several years now, I’ve been contending with my own shame (as well as the shame of others who harmed me in my life – shame that doesn’t belong to me). I’ve learned, at least some of the time, to stand calmly in the face of shame – not to run away, nor to power up, nor to freeze, but to draw closer with curiosity and kindness.

I’ve been learning from Jesus in the Gospels. He frequently pursues those who are feeling shame – when he calls Matthew the tax collector (Matthew 9:9), when he tells the woman caught in adultery “I don’t condemn you” (John 10:11), when he awakens the thirst of the Samaritan woman at the well (John 2), and in his various encounters with Peter. When Peter denies Jesus (as predicted), Jesus turns to look at Peter (Luke 22:61) – not with accusation, but with love and truth. Peter goes out and weeps bitterly. He sees an almost unbearable gaze of kindness – far more painful and more helpful than any accusation or name calling. Peter suffers again after the resurrection, when Jesus awaits him on the seashore, having already lit a charcoal fire (John 21:9-19). He reminds Peter of his threefold denial, not to add to Peter’s shame, but to bring that shame into the light and transform it.

These encounters with the merciful and truth-telling love of Jesus help me imagine what Judgment Day will be like. When I hear the chanting in the Dies Irae describing the “Day of Wrath” or “That Day of Weeping,” I imagine him gazing with love at each of these women and men in the Gospel, seeing right through them, accepting them, choosing them, and inviting them to total conversion. The kindness of Jesus always puts love and truth-telling together. Kindness heals shame, through a gentle yet utterly necessary unveiling of the full truth. That is what “apocalypse” literally means – “uncovering” or “unveiling.”

Shame is a master of disguises. It shows up in outbursts of rage, in ghosting other people, in “cancel culture,” in witty-but-cruel name calling, in self-loathing, or in self-destructive behaviors. Where there’s contempt, there’s probably shame. Where there’s vagueness, there’s probably shame. Where there’s all-or-nothing language, there’s probably shame. I’ve learned to detect the lurking presence of shame, and to draw closer to it, while respecting the sacredness of others’ freedom. This kind and curious pursuit is not what people expect!  I love those moments when it becomes possible to tell the fuller truth with kindness – not to paper over, not to humiliate or condemn, but to be with each other in love and respect while acknowledging all the particulars.

This definitive repairing through the kindness and justice of God is exactly what the Dies Irae is about. Jesus will assemble the nations. Death will stand in astonishment as all the tombs are opened, and all our bodies raised (John 5:25-29). The victory wrought by Jesus on the Cross – overthrowing the cruel empire of sin and death – will be fully unveiled. So will all of our thoughts, words, actions, and omissions. The stories of each and all will be told in their full and unedited versions. In the words of the Dies Irae, “The written book shall be brought forth, in which all is contained, from which the world shall be judged.” No doubt, “My face will blush with guilt” – just like Peter or Matthew or the Samaritan woman. In my fear and shame, I may dread that “the day” will be like a blazing oven that burns up everything (Malachi 3:19) But if my trust is in the victory of Jesus, I will experience “the sun of justice with its healing rays” (Malachi 3:20). There is no other way.

We can conclude with the beautiful words of Pope Benedict XVI in his 2007 encyclical letter on Hope. He describes this encounter with the fire of Jesus’ love, whether on the Day of Judgment, or as a purgatorial experience following my own death. He comments on the apostle Paul’s reflections in 1 Corinthains 3, which describe some of us being saved, but “as through fire.” As Benedict explains, “the fire which both burns and saves is Christ himself, the Judge and Savior. The encounter with him is the decisive act of judgment. Before his gaze all falsehood melts away. This encounter with Him, as it burns us, transforms and frees us, allowing us to become truly ourselves. All that we build during our lives can prove to be mere straw … and it collapses. Yet in the pain of this encounter, when the impurity and sickness of our lives become evident to us, there lies salvation. His gaze, the touch of His heart heals us through an undeniably painful transformation ‘as through fire’. But it is a blessed pain, in which the holy power of his love sears through us like a flame, enabling us to become totally ourselves and thus totally of God” (Spe Salvi n. 47).

Without the Day of Judgment, we cannot share fully in God’s holiness, nor be fully and authentically human. Only the truth-telling and merciful love of Jesus can bring full flourishing and righteousness. Therefore, we pray ancient Christian prayer: “Come, Lord Jesus!”

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Nostalgia

Nostalgia is a fascinating human experience. It can be playful or delightful, as when old friends reunite. Suddenly they are in tears or side-splitting laughter as they recall long-forgotten songs or jokes or shared antics. Their recalling of story after story rekindles old connections, and everyone feels gratitude and joy. Alternatively, nostalgia can evoke a deep and wistful longing for what once was or what might have been. I have written before about the Welsh word Hiraeth. In its darker forms, nostalgia can also evoke rage or blame or contempt toward those who allegedly ruined the good things that used to be – even to the point of scapegoating and violence. If you study the history of any genocide, you will find nostalgia in the mix.

Not all nostalgia is helpful, and not all nostalgia is truthful. As Brené Brown suggests, “Nostalgia is also a dangerous form of comparison. Think about how often we compare our lives to a memory that nostalgia has so completely edited that it never really existed.”

It’s not uncommon for me as a priest to hear a resentful rant about how America used to be the greatest nation on earth, but now…those people…

Sometimes, I will kindly and playfully ask, “Do you think that’s the story Jesus will tell us when he comes again? Is he going to assemble all the nations and every human who has ever lived to sit and listen to how much greater America was than all the other nations?” That usually gives some pause to the person. It reminds me of the school kids modifying their story when they realized that my friend (their principal) had been viewing the entire incident on the security camera.

The truth is that our American story is quite a mix of greatness and darkness. It includes some of us living privileged lives at the expense of others. Nostalgia becomes a drug to distract our notice from what it is really like to be downtrodden and oppressed. God never forgets his little ones. Judgment Day will uncover the full truth of how we choose to love and serve the poor (Matthew 25:31-46). G.K. Chesterton wrote a century ago, during an age in which nationalism was also running high. As he explained then, genuine patriotism is not loving your nation as better than all the others. It’s loving your nation because it’s your home.

Whether we realize it or not, we tend to edit our stories. Day and night (including in our dreams), our brains are at work, trying to make sense and meaning of our human experience. If it’s not safe to feel grief or hurt or anger or intense unmet desire, we are prone to tell a more pristine story about how things used to be. We will play up the beautiful and happy memories and hide away the dark or disturbing ones. We will bury our deeper longings and settle for a superficial nostalgia.

I’m nearly finished reading Erik Varden’s The Shattering of Loneliness: On Christian Remembrance. All his writings invite a healthy asceticism that helps reclaim and re-order the intense longing of the human heart. These longings are “very good,” and can only truly be satisfied through God’s plan to have us share in his divine life and become truly like Him. Our deepest nostalgia is for our heavenly homeland, which leaves its traces everywhere in this creation. We are homesick for the Kingdom of God, which is not of this world.

Nostalgia that only looks backwards will ultimately leave us disappointed, disillusioned, empty, and embittered. It will sap our Hope. This world and all the things in it are passing away. Nothing here can ultimately satisfy our intense and unquenchable longing.

Varden reflects on Jesus’ seemingly random reference: “Remember Lot’s wife” (Luke 17:32). Lot’s wife looked back, and turned into a pillar of salt. As Varden explains it, we are prone to sacrifice a good future by turning back to what is left behind. Therefore, Jesus goes on to explain that we will lose our life if we try to save it, and find our life if we are willing to give all.

This fall, I’ve been reminding people of those words of Jesus, as I travel the nineteen counties of my diocese. I’ve been facilitating a few dozen listening sessions as we launch our renewal efforts, inviting a pivot from maintenance to mission. I’ve tried to avoid the equivalent of a Pawnee Town Hall Meeting, successfully in every case but one. In order to allow everyone a voice (especially Jesus!) we’ve included silent time to reflect and write. Of course, that leaves me reading through the written reflections of over 3,000 participants.

In my reading, I am finding no small amount of nostalgia for an “amazing” past that was probably not as flourishing and carefree as the person remembers. Nor is the nostalgia limited to one political or theological ideology. Many people, understandably (but unrealistically) just want things to go back to the way they used to be. Or they just want to hold on to some small scrap. Or they blame “those people” for wrecking everything. Or they are simply resigned to ongoing decline. Can you hear the grieving process here (denial, bargaining, blame, depression)? Neither our culture nor most of our church communities know how to grieve well these days. I am noticing a palpable proportionality: the more intense the nostalgia for a supposedly glamorous past, the less imagination there is for a hopeful future.

Nostalgia that gets stuck in the past enables us to bypass our grief. It becomes toxic and ultimately lethal. It will kill our Hope. It is only when we are willing to enter together the pain of the Cross and the Tomb that we can be surprised with the Hope of the resurrection.

The Mass allows us to experience genuine nostalgia. We remember the saving events of Jesus’ death and resurrection in a way that makes them truly present. But the Mass is also a memory of the future. We gain a foretaste and anticipation of the wedding feast of the Lamb. We become again and again what we one day will be – each of us individually and all of us collectively in a one-flesh union with the Bridegroom.

There is a reason why words like hiraeth or saudade or Sehnsucht have provoked endless reflection from poets and mystics. We were created for eternal communion with the living God. We ache for a homeland that we cannot yet fully receive.  For most humans most of the time, it is easier to bury or avoid or escape that longing.  To desire and not yet possess is perhaps the greatest suffering – known and embraced by all the Saints. The more they desired, the more they joyfully received, and the more they joyfully received, the more they suffered in their desiring.

This, perhaps, is why the Saints were so often unwelcomed and persecuted, not only or even chiefly by this world, but by the very Church they loved and served. The witness of the Saints awakens longing and invites conversion from a merely human nostalgia. In the presence of the Kingdom of God, there is no standing still, no comfortable plateaus to settle on. Any earthly power or privilege will be turned on its head, and exposed – not as evil – but as inadequate for answering our deepest questions or filling our deepest longings. Idols are often the beautiful work of human hands. We don’t like to remove them from the holy place of longing in our heart that belongs to God alone. Waiting with empty hands is scary.

What are your idols? What are the idols of your civic community or of your church community? Where does most of your nostalgic energy go?

As we celebrate another All Saints’ Day, may we feel their invitation to embrace our deepest longings and renew our trust that God is faithful and true to His promises. Come, Lord Jesus!

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There is a River

I am from the river.

When I was one, my family moved back to Wisconsin and purchased a little house along the Wisconsin River.

I could see the river from my bedroom window, pulled open on sweaty summer nights, or through the ice that clung to the curtains in January. The river beckoned, beautiful and dangerous: frozen yet fragile in the winter, rising and rushing in the spring, serene in the summer, reflecting bright bursts of color in the fall.

I spent thousands of hours, endlessly exploring in our backyard, between the deck and the dock I had helped my stepdad build. There, near the river, I would catch toads or turtles or grasshoppers. I would dig up worms for fishing, or get grass stains in my pants as I touched and tasted the flowers (the violets were by far the best!). More than once I wistfully watched as a ball plunged into the waters and floated away, eluding the reach of branch or cane pole.

As Heraclitus once suggested, you cannot step into the same river twice. Visiting home elicits a mixture of emotions. It’s the same basic house and yard, but remodeled, refurnished, and rearranged a few times over. The town has the same streets and many of the same buildings, yet feels noticeably different. For many decades, it was a booming paper mill town. Then they witnessed the loss of hundreds of jobs in the early 2000’s, followed by a total shutdown in 2020. What a change from my childhood and teen years, when Consolidated Papers was a Fortune 500 company and invested $400 million to build the state’s largest paper machine.

This fall, I am facilitating a few dozen listening sessions throughout my diocese, inviting our 156 parishes to pivot from maintenance to mission. For many parishes that are struggling, the invitation is felt as an immediate threat. Are we going to close?? What are we going to lose?

The Lord has often surprised me in this process, especially when I feel overwhelmed, fear failure, or put pressure on myself. It happened again a few weeks ago.

My friend showed me a brand new book by Robert Enright, Forgiving as Unity with Christ. I quickly realized – “O, this is going to be one of those books.” It’s going to take me at least six months to meander through the journaling and meditation prompts, which have already tapped deep places in my heart.

So there I was, working on wounds of resentment and unforgiveness (which include my avoidance of feelings of anger). The exercise invited me to remember a time when I received unconditional love from another human, and to enter vividly into that moment. Memories of 1999 cascaded into my imagination. At that time, I received remarkable compassion and kindness from a few friends, especially Peter. It was healing to recall the lovely ways that they attuned to me, drew near to me, held space for my raw pain, and showed empathy.

My gratitude and consolation were interrupted by the memory of how awful it was to lose Peter that November. He was only five months ordained when he unexpectedly and inexplicably died in his sleep.

Out of nowhere I found myself recalling Robert Frost’s poem “Nothing Gold Can Stay.” It opened some of my deepest wells of grief, and I sobbed, not for the first time, and probably not for the last. I was not only feeling that sudden loss of a friend, who indeed glittered like gold. I was connecting with the universal human experience expressed in Frost’s poem. In this post-Eden world, the most amazing and beautiful moments never linger. It is agonizing. We were not meant for endings.

How painful it is to be like the poets or prophets – to have huge imagination and perceive beauty and goodness where many do not. It’s thrilling and delightful. You are eager to share the goodness with others. It’s awful because, often and even inevitably, the delight evaporates. Or it gets crushed, ripped away, or (perhaps worst of all) dismissed or spurned by others, who could have delighted in it. I think here of Jesus weeping over Jerusalem (Matthew 23:37). He imagines and desires so much more goodness for them – but they don’t want it. Or, if they want it, they are unwilling to repent and receive it.

As I continued to pray, I realized the connection between my own intense feelings in the moment and what Jesus is inviting all of us into in the Rebuild My Church Initiative in my diocese. I often feel unsettled and fearful in the face of future unknowns. I keep catching myself trying to manage or control the process, fearing failure. The Lord keeps reminding me that the people of the diocese doesn’t need a project manager; they need my heart. My own experiences are a microcosm of what I’m inviting everyone else into. I have all my familiar survival strategies that feel so much more appealing than trusting and following the voice of the Good Shepherd into more abundant life.

When people first hear about “reimagining the structure of their parishes” or “pivoting from maintenance to mission,” their reaction is often one of fear, suspicion, and self-preservation. I am listening to them in their fears, while inviting consideration that we need not live our lives out of fear.

But the Good Shepherd has been prompting more in my heart. It’s not only the unknowns or the potential losses of the future that are unsettling; it’s what has already changed and changed again, but remains ungrieved. When hurts are unhealed and losses are ungrieved, our human tendency is to fight to hold on to what is already lost, perhaps even finding a scapegoat to blame for the struggles.

Case in point – the loss of Christendom. Fifty years ago, Fulton Sheen prophetically proclaimed, “We are living at the end of Christendom – not the end of Christianity.” Yet so many Christians and churches want to fight culture wars and save Christendom. Rather than weeping over the ruins and rejoicing that new growth is sprouting up, we are fantasizing that we can still stop the collapse – not unlike the Japanese soldiers on Pacific islands who had not yet heard that the war was over.

I’ve been inviting the participants at these listening sessions to reflect upon changes and losses in their families, communities, and churches that have already happened, but are hard to accept. If we don’t mourn those, we will be less capable of heeding the voice of the Good Shepherd, being surprised with resurrected life, and following him into green pastures and new experiences of more abundant life.

In addition to Robert Frost’s poem, my prayer prompted a recall of the 1990’s movie A River Runs Through It. I remembered my curious discovery in Mexico twenty-five years ago. I spotted the movie in a storefront, only the title in Spanish was Nada Es Para Siempre (“Nothing Lasts Forever”). You can’t step into the same river twice. Nothing gold can stay.

Interestingly, in Spain, the same movie bears the Spanish title of El Rio de la Vida (“The River of Life”). There is a river that gladdens the City of God (Psalm 46), running through the heavenly city of Jerusalem. That river brings healing and life and new fruitfulness (Revelation 22).

Whenever I imagine receiving from those saving streams, I sometimes sob. I feel the parched places in my heart soak in the superabundant goodness. It is wonderfully consoling and intensely painful at the same time. My desires awaken, allowing me to drink in divine life. Then, in receiving more, I ache for still more – and know that I still have to wait, mostly because of God’s kindness allowing me to go at my own pace.

In these listening sessions, the hardest questions for people to reflect on have been questions about Hope. Many of our parish communities, not to mention many of our priests, feel listless or lost! They watch their numbers diminish and fear for their very existence, feeling powerless to change. A few of them, I find, have lost all imagination for more. The felt fear is so intense, and the grip on self-preservation so tight, that there is no longer an imagination for what abundance could look like. It feels too painful and too risky to dream of a feast when you are unsure whether you will eat today or where your next meal will come from. Survival mode and scarcity tend to cling to each other.

When I am tempted to feel frustrated or judgy about this narrow-mindedness, the Lord gently reminds me of how patient and kind he has been with me in the very same attitudes. It is truly sad when I or others don’t desire the goodness or abundance that is right in front of us. Or, more accurately, we bury that desire beneath a hardened façade.

It is very much like the story told in the Pixar film Encanto. As with the Madrigal family there, it can be terrifying when the cracks of our façade begin to show, and the “identity” we had falsely propped gets exposed and collapses. But it’s always an opportunity to access the living God anew and remember who we really are. We get to go to the Cross and drink from the life-given stream that flow from the pierced heart of Jesus. He is the Good Shepherd who promises to lead us into more abundant life.

Yes, there is a river that flows through the Heavenly City. That river, too, is beautiful and dangerous. I ache for it and avoid it. That river runs through my divided heart, much like the river that divides my home town.

I am from the river.

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“Mission” is a Way of Being

Greetings friends. It’s been a long time since I’ve shared any writing. A heartfelt thank you to those who have gently encouraged me to write! It brings out the best in me.

Just over a year ago, my diocese received a new bishop.  From the get-go, he has indicated a desire for our diocese “to pivot from maintenance to mission.” We began by extending that invitation to our priests, but are about to expand it to everyone in the diocese.

When you hear the word “mission,” what first enters you mind?

I find, both for myself and for others, our thoughts immediately race into tasks that we do. Historically, we recall the perilous voyages and arduous labors of Saint Paul or Saint Francis Xavier. In our present-day context, we think of all the problems needing fixing and how we can accomplish more. We form a task list and begin checking off boxes. We set measurable goals and objectives to ensure that we don’t “fail” in our mission.

It’s easy to miss the deeper truth: “mission” is a way of being, and we are already assured of victory. Mission begins with our shared identity in Christ, who is “from the Father” while abiding in perfect union with the Father.

In the Nicene Creed, these truths flash like fireworks. This very month, we celebrate the 1700th anniversary of the closing deliberations of the great Council of Nicea, which promulgated the first draft of the Creed we profess every Sunday.

Jesus Christ is “begotten, not made.” He is eternally in a relationship of equality with his Father, even though he is “from” the Father. He was not produced or achieved by the Father. He and his Father are one, in a relationship of mutual delight. The Holy Spirit is that eternal bond of love, that shared delight, that shared glory.

The bishops at Nicea borrowed philosophical terms like “consubstantial” (in Greek, homoousios) in order to express with greater precision what was always there in the Gospels. The bishop Arius and his followers were outraged at this new terminology, insisting that Jesus could not be from the Father unless “there was once when he was not.” They were not thinking of God as an abiding relationship. They were thinking in terms of before and after, greater than and less than.

The Arian heresy actually gained momentum following the Council of Nicea. Five decades later, Saint Jerome lamented the situation: “The whole world groaned, and was astonished to find itself Arian.” In 381, the bishops of the Church convened again, this time in Constantinople. They expanded the wording of the Creed, now drawing from the brilliant contributions of Gregory Nazianzen, Basil the Great, and Gregory of Nyssa – all of whom understood God as an eternal relationship.

It’s hard for us humans to imagine what eternal relationship is like. Even if God never created us or any universe at all, God would be just as good and just as great. “God is love” even without any creatures to love. And Jesus is eternally sent forth. “Mission” is his way of being in relationship.

“Mission” literally means “sending forth.” When we live in a state of felt threat and felt scarcity, we gravitate to a militaristic understanding of mission: important or powerful individuals send forth less important ones, who achieve objectives under obedience to orders. It’s a partial truth that obscures the larger reality.

Indeed, heresy causes the most damage when it is almost true. It’s more seductive that way.

In the fullness of time, the Father actually does send his Son on a rescue mission. Jesus enters this occupied world in stealth, born in an obscure town in the dead of night. Only social outcasts like the shepherds witness his birth. He lives a hidden life in Nazareth for three decades. But when he is baptized and anointed by the Holy Spirit, and audibly claimed as the Father’s beloved, the devil is clearly concerned. He tempts Jesus in the desert. He probes Jesus throughout the Gospels, seeking to unravel the identity of this divinely anointed man. Like Sauron in Lord of the Rings, the devil cannot fathom God’s actual plan. He cannot envision the eternal Son of God emptying himself and willingly sharing in all the suffering of every human. So the devil sadistically delights in the darkness of Good Friday, realizing – too late – that his kingdom has been overthrown and the human race has been rescued by the blood of the Lamb.

Yes, Jesus obediently “does” these things as one who is sent on a rescue mission. But as Thomas Aquinas (1225-1274) reminds us in his Eucharistic hymn (Verbum Supernum Prodiens), Jesus enters his Passion without ever leaving the Father’s bosom. Any earthly “doing” of Jesus flows from his secure identity as the eternally begotten Son of God. His mission is primarily his way of being, how he relates to the Father, how he relates to us, and how he invites us into relationship. Being “on mission” means abiding in abundant connection, which overflows into fruitful self-giving.

I know this core truth, but I so easily forget. I get sucked into survival mode and familiar feelings of scarcity. I feel the expectations from without and from within. I feel that old and familiar fear of failure – beneath which is an even deeper fear that no one will love me. It’s so easy in those moments to feel the suffocating pressure of “I don’t have time for that!” Then I flop back and forth between a pressurized doing and mindless escaping, neglecting what matters most, what would actually bring my relationships alive.

Writing is not what matters most for me, but it is truly good for me. It connects me with my emotions and needs, opening my imagination and childlike playfulness. It helps me abide. In this renewal project, I will bring more joy and creativity to my labors if I allow myself to abide and receive.

Part of the problem is that we in the West have been swimming in toxic waters for at least 500 years. The misguided exaltation of doing over being has become so normalized that we barely notice it. Little by little, it has infected not only our cultures but our churches as well, alluring us with its seductive power while robbing us of joy and peace.

The Gospel is indeed liberating “Good News.” As my bishop once preached, “It doesn’t depend on you – and it never has.” We get to share in the fullness of Christ, who always shares in the fullness of his Father. Secure in that love, we go into the world as Christ did, not with fear of failure or grasping for power, but with full confidence in the unshakable Love of the Kingdom. Mission is a way of being.

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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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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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