Category: Beauty

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Saruman and Francis Bacon

“Knowledge is power.”

That, at least, is what English philosopher Francis Bacon claimed in 1597. We may have heard that quote as a child, and never thought to question it.

Most people don’t realize just how radically our culture shifted in the West in the 1500’s and 1600’s. In my last post, I mentioned the exaltation of doing over being. There are several other shifts worth noticing – “knowledge is power” being one of them.

One of my earliest encounters with Francis Bacon was while wanting to play a game with my younger brother Jake. We had unearthed an old backgammon board, and I couldn’t remember the rules. Google wouldn’t exist for nearly two decades, so we went to the encyclopedia to look up “backgammon.” When I exclaimed, “I found it!” Jake, in his usual comedic way, pointed to the picture of an Englishman in a frilled collar and asked if the game was called “Bacon, Francis.” For months, he would periodically ask if I wanted to play a game of “Bacon Francis.”

As it happens, the progression from the encyclopedia to internet search engines to artificial intelligence is a progressive development, gradual at first and now exponentially accelerating. Having so much information instantly accessible does indeed bring massive power. According to Tim “The Tool Man” Taylor on Home Improvement in the 1990’s, “more power” is what it’s all about. But if that’s really true, shouldn’t our joy in life be increasing exponentially along with the increase in “knowledge” and power? Clearly, our culture is missing something.

I remember three decades ago, arriving at the University of Saint Thomas, waiting in line by the dining hall, and reading a quote on the wall from T.S. Eliot’s The Wasteland:

Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge?
Where is the knowledge we have lost in information?

Bacon was bold, even arrogant. He is acclaimed for paving the way for modern scientific method. Those who are eager to bash the Middle Ages (without really knowing the Middle Ages) have depicted Bacon as one who sets science free from its primitive restrictions.

One of Bacon’s works is entitled the Novum Organum. To be sure, that work offers valuable insight into a scientific process of observation, hypothesis forming, and verification. But he is claiming, in effect, to be a newer and better Aristotle. Aristotle’s six logical works were collectively referred to by his disciples as the Organum – a “tool” or “instrument” used in pursuing knowledge. Bacon is offering a new and better tool – better because it pursues knowledge in a way that allows far more power.

I suppose we could excuse Bacon for claiming to be greater than Aristotle. Vizzini did the same thing in The Princess Bride. But Bacon also subtly compares himself to Jesus. The title of his unfinished work is the Instauratio Magna. It’s a reference to Ephesians 1:10, where Paul praises the Father’s eternal plan “to restore all things in Christ.” Bacon proposes a scientific approach that can restore “the empire of man over all things,” man’s primeval power over nature that was lost in the fall (cf. Genesis 1:26-28). Rather than accepting our powerlessness and entering into a relationship with a savior, we are invited to seize power by means of more information.

Don’t forget the context here. Francis Bacon was also a member of Parliament, and was Lord Chancellor of England in 1620 when the first colonists landed at Plymouth. His writings herald an era that also embraced the imperial subjugation, exploitation of indigenous peoples, and a newly flourishing slave trade. Knowledge is power.

I’ve always been a lover of J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis. Their hearts were more at home in the Middle Ages. By no means did they uncritically or naively believe everything to be amazing then. Indeed, Tolkien’s Silmarillion tells more tales of folly and woe than of wisdom or triumph. No, what they preferred was the holistic view of God and humanity in the ancient and medieval mindset – compared to the distortions of the last 500 years, which these days seem to be unraveling all sense of meaning in our human existence.

Tolkien offers a contrast between the two great wizards, Gandalf and Saruman.

Gandalf embodies the classical and medieval approach to knowledge and wisdom. He is genuinely curious about all beings: elves, dwarves, hobbits, eagles, ents, etc. He is powerful, to be sure, but has no interest in exploitation. He desires that everyone flourish in their own proper environment. He shows honor and delight. If you read Aristotle (384-322 B.C.) or Thomas Aquinas (A.D. 1225-1274), you’ll discover an endless curiosity and eagerness to discover truth and goodness and beauty wherever it can be found. That is what “science” did in the ancient and medieval world. In Latin, scientia simply means “knowledge,” which was gained by curiously pursing the ultimate causes of what is observed here and now. Aristotle’s writings range from reflecting on the movement of the stars to the guts of animals to virtue and friendship to politics to the causes of being itself. A few of his conclusions or assumptions seem laughable today, but far less so when you consider the limited tools at his disposal.

Saruman, meanwhile, is an embodiment of “knowledge is power.” He uses his brilliance to manipulate, exploit, and subjugate. He nearly destroys Fangorn forest, fueling his factory, where he is also manipulating the genes of men and orcs to create a more powerful army. He obsesses with the rings of power. He overlooks the goodness and resiliency of the little people. Gandalf laments the folly of Saruman at the Council of Elrond when he declares, “He that breaks a thing to find out what it is has left the path of wisdom.”

Our age desperately needs a rediscovery of curiosity and kindness. I’m not saying that modern science is all bad. I certainly appreciate advances such as dentistry or toilet paper! But we’ve devalued the curious pursuit and discovery of truth and goodness and beauty – something you don’t have to teach to children; it’s already a desire of every human heart!

There is so much delight in seeking and finding. There’s even more delight in shared quests and shared discoveries. Such an attitude is at the core of Aristotle’s description of friendship. Best of all, there is wisdom, humility, and awe in discovering that there is still more to discover. The more we grow in wisdom, the more we know how little we know. Bacon would have struggled as a student of Socrates!

In the words of Bacon’s much wiser contemporary, William Shakespeare, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” For a season, it was trendy to claim that Shakespeare didn’t really write Shakespeare – he was allegedly too uneducated to be so brilliant. The plays must have been written by someone like Francis Bacon, they said, who was so much more knowledgeable. Needless to say, I disagree.

Knowledge can indeed be turned into power. But to what end? Part of the problem is that modern philosophies also discarded any sense of purposefulness in nature. The only purpose is the one we impose upon nature by willing what we want. That is the spirit of Saruman, to be sure, but a departure from the path of Wisdom.

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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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Welcoming Emmanuel

God is with us. God is greater.

With these two simple statements, I invite each of us to be open and receptive to the good news of salvation that Jesus brings, and will keep bringing in ever greater measure. It’s a simple invitation, yet not an easy one!

That is because there is tension in those statements – a tension familiar to Joseph and Mary, and to true believers in every age. God was with them. He showed up in their lives, multiple times – usually in unexpected ways, even though they were looking for him. To announce the coming of Emmanuel, God sends his angel. Each of them welcomes the good news with trust and joyful obedience. But God leaves far more questions unanswered! Mary ponders all these things in her heart. She seeks to understand, without (like Zechariah) insisting on grasping it all. Joseph promptly obeys the message of each dream. He believes God is with him, and recognizes that God is infinitely greater. He obeys with trust, not having any sense of the how or the when of the fulfillment of those good promises. God was with them. God was greater. They allowed that tension to linger and play itself out. They received and kept receiving, in a way that kept expanding with each new unveiling of the mystery.

God has shown up many times in my own life – often in surprising and unexpected ways. Again and again, he reminds me that he is truly with me. When I welcome his presence, I am aware – sometimes painfully – that he is so much greater. I am consumed with a longing that is both joyful and sad – joyful because I am truly drinking in his comforting presence, sad because I sense his grandeur and my own limited capacity to receive. The gap feels insurmountable, even when he reassures me of his goodness.


I can see, over the years, how much he has stretched me, increasing my desire and so increasing my capacity to receive and give. Sometimes I joyfully cooperate and welcome the expansion and growth.  Other times, I resist.

I notice two frequent temptations. One is to “arrive” – to have it all together and all figured out. In response to this temptation, there is the cliché telling us that it’s more about the journey than the destination. That’s not entirely true. The destination matters. It’s just that the journey is so darn long – and has to be – because God is infinitely greater! In his longing to share his fullness with each and all of us, he will offer every opportunity to stretch our hearts and increase our capacity for union with him. My ache to arrive is not bad in and of itself. The Magi felt it in their search for Emmanuel. Joseph and Mary felt it in their search for shelter.

There are moments that indeed feel like “arrival” – Emmanuel moments in which God definitively shows up with a further unveiling. These moments bring immense and intense joy – as we see in the story of the Magi and the renewed movement of the star (Matthew 2:10).  Many of us are then tempted, like Peter, to build our tents and stay there at the moment, as though we’ve now arrived. If we are wise like the Magi or Joseph or Mary, we will humbly recognize that there is still far more to be unveiled, all in due time.

My second temptation is to sabotage the expansive growth God is offering. I sometimes (even often) prefer to stay small and return to my familiar little cell – even when I see signs that those surroundings are increasingly rotting and toxic. Jesus has broken open the bars of that cell and shattered my chains. I am free to step out into expansive Hope. Yet, like so many survivors of a prison camp, the bigness and freedom now available feels unfamiliar and scary. Following the star to an unknown destination includes leaving familiar contexts behind – and I resist. In those moments, I am not so much avoiding pain as avoiding the immensity of the desire and of the increasing goodness that I am entering.

Thanks be to God, my fumbling and stumbling has not for a moment stopped Jesus from remaining Emmanuel – fully present and active. He keeps surprising me and keeps alluring me to grow into the fullness of his Kingdom.

There is a third way, one that invites a holy remembrance of past blessings and an eager anticipation of unknown blessings yet to come. This is the way exemplified by Mary and Joseph. It is the way ultimately embraced every true mystic or saint. It is also what we enter into communally in liturgical seasons and observances, indeed in every Mass. We connect with each other and with God. We confess our unfaithfulness and seek reconciliation. We remember the ways God has been with us. We profess our Hope and pray eagerly for his coming. Healed and nourished, we are sent out eagerly on mission into the world with renewed Faith, Hope, and Love.

I have also learned the importance of having my own personal ways of remembering and anticipating. In my meeting spaces, my workplaces, or my places of prayer, I allow myself to have outward reminders of the ways God has truly showed up on my journey. My friends at the John Paul II Healing Center would call these the “Emmanuel Moments” in my life. My friends at the Allender Center would call my outward reminders “Ebenezers.” Emmanuel is Hebrew for “God is with us.” Ebenezer is Hebrew for “a stone of help” – as in the memorial stones sometimes erected in Old Testament stories to remind people of the ways God has showed up. I can return to these moments – not to cling to them or to stay there, but to be reminded of the twofold truth: God is with us, and God is greater.

Ignatius of Loyola (1491-1556) led thousands of believers through his Spiritual Exercises – indeed, many millions if you count five centuries of retreatants. One of his greatest points of emphasis is “repetition” – returning to experiences of divine consolation in order to soak in more of the blessing and grow into fruitfulness. Here we see a strong conviction in the truth of both statements: God is with us; God is always greater.

“Consolation” is ultimately from the Greek New Testament word that means “paracleting” – that is to say, the undeniable presence and activity of the Holy Spirit. When we know that the Spirit of God has shown up and begun working in us, there is an invitation to keep returning, keep discerning, and keep receiving. In times of desolation, remembering God’s goodness offers us endurance and Hope – resisting the temptation to become discouraged and get small. In times of consolation, returning to those moments allows us to receive even more, resisting the temptation to settle or “arrive” without further growth.

These days, this invitation is especially crucial. So many are feeling afraid or discouraged by the seeming strength of evil. And the toxic currents of our smart phone / social media culture are tirelessly stealing away our rest and sweeping us along, enticing us to keep moving and keep distracting ourselves. Now, more than ever, there is the invitation to allow God to be with us. We can remember the ways he has already shown up, be open to the surprising ways that he is showing up even now, and expect him to increase and expand his blessings upon us in the days ahead. May we all be open to the good news and the salvation that Jesus brings, and will keep bringing, until he becomes all in all.

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Watching for Dawn

[Revised and re-posted from Advent 2020]

We begin another Advent. We open our minds and hearts to the coming of Christ.

Bernard of Clairvaux (1090-1153) speaks of three comings of Christ: (1) his first coming, in the manger at Bethlehem; (2) his coming again in glory to judge the living and the dead; and (3) the invisible way in which he comes to all true believers who desire him.  In the words of Jesus, “If anyone loves me, he will keep my word, and my Father will love him, and we will come to him” (John 14:23). Jesus desires to be present to those who desire his presence.

Advent is a season of presence. “Advent” comes from the Latin adventus (“arrival” or “coming”). But adventus is a translation of the Greek word parousia – often used to describe Jesus’ coming again in glory, but literally meaning “presence.”  It is easy for some Christians to slip into gloom and doom fantasies about a future apocalypse (or an apocalypse that is allegedly happening right now). It is challenging to abide in the present moment, to watch and wait with sober Hope.

That is the invitation of Jesus: “What I say to you, I say to all: ‘Watch!’” (Mark 13:37). In Greek, this command to “watch” is gregoreĩte. The Christian name Gregory is derived from this invitation to sober watchfulness, so frequent in the admonitions of Jesus as well as in other New Testament writings (e.g., 1 Peter 5:8).

Gregory the Great (ca. 540-604) is one of my favorite popes and saints. He was born into a prominent Roman family – during a time in which the already faded glory of Rome was quickly passing away. Much that was good and beautiful had collapsed or was about to, and Gregory had no illusions that the clock could be turned back to “the good old days.” He answered God’s call to become a Benedictine monk, and his heart desired the peaceful prayer of the monastery. However, God and others kept tapping his talents for administration during a time of great crisis. He humbly describes his struggles to remain a man of prayer amidst the administration of stressful crises that were impossible to ignore. I can relate!

Gregory was profoundly aware that his name meant “Watchman” and that the words of Isaiah applied to him: Son of man, I have made you a watchman for the house of Israel. A watchman is called to stand upon the heights, to keep his mind and heart in a place of calm, peace, loving awareness, discernment, wisdom, and creativity – so as to be a blessing to others. Such was Gregory’s deep desire, even though he felt and expressed his struggles: “Who am I to be a watchman, for I do not stand on the mountain of action but lie down in the valley of weakness?”

Whatever his particular pain and struggles may have been, Gregory’s holy desire to be a watchman prevailed. Constantly renewed and enlightened by Jesus, Gregory’s foresight led to the establishment of hundreds of monasteries, which preserved so much of the beauty, goodness, and truth of Athens and Rome, and which became vibrant hubs of evangelization in the centuries ahead. Gregory’s sober watchfulness allowed him to continue doing works of mercy in the present moment, but without being consumed in a false fantasy to prop up structures whose time had passed. His sober watchfulness was both deeply pessimistic and optimistic at the same time – accepting the grief of definitive loss and change, while simultaneously seeing with optimistic Faith new rays of hopeful light where other more frantic people were blinded by their busyness, fear, or denial. Survival mode does not tend to bring the best out of human beings. Our field of vision narrows (both literally and figuratively), and we tend to keep going back to repetitive and predictable “solutions” – as though doing it for the forty-second time will somehow yield different results. True to his name, Gregory knew how to keep getting back into his watchtower.

When reflecting on the great mystery that is the Church, Gregory offers one of the most profound descriptions I ever came across during my doctoral research. He compares the Church to the dawn:

The holy Church, seeking the rewards of heavenly life, is called the dawn, for as she leaves behind the darkness of sin, she shines forth with the light of righteousness. But while we live, it is dawn, not perfect Day … For dawn or daybreak indeed announces that the night has passed, but does not manifest the full splendor of the Day. Rather, as it dispels the night and takes on the Day, the dawn holds a light that is mixed with darkness.

The Church, on her present sojourn through history, is indeed a mixture of weeds and wheat, darkness and light, sinners and saints. The same is true of our own hearts.  Gregory proceeds:

As long as the law of the flesh clashes with the law of the spirit, and the law of the spirit with the law of the flesh, light and darkness will blend together. Thus, when Paul says, “The night is far gone” (Romans 13:12), he does not add, “the Day has arrived,” but rather, “the Day is near” … The Day shall arrive when no darkness of sin triumphs. Then the Church of the elect will be fully day, when no shadow of sin is mixed with her.

What wise and Hope-filled words! He can look truthfully at his own heart and at the Church and see truthfully both darkness and light. But there is Hope. The thing about dawn is that it does NOT turn back into night. So also with the Church. The gates of hell will not prevail against her. He will be with her always. No matter how deep the darkness may seem at certain moments, we can look for the streaks of light and be assured that the dawn will break into full Day.

Our present age is eerily parallel to that of Gregory. So much that we once took for granted in church life or society has collapsed, and there is no turning back the clock. As with ancient Rome, some of what collapsed was beautiful, and some of it was already evil – using piety or patriotism to cover over greed, exploitation, or abuse. I may return to this discussion of nostalgia for the “good old days” another day. For today, the main point is that when you are standing amidst the wreckage, the only way forward is the way through, and we can easily get discouraged or cling to fantasies about how fighting “those people” will fix everything.

This Advent, we can join Gregory, not to mention the original twelve Apostles who first heard Jesus’ admonition to “watch.” Heeding the invitation of the Beatitudes, we can embrace our poverty and grieve our losses – getting past our denial and blame. We can abide in the present moment, even when it feels disorienting and scary. We can stay sober and vigilant. Jesus will open the eyes of our heart, and help us to see the new light that he always brings. As promised, his Spirit is always at work, shining in unexpected places.

Being watchful disciples means attuning to those first streaks of dawn, and allowing them to surprise us with joy. We tend to have tunnel vision about how Jesus is going to answer our prayers. Jesus frequently surprises his disciples with joy in ways they least expect. If we are sober and watchful in the present moment, our vision can be broadened again and again. Noticing with true vision the streaks of dawn, we can become eager heralds of the full light of Day that is breaking into this world.

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Fatherhood and Play

“Play is the language of paternal love and kindness.”

I was listening to an audiobook this spring as I zoomed downed the highway. These words brought one of those epiphany moments– in which the veil is briefly lifted, time seems to hold still, and – as long as the moment lasts – I feel embraced by deeper Truth. For me, those are moments in which the hosts of heaven beckon (in the words of C.S. Lewis): “Come further up! Come deeper in!”

In case you are curious, the words were from Kelly McDaniel’s 2021 book entitled Mother Hunger. She writes from the perspective of a secular therapist, and in the process affirms several core biological, emotional, and relational truths about motherhood – all of which are strongly reinforced by the latest findings of neuroscience and attachment theory. My May blog posts benefitted from a few of her insights. She is writing to adult daughters, inviting them to consider what they needed and didn’t entirely receive from their own mothers. And then she casually drops in her comment regarding fatherhood, kindness, and the language of play.

In that timeless moment of hearing her quote, I was immediately transported back one year in time to Tallahassee, where I was assisting as chaplain for the priest retreat at the John Paul II Healing Center. As is common, the 18 priest participants showed up with fears, resistance, and defenses. It was amazing to watch those melt away in unexpected ways. Play played a huge part!

I already shared with you last June about the “human sculpting” exercises we engaged in each day. Bob Schuchts invited me, three days in a row, to play the part of God the Father. Another played God the Son, another the Holy Spirit, along with several human and angelic (and demonic) characters. We were invited to follow our intuitions and interact with each other in a visual scene. I felt fear and constriction at first – the familiar perfectionistic pressure to perform well – or else. I turned to Bob and whispered, “I’ve never done these before – what am I supposed to do?” He smiled and shrugged. I felt the familiar dread in my gut. But I reconnected with my body and was able to tap into my deeper desire and intuition. Each sculpt was a surprise. Many participants received insight or healing. For me, it was a oneness with the heart of the Father that shifted my connection with him. I felt his poverty of heart – the way he willingly honors our freedom amidst his ache for our flourishing.

Each day, play opened us in receptivity and a rediscovered joy of fatherhood. The team there ever so simply invited us into play each evening – a cornhole tournament with Sister Miriam as a DJ taking song requests, a Pictionary competition with three teams, a trip to the cinema to watch Father Stu, a group hanging around the campfire each night and laughing together. Everyone felt more authentically human – which is so important to being a healthy priest, much less to being true spiritual fathers! Then Bob shared (without naming names) about the retreat for bishops they have started doing. He described busy bishops, buried beneath impossible pressures and ugly problems, laughing and playing together like little children. How healing! Obviously, deep prayer is the foundation.  But without a playful heart, fathers cannot be fathers!

I can only imagine the plight of bishops. It’s hard enough to be a parish priest these days. I am at my worst when I am in a scarcity mentality. In those moments I feel a drivenness that screams loudly “I don’t have time for that!” – no time to slow down and delight, or savor, or play, or connect, or rest. It is then only a matter of time before I wind up in a place of resentment, and then entitlement – seizing small pleasures that bring no true joy.

At times, I still have the hoarding heart of an orphan – a heart that is terrified of needing and depending on the Father or others. In those moments, fueled by shame and fear, I stockpile and self-protect; I hide my truer and deeper self. At my core, I am highly sensitive, highly creative, eager to connect, and totally playful. But I frequently feel inhibition around play – or at least around being seen in play. It’s so much easier around children, or when I am unaware of anyone watching. It is in those moments when I am the most childlike in my faith, and when I am willing to engage in play with others, that God most powerfully shows up. It is then that I receive the most, and then that others receive the Father’s love through me.

On the retreat, Jake Khym left us with profound words on the Father’s love, encouraging us to anticipate his affection day after day: “Over and over, I will be good to you, my son.” He invited us to notice and receive those frequent moments of affection, to allow the Father to be playful with us and delight in us.

If I pause in the afternoon or evening to reflect on the day in a General Examen, it is a marvelous request I can make to God the Father: Show me how you were affectionate to me today. If I allow myself the time and space for that meditation, it is remarkable how quickly he shows me moments small or large in which he was playfully affectionate to me. He is always a good Father, tending to me in my poverty, and inviting me to become playful as he is playful. I just struggle to believe that it can be so simple and so effective. I struggle to trust amidst that poverty that he will keep showing up and keep being affectionate. Yet he always does!

I believe all men are called to be one or another kind of father – not in the toxic masculinity of the last few hundred years, but in our uniqueness and individuality. Whatever fatherhood may look like for each of us, playful affection will be the language the Father speaks to us, and playful affection will be the language he teaches us to speak to our children.

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Michael the Archangel

Michael is a mighty archangel described in Scripture as commander of God’s heavenly armies. Many of us call upon him daily as a defender and protector. But in what sense does he protect? And what is the battle really about?

Scripture describes Michael casting Satan out of heaven (Revelation 12), battling with Satan over the body of Moses (Jude 9), or battling a spirit described as “the prince of Persia” (Daniel 12).

If angels are spiritual and immortal beings, what does it even mean for them to “fight”? They cannot be wounded or killed – so how can there be any battle, any victory or defeat?

The real battleground is over human freedom, and all that is impacted by our “yes” or “no.” This battle has implications for each one of us individually, but also cosmic ones – because God makes us his stewards.

Each and every human person is created in God’s image and likeness. The devils envy and hate each one of us, and relentlessly seek to ruin us. But God also placed the entire cosmos under human stewardship. God invested us with true authority – an authority the devil has always envied and hated. He seeks to steal it away by seduction and lies. He seems to succeed – both with Adam and Eve and with each of us. They and we give away what is not his to take. And then he thinks he can hold us captive.

Enter Jesus as the new Adam. He ushers in the Kingdom of God, the new creation, new heavens and a new earth. Those who are willing to die with him and rise with him through Faith become members of his Body. Under his headship, every enemy is placed under his feet, until at last even death itself is destroyed (Ephesians 1-2). All this happens by human agency, by the exertion of human freedom – his human freedom, but also yours and mine.  In due time, our human destiny is to become higher than all the angels as we behold God face to face and become like him (1 John 3).

We tend to esteem our own dignity and freedom far less than God does! He never forces us to do anything. For that matter, evil spirits cannot force us to do anything either. Had Adam said “no” and told the devil to leave, the devil would have had to honor Adam’s God-given authority! The same holds true for us, though we need the power of Jesus to reclaim and restore that which we have given away. United with him and in him, we need never fear evil spirits. Indeed, it is they who fear us as we shine with restored glory!

When I say that God honors our freedom, that also means that he allows our freedom to have its consequences. We were the stewards of this current cosmos, and we failed in our stewardship. Though it still bears stunning goodness and beauty, this cosmos is irreparably damaged. The world as we know it is passing away.

[NOTE – I am using the original Greek word kosmos, which can be translated either as “world” or “universe”]

Jesus tells us that he came into this cosmos not to condemn it but to save it (John 3:17).  He will cast out the devil, the ruler of this cosmos (John 12:31). But in what manner? Jesus does not stop us from dying, and he does not stop this universe from coming to its just demise. His kingdom is not of this world – because we the stewards have truly ruined it by giving dominion over to the devil. The devil will have his pound of flesh. But the devil has never understood love or the new life that springs forth from love.

In his dying and rising and ascending, Jesus crushed the head of the serpent. And he ushered in the new creation. Like his risen body (or rather, AS his body) this new creation is both the same and new. We already participate in it! In Christ the head, the battle is done. It is finished. Love wins.  In us the members, the battle is still playing itself out – we need only give over our freedom!

In the early Church, the Letter to Diognetus taught that we Christians are in the world, but not of the world. In one sense, we live and act just like everyone else. But we actually live in an entirely different dimension!  In the 300’s, Gregory of Nyssa observed that “the foundation of the Church is the creation of a new cosmos.” More recently, Pope Benedict XVI explained the Ascension of Jesus as opening up a new dimension of human existence.

That is where Michael comes in. He is the mighty guardian of this new creation. He is God’s answer to the devil. His name is not a name but a menacing question: “WHO IS LIKE GOD??” The devil styles himself a god, but is not. Michael brings God’s Truth and Love to full light and casts out the devil. All that is true and good and beautiful is resurrected in the new creation. All that is disordered, all that tends toward ruin or destruction, all that spirals towards nothingness – that belongs to the devil, who will ultimately be the ruler of nothing.

But back to human freedom. If we want Michael’s protection, we must choose to abide in the new creation, rather than cling to this world, which is quickly passing away. That means becoming willing to die to what is easy or familiar and trust in the newness that is coming. We gain glimpses and tastes of that newness, but are not yet ready for it in all its fullness.

It is truly challenging to abide in the “already but not yet” of Hope. Even now, we possess the Kingdom and already participate in it. But we are not yet ready to see God face to face, and not so completely transformed as to share in the fullness of the ascended glory of Jesus. We call on Saint Michael again and again to defend us in that in-between place, in which we are still vulnerable to the attacks of the evil one. Michael willingly and faithfully defends us. He safeguards the space in which grow. but only we can do the growing!

The more we become who we are, the fewer entry points the devil even has to attempt an assault. God’s light shows us the weak spots where the devil will predictably attack us. We ask Michael’s protection – but we also cooperate with Christ to repair those breaches!

Gregory the Great calls the earthly Church “the Dawn” – surely and certainly ushering in the full light of Day, but still mixed up with the darkness. We eagerly await the full Day, when Christ will always shine, and when Michael’s protection will no longer be needed. In the meantime, we engage our journey of change and growth, until Christ becomes all in all.