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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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“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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Damaged Goods?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An oxymoron becomes a paradox.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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REMINDER – I have two blogs!

It’s been a minute since I’ve posted here at Abiding in Love and Truth. There are many reasons for that, including both external and internal obstacles to writing the last few months. It feels great to post here again. I hope you enjoy my new post (below) entitled “Love Yourself as Your Neighbor.”

Another reason you haven’t been seeing posts here is that I am also posting at Brave Shepherds. I invite you to check out that blog as well:

www.braveshepherds.com

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