The Middle of the Story

It’s difficult being in the middle of a great story. It’s challenging enough to be an empathetic reader, feeling the tension in our body as we witness the drama resolving. But we as readers typically know more than the characters in the story, and are free to set the story aside. By contrast, to be the one in the midst of the tale, totally unsure of what will happen next, can be overwhelming, disorienting, or discouraging.

I recently re-read Lord of the Rings – probably my favorite story. This time around, I was captivated by the conversation between Frodo and Sam on the stairs of Cirith Ungol. They have come far in their journey, which seems more and more to be a fools’ errand. Failure feels inevitable.

Then they have a moment’s realization that they are in the middle of a great story. Not only that, they are characters entering and leaving the stage amidst an even grander story, interconnected with all the heroes and villains. Sam cheers Frodo up by imagining their tale told to children by the fireside. “Frodo was very brave, wasn’t he, dad?” “Yes, my boy, the famousest of the hobbits, and that’s saying a lot.”

Frodo laughs in a dark place that hadn’t heard laughter since Sauron came to Middle Earth. He adds to Sam’s musings: “But you’ve left out one of the chief characters: Samwise the stouthearted. ‘I want to hear more about Sam, dad. Why didn’t they put in more of his talk, dad? That’s what I like, it makes me laugh. And Frodo wouldn’t have got far without Sam, would he, dad?”

Then Frodo names well why things are so hard for them: “You and I, Sam, are still stuck in the worst places of the story, and it is all too likely that some will say at this point: ‘Shut the book now, dad; we don’t want to read any more.’”

I have felt more than once in life what it is like to be at the worst places of the story. We can have long moments of felt powerlessness in which we do not see a path forward, and do not feel like we can trust anyone. Sometimes those are distorted perceptions, but not always. In the case of Frodo and Sam, the devious Gollum was their only guide, and they had no obvious options. All they could think to do was keep showing up and see what would happen next. And they did just that.

On the Day of Judgment, Jesus will assemble the entire human race, and have them hear your story and mine – which of course will interwoven with the entire human story. Others will hear all about the heroes and villains and supporting characters in our story. Our full truth will be unveiled.

Jesus, of course, is the ultimate hero of the grand human story. His dying and rising bring meaning and hope. But Jesus very much desires that we participate in his Passover (cf. Luke 22:15). He wants his story to become one with ours, and for you and me to grow as heroes in our own right. It is often in the moments of failure or adversity that we learn the most and become who we are. The apostle Paul teaches that God works all things for the good for those who love him (Romans 8:28). Augustine of Hippo adds the words – even our sins.

Like the hobbits, we are apt to have more moments of foolish blundering than moments of astonishing courage or faithfulness. All the moments matter, and in his covenantal love Jesus turns every one of them into the beginning of a new and better chapter. It’s not a matter of getting it all right or figuring it all out, but of allowing the story to unfold.

We tend to imagine that the glamorous moments of our story will be those in which we fell a giant spider or troll. But when our full story is told, perhaps the listeners will perceive that our greatest moments were those in which we ourselves fell – again and again – and kept getting up and kept showing up. They will gain a glimpse into the moments when we had no idea how we could carry on, what would come next, or who would help us get there – and we chose to show up anyway.

Yes, it’s hard to be in the middle of a story – especially at the worst moments, the moments in which we feel stuck. It helps very much to allow true friends to be near us, to share bread together and sing together, even in the dark moments and places of our lives.

In every case, there is an invitation to Eucharistic renewal. Jesus assembles us, Sunday after Sunday, and we listen attentively the THE story that breathes meaning and hope into our own. We place all the broken pieces of ourselves and our lives on the altar, giving it all over to the one who offers it all to the Father. We receive the flesh and blood of Jesus – our waybread for the journey that lies ahead – even when we do not know the way, and do not know how all can possibly be well. We resist the temptation to go it alone – even when that feels easier. We definitely need community and true companions on the journey. Like Frodo, we may find the most unusual allies in the most unexpected places.

The virgin Mary models for us, again and again, what it is like to be in the middle of an unfolding story and not have all the answers. She never backs away or isolates, nor does she force a solution. She abides. She watches and waits, and when the Lord reveals next steps, she follows with trust. She is willing to abide in the middle of the worst moments. She stands with Jesus in the worst moments of his. Jesus gives us to her (“Behold your mother”) so that she can stand with us in our own worst moments. May we welcome her mothering and learn from her example as we continue into the next chapter of our story.

Confabulation

My grandmother is 96. She is beginning to tell some rather interesting stories!

For several years already her sight and hearing have been failing, but that never stopped her from keeping informed of what was happening in the lives of family members. Once in a while, she would fill in the gaps with her own interpretation. It could be amusing or annoying, depending on her take. More recently, after years of being mentally sharp, she is showing signs of dementia – forgetting certain words, mixing up names, and – yes – telling some interesting stories. When she lacks certain pieces of the puzzle, she’s quite creative at filling in the gaps with her own narrative. And she sincerely believes her version of the story.

Her parish priest is from Poland, and four decades younger than she is. That doesn’t stop her from regaling me with stories of her long-deceased parents teaching him to speak Polish so well. This is an example of what neuroscientists call “confabulation.” It involves telling a false story while sincerely believing it to be true.

The human capacity to confabulate is by no means limited to those experiencing memory loss!

For example, I think of addicts chasing after a fix. Some of them go from church to church with a well-polished story, looking for a handout. The details of the story vary, but they invariably convey some heart-wrenching tragedy – “and all I need is __________ and my troubles will go away!” They get genuinely offended if you don’t believe their story. They have told it so often that, in the telling, they believe it themselves! You can, with skill and effort, expose them in an inconsistency or a lie. But it may not be kind or constructive to do so. They are likely to erupt with rage or blame, not at all liking the intense embarrassment and shame they are suddenly feeling amidst the exposure of untruth.

Another example is narcissism. There is increasing research linking narcissists with confabulation. In their deeply felt insecurity and shame, they exaggerate their achievements, or skillfully shift your attention away from their faults and failures. In the moment, they truly believe the falsehoods and distortions. If you have the wherewithal to cast light on the fuller truth, you are likely to pay for it!

I am also aware, in this age of social media and pop psychology, that “narcissism” is an overused term that is easily weaponized, without curiosity about the person or a desire to understand each human heart. What is labeled “narcissism” is actually a cluster of unpleasant or toxic behavioral symptoms, beneath which is cowering a terrified and ashamed little child who desperately wants to be loved.

 In my experience, we all have at least a little narcissism in us, because we all have shame lurking in the shadows, shame which we would rather avoid than face. We all have at least some moments in which we prefer to bypass uncomfortable memories or emotions, to live in denial, to minimize or downplay, to shade the truth, to omit relevant details, or to shift the focus onto someone else.

Confabulation is a common human experience because it emerges from a core human desire: to make sense out of what we are experiencing. Telling stories (some more true and some less true) is our go-to way of doing that.

Human beings are storytellers by nature. Whether we realize it or not, we are constantly attempting to make sense out of what we are experiencing. Even when our bodies rest in sleep, our brain toils on in our dreams, attempting to put the pieces together.

I was fascinated reading Brené Brown’s Rising Strong, in which she described our almost irresistible urge to tell stories to ourselves– even false ones– in order to make sense of things. Drawing from her research, she shared that there is actually a dopamine release that motivates us:

“Our brains reward us with dopamine when we recognize and complete patterns. Stories are patterns. The brain recognizes the familiar beginning-middle-end structure of a story and rewards us for clearing up the ambiguity. Unfortunately, we don’t need to be accurate, just certain.

The story we tell ourselves with great certainty becomes an interpretive lens for our day-to-day experience of life. It colors our perceptions, our judgments, and eventually our decisions.

If Sally is convinced that nobody loves her, she will begin noticing every slight and seeing it as a confirmation of that “truth.” If Fred is intensely ashamed of how he has harmed a loved one, he will avoid lingering in that shame for very long. Perhaps he shifts the blame onto the one who questions him; perhaps he goes into self-punishment or profusely apologies – all ways of getting people to look away from his shame. But is he willing to talk about what it was really like? Is he willing to exchange the story he is telling himself for the fuller truth? That is where genuine humility and courage enter in.

For many years, the story I told myself was that I wasn’t trying hard enough or being good enough. I was the problem. I wasn’t willing or ready to face the truer story of my loneliness and sadness and shame – and how they got there in the first place. Or I told myself that other people would change, too afraid to confront their behaviors and tell them what it is like for me. I tolerated toxic behaviors and allowed my dignity to be stomped on. I just had to be kinder, and they would change. All the while the sensations in my body and my intuitive sense warned me: if I actually spoke the truth about how they were really behaving, they would definitely not be willing to talk about it, and would find ways to make me pay. As it turns out, my intuition was spot on. When I did speak truth, they were not willing to talk about their behaviors, and they did make me pay.

As I’ve pointed out before, on the Day of Judgment, my story and yours will be fully told – in all truth. Facing the fuller truth can be scary, but it is also liberating – allowing us to come out of the shadows and become a whole person.

Knowing our human tendency to confabulate, what can we do? Two great women come to mind for me.

One is Virginia, a parishioner in my former parish, who is my grandma’s age. Like grandma, Virginia always wanted to know what all is going on. But she also had a marvelous habit of going straight to the source before repeating a rumor. “What’s going on with ___________?” she would often ask me, having heard the church ladies confabulating. I would clear up the confusion, and she would nod with understanding and satisfaction. What a gift her wisdom and discipline were! But doing so required her to abide in that uncomfortable place of not knowing all the pieces, and resisting the dopamine fix that comes with imposing an interpretation on the facts.

The other woman that comes to mind is the Virgin Mary. The Gospels offer us glimpses into many moments of her life. In each of them, she was in the middle of an overwhelming and disorienting situation. God impregnated her, and she didn’t fully understand how. She prepared for birth having no idea where it would happen (and when it did happen, it was amidst farm animals, and her baby’s bed was the feeding trough). They were to flee into Egypt, without knowing how long. Her lost-and-found Son was in his Father’s house, but what does that really mean? The same Son, now 33, is being tortured and killed and buried – and all will be well – but how?

Again and again, Mary exemplifies a willingness to be in the middle of a great story, without yet having all the answers. She shows us that it is possible to abide and wait for the conflict to be resolved, resisting the false satisfaction of confabulation. She was willing – repeatedly – to have her narrative disrupted and to be reoriented toward a bigger and better horizon. She is the preeminent model of humility and courage. She was eager to embrace a fuller and fuller truth because she was always allowing herself to be embraced by that Truth.

What are the ways that you and I tend to confabulate? What are the painful truths that we would rather not admit? In what ways are we still in the middle of a story, with no idea how the tension will be resolved? Can we watch and wait in Hope?

The invitation is there for all of us!

Francis of Assisi and Fatherly Blessing

There is a famous moment in the life of Francis of Assisi, in which he dramatically renounces his earthly father and claims God as his heavenly Father. Francis gives back to his father not only the money he was demanding, but the very clothes off his back.

His furious father, the wealthy cloth merchant Pietro di Bernardone, had pressured the local bishop to call Francis to trial. Pietro demanded that his son pay back what he owed.

Francis had encountered the voice of Jesus calling to him from the cross in the hillside church of San Damiano. Jesus had beckoned: Rebuild my Church, which as you see is falling into ruin. Francis began the rebuilding effort quite literally, gathering or begging for stones to repair the dilapidated building. He also helped himself to a large bolt of his father’s expensive silk, selling it and attempting to give the proceeds to the stunned priest of San Damiano for help in the repair efforts. The priest prudently refused, not wanting to become one of Pietro’s enemies.

Pietro was a greedy man, but his rage had little to do with wealth. It sprang up from the shame and embarrassment that he felt as Francis rejected the rigid role assigned to him.

The famous friar of Assisi was actually named “John” at baptism – a name given by his mother Pica during the long months of Pietro’s absence in France. Upon returning, Pietro met his son and renamed him “Francis” (basically, “Frenchy”) in honor of the affluent country he loved visiting. In what he saw as great benevolence, Pietro planned to pass on his significant wealth to his son Francis, who would make him proud in carrying on the lucrative family business.

Instead, Francis went about begging, mingling with lepers, and sharing his father’s wealth with the poor. Disgusted and embarrassed, Pietro had him beaten and locked in the cellar, hoping he would fall in line. He didn’t. The next time Pietro was away, Francis’ mother released him, and Francis was right back to rebuilding the church of San Damiano – only now he hid himself in a cave to avoid the revenge of his father. That is when his father went to the bishop demanding justice.

The trial was public. Many witnesses heard Francis declare, “From now on I will say freely: ‘Our Father who art in heaven,’ and not ‘My father Pietro di Bernardone.’ Look, not only do I return his money; I give him back all my clothes. I will go to the Lord naked!”

He stripped himself there and then of his father’s robes, revealing the penitential hairshirt he had been wearing underneath.

And here is where I want to pause the story of Francis’ conversion.

Too often, the Saints are seen as these superhuman beings who quickly and easily rise to heights that are too lofty for the rest of us. The more steps I take on the road of conversion, the more I realize that the Saints were very normal and sinful human beings like you and me who walked a long and often painful path of conversion.

Most of the people who write the lives of Saints are themselves less than fully converted – so they tend to glamorize or oversimplify the journey of conversion. Sure, we would all love it if our conversion could be one simple and dramatic moment of decision and then living happily ever after. But that is rarely if ever how conversion works! Rather, there are many moments of weakness, faltering, stumbling, and struggling. There are many moments of new discovery and new growth. Consider the life of Peter in the Gospels and the Acts of the Apostles. From early on he loves the Lord and has faith in Him. But he continues to struggle before, during, and after the dying and rising of Jesus. His maturing in the love of Jesus is gradual, but significant.

Let’s just suppose that Francis was still – at this moment in his conversion – rather immature and in need of much more conversion. That is actually what the evidence suggests! First, there is Francis’ behavior. He is fearfully hiding in a cave. Plus, his father makes a fair point – it was not okay for Francis to presume that he could just start selling his father’s possessions without permission. There is still no small amount of the entitled party boy in him.

But there is another wonderful detail. For some time, Pietro has been lashing out at Francis with curses. Francis’ solution is to call upon “a lowly, rather simple man” to help him by taking the place of his father. Whenever Pietro would curse Francis, the poor man would speak words of blessing over Francis.

Underlying these details are the fear and shame and insecurity that Francis still felt. Like all human beings, he needed fatherly blessing, and ached for it. He needed to become secure in his identity, to know who he was. That is the greatest gift that fathers in the flesh can give to their children. They can lead them to be secure in the identity that God the Father confers on them – our heavenly Father who alone can fully bless us in the way our hearts desire.

Francis’ greatest example here is not so much his outward poverty as his inward poverty of heart, including his willingness to beg for help. Rather than shaming himself for being emotionally “needy,” he humbly reaches out for words of blessing from a fellow outcast. Through the repeated reminders of another flesh-and-blood human being, Francis’ words to the bishop and the crowd begin taking on flesh.

It sounds nice to say that God is my heavenly Father and that he meets all my needs. But it can be little comfort when my old wounds of shame and insecurity whisper in the shadows that I am not enough, that I am all alone, or that nobody really loves me.

There is a reason why Francis and his followers lived in community as brothers. There is a reason why Jesus taught us to pray to God as Our Father. We cannot connect with the Father without simultaneously connecting with each other as fellow members of the Body of Christ. Only God the Father can fill the void we feel deep in our hearts. But only within healthy community, vulnerably stating needs and receiving care, can we be opened up to receive the Fatherly blessing we need and ache for.

As we become blessed by the Father, then the slow and steady change can begin to happen. Secure in the Father’s love, we can mature in Christ.

Francis’ biographer (Thomas of Celano) delights in the scene of Francis’ nakedness before the bishop and the people: Oh how free is the heart of a man for whom Christ is already enough! True enough, as long as we also remember that Francis was still in the process of claiming that truth and internalizing it – and never without help from others.

Each of us, one way or another, gets pushed into roles. Each of us struggles to discover our true identity, and to be secure in love. In our insecurity we stay stuck in our sins. We need fellow pilgrims on the journey – those who don’t shame us or fix us, but declare us to be beloved children of God. We absolutely need that repeated reminder so that we can stay secure in the Father’s love and keep walking the difficult road of conversion. Maturity will keep coming – usually quite slowly. Like little children who are growing, we need others to notice our growth, to name it, to celebrate it, and to cheer us on. The Saints in heaven certainly do so, but hopefully also some of our fellow Saints-in-the-making.

Who are the “lowly, rather simple” people in your life who remind you of your identity as a beloved child of God?

Certainty ≠ Truth

Certainty can be one of the greatest obstacles to Truth.

That claim may shock many Christians, who feel like they are clutching tenaciously to what little certainty remains in our tumultuous times. But certainty and Truth are not the same thing. When we demand or cling to certainty, our quest for Truth gets abandoned, and the Truth gets lost or distorted.

Have you ever had a moment of reckoning – a moment in which your tightly-held certainty was shattered upon the rock of reality?

My older sister never tires of reminding me of my own six-year-old clinging to certainty. My favorite show at the time was The Price is Right – only I insisted quite emphatically that it was called “Win a Car.” No amount of argumentation on her part could sway me. I had often viewed the latter half of the show at my grandparents’ house after kindergarten. I watched contestant after contestant win a car – or be foiled in the attempt.

And then came my reckoning. I passed by the television one summer morning, saw the flashing lights, and heard the familiar voice of Rod Roddy: “Here it comes! Television’s most exciting hour of fantastic prizes! The fabulous, sixty-minute PRICE IS RIGHT!”

Rod called down the first four contestants, and informed them that they were the first contestants on The Price is Right. And those same words appeared on the screen, tiny at first, but swelling until they filled the screen. I stood agape, stunned at my error. I had been so certain – so very certain.

Reality changes us – if we allow it to. Hopefully reality changes us not just once, but day after day. With childlike wonder, we discover new depths of the mystery. The more we know, the more we desire to know. Authentic growth in wisdom actually yields more wonder and more desire, not less. Those who are wise recognize how little they know and understand.

Such was the wisdom of Socrates in the face of his accusers. When he didn’t know something, he at least knew that he didn’t know. He was not puffed up with false certitude. Such was the wisdom of Thomas Aquinas, who stated that “an article of faith is a glimpse of divine Truth tending towards that Truth” (ST II-II, q. 1, a. 6, sc). Catching a glimpse of Truth is different than possessing it with certainty. Those who catch a glimpse of something they truly care about feel an ache to seek more.

In describing faith, Thomas reminds us that our faith does not point to the proposition, but to the reality itself (ST II-II, q. 1, a. 2, ad 2). And perhaps most shocking of all, Thomas asserts that our knowledge of God is a knowledge what he is not, but that what he is remains utterly unknown to us (SCG c. 3, 49, 9).

Thomas Aquinas is not a relativist, and neither am I. But he is even more a mystic than a theologian. He intuitively understands that God is infinite. The closer we get to him, the more painfully we realize the infinite gap between him and us – a gap bridged not by intellectual comprehension or certainty, but only in a communion of love in the new and eternal covenant.

Jesus Christ presents himself as the Way, the Truth, and the Life. He invites us to enter into a relationship with him and to follow him as disciples. Through faith, we become fellow members of his Body. We begin an ongoing journey of conversion, in which we become changed more and more into him. He invites us into communion with him and his Father. He prays that all that is his will be ours. He invites us as his bride into a one-flesh union with him. We are invited to grow into that union throughout our life.

Our demand for certainty comes from our insecure hearts. To feel insecure is one of the most difficult human experiences. The solution to not the “certainty” of Christian fundamentalism, but the intimacy of communion, and the security that is received in that relationship.

The Truth is not relative, but it IS relational. I love studying ancient and medieval philosophy, and find enormous wisdom there. That great legacy of Truth-seeking did not happen in a vacuum. It happened within the context of community. It is only within secure relationships, and in respectful dialogue with fellow humans, that we can pursue the Truth – never as isolated individuals, but as fellow children of God.

There are two opposite errors here: relativism and fundamentalism. Each in its own way refuses to surrender to reality. Relativism dogmatically asserts that there is no Truth. Those who cling to relativism ultimately refuse to allow reality to change them. They also ultimately refuse to give themselves over in a loving communion with the living God who holds all the answers to our ultimate questions.

But fundamentalism, too, is an enemy of Truth. It pretends to offer total certainty about “the truth” in a way that kills curiosity and wonder – the gifts of God that truly draw us into his Truth. There is a vulnerability and a playful engagement in the curiosity of a child. The “certainty” of fundamentalism exchanges a vulnerable relationship with the living God for an illusory sense of control.

The obsession with certainty has been particularly strong in the modern era (the last few centuries). It shows up in both Catholic and Protestant circles in some form of fundamentalism. We see this clinging to certainty it in the “once saved always saved” approach of some Protestants. We see it in an exaggerated emphasis on the inerrancy of Scripture or the infallibility of the pope. I believe in both of those doctrines as far as they go – but I find that most Christians seriously misunderstand or misrepresent them! Insofar as they point us to divine Truth, both are at the service of the living and enduring Word of God, who is a person inviting us into covenantal relationship with himself and his Father.

Through faith, we share in the dying and rising of Jesus. We are securely loved as God’s children, and are able to grow into maturity in Christ. With childlike wonder and curiosity, we can humbly acknowledge and keep surrendering to a Truth that is always larger than us. In the words of C.S. Lewis, “The further up and the further in you go, the bigger everything gets. The inside is larger than the outside.” May we never allow the temptation of certainty to hinder us from the great invitation of the eternal Bridegroom: “Come further up! Come further in!”

Fatherhood and Subsidiarity

God is our Father. Jesus presents himself as God’s own Son. He speaks of God as his Father who desires to become our Father. All fatherhood derives from God the Father and has its meaning from him (cf. Ephesians 3:14-21).

And what do we see in God’s Fatherhood? He is radically different from the counterfeit versions of fatherhood that are far too common today! In the Trinity, all three persons (Father, Son, and Holy Spirit) are equal in dignity. Jesus is from the Father (not the other way around), yet they are coequal in dignity and majesty. There is no “greater than” or “less than.” God shows us that fatherhood is not meant to be about power or privilege. Fatherhood is about pouring blessing into others and lifting them up to be secure in their own identity.

Children look to their fathers to discover their identity, to discover and know securely who they are. In the Old Testament (even amidst the dysfunction!) the concept of fatherly blessing is a recurring theme. Adam is given authority by God over the whole cosmos and gives names to all of the animals. Had he exercised his stewardship well, the entire cosmos would have flourished under God’s Fatherly blessing. In Genesis 27, Isaac bestows his blessing upon Jacob, and not upon Esau. Flooded with envy, Esau desperately aches for that fatherly blessing. In the next generation, Jacob names and blesses his sons in highly descriptive and specific ways (see Genesis 49).

In the New Testament, after calling many disciples to himself, Jesus inaugurates his public preaching with the Sermon on the Mount – beginning with the Beatitudes (Matthew 5:1-10). Each one promises Fatherly blessing – not because we strive for it or earn it, but because we allow ourselves to be open and receptive to a Father who is eager to bless us.

Ultimately, only God is fully a Father. Any earthly fathers (whether in our families or in our churches) are called to be icons of God’s Fatherhood. But too often we are distorted caricatures, in which his true Fatherhood is barely recognizable.

Perhaps that is why Jesus cautions us against calling anyone on earth our “father” (Matthew 23:9). There are even some evangelicals who have used that verse as a stick to bash Catholics for calling priests “Father” – while simultaneously protecting patriarchal structures that allow white males to be leaders in their families and churches who somehow have more power and privileges than the rest. The fact is, all Christian traditions (including Catholicism) are prone to an abuse of fatherly authority. Any time fatherhood claims power or privileges for its own sake, it becomes oppressive and harms those who are meant to be served.

In our Catholic Tradition, we have an important (and little practiced) teaching called “subsidiarity.” Authority of any kind is called to assist, support, and empower those it serves, rather than to replace them. Typically, this teaching is applied to governmental structures – and rightly so. Those in office have a duty to be solicitous for the common good and to intervene where others are struggling (whether than be parents, local governments, or state governments). But in intervening they are called to support and empower rather than to usurp or replace.

Sadly, we don’t seem to apply subsidiarity to fatherly authority! Whether we are fathers in a marriage and family or father figures in a church family, our fatherly authority is never meant to be about power or privilege! Remember – in the Trinity, Jesus and the Father are totally equal. There is no “greater than” or “less than.” Jesus is absolutely secure in his identity precisely because of his relationship with his Father. Any human form of fatherhood is meant to be a true icon of God’s Fatherhood – helping those who are fathered to become secure in God’s Fatherly blessing.

Fatherhood has been under fire for a long time. Some Christians see this trend as a liberal secular threat that needs to be fought and suppressed. But in their reactivity, they are not listening well to the grievances! We need to name the many ways in which fatherhood has harmed rather than blessed. We need to empathize with the grief and anger of those who have been abused or oppressed. We need to examine our structures and how they operate – asking humbly and honestly whether the authority there is ever exploited for power and privilege rather than lifting others up into secure identity and delegating to them their own proper authority. We need to toil tirelessly to arrive at the day in which women and children don’t have to fear being used or harmed by the men in their families, communities, and churches!

Many males in authority have been resistant and reluctant to needed reform. Is it any surprise that many others rebel against any and all forms of patriarchy? Rather than seeking to reclaim authentic fatherhood, many today want to name it as evil.

As often happens with rebellion, this rejection of fatherly authority will only lead to greater problems. A void of authentic fatherhood is worse! As harmful as it is when fathers use or oppress, it is even more harmful when fathers abdicate their fatherly authority. Those under their care remain unblessed and insecure in their identity. They go unprotected. They live in chaos and disorder.  There will only be more self-indulgence, exploiting of others, and aggression against others. All the while God’s Fatherhood, his fierce and tender embrace, remains a distant and forgotten dream. Is this not the story of Simba’s fatherhood in The Lion King? In his fear, shame, and woundedness, he flees his true calling and true authority, and many suffer disorder and oppression until he reclaims it.

As we approach another Father’s Day, we can remember that God has truly revealed himself as our Father, and that fatherhood is a gift from him. The greater the gift, the greater the devil’s envy and attacks as he attempts to distract or distort. We can reject all distortions of fatherhood while challenging ourselves to bring blessing to others in a way that truly allows all God’s children to be secure in their identity.

Our Blessed Mother

There is much to marvel at in God’s creation, but the bond between mother and child is chief among them. In marriage, the two become one flesh. In motherhood, what begins as one flesh proceeds, through a nurturing and protective process, as a new being that grows into full maturity. The process of pregnancy and birthing is a paradox of sorrow and joy – so much so that it becomes the best analogy that Jesus can find to describe the Resurrection (John 16:16-22). The process of guiding children into adulthood replays the same paradox. If strongly supported and protected, healthy mothers are able to partner with healthy fathers in guiding their children into responsible adulthood. The mother desires that this young human being, who began in her womb with absolute dependence and need, will gradually reach a point of no longer needing and depending on her, but living autonomously with a free and joyful capacity for communion and total self-gift. I am friends with many moms, and have seen in their eyes that amazing combination of painful loss and intense joy as they proudly watch their sons and daughters shine in adulthood. But they are up against so much!

O how the devil hates this beautiful gift of motherhood! In every age, he renews his assault against it, and against the precious daughters of God who are called to it. Last time, I shared the particular ways in which our modern industrialized (and now digitalized) age tends to war against women. Toxic understandings of masculinity and femininity have infected both secular society and our own churches. Wave after wave of collective trauma has caused most of our families to perpetuate cycles of harm from generation to generation – unless and until we have the courage to face it all and heal. When I say collective trauma, I am thinking of the immigration of my and your ancestors, the previous pandemic, World War I, the Great Depression, World War II, Vietnam, the most recent pandemic, and so much more. Few families have fully faced and fully healed the heartache. Most of us minimize it, pull ourselves together, and carry on – which totally made sense during the traumatic events themselves – but over time has corroded our capacity for healthy intimacy and relationships. One of many sad results is that most of us did not receive all that we truly needed from our mothers.

God sends Jesus as his own beloved Son to plunge into every betrayal, every assault, every loss, every moment of heartache – and to transform it all. We are no longer alone or powerless in our agony – he suffers with and for us.

So does our mother Mary! God chose her to be the mother of his own Son. He is true flesh of her flesh, born of the Virgin by the power of the Holy Spirit. God also chose her to be our heavenly mother, as Jesus revealed to us on the Cross: “Behold Your Mother!”

How can she possibly be a mother to each and every beloved disciple? Only if she participates fully in the Lord’s Resurrection and Ascension – just as she participated fully in his Cross and burial. When Jesus is raised from the dead and exalted in heavenly glory, he opens up a new dimension of human existence. His body is one and the same as the body placed lovingly in the tomb, yet gloriously transformed beyond our current comprehension. The resurrection accounts make it clear that our current limits of time and place cannot contain him. He can be fully present many places at once – not just as God, but in his human flesh.

The Catholic doctrine of the Assumption of Mary into heaven may seem to many to be abstract or unbiblical or irrelevant. But it makes so much sense if you look at it through the lens of Jesus giving us the heavenly mother that he knew each and all of us would need! He knows the relentless assaults of evil. He knows that many mothers and many children in every generation will be vulnerable to attack. He promises not to leave us orphans.

Sharing already in Jesus’ Ascension glory, our Blessed Mother is able to provide the tender nurturing, the fierce protection, and the motherly mentoring that we may have missed out on. We cannot give what we have not received!

My heart has been warmed at how many of my Protestant friends are curious about devotion to Mary. They and I recognize that the polemics of the past (on all sides) resulted in much misunderstanding, distortion, or loss. Our American culture, with its Puritanical roots, has been particularly suspicious of devotion to Mary – unlike most other times and places in the history of Christianity. From at least as long ago as the early art in the Roman catacombs, Mary’s motherhood has captivated the imagination and creative expression of Christian disciples in every age. She is always the mother that we need, because our good Father knows of our need and always provides.

I have a few writing projects that I’ve chipped away at in recent years. Five years ago, I wrote a book on the Beatitudes which I will eventually rework and publish. While on sabbatical, I wrote a book about devotion to Mary for those who really need it. The idea came originally from a mentor who was a Protestant minister and therapist. I wasn’t ready to write it for a long time, but it is nearing completion now. I look forward to sharing some stories of how Mary has been the heavenly mother I have needed, and hope that many of you will find her to be exactly the mother that you need.

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