Tag: Erik Varden

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From Dust to Glory

“Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

So we are reminded every Ash Wednesday. So Adam was reminded as he left the Garden of Eden, following his failed attempt to become like God by means of his own grasping and striving (Genesis 3:19).

God had created Adam from the dust of the earth, breathing life into him (Genesis 2:7). God had invited Adam and Eve to depend upon him for life and every other blessing. That dependence allowed a level of intimacy and joyful connectedness that the devil simply could not stand. From his envy and malice he viciously attacked, by means of subtle seduction. He pretended to offer what God had already planned and desired to give – to share ever more fully in His Glory.

Remember.

Remember who you are. You are dust. You came from the soil of the earth and will return to it. This world and all its desires are passing away (1 John 2:17).

Remember also that you are destined for Glory. Lent leads us to the rescue and deliverance experienced in the Passover of Jesus’ Passion and Resurrection.

We ache for so much more. Every human heart knows the longing, even if it is buried beneath layers of busyness, rugged survival, or mindless distractions. The desires of this world may be passing away, but we remain image bearers with an insatiable desire to return to our true home.

If you’re looking for an early Lenten read, the first chapter of Erik Varden’s The Shattering of Loneliness is breathtaking. You will be in good company, because Pope Leo has invited Varden to offer a Lenten retreat to him and the other workers in the Vatican from February 22 to 27. I was thrilled when I learned that. During these modern centuries in which many in the Church have forgotten what it means to be human, Varden is a voice crying out in the desert, inviting us to remember who we are.

Drawing from the desert fathers, he describes the painful nostalgia we experience, if we are bold enough to let ourselves feel it: “homesick for a land I recall, but have not seen.”

I remember how I began to experience that nostalgic ache with intensity after I had allowed myself to seek help and healing, beginning nine years ago. I stumbled onto the Welsh word hiraeth, and immediately resonated. There are parallel words in many languages, in which homesick humans attempt to describe this wistful longing within: saudade in French, Sehnsucht in German, banzo in Portuguese, Yūgen in Japanese, and many more.

This fall, I visited the cemetery in my former parish. I tend to weep there as I remember so many beautiful people whom I personally entrusted to the dust of the earth. The grave from one such man, who passed five years ago, bears the inscription, “There is no greater Sorrow than to Remember happy times.”

It is especially in our encounters with beauty that our longing for more is awakened. Even amidst the delight, there can be undercurrents of sadness. It is then that we perceive the enormity of the gap between where we have come from and where we are going.

“I am dust with a nostalgia for glory.” This is the fuller truth of Ash Wednesday, as named by Erik Varden.

We prefer to ignore both sides of this human paradox. We turn instead to our shallow survival strategies, whether we cover our nakedness with feeble fig leaves (Genesis 3:7) or mighty monuments of folly (Genesis 11:4). We pretend that we are not really dust. We create a manageable version of “glory” that we can control. Sooner or later, it all comes tumbling down.

Humility is the answer. The word “humility” comes from humus – the earth or soil or dust from which we are created. Humility grounds us. It allows us to accept both our bodiliness and our profound ache for more.

Humility opens up space for Hope, which is how we abide in the tension. We may be from the soil of the earth, but God has planted a divine seed within us. We would so much rather rid ourselves of the tension!

This urge to escape tension is a potential pitfall amidst the sudden widespread interest in healing. I have met many in healing work who are uncomfortable being present to the pain of others in the messy in-between. They feel an urge to fix or figure out, or to rescue. We can harm others when we do so, leaving them feeling more shame and abandonment in their pain.

As Jake Khym and Bob Schuchts pointed out in a recent podcast episode, healing is not about getting rid of pain (even if it sometimes happens). If that is our goal, we are turning God into a vending machine. Rather, healing is an ongoing encounter with God’s love and truth that brings us to wholeness and communion. Unfortunately, most Christian communities, even in healing ministry, are still more comfortable with spiritual bypassing.

Most of us are familiar with the notion that people turn to perfectionistic striving or to numbing addictions to medicate pain. More particularly, however, it is the vulnerable desire for Glory that we are fleeing. Desire is the most dangerous place in the human heart, often fiercely guarded by shame and contempt. I’m not talking about fleeting earthly desires, but the homesick longing for more. If I let myself feel that longing, I am no longer in control. And what if everyone rejects or abandons me then? It seems far better not to go there – except that this self-protection becomes increasingly exhausting and lonely.

“The Shattering of Loneliness” – what a title for a book! We each experience a desperate loneliness because our trust in God and self and each other has been shattered through betrayal. Through his Passion and Resurrection, Jesus now shatters our loneliness. In our survival outside of Eden, we have been striving to manage and control or to hide and escape. It is once again possible to connect and receive – if we are also willing to wait in Hope.

God so honors us as image bearers that he desires us to grow into His Glory, at our own pace and with our full consent. We need healthy community to do so. Ash Wednesday is a marvelous shared witness to these truths. It’s a truly communal experience. As a priest, I can offer a private Mass, but it would be absurd for me to impose ashes on myself in my private chapel on Ash Wednesday. We witness with each other in God’s presence what it truly means to be called from dust to Glory. We recommit to our shared sojourn through the shadowlands. We rekindle our ache for home.

In the witnessing and connectedness of healthy community, and in being reconnected to the love of our Father, our loneliness is shattered. It’s not that every longing has been totally met. We might actually suffer more in our longing once it’s witnessed – just as poets often feel agonizing desire in the presence of beauty. Some of the holiest disciples I know suffer the most when they feel intensely connected to God. They desire more, and are painfully aware of the gap between human dust and God’s Glory. They are holy because they keep daring to desire, to be known in their desire, and to be stretched in the tension of waiting.

As we receive our ashes this Lent, may we encourage each other in remembering who we are: dust that is called to Glory.

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“Watch!”

Advent is a season of watchfulness. Near the end of Mark’s Gospel, Jesus admonishes his disciples with a simple and strong commandment, “What I say to you, I say to all: watch!” (Mark 13:37).

What does Jesus mean by “watch”?

His one-word command (grēgoreîte) is a dramatic conclusion of extensive apocalyptic prophecies about the destruction of the Temple, the darkening of the sun and moon, the falling of the stars from heaven, and the coming of the Son of Man. You know not the day nor the hour, so watch.

Jesus is not fearmongering – even though many Christians today imagine the apocalypse that way. The coming of the Son of Man is not something we dread, but something we eagerly await, and daily pray for: “Thy Kingdom Come!” “Come, Lord Jesus!”

To be sure, overindulgence, carousing, or spiritual lethargy will hinder us from being watchful and ready at the coming of Jesus. But so will fear! There is an important difference between vigilance and hypervigilance. The former is a sober-minded awareness that is willing and ready to receive and respond. The latter is a fear-based reactivity, a trauma response doing what trauma responses do – ensuring survival at all costs. Jesus is not inviting us to mere survival, but into abundant life.

This fall, I appreciated a prayerful reading of Erik Varden’s The Shattering of Loneliness. Near the end of the book, he suggests a twofold meaning of the word “aware” – 1) to notice; and 2) to take care of or protect. He suggests that the best of the monastic traditions, including the desert fathers, embraced both dimensions of watchfulness. If we exclusively focus on one or the other, we will fail to fulfill Jesus’ command.

I find that, amidst the ruins of Christendom, many of the remnant Christians are so hyper-focused on “taking care of” that they no longer know how to notice with curiosity and kindness. It’s not hard to find hypervigilant and overprotective Christian parents, Christian families, or entire Christian communities. Fear dominates their consciousness and imagination as they try to control their lives and their environments, feeling immensely threatened by “those people.” These attitudes cause grave harm.

When fear predominates, it becomes impossible to live in trust, receptivity, and mutual relationships. I’ve worked with many adults who survived these home and church environments. Beneath all their tendencies of people-pleasing, anxiety, resentment, and control, there is a vast well of grief over never really being noticed, loved, and delighted in for who they are. They had to reshape their identity into cookie-cutter roles in order for the family to feel well-managed and in control.

When fear is intense, our field of vision literally narrows. There is little space for childlike curiosity to notice and discover and grow. I wrote long ago about the difference between Smoke Alarms and Watchtowers. More recently, I explained how virtue is impossible when emotions are eliminated or subjugated.

Christians have understandably felt threatened in the last few centuries. It’s tempting to get stuck in a collective trauma response, bound up in fear, and fail to remember that the victory is already won! Yes, Jesus spends all of Mark 13 offering apocalyptic prophecy. But these teachings immediately precede his entry into Jerusalem and his willing engagement of his Passion. As a victor very much in charge, Jesus overthrows the powers of darkness and brings his Kingdom definitively and victoriously into the midst of a world that is indeed passing away. It is our calm noticing of his presence and activity that will allow us an eager response and a joyful readiness to enter the heavenly wedding feast.

One extreme of “watch,” then, is a fear-based hypervigilance, which is not hard to find in our church communities. In our culture today, you can increasingly find the opposite extreme – an individualistic “mindfulness” that sometimes gets stuck in navel-gazing, or an untethered empathy that leaves no space for truth-telling.

As we see in Jesus, “the kindness of God that leads to repentance” (Romans 2:4) allows compassion and truth-telling to go together. He describes himself and our heavenly Father as “moved with compassion” (Luke 10:33; 15:20), using the Greek word splangna (“guts”). Compassion is an embodied response. We allow ourselves to feel what the other is feeling – especially when it is painful. Rather than backing away, bypassing, or fixing, we stand with as witnesses. Such “being with” is not at all incompatible with telling uncomfortable truths. Once the toxic shaming of “shoulds” is set aside, there is a time and a place for naming honestly and kindly the harm that is being caused by destructive behaviors. Jesus frequently speaks uncomfortable truths with kindness.

What about mindful noticing? During all these years of healing and recovery in my own life, I’ve come to appreciate being aware, here and now, in the present moment. I’ve come to appreciate noticing what is happening, without launching into contempt or judgment. I discover much more truth that way! Much of my former “discipline” was more about self-shaming, drivenness, and perfectionism. From a place of insecurity and fear, I was desperately striving to be good enough to be lovable. That is not virtue.

Of course, overindulgence is not virtue either. As I read Erik Varden’s words this fall, I felt a gentle invitation from the Lord to take the next step from a calm noticing into a healthy “taking care of.” I can be mindful of what is really happening here and now, and then freely engage in a “yes” or “no.” My desires are still unruly and disordered, in need of guidance and direction. They do not need shaming or fixing or subjugation, but they do need to be brought over to the Kingdom of God. So long as my desires belong only to this fallen world, they will indeed pull me downward, in a way that steadily ruins me. As I learn to receive them, accept them, and allow Jesus to love me there, I discover that I can be free in Christ; I can say “no” and be okay.

Jesus is the Word made flesh. He humbles himself to share in the clay of our humanity so that we can be exalted to share in his divinity. Mindfulness has enormous value, but is not an end in itself. It opens us to the transcendence that Jesus brings. It opens us to the fullness of Truth. He is the Way, the Truth, and the Life. Jesus entered this world precisely so that we can be wedded to him and thereby transcend this world – because this world and all the things in it are passing away.

Without the Incarnation, there is no Hope. There is no “taking care of” possible in a world that is under the dominion of its seducer, Satan. Jesus undoes that betrayal, not by eliminating its consequences, but by forging a path through suffering and death into eternal life. Genuine mindfulness allows us to see and follow that path, without being dismayed or distracted by the immensity of suffering that we would prefer to ignore, and definitely without being seduced by the allurements of this world.

Genuine mindfulness allows us to follow the path (not just “me”). The command of Jesus to “watch” is plural (grēgoreîte). He is not inviting an isolated and individualistic mindfulness, but a shared path of noticing and responding. We were never meant to exist as isolated individuals. It is not good for man to be alone.

Pope John Paul II articulated this balance in his Law of Gift: “Man cannot fully find himself except through a sincere gift of himself.” But we cannot give ourselves without much diligent labor of human integration. We must first become more of a whole person, self-aware and self-possessed – thereby allowing us to make a free, wholehearted, and fruitful gift of ourselves. Each person is a unique and unrepeatable mystery, worthy indeed of being loved and cherished in that uniqueness. But that unique giftedness is for the sake of bringing life and healing and goodness to the rest of the Body of Christ. It’s a gift to be given away.

We desperately need healthy Christian community – community which allows us (in the words of Curt Thompson) to be seen, soothed, safe, and secure. It is through a shared and communal “noticing” that each of us can discover more fully who we really are. It is also in that shared and communal noticing that each of us can emerge in lives of discipleship and truly “take care of,” truly become the steward of our story. It is then that self-awareness and self-possession can become self-gift. It is then that we can be one with Jesus in laying down our lives that others may live.

Come, Lord Jesus!

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Nostalgia

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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