Tag: Receptivity

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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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Love Yourself as Your Neighbor

The title is not a typo. It is intentionally provocative. I invite you to try it on for size: “Love yourself as your neighbor.” What does that stir in you?

When my spiritual director first suggested those words to me a few months ago, it jolted me. And then I saw the truth of it. There is a simple mathematical syllogism here. If A=B then B=A. When speaking of love of neighbor and love of self, Jesus does not say “more than” or “less than,” but “as.”

I suspect that many Christians will cringe at the invitation to love themselves, much less to love themselves just as much as they love their neighbor. Surely such talk is selfish? Doesn’t Scripture tell is that it is more blessed to give than to receive (Acts 20:35)? Aren’t we supposed to make a gift of ourself rather than seek our own fulfillment? Shouldn’t we be putting others first?

Jesus never actually says that last one. Nor did he live that way. As a human being, he received an abundance of human love – not only during his infancy and childhood, but even after he entered public ministry. He did not seek or expect that love from most people, but he willingly received it when it was offered. His receptivity and willingness to be loved solidified in him a secure foundation from which he could become total gift.

It is true that there is no greater love than to lay down one’s life. It is true that each and every one of us is given abundant gifts so that we can freely and fruitfully give it all away. The Second Vatican Council described human beings as creatures of gift. We are the only beings that God willed into existence for their own sake – and we can only find ourselves by making a sincere gift of ourselves (Gaudium et Spes n. 24).

What is “sincere” self-gift? And what gets in the way?

I see two extremes here, two possible distortions: toxic self-fulfillment and toxic self-sacrifice

Our culture definitely feeds us lies about finding fulfillment in ourselves. There are the more obvious examples of self-indulgence: binging on food, drink, tv shows, shopping, pornography, etc. There are also more subtle versions: the fitness culture that tells us we will be happy when our bodies look a certain way, or the approaches to psychotherapy that beckon us to find fulfillment by crafting our own identity. 

All God’s creatures are good, and we humans are very good. But when those creatures or we ourselves become the overarching goal, we become turned in on ourselves and will never discover our deeper identity and purpose, which always includes an invitation to give ourselves away in fruitful love.

The other extreme is found in all of us who squirm at the thought of “love yourself as your neighbor.” Most Christians I know feel far more comfortable giving than receiving – even if their “giving” has become joyless, bitter, resentful, or stuck. There can be a distorted form of self-sacrificing that loathes our own dignity and struggles to be receptive to the love and care of others. Receiving care would mean opening up places in our heart in which we feel alone, unloved, or unlovable. It would mean the risk of being disappointed or hurt or rejected or abandoned. It feels far safer to keep sacrificing and call it “good.”

I easily slide into caregiver mode. In those moments, I can indeed be a fruitful gift to others. And the Lord often does invite me to be generous. But if I am not paying attention and discerning, I will find myself either avoiding intimacy (always giving care and never receiving it) or feeling driven and constricted in my “giving” – or both. The former leaves me feeling alone and unloved; the latter leaves me feeling resentful and entitled. Both leave me susceptible to grasping and taking – which seems to be self-indulgence but is actually a desperate cry from within to pay attention and receive love and care.

“Integration for the sake of self-gift” – this theme summarizes the last seven years of my life, and much of my current work with other priests. Again and again, I wish I could just feel free as I give and sacrifice. “I should just be able to do this,” says my inner critic. Again and again, the Lord gently reminds me that I need much care as I make slow and not-always-steady progress. I need people in my life who see all of me – including the parts and places that feel messy or filthy. Jesus desires nothing short of ALL of me – and that includes the pieces that feel toxic. I cannot give wholeheartedly if I keep hiding away half the pieces.

I am gifted at being in dark or scary places with others. I bring both truth-telling and tenderness. I attune keenly and offer an abundance of space for them to show up however they need to.

Oh, how I need those gifts offered to me! In some cases, I seek it and experience shame or disappointment. The other offers quick advice or fast fixes, makes a comparison, or keeps talking without really having listened. And then there are those moments where really great care is present. Sometimes I receive it; more often, I launch into the “5 D’s of Dodgeball” – dodge, dip, duck, dive, and dodge. I have to admit – I’m pretty great at that game in intimate relational settings. Sometimes the others are skilled enough and kind enough to be unphased and unconfused by my maneuvering. They don’t try to whip a ball at me. Instead, I see in their eyes and face that they’re not going anywhere. Sometimes I let myself be loved in those moments. The parched land finally drinks in the water of life.

Let yourself be loved.

I am reminded here of the inspiring words of Claire Dwyer in her delightful book that summarizes the spirituality of Saint Elizabeth of the Trinity:

“Let yourself be vulnerable.  Let your walls down, your carefully constructed fortresses breached, your fiercely guarded heart laid bare.  Let your wounds be touched, your fears revealed, your deepest desires, damaged dreams, and most daring hopes unveiled before the Bridegroom who has the power to redeem, restore, and resurrect them. Drop your independence and the idea—which you clutch so tightly—that you can do anything to protect and save yourself.  And let Him love you.”

Jesus never actually says to put others first and disregard your own dignity. However, both Scripture and twenty centuries of Tradition repeatedly emphasize the core of the Gospel – that God offers us love freely and gratuitously. He loves us first, while we are yet sinners. We can only grow and bear fruit to the extent that we have received (and keep receiving) as branches on the vine.

Jesus and Mary are models of total and fruitful self-gift, but they are first models of receptivity. All that Jesus has (and gives away) is from the Father. Mary receives so wholeheartedly that the very Word of God becomes flesh in her.

Moreover, Jesus and Mary’s receiving is not merely from the Father. They willingly receive from other humans. Mary and Joseph pour human love into Jesus’ human needs. He is honored, delighted in, nurtured, protected, played with, taught, and held in reverence as one who has his own identity apart from their pre-conceived notions. Likewise, we can imagine the abundant human goodness of Mary’s childhood. Saints Joachim and Anne are traditionally named as Mary’s parents. She would not be so open and receptive in the Gospel stories if she had not already been loved safely and consistently.

Love your neighbor as yourself. Love yourself as your neighbor. Every child of God is uniquely created by him and is worthy of honor and delight. Love is never earned, but always a gift. We all get to be branches on the vine that is Christ. We all get to be interconnected as we receive and as we give forth fruit. We all matter. We all need Jesus.

It’s such a simple lesson, but one that may take a lifetime to learn. May you and I keep learning!

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Triggers and True Kindness

These days, merely uttering the word “triggered” is likely to trigger someone.

There are many who mock today’s tendency to give a “trigger alert.” I notice intense reactions of contempt among some of my fellow Christians. I have a hard time imagining Jesus showing the same scorn. He compassionately sought out those who were weak or wounded. He met them with tender love. He did not expect them to pull themselves together before he would allow them to belong or to follow him.

At the same time, Jesus did not preface his teachings with a “trigger alert.” In his parables and conversations, you can see him intentionally eliciting a reaction from his listeners. He skillfully provokes in order to uncover what needs healing, to awaken desire, to proclaim Good News, and to invite them into a covenantal relationship in which they can grow and bear fruit.

To be triggered is to experience a bigger reaction to a situation than one might normally expect. Amidst a sudden influx of images or bodily sensations, a trigger might elicit a flash of anger, a surge of sexual arousal, a pang of dread, a paralyzing anxiety, or a dissociative numbness.

And it happens so very quickly. Hence the term “trigger.” Much like a speeding bullet, our nervous system and limbic brain have the capacity to be launched into a life-or-death response.

The reaction happens first. Rational thinking may or may not follow, depending on the intensity of the reaction. The activation or the shutdown of our body begins in a fraction of a second. We are already mobilizing, fleeing, freezing, or going numb by the time our rational brain gets the memo a few seconds later – that is, if the memo even arrives. Survival is the priority when it comes to our body’s trauma responses.

Eight centuries ago, Thomas Aquinas noticed and reflected on these reactions that are common to all mammals. Deer who have memory of being hunted experience a swift reaction in the presence of humans. Our bodies and brains have a capacity to remember, to form associations, and to expect what will happen next. Without having access to the findings of neuroscience, Thomas was already observing the principle that “neurons that fire together wire together.”

In situations of threat, getting triggered is a marvelous asset. The speed and intensity of our reaction are the very thing that helps us get back to safety. In day-to-day relationships, triggers can be frustrating, as we go on hurting ourselves and the ones we love by any number of reactive behaviors: raising our voice, interrupting, berating, glaring, getting small, fawning, avoiding, withdrawing, isolating, going numb, turning to an addiction, etc.

Most of us wish we didn’t have these reactions. We wish they would just go away. Or we feel resentful at those who so insensitively trigger us. Yet every trigger is an opportunity to experience authentic connection, healing, and repair.

I began exploring my own triggers seven years ago, in my early months of healing and recovery. I remember that summer well, slowly reading Seven Desires by Mark and Debbie Laaser. They gave names to my behaviors and experiences. I didn’t always like it. It was painful to see how often I had been putting expectations on others and on myself, rather than acknowledging and feeling my deep and unmet needs. It was also liberating to tell the fuller truth. It opened up more and more curiosity.

Mark described triggers as an opportunity to be curious about my unmet needs, to become responsible for them, and to communicate about them – rather than expecting or demanding or resenting. Daily curiosity allowed me to notice and share with friends my various overreactions. Little by little, I grew in an awareness of what I was really feeling and needing. I noticed how present-day reactions were connected to my story.

Debbie described her preference to imagine triggers as “anointings” – meaning that we can welcome the anointing balm of the Holy Spirit any and every time we feel a strong reaction. That was such a lovely invitation, and one that I also started practicing.

There began in me a “thawing out” process. After decades of minimizing my feelings and needs, I began paying attention, allowing time and space and care. There’s a real challenge there – thawing out hurts!! Over time, I discovered new layers in my story – long years of loneliness and heartache that I had never fully felt. With the strong and tender presence of the Virgin Mary, my daily prayer became a time in which I could bring my daily triggers, allow myself to feel more of them, and welcome the anointing of the Holy Spirit. It was so painful and so consoling.

These experiences unfolded over months and eventually years. Scriptures began coming to life for me. My body is a temple of the Holy Spirit (1 Corinthians 6:19). That means I can allow myself to feel intense sensations in my gut, chest, or throat. I can welcome the Holy Spirit there. He can anoint me there. The very name “Christian” implies being a “christ” – being anointed as Jesus was anointed. Jesus promised that very anointing in the Beatitudes when he said “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be paracleted.” (Matthew 5:4). I use the word “paracleted” in order to highlight the anointing of the Paraclete that soothes and encourages us whenever we are willing to experience our intense heartache and receive needed care.

Case in point: Just minutes ago, I received an unexpected and totally unwelcome interruption. It abruptly brought up all kinds of intense memories for me. So what did I do? I felt resentment and anger at the text message. I devoured an unhealthy snack, feeling shame as I ate it, along with the predictable and not-nearly-enough soothing sensation. Then I noticed myself just wanting to push through and move on. Then I felt the invitation to practice what I am preaching here. I took 5 minutes to lie down, allowing myself to feel more of it. I wept and shook and gasped for air. I realized how young I was feeling (like a 1-year old?). I realized how powerless and unprotected I had been feeling, and how familiar that was to my nervous system. I allowed time to receive comfort. I feel much more peace now.

Part of me feels frustrated at this “fragility” or that I still need so much. But if I tell the truth, what today required a 5-minute break would have set me in a rut for days or weeks in the past – and without me even being aware that I was triggered. The healing steps that I have already taken now give me a window of opportunity (usually) to notice and be aware, and to decide how to respond to the trigger. It’s a slow process that requires the faith of a child.

In healthy human development, as infants or toddlers or children, we have thousands and thousands of moments like the one I just had. Initially, that care comes from others; over time, we grow in our own capacity to notice what’s happening, to be resilient and resourceful, and to respond with good care and reasonable behavior.

As I get to know thousands of people’s stories, I am discovering an unpleasant reality. Most Americans I know did not experience myriads of moments of that kind of care as a child. We were more likely to be ignored, dismissed, judged, threatened, humiliated, attacked, or used. Many of us learned at a very young age either to keep our needs and feelings to ourselves, or that we will only get care if we perform or achieve, if we are dramatic or manipulative, or if we are giving something in exchange for it. We can expect as adults that it will take many thousands of moments of getting triggered, noticing our reaction with kindness, taking time to receive, and reconnecting. The alternative is to continue through life with unhealed wounds and unmet needs – which ultimately means remaining wounded people who wound people.

What about other people’s triggers? If we look at Jesus, we see grace and truth. Kindness seeks to heal ruptures, restore communion, and grow together in love. That requires a skillful combination of empathy and truth-telling. Jesus shows a marvelous awareness of what each person needs at a given moment. He neither backs away nor barges in. He loves them first, and then playfully engages their defenses, inviting them into more love and more truth.

To be oblivious or uncaring about what is obviously triggering to someone else is unkind or even cruel. But to expect others to tiptoe around my own triggers is egoistic and even abusive. I should know! I spent much of my life tiptoeing around others’ triggers. I’m learning that I don’t have to keep doing that. It helps neither me nor them. Their triggers and their needs are their responsibility, even if I genuinely care about them.

We all need people who care about what we need and feel, and who help us make sense out of life. Jesus needed that – and he experienced that! Not from most people, but from some.

Will we become again like little children? Will we admit and acknowledge the depths of our need, and be aware that those around us have their own stories and their own needs? Will we be responsible for our own needs and not expect others to do acrobatics around our tripwires?

May the true kindness of Jesus be an open invitation to each of us, in our own human growth, and in our relationships with one another.

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Welcoming Emmanuel

God is with us. God is greater.

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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.

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Admiration ≠ Love

Admiration feels amazing – for a while. It is never enough. It never satisfies our insatiable thirst for love. Admiration is not love.

Consider how many celebrities bask in the admiration of their fans, while secretly struggling with loneliness or depression. Consider the trend to chase after “likes” on social media – often eliciting envy in the onlookers, thrilling for a while, but inevitably leaving the recipient feeling empty and disappointed. Consider the mental health crisis in our schools and universities – including (and especially) among the “high performing” students.

I recall a conversation about university life. One institution was monitoring their students who were at the highest risk of flunking out. A consistent profile was emerging. It was not what many would think – not the party crowd who are getting distracted from their studies. No, by far the larger at-risk group was made up of students who had “performed” at a high level in high school, had presented an “ideal” college application, and were now in desperate trouble.

I was certainly one of those high-pressure students as I entered the university, though it took me another two decades or so to have my perfectionism fall apart. In part, that was because I had some genuine experiences of being loved for who I was (experiences that are increasingly scarce for young people today!). In part, it was because of my intense determination and my many talents. Whenever I seemed stuck, I fought and found ways to keep “succeeding.” I got myself back to a place of being admired by others. And it kept getting lonelier.

It was exhausting being admired, not to mention terrifying. There was no room for rest. Being admired meant that I couldn’t fail. I had to keep succeeding. It meant I couldn’t have any messy emotions or be in need. Shame was always lurking in the shadows – warning me that others would want nothing to do to me if I didn’t keep it up.

What I really needed was love – to be loved for who I really am. Being loved for who I am is so different than being appreciated for all that I do or being celebrated because of how amazing I am at this or that role.

It was incredibly hard to be loved for who I was because I had buried that identity so deeply that I didn’t even know it myself! During most of my childhood, I felt like I was under surveillance. I had to behave a certain way and be a certain way – or else. I discovered over time that I could be a “good” child by not having emotions or needs. I could even receive praise or more privileges if I was highly responsible, dependable, disciplined, and successful. I grew into that role and stayed in it for a few decades. The admiration was a drug that, like other drugs, kept me anticipating the next dopamine release – but ultimately left me feeling hollow. Others were loving me in a role, but they weren’t actually loving me – because I was keeping the real me hidden.

The last seven years have been an arduous but rewarding journey of recovering and reclaiming who I really am – who God created me to be. That journey has introduced me to unexpected companions and new friends. Even in environments with a high level of safety and care, I still find it awkward or scary when others really see me, and all I can do is receive their love – or squirm away from it. My defenses still spring up – though with slowly increasing freedom to notice what’s happening and allow the defenses to settle back down. It still feels easier to be in a “one up” or “one down” position – admired by another or admiring another; clearly “stronger” or “further along” than another or clearly in the position of an admiring (and subtly fawning) disciple.

I am convinced that the deepest wound we can experience is not being loved for who we are. Facing abuse is hard. I’ve done it with my own experiences of abuse, and I’ve very often been there with others. But in every case I have found the deeper wound and the longer road of healing to be around the ache to being loved for who we are. Once we have a chance to work through the fear or hurt or rage at being mistreated or used, we begin to access the deeper heartache of longing for love but not really receiving it. Lack of love is the deepest wound, resulting in the biggest ache.

The more I have healed, the more I see how omnipresent this wound is! Our churches hold up “good” Christian families to be – ahem – admired by the community. And their children or adult sons and daughters often struggle with feeling alone and unloved. Until their parents begin facing their own heartache and receiving what they really desire and need, they will struggle in providing it for their children. I say all this without the least bit of shaming or finger-pointing, but to tell the truth with kindness.

I believe that most of our families have transmitted heartache from generation to generation. How could we not? On a collective level, we have endured massive traumas over the last 150 years: the radical reordering of society and family life wrought by the Industrial Revolution, the struggles of immigration, two global pandemics, the Great Depression, and savage wars that have killed more people than the rest of the human centuries put together. How many of our families have actually faced that heartache and received the needed healing? Until we do, we are bound to keep transmitting the pain – leaving it to the next generation to figure out. Meanwhile, the saddest result is that most children are left entering adulthood feeling insecure and unloved.

I am aware that many readers may be feeling shame about how they have treated others. Notice that – but please don’t let it distract you from receiving what you need. We cannot give others what we have not received ourselves.

Do you tend to seek admiration rather than love? Do you truly feel loved for who you are? Are you playing a role rather than abiding securely in your authentic identity? Would you like to change that? If so, may the Holy Spirit inspire you and illumine the next step or two along the path.

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