Tag: Simeon

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Desire

Human beings desire.

Depending on who you listen to, you will hear how desire is one of the very best dimensions of being human, or how desire is at the root of evil and misery. What is the deeper truth?

Throughout history, across cultures and sects, there have been many movements seeking to eliminate human desire. In Greek and Roman culture, the Stoics taught a path of detachment from human emotions and desires. They only trouble your soul and cloud your judgment. Moreover, desiring what is beyond your station in life leads to restlessness, conflict, and misery. Solution: detach from emotion and desire. In Buddhism, the “Four Noble Truths” teach that suffering comes from human desire attaching itself to that which is unstable. The “Eightfold Path” allows the cessation of desire and opening up to nirvana. In the sunni Islamic tradition, Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya (1292-1350) described how human desire fits into the divine plan: “Allah created angels with reason and no desires, animals with desires and no reason, and man with both reason and desires. So if a man’s reason is stronger than his desire he is like an angel, and if his desires are stronger than his reason, then he is like an animal.”

Within Christianity, if you study the greatest mystics and saints, you will discover an intensity of desire that is indeed far stronger than reason, without denigrating reason. In those holy women and men, we see that their desire is at one and the same time their greatest consolation and their greatest agony. We will see why in a moment.

Unfortunately, many Christians over the centuries have found it easier to cast suspicion on desire. A dualisim easily emerges, separating soul and body, viewing spirit as good and flesh as bad. Such movements have plenty of Scriptures to appeal to as proof texts! The apostle Paul speaks often of a battle between flesh and spirit.

In New Testament Greek, the word for desire is typically epithumía (as a noun) or epithuméo (as a verb). The noun form shows up in 37 passages, and the verb form in 16. In terms of sheer number, the passages overwhelmingly describe desire as something negative that we should flee from – except when they don’t. And those exceptions are well worth looking at!

In Luke’s Gospel, Jesus begins the conversation at the Last Supper by declaring, “With desire I have desired to eat this Passover with you before I suffer” (Luke 22:15). To a Hebrew ear, the double expression of “desire” speaks of an intensity or abundance. Jesus has been pining for this moment. A long-anticipated and long-swelling desire is now reaching a crescendo. Compare it with Jesus’ words ten chapters earlier, when he describes his intention to cast fire upon the earth, and his anguish in waiting until all is accomplished (Luke 10:49-50).

The apostles, meanwhile, are still distracted by their disordered desires, their insecurities, and their fears. As Jesus expresses to his companions the deepest longings of his heart, as he is about to enter into the darkest moments of his human experience, they break into an argument about who among them is the greatest (Luke 22:24). Their desire for greatness is both like and unlike that of Jesus. Jesus does not shame them for having the desire, but instead resituates and reorients it within the Kingdom of God. The greatest among them shall be like the littlest children, and those with authority are to be those who serve. Moreover, he is indeed conferring on them a Kingdom and seating them on thrones of judgment (Luke 22:25-30). Their desire for greatness is inherently good, albeit disordered and thereby diminished and harmful. And Jesus is remarkably accepting of their slowness of heart! He is aware of the impending denials and betrayals. He loves them anyway. Following his Paschal victory, and especially following the gift of the Holy Spirit, they will be ready for their desire to go in a new direction.

Let’s consider the other exceptional case in which the verb “desire” (epithuméo) is expressed as incredibly positive. In Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus describes how intensely the prophets and holy ones desired to see what the disciples see, and to hear what they hear (Matthew 13:17). Those prophets and holy ones agonized in their desire. Again and again, they cried out, “How long, O Lord??” (Revelation 6:10; Psalm 13:1). They lived by faith, as foreigners and pilgrims who only got to glimpse the promised land from afar (Hebrews 11:13).

It would have been so much easier for those prophets or holy ones to heed the advice of the Stoics and suppress their emotions and desires. It would have been easier for Jesus, too! He cries out from the Cross, “I thirst!” and “My God, my God, why have you abandoned me!” You can hear the intensity of human longing in those cries – the cumulative force of every unmet longing throughout the centuries, welling up from the deepest places of the human heart – for those who had the wherewithal to feel and express that longing, uncertain how it would ever be fulfilled.

To desire and not yet possess; to wait for the fulfillment of desire – it is perhaps one of the hardest human things to do, and the most worthwhile.

And here we can begin to see what’s really happening with all the disordered desires that Scripture and Tradition consistently warn against. The problem is not desiring too much – it’s desiring far too little! It’s allowing our desire to get stuck in this fallen world and the things in it that are passing away (cf. 1 John 2:17) – versus allowing our desires (even our petty or disordered ones) to be consecrated to the Kingdom of God.

Desire grows in the waiting. Our capacity to receive increases as we await fulfillment. Can we learn to be present to our desire, and be okay when it is unfulfilled? Easier said than done!

We speak often of distracting or binging or pursuing addictions as a way of surviving hard stuff or a way of numbing pain. Perhaps that’s partially true. But much more frequently, are we not saying “I can’t bear to feel this unmet desire any longer – I have to release myself from this tension!!”?

Plunging into addictive pleasures is one way of releasing the tension of desire. It’s the path of the younger “prodigal” son in Luke 15. But we can also be like the older brother and live in management mode – burying our desire and staying on the surface with familiar rules and rituals. When I am avoiding my own big desires (as I have been the last couple of days), I tend to ping-pong between the two. When I reconnect with what’s really happening in my body and my heart, when I let the Lord closer, I weep and reawaken in my longing.

I realize it can be a cliché, but the Kingdom of God is “already but not yet.” Hopefully we have had moments in which we have tasted and seen that the Lord is good – those Mount Tabor moments like Peter, James, and John getting a glimpse of glory from Jesus. I must be, as they say, a “stubborn Pollock” because I have had many such moments, and still revert to my game of ping pong. The deeper invitation is for me to abide in the tension, the “already but not yet” – and remember that I am securely loved the whole time. I don’t have to make anything happen.

Such is the witness of the Virgin Mary and her spouse Joseph. They obey God when he invites, but mostly wait in great tension to see how it’s all going to work out. Such was the witness of Simeon and Anna all those long decades preceding the Presentation of Jesus in the Temple. Such was the witness of the prophets and saints of the Old Testament who desired to see what you and I get to begin seeing.

Waiting in desire is so hard. Experiencing endings of good things, unexpected losses, or betrayals only makes it harder. It’s so much easier to turn against desire and find ways not to feel it. Without belonging in love to a safe and loving community, it’s virtually impossible to abide in desire. And God has placed nothing short of a desire for eternity into our heart (Ecclesiastes 3:11).

We are indeed meant for connection, for delight, for honor, and for greatness. May we be kind to ourselves as we admit the truth of our minimizing, avoiding, and sabotaging of desire. May we love and support one another as we wait in hope. May our desire grow in the waiting, as we receive and are received ever more abundantly into the Body of Christ that is already real but not yet come to full stature. Come, Lord Jesus!

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Into the Desert

We begin another Lent. Jesus enters the desert to engage in combat with the devil. He shares in and represents our humanity. “He was tempted in every way we are, but did not sin” (Hebrews 4:15). He allows himself to be weak and vulnerable. He abides in his identity as a beloved Son. With humility, trust, and confidence, he conquers. He shows us that genuine human maturity is possible. We get to share more and more in the “glorious freedom of the children of God” (Romans 8:21).

Sometimes I taste that freedom. Other times, I resonate with the words of the apostle Paul: “I do not do the good that I desire, but the evil that I do not desire is what I keep on doing” (Romans 7:15). Even though I have free will, I often fee unfree!

This is where the ancient Christian Tradition of asceticism comes in. Beginning in the 200’s, many Christian men and women flocked to the desert to engage in spiritual combat and claim more fully the peace that only Christ can give.

Many people today haven’t even heard of “asceticism” or “ascesis.” Or if they have, they are likely to misunderstand or distort what it’s really about. People tend to hate it or love it for all the wrong reasons!

The Greek word askesis literally means “exercise” or “training.” Ascetical practices, when healthy and holy, are like the best of athletic training. Healthy training is directed toward a positive goal. It may include a good deal of self-denial, not to mention rigorous practices that are uncomfortable or even painful.

There can be joy, exhilaration, freedom, and peace in discovering that I am capable of so much more – and then actually experiencing it. I think back to my high school years, and the weightlifting and football training. Through intense discipline and consistent practice, often in community with others, celebrating each milestone, I discovered new possibilities that I didn’t know were within me.

I had similar experiences during the last decade, both with exercise and with how I eat. I remember quite vividly two triumphant moments about ten years ago. One was riding my bicycle up a tall and steep hill, staying in the lowest gear and determined to “just keep peddling.” It was so exhilarating when I actually made it to the top and kept going! Likewise, after months of buildup, I finally made it through an entire rigorous exercise video, muscles burning and heart pounding. It felt amazing. Seven years ago, after conversations with my doctor, I discovered new motivation to be healthier around food and alcohol. More importantly, my work in therapy and group therapy was opening my eyes to my emotions and my needs. I noticed how many times a day I felt an urge to eat (without actually being hungry). I became curious about what was really happening. I made phone calls daily to talk about it with friends. The self-denial around food opened up an awareness of how much within me needed care and healing.

I look back and see how Spirit-led all of it was. I received an abundance of healing; I genuinely matured. I look back, and I also see some pitfalls in the process – my pride and shame. There was a certain impurity in my motives – relishing the positive attention from others, silently making comparisons or judgments, and believing lies that I was somehow more lovable because I weighed less and looked different. More subtly, there was the role (the false identity) that I had adopted in adolescence – that of the golden child, who looks and acts the part and makes the family system look good. I played that role in my family; I played it for my church family; I even played it at times during 4+ years of group therapy. I recall a moment in which the group facilitator made a comment about me being the “poster child” of the group. As has happened so many times in my life, that admiration felt amazing but ultimately left me feeling empty. As I have previously described, admiration is not the same as love; and drivenness is not the same as desire.

Two years ago, I parted ways amicably with that group, as my healing journey went in a new and deeper direction. Those who truly know me and love me describe to me many ways they have seen me continue to grow. I have also “grown” in less desirable ways – externally showing weight gain that belies some of my unhealthy habits that have crept their way back in. And then I battle with the old accusing voice of shame, calling me a hypocrite – here I am, invited in my current ministry to lead other priests into healthier living, and I find myself not living in a healthy way. But that shame is telling me lies. Now I get to seek asceticism out of desire rather than fear or shame. Moreover, I now see more clearly the toxicity that is so often present in the fitness culture, the shame and contempt towards certain bodies, and the idolatry of thinness. Being healthy and holy is not about the shape of your or my body or the number that shows up on the scale. It’s certainly not about gaining the adulation of others. There is a multi-billion dollar industry that is more interested in selling their products and services than in real human flourishing. The messages are often manipulative and shaming. As it turns out, both fitness culture and asceticism have much to offer, and both are full of pitfalls.

The desert is a dangerous place. There are fell creatures there. The devil doesn’t sleep. The combat is not easy. The victory is not a one-and-done, but an ongoing and very non-linear process. When you withdraw from the world and engage in healthy self-denial, it is then that the real combat begins. Sometimes you get your lunch handed to you. Much like the cave in The Empire Strikes Back or the woods of Lothlorien in Lord of the Rings, entering the desert uncovers what already lies within your heart – and then the real combat begins.

The lives of the saints are so often sanitized or glamorized – as though they easily and quickly achieved holiness and purity. Their lived reality was so different! As Bishop Erik Varden describes in his new book on chastity, the virtue of purity is actually exceedingly rare, because it takes many years of patient and diligent effort to mature into it. As the Catechism of the Catholic Church describes (nn. 2337-2445), this process of maturing into purity is a long and exacting labor that must be renewed in every stage of life. It requires lifelong apprenticeship. It is mainly about healthy relationships, emotional maturity, and our capacity to receive and give love.

Let’s not forgot how Jesus begins his combat in the desert. He is not led there out of fear or shame, nor to improve his public image, nor because he is hoping he can change and become lovable. No, he is led there at his Father’s invitation, by the Holy Spirit, immediately following his baptism. He has already been claimed as the Father’s beloved, in whom the Father delights. He is anointed by the Holy Spirit for the battle. It can be the same for us.

Secure relationship comes first. We first are loved and delighted in and belong. We first receive strength from on high. If you are like me, much of the battle will be with the multi-layered lies of shame that keep trying to tell me I can only be lovable if…

Shame gets healed in communion – communion with God and healthy community with each other.

This Lent, I feel the Lord inviting me to reclaim healthy discipline, to engage in exercise (ascesis) in both bodily and spiritual ways. I am resolved to do so out of a desire to abide in love, to grow and mature, and to bear fruit. I may once again discover mixed motives; it’s still worth it. Layer by layer, the Lord will keep patiently and gently uncovering my heart. Such was the prophecy of Simeon to Jesus’ mother Mary. As her Son dies on the Cross, he gives her to me as a mother who always delights in me, shelters me, and guides me. I am already loved. I can now grow and keep growing.

Jesus conquers the devil by standing firm in his identity. I pray that you and I may remember who we are as we pray and live into the Collect prayer of Ash Wednesday:

Grant, O Lord, that we may begin with holy fasting this campaign of Christian service, so that as we take up battle against spiritual evils, we may be armed with weapons of self-restraint.

As we enter the desert with Jesus, may we come to share more fully in his Paschal victory, and claim that joy and peace that no one can steal away.

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HopeSick

Advent is a season of Hope. We allow our hearts to long for the coming of Jesus. We dare to desire more.

The Church’s liturgy invites us to listen attentively to the prophets, who burned with an eagerness for the coming of the Messiah. Isaiah imagines what things will be like: swords turned into plowshares, a definitive end to war; the desert blooming with flowers; the blind restored to sight, the deaf restored to hearing, the lame leaping with joy; the lion and the lamb living in harmony; the stump of Jesse blossoming and bearing fruit.

In one sense, the longed-for Messiah has come. Jesus was born in Bethlehem. Humans and angels alike who participated in the events of that night were bursting with joy and praise.

In another sense, nothing has changed. There seems to be just as much greed, devouring, exploitation, hatred, contempt, abuse, and violence as in Jesus’ day.

In one sense, Jesus has definitively won the victory. When we get to Holy Week, we will remember his words on the Cross: “It is finished.” At Easter we will celebrate him as the lamb once slain who lives, never to die again.

In another painfully real sense, as you and I embrace everyday life in these challenging times, that victory feels anything but assured.

Many aspects of life went “back to normal” nine months ago. But no amount of socializing or traveling, getting or spending has restored joy or peace. Many of us feel depleted, burnt out, or discouraged. We struggle to remember how long ago things happened, and feel a great uncertainty and dis-ease about where things are headed. Even when we keep returning to our holy desires, we can sometimes feel stuck.

I have a word for this dis-ease: being HopeSick. I’m sure I’m not the first one to think it up. I sometimes feel sick amidst my hoping. And yes, like the prophet Jeremiah, sometimes I cry out to the Lord because I am feeling sick of hoping.

I was expressing this felt heartache to a wise mentor, who suggested the metaphor of sickness – not as a moral failing (any more than Covid or the flu is a character flaw) but as a point of powerlessness. We all know those moments of a disease in which we feel utterly overwhelmed. We can’t change anything; we can’t alleviate anything. Even if we know it will eventually pass, we have no way of knowing how long, and we notice no signs of relenting.

There are also aches or illnesses that will never go away in this life. It doesn’t always get better. Many of you live with debilitating pain day after day. You alternate days of surrender, serenity, and joy with days of discouragement. Darkness is only an absence of light, but it can feel very, very real.

Advent is a time of Hope amidst the darkness. As the warmth and light of the sun flee us, we still dare to Hope. In a time of sickness and powerlessness, we endure in Hope.

Advent is a time of “already but not yet.” The Kingdom of God has indeed broken into this world, in the person of Jesus Christ. He promises to come again with the fullness of justice – and he will. Meanwhile, we watch and wait. And wait. And wait.

If our hearts are anything like the hearts of the prophets (or like the souls of the just in the Book of Revelation), we eventually cry out in agony, HOW LONG??

What joy to be like Simeon or Anna in the temple, keeping prayerful watch for decades and finally, at long last, beholding the object of their desire, embracing and delighting in the newborn Jesus. Simeon was totally ready to die amidst his overflowing satisfaction and joy.

Luke narrates that exhilarating moment of fulfillment. He only hints at the many moments of heartache that preceded. I wonder – how often, through all those decades of waiting, did Simeon or Anna feel HopeSick?

We know that Jeremiah and Job felt HopeSick, as did Abraham and Moses. They often cried out to God in exasperation, feeling as though they couldn’t possibly go on. God met them in their longing, and they went on.

Hope can be precarious because it so often includes a felt powerlessness, and even moments of darkness. For many of us, there have been many such moments – even from a young age. The prince of darkness loves to draw near in those moments, whispering his lies about who we are, who others are, and who God is. See, this is what always happens… Nothing will ever change… What’s the point?… You can’t count on others; just take care of yourself…

Those of us who have known intense moments of trauma experienced an intense powerless in those moments. Whether the “moment” was 15 minutes or 15 years, it didn’t matter. We lost our sense of time.

And our bodies remember. Present day moments of timeless trauma, of feeling stuck in HopeSickness, can bring back old feelings and old lies – and with them old behaviors! And then we can really feel stuck. Or we can begin shaming ourselves or feeling shamed by the well-intended advice of others.

Jesus did not shame the blind, the deaf, or the mute. Nor did he shame those who were sick in their sins. He bore our infirmities and connected with us amidst our anguish.

Most of the advice given to the HopeSick, even when it is totally true, is a way of spiritually bypassing the agony of Hope. But to lose our longing is to settle for less than God is promising! The prophets are those who refuse to let go of their longing – even when they feel sick or stuck.

It is, however, vitally important to stay connected with Jesus as we abide in Hope. It may be necessary to call on Jesus and tell the evil spirits where they can go. We can renounce their lies and proclaim our trust in the promises of Jesus. AND we can cry out to God, asking him “How Long?”. He always answers, though often not in the ways we imagine or expect. Sometimes silence is the best answer. It doesn’t mean he’s ignoring us. When we are in the throes of an illness, we need presence more than words. We need to not be abandoned.

Advent is a season of presence. Advent is a season of renewed Hope.

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Jesus’ Story and Our Story

My original title today was “The Logos and our logos.” No good. The reader would start thinking of the Nike logo or the McDonald’s logo. I could go with the actual Greek alphabet and say “the λόγος and our λόγος” – but that would scare some away.

Logos (λόγος) is the Greek word for “word.” But it can mean so many other things: reason, explanation, discourse, account, sentence, meaning, language, communication, and much more. It’s one of those Bible words that simply can’t be translated without losing much of the meaning (much of the λόγος!).

The beginning of John’s Gospel dramatically presents Jesus as the eternal λόγος, who was with the Father in the beginning, and who is himself God. He is the spoken Word through whom all things came to be. That Word becomes flesh and makes his dwelling among us. That Word gives purpose and meaning to our otherwise meaningless existence. He makes it possible for our life to be worth something, and opens us up to share in his eternal life.

That’s John 1. Today I want to reflect on Hebrews 4:

“Indeed, the Word (λόγος) of God is living and effective, sharper than any two-edged sword, penetrating even between soul and spirit, joints and marrow, and able to discern reflections and thoughts of the heart. No creature is concealed from him, but everything is naked and exposed to the eyes of him to whom we must render an account (λόγος)” (Hebrews 4:12-13).

I had a great “aha!” moment this summer on retreat when I was praying my way through the Letter to the Hebrews. Over the last 12 years, I’ve been slowly soaking in the New Testament on my annual retreats. During each hour of meditation, I read and meditate on the English translation of a chapter or two at a time. Then I go back and look at the Greek.

In this case, I was dumbstruck that this oft-quoted passage begins and ends with the word “word” (λόγος). Jesus is the eternal Word of God, living and effective, penetrating soul and spirit, laying bare our hearts. In his presence, my own λόγος comes to full light. I am part of a story. My human life is a “word” in its own right. My story will be told; my “word” will come to full light – possibly in this life and for sure in the next. Jesus, the eternal λόγος, promises to take all that is buried or hidden and expose it fully (Luke 8:17).

His story is a judgment upon my story and your story – not in the sense that he is eager to dole out condemnation. Quite the opposite! He did not come to condemn the world, but to save it. He does not will the death of the sinner, but that we turn to him and live! But the only way for our guilt and our shame to be healed is for the entirety of our story to be brought into his light. So long as we keep parts of it buried away or hidden, we cannot be a whole person. The conflict that is playing itself out in the drama of your story and my story cannot be resolved until Christ, the great protagonist, is allowed to be present to all of it.

This is why we Catholics put the Paschal Mystery at the center of all things. Every Sunday we gather to remember and participate anew in the saving event that is the suffering, dying, and rising of Jesus. Every year we enter the Paschal Triduum – the holy three days that is one single celebration – to remember THE story – the only story, the one true story, without which our human experience cannot be redeemed or resolved.

Hebrews 4:13 is typically translated in English as us giving an account in the presence of Jesus. Literally in Greek this passage says “All things are naked and uncovered to the eyes of him to whom belongs our λόγος.” The vulnerability of this experience is indeed unsettling. But deep down, don’t we all ache to be known, seen, heard, and truly understood?  Only the eternal λόγος can make that happen – and only by uncovering and laying bare all that is within us!

We belong to him – not in the sense that he owns us, but that we are ordered to him in a relationship – both in creation and in redemption. The original creation happened through him. Through God’s Word all was made. God spoke us humans into being, breathed his Spirit into us, and declared us very good. He gave us stewardship of the entire cosmos. We failed. He never stopped loving us. He promised to send the woman and her offspring to crush the head of the serpent. The Word became flesh and dwelt among us. The Word died of the Cross and rose from the dead. The Word promises to take our tangled mess, to expose and uncover all of it – and to heal, restore, and gloriously transform us.

This, I think, is also the meaning behind Simeon’s cryptic words to the Virgin Mary: that a sword will pierce her heart so that the hearts of many may be laid bare (Luke 2:35). She is the New Eve, the promised woman. Her heart is fully pierced, fully vulnerable, and fully exposed – for sure at the Cross on Good Friday – but actually at many moments. Jesus declares “Behold, your mother!” so that each of us can receive her fierce and tender motherly care throughout the rather unsettling process of our own hearts being pierced by the Word, exposed, healed, and transformed. His eternal Love is both fierce and tender, and it is the only way.

Jesus does not expect this transformation to happen all at once. It’s a gradual process that happens over time. Like any great story, ours has moments of triumph, moments of loss and heartache, moments of betrayal, much adversity, and many setbacks. At every chapter, we can remember that THE story has already been told, and the victory has already been won – in the person of the λόγος. His story gets to become our story. Will we, like Mary, say “yes”?

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