Category: Church Renewal

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Virtue and Friendship

More than 2,350 years have passed since the Greek philosopher Aristotle wrote the Nichomachean Ethics. I find his insights into human relationships as relevant as ever.

As I discussed in my last post, the moral virtues are not a matter of rule-following. They are the kind, patient, and consistent directing of the emotions toward that which is truly good.

How does moral virtue actually happen?

Modern philosophers (that is to say, Western philosophers of the last 500 years) keep making the mistake of trying to articulate abstract theories of ethics. Goodness is not something you define in a theory. We humans are hardwired to know goodness when we see it. No one has to teach a baby to laugh with delight, or to want to savor the good moments forever (“Again! Again!”).

Aristotle’s point of reference for virtue was not an abstract definition, nor a list of rules, but the virtuous person himself. This approach is so simple that it is often missed, even by Aristotelean scholars. Aristotle explains that most humans (those not too tangled up in their own vices and delusions) will notice virtue when they see it in another flesh-and-blood human. It is through relationship with virtuous persons that we begin to learn virtue. Over time, through the building of healthy habits, our pursuit of the good gets internalized. As we become virtuous, we are eventually able to pursue the good with relative ease, rather than having to struggle every time.

I used to illustrate these points to my high school students by viewing The Lion King. Young Simba perceived the bravery of his father Mufasa, and wanted to imitate him. He first went to the extreme of rushing into danger, and then to the other extreme of conflict avoidance (hakuna matata). Most of the animals readily recognized and followed Mufasa’s brave and just leadership, even if they themselves lacked courage. By contrast, his vicious brother Scar, in his envy and malice, refused to see his brother’s goodness, telling lies to himself and to others about what was good.

Aristotle emphasized that the very earliest human years are the most crucial for virtue formation. The same truth has reemerged in contemporary studies of neuroscience and human development. Infants and toddlers need nurturing caregivers to attune to them and to help them make sense of their emotions. When parents regularly attune to and respond, little ones learn that even their biggest emotions can be regulated. Regulated, not subjugated or suppressed! But if the parents never learned to regulate their own emotions, they will struggle to give to their children what they are not providing for themselves.

In our first moments of human existence, we are utterly dependent. We need another human to respond to us and soothe us. If that attunement and responsiveness is there most of the time, or even much of the time, we become emotionally secure. Through thousands of experiences of distress and response, our brain and nervous system learn to expect abundance and be more resourceful. We establish broad neural pathways between the calmness of our rational brain and the alarm system of our limbic brain. Little by little, we become self-regulating like the caregivers who are there for us.

Aristotle didn’t know about the nervous system, but he accurately observed how crucial early emotional development is. Without it, we will be emotionally insecure, which means that we will struggle to be virtuous. No affect regulation, no virtue. Thankfully, we can rewire our brains, but only if we become again like little children, receive our emotions with curiosity and kindness, and patiently “grow up” now in all the ways we missed earlier in life. To do all of that, we will need wise mentors and companions. In the words of Aristotle, we need to find virtuous people to learn from.

The more I’ve gotten in touch with my own emotions and learned how to engage emotionally with others, the more aware I’ve become that most human beings in our society today (including our churches) have no small amount of insecurity. I would be glad to be proven wrong on this point! But I find it true of at least 80% of the adults I meet, just as I have found it true in myself.

Again, Aristotle said it first. He describes most human beings as being either weak-willed or strong-willed. The weak-willed person sees what is good, but frequently fails to pursue it due to an intense interior struggle. The strong-willed person often does good things, but still struggles interiorly, experiencing unrest.  The vicious person (cf. Scar) doesn’t feel the struggle because he habitually rationalizes his behaviors, calling black white and white black. In Aristotle’s estimation, only a smaller number of humans are truly virtuous, emotionally regulated, pursuing the good, delighting in the good, and rejoicing in the reality that they are pursuing and delighting in the good.

This leads us to Aristotle’s reflections on friendship. The deepest and truest kind of friendship is only possible between virtuous people. Most friendships, he says, are friendships of pleasure or friendships of usefulness. Friendships of pleasure last as long as the fun times last, but dissipate when the shared pleasure passes. When tragedy befalls, it becomes clearer who your real friends are. Friendships of usefulness exist because one or both individuals are getting something out of the relationship. Both of these types of friendship are ultimately transactional. It isn’t necessarily bad to have relationships like these. It can be okay for some relationships to be mutually transactional. It’s just not a real friendship.

I would add a third kind of pseudo-friendship, calling it a “friendship of fear.” If your main motivator in life is fear, you are prone to surround yourselves with other people who feel similar fears. This shared fear-mongering allows you to gang up against “those people” who are the alleged enemy. Such was the vibe of the scribes and Pharisees, who thanked God they weren’t like those other people (Luke 18). Such was the relationship between the older brother in Luke 15 and the servant who joined with him in contempt-filled gossip as they witnessed the father lavishing a feast on the prodigal son. As with friendships of pleasure or usefulness, these fear-based friendship are also highly transactional. Because their fear is not yet integrated and moderated, such individuals are not yet ready for real friendship.

Virtuous people are capable of genuine friendship because of their emotional maturity. They are self-possessed enough that they can freely engage in mutual honor and delight. Aristotle obviously didn’t know Jesus, who was yet to be born, and so he didn’t know the great commandment: “Love your neighbor as yourself.” But his understanding of virtue and friendship provide a solid human foundation for that divine commandment. As I’ve written before, the equality taught in “love your neighbor as yourself” means that you are also invited to “love yourself as your neighbor.”

To the extent that I still have contempt for myself, I will struggle in a genuine friendship of equality. Where there is contempt, there is shame. Most of us struggle with a deeply rooted fear that we are not truly loveable. We fear being dismissed or rejected or abandoned. So we posture or build façades. We compare and compete; we envy and scorn. Show me someone who scorns others, tears them down, or calls them names – and I will show you someone who has an enormous amount of self-contempt, and is terrified of a spotlight shining on the deepest places in his heart.

Of all the emotions, shame is probably the hardest one to contend with and regulate. I do not recall Aristotle speaking on this point, but you can see that he “gets” it in the way he describes virtue and friendship. The virtuous person is happy because he desires the good, pursues the good, and delights in embracing the good. He has a healthy self-love, which is the foundation of friendship.

Friendship then allows this goodness and delight to flourish in abundance. If I am virtuous, I can see that this friend shares the same desire for and delight in the good. We can pursue goodness together and share our delight. I can desire the same goodness for my friend as I desire for myself. I can weep when he weeps and rejoice when he rejoices. My friend can delight in the fact that I am delighting in the same good as he is, and vice-versa. He sees and loves in me what I see and love in myself, and vice-versa. We can truly love our neighbor as ourselves.

As Christians, of course, this love of neighbor can surge to new heights, or descend into the depths of humility. It becomes possible to love Jesus in others, even in the distressing disguise of poverty (to quote Saint Teresa of Kolkata). In Luke 10, Jesus shows us that every human being is our neighbor, no matter how wounded or disfigured. We remain bearers of the divine image. The virtue of Charity (divine Love at work in us) allows us to be moved with compassion like the Father, causing us to move closer to littleness. It allows us to be kind to ourselves and to each other in our poverty. So many of us are still infants in our maturity, and need much kindness and compassion if we are to grow in virtue.

Most of what I share today I learned nearly three decades ago. But in so many ways I did not yet “get it.” Now that I am in a much deeper process of engaging and integrating my emotions, I find myself joyfully rediscovering old treasures. Whether returning to the wisdom of Aristotle or connecting with my earliest human needs for emotional security, it is much like the words of the poet T.S. Eliot: “We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.”

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Emotions and Moral Virtue

What is virtue?

When I ask that question among Christians, the conversation typically turns to shoulds and have to’s. Virtuous people do the things they are supposed to do. The job of parents and Church leaders is to make sure we do the things we are supposed to do. What is most needed in this view is moral clarity about the rules. The world is full of unvirtuous people because parents and the Church haven’t been teaching clearly enough. If only we have more clear and distinct ideas about morality, all will be well (can you hear the influence of Descartes here?).

When I ask similar questions about emotions as they relate to virtue, at best emotions are named as “neutral.” More often, they’re viewed as a threat or obstacle. We can’t trust our emotions. Morality requires us to subjugate and control them.

“Love is a choice, not a feeling,” I’ll hear Christians say. Or they will even misquote Thomas Aquinas (1225-1274) as teaching that “love is willing the good of another.”

Thomas does say something like that (Summa Theologiae I-II q. 26, a. 4). But he’s actually talking in that passage about love as a desire or an emotion, not yet love as a theological virtue.  He says that when we experience love as a desire, we want good for someone – whether ourselves or another. That desire for good may be rightly ordered or disordered. It is quite possible to want good things for others while trying to manage or control them (just look at the helicopter or Zamboni parents of my generation!).

Thomas actually sees these core human appetites as fundamentally good, and needing the direction and guidance of faith and reason. We desire pleasure and goodness; we are zealous for difficult goods. Often enough, that desire for pleasure is disordered, with a willingness to use or consume or manipulate. Often enough, our anger becomes a weapon used to harm ourselves or others.

I was blown away during my silent retreat last month. I spent much of the time praying with Matthew’s Gospel. In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus teaches about anger and lust (Matthew 5:21-30). Occasionally, I glanced at the original Greek as well as the Latin Vulgate translation that was familiar to Thomas Aquinas. In the Vulgate, Jesus speaks of one who is angry (irascitur) or one who views another with lustful desire (ad concupiscendum). It was one of those “aha!” moments for me – this is where Thomas Aquinas gets his seemingly technical names for the “irascible appetite” and the “concupiscible appetite.” All humans have these two core appetites: a passionate zeal for righteousness and an eager desire for pleasure and delight. Fundamentally, these two inner drives of the human heart are VERY GOOD, even though, as Jesus teaches, they are in need of integration and re-ordering toward the Kingdom of God.

Thomas Aquinas uses the word “passions” to describe what we would call emotions. The word “passion” literally means something that happens to us. We passively experience it. The word “emotion” suggests an interior movement in our body as a reaction to what we are experiencing. Every emotion, in his view, is an expression of one or both of these core human appetites. True, these desires and emotions are often disordered because of the Fall – but so is our will!

Oh, how interesting it would be if Aristotle or Thomas Aquinas were alive today. They curiously and keenly observed human nature, without the benefit of contemporary neurological research. Today, I am convinced, they would be fascinated by our insights into the brain’s limbic system and prefrontal cortex. Thomas observed that humans have a “common sense” – a part of our brain that blends all of our sensory input into one unified impression. This is how neuroscientists today understand the thalamus (with the exception of the sense of smell). Thomas observed how humans can behave like hunted deer, who have an embodied memory causing them to flee at the sight of a human form. This is how neuroscientists today understand the amygdala. It’s our brain’s security system. Before any sensory input reaches our rational brain, it runs through the amygdala, which sometimes launches us into a fight, flight, or freeze response. These reactions happen automatically, within ¼ of a second. They are pre-rational.

I recall a decade ago, driving home from a Friday night football game. I suddenly sensed a large spider rappelling down an inch in front of my face. Somehow, I found my car pulled over to the curb and myself seated in the passenger seat in less than three seconds. Only then did my rational brain register the situation, with no small amount of astonishment at what I had just achieved. Imagine if it had been a bat! 

I find that so very many Christians (myself included) attempt to grow in “virtue” by no longer having emotional reactions. That approach is dishonoring of the inherent goodness of our bodies. It’s also impossible! First comes the reaction of our limbic brain. Only a few seconds later does it register in our prefrontal cortex – unless our reaction is so intense that we stay stuck in a trauma response. With time and training, our reactions can be received and redirected. But they still happen. Developmentally, this type of training takes years. It’s what is “supposed to” happen in childhood.

Virtue is not a matter of eliminating emotion, nor of subjugating or controlling it. The virtuous person habitually, calmly, and skillfully gives rational guidance and direction to emotions. That is where the prefrontal cortex comes in – the highest and most developed part of our brain. It allows us a calm noticing, which in turn allows what today is called “affect regulation.” Our emotions settle down when they feel the acceptance and calm rational presence of the prefrontal cortex. They are then willing to accept direction – just like a child who truly trusts her caregivers.

Classically, this is exactly what moral virtue is – giving calm rational guidance to our emotions so that they can be ordered toward the good. Our emotions will not authentically accept rational guidance if they are not first received with curiosity and kindness.

Here is where emotionally intelligent parenting comes in. Rather than shaming children for feeling how they feel, mature parents are able to receive the big emotions of their children. They show a curiosity and compassion for what is happening in the bodies and hearts of their children. They help them make sense of it all. Every time that happens, neural pathways are formed and reinforced.

At least 70% of the information in our nervous system flows from the bottom up – as sensory input coming from our body to our brain. When that information is received without judgment, then calm and consistent direction can be given.

Many of us literally lack the neural circuitry for virtue to happen. Sure, we can suppress or subjugate our emotional reactions. We can flog them with “shoulds.” We can exile them or lock them up. But that is not virtue. That is external compliance (perhaps even 90-95% of the time). It leaves us feeling unfree, or even living a double life.

Many people come to priests asking, “Why do I keep doing that???” I gently invite them to notice the tone of voice in their question. We can ask the same question with intense self-contempt or with childlike curiosity (or somewhere in between). Only when there is curiosity and kindness does virtue begin to be possible.

What does this mean? I would suggest that most of us Christians today are not yet in the realm of moral virtue. We have a lot of pre-moral work to do, kindly accepting and patiently integrating our emotions – all the things we needed to happen earlier in life, but did not (and probably have not for multiple generations in most of our families). When you are in survival mode, there is less space for curiosity and kindness.

That is why, when people ask me, “Where did you grow up?” I am barely joking when I respond, “Oh, I’m still growing up!” I am still coming to accept that daily reactions will happen inside of me – frequently and sometimes rather intensely. I am coming to appreciate that it is precisely my capacity to be impacted by others, to receive them vulnerably, and to be moved by their uniqueness and their beauty, that allows me to love them with honor and delight.

May we all become again like little children, allowing ourselves to be moved anew by goodness and beauty in the world around us, and especially in other humans. May we all receive the patient nurture and care that we always needed. Then it becomes possible to become truly mature and wholehearted in virtuous living.

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“Mission” is a Way of Being

Greetings friends. It’s been a long time since I’ve shared any writing. A heartfelt thank you to those who have gently encouraged me to write! It brings out the best in me.

Just over a year ago, my diocese received a new bishop.  From the get-go, he has indicated a desire for our diocese “to pivot from maintenance to mission.” We began by extending that invitation to our priests, but are about to expand it to everyone in the diocese.

When you hear the word “mission,” what first enters you mind?

I find, both for myself and for others, our thoughts immediately race into tasks that we do. Historically, we recall the perilous voyages and arduous labors of Saint Paul or Saint Francis Xavier. In our present-day context, we think of all the problems needing fixing and how we can accomplish more. We form a task list and begin checking off boxes. We set measurable goals and objectives to ensure that we don’t “fail” in our mission.

It’s easy to miss the deeper truth: “mission” is a way of being, and we are already assured of victory. Mission begins with our shared identity in Christ, who is “from the Father” while abiding in perfect union with the Father.

In the Nicene Creed, these truths flash like fireworks. This very month, we celebrate the 1700th anniversary of the closing deliberations of the great Council of Nicea, which promulgated the first draft of the Creed we profess every Sunday.

Jesus Christ is “begotten, not made.” He is eternally in a relationship of equality with his Father, even though he is “from” the Father. He was not produced or achieved by the Father. He and his Father are one, in a relationship of mutual delight. The Holy Spirit is that eternal bond of love, that shared delight, that shared glory.

The bishops at Nicea borrowed philosophical terms like “consubstantial” (in Greek, homoousios) in order to express with greater precision what was always there in the Gospels. The bishop Arius and his followers were outraged at this new terminology, insisting that Jesus could not be from the Father unless “there was once when he was not.” They were not thinking of God as an abiding relationship. They were thinking in terms of before and after, greater than and less than.

The Arian heresy actually gained momentum following the Council of Nicea. Five decades later, Saint Jerome lamented the situation: “The whole world groaned, and was astonished to find itself Arian.” In 381, the bishops of the Church convened again, this time in Constantinople. They expanded the wording of the Creed, now drawing from the brilliant contributions of Gregory Nazianzen, Basil the Great, and Gregory of Nyssa – all of whom understood God as an eternal relationship.

It’s hard for us humans to imagine what eternal relationship is like. Even if God never created us or any universe at all, God would be just as good and just as great. “God is love” even without any creatures to love. And Jesus is eternally sent forth. “Mission” is his way of being in relationship.

“Mission” literally means “sending forth.” When we live in a state of felt threat and felt scarcity, we gravitate to a militaristic understanding of mission: important or powerful individuals send forth less important ones, who achieve objectives under obedience to orders. It’s a partial truth that obscures the larger reality.

Indeed, heresy causes the most damage when it is almost true. It’s more seductive that way.

In the fullness of time, the Father actually does send his Son on a rescue mission. Jesus enters this occupied world in stealth, born in an obscure town in the dead of night. Only social outcasts like the shepherds witness his birth. He lives a hidden life in Nazareth for three decades. But when he is baptized and anointed by the Holy Spirit, and audibly claimed as the Father’s beloved, the devil is clearly concerned. He tempts Jesus in the desert. He probes Jesus throughout the Gospels, seeking to unravel the identity of this divinely anointed man. Like Sauron in Lord of the Rings, the devil cannot fathom God’s actual plan. He cannot envision the eternal Son of God emptying himself and willingly sharing in all the suffering of every human. So the devil sadistically delights in the darkness of Good Friday, realizing – too late – that his kingdom has been overthrown and the human race has been rescued by the blood of the Lamb.

Yes, Jesus obediently “does” these things as one who is sent on a rescue mission. But as Thomas Aquinas (1225-1274) reminds us in his Eucharistic hymn (Verbum Supernum Prodiens), Jesus enters his Passion without ever leaving the Father’s bosom. Any earthly “doing” of Jesus flows from his secure identity as the eternally begotten Son of God. His mission is primarily his way of being, how he relates to the Father, how he relates to us, and how he invites us into relationship. Being “on mission” means abiding in abundant connection, which overflows into fruitful self-giving.

I know this core truth, but I so easily forget. I get sucked into survival mode and familiar feelings of scarcity. I feel the expectations from without and from within. I feel that old and familiar fear of failure – beneath which is an even deeper fear that no one will love me. It’s so easy in those moments to feel the suffocating pressure of “I don’t have time for that!” Then I flop back and forth between a pressurized doing and mindless escaping, neglecting what matters most, what would actually bring my relationships alive.

Writing is not what matters most for me, but it is truly good for me. It connects me with my emotions and needs, opening my imagination and childlike playfulness. It helps me abide. In this renewal project, I will bring more joy and creativity to my labors if I allow myself to abide and receive.

Part of the problem is that we in the West have been swimming in toxic waters for at least 500 years. The misguided exaltation of doing over being has become so normalized that we barely notice it. Little by little, it has infected not only our cultures but our churches as well, alluring us with its seductive power while robbing us of joy and peace.

The Gospel is indeed liberating “Good News.” As my bishop once preached, “It doesn’t depend on you – and it never has.” We get to share in the fullness of Christ, who always shares in the fullness of his Father. Secure in that love, we go into the world as Christ did, not with fear of failure or grasping for power, but with full confidence in the unshakable Love of the Kingdom. Mission is a way of being.

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Truth is Relational

Truth – what is Truth?

The question of Pontius Pilate echoes through the centuries. In the modern era, you tend to find one of two extremes: a relativism that denies the very possibility of finding the Truth, or fear-based clutching onto “truth” in a way that demands rigid clarity.

René Descartes (1596-1650) is famous for his “I think, therefore I am.” His modern approach to philosophy was utterly unlike Socrates, who invited those hungry for Wisdom to pursue Truth and Goodness and Beauty in a communal encounter. and dialogue. His enquiries often left more questions than answers – but at least they were beginning to ask the right questions. By contrast, Descartes isolated himself in his room and began his enquiry with doubt and denial. He could only accept as true that which he could grasp with mathematical certainty. He insisted on clear and distinct ideas. With that insistence, he could not even accept with certainty the reality of the fire in his fireplace or the chair beneath his body. But he could not doubt that he doubted. If he is thinking, he must exist. Notice the disconnect between mind and body!

In reading modern philosophers like Descartes, Hume, or Kant, I find their reasoning itself to be meticulous. It’s their starting points that are questionable! As human beings, we do not begin as isolated thinking individuals and then reason our way out to others and the world. We begin already existing in relationship!

I understood this point well enough a quarter century ago, when I studied philosophy. Now that I have plunged into trauma research and the findings of contemporary neuroscience, I see it even more clearly and distinctly: the human capacity to accept Truth, to grow, to change, and to mature is only possible within the context of secure relationship.

Any spouses who have been in a heated argument can appreciate this point. If the other person feels threatened, shamed, or unappreciated, it does not matter how clearly and distinctly you are making your brilliant point. Genuine receptivity is only possible if the other person feels safe and connected.

Indeed, Truth itself is relational. We are created in the image of a Triune God. “God is love” – that is to say, God eternally exists as a communion of persons. He has placed into the human heart a desire for Truth, Goodness, and Beauty. Little by little, we become more capable of receiving and being received into this infinite abundance.

We see this desire best in children who are curious and full of wonder – or in adults who are willing to become again like little children. Perhaps not all Fairy Tales are true, but it is not hard for little children to believe in them! For little ones, it is normal to abide in awe and wonder in the face of mysteries they do not fully comprehend. It is normal to be surprised and delighted by new unveilings of Truth or Goodness or Beauty.

Trauma responses are a different matter. When under threat – whether immediately or over a long stretch of time – our nervous system is hardwired to survive. If I am being chased by a grizzly bear or about to be hit by a Mack Truck, there is no time or space for curiosity and wonder – nor should there be. Surviving the threat becomes priority #1, and the full resources of my brain and body are immediately diverted for that purpose.

Unfortunately, though, individuals or collective groups (families, communities, or churches) can get locked in survival mode. You can tell it’s there when you hear the black-and-white thinking, the all-or-nothing. It’s us versus them, and other humans are all good or all bad. If you grew up in a family that was stuck a trauma response, you may be able to appreciate how hard it is for each of the children to be pushed into rigid roles rather than loved and cherished in their uniqueness. When an entire society gets stuck in a trauma response, the politics get polarized, with fear and shame at the core of the messaging. In those moments, the people are especially vulnerable to the rise of a dictator. In church life, when the outside environment feels threatening, it’s tempting to circle the wagons and grasp onto a rigid dogmatism – vilifying everyone outside the circle and insisting on a possessive grasp of true or false, good or evil.

Don’t get me wrong – I love Catholic Tradition and love Catholic dogma. It’s just that most people don’t understand what dogma really is! Dogmas are not rigid lists of propositions. Rather, they set the boundaries of the playground in which we can be like children, receptively connecting with the infinite mystery of God. But God is always greater.

Brilliant theologians and mystics like Thomas Aquinas (1225-1274) always understood this point. Thomas goes so far as to say that the essence of God remains utterly unknown to us (Summa Contra Gentiles III, c. 49). He describes a dogma (an “article of faith”) as “a perception of divine Truth tending towards that Truth” (Summa Theologiae II-II, q. 1, a. 6, sc). In other words, a dogma is not itself “the truth” but rather a sign that points beyond itself to a mystery that we do not master. Elsewhere he describes what happens when a human being makes an act of faith: “The act of faith does not terminate at the proposition but at the Reality itself” (Summa Theologiae II-II, q. 1, a. 2, ad 2). In other words, we enter into a relationship with the Truth, rather than grasping or controlling it.

Even when talking about natural human knowledge (of the real things in the world around us), Thomas tends to use the Latin verb communicat. There is a communication and a communion between knower and known. Even though the knower is active in pursuing Truth, she is ultimately receptive and passive – allowing herself to be changed by the Truth, rather than create it for herself. Being in communion with the Truth is different than mastering it, possessing it, owning it, etc. The former is vulnerable and receptive; the latter is self-protective and controlling.

I see it as no accident that it is precisely in the modern era (the last 500+ years) that many Christians have retreated into a rigid dogmatism. The 16th Century in the West was marked by an intense contempt and dominating human behaviors: the resurgence of the slave trade; exploitative colonizing of indigenous peoples; and vilifying, persecuting, or killing those perceived as religious or political enemies. Meanwhile, in the academy, philosophy and science shifted away from any sense of meaning and purpose and focused instead on the imposition of power. Francis Bacon’s famous “Knowledge is power” sounds benign, but marks an ominous shift. No longer is human reasoning an effort to enter into a relationship with Truth and Goodness and Beauty and to flourish in them together (think here of Gandalf in relation to the various races of Middle Earth). No, the goal now is to master, dominate, and subdue (think of Saruman’s factory and experiments at Isengard). The same held true in political philosophy, as seen in Machiavelli. No longer is politics focused on the common good, in which each and all can flourish, but rather it becomes a matter of getting “our people” in power so that they can cast down “those people.” Us versus them. Black and white. Trauma response.

As in Lord of the Rings, the normal temptation in the face of a dire threat is to put on the Ring of Power and cast down the enemy. Only the wise and courageous are able to see the folly in that strategy. It is incredibly hard to hold out a holy imagination for goodness and collective flourishing when feeling threatened or unsafe. It’s hard to retain an unshakable confidence in the Victory that is already assured in the Blood of the Lamb – and to remember that the entire human race is invited to the Wedding Feast.

Truth does not always bring mathematical certainty, nor does it need to. When a little child is safely held by a dad or mom who is both tender and strong, the dangers and chaos of the larger world lose their menacing force. If we are open to it, we get to be held by a Father who is infinitely greater than us. We are already in relationship with him. Jesus has reconciled us, connected us with the Father and with each other. In the Body of Christ, we have all that we need. It’s a living reality that we do not master or comprehend. We just keep growing into it as we walk this pilgrimage together. May each of us rediscover that childlike wonder and vulnerability and become receptive to the Truth that always transcends us.

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Damaged Goods?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An oxymoron becomes a paradox.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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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