April, 2024 - Abiding In Love and Truth

I have to…I have to…I have to… Those words are intimately familiar to me, whether in my workaholism, my perfectionism, my aggressive driving, my people-pleasing, or my shame at “failing.”

For me, it’s not so much the words as the intense sensations in my body – the pulsing energy in my chest, the tension in my shoulders, and the drivenness that pushes forward and pushes through. Even in those many moments when I am a calm haven for others amidst the storm, if I pay attention, I am sometimes holding an enormous tension within.

Saint Joseph has shown up often this past year, teaching me a different way – a way of trust and surrender, a way of poverty and depending, a way of obedience and peace.

This January, I was back in Florida to assist as one of the chaplains at the John Paul II Healing Center for the “Holy Desire” priest retreat. Each day, Bob Schuchts and Kim Glass invited us into a human sculpting exercise. It’s an improvisational group experience in which the participants interact to embody a scene. We begin with familiar stories from Scripture, such as the birth of Jesus at Bethlehem or the baptism of Jesus in the Jordan River. Then we shift the scene: instead of the Holy Family, we see a dysfunctional family with a strained marriage; instead of Jesus as the beloved Son of God in the waters, we see a struggling sinner buried beneath the burdens of shame and fear and confusion. The many different characters attune to their own intuition and to what the others are doing as they interact to form a human sculpture. Characters include the Father, the Holy Spirit, various humans, angels, evil spirits, Mary, and Joseph. You never know what will happen – each sculpt is unique, and it’s surprising how the Lord shows up.

Each day, Kim invited me to be Saint Joseph. Having a devotion to Joseph is one thing. Imagining being him in a living scene is another!

As typically happens in these human sculpts, we all felt a sweet connectedness when Mary and I arranged ourselves along with the Trinity and the angels at the birth of Jesus. As Joseph, I felt both a poverty and a fullness at one and the same time. In terms of skill or power or capacity. I had nothing to offer. Yet I felt how much I mattered in God’s design. I was very much a father, even though all my fatherhood was from the Father. It felt easy because it got to receive from a Father so close at hand. It seemed silly to try to make anything happen on my own, when such abundant resources were right there. I felt a warmth, a calm, and an inner peace.

We shifted to scenes later in Jesus’ life, and to the scenes involving other human characters. I became a heavenly protector, no longer living my earthly life as a carpenter, but still intimately connected with Jesus and with all who are one with Jesus. For those of you less familiar with Catholic devotion, Joseph is the patron and protector of the whole Body of Christ. Just as he was chosen by the Father to be a father and steward in Jesus’ life, he continues to play that role for the entire household of the Church, and for all God’s children in Christ.

As the scenes shifted, my inner peace remained. There was enormous agony in the room as the human characters became cut off and suffered in torment. For many, it felt like those struggling would never be free from the increasing torment by the evil spirits.

Meanwhile, I continued feeling poverty and peace simultaneously. I empathized deeply with the human suffering in front of me, and remained as close as I could, while fully honoring their freedom. The Father never barges in or coerces, and neither would I.

I felt powerlessness and power both at the same time. I was doubly powerless – from within and from without. From within, I humbly acknowledged my poverty, my radical dependence on and obedience to the good Father who was always sustaining me and ready to work through me. From without, I felt powerless so long as and to the extent that the other human characters didn’t desire God’s help.

But I felt doubly powerful, and a deep and peaceful sense that “all will be well, and all manner of thing will be well.” I continued feeling the strength and tenderness of God the Father, flowing in and through me as an inexhaustible supply. I felt a sense of something powerful about to happen, any moment, in the life of the child of God who was agonizing in front of Mary and me. Michael the Archangel was near at hand. In a split second, both he and I could step in with the power of God, and all would shift. With the smallest sliver of desire or the tiniest opening of receptivity, the victory would be claimed.

Joseph has many beautiful titles in Catholic devotion. My favorite has always been “Terror of Demons.” Joseph’s way of living in the present moment, trusting, receiving, and surrendering leaves nothing for the evil spirits to take hold of in a wrestling match. His willing embrace of poverty opens up space for divine strength and power.

I began feeling the meaning of that title (“Terror of Demons”) as I watched and waited – not in anxious hypervigilance but in the swelling anticipation of Advent. Any moment, I knew, the archangel Michael and I would burst onto the scene.

Bob paused our sculpt, checking in with the different characters to see what we were experiencing. As it turns out, the demons and I were experiencing the same sense of divine victory being immanent, with Joseph playing a role. The person playing the spirit of confusion was indeed terrified and declared, “Dude, I don’t wanna be anywhere near Saint Joseph right now!!” He sensed his time was short.

The whole experience was a gentle invitation for me to set down any sense of “I have to” and allow myself to wait amidst the mess with poverty and trust. Victory is already assured, and I don’t have to make it happen. I just get to rejoice in being part of it.

Joseph’s poverty is so different from the sense of scarcity that tends to terrify me. I have a deep-seated fear of abandonment and a sense that it’s all up to me to make something happen. I try so hard to be capable and powerful – often fooling others and myself. But I don’t have to do anything. I get to be loved securely by the Father, and allow his love to flow through me to others.

Becoming like Joseph requires a further repentance on my part – precisely from that idolatrous seduction into a false sense of power. Letting go of “I have to…” means letting go of the very power that helped me survive some really powerless moments in life. I learned to survive – even thrive – amidst the chaos, earning privilege and admiration – neither of which are the same as the love I actually desire.

Those who know me know that I don’t shy away from intense or chaotic situations. I’m often drawn towards them, like the paramedic who runs towards the gunshots. Being the strong and calm one amidst the storm is a familiar role in my story. And I can be a great gift in those situations. The question is, do I do it from a sense of “I have to” or from a place of freedom and peace? Do I do it alone, or in connection with others and with God, welcoming and celebrating the complementary gifts that the others bring?

I’ve been on path of healing for several years. I’m not nearly so much a slave of “I have to…” as I used to be. But that reaction still shows up, and (I imagine) will continue showing up. It’s part of my story. With Joseph as father and teacher, I’m learning that I can engage my daily labors in a much different fashion. I can notice that drivenness and then remember who the Father is and who I am. I can then welcome connection with others. I can be okay amidst the unresolved tension and wait in poverty and trust for the inevitable inbreaking of the Kingdom of God.

Jesus Christ is the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world. That’s no ordinary Lamb! He is the conquering Lamb, the victorious Lamb, the Lamb who overturns the devil’s kingdom of death and sin. The meekest of creatures becomes the mighty champion. He who willingly allowed himself to endure the humiliation of the Cross now bears the banner of victory, and makes a mockery of the devil. Jesus is victorious in a decisive and definitive game of “capture the flag.” We have been rescued from the kingdom of darkness. Our ancient foe has been defeated and despoiled.

Yet the fervor of our response tends to be more like the animations in Monty Python and the Holy Grail. “And there was much rejoicing… yay.”

We’ve all seen the Easter images of the lamb and the flag. In Christian circles, these depictions are so quaint that they carry little meaning or force. There is always a danger of our symbols and practices becoming so familiar that we lose any sense of the newness and the power of the Gospel. In this case, we are also hindered by the paradox of the Cross, and the utterly unexpected way that Jesus took the fight to the devil. His weapons are rather unconventional.

It is in John’s Gospel that we hear Jesus proclaimed as the Lamb of God (John 1:29). It is also in John’s Gospel that Jesus willingly embraces his “hour.” He knowingly and freely enters suffering and humiliation (John 10:18), not as an optionless victim but as one very much in charge. He confidently declares, “Now is the judgment of this world; now will the ruler of this world be cast out” (John 12:31). Jesus’ meek and humble death, his becoming sin for our sake, becomes the permanent undoing of death and the definitive removal of sin.

Lambs don’t exactly instill terror. I’ve yet to hear someone shriek, “It’s a lamb! Run for your lives!!” It’s imaginable only in the world of Monty Python (if I can dare taunt you with that film a second time). Consider the famous scene with the Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog. It’s so hilarious because it’s so incongruous. The thought of a fluffy bunny turning into a ferocious fighter is laughable. Some of Arthur’s hapless knights discover their mistake only too late.

So does the devil.

The devil’s seeming moment of triumph was actually the moment of his undoing. We can easily miss the brilliance of Jesus’ stratagem. Gentler than the gentlest dove and more cunning than the ancient serpent, Jesus brings unimaginable weapons to the fight and secures the victory over the ruler of this world, a victory that can never be undone.

We speak of the “glory” of the Resurrection, and rightly so. But in John’s Gospel, the glory of Jesus is especially revealed on the Cross. It is there that he casts out the ruler of this world. It is there that he wins the permanent and irrevocable victory. And the devil knows it.

The Cross is the victory. The Resurrection is the beginning of the victory parade. The artistic images of the lamb and flag don’t typically do it justice. We might be better served imagining the victory parades at the end of World War II, which are often depicted in film. We see the faces lining the streets and cheering – recently released prisoners, liberated townspeople, or relieved citizens who never thought this day would come.

But there is more. The Paschal victory parade is a mockery of the devil. That’s exactly how the apostle Paul describes it in Colossians 2:15. Jesus disarms the rulers and authorities (the evil spirits) and makes a public spectacle of them.

You have perhaps seen Roman victory arches, such as the ancient one near the Roman Forum or the more modern Arc de Triomphe in Paris. The ancient practice was for the victorious general to parade through the arch, openly showing off the prizes of victory taken from the enemy, and putting the losing generals on display.

In Jesus’ case, it is the ultimate reversal. In his Passion and Cross, he willingly embraced humiliation and shame – all the things done to him in the moment as well as all the shame ever experienced by you or me or any other human. What sadistic delight that must have brought to the demons! But their aroused revelry becomes their utter undoing, and the beginning of their eternal humiliation.

It’s common to find devotional reflections on Jesus’ physical sufferings in the Passion. Such reflections are not wrong, but they miss the deeper point. A clever critic could point to other forms of torture that would have been far longer lasting and more intensely painful. The Romans themselves had such methods. But Jesus was crucified. Crucifixion included plenty of torture and torment, but the core of crucifixion was utter humiliation. It was a form of execution that invited and encouraged mockery and degradation.

What is fallen human nature like when soldiers or prison guards are given a free pass to mock and degrade a captive? What kinds of dark behaviors emerge (particularly when the captive is stripped naked as part of the mocking)? We don’t even like to think about it. We sanitize and pretend that such atrocities don’t happen. Scripture mentions only a few particulars in Jesus’ case. There may have been more. Either way, the Gospel writers focus far more on the mocking and humiliation than on the physical torment. The evil one and the humans who were seduced by him went to no end to shame Jesus as much as possible.

I have written often about shame. I have studied it in depth – sometimes in books and podcasts, but mostly by studying myself, by exploring my own story, or by accompanying others into those places in their story. I find that toxic shame is perhaps the most unbearable of all human torments. I’ve met many people who tolerate an enormous amount of physical pain in their daily lives. I’ve met far fewer who are willing to linger in places of intense shame. It is in those places that we are most easily bound up by the powers of sin and death.

Jesus went fully and completely into the shame-bound places of the human heart that we can barely tolerate, even with the best of support. He plants the flag of his Cross and declares victory. He pulls down the devil’s banner. He manifests in his risen flesh that death and sin do not get the final word.

I described his methods as “utterly unexpected,” but that’s not entirely true. It’s exactly what God promised, even in the first moment of shame in the garden. There would come “the woman” who would be a total enemy of the devil, and her offspring would crush the head of the serpent (Genesis 3:15). Jesus is that offspring. He is the long-awaited Messiah. He is the glorious “Son of Man” described in Daniel and in other writings (like the Book of Enoch) that are not properly part of the Scriptures – but which were quite familiar to both Jesus and his followers. In that same Book of Enoch there is a prophecy of a conquering lamb, who will grow strong horns and bring the fight to God’s enemies, who have scattered his people like sheep. Jesus is that conquering Lamb.

Even his weapons were foretold, elsewhere, when Isaiah describes the Suffering Servant. But that vulnerable means of fighting was so unthinkable, so scandalous, so foolish that no one besides God made all these connections. Jesus helped his disciples connect the dots after the Resurrection, seeing how all these prophecies and commandments find their fulfillment in him (see Luke 24:27).

His mercy endures forever! God’s mercy, his kindness, his covenantal love (hesed in Hebrew) combines the meekness of the Lamb of God with the ferocity of the Lion of Judah. And let’s not forget that lions are predators. On the Cross, Jesus meekly and innocently suffers. On the Cross, Jesus cleverly lays a snare in a manner far more cunning than the most cunning predators. And the devil takes the bait.

In the Catholic world, we celebrate the Easter Octave – eight festive days of rejoicing in this victory. We begin with the Sunday of the Resurrection and conclude with the Sunday of Divine Mercy. Jesus overturns the ancient powers of death and sin – “powers” here in the biblical sense of evil sprits who pretend like they get to hold us captive and torment us in our powerlessness.

Left to ourselves, we are indeed powerless to overcome these unstoppable forces. They seduced Adam and Eve and us, and we gave our authority over to them. They won’t willingly release it. God knows that, and willingly sends his own Son to upend the powers of this fallen world in a way they could not imagine.

Like those at a victory parade, we can feel the liberation and the joy of the rescue that has just happened. We can be confident in the victorious Lamb who has torn down the enemy’s banner, and who puts the enemy and his impotent claim to power on public display. He has no such power over us. Not anymore. With the apostle Paul, we can boldly proclaim:

O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting? The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law – but thanks be to God who has given us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ! (1 Corinthians 15:55-57)

Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or danger, or sword? As it is written, “For your sake we are being killed all the day long; we are regarded as sheep to be slaughtered.” No! in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord (Romans 8:35-39).

And there was much rejoicing!

Month: April 2024

Learning from Joseph

Capture the Flag