Francis of Assisi and Fatherly Blessing

There is a famous moment in the life of Francis of Assisi, in which he dramatically renounces his earthly father and claims God as his heavenly Father. Francis gives back to his father not only the money he was demanding, but the very clothes off his back.

His furious father, the wealthy cloth merchant Pietro di Bernardone, had pressured the local bishop to call Francis to trial. Pietro demanded that his son pay back what he owed.

Francis had encountered the voice of Jesus calling to him from the cross in the hillside church of San Damiano. Jesus had beckoned: Rebuild my Church, which as you see is falling into ruin. Francis began the rebuilding effort quite literally, gathering or begging for stones to repair the dilapidated building. He also helped himself to a large bolt of his father’s expensive silk, selling it and attempting to give the proceeds to the stunned priest of San Damiano for help in the repair efforts. The priest prudently refused, not wanting to become one of Pietro’s enemies.

Pietro was a greedy man, but his rage had little to do with wealth. It sprang up from the shame and embarrassment that he felt as Francis rejected the rigid role assigned to him.

The famous friar of Assisi was actually named “John” at baptism – a name given by his mother Pica during the long months of Pietro’s absence in France. Upon returning, Pietro met his son and renamed him “Francis” (basically, “Frenchy”) in honor of the affluent country he loved visiting. In what he saw as great benevolence, Pietro planned to pass on his significant wealth to his son Francis, who would make him proud in carrying on the lucrative family business.

Instead, Francis went about begging, mingling with lepers, and sharing his father’s wealth with the poor. Disgusted and embarrassed, Pietro had him beaten and locked in the cellar, hoping he would fall in line. He didn’t. The next time Pietro was away, Francis’ mother released him, and Francis was right back to rebuilding the church of San Damiano – only now he hid himself in a cave to avoid the revenge of his father. That is when his father went to the bishop demanding justice.

The trial was public. Many witnesses heard Francis declare, “From now on I will say freely: ‘Our Father who art in heaven,’ and not ‘My father Pietro di Bernardone.’ Look, not only do I return his money; I give him back all my clothes. I will go to the Lord naked!”

He stripped himself there and then of his father’s robes, revealing the penitential hairshirt he had been wearing underneath.

And here is where I want to pause the story of Francis’ conversion.

Too often, the Saints are seen as these superhuman beings who quickly and easily rise to heights that are too lofty for the rest of us. The more steps I take on the road of conversion, the more I realize that the Saints were very normal and sinful human beings like you and me who walked a long and often painful path of conversion.

Most of the people who write the lives of Saints are themselves less than fully converted – so they tend to glamorize or oversimplify the journey of conversion. Sure, we would all love it if our conversion could be one simple and dramatic moment of decision and then living happily ever after. But that is rarely if ever how conversion works! Rather, there are many moments of weakness, faltering, stumbling, and struggling. There are many moments of new discovery and new growth. Consider the life of Peter in the Gospels and the Acts of the Apostles. From early on he loves the Lord and has faith in Him. But he continues to struggle before, during, and after the dying and rising of Jesus. His maturing in the love of Jesus is gradual, but significant.

Let’s just suppose that Francis was still – at this moment in his conversion – rather immature and in need of much more conversion. That is actually what the evidence suggests! First, there is Francis’ behavior. He is fearfully hiding in a cave. Plus, his father makes a fair point – it was not okay for Francis to presume that he could just start selling his father’s possessions without permission. There is still no small amount of the entitled party boy in him.

But there is another wonderful detail. For some time, Pietro has been lashing out at Francis with curses. Francis’ solution is to call upon “a lowly, rather simple man” to help him by taking the place of his father. Whenever Pietro would curse Francis, the poor man would speak words of blessing over Francis.

Underlying these details are the fear and shame and insecurity that Francis still felt. Like all human beings, he needed fatherly blessing, and ached for it. He needed to become secure in his identity, to know who he was. That is the greatest gift that fathers in the flesh can give to their children. They can lead them to be secure in the identity that God the Father confers on them – our heavenly Father who alone can fully bless us in the way our hearts desire.

Francis’ greatest example here is not so much his outward poverty as his inward poverty of heart, including his willingness to beg for help. Rather than shaming himself for being emotionally “needy,” he humbly reaches out for words of blessing from a fellow outcast. Through the repeated reminders of another flesh-and-blood human being, Francis’ words to the bishop and the crowd begin taking on flesh.

It sounds nice to say that God is my heavenly Father and that he meets all my needs. But it can be little comfort when my old wounds of shame and insecurity whisper in the shadows that I am not enough, that I am all alone, or that nobody really loves me.

There is a reason why Francis and his followers lived in community as brothers. There is a reason why Jesus taught us to pray to God as Our Father. We cannot connect with the Father without simultaneously connecting with each other as fellow members of the Body of Christ. Only God the Father can fill the void we feel deep in our hearts. But only within healthy community, vulnerably stating needs and receiving care, can we be opened up to receive the Fatherly blessing we need and ache for.

As we become blessed by the Father, then the slow and steady change can begin to happen. Secure in the Father’s love, we can mature in Christ.

Francis’ biographer (Thomas of Celano) delights in the scene of Francis’ nakedness before the bishop and the people: Oh how free is the heart of a man for whom Christ is already enough! True enough, as long as we also remember that Francis was still in the process of claiming that truth and internalizing it – and never without help from others.

Each of us, one way or another, gets pushed into roles. Each of us struggles to discover our true identity, and to be secure in love. In our insecurity we stay stuck in our sins. We need fellow pilgrims on the journey – those who don’t shame us or fix us, but declare us to be beloved children of God. We absolutely need that repeated reminder so that we can stay secure in the Father’s love and keep walking the difficult road of conversion. Maturity will keep coming – usually quite slowly. Like little children who are growing, we need others to notice our growth, to name it, to celebrate it, and to cheer us on. The Saints in heaven certainly do so, but hopefully also some of our fellow Saints-in-the-making.

Who are the “lowly, rather simple” people in your life who remind you of your identity as a beloved child of God?

Driven vs. Desiring

For many years, others described me as “driven.” They typically intended it as high praise, and at the time I took it as such.

After all, isn’t it wonderful to strive for excellence, to persevere through repeated obstacles, and to find a way to keep coming out on top? Not necessarily – especially if it’s at the expense of the people I care about, not to mention my own dignity as a beloved child of God.

Desire and “drivenness” seem so similar, but they are radically different. Desire attracts us, allures us, draws us. It doesn’t drive us. Ultimately, all of our desires (even our disordered ones) are beautiful gifts from God. He never coerces. He always honors our dignity and freedom.

If we are “driven,” the real question becomes, by whom or by what? Where is that feeling of pressure or high expectation or coercion coming from?

In my case, there can be a felt sense of urgency: I have to, or else…

Or else what?

For years, I don’t think I slowed down enough to ponder what the “or else” even was. I was too driven, and sometimes still am. I can easily shift into a dogged determination, in which failure is not an option. When I do, if a person or situation suddenly stands in my way, my normally “calm” outward demeanor flashes with irritation, peevishness, or frustration – often surprising myself and others. Where did that burst of anger come from, that overreaction?

Now I understand a bit better. In mere milliseconds, my body mobilizes: first feeling shame; then feeling fear of exposure or abandonment; then feeling contempt toward the person perceived as a threat; then weaponizing that contempt; and finally, an eruption of anger, manipulation, or shaming behavior. All this happens in an instant – before my thinking brain has even realized that a reaction is happening.

I can’t stop such reactions from happening altogether, but I can notice and be curious and reflect. Kindness and childlike curiosity go so much further than self-contempt and a push into even more drivenness. My curiosity might go something like this: Huh – that’s interesting. I really reacted just now. What’s my body feeling at the moment? What is the intense warning trying to tell me? How old do I feel right now? When was the last time I felt like this?

I can listen to my anger, my fear, and my shame. Then I can start to notice what the “or else” is saying – even if it is irrational in the current situation. I’ve noticed in myself a fear of failing or of being exposed as not good enough. I notice a fear that others will leave me unprotected or all alone to navigate the hardest moments of life. As long as I somehow keep performing at an impossibly high level, maybe they’ll stick with me. Over time, this drivenness gets exhausting. It is not sustainable, and it definitely does not yield joy!

Hear me correctly – I’m not condemning being “driven.” It is one of the ways we human beings survive awful situations. Shame and fear are powerful motivators. They may even help us begin a journey of repentance. But only desire can abide, grow, and bear fruit. Fear and shame will never help us to have healthy, happy, and holy relationships. Fear of the Lord may be the beginning of wisdom (Proverbs 9:10), but “perfect love drives out all fear” (1 John 4:18).

I’ve written before about Augustine of Hippo and his distinction between ducere and trahere. Appealing to John 6, he describes the way in which God the Father allures and attracts us (trahere) by means of our desires. He doesn’t demand or coerce like an earthly authority tends to do (ducere – from which words like “duke” derive). We are created for communion and love, and God desires us to desire him. He allures us without coercing, without “driving.”

This is a tricky matter, because outwardly, two different human beings can be doing exactly the same thing for quite different reasons. One is driven by fear and shame, while the other is motivated from within by desire and love. One is avoiding the pain of unhealed wounds and running away from the Cross; the other has experienced dying and rising with Jesus and is bringing an unshakable confidence into a broken world. For example, two different Christians passionately evangelize. One is terrified of hell and is driven to keep all others out of hell. The other has been transformed by an encounter with the risen Jesus and desires everyone else to encounter the risen Jesus in their own ways. Two pro-lifers engage in advocacy. One is driven to keep the right people in political power and views pro-choice advocates with total contempt. The other cares passionately about the dignity of unborn humans – as well as about the dignity of the mother, and of all human beings, including those she most disagrees with. She treats all of them with honor and respect.

This is where spiritual discernment comes in. Catholics have a tendency only to use that word only in asking massive questions such as, “Am I called to become a priest?” We don’t always realize that God intends discernment to be a daily practice for us. We can notice what he is doing and engage in a response of love throughout the day.

Like a lover wooing his beloved, God is always stirring up desires in our heart. We have the freedom to grow in those desires and bear fruit. Unfortunately, our deepest and most intense desires are often buried beneath our fear and shame. That actually makes sense! The evil one HATES our God-given desires, and wars against them early and often.

The only way to uncover our deepest desires is to welcome the healing and transformation that Jesus brings. And the only way to experience that is (~gasp~) to die and rise with him. Can you see why so many of us prefer to be “driven” by fear and shame?

Are you “driven”? If so, are you ready for a change?

St. Benedict and Conversion

Today we conclude a three-part reflection on the vow taken by many monks and sisters who follow in the footsteps of Benedict of Nursia. They enter a covenant of obedience, stability, and conversion of life.

Conversion is the most important of the three dimensions, balancing the other two and served by them. Obedience is for the sake of conversion. Stability is for the sake of conversion.

Without conversion, obedience and stability become toxic structures of decay and death.

There is an impostor stability that resists needed reform. It happens in every institution! There will be some who resist risk, while cheering for the changes to fail. They feel a perceived need to keep things the same, and an obstinate refusal to see the evident truth that the status quo is failing. This pseudo-stability is the idolatry of comfort . It is trying to serve God and mammon. It is wanting to have happiness in this world, rather than accepting our status as strangers and sojourners. It is a refusal to die and rise with Jesus.

There is also an impostor obedience that kills conversion. It comes in many forms, both among leaders and followers.

Some leaders rigidly demand obedience. At its “best,” this becomes authoritarianism within a benevolent dictatorship. At its worst, it is a dumpster fire of narcissism, in which the leader demands unquestioning loyalty and the admiration of all. On the flipside, many of us leaders resist responsibility for the hard stuff – which always means being hated and persecuted by some. Who wants that unless he or she is truly committed to dying and rising with Christ?

For followers, too, there is an impostor obedience that refuses to walk the path of conversion. There are always the kiss-ups who ambitiously angle for power of their own, with no interest in seeking first the Kingdom of God. Much more toxic and dysfunctional is the tendency of institutions to equate obedience with a demand for loyalty, even when loyalty means a loss of honesty and integrity. Well-meaning followers, in the name of obedience, will collude in cover-ups, stay silent in the face of failing policies, protect the perpetrator, or blame the victim.  Rather than abiding in love and truth, this impostor obedience is governed by fear and shame.

Now let’s state the obvious: disobedience is not obedience. Obstinate disobedience is a self-exalatation and a hardening of the heart. It is the opposite of conversion.

There are many ideological Christians these days (both on the left and on the right) who wish that their church leaders would become noisy political warriors. Their deepest thirst is not for the Kingdom of God – which is not of this world (John 18:36). They are behaving like the disciples of Jesus, who expected him to stick it to the Romans and bring back the good old days of the Kingdom of Israel. At their worst, they are the ones who prefer Barabbas and want no king but Caesar.

We leaders need to hear their concerns, which contain much truth. There are injustices to be upset about, and genuine reasons for fear and concern. What then?

For Benedict, it means we need to have a conversation. The Latin words for “conversion of life” are conversatio morum. It means turning around and following Christ, but it also means a conversation, a willingness to enter into and stay in dialogue in healthy relationships – even with people we dislike or disagree with.

Conversion does not mean hopping onto a social media platform, undermining authority, name calling, mocking, and shaming. That kind of criticism is not courage. There is no conversation and no conversion there. It is much harder to speak face-to-face and to listen with vulnerability and respect. No one possesses the truth; rather, we are possessed by Truth, and it is always greater than us. Conversion means I always have more to learn – even from those who are radically different from me. The disobedient do not tend to be lifelong learners.

One of the monks here compares monastic community with a rock tumbler. A group of hardheaded men are mashed against each other for years. As their rough edges smooth out, they emerged polished and beautiful.

Both obedience and stability are a grind, and our egos resist them. Who wants to be in an ongoing relationship with a bunch of hardheads, some of whom they really dislike?  The answer – someone with a deep desire to die and rise with Jesus!  On the day of their profession, the monks declare: “I desire to share in the sufferings of Christ in this monastery until death, that I may also share in his glory.”

Conversion is about turning around from our present misery and joyfully journeying to our real goal. Benedict urges us to hasten along the path of holiness: “Run while you have the light of life … If we wish to dwell in the tent of this Kingdom, we will never arrive there unless we run there by doing good deeds.” The Latin verb is currere, which means “to run, to move quickly, to hasten.” Think of it not so much as a sprint, but as a marathon or (better yet) a pilgrimage.

I once walked a 120-mile pilgrimage. My longest day was 31 miles. It became 32 miles because I missed a turn at one point. My stomach dropped in dread when I realized my mistake. I felt such an ache to get to my destination, and now it would take longer. In this case, by far my clearest option was to turn right around and go back to the crossroads. But one could easily imagine another scenario in which a new path would be much faster, and going back would be disastrous. Conversion is all about hastening to the true goal.

On a pilgrimage, you ache for your destination – and I mean that you feel the ache all over your body. You might linger here and there to delight in the scenery. Sometimes you sing as you walk and enjoy the journey. Other times it is sheer pain. But the one thing you do NOT want is to journey in the wrong direction. Conversion corrects our course whenever and however necessary.

Most of us prefer to live in denial about the fact that we are pilgrims in this life. Our true homeland is in heaven. Absolutely nothing in this world will last except for faith, hope, and love. The Benedictine vow of conversatio morum is a renewal of the baptismal vow. It is an absolute decision that I want to die and rise with Christ, and that I renounce all seductive counterfeits.

In the Prologue of his Rule, Benedict teaches that God does not will the death of the sinner, but our life (cf. Ezekiel 33:11). God lengthens our lifespan to give us adequate time to turn around and hasten to the Kingdom. God gives us many chances to commit and recommit on our journey of conversion. He is patient with our wanderings and opens up new (even if rugged and longer) paths. He shelters and guides us along our way, and is so eager to welcome us when we finally arrive at the Feast. Will we remember who we are and where we are going?

St. Benedict and Stability

As I finish my final month of sabbatical in a Benedictine monastery, I’ll continue reflecting on their threefold vow of obedience, stability, and conversion of life. Last time we considered obedience. Today we’ll consider “stability.”

Benedictine monks vow to stay in the monastery that they enter, unless obedience sends them elsewhere. Historically, monks were sometimes sent out as missionaries, or to be abbot of another monastery. But normally their promise to God includes a definitive choice that this monastery is going to be their spiritual and physical home for the rest of their life.

Other religious communities, like the Missionaries of Charity or the Jesuits, are mobile by their very nature. They expect to be moved many times during the course of their life.

The hyper-mobile spirituality of some orders and the ultra-stable spirituality of the Benedictines each have their place in the life of the Church. The frequent call to be moved is a reminder that “here we have no lasting city” (Hebrews 13:14). It is a share in the mission of Jesus, who had “no place to lay his head” (Matthew 8:20). It prevents stagnation.  On the opposite side, fruitful growth can only happen with patience and perseverance, through ongoing relational connection. Even when serious reforms are needed – especially when serious reforms are needed – it takes a stable and patient commitment.

We live in the FOMO age in which people young and old spend much of their day avoiding solid commitments as they restlessly “connect” through social media. We live in an age in which people quite easily move from job to job, state to state, or marriage to marriage. Even when such moves are good and necessary, they are incredibly challenging for all concerned. Benedictine stability deserves our attention!

We can begin by naming what stability is not. It is not easy living with a resistance to change. Every virtue has its shadow side. A week ago, I had Mass and coffee with a neighboring community of Benedictine Sisters. One of them wisely suggested that a great temptation in Benedictine life is comfort. Comfort kills. When we settle into an easy life, we will find ourselves unhappy and stuck.  Comfortable living does not bring joy or delight. We can only experience joy if we are also open to risk or loss, to sorrow or death. There is no joy without vulnerability. Healthy relationships only survive and thrive when there is a willingness to make mistakes and repair the damage, to engage in difficult experiences, to work through healthy conflict, to admit truthfully what is not working well, and to move forward into the unknown with a trust that God will bring new life and fruitfulness. The Benedictine vow is threefold – including conversion of life. Stability without conversion brings death and decay.

The true invitation of stability is an invitation to be fully present and engaged – with God; with others; and with one’s own body, mind, and spirit. It is direct spiritual combat against acedia, sometimes called “sloth,” which is not what most people think it is! Too often acedia is viewed as “laziness” – which is to be combatted by discipline and hard work. As a recovering workaholic, I can personally testify that we can numb ourselves with lesser labors just as much as with any other drug! No, acedia, the noonday devil, is the siren call that pulls us away from being truly present, to stop feeling what we are feeling, to disconnect from our people and our environment, to hide and isolate. Yes, it can come in the form of “lazy” escapes, but the noonday devil does not discriminate in his tactics. He simply wants to lure us away from drinking in the present moment in all its fullness – and all the better if he does so without our even noticing.

Today’s restless FOMO culture is a prime example of acedia at work. FOMO (“fear of missing out”) paralyzes millions each day, keeping them glued to their smartphones while sapping their capacity to be truly present, to notice, to receive, to savor goodness, to mature, to give, and to bear fruit.

Even in the early months of social media and smartphones, I remember vividly a New York Times article in 2008, highlighting the experiment of an MIT professor with his economics students. They played a simple computer game, in which they clicked on one of three doors. Behind each door were real cash prizes. But clicking on one door caused the others to shrink, and eventually, to disappear forever. Instead of finding the door of greatest value and clicking on it repeatedly, the majority of students “kept their options open,” terrified of committing to one thing only. FOMO.

Both FOMO and comfort are enemies of authentic stability. On the one side are those who are afraid to commit, even when the pearl of great price is at hand. On the other side are those who would keep clicking on the same door even when it is no longer paying out – indeed, even when it is depleting them! Isn’t it interesting that 1,500+ years of Benedictine history also included sweeping and successful missionary efforts? Stable living in one monastery was the norm, but when those stable monks planted a foundation elsewhere for the sake of spreading the Gospel, their new monasteries often became hubs of faith, culture, and civilization. Evangelization takes much patience and time.

Benedict begins his Rule with some sage commentary on these attitudes of the human heart. He discusses different “kinds of monks.” There are solitary “hermits” (as he once was), and there are “cenobites” – those who live in a stable community life. Then there are the “sarabaites.” Rather than surrendering themselves in obedience and allowing a community to correct them, they build up a self-made rule and a self-given salvation. “Their law is what they like to do, whatever strikes their fancy … Anything they believe in and choose, they call holy; anything they dislike, they consider forbidden.” Sound familiar? It is the attitude of so many towards religion today – picking and choosing for themselves that which is good, true, and beautiful rather than allowing themselves to be changed by the living God.

Finally, Benedict discusses the “Gyrovagues,” who refuse to settle down and tend to drift from monastery to monastery, region to region. They become “slaves of their own wills and gross appetites” and “are in every way worse than the Sarabaites.” At that point Benedict effectively says he should move on, because he has nothing nice to say.

In our age that over-exalts being open-minded and keeping options open, the words of G.K. Chesterton come to mind: “Merely having an open mind is nothing; the object of opening the mind, as of opening the mouth, is to shut it again on something solid.” Benedictines understand that. They find the pearl of great price, and they commit to spending the rest of their life steadily pursing it in conversion of life. I’ll consider that third and final dimension next time!

The Conversion of St. Monica

Another rerun! This post was first submitted on March 10, 2019.

Monica is an immensely popular saint, particularly among those who fret about the sins and sufferings of their adult children.  Many a mother has fantasized, “If only I could be like Monica…If only I could pray hard enough and shed enough tears to convert my children as she converted Augustine…” In our age of addictions, no wonder she is so popular!

But perhaps she is popular for the wrong reasons. I am convinced that, if we knew her whole story, we would discover a major conversion of her own. Her son Augustine wrote his Confessions, in which he tells one of the most stunning conversion stories of all time. He periodically alludes to his childhood and his parents. Knowing what we know today about sexual addiction and addictions in general, it’s not hard to start connecting the dots. I think Monica’s greatest victory was not the deathbed conversion of her pagan husband Patricius, nor even the tear-filled conversion of her son Augustine. No, her greatest victory was her own recovery from codependency.

Consider the legendary words of the bishop St. Ambrose, when she entreated him with tears about the sins of her son Augustine: “Speak less to Augustine about God and more to God about Augustine.” Wow. I can relate. It is not uncommon for a priest to hear something like this: “Father, you need to help me to fix my children!” Well okay, they don’t usually put it that bluntly. But many mothers and fathers feel like their personal self-worth is on the line. If their children sin or fail, they themselves are failures. That’s a lie.

It is one thing to grieve over the sins of our loved ones. Destructive behaviors are sad indeed. It is another thing to feel personally responsible. The apostle Paul reminds us that each disciple must carry his own load (Galatians 6:5). We cannot fix other people’s problems or manage their lives.

Trying to do so leads to an array of unhealthy and destructive behaviors: perfectionism, judgmental or self-righteous attitudes, bitterness, resentment, depression, hopelessness, avoidance of conflict, self-loathing, self-punishment, manipulative comments, shaming or blaming postures, trying to “fix” others, unsolicited advice, and the like. All the while one ignores the pain and grief of one’s own heart.

These “codependent” attitudes easily thrive in homes where addictions dominate. Monica was married to an addicted husband and reared an addicted son. It is not a stretch to imagine her battling with codependency on her path to sainthood.

In our pornographic culture, I have had conversations now with hundreds of men who have a wound of sexual addiction, whose behaviors are very much like those of Augustine and his father Patricius. Some of those men, like Augustine, have found liberation and peace as they walk the path of recovery. As they heal, they get in touch with their father wounds. Often, their fathers were like Patricius – unfaithful to their mothers, verbally or physically abusive, alcoholic, absent, etc. Recovering addicts begin to realize that their unwanted behaviors are not the real problem; they are only the tip of the iceberg. Lurking beneath are old and unhealed wounds. As prevalent as father wounds are, I am finding it a nearly universal truth that where there is a sexual addiction, there is an unhealed mother wound. I definitely see mother wounds in Augustine’s story.

Let’s tread carefully here. Acknowledging these wounds is not about casting blame on father or mother for the sins of their children. No one gets into an addiction without himself choosing or agreeing at some point along the way. The great Jimmy Buffet teaches us that we are ultimately responsible for our own sins. Additionally, sometimes children are blocked from receiving what they really need for reasons that are not the fault of the parents.

In Monica’s case, it’s not hard to imagine her playing the victim card, casting herself as a silent (or not-so-silent) martyr, subtly manipulating or shaming as she tries to guilt her husband and her son into doing the right thing. As I hear of the deathbed conversion of Patricius, I wonder just how much joy and liberation he felt in his baptism, versus a reluctant agreement mainly to appease Monica. God knows the truth.

Filling in the blanks, I think Monica’s conversion story goes something like this:

Monica is mired in misery, abused and betrayed by her husband and repeatedly wounded by the wanderings of her son. Probably the abuse and mistreatment began with her own father, and she learned how to cope from her own codependent mother. Like so many in her shoes, she fantasizes about how blessed her life would be if only her husband or her son would change. She is hyper-aware of their behaviors and constantly tries to manage the damage. Eventually, she learns to stop lecturing or shaming or manipulating. She heeds the godly advice of Ambrose and talks more to God about Augustine. She talks to God more and more often. Augustine doesn’t seem to change. She harbors a good deal of bitterness against the men in her life, yes, even against God. She won’t admit that, because good Christian women don’t get angry, certainly not at God! Still, she meditates often on the sufferings of Christ and of his mother Mary. She is often moved to tears – sometimes without knowing why. Finally, like the weeping women of Jerusalem, she learns that Jesus wants her to weep for herself (Luke 23:28). She realizes that, when Jesus weeps over the destruction of Jerusalem, he is weeping also for the ruins of Monica’s heart, so often trampled down by others, so often neglected and ignored by herself. She starts learning that God is big enough to handle Augustine’s problems – far better than she can. She learns to surrender and to live in the present moment. Little by little, her heart, numb for decades, begins to thaw. She trembles and gasps and sobs as she feels God attuning her to the swirling anger and torrential sadness of her own heart. But she finally believes that her heart matters and that those who mourn are truly blessed. She lets it happen. Like King David in the Psalms, she pours out her heart to God – all of it. She surrenders all in faith. She begins discovering an unfettered joy and peace, even as she sheds more tears than ever. She is finally free.

It could have happened that way. God knows the truth.

The Cloak of Bartimaeus

The cloak of Bartimaeus is a curious detail in the Gospel of Mark (see Mark 10:46-52).  The blind man throws it aside as he springs up and rushes to Jesus. He never goes back to retrieve his cloak. Healed of his blindness, he joins with Jesus and his disciples as they leave town.

What ever became of that cloak? How did he come by it in the first place? How long had he had it? Why did he leave it behind as he followed Jesus? And why does Mark even bother to mention it? Little details like these matter – especially when reading the shortest of the four Gospels. Mark mentions the cloak as a detail because he is trying to teach us something.

“Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me!”

It is intriguing that Bartimaeus cries out “have mercy on me!” – in Greek, eleison me – echoing ancient liturgical words quite familiar to Catholics and Orthodox, who chant Kyrie Eleison at the beginning of our Sunday liturgy, as we call to mind our sins and ask Jesus to have mercy on us. It is interesting that many translations prefer to say “have pity on me” – which isn’t entirely wrong, but tends to reduce this story to a simple physical healing of a blind man. Rather, Bartimaeus’ healing is far more comprehensive than regaining physical sight. Whatever the cause of Bartimaeus’ physical blindness may have been, Mark wants us to know that this man was deeply wounded by sin and its effects.

He is a beggar in Jericho, a city readily associated with sin. It was the city in the Old Testament that Joshua had conquered and annihilated because of its depravity. It was the city chosen by Zacchaeus as his base of operations when he was a shameless and shiftless tax collector exploiting the poor.  It gains mention in the Good Samaritan parable, which many in the early Church saw as telling the story of the Fall and Redemption. The “man” in the story represents all of humanity – choosing to distance himself from God’s city of Jerusalem and descending the slope towards Jericho. Already on a bad path, he is then beaten by robbers, who leave him for dead. In that interpretation (almost universal among the early Church Fathers) Jesus is the Good Samaritan who is moved with compassion and hoists up our hurting humanity, anoints our wounds, and entrusts us to the care of the inn (i.e., the Church!) until he comes again to make all debts right.

The cloak of Bartimaeus is so much more than a cloak. It represents a way of life for him – how he had learned to cope and survive in an existence devoid of intimacy, connection, kindness, or care. He was a beggar, yes, but (one can easily imagine) a highly manipulative and cunning beggar who knew how to take advantage of people and get what he wanted without making any actual connections or commitments.

Instead of real relationships, Bartimaeus had his cloak. It kept him warm – warm enough anyway. It wasn’t the warmth of hearth and home, but it was enough to survive and endure. More importantly, he could hide himself in his cloak, staying isolated physically, emotionally, and spiritually. I imagine that, most of the time, he did not want to be seen. Whatever scraps of pleasure he could manage to carve out for himself, he could then indulge in secretly. His cloak was perhaps the closest thing he had to a friend. His life was not one that knew much by way of nurture of soothing. In his cloak, he managed to find fleeting moments of comfort and safety.  I can only imagine, over time, how dilapidated and disgusting his cloak became. But up to that day, it had been his most loyal companion. How many times had other people betrayed him or harmed him, rejected him or abandoned him? His cloak would not do that! It was predictable, even if it was only a surrogate – even if it was providing less and less authentic comfort or warmth.

How astounding it is that Bartimaeus cries out – repeatedly – “Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me!!” He makes himself so vulnerable. He risks more mocking and rejection.  Apparently he had decided that he had nothing more to lose. He was ready to risk it all.

It is even more remarkable to me that he leaves his cloak behind – even before Jesus heals him. He recognizes that the cloak – his loyal and faithful companion – is actually an obstacle to real connection. It has hindered him from receiving and will continue hindering if he doesn’t change his ways. More importantly, a desire so intense and deep is welling up in his heart – so strong that it overflows and overpowers his “settling” for survival. He wants to be well!  He intuits that Jesus can give him more – so much more. No doubt, he also hears the whispers of his cloak – warning him that he is making a fool of himself, gently enticing him to hide himself away once again and return to the safety of self-protection. But desire wins the day. Bartimaeus not only cries out all the louder; he actually casts aside his cloak and runs up to Jesus. He wants to see. Jesus heals him. He begins following Jesus.

As is so often the case in the Gospels, we don’t hear “the rest of the story.” I am enough of a student of human nature (including my own) to know that Bartimaeus’ following of Jesus in “The Way” was very likely NOT a linear journey, nor a “one and done” moment of salvation. Rather, it was likely a long and arduous transformational journey of conversion, including shining moments of freedom and triumph as well as plenty of other moments of stumbling and shame. We need only look at Peter and the other disciples to appreciate how long and complex the journey of conversion is.

If you are like me, I imagine that you can relate to the cloak of Bartimaeus! Like Adam and Eve with their fig leaves, it sometimes feels safer to isolate and self-protect rather than to surrender ourselves totally into the hands of the living God.

The invitation to Adam and Eve, the invitation to Bartimaeus, and the invitation to you and me is the same invitation captured beautifully in the erotic love poetry found in Song of Songs Chapter 5. The bride has cast off her cloak and pursues intimacy with her beloved. She will not put her cloak back on when he is inviting her to be one flesh with him! These images of vulnerability and intimacy are mere foretastes of the ultimate invitation God offers to each of us in Jesus. He desires to heal every rupture and restore true intimacy and eternal communion with him and with each other, in a way that will satisfy every ache and longing of our hearts.

What does your cloak look like and feel like? Where in your life do you find yourself hiding or isolating, pulling away from relationships, or preferring the predictable comfort and safety of self-soothing or self-protection? How do you feel about casting aside your cloak and running vulnerably to Jesus to be healed? Do you want to be well?  Do you trust that the healing, love, and communion offered by Jesus will be enough?

Perhaps we need time to grapple with these questions. The Lord honors our freedom, and does not arouse our desire until we are ready (cf. Song of Songs 8:4). When we are ready, we can cast aside our cloak and run to the bridegroom!

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