Friday, March 31, 2006
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Separation, Day 2
My wife is out of town for most of a week, and so far I have been too busy to miss her much for most of the day.
But when I've come home from work the past two days, I've missed knowing there was someone who loves me to greet me. This little guy is always excited to see me, but it isn't quite the same.
And when I climb into bed, I miss being able to unpack the day with her, but even more I miss knowing that I'm going to spend the next 8 hours next to the person (besides God) who loves me the most.
Around Saturday evening I'm going to get a chance to catch my breath during the day, at which point I'll probably start missing her a lot more frequently. But I'm really glad this separation is only for a few days, and even if my waking hours are filled to the brim with activity between now and next Tuesday, I'm going to be really glad when she's home.
Seductions (revised)
"'You are locked in daily battle with the Devil. What do you see as Satan's greatest success?'
AMORTH: 'The fact that he has managed to convince people that he does not exist. He has almost managed it, even within the Church. We have a clergy and an Episcopate who no longer believe in the Devil, in exorcism, in the exceptional evil the Devil can instill, or even in the power that Jesus bestowed to cast out demons. '
'How does the Devil go about seducing men and women?'
AMORTH: 'He convinces people that there is no hell, that there is no sin, just one more experience to live. Lust, success and power are the three great passions on which the Devil insists.' "
These excerpts are from a recent interview with Rome's leading exorcist priest. In our modern, rationalistic society, the entire discussion seems a bit quaint and superstitious. How brilliant of our Adversary to convince us of the vast superiority of our supposedly advanced culture. We think we can explain all evil without the need to personalize it, and that belief in a malevolent being somehow reduces our personal responsibility for the wrong we commit. How perilous it is for us to fall for this deception!
As for Fr. Amorth's point about our seduction, I was struck by how well it matches what I heard from Chuck Swindoll last week concerning the three areas by which the world judges us. If we're rich, successful, or powerful, only then are we to be admired. Only then are we worthy of attention or emulation.
Each of these three passions represents a perversion of a gift of God, and each drives us unhealthily when we pursue it inordinately. Matthew Kelly says we can never get enough of what we don't really need, but I'd amend that just a bit. I'd suggest that there is no good thing which God has provided, to meet our true needs and to help us grow, which will not consume us if we become enamored of it and pursue it, for its own sake, beyond necessity. (Maybe that's really the same thing.)
Lust is a perversion of our need for intimacy. We need to be close to others, and particularly to God, but we get this need out of whack. Even married people are called to a chaste (that is, appropriately holy) life in the area of our sexuality rather than making an idol of sexual experiences. Conversely, even the celibate among us have a sexual element of their personhood that they must recognize and acknowledge in the context of their chastity.
The drive for success can be a perversion of both our basic physical needs - sustenance, shelter, etc. - but also of our need for self-esteem. Rather than finding our self-worth in God's love for us, in the gift of our personhood in Christ, we too often esteem ourselves only in comparison with others. This plays out in many ways beyond having the latest technological gadgets and the most impressive home. We see it in people who are more concerned over whether their spouses or their children embarrass them than in truly nurturing and loving them in the context of their relationships.
The pursuit of power is a perversion of our need for control and security. A healthy person controls their choices and their behaviors. An unhealthy one strives to control all of their circumstances in an ever-expanding sphere of influence, often for fear of vulnerability.
It seems to me that there's a lot of overlap between these areas, that the boundaries between them are not cut so clearly. We could probably expand on each one of them at length. Yet the transformation of each of these gifts into a passion represents a fundamental failure to trust God for what we truly need, to believe and take action on the knowledge that God's desires for us are more trustworthy than our own desires for ourselves.
AMORTH: 'The fact that he has managed to convince people that he does not exist. He has almost managed it, even within the Church. We have a clergy and an Episcopate who no longer believe in the Devil, in exorcism, in the exceptional evil the Devil can instill, or even in the power that Jesus bestowed to cast out demons. '
'How does the Devil go about seducing men and women?'
AMORTH: 'He convinces people that there is no hell, that there is no sin, just one more experience to live. Lust, success and power are the three great passions on which the Devil insists.' "
These excerpts are from a recent interview with Rome's leading exorcist priest. In our modern, rationalistic society, the entire discussion seems a bit quaint and superstitious. How brilliant of our Adversary to convince us of the vast superiority of our supposedly advanced culture. We think we can explain all evil without the need to personalize it, and that belief in a malevolent being somehow reduces our personal responsibility for the wrong we commit. How perilous it is for us to fall for this deception!
As for Fr. Amorth's point about our seduction, I was struck by how well it matches what I heard from Chuck Swindoll last week concerning the three areas by which the world judges us. If we're rich, successful, or powerful, only then are we to be admired. Only then are we worthy of attention or emulation.
Each of these three passions represents a perversion of a gift of God, and each drives us unhealthily when we pursue it inordinately. Matthew Kelly says we can never get enough of what we don't really need, but I'd amend that just a bit. I'd suggest that there is no good thing which God has provided, to meet our true needs and to help us grow, which will not consume us if we become enamored of it and pursue it, for its own sake, beyond necessity. (Maybe that's really the same thing.)
Lust is a perversion of our need for intimacy. We need to be close to others, and particularly to God, but we get this need out of whack. Even married people are called to a chaste (that is, appropriately holy) life in the area of our sexuality rather than making an idol of sexual experiences. Conversely, even the celibate among us have a sexual element of their personhood that they must recognize and acknowledge in the context of their chastity.
The drive for success can be a perversion of both our basic physical needs - sustenance, shelter, etc. - but also of our need for self-esteem. Rather than finding our self-worth in God's love for us, in the gift of our personhood in Christ, we too often esteem ourselves only in comparison with others. This plays out in many ways beyond having the latest technological gadgets and the most impressive home. We see it in people who are more concerned over whether their spouses or their children embarrass them than in truly nurturing and loving them in the context of their relationships.
The pursuit of power is a perversion of our need for control and security. A healthy person controls their choices and their behaviors. An unhealthy one strives to control all of their circumstances in an ever-expanding sphere of influence, often for fear of vulnerability.
It seems to me that there's a lot of overlap between these areas, that the boundaries between them are not cut so clearly. We could probably expand on each one of them at length. Yet the transformation of each of these gifts into a passion represents a fundamental failure to trust God for what we truly need, to believe and take action on the knowledge that God's desires for us are more trustworthy than our own desires for ourselves.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
The Interior Castle
I have begun reading this book by St. Teresa of Avila, which I presume is going to be a book about prayer. I'm struck by a couple things about it already, though.
First, in the preface, Father Raimundo Panikkar makes a point closely related to some of my earlier musings on holiness. Being a saint, he suggests, is not about our achieving perfection on our own efforts, but is about God dwelling in the person of the saint. I will certainly be reading the rest of this preface.
I don't like to spend too much time in the preliminaries of such a book, though, before beginning to get a sense of the body of the text. So I've also read St. Teresa's own prologue. In just two pages, I have encountered a humble, obedient soul, who I'm eager to journey along with for a while.
First, in the preface, Father Raimundo Panikkar makes a point closely related to some of my earlier musings on holiness. Being a saint, he suggests, is not about our achieving perfection on our own efforts, but is about God dwelling in the person of the saint. I will certainly be reading the rest of this preface.
I don't like to spend too much time in the preliminaries of such a book, though, before beginning to get a sense of the body of the text. So I've also read St. Teresa's own prologue. In just two pages, I have encountered a humble, obedient soul, who I'm eager to journey along with for a while.
Monday, March 27, 2006
The Second Scrutiny
"But we see, you say, so your sin remains."
Is this as much an indictment of rationalism as it ever was of Pharisaism?
Are not both of these attitudes as prevalent today as they have ever been?
As pertinent as these questions may be, last night I found myself grappling instead with one that is of more value for me. After thirty minutes of (I believe) Spirit-led soul-searching, a technical glitch prevented me from posting what I'd written, the words vanished from my screen. So maybe I'm just supposed to post the question here, for reflection:
In what ways do I insist that I see, and so my sin remains?
Holy Spirit, you alone can reveal this. Show me, and heal me of my blindness.
Is this as much an indictment of rationalism as it ever was of Pharisaism?
Are not both of these attitudes as prevalent today as they have ever been?
As pertinent as these questions may be, last night I found myself grappling instead with one that is of more value for me. After thirty minutes of (I believe) Spirit-led soul-searching, a technical glitch prevented me from posting what I'd written, the words vanished from my screen. So maybe I'm just supposed to post the question here, for reflection:
In what ways do I insist that I see, and so my sin remains?
Holy Spirit, you alone can reveal this. Show me, and heal me of my blindness.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
The Annunciation
Ps 2: "Come, let us break their fetters; come, let us cast off their yoke."
This is still the outcry of the world against the Lord, misunderstanding the nature of his yoke. We want to determine our own destiny. Freedom to us means freedom to do whatever we want, and if the Lord tells us that some things are not best for us or for those around us, well, we're best suited to decide what's in our best interest. We don't need some oppressive set of moral restrictions! Nobody else is going to tell us what's right and what's wrong!
This solemnity of the Annunciation should paint a vastly different picture for us of what God is about, what he wants for us, and what he was willing to bear to reach us. The idea of being sinful, of being in need of redemption, doesn't sit well in the modern mind. Even when we've acccepted the idea of God, we've gotten so focused on the aspect of a loving God that we forget why that love is so important to us.
Christ's incarnation and his evenutal sacrificial death are so integral as to be inseparable. Our RCIA group had a rather lengthy discussion, early in the year, regarding whether we are saved by Christ's death or by his life. It is an impossible debate, because they are so intertwined. Had Jesus been put to death as an infant or toddler, along with so many of his peers, wouldn't he still have been the spotless sacrifice? Yet the public ministry that we needed in order to learn to recognize him, then and now, would never have occurred. Though his birth itself fulfilled prophecies, many other prophecies would not have been fulfilled, the church would never have been founded, and countless lives would never have been transformed. (In considering such mysteries, it is good to remember the idea of God existing outside of time, so that the utterance of a prophecy and its fulfillment are simultaneous.) Returning, then, to the aforementioned discussion, in baptism we both die with Christ and come to new life in him, and we cannot have one without the other.
So in the Annunciation, Mary's yes echoes the eternal Son's yes, to leave the throne of heaven and become fully human while remaining fully God. That yes would be reaffirmed in the Garden, and becomes our yes as we ask the Spirit to live within us, allowing Christ himself to shine through us.
"Let it be done to me as you have said."
This is still the outcry of the world against the Lord, misunderstanding the nature of his yoke. We want to determine our own destiny. Freedom to us means freedom to do whatever we want, and if the Lord tells us that some things are not best for us or for those around us, well, we're best suited to decide what's in our best interest. We don't need some oppressive set of moral restrictions! Nobody else is going to tell us what's right and what's wrong!
This solemnity of the Annunciation should paint a vastly different picture for us of what God is about, what he wants for us, and what he was willing to bear to reach us. The idea of being sinful, of being in need of redemption, doesn't sit well in the modern mind. Even when we've acccepted the idea of God, we've gotten so focused on the aspect of a loving God that we forget why that love is so important to us.
Christ's incarnation and his evenutal sacrificial death are so integral as to be inseparable. Our RCIA group had a rather lengthy discussion, early in the year, regarding whether we are saved by Christ's death or by his life. It is an impossible debate, because they are so intertwined. Had Jesus been put to death as an infant or toddler, along with so many of his peers, wouldn't he still have been the spotless sacrifice? Yet the public ministry that we needed in order to learn to recognize him, then and now, would never have occurred. Though his birth itself fulfilled prophecies, many other prophecies would not have been fulfilled, the church would never have been founded, and countless lives would never have been transformed. (In considering such mysteries, it is good to remember the idea of God existing outside of time, so that the utterance of a prophecy and its fulfillment are simultaneous.) Returning, then, to the aforementioned discussion, in baptism we both die with Christ and come to new life in him, and we cannot have one without the other.
So in the Annunciation, Mary's yes echoes the eternal Son's yes, to leave the throne of heaven and become fully human while remaining fully God. That yes would be reaffirmed in the Garden, and becomes our yes as we ask the Spirit to live within us, allowing Christ himself to shine through us.
"Let it be done to me as you have said."
Friday, March 24, 2006
Repentance and Holiness - Part III
Our holiness is a perfect gift from God, poured into our lives through our Baptism, but our response to it is often less than perfect. As a result, Christ has given the Church the season of Lent and the sacrament of Reconciliation as opportunities to open ourselves more fully to this marvelous gift, that he might transform us more completely in him. During Lent, we forsake those things that the Holy Spirit reveals to be distractions from God's love, or those the forsaking of which might remind us of God’s love. By our participation with this grace, we are then more open to recognize those ways in which we’ve closed ourselves off from God. In Reconciliation, we turn away from those sins by which we’ve obstructed God's grace, and are restored in our relationship with Him in a unique way. These ministrations of the Holy Spirit bring a joy to our life, and are manifested in a greater desire to seek God’s will ahead of our own. We know that this is all God’s gift to us, not our own accomplishment.
Of course, penitence often doesn't feel ministerial when we're in the midst of it. Sometimes it can feel more like that two-by-four getting our attention. Or it may feel as if we’re being pruned, and the more we've nurtured those wayward limbs, the more the pruning pains us. Yet when it's complete, not only will it not hurt anymore, but the Lord provides growth for new, healthy limbs in place of the old, unbalanced ones. These bring a joy far greater than the small pleasures which we so stubbornly resist giving up and to which we've limited ourselves, and they bear fruit that nourishes us and those around us.
While we are the ones now experiencing the painful death of some previously idolized part of ourselves, it might help us to remember that Christ bore that death long before we decided to participate in it. Our struggle is but the manifestation of his victorious sacrifice in our lives. In this way we may come to understand that it is not, in fact, we who are doing the work of transforming ourselves in some way. We're merely getting ourselves out of the way of the wonderful work he is completing in us.
It is good for us to recall, as well, that we are not the entire vine! As we continue to nurture sub-branches in our lives that grow in unhealthy directions, we're inevitably hurting other branches of the vine. The fact that our limited vision obscures their pain from our consciousness doesn't make it any less real. This is part of why it is so important for us to allow the teaching of the Church to inform our conscience rather than deciding for ourselves what is right and wrong.
Lent and Reconciliation, the season and sacrament of penitence, are about more than our own striving to avoid the sins that have marked our lives, stifled us, and hurt others. Rather, the season and the sacrament represent God speaking our holiness into being in new, unique, and wondrous ways. Each is the equivalent of Jesus giving Peter the opportunity to be reaffirmed and transformed in the aftermath of his denial. That reconciliation has reverberated in our world for nearly two millennia, and we believe that it will continue on for all eternity as we praise God around His throne. Like Peter, we are made holy by God's grace manifested in Christ. The song of repentance and reconciliation which God allows us to sing with Him will carry on in ways we can't foresee, for each voice is the echo of the grace poured out at God's command, the Word who is Himself eternal.
Of course, penitence often doesn't feel ministerial when we're in the midst of it. Sometimes it can feel more like that two-by-four getting our attention. Or it may feel as if we’re being pruned, and the more we've nurtured those wayward limbs, the more the pruning pains us. Yet when it's complete, not only will it not hurt anymore, but the Lord provides growth for new, healthy limbs in place of the old, unbalanced ones. These bring a joy far greater than the small pleasures which we so stubbornly resist giving up and to which we've limited ourselves, and they bear fruit that nourishes us and those around us.
While we are the ones now experiencing the painful death of some previously idolized part of ourselves, it might help us to remember that Christ bore that death long before we decided to participate in it. Our struggle is but the manifestation of his victorious sacrifice in our lives. In this way we may come to understand that it is not, in fact, we who are doing the work of transforming ourselves in some way. We're merely getting ourselves out of the way of the wonderful work he is completing in us.
It is good for us to recall, as well, that we are not the entire vine! As we continue to nurture sub-branches in our lives that grow in unhealthy directions, we're inevitably hurting other branches of the vine. The fact that our limited vision obscures their pain from our consciousness doesn't make it any less real. This is part of why it is so important for us to allow the teaching of the Church to inform our conscience rather than deciding for ourselves what is right and wrong.
Lent and Reconciliation, the season and sacrament of penitence, are about more than our own striving to avoid the sins that have marked our lives, stifled us, and hurt others. Rather, the season and the sacrament represent God speaking our holiness into being in new, unique, and wondrous ways. Each is the equivalent of Jesus giving Peter the opportunity to be reaffirmed and transformed in the aftermath of his denial. That reconciliation has reverberated in our world for nearly two millennia, and we believe that it will continue on for all eternity as we praise God around His throne. Like Peter, we are made holy by God's grace manifested in Christ. The song of repentance and reconciliation which God allows us to sing with Him will carry on in ways we can't foresee, for each voice is the echo of the grace poured out at God's command, the Word who is Himself eternal.
Misattribution and good intentions
I'm sometimes amazed at how my mind gets wrapped up in its own thoughts and assumes that I'm in harmony with the people around me.
This morning I rose early, as I've been doing throughout Lent, and was blessed with some time with the One who loves me most (morning prayer instead of Office of Readings this morning, because I love praying Psalm 51; thus no reflection yet on today's scriptural or extracanonical readings), after which I quickly ate and started on the few dishes that were in the sink. I was in a great mood, with a song from Wednesday's choir rehearsal in my ear, thinking of how blessed I am in general, and how much I love my wife. I was really enjoying this chore, keeping the noise down as she slept just down the hallway.
"Darling?" I heard her call out to me after a few minutes, and went to the bedroom to see what she wanted. "I'll take care of those before Hannah gets here," she offered.
I thought it was really nice of her to offer, but I was enjoying doing this so much, and really wanted to serve her a bit, to perhaps make her day a little better.
"That's okay," I said. "I don't mind, and I have time."
I was turning to head back to my task when she replied, "Well . . . "
I turned back toward her.
"You're keeping me awake."
Oops. So much for making her day better. Turns out I just made it start sooner. Closing the door didn't help, either, as the damage was done. Oh well. Sorry, hon!
This morning I rose early, as I've been doing throughout Lent, and was blessed with some time with the One who loves me most (morning prayer instead of Office of Readings this morning, because I love praying Psalm 51; thus no reflection yet on today's scriptural or extracanonical readings), after which I quickly ate and started on the few dishes that were in the sink. I was in a great mood, with a song from Wednesday's choir rehearsal in my ear, thinking of how blessed I am in general, and how much I love my wife. I was really enjoying this chore, keeping the noise down as she slept just down the hallway.
"Darling?" I heard her call out to me after a few minutes, and went to the bedroom to see what she wanted. "I'll take care of those before Hannah gets here," she offered.
I thought it was really nice of her to offer, but I was enjoying doing this so much, and really wanted to serve her a bit, to perhaps make her day a little better.
"That's okay," I said. "I don't mind, and I have time."
I was turning to head back to my task when she replied, "Well . . . "
I turned back toward her.
"You're keeping me awake."
Oops. So much for making her day better. Turns out I just made it start sooner. Closing the door didn't help, either, as the damage was done. Oh well. Sorry, hon!
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Exodus, Tertullian
Exodus 34:
"I will drive out before you the Amorites, Canaanites, Hittites, Perizzites, Hivites, and Jebusites. Take care, therefore, not to make a covenant with these inhabitants of the land that you are to enter; else they will become a snare among you. Tear down their altars; smash their sacred pillars, and cut down their sacred poles . . . Neither shall you take their daughters as wives for your sones; otherwise, when their daughters rendert heir wanton worship to their gods, they will make your sons do the same."
I'm amazed at how the Sciptures continually take on new meaning throughout our lives. Once I might have used this passage as evidence of God's unjustness. "What did those Amorites and Jebusites do to deserve being driven out?" I'd have asked myself, rejecting the possibility that a loving God could be at work in this way. Later, I reached the point of asking God, "Why would you do such a thing, Lord?" Then I could see how the faithfulness of God's people might have served as a sign of God's love and fidelity for those around them, so they too might be drawn into the faithful love of the Lord. When God's people failed to heed this warning, their faithlessness bore a negative witness, instead.
But when I ask the Lord what significance this passage could possibly hold for me today, three millenia after his people entered the promised land, a whole new window opens up. "With what natives of this world have I made a covenant?" I must inquire. "With what influences have I joined my flesh, rather than driving them out of my life?" In our baptism, God delivers us from the death of sin into his kingdom of life, but there remain many things around us that are not his desire for us. When we take them to ourselves and hold them dear, they keep us from experiencing the full, abundant life God has promised us.
Tertullian:
"Prayer cleanses from sin, drives away temptations, stamps out persecutions, comforts the fainthearted, gives new strength to the courageous, brings travelers safely home, calms the waves, confounds robbers, feeds the poor, overrules the rich, lifts up the fallen, supports those who are fallings, sustains those who stand firm."
We mustn't misunderstand. It isn't that by our prayer we accomplish any of these things. "Prayer," as an action that we undertake on our own, couldn't do anything. Rather, God does them all, and as we open ourselves to God and allow him to draw us into true prayer, in spirit and in truth (last Sunday's cycle A gospel), we are brought in touch with God's grace. The more we embrace the aforementioned worldly or sinful influences, the less able we are to pray well and to experience the resulting power of God to transform our lives. But when we allow God to free us from the influence of the "natives" in our lives, he accomplishes all of the wonders St. Tertullian mentions, and more. It is through prayer that God moves in and through our lives most powerfully.
"I will drive out before you the Amorites, Canaanites, Hittites, Perizzites, Hivites, and Jebusites. Take care, therefore, not to make a covenant with these inhabitants of the land that you are to enter; else they will become a snare among you. Tear down their altars; smash their sacred pillars, and cut down their sacred poles . . . Neither shall you take their daughters as wives for your sones; otherwise, when their daughters rendert heir wanton worship to their gods, they will make your sons do the same."
I'm amazed at how the Sciptures continually take on new meaning throughout our lives. Once I might have used this passage as evidence of God's unjustness. "What did those Amorites and Jebusites do to deserve being driven out?" I'd have asked myself, rejecting the possibility that a loving God could be at work in this way. Later, I reached the point of asking God, "Why would you do such a thing, Lord?" Then I could see how the faithfulness of God's people might have served as a sign of God's love and fidelity for those around them, so they too might be drawn into the faithful love of the Lord. When God's people failed to heed this warning, their faithlessness bore a negative witness, instead.
But when I ask the Lord what significance this passage could possibly hold for me today, three millenia after his people entered the promised land, a whole new window opens up. "With what natives of this world have I made a covenant?" I must inquire. "With what influences have I joined my flesh, rather than driving them out of my life?" In our baptism, God delivers us from the death of sin into his kingdom of life, but there remain many things around us that are not his desire for us. When we take them to ourselves and hold them dear, they keep us from experiencing the full, abundant life God has promised us.
Tertullian:
"Prayer cleanses from sin, drives away temptations, stamps out persecutions, comforts the fainthearted, gives new strength to the courageous, brings travelers safely home, calms the waves, confounds robbers, feeds the poor, overrules the rich, lifts up the fallen, supports those who are fallings, sustains those who stand firm."
We mustn't misunderstand. It isn't that by our prayer we accomplish any of these things. "Prayer," as an action that we undertake on our own, couldn't do anything. Rather, God does them all, and as we open ourselves to God and allow him to draw us into true prayer, in spirit and in truth (last Sunday's cycle A gospel), we are brought in touch with God's grace. The more we embrace the aforementioned worldly or sinful influences, the less able we are to pray well and to experience the resulting power of God to transform our lives. But when we allow God to free us from the influence of the "natives" in our lives, he accomplishes all of the wonders St. Tertullian mentions, and more. It is through prayer that God moves in and through our lives most powerfully.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Thoughts on St. Theophilus
St. Theophilus of Antioch:
"A person's soul should be clean, like a mirror reflecting light. If there is rust on the mirror, his face cannot be seen in it. In the same way, no one who has sin within him can see God.
"But if you will you can be healed. Hand yourself over to the doctor, and he will open the eyes of your mind and heart . . . .
"But, before all, faith and the fear of God must take the first place in your heart."
I would expand a little. It has been my experience that the more I have insisted on clinging to my sin, or resisted it only in the ways that I was willing, the less able I was to open myself up to God and to know the joy of simply being in him. It takes a combination of similes to explain what this was like, for me.
- It was the monkey trap, the hollowed out hole large enough for the monkey to work in an open, empty hand, but too small to withdraw a closed one. Resisting God's call to holiness, embracing sin, was like clenching my fist around the nut with which my adversary had baited that monkey trap, and as long as I held fast to the the allure of the prize - which I could never really have - I was caught fast.
- It was like being a small child with a tennis ball in each hand. When God wanted to give me something more meaningful, as long as I clung to both tennis balls, I couldn't receive the far greater blessing God wanted for me.
Often I'm still too attached to smaller gifts. I think that's an issue for all followers of Christ. The more we've let go of, the more we discover to let go of, though the things we retain are progressively smaller than the ones we've already released. But as long as we think we have all we really need, we will never experience the joy of discovering the abundant depth of the life to which God is calling us.
I have the cart before the horse, of course. As long as we think we're okay without God, or with him at a distance, as long as we're convinced that a little religion is okay but we don't want to go overboard, none of this will make any sense. This is why the "fear of God" must join "faith" in "first place in your heart." I've written recently on the fear of the Lord, but I'm not sure I mentioned that it includes an awareness that we have absolutely no chance of measuring up to his standard. Once I know I am completely lost without him, only then will I turn myself over to the doctor, and receive him, only after which can I begin to go deeper with him.
But if I think I'm okay, then I'm really in trouble. "'But we see,' you say, and your sin remains." More on that as we approach the second scrutiny . . .
"A person's soul should be clean, like a mirror reflecting light. If there is rust on the mirror, his face cannot be seen in it. In the same way, no one who has sin within him can see God.
"But if you will you can be healed. Hand yourself over to the doctor, and he will open the eyes of your mind and heart . . . .
"But, before all, faith and the fear of God must take the first place in your heart."
I would expand a little. It has been my experience that the more I have insisted on clinging to my sin, or resisted it only in the ways that I was willing, the less able I was to open myself up to God and to know the joy of simply being in him. It takes a combination of similes to explain what this was like, for me.
- It was the monkey trap, the hollowed out hole large enough for the monkey to work in an open, empty hand, but too small to withdraw a closed one. Resisting God's call to holiness, embracing sin, was like clenching my fist around the nut with which my adversary had baited that monkey trap, and as long as I held fast to the the allure of the prize - which I could never really have - I was caught fast.
- It was like being a small child with a tennis ball in each hand. When God wanted to give me something more meaningful, as long as I clung to both tennis balls, I couldn't receive the far greater blessing God wanted for me.
Often I'm still too attached to smaller gifts. I think that's an issue for all followers of Christ. The more we've let go of, the more we discover to let go of, though the things we retain are progressively smaller than the ones we've already released. But as long as we think we have all we really need, we will never experience the joy of discovering the abundant depth of the life to which God is calling us.
I have the cart before the horse, of course. As long as we think we're okay without God, or with him at a distance, as long as we're convinced that a little religion is okay but we don't want to go overboard, none of this will make any sense. This is why the "fear of God" must join "faith" in "first place in your heart." I've written recently on the fear of the Lord, but I'm not sure I mentioned that it includes an awareness that we have absolutely no chance of measuring up to his standard. Once I know I am completely lost without him, only then will I turn myself over to the doctor, and receive him, only after which can I begin to go deeper with him.
But if I think I'm okay, then I'm really in trouble. "'But we see,' you say, and your sin remains." More on that as we approach the second scrutiny . . .
Freedom
Of late, I've found some of these same strategies helpful for avoiding temptation on the internet, too. Mostly, I'm finally receiving the grace and freedom that God has always wanted to give me in this area. Returning to periodic Reconciliation has helped. It is true that each sacrament offers grace in a form that is uniquely available through it. Being free of an area of sin that has plagued me for much of my life is such a relief. As someone who has struggled - and chosen poorly - in this area for much of his adult life, I can't express the joy and FREEDOM God is giving me in this area.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Business travel
I have a good friend who is traveling this week (hi!), and know many others who travel frequently on business. I'm glad I'm not one of them, even aside from the other things it would interfere with.
It isn't that I don't like traveling, exactly. I love it. I enjoy going someplace new, taking the evening to see a landmark I've never been to, finding a nice restaurant with a special that's a bit different from what I can get at home. But at the end of the day - pardon the cliché, but I mean it literally - I've got to go back to that room. There it lurks, waiting to suck . . . me . . . in: the television, that marvelous modern invention which allows us to spend our time on, usually, nothing fruitful, at best. At home, where we restrict its offerings to a limited number of relatively benign basic channels, it's mostly a mere nuisance. I'm not too likely to get drawn into content that is outright sinful, largely because we've chosen not to subscribe to it, though an increasing amount of network content is just, well, prurient. But when I travel, it's hard to find a hotel anymore that doesn't offer at least some content that I've historically found more tantalizing. That's especially true on business, when the company has more say over my accommodations.
I haven't been away on business for several years now, but before my job became so stationary I began doing some things that helped me avoid putting those images before my eyes. I heard a speaker once suggest putting pictures of the family around the room, especially right on top of the ol' idiot box. I also make sure I'm equipped with some good prayer and reading material, including the Divine Office. Also, I like to have someone who knows my weakness in this area praying for me, a favor I try to return for my friends.
Finally, if there isn't a bunch of extra work to occupy me in the evening, I take advantage of the opportunity to journal. I love to write! I was cleaning out a padfolio the other day and reading through some of my travel and prayer journaling. It was a nice review, a chance to observe my growth and God's grace over the past few years.
It isn't that I don't like traveling, exactly. I love it. I enjoy going someplace new, taking the evening to see a landmark I've never been to, finding a nice restaurant with a special that's a bit different from what I can get at home. But at the end of the day - pardon the cliché, but I mean it literally - I've got to go back to that room. There it lurks, waiting to suck . . . me . . . in: the television, that marvelous modern invention which allows us to spend our time on, usually, nothing fruitful, at best. At home, where we restrict its offerings to a limited number of relatively benign basic channels, it's mostly a mere nuisance. I'm not too likely to get drawn into content that is outright sinful, largely because we've chosen not to subscribe to it, though an increasing amount of network content is just, well, prurient. But when I travel, it's hard to find a hotel anymore that doesn't offer at least some content that I've historically found more tantalizing. That's especially true on business, when the company has more say over my accommodations.
I haven't been away on business for several years now, but before my job became so stationary I began doing some things that helped me avoid putting those images before my eyes. I heard a speaker once suggest putting pictures of the family around the room, especially right on top of the ol' idiot box. I also make sure I'm equipped with some good prayer and reading material, including the Divine Office. Also, I like to have someone who knows my weakness in this area praying for me, a favor I try to return for my friends.
Finally, if there isn't a bunch of extra work to occupy me in the evening, I take advantage of the opportunity to journal. I love to write! I was cleaning out a padfolio the other day and reading through some of my travel and prayer journaling. It was a nice review, a chance to observe my growth and God's grace over the past few years.
Monday, March 20, 2006
St. Joseph
Today is St. Joseph's solemnity. It's normally celebrated on March 19th, but since that was a Lenten Sunday this year, it got migrated to the next available day. It's one of two celebrations of St. Joseph, actually. Today celebrates his role as husband of Mary, and May 1st is the feast of St. Joseph the Worker. Same guy, two feast days celebrating different aspects of his life. The latter date is celebrated secularly in communist or socialist countries as May Day, which seems ironic for those nations which have outlawed religion. At the same time, it leaves me a bit hopeful, as I think of St. Joseph praying for those who have things out of spiritual balance.
Today's feast, however, tends to remind me of both my shortcomings and strengths as a husband. I find myself grateful for the opportunity to be a vastly better husband than the record would have declared ten years ago, and a better one today than yesterday. Just a year ago I'd probably have been a bit morose over my failings, both the larger ones of the past and my current smaller ones. Now I think I have a better perspective on both. Maybe that's because I'm more focused on the present than I've ever been. We can't change the past, no matter how much I'd like to, so I need to focus on being the husband and family man I'm called to be today.
We get less of St. Joseph than I'd like in the gospels, but it's clear that he strove to do God's will, as a husband and a father. We tend not to think in such terms today, but when we do, we tend to find ourselves a lot more fulfilled. Chasing after nebulous mirages leaves us feeling empty, wanting. But we can know pretty well what God wants for us, always generally, and often specifically. He wants us to love well, to give ourselves fully. Contrary to our modern approach to life, that isn't primarily about what we feel (but that's a whole 'nother post).
And paradoxically, giving ourselves fully never leaves us empty.
St. Joseph, pray for us.
Today's feast, however, tends to remind me of both my shortcomings and strengths as a husband. I find myself grateful for the opportunity to be a vastly better husband than the record would have declared ten years ago, and a better one today than yesterday. Just a year ago I'd probably have been a bit morose over my failings, both the larger ones of the past and my current smaller ones. Now I think I have a better perspective on both. Maybe that's because I'm more focused on the present than I've ever been. We can't change the past, no matter how much I'd like to, so I need to focus on being the husband and family man I'm called to be today.
We get less of St. Joseph than I'd like in the gospels, but it's clear that he strove to do God's will, as a husband and a father. We tend not to think in such terms today, but when we do, we tend to find ourselves a lot more fulfilled. Chasing after nebulous mirages leaves us feeling empty, wanting. But we can know pretty well what God wants for us, always generally, and often specifically. He wants us to love well, to give ourselves fully. Contrary to our modern approach to life, that isn't primarily about what we feel (but that's a whole 'nother post).
And paradoxically, giving ourselves fully never leaves us empty.
St. Joseph, pray for us.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
The Woman at the Well
This weekend, since we have an RCIA group, we had the gospel reading of Jesus and the Samaritan woman at the well (Jn 4). It's a great illustration of how Jesus works with us, especially the most shameful of us.
Here is this woman, alone at the village well in the middle of the day when Jesus arrived. Anyone who has studied this story knows that this in itself was unusual. The women drew their water in the morning, while it was cooler, and used the time as a social gathering. They'd share what was going on in their lives and catch up on the latest gossip. This woman's isolated water errand later in the day indicates that she was not comfortable with the other women, did not feel welcome in their presence. Perhaps she'd been ridiculed and outcast because of her past.
Even without any sort of divine insight, Jesus would have suspected she was a social misfit, but two other reasons proscribed him from speaking to her: a man would not have conversed with an unaccompanied woman, and a Jew would not condescend to speak to a Samaritan. Nonetheless, he did not let any of these social limitations bar him from the transformation which he wanted for her. Maybe her outcast status was the primary reason that he reached out to her despite her being a Samaritan woman. By his mere willingness to speak with her, he tempered his later words when he began to speak the truth of her status. When in the course of their conversation he made clear that he knew about her, she was prepared to not feel ridicule or scorn from him because he had not started off with an accusation. His discussion of her past becomes a revelation of mercy, because he has already not rejected her despite knowing the truth of which she is so ashamed.
The transformation in her is incredible. This shameful woman who'd avoided her neighbors, been hurt and shunned by them, was now driven to tell them all about the one she'd encountered. Her testimony must have been compelling, for rather than rejecting her further, they came to see for themselves, and discovered the wonderful Savior for whom they'd been longing for so long.
So it is with us. Are not the strongest testimonies to Christ's power given by those who have been delivered from the greatest darkness? St. Augustine says that the Samaritan woman is a precursor to each of us, that she has become a symbol of what happens in our own transformation. I remember, as a proud young man, coming to the conclusion that religion was for the weak. It was only when I encountered my own weakness that I came to understand that Jesus had acknowledged as much: "The well do not need a doctor; sick people do."
There is a wonderful Savior who has loved me, even to death, despite my failings. I suppose this blog is my equivalent of going and telling those around me so that they might want to know him, too.
Here is this woman, alone at the village well in the middle of the day when Jesus arrived. Anyone who has studied this story knows that this in itself was unusual. The women drew their water in the morning, while it was cooler, and used the time as a social gathering. They'd share what was going on in their lives and catch up on the latest gossip. This woman's isolated water errand later in the day indicates that she was not comfortable with the other women, did not feel welcome in their presence. Perhaps she'd been ridiculed and outcast because of her past.
Even without any sort of divine insight, Jesus would have suspected she was a social misfit, but two other reasons proscribed him from speaking to her: a man would not have conversed with an unaccompanied woman, and a Jew would not condescend to speak to a Samaritan. Nonetheless, he did not let any of these social limitations bar him from the transformation which he wanted for her. Maybe her outcast status was the primary reason that he reached out to her despite her being a Samaritan woman. By his mere willingness to speak with her, he tempered his later words when he began to speak the truth of her status. When in the course of their conversation he made clear that he knew about her, she was prepared to not feel ridicule or scorn from him because he had not started off with an accusation. His discussion of her past becomes a revelation of mercy, because he has already not rejected her despite knowing the truth of which she is so ashamed.
The transformation in her is incredible. This shameful woman who'd avoided her neighbors, been hurt and shunned by them, was now driven to tell them all about the one she'd encountered. Her testimony must have been compelling, for rather than rejecting her further, they came to see for themselves, and discovered the wonderful Savior for whom they'd been longing for so long.
So it is with us. Are not the strongest testimonies to Christ's power given by those who have been delivered from the greatest darkness? St. Augustine says that the Samaritan woman is a precursor to each of us, that she has become a symbol of what happens in our own transformation. I remember, as a proud young man, coming to the conclusion that religion was for the weak. It was only when I encountered my own weakness that I came to understand that Jesus had acknowledged as much: "The well do not need a doctor; sick people do."
There is a wonderful Savior who has loved me, even to death, despite my failings. I suppose this blog is my equivalent of going and telling those around me so that they might want to know him, too.
Friday, March 17, 2006
Repentance and Holiness - Part II
We often hear how difficult it is to be a Christian today, largely due to the pervasive carnality of our modern culture. But a mere glance at the lives of the saints throughout history makes clear that those who would have God work through them have always struggled against a variety of worldly influences. I think our real challenge today is that we'd rather be normal rather than different (weird), let alone holy. Maybe it has always been so. Perhaps, by such a mindset, we give ourselves permission to accept the world's standard for our lives rather than God's, which we deem unattainable. We'd be right to think such a calling is beyond us, if it were up to us to achieve it. If we convince ourselves we cannot sing such a pure song, then it becomes comfortable to tolerate or even indulge in the counterfeit pleasures that the world offers.
In acknowledging that, by my sacramental life and (it should go without saying, for it is one and the same) by God's grace, I am different, I am holy, I hear God's call in my life in a way that helps me recognize where I've compromised. I begin to see the ways in which I've settled for less than God has dreamt for me, a song inferior to the one he would compose. As my life begins to sing notes that match God's melody rather than clash against it, I come to know that there is a joy greater than that to which I erroneously cling.
As is so often the case, there are two opposite errors in which we tune out the song of holiness.
Some people view salvation like this: when we're saved, God declares us to be holy even though we aren't, because of the sacrifice of Jesus Christ covering over our sin. While that might seem merciful, if it were so, God would be a liar. We forget that when God declares a thing, that thing IS! There is no denying it or arguing with it. If God "says" or "declares" that we are holy, then he MAKES us holy, by the power of the Holy Spirit. This is why we paraphrase the centurion at each Eucharist: "Only say the word and I shall be healed." We know that what God speaks, is.
Understanding how we err in the other direction takes some development. The Church links the concepts of salvation (delivery from the penalty of sin) and sanctification (transformation in Christ), as they should be. We view them as a process in which we’re continually transformed by grace as we walk with Christ. Yet we often hinder ourselves from experiencing grace’s full manifestation in our lives. The error lies in this: twisting the concept of this process, we often still think of ourselves as slaves to sin as a result of being human, with scant hope of ever being saintly. Sometimes we go so far as to disdain holiness, for fear of hypocrisy or of failure. But it is this very slavery to sin from which Christ has purchased our freedom. We must avoid embracing the common attitude that holiness is a goal beyond us, for it is a denial that God's grace and power are without limit, a denial of Christ's victory. It can represent a failure to fully believe in Him, a reverse pride that declares that my shortcomings are too great for God to overcome! We must remember that while we may not fully experience our holiness in this life – indeed, the closer we grow to Christ the more aware we are likely to be of our unworthiness of him – it is no less real, and we are to grow in it each day. This happens not merely by virtue of our trying harder or being better, but because of God's grace transforming more of our lives.
This is what we celebrate in a special way each Lenten season. It isn't that we become holy by our efforts, though our willingness to participate in the process is necessary. It's more that, as we become more willing, allowing God to open us more to grace, He enables us to participate in and communicate with his grace more completely. It is the Holy Spirit who whispers to us, revealing those areas in which we remain closed off. If we don't heed the whisper, because of the holy grace God has already poured into our lives through our Baptism, it is the Holy Spirit who ultimately hits us alongside the head with whatever two-by-four it takes to get our attention. In either case, it is also the Holy Spirit who opens those locked doors when we finally yield to his ministrations to us, the Spirit whose voice soars through us, making our life a majestic song of God's glory.
In acknowledging that, by my sacramental life and (it should go without saying, for it is one and the same) by God's grace, I am different, I am holy, I hear God's call in my life in a way that helps me recognize where I've compromised. I begin to see the ways in which I've settled for less than God has dreamt for me, a song inferior to the one he would compose. As my life begins to sing notes that match God's melody rather than clash against it, I come to know that there is a joy greater than that to which I erroneously cling.
As is so often the case, there are two opposite errors in which we tune out the song of holiness.
Some people view salvation like this: when we're saved, God declares us to be holy even though we aren't, because of the sacrifice of Jesus Christ covering over our sin. While that might seem merciful, if it were so, God would be a liar. We forget that when God declares a thing, that thing IS! There is no denying it or arguing with it. If God "says" or "declares" that we are holy, then he MAKES us holy, by the power of the Holy Spirit. This is why we paraphrase the centurion at each Eucharist: "Only say the word and I shall be healed." We know that what God speaks, is.
Understanding how we err in the other direction takes some development. The Church links the concepts of salvation (delivery from the penalty of sin) and sanctification (transformation in Christ), as they should be. We view them as a process in which we’re continually transformed by grace as we walk with Christ. Yet we often hinder ourselves from experiencing grace’s full manifestation in our lives. The error lies in this: twisting the concept of this process, we often still think of ourselves as slaves to sin as a result of being human, with scant hope of ever being saintly. Sometimes we go so far as to disdain holiness, for fear of hypocrisy or of failure. But it is this very slavery to sin from which Christ has purchased our freedom. We must avoid embracing the common attitude that holiness is a goal beyond us, for it is a denial that God's grace and power are without limit, a denial of Christ's victory. It can represent a failure to fully believe in Him, a reverse pride that declares that my shortcomings are too great for God to overcome! We must remember that while we may not fully experience our holiness in this life – indeed, the closer we grow to Christ the more aware we are likely to be of our unworthiness of him – it is no less real, and we are to grow in it each day. This happens not merely by virtue of our trying harder or being better, but because of God's grace transforming more of our lives.
This is what we celebrate in a special way each Lenten season. It isn't that we become holy by our efforts, though our willingness to participate in the process is necessary. It's more that, as we become more willing, allowing God to open us more to grace, He enables us to participate in and communicate with his grace more completely. It is the Holy Spirit who whispers to us, revealing those areas in which we remain closed off. If we don't heed the whisper, because of the holy grace God has already poured into our lives through our Baptism, it is the Holy Spirit who ultimately hits us alongside the head with whatever two-by-four it takes to get our attention. In either case, it is also the Holy Spirit who opens those locked doors when we finally yield to his ministrations to us, the Spirit whose voice soars through us, making our life a majestic song of God's glory.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
The fear of the Lord
There is a fine-hearted older gentleman in our parish, who has had a passion for evangelization for the entire dozen years I've known him. He abhors the expression "the fear of the Lord." "Fear keeps people away from God," he says. "People must know they have nothing to fear from God, for God is love."
On the one hand he is right. On the other, as Saint Hilary observes, fear of the Lord is not, exactly, fear. In fact, I suspect that fear of the Lord has no more in common with worldly fear than God's love has in common with worldly love.
There are many things we fear, and those fears lead us to behave (or misbehave!) in a variety of ways. We fear being hurt, not experiencing all we want out of life, not being in control, being alone, being unlovable. We avoid what we fear, or get angry because of it. We cower, or lash out. Sometimes we act in ways that fulfill our fear. Ultimately, fight or flight are the only responses to worldly fear. In choosing one or the other, we often make choices that ultimately are not good for us, including decisions that hurt those around us. Fear may be at the root of every unhealthy decision every person has ever made. Abusers of substances, position, people, and power all must learn, in the process of recovery, what part fear has played in their unconscious motivations. Often they learn that fear has been their constant, unrecognized companion. I will never forget the evening, nearly a decade ago, when I learned that I had lived in fear for as long as I could remember, without being aware of it.
Fear is not a completely negative thing. Certainly it is an important element of our instincts for self-preservation. Yet even when we deal with our fear in a healthy way, when we face its sources head on, we are fighting against it in some way.
The point is that the things we fear always motivate us to act, in one way or another. This is about all that ordinary fear has in common with the fear of the Lord. When our love and desire for God become greater than the other fears that we may experience in life, then we begin to know the fear of the Lord. It is what directs our hearts rightly when the influences around us would guide us wrongly. It is the outpouring of divine Wisdom, which quietly tells us that we can trust in God to care for us, even when the evidence would scream that the only way out is clearly contrary to his revealed desire.
It reminds us that, when wrong seems the only answer, indeed, when it seems the undeniable longing of our heart, choosing right will invariably serve us better, in ways we may not foresee.
It allows us to survive the darkest places on our path, where we can see neither our own feet nor the road beneath them, because we know there is an unfailing Light that will keep us from stumbling as long as we follow him.
On the one hand he is right. On the other, as Saint Hilary observes, fear of the Lord is not, exactly, fear. In fact, I suspect that fear of the Lord has no more in common with worldly fear than God's love has in common with worldly love.
There are many things we fear, and those fears lead us to behave (or misbehave!) in a variety of ways. We fear being hurt, not experiencing all we want out of life, not being in control, being alone, being unlovable. We avoid what we fear, or get angry because of it. We cower, or lash out. Sometimes we act in ways that fulfill our fear. Ultimately, fight or flight are the only responses to worldly fear. In choosing one or the other, we often make choices that ultimately are not good for us, including decisions that hurt those around us. Fear may be at the root of every unhealthy decision every person has ever made. Abusers of substances, position, people, and power all must learn, in the process of recovery, what part fear has played in their unconscious motivations. Often they learn that fear has been their constant, unrecognized companion. I will never forget the evening, nearly a decade ago, when I learned that I had lived in fear for as long as I could remember, without being aware of it.
Fear is not a completely negative thing. Certainly it is an important element of our instincts for self-preservation. Yet even when we deal with our fear in a healthy way, when we face its sources head on, we are fighting against it in some way.
The point is that the things we fear always motivate us to act, in one way or another. This is about all that ordinary fear has in common with the fear of the Lord. When our love and desire for God become greater than the other fears that we may experience in life, then we begin to know the fear of the Lord. It is what directs our hearts rightly when the influences around us would guide us wrongly. It is the outpouring of divine Wisdom, which quietly tells us that we can trust in God to care for us, even when the evidence would scream that the only way out is clearly contrary to his revealed desire.
It reminds us that, when wrong seems the only answer, indeed, when it seems the undeniable longing of our heart, choosing right will invariably serve us better, in ways we may not foresee.
It allows us to survive the darkest places on our path, where we can see neither our own feet nor the road beneath them, because we know there is an unfailing Light that will keep us from stumbling as long as we follow him.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Wasted evening
Matthew Kelly says that our fundamental purpose is to become the best version of ourselves.
This evening's tv viewing didn't help with that. But it's my first lost evening in some time, certainly nothing to beat myself up over. I do want to make sure it doesn't become a pattern, though.
A healthy perspective is important. If every little imperfection feels like a big deal, then it is hard to respond to the legitimately bigger issues appropriately.
This evening's tv viewing didn't help with that. But it's my first lost evening in some time, certainly nothing to beat myself up over. I do want to make sure it doesn't become a pattern, though.
A healthy perspective is important. If every little imperfection feels like a big deal, then it is hard to respond to the legitimately bigger issues appropriately.
Monday, March 13, 2006
Receiving blessings
Funny how things work out. I had a wonderful evening Sunday night, taking part in evening prayer as part of a Lenten mission at one of the area churches. The priest was the draw, for me. I'd seen Fr. J-Glenn Murray teach on video, and I was not about to pass up a chance to hear him in person. It's a three-day event, and if the rest of it builds on night one, those folks are in for a treat.
I was hoping to go back Monday, with my wife, but that didn't work out as planned. I was disappointed, but then, spending the evening with her was more important to me. Then that didn't exactly work out as planned, either. Oh well. Better to treasure the blessings we receive than to lament the ones we might long for.
Still, I struggle to put that into practice. Marriage can feel frustrating and challenging when one partner seems disinterested in or unmotivated by things the other feels they must pursue. Sure, we're not always going to want the same things, and that's okay. But I was so excited, and so wanted to share, and ended up being a bit angry Monday night. At least (I think) I let myself feel that without lashing out, without losing sight of the blessings and the love that have become the overall hallmarks of our relationship.
I was hoping to go back Monday, with my wife, but that didn't work out as planned. I was disappointed, but then, spending the evening with her was more important to me. Then that didn't exactly work out as planned, either. Oh well. Better to treasure the blessings we receive than to lament the ones we might long for.
Still, I struggle to put that into practice. Marriage can feel frustrating and challenging when one partner seems disinterested in or unmotivated by things the other feels they must pursue. Sure, we're not always going to want the same things, and that's okay. But I was so excited, and so wanted to share, and ended up being a bit angry Monday night. At least (I think) I let myself feel that without lashing out, without losing sight of the blessings and the love that have become the overall hallmarks of our relationship.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
Transfiguration
We had a great men's fellowship meeting this weekend, discussing the Sunday Mass readings. I find my mind coming back to these readings:
We tend to live as if life is about reaching the mountain top. When we're told, as children, that we can do whatever we really set our minds upon (and let's not debate the degree to which that is completely true), we generally perceive some level of achievement that we can feel we've accomplished. Hard work and single-minded dedication will lead us to the mountain top, from which we will be able to survey the marvelous view and enjoy the fruits of our labor, whatever they might be. The mountain top is presented as our destination and goal, and we plan to reap the reward for getting there.
The Transfiguration of Christ paints a different tale. Jesus takes three apostles with him, and they are filled with awe - and fear - with what they see there. But Mount Tabor is not where they're ultimately headed. Rather, its purpose is more limited: to provide strength, vision, and means for the road that lies ahead. The Gospels don't tell us what transpires between Jesus, Moses, and Elijah. We figure that this revelation had a purpose for these three closest disciples, to provide a reinforcement of the good news for which they were subsequently to be responsible. But I wonder if their was a purpose to this Godhead moment for Jesus, too, perhaps to sustain him, in his humanity, to persevere along the dark road which lay ahead of him.
God gives us mountaintop experiences, and everyone who studies this story understands the fundamental point that, for most of us, our mission is not on the mountain. Yet we still struggle to avoid making the mountain our goal. We must be on guard, too, not to mistake the touch of God's grace, as it illuminates our life in some dazzling way, for something that we have earned or accomplished. There is a vast gulf between "Look what God has shown me" and "Look what I've figured out!"
In today's first reading, Abraham and Isaac were on their way to a mountain, too. Abraham demonstrated that he trusted God more than his greatest desire, painfully obeying this distressing commandment. It seems to me that the idea of a child sacrifice might not have been completely alien to people of his day, and so God's sparing of Isaac - and the prosperity the family experienced after not sacrificing their son - might have been as radically new a concept among Abraham's contemporaries as Jesus' death and resurrection would later be. In each case, God provided a sacrifice in place of the death specified. Now, the Son of God takes the place of the sinful sons and daughters who will be gained by God through Christ receiving the punishment which would otherwise be theirs. St. Paul makes clear what good news this is for those of us who would have been left vulnerable to accusation and condemnation. Instead, because of what Jesus has done for us, his transfiguration prefigures our own, as his glory will eventually shine through us with equal clarity.
Our destination lies far beyond any mountain top.
We tend to live as if life is about reaching the mountain top. When we're told, as children, that we can do whatever we really set our minds upon (and let's not debate the degree to which that is completely true), we generally perceive some level of achievement that we can feel we've accomplished. Hard work and single-minded dedication will lead us to the mountain top, from which we will be able to survey the marvelous view and enjoy the fruits of our labor, whatever they might be. The mountain top is presented as our destination and goal, and we plan to reap the reward for getting there.
The Transfiguration of Christ paints a different tale. Jesus takes three apostles with him, and they are filled with awe - and fear - with what they see there. But Mount Tabor is not where they're ultimately headed. Rather, its purpose is more limited: to provide strength, vision, and means for the road that lies ahead. The Gospels don't tell us what transpires between Jesus, Moses, and Elijah. We figure that this revelation had a purpose for these three closest disciples, to provide a reinforcement of the good news for which they were subsequently to be responsible. But I wonder if their was a purpose to this Godhead moment for Jesus, too, perhaps to sustain him, in his humanity, to persevere along the dark road which lay ahead of him.
God gives us mountaintop experiences, and everyone who studies this story understands the fundamental point that, for most of us, our mission is not on the mountain. Yet we still struggle to avoid making the mountain our goal. We must be on guard, too, not to mistake the touch of God's grace, as it illuminates our life in some dazzling way, for something that we have earned or accomplished. There is a vast gulf between "Look what God has shown me" and "Look what I've figured out!"
In today's first reading, Abraham and Isaac were on their way to a mountain, too. Abraham demonstrated that he trusted God more than his greatest desire, painfully obeying this distressing commandment. It seems to me that the idea of a child sacrifice might not have been completely alien to people of his day, and so God's sparing of Isaac - and the prosperity the family experienced after not sacrificing their son - might have been as radically new a concept among Abraham's contemporaries as Jesus' death and resurrection would later be. In each case, God provided a sacrifice in place of the death specified. Now, the Son of God takes the place of the sinful sons and daughters who will be gained by God through Christ receiving the punishment which would otherwise be theirs. St. Paul makes clear what good news this is for those of us who would have been left vulnerable to accusation and condemnation. Instead, because of what Jesus has done for us, his transfiguration prefigures our own, as his glory will eventually shine through us with equal clarity.
Our destination lies far beyond any mountain top.
Friday, March 10, 2006
Repentance and Holiness – Part I
Welcome to Lent, season of repentance. We all certainly need that from time to time, and our leaders gave us a great gift when they extended the annual period of preparation for the catechumenate to the entire Church. But repentance is of greatest benefit to us in its proper context, and I can't help feeling that we sometimes get it a bit out of kilter. We tend to emphasize our sinfulness too much, and not focus enough on our saintliness. I believe that tendency comes from a combination of factors: we generally tend to place too much attention on ourselves and not enough on God, and we misunderstand what humility and holiness really are.
When look at ourselves, we are going to see failings rather than saintliness. "God alone is holy," and we have plenty of evidence that we are not. So we often forget that any holiness which we witness in others, or any to which we might aspire, is not of ourselves. Then, when we stumble, we think it lies fully upon us to do better next time. Our image of a saint is of someone who has lived a certain standard, one to which we know we could never measure up. Hoping to do so seems preposterous and presumptuous.
If sainthood is a reward for passing some sort of test – as many of us still tend to believe – I know I've failed it miserably. From that viewpoint, saying that I am a saint would be the height of pride and hypocrisy. But from God’s perspective I don't believe it is either proud or hypocritical, as long as we do it in the right spirit. Further, it may be impossible for us to live the holy life to which each one of us is called without the proper understanding of our saintliness.
Because we're so used to being the center of our own consciousness, our attitude toward holiness is that it's all about us. We see that saintly people do good and avoid sin, we attribute those things to their personal holiness, and we conclude that their individual goodness is what makes them saints.
That isn't the case at all! It isn't about us, and the thing that makes every saint holy is that they know this. Their attention is not on themselves. Rather, living a saintly life is about grace – by its very definition something we can never deserve. It is about the Holy Spirit focusing our attention on our infinite, loving, perfect God rather than our small, self-centered, imperfect lives. The Spirit makes a transformation in us with which we must participate despite knowing we can never make it in ourselves. This is a far more sublime, wonderful, and complete thing than doing good works or achieving victory over a sin with which we've struggled – or perhaps not struggled – for too long. Don't get me wrong, we are certainly called to do good and to overcome our sins. Still, those actions are not what make us holy, but rather are the manifestation of God’s holiness in us. We do these things because our Savior is alive, interceding for us, and his Spirit is living in us. And as we allow God to do such things through us, they become a cycle by which God’s love more deeply saturates our lives, making the holiness already planted in us more visible to those around us. As St. John
The Spirit wants nothing less than our loving Father's perfect will for us, which is always far greater than whatever we dare to dream for ourselves. In the largest sense, God's desire – and the Spirit's role – is to transform us fully, to perfect our transparency, so the very image and likeness of Jesus Christ comes through without distortion. This is something that I could not even dream to do myself, so if I aspire to holiness, to sainthood (despite my failings, which have been massive) I am in fact giving humble testimony to the truth that there are no limits on the wonders God has done, desires to do, and is doing.
Friday, March 03, 2006
An amazing love
My wife's love is an incredible thing.
I don't know how many partners get - or take - the opportunity to recognize what a wonderful gift it is to be loved. I think our recognition of the wonder of it gets obscured by the fundamental opinion that "I'm a basically lovable person." The psychologists would probably tell us that this sort of self-esteem is important for our emotional health, and there may well be something to that view.
But my life didn't really begin to be transformed until I came face to face with a far different truth, one that many of us hold unconsciously and prove to ourselves in a wide array of self-fulfilling ways. Perhaps there are well adjusted folks who never deal with this, but many people I know struggle with the question, "Why do I do that??" For me, the answer finally became apparent: "Because I have always believed, way down where I couldn't even really hear it whispered, but just quietly knew, that I am not lovable." My life proved it again and again because I repeatedly chose behaviors that would reinforce this silent certainty, even while striving with my entire consciousness to build an artifice which demonstrated what I wanted to be true rather than what I knew to be.
Of course, to become healthy and whole, I had to learn that my silent, core belief was false. And that cognitive harmony, ladies and germs, I could never have achieved without the unconditional love that my wife has shared with me. When I knew, because I had proved it beyond questioning, that I was unlovable, she saw just the opposite. And her vision has finally become my reality.
The love that she chose - and continues to choose - still amazes and transforms me. Once I thought her unable to receive my love, projecting my unrecognized shortcomings onto her. Now, I have come to love her with my whole heart.
If you're reading this, my darling, know how I love you. I hope you take pride in knowing that your love has made all the difference to me.
I don't know how many partners get - or take - the opportunity to recognize what a wonderful gift it is to be loved. I think our recognition of the wonder of it gets obscured by the fundamental opinion that "I'm a basically lovable person." The psychologists would probably tell us that this sort of self-esteem is important for our emotional health, and there may well be something to that view.
But my life didn't really begin to be transformed until I came face to face with a far different truth, one that many of us hold unconsciously and prove to ourselves in a wide array of self-fulfilling ways. Perhaps there are well adjusted folks who never deal with this, but many people I know struggle with the question, "Why do I do that??" For me, the answer finally became apparent: "Because I have always believed, way down where I couldn't even really hear it whispered, but just quietly knew, that I am not lovable." My life proved it again and again because I repeatedly chose behaviors that would reinforce this silent certainty, even while striving with my entire consciousness to build an artifice which demonstrated what I wanted to be true rather than what I knew to be.
Of course, to become healthy and whole, I had to learn that my silent, core belief was false. And that cognitive harmony, ladies and germs, I could never have achieved without the unconditional love that my wife has shared with me. When I knew, because I had proved it beyond questioning, that I was unlovable, she saw just the opposite. And her vision has finally become my reality.
The love that she chose - and continues to choose - still amazes and transforms me. Once I thought her unable to receive my love, projecting my unrecognized shortcomings onto her. Now, I have come to love her with my whole heart.
If you're reading this, my darling, know how I love you. I hope you take pride in knowing that your love has made all the difference to me.
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