An uncomfortable truth

If this gospel it true, it is not simply "true for me" - it is true for all or it is not true at all.  Here Christians have to bite the bullet and dare to go against the cultural grain.  In our culture, the one truth imposed upon almost everybody is that you must never impose your truth on others.  Most particularly, you must not impose your religious or moral truth on others . . . Who are we to say that our truth is superior to the truths by which others live?  That is an excellent question, if it is a question of "our" truth.  But the claim is that the gospel is, quite simply, the truth.  It is the true story about the world and everybody in the world.  That is an unsufferably arrogant assertion, unless it is true. - Fr. Richard John Neuhaus, Death on a Friday Afternoon


Comparatively speaking, I'm not so certain how unsufferably arrogant this assertion is.  I find the assertion that there is no absolute truth far more insufferable.  Here's an absolute truth to which we pay scant attention: each one of us is less than a mere speck in the vast universe.  Considered to scale, if my kitchen were the universe, I wonder whether we could view a chunk of it as massive as our sun, let alone our planet, with an electron microscope.  Being conscious specks makes us long to be more significant than we are, and some attribute our faith to a longing for significance.  There may be some validity to that, for if this gospel is fantasy, we are simply specks of matter too small to matter.  Only if we've been created by a loving God do we have any significance at all.

I am incapable of caring for an individual quark.  I think that maybe the scientists at CERN who are trying to detect a Higgs boson may be the closest to grasping the scale about which we're speaking.  But there's a universe full of bosons they don't care about at all, and they certainly don't care about them as individuals.  Only an infinite God could possibly care in the slightest for each one of us, let alone know and love us as we propose our heavenly Father does.

I can't help but wonder if our difficulty in conceiving of such a God isn't related to our prideful longing to be more than insignificant conscious sub-specks of the universe.  We'd like to be bigger than we are, for our consciousness to be what really matters.  The thing is, if the gospel is false, there is probably no point in worrying about whether I'm being arrogant in claiming that Jesus Christ is truth.  There'll be no lasting meaning for my speck life anyway.  On the other hand, if the gospel is true, it is true for every last speck of us, and we all find immeasurable value, significance, and worth far beyond our physical puniness, in the incarnation, life, death, and resurrection of Jesus, the coeternal Son who deigned to become a speck like us to deliver us into the eternity of God's love.

This post, by the way, is an example of how something positive can come from a negative thought.  This "conscious speck of universe" thought was a pretty depressing one for me two weeks ago.  But there is no darkness which the light of Christ does not overcome, if we simply allow it to shine.

Approaching the Triduum

"This is surely what we read in the Proverbs of Solomon: If you sit down to eat at the table of a ruler, observe carefully what is set before you; then stretch out your hand, knowing that you must provide the same kind of meal yourself.  What is this ruler's table if not the one at which we receive the body and blood of him who laid down his life for us?  What does it mean to sit at this table if not to approach it with humility?  What does it mean to observe carefully what is set before you if not to meditate devoutly on so great a gift?  What does it mean to stretch out one's hand, knowing that one must provide the same kind of oneself, if not what I have just said: as Christ laid down his life for us, so we in our turn ought to lay down our lives for our brothers?"  St. Augustine, from a treatise on John

Holy Week is a priceless opportunity to "meditate devoutly on so great a gift."  Truly, the whole season of Lent is a time for such contemplation, and praying our Way of the Cross service throughout the season has been a wonderful experience of connecting with Christ's love in a deeper, transforming way.

So how am I now to lay down my life?  I doubt I'm being called to martyrdom, though if I'm ever faced with such an opportunity I pray that Christ will be strong enough in me for the challenge.  But on a daily basis, I'm certainly called to put my loved ones' needs (and those of other brothers and sisters in Christ) ahead of my own wishes.  Sometimes I'm pretty good at that.  But often I miss these chances, and more often fail to recognize Christ in the midst of them.

Lord of All

The one who said "I thirst" and received on the hyssop the wine of the new covenant, representing the blood shed and the blood shared by the eucharistic community to which he surrenders his spirit, this one is either Lord of all or he is not Lord at all. - Fr. Richard John Neuhaus, Death on a Friday Afternoon


This section of the book resonates for me partly because I've heard Fr. Neuhaus speak on this topic.  Without knowing where he's headed with this in the book (and I may include this quotation again with more that precedes it, a post which I actually started writing this morning before this one), I know that there are two contexts for this statement. 

• Either Christ is Lord of all creation, or he isn't Lord of any of it.

True enough, and that I'll leave that aspect to the other post.  But more significantly for me, in this moment:

• Either Christ is Lord of my whole life, or he is not Lord of my life at all!

My relationships.  My finances.  My work.  My recreational activities.  My innermost thoughts.  And right now, I'm thinking of habitual sin that I've tried to turn over to him many time before.  Our pastor on Sunday talked about sins against which we struggle, some of which we will probably take to our graves.  I know that my Lord has paid the price for these sins, and in the process, has purchased my freedom from them.  The thing is, he has won me more than a reprieve from the condemnation they deserve; he has set me free from the sin itself.  


Oh, how this relates to our cultural misunderstanding of liberty!  It isn't that we're free to do whatever we wish, that Christ has set me free so I need not worry about my choices.  As Michael Card says, freedom is "the power to do what is right."  Lately, many of us act as if it is also the power to compel others to do what we think is right.  But for me, I must recognize that Christ's victory over sin means that the Holy Spirit indwelling me will help me choose the way that best glorifies God rather than the way of sin.


Either the one on the cross is Lord of all my life, or he is not Lord of my life at all.

For me, this Holy Week is pretty simple: to believe in Christ is to live.

Dying to self

"God's chosen ones live out the drama and destiny of God himself.  It is a fearful thing to be chosen . . . The chosen are detached from themselves, from their own emotions, desires and hopes, and are called to live out the passions of God's heart - Yahweh's love, wrath, revulsion and yearning for his own." - Fr. Richard John Neuhaus, Death on a Friday Afternoon

One must be careful writing about such a thing as the painful growth of being detached from one's own emotions, desires and hopes, lest one reader or another think you must be writing about them, and set about looking for the evidence that proves it.  I'm just being general here . . . 

I believe that we all - every human being - have experienced this pain with regard to those whom we love.  We've had to subjugate our own wishes for the sake of what is best for our beloved, had to place their well-being ahead of our own desires and dreams.  As for "God's revulsion," at first I found this phrase abrasive, as it initially evoked in me the self-judgment I struggle to set aside.  But I soon considered how we see our loved ones make decisions that are clearly terrible for them, and for their own sake long for them to choose a better way for themselves.

Given these experiences of everyday relationships, it isn't such a stretch to consider how the Holy Spirit leads the chosen to subordinate their own wishes and emotions for the sake of a closer union with God, abandoning part of ourselves in trust that what God wishes for us is greater.

The love to which we are each called in our lives goes beyond our own emotions, desires, and hopes.  Each other person whom we love has emotions and desires and hopes of their own, not to mention their own quirks and faults.  Inevitably our differences will sometimes conflict.  But if we make the decision to love with our will, to choose in our relationship what best draws us into God's revealed plan for us rather than what we want, our fickle feelings and selfish desires gain the benefit of a larger perspective.  It isn't that I become emotionless, desireless, or hopeless.  God's perfect will for me and for those I love is greater than our wishes for ourselves.  The degree to which I subjugate my own emotions and desires and hopes to God's will determines the degree to which the gift of perfect, divine love can be made manifest in my life.

Dying to ourselves in this way can hurt deeply - sometimes we might prefer physical death.  That's why it's a fearful thing to be chosen, and why so many want no part of it.  But there's a greater consideration that really can't be overstated: it may be impossible to explain how it is incredibly worth the pain.  There is no resurrection without the cross, and that glory is so much more than we can imagine.

I believe that "incredibly worth the pain" is about as well as I can understand how my risen savior feels about his passion when he sees its effect in the lives of the chosen, though the pain of it was far greater than most of us will ever endure.  Such is God's love for us.  God loves us so much that he bears the cross for us, but more so, allows and chooses and calls us, insofar as we are willing, to participate in the most painful, most rewarding love of all: his own.

An early morning farewell

It snowed last night, probably a couple inches, though it probably took the ground a little while to refreeze so it didn't look like that much . . . except on top of the cars . . . at 3:40 a.m., when we started the van so we could take Cassie and Hannah, Nic, and Emma to the airport.  I love my youngest daughter dearly, but I don't know that I can convey how appropriate it was that she'd be going on the worst travel day (around here) in a month.

The plan was for us to arrive at Cassie's by 4 to load up the van and go, which seemed about right to us.  Her text message at 3:51 told us not to rush, she was just getting in the shower.  So, we hung out for a few minutes longer before heading over,  as I strove to not fret about the time on her behalf seeing as she didn't seem to be.  Once there, I quickly got their bags loaded, then we helped her get the kids up and dressed.  The older two were understandably cranky, unaccustomed to being awakened in the middle of the night, not really caring yet that they'd be seeing daddy in a few hours.  Hannah brightened up pretty quickly, though, and told us again that she's going to miss us.  Nic settled down not long after, resting his head on my shoulder as I held him in my arms.  With kisses and hugs to Granny, we were finally out the door.  After a quick u-turn for the forgotten cell phone, we were making the best time I could safely manage along the icy highway.  Bridges were the worst, and there are a lot of them around downtown and at the I70-I75 interchange.  In all, we probably arrived at the airport about 85 minutes before the flight rather than the recommended 120.

Oh, did I mention she had about 8 items to check?  After getting it all out of the car and onto a cart, I drove around to short-term parking.  Irrationally, I dreaded they'd get through check-in and security before I could get back into the terminal, that I'd missed my chance to tell the kids how much I love them, to share one last hug before they left.  But no, there they were, waiting in line as I ran back in to receive an unexpected gift: an extra half-hour with them, as Grandma and I were able to have gate passes.  

It passed much too quickly.  I could see Emma was in a good mood, so yanked her binky and gave it to mom so that I could see that great smile of hers.  She rode in grandpa's arms as we helped them through security and to the gate.  As mom took Nic to the restroom and grandma enjoyed some Emma time, I held Hannah on my lap, tickling her, reminding her how much we love her and that God loves her more.  I snapped a couple of quick photos as we waited, and too soon it was our turn for hugs and kisses with our grandbabies and our dear daughter.  Hannah cried as she said goodbye to us, and it took all my experience and faith to overcome my own feelings so I could honestly tell her that it will be okay.  I stood hugging a tearful Teri, only slightly less so myself, as we watched them make their way down the jetway, poor little Nic bumping his head on mom's carry-on as they disappeared from sight.

Longing, already

They're not even gone yet.  They don't leave until tomorrow morning.  Yet while I savor these last moments before our daughter and three youngest grandchildren move to Louisiana, I am already missing them, anticipating this transition in our relationship.  No matter what we do to remain connected, and I know we will do much, I know it isn't going to be the same.

Yet I'm also being careful not to over-anticipate.  It will be different, but it isn't as if our relationship with these dear ones is ending.  It's wonderful to live in the 21st century.  We already expect to see them in late April as we pass through on our way to San Antonio, for instance.  We're scouting air fares.  We have phones.  We hope they'll soon be equipped with a computer, so we can keep in contact in even more ways.

But the real lesson of this day may be something I said Sunday evening, leading prayer for Jubilee before we prayed the Way of the Cross in our parish: this is just the beginning of a glimpse into the love in which God holds us.  Today I can't help but be aware of how God longs for us, and thank him that I get to long for my beloved ones, too, knowing as it fills me to overflowing that it is still nothing compared to his love for us.

And though my Easter expectations may be slightly less than usual because of their absence, yet I feel that this farewell is a fitting part of my Lenten journey.

Inspired by an intersection . . .

 . . . between Fr. Richard John Neuhaus and The Shack.  Re: My last post:  Not judging myself has got to mean not judging others. The two are simply not separable.

But we also have to be careful what we mean by "not judging."  We are clearly not called to be so tolerant as to say that all choices are okay.  Sin is still sin.  But sinners (myself included) are to be offered the Truth (and the Way and the Life) in love and mercy, not condemnation.  My job is simply to be a vessel of Christ to those around me.  It is his job, then, to change their lives according to His dreams for them, by the Holy Spirit.  But enough of this aside.

How is my judging of myself so inextricably tied to my judging of others?

It is all caught up in what Fr. Robert Spitzer (President of Gonzaga University, and the most intelligent and articulate man I've ever heard speak, but then, see the rest of this paragraph for what's wrong with that compliment!) refers to as the "comparative identity."  This concept describes our tendency to think of our selves primarily in comparison to others, and takes many forms in our lives: the struggle to be more successful than others, our habit of thinking we're "not so bad" compared to others, our envy of others' accomplishments or relationships, and so on.  We tend to think well of ourselves or, in the case of those who are neurotic about their failures (like me), think poorly of ourselves, always relative to others: better or worse husbands and wives, fathers and mothers, students, employees, citizens, believers.  Our self-judgment is ever present, on so many levels, when we live according to the comparative identity.

I'm really prone to the negative side of that whole dynamic.

On the other hand is what Fr. Spitzer calls the contributive identity.  When I realize my utter dependence on Jesus Christ for the salvation he has provided for me, I am more likely to focus on how he is calling me to respond to his gift.  Then I blog as well as I can without concern for how articulate I am compared to all the other bloggers, and I play my guitar as well as I can without regard to whether that's better or worse than some other guitarist might play.  I do the best job I can do, and celebrate my coworker whose best effort has  earned him a promotion even if I might have it wanted, too.

This is an incredibly liberating way to live, and I must confess I don't manage it very well. But it also has some challenging implications.

Suppose a man rapes and murders a child.  This is a unspeakably hurtful, heinous act, and society has a responsibility to condemn this crime, and to punish - and protect itself from - this criminal.  We owe it to the child's family to bring the criminal to justice swiftly, without making them relive their trauma over and over again.  We owe it to the rest of society to make sure that no one else falls prey to him.

So in the process, am I not judging him?

You see, equally true is this: our responsibility to ensure that he never again commits such an act is also for this man's own sake.  To be sure, the harm he has done to his own soul is as great as that he has done to everyone else.

And no, I'm not judging him, if my desire for him in the context of experiencing the consequences of his actions is that he encounter the mercy and forgiveness which Christ offers each of us.  I may not wish him to ever be free again, and yet may wish to encounter his healed soul in heaven some day, where he will be restored to the wholeness that would have prevented him from such an atrocity.  If heaven is a reward for right living, bestowed according to careful weighing of the scales of justice, he might never aspire to this.  For that matter, neither do I.  If, rather, it is the unmerited gift of a loving God to his beloved children, then I cannot accept this gift without also desiring it - indeed, all the more so - for my least deserving, most broken brother or sister.

If anyone is in hell - and Fr. Neuhaus makes the first persuasive argument I've ever heard that perhaps hell is empty of human souls - I think it is primarily because of this: some of us might never be willing to abandon ourselves to a God who could show mercy even to someone who has committed unspeakable atrocity.  I fear that many of us would reject God's mercy for ourselves rather than accept it if it means accepting everyone else on whom he bestows it.  "To abandon myself is to abandon judging myself," which I cannot do without  also abandoning judging others.  Having eaten deeply of the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, we are often loath to do so.

Let's consider the opposite example: say, Mother Teresa.  Such a saint, I think.  I could never hope to live in the sort of holiness she walked in!  But moving away from the comparative identity, there is a holiness which God desires to give me.  It may not be the same, or "as great," as that of Mother Teresa, but it is God's plan for my life.  And if I get too comparative, I'm going to fail to become all that God intends for me because of the simple fact that I'm not "as special" as someone else.

The truth is that I'm utterly unworthy of God's love.  But I don't believe I'm more unworthy of that love than you are.  We're all unworthy, else there'd be no need of mercy.

I also know I am a saint, despite my unworthiness.  I'm not more of a saint than you are, though I may be aware of God at work in me in a way that's different from your awareness of God at work in you.  I'm holy and whole as God is calling and enabling me to be.  In my remaining brokenness, I sometimes choose other than the best which God has in mind for me.  But that has nothing to do with the comparative identity, and while it makes me in that moment less of a person than God dreams for me to be, yet his mercy remains abundant in my life.

I pray the same for you, dear reader.

Who is my judge?

"To abandon myself is to abandon judging myself." - Fr. Richard John Neuhaus, Death on a Friday Afternoon

I suppose it bears mentioning for the uninitiated that this abandonment is not a bad thing.  It refers to entrusting ourselves completely to God's love, and this quote represents the crux of the matter for me, and I imagine for many of us.  The reason we will not abandon ourselves to God is that we insist on sitting in judgment for ourselves.

For many, this is because we fear that God will judge us harshly.  We grew up with images of fire and brimstone, of hell and damnation, filling up our childish imaginations to make us do as we ought.  It may be that God was invoked mainly as a means of getting us to behave properly.  As adults, if some part of us might almost believe God is all powerful and all knowing, we don't believe God is all loving.  Or, if we do, we may believe his love is for others, while his judgment is for us.  We simply can't seem to trust at all that God is merciful and compassionate, that God's direction for our lives is intended for anything except to restrict our fun and keep us from doing what we want to do.  We prefer to judge ourselves and our actions as okay, or at least as not so bad as, you know, that other one, over there.

Others of us insist on judging ourselves harshly.  Maybe we've seen the hurt that we've caused others, those whom we love, and haven't learned to forgive ourselves at the same time we love them.  Sometimes that is compounded when, despite our best efforts to be gentle or cut ourselves some slack, we keep running into others' opinions, how they view those with whom we feel some similarity.  A divorced parent hears a Christian talking about how "God hates divorce," without the speaker or the hearer recognizing that God hates all our brokenness only out of an overwhelming love that wants to heal it all.  A recovered addict or abuser sees the ongoing hurt in which he knows he has participated, sees the fear and pain of those affected by this sin, and connects more with that harm than with his deliverance from it.

"To abandon myself is to abandon judging myself."  Christ, the derelict on the cross, has borne the penalty for my sin, so God is done condemning.  Only to the degree that I truly accept this can I stop trying to justify what defies justification, stop condemning those (myself) whose condemnation has already been paid.

I don't know how to stop hearing the cacophony of voices clamoring to crucify, but we must find a better answer than Pilate's.  We must stop giving the crowd more heed than the voice of the One who loves us, and has set us free from our guilt.

Who am I, really?

"The cause of my life, the intention of my life, the telos of my life is not determined by what I want to do.  Put differently, who I am is a truth to be discerned, not a choice to be decided.  What I want and what I choose may be in conflict with who I am, with who I really am.  


"We are rightly impatient with people who persistently act in a disagreeable way and then say, 'But that isn't the real me.'  We are inclined to tell them to stop fooling themselves, and that is the correct response in many cases.  At the same time, however, each of us knows the experience of acting in a way that is not true to who we are.  Maybe it is the case that what we do is who we are.  In that case, the person we say we really are is no more than the person we wish we were." - Fr. Richard John Neuhaus, Death on a Friday Afternoon

I figured I'd gradually finish this book during Lent, but it's beginning to look as if it will take me longer than that.  Am currently reflecting on this idea he's touched on about what defines who we really are.  He's right, of course, that we can't deny the connection between who we are and what we do, as some are tempted to do.  That hasn't been my tendency for a really long time.  I can't pretend that the "real" me wouldn't do something like that, because the real me obviously did.  But how "what I do" balances with "what I have done" in defining "who I am"?  That is an intriguing problem.  We can likely agree that we are neither our best moment nor our worst one, though it seems as if people want to define us by whichever of these they can see.  Since we tend to display the one and hide the other, folks can be disappointed when they encounter who we "really" turn out to be.  Ask Tiger.  And it also seems as if we tend to define others by their worst moments, while insisting we ourselves be defined by our best.

I don't know yet how Fr. Neuhaus has finished off the train of thought prompted by the innocent question that started it rolling: "I don't say it wasn't real bad, but (Jesus) did what he wanted to do, didn't he?"  It isn't as if any two people, either both doing what they want or both failing in the attempt, inspire us equally.  Most of us understand somewhere within that the scoundrel and the saint (that's going to be a song, btw), each pursuing and achieving their goals with varying degrees of success, present us with far different sorts of role models.  Few of us aspire to be really self-absorbed hedonists when we grow up, as if growing up didn't inherently imply abandoning such ways of being.  Then again, few of us ever imagined ourselves capable of our worst moments, of our most hurtful and destructive decisions along the way.

Just last week I was reflecting on the pleading of the old Supertramp number, The Logical Song: "Won't you please, please tell me what you've heard?  I know it sounds absurd, but please tell me who I am."  I probably had it out of context even as Roger Hodgson intended it.  But I am realizing that "who I am" is either the scoundrel or the saint.  If the latter - as I must allow my life to be directed, to be intended - it is because Christ has washed clean the scoundrel in me by his holy blood.


I have plenty of people telling me which they see in me, even most of those acquainted with the scoundrel (the noun seems almost too cute, almost precocious; my mother's internalized voice of integrity insists I warn you it was very bad, even as I try to cut myself some slack) in me.  I'm trying to start believing them.

A challenging transition

I was cleaning up the back porch on a nice Saturday afternoon, getting ready for some young guests (we "knew" Jonathan in utero) we were having over for dinner.  I was surprised to find a sheet of paper under the grill, a picture that our granddaughter Hannah had drawn sometime in the past few months, now too damaged for display in the art gallery (on the fridge).  This damaged piece of creativity caught me off guard, brought me face to face with a reality I've been keeping at a safe distance since learning about it eight months ago.  This precious bright spot in my life will have moved away by next weekend, along with her dear brother and sister.  The three of them have brought us such joy.  I know it is the kids' best interest that led their mom and dad to this decision, but I hope they'll understand if it makes me really sad for a little while.

A brighter morning

Over the last couple of days, I've started to figure out what this depression has been about, and this morning feels better than any in a long time.

At my core, I don't recall ever having felt good about myself.  I had long since given up hoping I ever could, but the balance I'd found in being accepted in spite of myself and my failures seemed good enough for me - more than I felt I deserved, really.  My friend, you helped me realize how cruel I've been to myself.  Unfortunately, your opinion of my worth was not ever going to make the difference, really, no matter how much I respect you.  I hope you're relieved to know that I haven't been looking to you for that; I understood that wasn't a burden one could bear in the context of what our friendship could and should be, and was determined not to lay it on your shoulders - not that you'd have accepted it - no matter how dark things became in the meanwhile.  Yet your opinion did matter, and has made a real difference for me, as you've helped me understand how several pieces of my long screwed-up dynamic needed to fit together in a healthy way.  And a truth you spoke - which I initially failed to recognize, losing sight of it in the progress I'd already made - turned out to be a really key piece.

Sorry to be mystical, reader.

I don't know how long I've doubted my value as a person, but I know it goes back to my earliest memories, back to my dad's futile and ultimately abandoned attempts to help me earn his respect in the ways that mattered to him.  (And I used to think I'd been set free from his negative influence by his suicide when I was 14.  Sheez.)

Yesterday evening I became certain that no effort to convince myself of my value - even of looking to Christ's redemption as evidence - will be sufficient to overcome the decades of habitually thinking (consciously or not, and in the latter case proving it by unhealthy actions) poorly of myself.  Finally, I determined to reach out for help via our company's employee assistance program, but couldn't find the number from home.  It's apparently protected information, kept safe from misuse by non-employees by residing within our company firewall.  I was pretty frustrated; I mean, if I was suicidal I guess I'd've known to go to an ER, but still, what use is an EAP if it isn't accessible where the employees need it?

But before bed last night, I realized that there is someone on earth who knows me better than anyone else does, and whom God has positioned and best qualified to help me recognize and accept the goodness that God has placed within me.  My precious bride, turning to your help as I should and must, I find the sufficiency God is providing.  Ultimately, I expect to find his usual abundance.

. . .

Well, we quit being pushovers last night, and today I guess we'll see what sort of effect it bears.  They have a transportation appt. this morning, and I expect that they're going to find out they won't be able to get moved "right away," whatever that may mean in their minds.  We told Cassie last night (via text.  we should've called, but it was late and I wanted to go to bed) to be ready to leave right after their appointment, that the only acceptable reason for waiting until Friday would be if that was the only way for Nic to come as well.

No response to that, of course, so we'll see what today brings.

The saga continues

I'm glad I'm not in their shoes, actually, though I don't really like ours much better.

My youngest and her husband are sort of in limbo until my son-in-law finds out tomorrow if his leave request is approved, so that he can come with her to move them.  If so, they'll leave there on Thursday (assuming his leave is approved for Thursday; else Friday).  If not, she'll leave Thursday to come home by herself.

Meanwhile, the burden still falls primarily on Teri to care for the kids.  Granny has been helping out in the evening as she can, but we just found out she's been doing it with a cracked rib!

I think I may finally be out of the doghouse over all of this, but I'm not betting on it.

The thing is, the worst of this isn't even about the current circumstances.  It's all about the years of Teri's wishes and requests being ignored, of her care for our grandchildren being completely taken for granted and treated as an entitlement to be dictated only according to our daughter's wishes.  And it is so hard to put that aside to figure out the best way to respond in the current situation, when the need is so much more real.

God manages this with us all the time.  We're going to have to trust the Spirit to help us do the same.

Sometimes doing the right thing hurts

When our youngest asked if we'd help out with the kids while she went to spend the weekend with her husband at Fort Polk, we both had our misgivings.  But we talked about it, and I thought we decided together to support them in this way.  Then yesterday she announces that she isn't coming back until two days later than we agreed to, because they apparently are getting their housing unit today and both have to be there to sign the paperwork.  That isn't how it worked for me, but then it has been 24 years since I was last in that situation and things might have changed since then.

So I get home from rehearsal last night, to which I'd taken one of the grandkids with me to ease the burden on my wife at least a little, to be told "I'm almost as angry with you as I am with her!"  So my understanding of how "we" came to the decision to support our daughter and son-in-law is apparently at odds with my wife's.

It seems really important to me to figure out if I indeed pressured her into this decision, and if so, how, exactly. It really seemed to me that we discussed together what it would take for us to be comfortable with this choice, and had agreed together about it before consenting.  Our relationship cannot be what it should be if my wife feels I'm railroading her into decisions.

Growing impatient

I've learned in multiple contexts, and have firmly believed, that two out of three almost always wins out.

There are three primary aspects of our basic personality.  The most important, and the one over which we have the most direct control, consists of our decisions and behaviors.  Another is our feelings, and the final one is what we think and believe.  When my behavior, my beliefs, and my emotions are in sync with one another, life is generally pretty harmonious.  That isn't to say that there aren't circumstances and bumps in the road, but they have a peaceful framework to fall into, and end up being pretty manageable.  Part of the importance of making decisions based on a truth greater than our feelings is that, when there is a conflict, the odd-aspect-out will shift to fit in with the other two.  So if my feelings and my beliefs are in harmony, I will generally act in accord with them.  If my feelings and my beliefs are at odds, whichever one I act in accordance with will ultimately bring the other along for the ride, so to speak.

I've held a conscious belief about myself for a long-assed time now that has been at harmony with the rest of my life.  It turns out that it was previously an unconscious belief that wound its way through my life in frustrating and ultimately hurtful ways.  Overcoming that unconscious belief was an important part of my former program of therapy.  I've since concluded - I think correctly - in the absence of being able to eliminate it, at least owning it consciously has been key to keeping it from driving unhealthy decisions.  My conscious internalization of that original and mostly negative belief about myself has worked with my decisions and my emotions to allow me to live in the way I believe I'm supposed to, to be the person I think I'm called to be.  It has also made it hard for me to know when I'm being a pushover, to my wife's great frustration.

But it turns out that this belief about myself is very likely wrong.  Useful, but wrong.

So I'm now trying to live out the same kind of healthy decisions that I've been making for years based on this wrong premise, only now to do so in harmony with a new understanding of the truth about myself.  But I don't fully believe it yet.  I guess I've never learned how to cut myself some slack.  And my feelings will just not line up with a belief that I don't fully embrace just because I'm making the right decisions about it all.

Modern gnosticism

"The core of the gnostic impulse is the belief that we are not really part of the creation, that we are not really creatures.  Put differently, it is the refusal to accept the fact that we are not God . . . So what is wrong with that? someone might respond.  Isn't that precisely our human calling and destiny, to be like God? . . . Yes, but the quintessence of original sin, as it is also reflected in gnosticism, is the desire to be like God on our own terms.  It is to deny our status as creatures and assume that we can be like God by nature rather than by the gift of divine grace." Fr. Richard John Neuhaus, Death on a Friday Afternoon.

No, I haven't been neglecting this wonderful book.  

And how are we most determined to try to be like God on our own terms?  I believe it may be in our insistence on defining for ourselves what is right and what is wrong.  What I want, what seems right to me, what I cannot help doing, the way I can't seem to help being, these things cannot possibly be wrong!  My experience - especially when consistent with that of those who I also know to be good, caring, loving people - must be more accurately revelatory of right and wrong than God's inspired word or the teaching of God's church.  In fact, to the degree to which they disagree with the experience of my enlightened self, Scripture and the Church must be outdated artifacts reflective of the ignorant perspective of a primitive, simplistic, and unenlightened people.

I have engaged in this arrogance. 

Yet I must be careful of the equal arrogance of judging those whom I might tend to believe are yet under its influence.  Christ's love alone matters, and in Him I need put all my trust.  He is God, the derelict on the cross somehow reconciling us to God in ways I do not understand, in areas that I may be unaware are in need of reconciling.  More . . . 

"Note that in everyday language the word 'creature' is hardly ever used today except negatively . . . This is a triumph of gnosticism in our popular culture.  It is the most elementary fact about what and who we are - creatures.  We are not the Creator; we are not God." 

We interpret our independence as the freedom to do what we want, what we think is in our best interest, even what we have decided is right, free from the restrictions that others might place upon us.  When our desires, interests, and judgments encounter an obstacle, we seek a way to make our conclusions okay.  And if that means diminishing God's authority in our lives, then that is no great loss to such modern thinkers as us, is it?

Saturday's cooking fail

(I hate it when a communication channel I depend on doesn't work.  I get so frustrated when that happens.  Thanks, Facebook.)

So on Saturday I was trying to make french fries - simple enough, right? - for the first time in years, to have with the sirloin patties I was grilling.  I apparently let the oil get too hot as, when I immersed the first batch, the oil ended up all over and down inside my stove, and caught fire.  I got the surface flames extinguished right away, but the fire under the cooktop took a few minutes.  You'd think that eleven years of Air Force safety briefings would have taught me to have an extinguisher in my kitchen, BUT NO!  I finally realized that I could probably smother the thing by covering each burner with a pot lid, and a few seconds later it was all over but the cleanup.  

It would've been easy enough to misinterpret my "almost burned down the house" Facebook comment as hyperbole, even if you saw it.  A simple supper was ruined, of course, but I really am grateful I didn't burn the house down; I was growing concerned for a minute there. I suppose I should also be thankful, given our current finances, that I didn't destroy the range.  In truth, I partly wish I had.  Then I'd've been forced to buy a new one and make everything work out, somehow.  

As recently as Wednesday there was still residue on at least one of the burners, as I walked in to a very smoky house after work while Teri was trying to cook dinner.  No such problem for me last night, though, which was a relief as we had the grandkids here by then.

Graceland

"The way we look to a distant constellation that's dying in a corner of the sky"
"I'm lookin' at ghosts and empties."
"Who am I to blow against the wind?"
"So, what are you gonna do about it?  That's what I'd like to know."
"You're taking me for granted because I please you."
"Don't want to end up a cartoon in a cartoon graveyard."
"This is the story of how we begin to remember."
"Somebody cry 'Why, why, why?'"
"I have no opinion about me."
"But let's get that straight."
"That's why we must learn to live alone."

The first station: Jesus is condemned to death

We adore you, O Christ, and we praise you,
because by your holy cross, you have redeemed the world.

(The first in a series?)

Who would dare to condemn to death the one through whom all life - and every thing - came to be?

It seems to me that I am probably that presumptuous judge:

• Don't I lament the things that are wrong in the world and rail against God for not doing anything about them?
• Don't I think my own ways are better than those God has revealed, that what I want is better than what God is providing?
• Don't I get dissatisfied with the goodness God has provided me, envious of those whose problems I judge as not so unbearable as my own?
• Don't I struggle to beat back my tendency to think myself better than others, even when I've proven otherwise?
• Don't I grumble against God, as the newly-freed Israelites did in today's first reading (of year A, for the RCIA Scrutinies, Ex 17:3-7), forgetting his past providence and doubting that he will meet my every need in the future?
• Don't I hesitate to share the Gospel with those around me, judging the acceptance of others more important than the Good News of his love and mercy?

Today's Gospel reading (again, year A, the Samaritan woman at the well, John 4:5-42) illustrates how Jesus acts toward us.  Rather than judge us harshly for our shortcomings, he draws us into his mercy, into relationship with him.  Eventually, before Pilate, he would accept the judgment that is rightly ours.  But it is my own day-to-day judgments that I think I'm to be aware of, now.

I've long tended to judge myself over my failings, but this not the same thing.  Instead, I hear Christ calling me this Lent to recognize how he longs to draw me more deeply into his love.  That will require that I take an honest look at how I might be resisting his grace.

(An interesting shoe which fits me too often: it isn't just others that I must be careful about judging.  If we are the body of Christ, transformed in him by grace over our lifetimes, then when we judge ourselves harshly, do we not condemn him, too?  Or maybe I'm merely denying his work in me?)

The Shack

For a moment, on page 51, I put it down, hardening my heart in defense against the accusation I read in the first sentence of the last full paragraph.   The thing is, I knew the author was merely expressing the words and the viewpoint of the protagonist, who was deeply wounded by someone whose offenses far exceeded any of my own.  My old self-condemnation arose reflexively.  But I was pretty certain this author wasn't going to leave me there.  In a few minutes I took a deep breath and, cutting myself some slack, picked it back up and read on, walking with Mack through his pain and his anger to his encounter with the Creator, the Healer, the Counselor.

I'm so pleased that the author preserved the traditional names and roles for the Trinity, while at the same time choosing non-traditional images to represent two of the Persons.  It's as if he was trying to challenge both traditionalists and modernists at the same time.  And while there seems to be a degree of putting down formal religion, this seems carefully crafted to focus on its shortcomings, the ways many use it to exercise control and self-righteous judgment over others.  I doubt that a community that truly seeks to serve Christ will feel insulted, though I'm a little concerned that anti-religionists will find their own prejudgments reinforced rather than being led to a community that truly seeks to grow in the Lord together.

All that said, I found myself encountering God's mercy and love in these pages.  That is always a very good thing.

The nth time

"I lift up my eyes to the hills.  From whence shall my help come?  My help comes from the Lord who made heaven and earth." - Ps 121, 1-2 (RSV)

(in an unrelated note, yesterday's Dilbert is a tad close for comfort.)

My strength and my hope are not of myself, not in my intelligence, talent, creativity, personality, fitness of body, strength of character.  Also, not in my family, friends, job . . . okay, I think I've got the idea covered, if not all the specifics.  If God has gifted me in any of these areas, I must yet put my hope in the Giver, not the gift.  And yet I must accept these gifts, as well, receive them as God would have me be blessed by them, make use of them as God would intend.

"God will not suffer your foot to slip." - Ps 121, 3 (NAB)

When I fail to turn to my strength, for whatever reason, I will stumble.  Yet neither is my hope in my ability to turn to God, or to not stumble.  I'm going to have to accept the reality that I'm gonna stumble.

There seems to be a difference between this and the defeatism of already thinking the worst of myself, so either no other misstep matters by comparison or every one serves to reinforces my poor self concept.  It also seems different from the permissiveness that says that nothing is any big deal.  Time will tell.

I'm tired of stumbling, though.