The scripture passages for today's session consists of several verses from the next chapter of the Sermon on the Mount, Mt 6:3-5, 19-21, and 24. Unlike the previous session, most of the intervening verses aren't skipped entirely but are included in subsequent sessions, so I don't feel as if I need to fill in any of that valuable content now. I am beginning with verse 1, though, rather than verse 3, as these first two verses provide context and are not covered in other sessions.
Beware of practicing your piety before men in order to be seen by them; for then you will have no reward from your Father who is in heaven. - Mt 6: 1
If I were a better follower of Christ, this would be the chief reason I don't post links to my blog posts more often on FB. Instead it's more a matter of being careful how much of myself I put in the face of everyone who knows me. There are parts of my makeup and my past - more than just that chief thing, really - that I worry about being judged for, and I'm still trying to follow Fr. Matthew Kelty's advice to me to not burden most people with what they would take on as an obligation to forgive me for who I am and the things I have done.
It would be better if my reason for not sharing links to my blog on FB would be more in line with Jesus' admonition here. Part of me still wants to be special, to have some insight from the Holy Spirit that helps others have a deeper relationship with God, as if such any such insight would be of me instead of from God. This would validate my existence, right?
But when you give alms, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, - Mt 6: 3
I'm reminded of one of the first phrases from the wonderful Litany of Humility: From the desire to be esteemed, deliver me, Jesus. We so long to be thought well of. I think this is part of the "comparative identity" that Fr. Spitzer spoke of with such insight: we draw so much of our self-image in comparison with others, and having others think well of us validates our judgment. God is calling us to a different approach, and we need to be careful not to allow this to become a variation on the other one, something like saying to ourselves, "Oh, look what good I am doing in secret!"
(I believe my Lenten journey would be well served by praying this Litany daily. It's pretty clear that the concern I mentioned after quoting Mt 6: 1 above is an example of the desire of being approved.)
But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust consumes and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also. - Mt 6: 20-21
It can be such a challenge for us to allow God himself to be our treasure, yet he is a treasure that can never be exhausted, and his love infinitely exceeds those we chase after in its stead.
No one can serve two masters; for either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other. - Mt 6: 24a
Jesus may be primarily referring to material wealth and possessions, since he specifically refers to mammon later in the verse. But this maxim is true of whatever our other master might be, including (but not limited to) comfort, power, pleasure, fitness, novelty and thrills. We will invariably resent God for keeping us from these things which we mistake as being desirable, when the truth is that we cannot receive all that God desires for us if we serve whatever our other master may be.
Showing posts with label Fr. Kelty. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fr. Kelty. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 04, 2015
Friday, August 10, 2012
Revisiting a resolved issue
In early 2002, I went on retreat to the Abbey of Gethsemani in Trappist, Kentucky. This wonderful monastery is one of my favorite places in the world, and it has been entirely too long since I spent any time there. My mom had passed away just a few months before this visit. It had been nearly seven years since my Darkest Day, and four since I'd finished with therapy, yet I still found myself grappling with the issue of my own acceptability among decent company. I would continue to struggle with this for another seven years before making any real progress, after which I would discuss it further when I reentered therapy to work on some other issues. Yet something that I was told that weekend proved to be both very helpful for me at the time and somewhat vexing over time.
The specific issue I was dealing with was this inward sense I had that I was being dishonest with everyone who considered themselves my friend without knowing my dark history. I was raised to value integrity, and I was convinced that one of the worst violations of it was to present myself as a decent person knowing that I had not been, or to "pretend" I was close to someone who didn't know this dark chapter of my life. I felt that I was accepting people's friendship under false pretenses, which I judged to be like stealing their affection.
In the course of the weekend, I was fortunate to have the opportunity to participate in the sacrament of reconciliation with Fr. Matthew Kelty. Fr. Matthew spoke to the retreatants for five or ten minutes each evening after Compline, or night prayer. This prayer service occurs at 7:30 most evenings, which works well for the monks who arise in time to participate in Vigils at 3:15 a.m., but to most retreatants seems a bit early to retire. Since retreats at the Abbey are mostly self-directed and filled with more silence than many of us are accustomed to on a regular basis, this short session would provide a bit of food for evening reflection if we were so inclined. Fr. Matthew usually shared a couple of spiritual poems, then a reflection of his own, sometimes reading from one of his excellent books, such as My Song is of Mercy. At any rate, I was so pleased to see him at confession, as he seemed like a straight shooter who would help me gain some clarity regarding the distance I felt from everyone who didn't know about the worst part of my past.
He had a very different take on this from what I expected. While affirming my sense of integrity and honesty, and quite the opposite of minimizing the wrong I'd done, he suggested that keeping this part of myself from most people was an act of mercy. It was a very difficult thing to accept, he acknowledged, and I was surrounded by people who would feel obliged to try to accept me anyway, and who would with great effort manage to arrive at a point with regard to their opinion of me very similar to where they already were before I shared with them. It was a burden I shouldn't lay on most people, he said, in nearly those exact words.
In the short term, it was a great load off of me. Years before, my counselors had also suggested that I'd already told everyone I should feel obliged to share this with, yet the intervening years had left me still feeling cautiously distant from everyone who didn't know. "How could you keep something like that from me?" I could imagine them accusing me. Fr. Matthew's reassurance that I had a good reason not to share this readily helped me remove the false burden of obligation with which I'd been struggling.
In the long run, his answer proved problematic. "You're right," he seemed to say, in way, "this is a really big deal." It became an increasing concern for me over the next several years, as I heard friends weigh in with their opinions of people who made the news for things that seemed similar to what I had done.
Then a friend I wasn't expecting entered my life, and helped me learn to cut myself some slack. My subsequent stint in therapy helped with that, too. I now seem to have a better sense of when I should share my past, not out of a sense of obligation or hidden self-judgment, but when sharing might do some tangible good. I've given my testimony in front of a hundred people, and received reconciliation with estranged family members, and seem to know in an instant when I'm in a situation that calls for sharing this part of myself.
Now, after nearly three decades, I'm going to see a friend with whom I was once closer than anyone else in my life. She's the last person I can think of with whom I have a very strong sense of owing the sharing of my story. I don't know that the opportunity will even arise. I don't know that I will take advantage of the chance if it does, and I don't know that I really should. I have so much else to be cautious with; I should never aspire for that "closer than anyone else" status again with her, and I can peacefully and honestly say that I don't.
I'm also trying not to borrow anxiety over this, but I think it will be good to be ready for however it plays out.
The specific issue I was dealing with was this inward sense I had that I was being dishonest with everyone who considered themselves my friend without knowing my dark history. I was raised to value integrity, and I was convinced that one of the worst violations of it was to present myself as a decent person knowing that I had not been, or to "pretend" I was close to someone who didn't know this dark chapter of my life. I felt that I was accepting people's friendship under false pretenses, which I judged to be like stealing their affection.
In the course of the weekend, I was fortunate to have the opportunity to participate in the sacrament of reconciliation with Fr. Matthew Kelty. Fr. Matthew spoke to the retreatants for five or ten minutes each evening after Compline, or night prayer. This prayer service occurs at 7:30 most evenings, which works well for the monks who arise in time to participate in Vigils at 3:15 a.m., but to most retreatants seems a bit early to retire. Since retreats at the Abbey are mostly self-directed and filled with more silence than many of us are accustomed to on a regular basis, this short session would provide a bit of food for evening reflection if we were so inclined. Fr. Matthew usually shared a couple of spiritual poems, then a reflection of his own, sometimes reading from one of his excellent books, such as My Song is of Mercy. At any rate, I was so pleased to see him at confession, as he seemed like a straight shooter who would help me gain some clarity regarding the distance I felt from everyone who didn't know about the worst part of my past.
He had a very different take on this from what I expected. While affirming my sense of integrity and honesty, and quite the opposite of minimizing the wrong I'd done, he suggested that keeping this part of myself from most people was an act of mercy. It was a very difficult thing to accept, he acknowledged, and I was surrounded by people who would feel obliged to try to accept me anyway, and who would with great effort manage to arrive at a point with regard to their opinion of me very similar to where they already were before I shared with them. It was a burden I shouldn't lay on most people, he said, in nearly those exact words.
In the short term, it was a great load off of me. Years before, my counselors had also suggested that I'd already told everyone I should feel obliged to share this with, yet the intervening years had left me still feeling cautiously distant from everyone who didn't know. "How could you keep something like that from me?" I could imagine them accusing me. Fr. Matthew's reassurance that I had a good reason not to share this readily helped me remove the false burden of obligation with which I'd been struggling.
In the long run, his answer proved problematic. "You're right," he seemed to say, in way, "this is a really big deal." It became an increasing concern for me over the next several years, as I heard friends weigh in with their opinions of people who made the news for things that seemed similar to what I had done.
Then a friend I wasn't expecting entered my life, and helped me learn to cut myself some slack. My subsequent stint in therapy helped with that, too. I now seem to have a better sense of when I should share my past, not out of a sense of obligation or hidden self-judgment, but when sharing might do some tangible good. I've given my testimony in front of a hundred people, and received reconciliation with estranged family members, and seem to know in an instant when I'm in a situation that calls for sharing this part of myself.
Now, after nearly three decades, I'm going to see a friend with whom I was once closer than anyone else in my life. She's the last person I can think of with whom I have a very strong sense of owing the sharing of my story. I don't know that the opportunity will even arise. I don't know that I will take advantage of the chance if it does, and I don't know that I really should. I have so much else to be cautious with; I should never aspire for that "closer than anyone else" status again with her, and I can peacefully and honestly say that I don't.
I'm also trying not to borrow anxiety over this, but I think it will be good to be ready for however it plays out.
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