RonRolheiser,OMI

Inviting Each Other to Our Better Selves

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I grew up in a rural area where most everyone was either a first or second-generation immigrant. Most of us were just above the poverty line, struggling economically and struggling to speak English properly. We were also struggling to access higher education, both because a lot of my peers had to end their schooling after the eighth grade to help support the family and because the idea of university education was not yet part of most families’ ethos.

In our community there was one family for which this wasn’t true. They were comfortable economically and a number of them had gone on to higher education and were now professionals in different fields. They were a privileged family.

But they wore it well. There was no snobbishness, flaunting, or superiority complex. The opposite. They used their gifts to try to help the community. One of their sons became a teacher and taught in one of the local schools, and for a number of years the family set up a curling rink every winter for the community. They were both admired and respected.

One day one of their sons was sitting with a group of young men who were sharing a beer, sharing stories, and enjoying some healthy banter, when the son of this much respected family made a blatantly racist remark. There was an awkward silence. Then one of men, in a gentle voice, said this to him: “You know, it surprises me that you would say something like that. Your family is so classy. We all look up to you. This doesn’t sound like you.”

The man’s reaction was immediate and contrite: “You’re right. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I say things like that. That was stupid.”

I can imagine a very different reaction had he been challenged with hard words like: “You’re a racist! How can you say something like that!

When we challenge each other in harsh words, the effect often serves to make us more defensive and freeze us in our view. We are being scolded, rebuked, shamed, and that can work just as easily to re-entrench as to persuade. It also serves to harden the space between us rather than invite us to what’s best and highest in ourselves.

We need to invite and challenge each other to what’s best and higher inside us.

And what is best and higher inside us?

Some of our early Christian writers (the Church Fathers) suggested that each of us has a double personality and heart. In each of us, they submit, there is a big, generous, noble, altruistic heart. But, inside each of us too, there is a wounded, petty, and selfish heart; and at any given time, we can be operating out of one heart or the other. We can be big-hearted and we can be petty, and this can change from one hour to the next depending on what’s meeting us in life.

Here’s an example: Imagine you wake up some morning feeling altruistic and noble of heart. At that moment, you have the mind and heart of Jesus. In that holy frame of mind, you go to work and there someone is cold and sarcastic with you. In one minute, everything can switch; you no longer have the mind and heart of Jesus, nor the mind and heart of what’s best in you. The wounded petty heart in you trumps the big heart, warmth and understanding leave you, and you now feel cold and bitter.

Now imagine this in reverse: You wake up some morning feeling paranoid, misunderstood, and nursing old wounds. At that moment you don’t have the mind and heart of Jesus, nor are you attuned to what’s better and higher in your own mind and heart. You go to work in that unholy state and there, unexpectedly, some co-worker greets you warmly and shares how much she appreciates your work and your friendship. In one minute, the noble mind in you trumps the petty mind and all that’s best and generous in you rises to the surface and you want to be a better person. You flip from bitterness to graciousness in one minute.

We live in a polarized world today where so many issues bitterly divide us and invite us not to what’s noble and best in us, but rather to what’s wounded, paranoid, and defensive. We need a new tone in our discourse, one of invitation and respect, one that recognizes what’s noble and big-hearted in the other and then challenges the other to own what’s best in him or her.

Instead of name-calling and assaulting each other with slogans, we need to say to each other: “You know, it surprises me that you would say something like that. You’re so classy! We all look up to you. This doesn’t sound like you.” That kind of invitation can help thaw some of the coldness that for all kinds of reasons perennially besets the human heart.

Feeding Off Sacred Fire

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There’s a lyric in a song by Gordon Lightfoot which tries to interpret the struggle going on in the heart of Miguel de Cervantes’ mythical hero, Don Quixote. His goodness separates him from the world, even as he understands that wickedness has the same source, namely, that both “the wise and wicked feed upon life’s sacred fire.”

And there’s perplexing irony here, both the wise and wicked, saints and sinners, feed off the same sacred source. The same energy that fuels the dedicated selflessness of the saint who dies for the poor, fires the irresponsible acting out of the pop star who proudly boasts of thousands of sexual conquests. Both feed off the same energy which in the end is sacred. Godliness in this world is used for very different purposes.

For example, one of the major criticisms made of religion and the churches is that they frequently use God to justify every kind of war and violence. We commonly see terrible violence being fueled by faith and religion.

And Christianity is hardly exempt. In the Crusades and the Inquisition, we have our own history of violence in God’s name, and there is more violence than we dare to admit being justified today by Christians who draw from their faith both their motivation and their energy to justify violence, racism, and inequality in the name of Jesus.  We can protest that, in these cases, their energy is misguided, perverted, or usurped for self-interest, but the point remains the same. It’s still sacred energy, even if it is being perverted.

John Lennon, in his song Imagine, famously suggested that we would move more easily towards love and peace if religion were eliminated (“Nothing to kill or die for, and no religion too”). There’s a dangerous naiveté in that, though he’s right in saying that the sacred energy found in religion often works against peace and love in this world. Misguided religious zealots also feed upon life’s sacred fire.

However misguided, misused, or perverted, religious energy does not witness against God’s existence. The opposite: The very awfulness of its power, its blind grip, its capacity to totally take over someone’s life, and its sick over-confidence, point precisely to its godliness, its awe, its sacredness, and its roots within a reality and energy that dwarfs our own.

Sick religion is so powerful precisely because it’s real, not a fantasy. It may be sick, but it’s real. That’s why religious cults are dangerous. They’re dangerous because they’re real, monstrously so. People often die in cults because the divine fire that its misguided leaders channel is as real as the electricity that burns up a body when someone sticks a knife into a high voltage electrical outlet. Metaphorically, that’s what cults do: they feed off sacred fire, off divine energy, but without the proper precautions and filters that the great spiritual traditions have taught are necessary in accessing the divine. Cults are dangerously naïve as to why scripture warns us to approach the divine with care: “No one can see the face of God and live!”

What we see in bad religion is mirrored in our personal lives. This is sometimes hard to admit, but what seems wild and wicked inside us is also fueled by life’s sacred fire. Our over restless energies for creativity, for sex, for achievement, for enjoyment, and to know and be known within human community, are often used irresponsibly, excessively, narcissistically, manipulatively, and destructively. Moreover, those with sufficient nerve and insufficient conscience, the wild and wicked ones, often simply take what they want from life, without regard for morality or consequence. Their lives are often driven by wild, powerful, creative, and erotic forces that can look like the very antithesis of sacred energy.

But, again, the very power, seeming irresistibility and wildness of this energy is not an indication that these narcissistic, sexual, and seemingly self-centered energies are secular and devoid of holiness, or, worse still, at odds with what is holy and sacred within us. The opposite is true: Their very power and seeming irresistibility lie precisely in their godliness and sacredness. Their fire is so powerful because it is sacred, divine, God’s energy inside of us.

Scripture tells us that we carry within us the image and likeness of God and that this is really our deepest identity and the source of our deepest energies. But we should not picture God’s image within us as some beautiful Andrei Rublev-like, icon stamped inside our souls. God is fire, infinite energy, infinite creativity, infinite freedom, wildness beyond our imaginations, and an energy that is boundless and fuels everything that is, that lives, that breathes, that searches for meaning, that loves.

There is only one source of energy. Sacred fire fuels all of life and infuses everyone, saint and sinner alike. And God has given us the freedom to use it as we choose, wisely or wickedly. Feeding on the same sacred fire, we can become a warmonger or a peacemaker, a killer or a martyr, a hedonist or a saint.

The Complex Mystery of Suffering

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Sometimes it is hard to tell sickness from health. When we’re suffering, is it an indication that there’s something wrong with us or might it be that the suffering is the healthy result of living faithfully? When we are anxious, are worrying God’s kingdom into birth or are we simply worrying ourselves to death? Suffering is complex and ambiguous. Here’s an example.

Henri Nouwen, one of our generation’s most renowned and respected spiritual guides was, as he shared so honestly in his writings, a complex and often tortured individual. He was a saint, but one who struggled mightily at times to keep his life true to his commitments and his vows. His commitment was solid, but his emotions were not.

He was a Roman Catholic priest, vowed to celibacy, but prone to fall in love at times. In one such instance, he fell in love obsessively. Having a vow of celibacy, recognizing that this relationship could never include the special intimacy he craved, and getting a clear signal from the other that the obsession wasn’t mutual, he fell into a depression which landed him in a clinic for a number of months. Eventually he regained his health and balance, and from that new space, wrote The Return of the Prodigal Son, his signature book which has become a spiritual classic.

Most of the commentaries on Nouwen’s life treat this incident as a pathology, as a period in his life where he was not healthy, as certain downfall from grace. They point to a number of things that seemingly indicate this: He was gay and had fallen in love with a heterosexual man who did not have romantic feelings toward him; his seminary training had ill-prepared him for the experience of falling in love in this way; he was by temperament an emotionally complex and often times tortured individual; and there are questions about how healthy his relationship with his mother was as he was growing up.

All of these factors no doubt played a role in his depression; but, looked at more deeply, this incident can be viewed in a very different way, that is, not as a pathology, a sickness, or an immaturity (albeit these are always a factor for all of us), but rather as a crisis that ultimately gives profound witness to Nouwen’s deep spiritual health, to his fidelity to the Gospel, to his commitments, and to his willingness to, like Jesus, sweat blood in Gethsemane.

 Whatever else, Nouwen accepted this crushing pain in his life with honesty and integrity and, like Jesus, accepted to be personally broken rather than to break his vows.

That’s the deep challenge, one given to us by Jesus and one that was given to me and my siblings by my dad, who would tell us: “Unless you’re willing to sweat blood, you will not be able to keep your commitments.” Jesus tells us the same thing and we see that he had to precisely do that, sweat blood to remain faithful to his mission. Moreover, it is significant to note where he sweated blood, namely, in a “garden”.

In both Old and New Testaments, the word “garden” does not refer to a place to grow vegetables. Biblically, the “Garden” is the place of love; it’s where lovers go. Note that Jesus doesn’t sweat blood in the temple, or on a mountain, or in a boat on the sea. Rather, he sweats blood in a garden, the place of love,as one whose heart is breaking in love. Henri Nouwen sweated blood in a clinic, as one whose heart was breaking. That clinic was his “garden”, his Gethsemane, the place where he was undergoing paschal transformation more so than succumbing to an illness.

Whatever his weaknesses, his temptations, his emotional crises, Nouwen always shared these openly and with a disarming honesty. For all his complexities and the seeming contradictions in his life, he was always transparent, almost in a childlike manner. He kept little under the surface. Moreover, the argument that this crisis was ultimately a healthy experience for him can be based too on the fruits it bore in his life.

By their fruits you will know them!

Henri Nouwen, despite his immense popularity, struggled his entire adult life to simply receive love and to believe that he was lovable. He was changed radically by undergoing this breakdown. After leaving the clinic and returning to his normal life, he had for the rest of his life an abiding sense of being loved and of being lovable. Out of that transformed space he wrote his spiritual masterpiece, The Return of the Prodigal Son, which has helped thousands of us to receive love more deeply and accept that we are (despite our haunting congenital doubts to the contrary) lovable.

Sometimes it’s hard to tell when suffering is a sign of sickness or of fidelity. However, it’s usually a sign of fidelity, when, like Nouwen, we accept to be personally broken rather than break our vows.