Monday, March 11, 2019
Fasting, Pacifiers, and the Voices in Your Head
While I came late to the seasons of the Church calendar, still I’ve followed their rhythm for over 35 years. Especially as a minister, preacher, and worship leader, I’m challenged year after year to find new ways to think about Advent . . . or to envision Lent . . . or to celebrate Resurrection. There are only so many ways to twist the prism, only so many times I can lean into my reliable, stand-by descriptions of the seasons.
So I’ve been enlivened in recent days by Barbara Brown Taylor’s short essay on Lenten disciplines. I’ve followed her writing and preaching for several years. She is compelling and stretching, writing with honesty about the spiritual journey by offering fresh images for envisioning life connected deeply to God. I’ve read a number of her books . . . both Leaving Church and An Altar in the World have impacted me in huge ways. But for some reason, I had missed her essay on Lent until recently. Today, she is my teacher.
She writes with Luke 4:1-13 in the background, the account of Jesus fasting in the wilderness for 40 days before being tempted. Then she likens Lenten practices to being left in the wilderness by yourself for 24 hours, a common practice among men’s rite-of-passage groups and some wilderness adventure expeditions. The aim in that kind of boundary experience is to place you at the edges of what you know, to push you to see your own life differently, and to come to some deeper sense of what is beneath all the machinations and projections that are part of our daily life.
The Lenten name we would give to this kind of stripped-down experience is fasting. As Brown Taylor says,
That is when you find out who you are. That is when you find out what you really miss and what you really fear. Some people dream about their favorite food. Some long for a safe room with a door to lock and others just wish they had a pillow; but they all find out what their pacifiers are – the habits, substances, or surroundings they use to comfort themselves, to block out the pain and fear that are normal parts of being human.
I’ve long recognized that each of us have personalized patterns for dealing with life when we feel things are out of control. We are aware that when Hungry, Angry, Lonely, or Tired, we are especially vulnerable. Usually in those states, we’ll reach for something that brings comfort – that’s why we call some foods “comfort foods” – in order to escape the more difficult realities that rise up from within us. We’ll do most anything to not face our own selves.
I have my default habits, behaviors, and addictions, just as you do. Brown Taylor says she is convinced that 99% of us are addicted to something. I think the percentage is even higher . . . taking the form of eating, drinking, shopping, blaming, substances, entertainment, busyness.
Brown Taylor calls these things pacifiers. I think it’s a marvelous image.
That hollowness we sometimes feel is not a sign of something gone wrong. It is the holy of holies inside of us, the uncluttered throne room of the Lord our God. Nothing on earth can fill it, but that does not stop us from trying. Whenever we start feeling too empty inside, we stick pacifiers into our mouths and suck for all we are worth. They do not nourish us, but at least they plug the hole.
When you are dropped by the adventure group into the middle of the wilderness, you have left all these pacifiers behind. No more mac and cheese to soothe your anxiety . . . no glass of wine after work to take off the edge . . . no comfortable bed for an escaping nap . . . no strip-center down the street to look for the blouse that would take away your blues . . . no movie theater in which to lose your life in someone else’s story. It’s just you in that place, stripped down and vulnerable, the real self hungry-angry-lonely-tired.
This is Lent, forty days of this stripping down, forty days of saying “No!” to that one thing which pretends to make everything better . . . but which actually just pushes all the ugly inner stuff beneath the surface yet again.
Nothing is too small to give up. Even a chocolate bar will do. For forty days, simply pay attention to how often your mind travels in that direction. Ask yourself why it happens when it happens. What is going on when you start craving a Mars bar? Are you hungry? Well, what is wrong with being hungry? Are you lonely? What is so bad about being alone? Try sitting with the feeling instead of fixing it and see what you find out.
There is nothing magical about Lenten practices. Giving up chocolate for Lent is a worthwhile gesture for several reasons, but a.) if chocolate is not a pacifier for you, and b.) if you are not reflective about what it feels like to resist reaching for the candy bar when you feel stressed, then you might as well spend your time in some other productive pursuits for Lent.
On the other hand, if chocolate (or whatever happens to be your addiction of choice) IS your pacifier, and if you ARE reflective about what it feels like to go without that thing, then asking yourself the questions Barbara Brown Taylor suggests above is a good place to begin.
Of course, our inner voices chatter away, counseling moderation, urging us to back off such asceticism, reminding us of our commitment to never look as if we’re holier-than-thou. This is how she ends her Lenten essay.
Chances are you will hear a voice in your head that keeps warning you what will happen if you give up your pacifier. “You’ll starve. You’ll go nuts. You won’t be you anymore.” If that does not work, the voice will move to level two: “That’s not a pacifier. That’s a power tool. Can’t you tell the difference?” If you do not fall for that one, there is always level three: “If God really loves you, you can do whatever you want. Why waste your time on this dumb exercise?”
If you do not know who that voice belongs to, read Luke’s story again. Then tell the devil to get lost and decide what you will do for Lent. Better yet, decide whose you will be. Worship the Lord your God and serve no one else. Expect great things, from God and from yourself. Believe that everything is possible. Why should any of us settle for less?
[All quotes from Barbara Brown Taylor, “Lenten Discipline,” Home by Another Way (Lanham, Maryland: Cowley Publications, 1999), pp. 65-68.]
Tuesday, March 5, 2019
Beginning Lent in Humanity
Shrove Tuesday
Tomorrow, Ash Wednesday, marks the beginning of Lent. Many of us will attend a church service in which ashes are marked upon our foreheads. We will hear the traditional Ash Wednesday litany that reminds us, “Remember, from dust you have come, and to dust you shall return.”
I will be with the Senior Pastor of First United Methodist Church of Rogers, wearing a ministerial robe and clerical stole, standing in 36 degree temperatures, waiting in a parking lot in Downtown Rogers, Arkansas, to impose ashes on the foreheads of those who drive by.
The car pulls up. “What is your name?”
“Maria.”
“Maria, remember your creation in God . . . from dust God created you . . . and remember your humanity . . . to dust you shall return.” The car drives away.
It seems a bit mundane, imposing ashes as people pull up in their cars, rather than in the formality of an Ash Wednesday service in a beautiful Chapel somewhere.
Yet, what better way to remember our humanity, to be reminded of our clay feet, than in the run of everyday life?
“Honey, I’m running to the grocery store and the post office. And oh, between, I’m stopping to get marked with ashes.”
It’s a powerful symbol of one central aspect of our humanity, the “dust” that will always be part of who we are.
“Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return,” is simply a formal way to say, “You’re human and always will be, so don’t forget it!”
Too much perverted spirituality claims you can rise above your humanity . . . that spiritual practices can root out your human nature permanently . . . that you can overcome your humanity and rise to some exalted spiritual sphere where you don’t have to deal with everyday life any more.
In fact, that very illusion is carried by many who embark on an intentional spiritual path. They want to eradicate their impulses to control and envy and greed. They want a check on their egocentric longings and manipulations. They want to be better. They want to move beyond “sin.” The motive may be sound, but no matter how hard we try, we will never escape our humanness.
Lent begins with this reminder of our humanity. We are human. Dust. Clay. Too often weak and conflicted.
But we are also created in God’s image, created with God’s own DNA woven into our being, created for union with God, created to live in the fullness of our God-connection.
It is important that Lent begins this way . . . with this reminder of our humanity. Many of us take up some special practice for Lent, or we step into Lent intending to fast something . . . food or drink or a compulsive habit.
Some of us, for example, will vow to give up sweets, or more specifically chocolates, for Lent. Or we give up some kind of drink, perhaps alcohol. Or, if our own anger or envy is a particular issue for us, we will give up an afflictive emotion for Lent.
I realize that often I give up something for Lent that seems rather inconsequential. I can easily give up sweets, including chocolate, for Lent and will it come as no great sacrifice for me. Even something which comes nearer to addiction – my morning cup of coffee or evening glass of wine – still seems to be skimming the surface of Lent’s intention.
While there is something to be said for any form of fasting in which we say, “No!” to ourselves, there are some practices that seem to touch us more deeply than others.
Honestly, sometimes I wonder if we undertake practices for Lent that are more inconvenience than actual fasts because we want to do something for Lent at which we can succeed. Afraid that we might bale out three days into fasting some weightier afflictive emotion or addictive obsession, we opt for the thing we can accomplish, the fast at which we can succeed.
“How could I possibly tame my ego or lay aside my pride for seven weeks?”
“What would life be like if I didn’t have to worry all the time?”
“It is not possible for me to go a day without judging someone else.”
“I could not possibly spend 40 days without being critical, so why begin . . . why even try?”
We miss the point. Lent begins with this simple, earthy affirmation of our humanity: “You are dust” . . . loved dust, cherished dust, beyond-all-worth dust . . . but still, dust.
The point is not that you will mess up, that you will fall short. That is assumed already. The point is that you acknowledge when you do stumble . . . that you learn something about yourself, and about yourself in God, and about yourself in relation to others . . . that you get back “on the bicycle” after you fall and then keep going . . . that you find yourself loved and beheld, even as you fall . . . and that through it all, you come to experience that no amount of human failure can disqualify you from love.
If you begin Lent truly hearing and believing that you are dust, beloved dust, then you can go ahead and take on the improbable or the impossible in your life . . . you can endeavor to address the thing that most holds you in its grasp, knowing that no matter each Lenten day’s outcome, you are never disqualified from the journey and never outside the reach of love.
The visitor asked the monk, “What do you do here at the monastery all day long?”
The elder monk replied, “We fall down and get up . . . fall down and get up . . . fall down and get up.”
Tomorrow, Ash Wednesday, marks the beginning of Lent. Many of us will attend a church service in which ashes are marked upon our foreheads. We will hear the traditional Ash Wednesday litany that reminds us, “Remember, from dust you have come, and to dust you shall return.”
I will be with the Senior Pastor of First United Methodist Church of Rogers, wearing a ministerial robe and clerical stole, standing in 36 degree temperatures, waiting in a parking lot in Downtown Rogers, Arkansas, to impose ashes on the foreheads of those who drive by.
The car pulls up. “What is your name?”
“Maria.”
“Maria, remember your creation in God . . . from dust God created you . . . and remember your humanity . . . to dust you shall return.” The car drives away.
It seems a bit mundane, imposing ashes as people pull up in their cars, rather than in the formality of an Ash Wednesday service in a beautiful Chapel somewhere.
Yet, what better way to remember our humanity, to be reminded of our clay feet, than in the run of everyday life?
“Honey, I’m running to the grocery store and the post office. And oh, between, I’m stopping to get marked with ashes.”
It’s a powerful symbol of one central aspect of our humanity, the “dust” that will always be part of who we are.
“Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return,” is simply a formal way to say, “You’re human and always will be, so don’t forget it!”
Too much perverted spirituality claims you can rise above your humanity . . . that spiritual practices can root out your human nature permanently . . . that you can overcome your humanity and rise to some exalted spiritual sphere where you don’t have to deal with everyday life any more.
In fact, that very illusion is carried by many who embark on an intentional spiritual path. They want to eradicate their impulses to control and envy and greed. They want a check on their egocentric longings and manipulations. They want to be better. They want to move beyond “sin.” The motive may be sound, but no matter how hard we try, we will never escape our humanness.
Lent begins with this reminder of our humanity. We are human. Dust. Clay. Too often weak and conflicted.
But we are also created in God’s image, created with God’s own DNA woven into our being, created for union with God, created to live in the fullness of our God-connection.
It is important that Lent begins this way . . . with this reminder of our humanity. Many of us take up some special practice for Lent, or we step into Lent intending to fast something . . . food or drink or a compulsive habit.
Some of us, for example, will vow to give up sweets, or more specifically chocolates, for Lent. Or we give up some kind of drink, perhaps alcohol. Or, if our own anger or envy is a particular issue for us, we will give up an afflictive emotion for Lent.
I realize that often I give up something for Lent that seems rather inconsequential. I can easily give up sweets, including chocolate, for Lent and will it come as no great sacrifice for me. Even something which comes nearer to addiction – my morning cup of coffee or evening glass of wine – still seems to be skimming the surface of Lent’s intention.
While there is something to be said for any form of fasting in which we say, “No!” to ourselves, there are some practices that seem to touch us more deeply than others.
Honestly, sometimes I wonder if we undertake practices for Lent that are more inconvenience than actual fasts because we want to do something for Lent at which we can succeed. Afraid that we might bale out three days into fasting some weightier afflictive emotion or addictive obsession, we opt for the thing we can accomplish, the fast at which we can succeed.
“How could I possibly tame my ego or lay aside my pride for seven weeks?”
“What would life be like if I didn’t have to worry all the time?”
“It is not possible for me to go a day without judging someone else.”
“I could not possibly spend 40 days without being critical, so why begin . . . why even try?”
We miss the point. Lent begins with this simple, earthy affirmation of our humanity: “You are dust” . . . loved dust, cherished dust, beyond-all-worth dust . . . but still, dust.
The point is not that you will mess up, that you will fall short. That is assumed already. The point is that you acknowledge when you do stumble . . . that you learn something about yourself, and about yourself in God, and about yourself in relation to others . . . that you get back “on the bicycle” after you fall and then keep going . . . that you find yourself loved and beheld, even as you fall . . . and that through it all, you come to experience that no amount of human failure can disqualify you from love.
If you begin Lent truly hearing and believing that you are dust, beloved dust, then you can go ahead and take on the improbable or the impossible in your life . . . you can endeavor to address the thing that most holds you in its grasp, knowing that no matter each Lenten day’s outcome, you are never disqualified from the journey and never outside the reach of love.
The visitor asked the monk, “What do you do here at the monastery all day long?”
The elder monk replied, “We fall down and get up . . . fall down and get up . . . fall down and get up.”
Thursday, February 14, 2019
Traditions and Transcendence
Mark 7:1-13
The Pharisees and some of the teachers of the law who had come from Jerusalem gathered around Jesus 2 and saw some of his disciples eating food with hands that were defiled, that is, unwashed. 3 (The Pharisees and all the Jews do not eat unless they give their hands a ceremonial washing, holding to the tradition of the elders. 4 When they come from the marketplace they do not eat unless they wash. And they observe many other traditions, such as the washing of cups, pitchers and kettles.)
5 So the Pharisees and teachers of the law asked Jesus, “Why don’t your disciples live according to the tradition of the elders instead of eating their food with defiled hands?”
6 He replied, “Isaiah was right when he prophesied about you hypocrites; as it is written:
“‘These people honor me with their lips,
but their hearts are far from me.
7
They worship me in vain;
their teachings are merely human rules.’
8 You have let go of the commands of God and are holding on to human traditions.”
9 And he continued, “You have a fine way of setting aside the commands of God in order to observe your own traditions! 10 For Moses said, ‘Honor your father and mother,’ and, ‘Anyone who curses their father or mother is to be put to death.’[e] 11 But you say that if anyone declares that what might have been used to help their father or mother is Corban (that is, devoted to God)— 12 then you no longer let them do anything for their father or mother. 13 Thus you nullify the word of God by your tradition that you have handed down. And you do many things like that.”
The word "tradition" appears frequently in the Mark 7 passage.
If you are of a certain generation, think Tevye belting out "Tradition!!" in Fiddler on the Roof.
If you are of another generation, think Emmett and the construction workers singing, "Everything is awesome!!" as they blithely go about the same, endless routine, day after day assembling the pieces of the city in the Lego Movie. [Those of you who right now are rolling your eyes and dismissing this blog-post over a Lego Movie reference have missed a jewel if you've not seen it . . . smart, funny, symbolic, and with several brilliant messages, one of which plays on the song, "Everything Is Awesome!"]
Routines and practices easily become overly familiar, so deeply woven into the pattern of daily life that we no longer ask, "Why do I do this?" or "What fruit does this regimen bear in my life?" No need to ask the questions when you're convinced, "Everything is awesome!!"
Rarely do we think of a daily ritual, a religious practice, or an habitual routine as inauthentic. Mostly, they simply lose their energy over time. Sometimes we persist in the practice simply as a lucky charm, never mind that the ritual itself has become empty for us, devoid of any deeper meaning or significance.
I like the word transcendence. It suggests "beyond" . . . beyond comprehension, beyond explanation, beyond the usual, beyond ordinary experience. For several months now, I've sought to bounce things (including practices, rituals, routines, vocations) off this notion of transcendence. Assuming that God is somehow connected to all beyond us, I ask, "Does this thing . . . or practice . . . or belief . . . or connection . . . or vocation . . . have some sense of transcendence about it?" (Of course, all things are full of transcendence if we see them as so. But rarely do we have those eyes to see. As Elizabeth Barrett Browning pointedly wrote, most of us sit round the flaming bush and pluck blackberries.)
So it was, in Jesus' time, with these "traditions of the elders" and the "human traditions" to which the religious crowd was attached. It wasn't that the traditions were bad . . . and it wasn't that those who engaged in them were purposely deceitful or evil people; rather, the rituals and traditions themselves no longer held transcendent weight. They no longer pointed the persons who practiced them to The One Who is Beyond. Deeper realities were lost. The practices were no longer shaping lives, deepening connections with God, or helping the practitioners open themselves more deeply and receptively to the Spirit.
No longer did anyone ask, "Why do we do these things?" or "What is this practice trying to accomplish in my life?"
New wine was bursting the old wineskins of the traditional religious system.
Who among us has not been here, perhaps accumulating religious practices in hopes that the mere practice, rotely performed, would commend us to God?
Who among us has not clung to some method of prayer or formula for experiencing God which was effective in the past, trying to recapture some elusive emotional impulse which reminds us of God's presence?
Who among us has not piled up a storehouse of lucky charms in hopes that they will shield us from difficulty and lead us to a gilded life?
We have all been there, done that. So how do we engage in life, in practices, in rituals that deepen our connection with God? . . . that allow us to participate with God in what God is doing in the world?
What practices connect me with that which is transcendent? What routines have the gravitas to hold the weight of who I am? . . . to shape me? . . . to open me? . . . to help me see more clearly what is real (in myself and in the world)?
These are not the religious rituals that make me feel better, that confirm who I am, or that are done for the sake of a season. Rather, transformative spiritual practices connect me with something more substantial, something solid, something that can ground me or anchor me. (Hence, Meister Eckhart's phrase for God was "The Ground of Being.") Thus, they are transcendent.
How will I know if some "tradition" to which I hold is transcendent or leads me to transcendence? There are probably several ways to answer. Most simply and straightforwardly, hold your spiritual practice up to the transcendent values of love, compassion, and mercy. Do my daily routines or spiritual practices make me more compassionate? Do they open up space inside me to respond to the world with mercy rather than judgment? Do they allow love to flow through me into the world? Am I better able to forgive, include, accept, and be open to the other?
At the very least, God's project for the world starts with love, compassion, and mercy. Thus, that seems to be the place you and I can start, as well.
The Pharisees and some of the teachers of the law who had come from Jerusalem gathered around Jesus 2 and saw some of his disciples eating food with hands that were defiled, that is, unwashed. 3 (The Pharisees and all the Jews do not eat unless they give their hands a ceremonial washing, holding to the tradition of the elders. 4 When they come from the marketplace they do not eat unless they wash. And they observe many other traditions, such as the washing of cups, pitchers and kettles.)
5 So the Pharisees and teachers of the law asked Jesus, “Why don’t your disciples live according to the tradition of the elders instead of eating their food with defiled hands?”
6 He replied, “Isaiah was right when he prophesied about you hypocrites; as it is written:
“‘These people honor me with their lips,
but their hearts are far from me.
7
They worship me in vain;
their teachings are merely human rules.’
8 You have let go of the commands of God and are holding on to human traditions.”
9 And he continued, “You have a fine way of setting aside the commands of God in order to observe your own traditions! 10 For Moses said, ‘Honor your father and mother,’ and, ‘Anyone who curses their father or mother is to be put to death.’[e] 11 But you say that if anyone declares that what might have been used to help their father or mother is Corban (that is, devoted to God)— 12 then you no longer let them do anything for their father or mother. 13 Thus you nullify the word of God by your tradition that you have handed down. And you do many things like that.”
The word "tradition" appears frequently in the Mark 7 passage.
If you are of a certain generation, think Tevye belting out "Tradition!!" in Fiddler on the Roof.
If you are of another generation, think Emmett and the construction workers singing, "Everything is awesome!!" as they blithely go about the same, endless routine, day after day assembling the pieces of the city in the Lego Movie. [Those of you who right now are rolling your eyes and dismissing this blog-post over a Lego Movie reference have missed a jewel if you've not seen it . . . smart, funny, symbolic, and with several brilliant messages, one of which plays on the song, "Everything Is Awesome!"]
Routines and practices easily become overly familiar, so deeply woven into the pattern of daily life that we no longer ask, "Why do I do this?" or "What fruit does this regimen bear in my life?" No need to ask the questions when you're convinced, "Everything is awesome!!"
Rarely do we think of a daily ritual, a religious practice, or an habitual routine as inauthentic. Mostly, they simply lose their energy over time. Sometimes we persist in the practice simply as a lucky charm, never mind that the ritual itself has become empty for us, devoid of any deeper meaning or significance.
I like the word transcendence. It suggests "beyond" . . . beyond comprehension, beyond explanation, beyond the usual, beyond ordinary experience. For several months now, I've sought to bounce things (including practices, rituals, routines, vocations) off this notion of transcendence. Assuming that God is somehow connected to all beyond us, I ask, "Does this thing . . . or practice . . . or belief . . . or connection . . . or vocation . . . have some sense of transcendence about it?" (Of course, all things are full of transcendence if we see them as so. But rarely do we have those eyes to see. As Elizabeth Barrett Browning pointedly wrote, most of us sit round the flaming bush and pluck blackberries.)
So it was, in Jesus' time, with these "traditions of the elders" and the "human traditions" to which the religious crowd was attached. It wasn't that the traditions were bad . . . and it wasn't that those who engaged in them were purposely deceitful or evil people; rather, the rituals and traditions themselves no longer held transcendent weight. They no longer pointed the persons who practiced them to The One Who is Beyond. Deeper realities were lost. The practices were no longer shaping lives, deepening connections with God, or helping the practitioners open themselves more deeply and receptively to the Spirit.
No longer did anyone ask, "Why do we do these things?" or "What is this practice trying to accomplish in my life?"
New wine was bursting the old wineskins of the traditional religious system.
Who among us has not been here, perhaps accumulating religious practices in hopes that the mere practice, rotely performed, would commend us to God?
Who among us has not clung to some method of prayer or formula for experiencing God which was effective in the past, trying to recapture some elusive emotional impulse which reminds us of God's presence?
Who among us has not piled up a storehouse of lucky charms in hopes that they will shield us from difficulty and lead us to a gilded life?
We have all been there, done that. So how do we engage in life, in practices, in rituals that deepen our connection with God? . . . that allow us to participate with God in what God is doing in the world?
What practices connect me with that which is transcendent? What routines have the gravitas to hold the weight of who I am? . . . to shape me? . . . to open me? . . . to help me see more clearly what is real (in myself and in the world)?
These are not the religious rituals that make me feel better, that confirm who I am, or that are done for the sake of a season. Rather, transformative spiritual practices connect me with something more substantial, something solid, something that can ground me or anchor me. (Hence, Meister Eckhart's phrase for God was "The Ground of Being.") Thus, they are transcendent.
How will I know if some "tradition" to which I hold is transcendent or leads me to transcendence? There are probably several ways to answer. Most simply and straightforwardly, hold your spiritual practice up to the transcendent values of love, compassion, and mercy. Do my daily routines or spiritual practices make me more compassionate? Do they open up space inside me to respond to the world with mercy rather than judgment? Do they allow love to flow through me into the world? Am I better able to forgive, include, accept, and be open to the other?
At the very least, God's project for the world starts with love, compassion, and mercy. Thus, that seems to be the place you and I can start, as well.
Tuesday, February 12, 2019
You're Not in Control
Luke 5:1-11
One day as Jesus was standing by the Lake of Gennesaret, the people were crowding around him and listening to the word of God. 2 He saw at the water’s edge two boats, left there by the fishermen, who were washing their nets. 3 He got into one of the boats, the one belonging to Simon, and asked him to put out a little from shore. Then he sat down and taught the people from the boat.
4 When he had finished speaking, he said to Simon, “Put out into deep water, and let down the nets for a catch.”
5 Simon answered, “Master, we’ve worked hard all night and haven’t caught anything. But because you say so, I will let down the nets.”
6 When they had done so, they caught such a large number of fish that their nets began to break. 7 So they signaled their partners in the other boat to come and help them, and they came and filled both boats so full that they began to sink.
8 When Simon Peter saw this, he fell at Jesus’ knees and said, “Go away from me, Lord; I am a sinful man!” 9 For he and all his companions were astonished at the catch of fish they had taken, 10 and so were James and John, the sons of Zebedee, Simon’s partners.
Then Jesus said to Simon, “Don’t be afraid; from now on you will fish for people.” 11 So they pulled their boats up on shore, left everything and followed him.
"Go away from me, Lord; I am a sinful man." Peter was right, of course. He was a "sinful man," in whatever way you choose to measure human sinfulness. In that sense, he was no different from me or you.
But coming as it does in this part of the narrative, I don't sense that Peter was sharing new information with Jesus about the level of his morality. Nor was Peter reminding Jesus of something he felt Jesus already knew.
Peter's objection is rooted in a much deeper sense of self and in his own theological assumptions about himself and God. His statement gives us a hint about how he sees himself, and how he perceives God working in the world.
[Foreshadowing: The way Peter believes God works in a human life is also the default system many of us carry within ourselves.]
While there are several significant angles within this story of the great catch of fish, I'm drawn to one in particular today. In the narrative, God is depicted as generous, even extravagant. After a full night of fishing in which these professional fishers caught nothing, Jesus instructed them to try again. What changed? Was there a shift in the wind? A change in the barometric pressure? What happened?
[My grandfather had a sixth-grade education, but was the best fisher I ever knew. He could barely read a book, but from a boat on the lake or with a rod and reel in hand on the shore, he could read the weather -- and thus the fish -- with uncanny accuracy. If we were sitting in his living room and said, "Let's go fishing, Granddad!" he would walk out to the porch, stand there for a couple of minutes watching the skies, feeling the air on his skin, and either say, "Okay, it's a good day for fishing," or "They're not biting today . . . we'll go another day."]
What changed that day on Gennesaret Lake? What did Jesus know that these professional fishers did not know?
"Put down your nets again," Jesus instructed, and what came up in the nets were so many fish the nets began to tear. Abundance . . . extravagance . . . taking the little and making it more than enough . . . these are familiar themes echoed throughout God's story in scripture, especially as embodied in Jesus.
But Peter is accustomed to a finite world . . . a world in which we have been taught that we get what we deserve. Thus, as "sinners," we deserve very little. To Peter, the scene doesn't add up. He had done nothing to earn or deserve this massive catch of fish. And he has not been sufficiently versed in God's generosity. So he objects. He has lived inside a pattern that has created dichotomies all his life: deserving/undeserving . . . worthy/unworthy . . . one or the other. By the tone of the narrative, Peter is not ready for Jesus to break open the worthiness pattern under which he has ordered his life.
"Go away from me," he says. I"m not ready for a shift like this. I'm accustomed to being the center of my world. When things, good things, come my way, it's because I've worked for them, earned them, shown myself worthy of them. I'm a sinful man. I will not accept unearned gifts!
[Have you ever received some good gift, something you did not deserve, or some accolade for which you felt unworthy, and then countered that good gift by engaging in some kind of self-destructive behavior? I have, and you probably have, too. It is one subconscious way we say with our lives, "I'm a sinful person! I'm not deserving!" Perhaps we pick a fight with a spouse . . . or engage in some addictive behavior . . . or intentionally create a stir at work . . . all the dynamic equivalent of Peter's pushback, "Get away from me! I am unworthy!"]
How impoverished Peter is! How impoverished we are! Ordering life as if everything depends on me -- my skill, my intellect, my ingenuity, my creativity, my work ethic -- I shut out the possibility of gift, generosity, grace. In that sense, I am not only impoverished, but stunted in my capacity to receive from God and others anything that comes apart from my own making.
We live in God's world, thankfully, in which we do NOT always get what we deserve -- either for good or for bad -- and in which we are not in charge -- despite our feverish efforts at controlling the world.
The worthiness game is a true dead-end, despite how deeply ingrained it is within us and within culture. Ultimately, it shuts you off from God and others, making life all about yourself, your efforts, your own will. There is little future in that, either for me, for you, or for the human community.
So here you go . . . here's your huge catch of fish!!
One day as Jesus was standing by the Lake of Gennesaret, the people were crowding around him and listening to the word of God. 2 He saw at the water’s edge two boats, left there by the fishermen, who were washing their nets. 3 He got into one of the boats, the one belonging to Simon, and asked him to put out a little from shore. Then he sat down and taught the people from the boat.
4 When he had finished speaking, he said to Simon, “Put out into deep water, and let down the nets for a catch.”
5 Simon answered, “Master, we’ve worked hard all night and haven’t caught anything. But because you say so, I will let down the nets.”
6 When they had done so, they caught such a large number of fish that their nets began to break. 7 So they signaled their partners in the other boat to come and help them, and they came and filled both boats so full that they began to sink.
8 When Simon Peter saw this, he fell at Jesus’ knees and said, “Go away from me, Lord; I am a sinful man!” 9 For he and all his companions were astonished at the catch of fish they had taken, 10 and so were James and John, the sons of Zebedee, Simon’s partners.
Then Jesus said to Simon, “Don’t be afraid; from now on you will fish for people.” 11 So they pulled their boats up on shore, left everything and followed him.
"Go away from me, Lord; I am a sinful man." Peter was right, of course. He was a "sinful man," in whatever way you choose to measure human sinfulness. In that sense, he was no different from me or you.
But coming as it does in this part of the narrative, I don't sense that Peter was sharing new information with Jesus about the level of his morality. Nor was Peter reminding Jesus of something he felt Jesus already knew.
Peter's objection is rooted in a much deeper sense of self and in his own theological assumptions about himself and God. His statement gives us a hint about how he sees himself, and how he perceives God working in the world.
[Foreshadowing: The way Peter believes God works in a human life is also the default system many of us carry within ourselves.]
While there are several significant angles within this story of the great catch of fish, I'm drawn to one in particular today. In the narrative, God is depicted as generous, even extravagant. After a full night of fishing in which these professional fishers caught nothing, Jesus instructed them to try again. What changed? Was there a shift in the wind? A change in the barometric pressure? What happened?
[My grandfather had a sixth-grade education, but was the best fisher I ever knew. He could barely read a book, but from a boat on the lake or with a rod and reel in hand on the shore, he could read the weather -- and thus the fish -- with uncanny accuracy. If we were sitting in his living room and said, "Let's go fishing, Granddad!" he would walk out to the porch, stand there for a couple of minutes watching the skies, feeling the air on his skin, and either say, "Okay, it's a good day for fishing," or "They're not biting today . . . we'll go another day."]
What changed that day on Gennesaret Lake? What did Jesus know that these professional fishers did not know?
"Put down your nets again," Jesus instructed, and what came up in the nets were so many fish the nets began to tear. Abundance . . . extravagance . . . taking the little and making it more than enough . . . these are familiar themes echoed throughout God's story in scripture, especially as embodied in Jesus.
But Peter is accustomed to a finite world . . . a world in which we have been taught that we get what we deserve. Thus, as "sinners," we deserve very little. To Peter, the scene doesn't add up. He had done nothing to earn or deserve this massive catch of fish. And he has not been sufficiently versed in God's generosity. So he objects. He has lived inside a pattern that has created dichotomies all his life: deserving/undeserving . . . worthy/unworthy . . . one or the other. By the tone of the narrative, Peter is not ready for Jesus to break open the worthiness pattern under which he has ordered his life.
"Go away from me," he says. I"m not ready for a shift like this. I'm accustomed to being the center of my world. When things, good things, come my way, it's because I've worked for them, earned them, shown myself worthy of them. I'm a sinful man. I will not accept unearned gifts!
[Have you ever received some good gift, something you did not deserve, or some accolade for which you felt unworthy, and then countered that good gift by engaging in some kind of self-destructive behavior? I have, and you probably have, too. It is one subconscious way we say with our lives, "I'm a sinful person! I'm not deserving!" Perhaps we pick a fight with a spouse . . . or engage in some addictive behavior . . . or intentionally create a stir at work . . . all the dynamic equivalent of Peter's pushback, "Get away from me! I am unworthy!"]
How impoverished Peter is! How impoverished we are! Ordering life as if everything depends on me -- my skill, my intellect, my ingenuity, my creativity, my work ethic -- I shut out the possibility of gift, generosity, grace. In that sense, I am not only impoverished, but stunted in my capacity to receive from God and others anything that comes apart from my own making.
We live in God's world, thankfully, in which we do NOT always get what we deserve -- either for good or for bad -- and in which we are not in charge -- despite our feverish efforts at controlling the world.
The worthiness game is a true dead-end, despite how deeply ingrained it is within us and within culture. Ultimately, it shuts you off from God and others, making life all about yourself, your efforts, your own will. There is little future in that, either for me, for you, or for the human community.
So here you go . . . here's your huge catch of fish!!
Wednesday, January 23, 2019
Loving the Other
Through Advent I took a break from Only a Sojourner in order to post reflections on the daily Advent readings at https://adailyadvent.blogspot.com/
Now, well into the season of Epiphany, I'll offer a few words related to my two previous posts before moving on.
What does it mean to love another? It may be easy enough to "love" someone we are drawn to, someone with whom we share a close connection . . . family members, friends, those with whom we share common interests and concerns. But what does it mean to love the narcissist, the bully, the abuser, the cruel one?
The previous post of Thomas Merton's thoughts in No Man Is an Island provided some clues.
Love seeks one thing only: the good of the one loved. . . . [No Man Is an Island, p. 5]
To love another person, we seek not our own good, not even the pleasant feeling of having done something good. Rather, we will what is truly good for the other.
I realize that sounds like a subjective standard. I can look at another person and think I know what is good for them, what is best for them, but I have to confess that like you, I never see all the way through another person. I never know what is hidden within the deepest caverns of their being. I never truly know what they need simply by observing them on the outside.
What I do know -- or at least what I believe I know -- is that God's design for every human being is wholeness, that we live fully human lives. (In the 2nd century, St. Irenaeus famously said, "The glory of God is the human person fully alive"). God desires that we each live as fully as possible into the unique personhood for which God created us.
Thus, to truly love another person means that we seek the other's wholeness . . . we act on their behalf that they might become more and more the person God created them to be . . . we act in their lives in ways that are healing, in ways that call forth from them the image of God that is written into their soul's DNA. For as Merton suggests, not only is this person's destiny to be considered, but also the destiny of God's entire kingdom (p. 8). God's work of moving persons toward wholeness is part of God's wider project, what Jesus called the "kingdom of God," to bring all people to this healing wholeness; therefore, to love another person truly is also to love what God is doing in the world.
So given this notion of love, which acts for the benefit of the other in his or her becoming . . . and given that there is a sense of the common good, the kingdom which is coming . . . here are some examples of what love is not:
* Love does not stroke a narcissist and feed his or her narcissism.
* Love does not bow before a bully and enable his or her bullying.
* Love does not have a blind eye toward abusive behavior, excusing it as "he/she cannot help themselves."
* Love does not reward attention-seekers just because their ego wants to be continually in the spotlight.
Perhaps one obvious example will help. No one who truly loves an alcoholic would think of handing him/her a drink when they are trying to get sober. What family members and friends must learn on the road to sobriety is what some call "tough love," the strength to say "no" in order to keep the addict's health, wholeness, and best interest first and foremost.
In loving another, we don't act in ways that keep them imprisoned in the small egocentric self. We want to love them in ways that somehow release them or encourage them to their more expansive, truer, authentic self.
Then how shall we know how best to love another person? Good question. You see by now, don't you, that love is hard work. And because we don't see the inside of the other fully, our love for them is not always clear-cut. Here again, Merton helps.
One who really loves another is not merely moved by the desire to see him contented and healthy and prosperous in this world. Love cannot be satisfied with anything so incomplete. If I am to love my brother, I must somehow enter deep into the mystery of God's love for him. . . . The truth I must love in my brother is God Himself, living in him. . . .
In order to love others with perfect charity I must be true to them, to myself, and to God. . . .
If we love one another truly, our love will be graced with a clear-sighted prudence which sees and respects the designs of God upon each separate soul. Our love for one another must be rooted in a deep devotion to Divine Providence, a devotion that abandons our own limited plans into the hands of God and seeks only to enter into the invisible work that builds His Kingdom. (pp. 7-9)
In Merton's vision of love, the one who desires to love another must engage in his/her own strenuous inner work, deepening in God, knowing ourselves more fully, seeing our own light and darkness with more clarity. We engage in this work of spiritual becoming ourselves so that we see more clearly, slowly and over time, praying that we increasingly take on the heart and eyes of God within ourselves.
This attention to our own inner landscape is what Merton calls being "rooted in a deep devotion to Divine Providence, a devotion that abandons our own limited plans into the hands of God and seeks only to enter into the invisible work that builds His Kingdom."
Merton says I must somehow enter deep into the mystery of God's love for the other.
This is difficult work and no one gets it perfectly. The temptation for me -- your temptation may be different -- is to withhold love until I'm "doing it right." When that is the case, I will never love.
So the invitation for me is to begin where I am . . . to give attention to my own interior . . . to see more and more of my own truth . . . and to look on others with compassion, asking, "What does he/she truly need to be whole? How does God see them? Is there some way I can help love them to wholeness?"
Sometimes the answer is tangible food or clothing or cash for a utility payment.
Sometimes the answer is an affirming word, a listening ear, or quiet presence.
Sometimes the answer is a well-timed, well-placed question which allows the other to explore more deeply the implications of what they are considering.
And sometimes the answer is a firm, solid, "No, not now!"
Now, well into the season of Epiphany, I'll offer a few words related to my two previous posts before moving on.
What does it mean to love another? It may be easy enough to "love" someone we are drawn to, someone with whom we share a close connection . . . family members, friends, those with whom we share common interests and concerns. But what does it mean to love the narcissist, the bully, the abuser, the cruel one?
The previous post of Thomas Merton's thoughts in No Man Is an Island provided some clues.
Love seeks one thing only: the good of the one loved. . . . [No Man Is an Island, p. 5]
To love another person, we seek not our own good, not even the pleasant feeling of having done something good. Rather, we will what is truly good for the other.
I realize that sounds like a subjective standard. I can look at another person and think I know what is good for them, what is best for them, but I have to confess that like you, I never see all the way through another person. I never know what is hidden within the deepest caverns of their being. I never truly know what they need simply by observing them on the outside.
What I do know -- or at least what I believe I know -- is that God's design for every human being is wholeness, that we live fully human lives. (In the 2nd century, St. Irenaeus famously said, "The glory of God is the human person fully alive"). God desires that we each live as fully as possible into the unique personhood for which God created us.
Thus, to truly love another person means that we seek the other's wholeness . . . we act on their behalf that they might become more and more the person God created them to be . . . we act in their lives in ways that are healing, in ways that call forth from them the image of God that is written into their soul's DNA. For as Merton suggests, not only is this person's destiny to be considered, but also the destiny of God's entire kingdom (p. 8). God's work of moving persons toward wholeness is part of God's wider project, what Jesus called the "kingdom of God," to bring all people to this healing wholeness; therefore, to love another person truly is also to love what God is doing in the world.
So given this notion of love, which acts for the benefit of the other in his or her becoming . . . and given that there is a sense of the common good, the kingdom which is coming . . . here are some examples of what love is not:
* Love does not stroke a narcissist and feed his or her narcissism.
* Love does not bow before a bully and enable his or her bullying.
* Love does not have a blind eye toward abusive behavior, excusing it as "he/she cannot help themselves."
* Love does not reward attention-seekers just because their ego wants to be continually in the spotlight.
Perhaps one obvious example will help. No one who truly loves an alcoholic would think of handing him/her a drink when they are trying to get sober. What family members and friends must learn on the road to sobriety is what some call "tough love," the strength to say "no" in order to keep the addict's health, wholeness, and best interest first and foremost.
In loving another, we don't act in ways that keep them imprisoned in the small egocentric self. We want to love them in ways that somehow release them or encourage them to their more expansive, truer, authentic self.
Then how shall we know how best to love another person? Good question. You see by now, don't you, that love is hard work. And because we don't see the inside of the other fully, our love for them is not always clear-cut. Here again, Merton helps.
One who really loves another is not merely moved by the desire to see him contented and healthy and prosperous in this world. Love cannot be satisfied with anything so incomplete. If I am to love my brother, I must somehow enter deep into the mystery of God's love for him. . . . The truth I must love in my brother is God Himself, living in him. . . .
In order to love others with perfect charity I must be true to them, to myself, and to God. . . .
If we love one another truly, our love will be graced with a clear-sighted prudence which sees and respects the designs of God upon each separate soul. Our love for one another must be rooted in a deep devotion to Divine Providence, a devotion that abandons our own limited plans into the hands of God and seeks only to enter into the invisible work that builds His Kingdom. (pp. 7-9)
In Merton's vision of love, the one who desires to love another must engage in his/her own strenuous inner work, deepening in God, knowing ourselves more fully, seeing our own light and darkness with more clarity. We engage in this work of spiritual becoming ourselves so that we see more clearly, slowly and over time, praying that we increasingly take on the heart and eyes of God within ourselves.
This attention to our own inner landscape is what Merton calls being "rooted in a deep devotion to Divine Providence, a devotion that abandons our own limited plans into the hands of God and seeks only to enter into the invisible work that builds His Kingdom."
Merton says I must somehow enter deep into the mystery of God's love for the other.
This is difficult work and no one gets it perfectly. The temptation for me -- your temptation may be different -- is to withhold love until I'm "doing it right." When that is the case, I will never love.
So the invitation for me is to begin where I am . . . to give attention to my own interior . . . to see more and more of my own truth . . . and to look on others with compassion, asking, "What does he/she truly need to be whole? How does God see them? Is there some way I can help love them to wholeness?"
Sometimes the answer is tangible food or clothing or cash for a utility payment.
Sometimes the answer is an affirming word, a listening ear, or quiet presence.
Sometimes the answer is a well-timed, well-placed question which allows the other to explore more deeply the implications of what they are considering.
And sometimes the answer is a firm, solid, "No, not now!"
Tuesday, December 4, 2018
Love Loves . . . Merton's Thoughts
Before posting my own reflection on, "What does it mean to love another?" as a follow-up to the previous post, "Love loves what is . . . as it is," I want to post some of Thomas Merton's words about love and charity.
These thoughts come from the first section of Merton's, No Man Is an Island. The chapter is called, "Love Can Be Kept Only by Being Given Away." (I have retained Merton's original language, which uses masculine pronouns throughout. Merton was not only a product of his times, he was also the product of an all-male monastic community.)
There is a false and momentary happiness in self-satisfaction, but it always leads to sorrow because it narrows and deadens our spirit. True happiness is found in unselfish love, a love which increases in proportion as it is shared. There is no end to the sharing of love, and, therefore, the potential happiness of such love is without limit. Infinite sharing is the law of God's inner life. He has made the sharing of ourselves the law of our own being, so that it is in loving others that we best love ourselves. In disinterested activity we best fulfill our own capacities to act and to be.
Yet there can never be happiness in compulsion. It is not enough for love to be shared: it must be shared freely. That is to say it must be given, not merely taken.
***********
Love not only prefers the good of another to my own, but it does not even compare the two. . . . Love seeks one thing only: the good of the one loved. . . .
To love another is to will what is really good for him. Such love must be based on truth. A love that sees no distinction between good and evil, but loves blindly merely for the sake of loving, is hatred, rather than love. To love blindly is to love selfishly, because the goal of such love is not the real advantage of the beloved but only the exercise of love in our own souls. . . .
Charity is neither weak nor blind. It is essentially prudent, just, temperate, and strong. Unless all the other virtues blend together in charity, our love is not genuine. No one who really wants to love another will consent to love him falsely. If we are going to love others at all, we must make up our minds to love them well. Otherwise our love is a delusion. . . .
One who really loves another is not merely moved by the desire to see him contented and healthy and prosperous in this world. Love cannot be satisfied with anything so incomplete. If I am to love my brother, I must somehow enter deep into the mystery of God's love for him. . . . The truth I must love in my brother is God Himself, living in him.
************
In order to love others with perfect charity I must be true to them, to myself, and to God.
The true interests of a person are at once perfectly his own and common to the whole Kingdom of God. That is because these interests are all centered in God's designs for his soul. The destiny of each one of us is intended, by the Lord, to enter into the destiny of His entire Kingdom. . . .
If we love one another truly, our love will be graced with a clear-sighted prudence which sees and respects the designs of God upon each separate soul. Our love for one another must be rooted in a deep devotion to Divine Providence, a devotion that abandons our own limited plans into the hands of God and seeks only to enter into the invisible work that builds His Kingdom.
These thoughts come from the first section of Merton's, No Man Is an Island. The chapter is called, "Love Can Be Kept Only by Being Given Away." (I have retained Merton's original language, which uses masculine pronouns throughout. Merton was not only a product of his times, he was also the product of an all-male monastic community.)
There is a false and momentary happiness in self-satisfaction, but it always leads to sorrow because it narrows and deadens our spirit. True happiness is found in unselfish love, a love which increases in proportion as it is shared. There is no end to the sharing of love, and, therefore, the potential happiness of such love is without limit. Infinite sharing is the law of God's inner life. He has made the sharing of ourselves the law of our own being, so that it is in loving others that we best love ourselves. In disinterested activity we best fulfill our own capacities to act and to be.
Yet there can never be happiness in compulsion. It is not enough for love to be shared: it must be shared freely. That is to say it must be given, not merely taken.
***********
Love not only prefers the good of another to my own, but it does not even compare the two. . . . Love seeks one thing only: the good of the one loved. . . .
To love another is to will what is really good for him. Such love must be based on truth. A love that sees no distinction between good and evil, but loves blindly merely for the sake of loving, is hatred, rather than love. To love blindly is to love selfishly, because the goal of such love is not the real advantage of the beloved but only the exercise of love in our own souls. . . .
Charity is neither weak nor blind. It is essentially prudent, just, temperate, and strong. Unless all the other virtues blend together in charity, our love is not genuine. No one who really wants to love another will consent to love him falsely. If we are going to love others at all, we must make up our minds to love them well. Otherwise our love is a delusion. . . .
One who really loves another is not merely moved by the desire to see him contented and healthy and prosperous in this world. Love cannot be satisfied with anything so incomplete. If I am to love my brother, I must somehow enter deep into the mystery of God's love for him. . . . The truth I must love in my brother is God Himself, living in him.
************
In order to love others with perfect charity I must be true to them, to myself, and to God.
The true interests of a person are at once perfectly his own and common to the whole Kingdom of God. That is because these interests are all centered in God's designs for his soul. The destiny of each one of us is intended, by the Lord, to enter into the destiny of His entire Kingdom. . . .
If we love one another truly, our love will be graced with a clear-sighted prudence which sees and respects the designs of God upon each separate soul. Our love for one another must be rooted in a deep devotion to Divine Providence, a devotion that abandons our own limited plans into the hands of God and seeks only to enter into the invisible work that builds His Kingdom.
Wednesday, November 28, 2018
Love Loves What Is As It Is
Love loves what is as it is.
I have been saying this for years, mostly because it represents a life-stance to which I aspire, not a stance I have attained. Alas, I discover over and over again how far I have yet to travel in order to make this truth my very own.
I wish "Love loves what is as it is" was a comforting insight. Truly, it doesn't offer comfort to me as much as it disturbs me, challenges me, and presses me to a more God-centered stance toward people and situations.
Authentic love is not aligned with certain favorable conditions that are conducive to love and goodwill. Real love is not based on another person changing their ways, and thus becoming more lovable. Transforming love does not withhold itself in protest or make half-baked promises which are conditioned on certain outcomes.
Love loves what is . . . as it is. It does not wait for change. It does not demand the other become lovable -- though for the health of the other and the world, it may be in everyone's best interest for the other to become more lovable! -- before it loves.
Most days I lose touch with this Love early in the morning. I become angry at persons who use power to diminish others or who lord it over those who have no power. I withhold kindness to punish others for the wounds I perceive they have inflicted on me. I wait for wrongs to be righted as a kind of penance before I dare to invest my love and life in a person or situation.
I am frequently called back to Love, however. I am reminded often of my intention to live from an anchored Center, to approach the world from a core of mercy and compassion, rather than judgment and division. I am welcomed back to my foundational belief that those who live from this Center (what Jesus called "the kingdom of God") make a difference in the world simply by their presence.
A few months ago Deepak Chopra was on a late-night talk show. In the midst of talk about the healing power of meditation, the conversation turned to the anxiety, tension, and conflict in the world right now, and Chopra's belief that the turbulence is a sign of society going through a time of transition.
Then the host asked Chopra about inviting the President for a week of meditation, saying, "Do you think you could break him down?" Chopra responded, "You don't need to break him down. Go beyond his wounds to what is really troubling him. He needs love."
I could feel the jolt within myself . . . the air sucked out of my lungs. I was aghast! The loudest part of my being shouted, "Love a narcissist, a bully? Never!"
And the still, small voice within me said, "You KNOW it's true. You must love! This is the path you've chosen. Now walk in it."
I have been saying this for years, mostly because it represents a life-stance to which I aspire, not a stance I have attained. Alas, I discover over and over again how far I have yet to travel in order to make this truth my very own.
I wish "Love loves what is as it is" was a comforting insight. Truly, it doesn't offer comfort to me as much as it disturbs me, challenges me, and presses me to a more God-centered stance toward people and situations.
Authentic love is not aligned with certain favorable conditions that are conducive to love and goodwill. Real love is not based on another person changing their ways, and thus becoming more lovable. Transforming love does not withhold itself in protest or make half-baked promises which are conditioned on certain outcomes.
Love loves what is . . . as it is. It does not wait for change. It does not demand the other become lovable -- though for the health of the other and the world, it may be in everyone's best interest for the other to become more lovable! -- before it loves.
Most days I lose touch with this Love early in the morning. I become angry at persons who use power to diminish others or who lord it over those who have no power. I withhold kindness to punish others for the wounds I perceive they have inflicted on me. I wait for wrongs to be righted as a kind of penance before I dare to invest my love and life in a person or situation.
I am frequently called back to Love, however. I am reminded often of my intention to live from an anchored Center, to approach the world from a core of mercy and compassion, rather than judgment and division. I am welcomed back to my foundational belief that those who live from this Center (what Jesus called "the kingdom of God") make a difference in the world simply by their presence.
A few months ago Deepak Chopra was on a late-night talk show. In the midst of talk about the healing power of meditation, the conversation turned to the anxiety, tension, and conflict in the world right now, and Chopra's belief that the turbulence is a sign of society going through a time of transition.
Then the host asked Chopra about inviting the President for a week of meditation, saying, "Do you think you could break him down?" Chopra responded, "You don't need to break him down. Go beyond his wounds to what is really troubling him. He needs love."
I could feel the jolt within myself . . . the air sucked out of my lungs. I was aghast! The loudest part of my being shouted, "Love a narcissist, a bully? Never!"
And the still, small voice within me said, "You KNOW it's true. You must love! This is the path you've chosen. Now walk in it."
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