“What man among you having a hundred sheep and losing one of them would not leave the ninety-nine in the desert and go after the lost one until he finds it?And when he does find it, he sets it on his shoulders with great joy and, upon his arrival home, he calls together his friends and neighbors and says to them, ‘Rejoice with me because I have found my lost sheep.’ I tell you, in just the same way there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous people who have no need of repentance.” -Lk 15:4-7
I’ve always been very independent. My dad says that my first day of “school” (at the ripe old age of 2), I didn’t even hug him goodbye. There were people to meet, after all, and things to do–who needs Dad? I distinctly remember learning to pump on the swings, probably around age 3, and thinking to myself, “This is great! I don’t need anything from anyone anymore. I can do it all myself!” Friends, I even got excited when I had my first headache in second grade because I thought that made me an adult. Really, I was born 30.
So I’m sure it comes as no surprise that I like to be master of my own domain. I like to call the shots. I’ve pretty much been in charge of everything I’ve ever done; it’s that type A thing again. The problem is that on top of being bossy and opinionated, I’m almost pathologically lazy. Which means that, while I want to be in charge, I don’t actually want to do anything or even really make any hard decisions. Basically, I was born to be a princess–run everything except when I don’t want to.
This back and forth between doing everything and doing nothing makes me a big fan of Augustine’s line, “Pray as if everything depended on God, work as if everything depended on you.” Except that Augustine (and Ignatius of Loyola after him) meant for the two to be done simultaneously–hard work and complete trust in God. I have a tendency to do them sequentially. First, I work my butt off without asking God for any help at all. Then when I fail miserably, I sit on my worn-out butt and pout until he swoops in and fixes it all. I make ridiculous deals with him like, “If you want me to have a car, you’ll just have to give me one.” Like he’s Bob Barker or something. Either I do everything and you can sit the and watch, God, or you do everything and I’ll put my seal of approval on at the end. No collaboration, here. Either autonomy or ease.
But whether I’m in the working portion of the cycle or the praying portion, I’m doing it all myself. I hate asking for help. It’s not that I hate being helped–remember that I’m lazy–I just don’t want to seem needy. I think it stems from a deep-seated fear I have of being too much. I’m loud and awkward and obnoxious and emotional–everything about me is just big.1 Sometimes it feels as though I’ve spent my whole life being told to be quiet or sit down or calm down or go away and I’ve really bought into the lie that I’m just too much.2 So to cope, I want to give and give to people but I don’t ever want to take because then maybe they’ll hate me. I hate doing dishes more than almost anything (except running and bananas, as you’ve probably realized), but I’ll do dishes at other people’s houses because I don’t want them to think I’m a freeloader.
Why, God, why???
But God loves me too much to leave me the mess that I am. So after I gave away everything I owned and entered the convent, thinking, “Ah, now I never have to ask for anything again because everything will be given to me,”3 the Lord led me out of the convent. Oh, and told me not to get anything–a car, a phone, a place to stay. I spent the next 7 months completely dependent on the incredible generosity of my sister and brother-in-law. Theoretically, I was learning that I deserve other people’s help. Nope, just felt guilty and in the way the whole time.
Then I got a job, but still no car. I spent two and a half years mooching rides off people (in the suburbs and a small town–zero public transportation) so that I could learn to ask for help. Instead, I just didn’t go anywhere. I lived off of ramen rather than ask for a ride to get fresh food. By the time I finally got a car, I’m pretty sure I had scurvy.4
I know intellectually that we’re supposed to be community and that I at least need to trust that the people who love me want to help me. I’m trying. I really am. But whenever I ask for something (or even feel that by my very life I’m asking for something), I feel ashamed. And afraid that this will be the last straw, that after this ride from the airport or this stopover in your guest room or this visit for lunch you’ll realize that I’m just too much. I know that people love me and they want to help me and that most of the time they don’t even see it as help but as friendship. But this is the lie Satan has convinced me to believe: pretty much anybody who spends time with me is doing me a favor and I’d better not ask for too many favors. Is anybody with me on this? Am I just neurotic?
It all comes down to pride, of course. Everything does. In my pride, I don’t want to need anyone else. I want everyone to see me as self-sufficient because then I can be the magnanimous one in the relationship and they can be the peons graced by my presence. And when I can’t do that, well, I’d rather just suffer.
Humility doesn’t suffer in silence–humility asks for help. Jesus asked for help in carrying his cross; why do I think I’m strong enough to carry mine alone? When people love me and offer to help me, why can’t I rejoice in their friendship? Why do I have to obsess over my guilt?
So right now this is what I’m really struggling with: balancing my efforts, my trust in God, and other people’s help. I’m inclined to spend hours a day on the internet putting my whole life in order. Which will leave me exhausted and miserable and with no idea of where to go or what to do. On the other hand, I’m inclined to sit back and let God make things happen for me. I know he can, I’m just pretty sure that he won’t. He refuses just to live my life for me, more’s the pity. I’m not at all inclined to ask people for help. But when I took a break from work to get in some pray, the word I got was “help.”
So I’m going to try to grow in this area by asking for help. People have been so generous with this whole new life of mine and I’m so grateful. But some people have been asking how they can support me, so I’m going to swallow my colossal pride and tell you what I really need:
Prayer: Duh.
Speaking engagements: I’m loving the blogging–I’m actually shocked at how much–but I feel so drawn to public speaking. I’m not too proud to speak to confirmation classes or groups of church ladies. I can do youth or adults and I can talk on pretty much any topic. Plus, you only have to pay me if you want to, so you really can’t lose! If you work at a school or work at a church or go to a church or know someone who does one of the above, do you think you could set something up for me to come speak? I’d really appreciate it!
Connections: I know a lot of people in education and ministry, but if you know someone I don’t, do you think you could pass my blog on to them and suggest that they ask me to come speak?
Publicity: I know some of you must have been sharing my blog because I’m getting more and more hits on it. Don’t just share it because you’re my friend (which I think most of you are at this point), but if I post something that really moves you or convinces you or makes you laugh, could you share it with your friends? I’ve got nifty sharing tools down at the bottom for you. If you’ve got a blog yourself, it would be amazing if you’d link to mine. Apparently search engines really care about that. Or you could like me on Facebook–click the facebook “f” at the top of the sidebar.
Computer geek stuff: My C++ teacher would be ashamed of me if he knew how technologically inept I am now, but the SEO business is killing me. Why are there over 2000 results for “Meg Hunter-Kilmer”? Why doesn’t this page show up till page 4? Why can’t I google all my individual posts? Why doesn’t googling these questions get me decent answers??
Advice/suggestions: Maybe you started a career like this and you’ve got some thoughts. Or maybe you know how to use social media to advertise yourself. Or maybe you’ve never made it to the end of one of my posts and want to tell me to keep it short. Bearing in mind that I can be appallingly sensitive, could you give me your thoughts? I can be reached through the contact me page or via facebook.
I hate asking for help. But I can’t do this without it. Feel free to ignore and just keep reading the blog–even the one hit your click adds to the stats that I check obsessively is a help.
You guys are the best!
Especially my head. Have you ever noticed that? I can’t fit into a single hat at Target. Also, I might have lice now. BTW.<–my mother wants me to make sure that everyone knows that this is just a joke about how you’re not supposed to try on hats. I don’t have lice. [↩]
John and Stasi Eldredge do a great job of explaining how every woman is afraid that she’s either too much or not enough–or both, for many women–in their book Captivating. I really recommend it. [↩]
My friend Nick had scurvy. I thought it was an STD that pirates got and I was really embarrassed for him. Then he told me it came from a vitamin C deficiency and I was really embarrassed for me. Probably should have known that. [↩]
Catholics go to Notre Dame (the university) the way they go to Rome: it’s like a pilgrimage. When friends are going to Rome, they ask me where I want them to pray for me. When friends visit Notre Dame, especially for the first time, they ask if there’s any place I want them to visit for me.
The correct answers, of course, would be the Grotto, the Stadium, and maybe the Basilica. Or quarter dogs at LaFun. Lovely places, all. But I give very specific directions to my favorite spot.
“Okay, so go to God Quad–that’s the one with the dome on it. Get really close to the Main Building and look up at Mary. Then turn around and walk back to the statue of Jesus with his arms open wide, facing Our Lady at the top of the dome. The one that says ‘Venite ad me omnes.’ That’s my favorite place. Pray for me there.
Students call it “Jump, Mom, I’ll Catch You!”
I’ve been drawn to this statue since I first set foot on campus more than ten years ago. I’ve sat in front of it praying at all hours. Once, in a time of desperation, I actually hopped up on the wall that encircles the statue and paced around it for the duration of at least one rosary. When I’m in Northern Indiana and need comfort, this is my spot. I’ll gladly skip the grotto and I haven’t been to the stadium in years but I always take the time to run to the open arms of the Sacred Heart of Jesus and hear him say, “Venite ad me omnes.”
Am I a bad person if I find this kind of creepy?
I’ve never had much of a devotion to the Sacred Heart per se. See, when I picture the Sacred Heart, I picture a rosy-cheeked Jesus performing feats of anatomical impossibility, exposing his heart without even breaking open his ribcage. Or maybe some saccharine, jaundiced guy with an oddly heart-shaped heart that glows and shows through his transparent chest and shirt. Or maybe it’s just a sticker. In any event, the traditional images have never really done it for me.
But devotion to the Sacred Heart has nothing to do with all those pictures, or even with St. Margaret Mary Alacoque, although she was a pretty big deal. Loving the Sacred Heart of Jesus means loving being loved. That’s why I’m so drawn to that statue: because it’s Jesus begging to love me. His heart is ablaze with love for us and crowned with thorns because he has suffered so much out of love for us. That’s what the devotion is really about: being caught up in the love of Jesus, whose arms are open and whose heart is crying out:
Come to me, all you who labor and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am meek and humble of heart, and you will find rest for yourselves. For my yoke is easy and my burden light. -Mt 11:28-30
I’m loving this song by Jamie Grace, inspired by this passage (which is one of my very favorites):
I’ll save further discussion of how being a Christian is not all sweetness and light for another day. Suffice it to say that it seems to me that the promise of this verse is that your heart will be at rest when you learn to be meek and humble. Because the less awful you are, the more you find rest from guilt and shame and anxiety and fear and all the other nonsense that was attached to that stinking apple.
Today, though, as we celebrate Christ’s heart bleeding for love of you, can we just let him love us? Just revel in the promise of love in that bleeding heart? Because the heart of Jesus is calling to you, begging you to know that, in the words of my incredible friend Jamie, you are a “totally accepted, deeply loved child of God…created, chosen, adopted by [your] Father.”1
One day in class, I was going on and on about how much Jesus loves us. I’m kind of a broken record on that topic. I’m sure it gets annoying. Anyway, a kid piped up with a skeptical look on her face. “Ms. H-K,” she said. “How do you know Jesus loves you?” It was funny, because that question’s usually earnest and coming from a place of brokenness and a desire for deep relationship with Christ. This time it just sounded belligerent.
“Oh, honey!” I stuttered, rather taken aback. “Well, it’s all over Scripture!” Whether or not you believe in the Bible is an issue for another day (although if you want an answer NOW, you can watch the first video on this page for an explanation2), but the love of God is everywhere in that book. From Genesis, where the whole universe is created for the joy of man and woman, to Revelation, a description of Christ’s wedding to his radiant bride, the Bible is a love letter to all of humanity and to each person.
I spent this whole day trying and trying and trying to write something beautiful about how much God loves you but it all just sounded like a cliché. Because what’s I’ve got in my head is the Word of God and nothing I say matches up. Turns out the Holy Spirit is way better at everything than I am, most especially writing. So here’s what I’ve got for you:
This isn’t an exhaustive list, but it’s a good start. I actually put it together for the girl who asked how I knew God loved me and I keep a copy in my Bible for inspiration in prayer.
So basically this post is a long introduction to somebody else’s words. Accuse me of plagiarism if you want, but it’s all I’ve got. Maybe after I get some good time with Jesus I’ll have something profound to say, but so far today, my deepest theological moment went like this:
Cecilia: Biwd!
Me: Yes, Cecilia, that’s the Holy Spirit.
Cecilia: (angrily) Biwd!
Me: Yes, sweetheart, it’s a bird and it’s an image of the Holy Spirit.
Cecilia: (more angrily) BIWD! TWEET TWEET!
Me: Can you say Holy Spirit?
Cecilia: (defiant) NO.
Me: Well, okay. But that’s the Holy Spirit.
Cecilia: Biwd. Eagow (eagle). Biwd.
So I might not be in the right place to reflect on the love pouring from the bleeding heart of Christ, but I didn’t want to miss the Solemnity. Consider this an IOU.
P.S. Take some time in prayer today to read this, a letter composed of Bible verses about God’s love for you. You’ll be glad you did.
`
If you want to listen to the song–and you do–click here and scroll down to find the song “I Am.” [↩]
Please spend some time first admiring the really pretty face that somehow is the image for the video. I look like I’m about to vomit. [↩]
I have a dear friend who tends to react rather intensely.1 So when people cut her off in traffic or beat her in a volleyball game or just have ugly pants on, she tries really hard not to hate them. She grits her teeth, clenches her fist, and mutters, “I Christian love that woman.” Meaning, of course, “I desire what is best for her and want her to be happy for eternity with Christ but I seriously hope she’s on the other side of heaven from me or I might hit her over the head with my harp!”
I suppose it could be worse….
Obviously, it’s a joke. But I think the world’s understanding of Christian love is just as messed up. People who watch Fred Phelps protests on TV see Christian “love” as a mask for hatred and judgment, as in “I am filled with Christ’s love!”
A candlelight vigil against Lady Gaga? How did I miss this?
See, we claim to worship a God of love, but really we’re just sugarcoating our condemnation club. “God loves me!” we croon, accompanied by mediocre rhythm guitar. “But he hates gays and feminists and liberals and evolution scientists and My Little Ponies and chewing gum!”
Or they assume instead that God being love means that we can do whatever we want. “God loves everybody. He accepts everybody. Just because you do bad things doesn’t mean you’re a bad person. There aren’t really bad things anyway. It’s all relative.”
We’ll call it “Care Bear Christianity.”
Tell that to the Pharisees that Jesus called “whitewashed tombs” and a “brood of vipers.” I don’t think his love was just happy feel-good love. I think it challenged people’s actions while loving them, broken as they are.
So it’s complicated, this “Christian love.” It’s not condemnation but it’s not complacency, either. It’s unconditional but it won’t leave you in your sin. Let me tell you what I mean when I say I Christian love you.
I love you. Completely and entirely. I don’t care who you are or where you’re from. I don’t care about your race or class or level of education. I love you if you’re inconvenient or homeless or disabled or needy or loud or ugly or stupid or way too smart for your own good. I love you so much I don’t even put those labels on you. I just love you.
I know you sin, but I probably don’t spend much time thinking about it. Even if I do, I don’t love you any the less for it. It doesn’t change how much I love you if you’re gay or contracepting or a drunk or fallen away from the faith or a gossip or wanted for tax evasion. I don’t think of you as “my atheist friend” or “my cafeteria Catholic friend” or “the object of my evangelization.” That’s not who you are. You’re Katie or Mike or Ben or Julie and I love you despite or through or because of your issues. Because that’s what it means to be a Christian: to love. “If anyone says, ‘I love God,’ but hates his brother, he is a liar; for whoever does not love a brother whom he has seen cannot love God whom he has not seen” (1 Jn 4:20). If I don’t love you, I don’t love God. Period.
Because I Christian love you, I won’t allow your sin to define you in my mind. Everybody sins. Everybody I love is caught up in some struggle with evil. Some fight harder than others, but we’re all attached to some sin. I won’t say I don’t care how you sin. Because I love you, I care. Because I want what’s best for you, your personal life is my business. It hurts me to watch you hurt yourself and God. But I will try my best only to love you more the more you sin.
When I say I Christian love you, I mean I don’t judge you. I don’t know the state of your soul or your relationship with God. But I’m not just going to pretend we’re all okay here. I will judge actions. My loving you doesn’t make your behavior okay. And because I love you, I may say something. When I say certain behavior is wrong, that doesn’t mean you’re a bad person. It doesn’t even necessarily mean you’re sinning.2 I can’t know the state of your soul. So please know that if I’m opposed to something you do, it doesn’t change my love for you.
It didn’t change his love for me.
But you know, I may not say something. I may live to show you what I believe is right and keep my lips sealed so you don’t feel judged.3 Because when I say I Christian love you, it means that I know that I’m a sinner. I’ve been given so much. I want to love you the way I’ve been loved. I’m not going to pretend that I’m okay with what you do, but I will not let it change the way I love you. I will hope and pray that you learn to let God love you and that you’re brought to his truth. But I know that that’s not my job. My job is to see in you the beautiful child of God that captivates his heart. My job is to love.
I will not be your savior. I will not be your judge. I will not be your everything. I will be your friend and walk with you.
I’m going to mess up. I’m going to judge you and I’m going to try to convert you and I’m going to ignore you or get annoyed by you. That’s because my love is a pale imitation of real Christian love:
But God proves his love for us in that while we were still sinners Christ died for us. (Rom 5:8) The way we came to know love was that he laid down his life for us; so we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers. (1 Jn 3:16)
But I’m going to try with everything I am to love you the way you deserve to be loved.
When I say I Christian love you, I mean that I’m going to need forgiveness. I’m going to need you to accept my brokenness the way I try to accept yours. You might not be a Christian, but I’m going to ask you to Christian love me back, to love without condemnation or complacency. I need you to love me as I am but challenge me to be better. Otherwise, what’s the point?
So I make you this promise, as a Christian. I will do everything I can to serve you and embrace you as you are. I will fight not to judge you or look down on you. I will recognize the ways you are so, so much better than me. I will try every day to lay down my life for you, to forgive you and accept you and challenge you. I will pray for you. That’s a promise, not a threat.
I’m so sorry that my love doesn’t look more like his. I’m trying.
For something to be a mortal sin, it has to be seriously wrong, you have to know it’s wrong, and you have to choose to do it anyway (grave matter, knowledge, full consent of the will). Observers can judge the first element, but we can’t know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you really knew something was wrong and that you freely chose it. [↩]
**This post gives some helpful rules to gauge whether to speak up or not. [↩]
I am not going to do that. Is it bad that I just wrote all about trusting God completely and then drew a line in the sand that I refuse to cross?
But I wanted to be a PRINCESS!!
But I don’t feel guilty about this–not one bit. Which is pretty good for someone who tends to be a bit (a lot) scrupulous. I was tempted to feel like a jerk when I first saw the article. “Oh, man,” I thought, “Now I have to do that.” With a sigh because gosh this surrender thing is just so hard and why do I have to do all the hardest things?
And then I remembered that I don’t. In this instance, because it would be absolutely imprudent for a woman to live on the street and rely entirely on the kindness of others. Sure, God could call me to that. But I’m open and I’ve prayed and I just don’t think he is. And I don’t have to feel bad that he’s letting me have a car and a checking account–it’s his plan, not mine. I don’t have to be the very most appallingly surrendered to Divine Providence to be surrendered.
But there are always people to compare myself to. How about this one:
Have you heard about this girl? That’s Katie Davis. She’s 21. Those are her 13 daughters.
Right?
Seriously, read her entire blog. I’ll wait.
I ran across her story and thought, “Wow. What faith. How beautiful. DEAR GOD PLEASE PLEASE DON’T MAKE ME DO THAT!!!!”
I know, and yesterday I sounded all surrendered to God’s will, right?
But here’s the thing: God desires your joy. Not just in heaven (although that’s his top priority), but here on earth, too. He wants you to love your career and your family and your vocation. Yeah, you’re going to suffer along the way. Some of the time it may seem as though all it is is suffering. But that’s because he’s not willing to trade your eternal joy for temporal comfort. “What does it profit a man to gain the whole world but forfeit his soul?” There’s a reason for the suffering–because he wants you to be happy.
We tend to look at the examples of the long-suffering Saints and think that whatever is hardest and least appealing in life is probably what God wants for us. Just think about how we glorify the martyrs. “Yeah, he got burned alive. But that guy had his fingers bitten off! And that guy was flayed alive! Ooh, and she’s not a martyr, but she used to rub pepper and lye into her skin to make herself ugly and I bet that really hurt!” We glory in their willingness to suffer for Christ and forget that not everyone is called down the path of bloodiest resistance.
Hacked to pieces AND burned alive? Some guys get all the breaks.
You’ve got to remember, friends, that God loves you–truly, madly, deeply, to borrow the words of Savage Garden. He’s not planning out a miserable, painful path to heaven. Really, he’s planning a life that you’ll love. And he created your heart to desire the things he has for you.
Unfortunately, that desire is often coated in a lot of worthless junk that we’ve piled on ourselves. Which means that just because you want something doesn’t mean that’s God’s will. But it does mean that if something sounds terrible and awful and has absolutely no appeal for you because it’s just the worst thing there’s ever been in the history of ever, you can probably leave it alone for a while. Be open and maybe reconsider down the road but don’t assume that because something sounds terrible it must be what you have to do because Jesus died on the cross and so Christianity must be really, really miserable.
I guess the question you have to ask is does this sound horrible because you’re scared and running away from something or does it sound horrible because it’s just not what you were made for? You have to get past your attachment to sin and figure out what’s really going on.
I kind of look like this when I run. Only female, soaked with sweat, and mostly dead.
See, to me, running a marathon sounds like torture. Then death. Then hell. Then being reanimated to suffer it all again. To this guy, it sounds hard (okay, maybe nothing’s hard for him) but not miserable. On the other hand, if you ask me to spend a week–24-7–with teenagers, I’m psyched. I know it’ll be exhausting and hard and probably smelly, but it’s a life-giving kind of hard. And that’s the real difference–does this profession or vocation or promotion or relocation or whatever inspire me? does it make me want to keep going, even when it’s hard? Or do I feel defeated and empty just thinking about it?
What I’m saying is don’t assume something’s “the right thing” just because it’s hard. We aren’t all called to be beggars or run orphanages. But don’t assume it’s “the wrong thing” because it’s hard, either. Anything worth doing is hard. You just have to ask if it’s the kind of hard that makes you want to keep pushing or the kind of hard that makes you want to curl up and die. It’s not that simple all the time, but that’s a good litmus test.
We’re all called to be saints, but we’re not all going to be Saints. You don’t have to be some kind of miracle-working, leper-washing, hair-shirt-wearing superstar to be pleasing to God. And sometimes “trusting God” is code for showing off. If it’s his will, he’ll give you the grace for it, no matter how hard it is. If it’s not, the easy life you’ve got planned might just go all Jumanji on you.
This is not what I meant by a "board game." Ha. Punny.
So I’m not going to join Andrew in his radical poverty (yet). But I’m not saying you shouldn’t. Go ahead and pray on it. Just remember: unless it’s God’s will, doing something crazy doesn’t make you a saint. It just makes you crazy.
If you’ve been paying attention, you’ve probably picked up on the fact that I recently packed everything I own into the trunk of my Mazda3 (okay, my mattress pad is in the back seat), waved goodbye to Kansas after a 2 year exile in the flatlands, and headed out to God knows where. I left a job and friends and great students to do…well…I’m not exactly sure what. I know what I’m expecting (speaking and retreats and blogging and whatnot), but all I know for sure is that God asked me to leave and that he’ll take care of the rest. No home, no job. For the time being, I’m living out of the car.*
It’s interesting the kind of reactions I get to this.
Non-religious person: “Oh–wow! That’s really…” stupid? “um…” crazy? “um…great that you’re going to…find yourself. What a wonderful journey.” At which point I feel like a flake and a cliché.
This is totally what prayer does to you.
Nominal Christian: “Oh–wow! That’s amazing! I could never trust God like that. You’re really an inspiration. What a wonderful journey.” At which point I feel like a fake and a fanatic.
Holy Christian: “Nice. I’ll pray for you.” At which point I’m disappointed that they’re not more impressed. (But relieved that they didn’t use the word journey, which is probably my least favorite word in the English language. This might be because every episode of The Bachelor–don’t judge me–uses that word at least 35 times. My sister and I toyed with the idea of a drinking game involving the word “journey” on The Bachelor but decided that even doing it with water might kill us.)
Because this is how you find true love.
This weekend, I got to catch up with a bunch of old friends at Fr. Tom’s ordination and had the humbling experience of repeatedly being asked, “So what are you up to these days?”
It was a real flash back to the last time I had no answer to this question, right after leaving the convent. People kept asking me what I did and I kept having to swallow my pride and tell them I was nannying for my sister’s baby. For a type A fool like me, that was hard. Especially when I saw the look in people’s eyes wondering what on earth I thought I was doing shelling out for a Notre Dame degree (or two) and then living on someone’s futon and working for free.
This weekend, it was much the same. “Well, I just left Kansas…” I’d say.
“Oh, and where are you going now?”
“Well, I don’t exactly know.”
“Oh….”
One kind soul said, “Oh, that’s all right. You’ll figure it out eventually.”
“No!” I couldn’t help responding. “I had it figured out. And it was all great. God just had something better.”
A better woman would have bit her tongue and allowed the world to see her as aimless and flaky. I’m too proud for that. So I explain it all.
“You see, I was teaching. But then I felt that God was calling me to step out on faith and leave that. He asked me to be homeless and unemployed and I had to trust him. So I’m going to be traveling and speaking and blogging and writing a book and I think it’s going to be really great.”
Which, of course, is code for “I’m really holy and trust God a lot and by the way you should invite me to come speak at your church/school/ministry.”
And Christians are suitably impressed and non-Christians are suitably disturbed (which is generally how my life goes) and look at me I’m preaching the Gospel and everyone knows how awesome I am!
Here’s the thing, though: there’s nothing impressive about this.
No, really. That’s not humility (I don’t do humility, more’s the pity). It’s just fact. I serve a God who made the mountains and moves them when he wants, a God who made the sea and the storm and then walked on the waves and calmed them, a God who heals lepers and the blind. My God sent his Son to die for me–why wouldn’t he give me everything I need? (That’s a little Romans 8:32 for you.) What’s scary about living out of my car with a credit card and savings and a bunch of couches to crash on when God provides for people who don’t even take a second tunic?
So when I give everything away and quit my job without any particular destination in mind (which has happened twice now), it’s not so much faithful as smart. You see, somewhere in my 28 years, I figured out that, despite all the impressive things I can put on my resume, I’m actually quite dumb. In everything that matters, anyway. I can’t seem to get past myself enough to see what’s best for me. I spent a good 10 years pining away for a man–any man–before God knocked me over the head to show me something that fits me so much better. I hated myself for most of college because I couldn’t figure out how to stop being me and start being that quiet, pious girl in the chapel. It didn’t occur to me that maybe I was actually made to be me, loud and obnoxious and awkward as I am, that perhaps God actually made me that way because he wanted me that way, not so that I had something to overcome.
You see, I can barely even see who I am now and what I want today, let alone who I was made to be and what I’ll need to be that person. And I’ve fought God and just come out the other side tired and unhappy (and in need of a good confession). But when I’m abandoned to his will–as much as I’ve ever managed to be–there’s something energizing about that. Oh, there’s still suffering. Often there’s more suffering in following God than there is when you turn your back on him. But there’s meaning to that suffering, and purpose, and healing.
And God starts taking care of all the details and mapping out your life for you, with lovely morning greetings like this:
If only God communicated through greeting cards....
Okay, no, it’s not that easy. You’ve still got to discern and, usually, make money and pay bills and work hard. But ultimately, it’s on him. He’s made you that promise: that he will provide. Your job is to pray and love and fight for holiness and never, never to worry.
Believe me when I say this isn’t going to make life easy. Trying to do God’s will–letting go of your own understanding of who you are and surrendering to his truth–is about as hard as it comes. Obedience isn’t easy; but it’s simple. It’s a matter of choosing truth, goodness, and beauty, even at the expense of yourself.
I’m not talking here about how to figure out God’s will. That can be widely different for each person and in each situation (although I talked a little bit about my journey (gag) here). I’m talking about those times when we know what God is calling us to. Maybe that’s obvious stuff like getting help with your porn problem or getting to Mass on Sunday or carrying on a civil conversation with your stepmother. Maybe it’s a matter that took some real discernment like entering religious life, leaving a job, or ending an unhealthy relationship. Maybe it’s something that you’re not sure yet about but it just keeps nagging at you.
I’m sure most of us right now have something that we really know, if we’re being honest with ourselves, we have to do–some change of behavior or major or job or marital status or attitude or diet. Stepping out like that does take faith. But I’m telling you that God always comes through. Always. That’s just who he is. It’s not a matter of learning to trust that he’ll give you what you want–God forbid he should give us what we want! It’s a matter of learning to trust that ultimately–ultimately, not immediately–he’ll bring us to a joy so deep any struggles we may have on the way will pale in comparison.
It doesn’t always seem to make sense. God told Abraham to leave his family and country–and Abraham went. Jesus asked a bunch of fishermen to leave their nets and their boats and their father and go change the world. And they didn’t hem and haw and finish college or build up their savings or wait till the kids were grown first. Immediately they went, Scripture says. At once they left it all behind. Even though they had no idea what he was asking them to do.
But there’s a freedom in that obedience. The freedom of living in God’s will. Freedom from regret or doubt or (eventually and God willing) fear. More importantly, there’s the freedom you give to God to bless you beyond your wildest imaginings. That might be through opportunities he could only give you when you followed him; it might be through the joy of life lived in grace; if might just be through the growth in holiness that comes from following him. Whatever it is, he can’t give it to you (yes, I just said God can’t) until you surrender to him.
If you fix your eyes on Jesus, you can walk on water. So forget your fears and your attachments and your plans and your will and just get off the boat. Maybe you’ll sink. If you do, he’ll catch you. But if you don’t–oh, friend, imagine!
If you’re up for it, I’d love to hear in the comments about what God is calling you to abandon to him. It’ll help me to pray for you 🙂
*I’m actually writing this from the passenger seat of my sister’s car, sitting in the library parking lot using their wireless as my super-ornery niece finally naps in her car seat. I tried books and songs and prayers and pajamas in the middle of the day and lunch and that awkward bend-over-her-stroking-her-back-while-singing-praying-to-God-she-finally-falls-asleep-in-her-crib move and putting John Paul down for his nap in the same room and she just alternated between sobbing in her crib or playing happily out of it. So my sister’s watching John Paul and Cecilia and I are depleting the ozone layer running the engine so we don’t die of heat in this car. In case you wanted to know the inspiration of this post which started off being about living out of my car but doesn’t really seem to be anymore.
I was blessed yesterday to attend the priestly ordination of a friend, a good man whose life is already a great gift to the Church. I’m headed out soon to go to his first Mass (and I went to confession yesterday so I can get the indulgence–ftw).
Throughout the ordination Mass, watching countless young, smiling Arlington priests (and the three added to their number) and reflecting on the gift of the priesthood, I was overwhelmed by gratitude.
I love the priesthood. I love the collar and the service and the sacrifice and the Sacraments and all the blessings the priesthood provides. I seriously get giggly when I meet seminarians–I’m just so excited for them! This year, in an attempt to spread my giddy love of our Fathers, I made seminarian trading cards and handed them out to my students to get them praying for future priests. I’m not kidding–I freaking love priests.
And so, to all priests, I want to say thank you.
Deacons lie prostrate in a sign of submission to God and his church during the ordination Mass (somewhere awesome with a million vocations--anyone know where?)
Thank you for laying down your lives for Christ and his Church, for giving up your lives to help us get through ours. Thank you for your obedience, for showing us what it means to submit. Thank you for the gift of your celibacy, for giving up wife and children for your Bride the Church and your many children. Thank you for washing our feet, for loving us even when we abuse you. Thank you for coming into the parishes that were “just fine before he came along” and bearing with us.
Thank you for being on call 24 hours a day. Thank you for showing up in the hospital room 20 minutes after he called the parish for prayers. Thank you for talking to her when you found her crying in the back pew instead of just asking her to leave so you could lock up. Thanking you for being at the morgue, the jail, the courthouse, and everywhere we needed you and no other. Thank you for your counsel. Thank you for your silence. Thank you for being there even if we hardly knew you.
Thank you for loving us even when we take you for granted. Thank you for standing outside Mass every Sunday shaking hands with people who don’t bother to learn your name. Thank you for remembering my name. Thank you for caring who I am and what I do. Thank you for smiling when babies scream in Mass. Thank you for laughing and drinking beer and playing golf and just being a man instead of a plaster cast of a priest.
Thank you for loving our children. Thank you for speaking to the first communicants even if you have no idea how to teach seven-year-olds. Thank you for laughing at yourself when that was apparent. Thank you for children’s homilies and skits at Bible school and altar server retreats. Thank you for the example you set to our sons of what it means to follow Christ with abandon. Thank you for making them love the priesthood.
Thank you for refusing to be overcome by the world’s hatred. Thank you for putting your collar back on and standing as a target. Thank you for continuing to love your people even when they began to hate you because of the evil actions of a few who turned their backs on their call.
Thank you for loving youth. Thank you for wearing your roman collar under your tie-dyed youth group t-shirt. Thank you for playing ultimate frisbee in your cassock. Thank you for showing the girls that there are men who will fight to be chaste. Thank you for showing the boys that that’s what it means to be a man. Thank you for the example of a life lived for a purpose.
A Franciscan Friar of the Renewal (I'm pretty sure they all skateboard or rap or something)
Thank you for the Sacraments. Oh, thank you, thank you for the Sacraments!
Thank you for confession. Thank you for sitting in an empty confessional for hours hoping someone will walk in to be reunited to God. Thank you for hearing my confession at 7 am because I couldn’t be bothered to make it to church during scheduled confessions. Thank you for listening, for never judging. Thank you for reassuring us that there’s nothing too big for God’s mercy. Thank you for knowing when I was too broken even to say my own penance and for offering to say it for me. Thank you for taking our shameful secrets to your grave. Thank you for hurting with us and hurting for us and wanting us in heaven so badly.
Mass in a ruined church during WWII
Thank you for saying Mass every day–even when I’m the only one there, day in and day out, for 2 months. Thank you for bringing the Eucharist to the sick. Thank you for exposing the Blessed Sacrament for adoration, even when youth ministers ask you to come do it at midnight. Thank you for the sacrifices you make to bring us the Holy Sacrifice.
Thank you for homilies that make me proud to be a Catholic. Thank you for homilies that remind me that the Mass is about the Eucharist, not the works of man. Thank you for consecrating the Eucharist so reverently that it moves me to tears. Thank you for the intensity of your worship and the love in your eyes when you look at your people and when you look at your God.
Thank you for praying over us and praying with us and praying for us. Thank you for your private faithfulness to prayer, to the Office and the Mass, to your own confessions and rosaries and fasting. Thank you for fighting every day to be men worthy of the call.
Thank you for preaching Christ to us, for bringing Christ to us, for being Christ to us. Thank you for putting out into the deep. Thank you for following him, never knowing where he will lead you. Thank you for teaching us to trust, for teaching us to love, for teaching us to live.
Dear Fathers, I pray for you every day. I am so thankful for your sacrifice and your ministry and your love. Please know that, whatever the world hurls at you, you are loved in return, by your flock and, most importantly, by your Shepherd.
As I walked my nephew through his prayers last night, we enjoyed the following exchange:
Me: Can you tell God how great he is? What did Jesus do that was great?
John Paul: He took bwead and wine and tuwned it into his body and bwood!
I swear I’m not making this up. Completely unaware of tomorrow’s feast (or my epic series of Eucharistposts), the one event from the life of Christ that struck my 2-year-old nephew as awesome was the institution of the Eucharist.
Yes, I’m taking notes for the hagiography.
Just so everybody knows that his theology’s sound, John Paul has also been known to stop playing, look up, and say, “Thank you fow Jesus fow dying fow me!” He’s a little preposition happy at the moment.
But he’s on the right track. Somehow, his little child’s mind gets that the Eucharist is just as essential as the Passion. In fact, it’s an extension of the Passion.
Behold the Lamb of God
I’m sure everyone reading this knows that the Passover is a type (a foreshadowing) of the Passion. But bear with me here (And turn to Exodus 12 if this is news). In order to save his people from slavery to Egypt (sin), God ordered them to take an unblemished lamb (sinless Lamb of God) and slaughter it (crucify him) at twilight (during an eclipse). He ordered that not a bone of it be broken (Jn 19:36) and that the Israelites anoint their doorposts with its blood (be baptized and saved by the blood of the Lamb).*
People usually finish drawing the eery parallels there (although can I point out that John the Baptist called Jesus the Lamb of God–sacrificial victim–just before Jesus was baptized, symbolizing his union with sinners and his death? Sweet.) but that’s only the first part of the ritual. Any Jew will tell you that the meat (hehe) of the Passover ritual is the Seder meal. In fact, Exodus spends more time commanding that than it does commanding the sacrifice, going so far as to say that all Israelites must eat the lamb (Ex 12:47–I guess Jewish vegetarians just have to suck it up one day a year).
The Old Testament is engineered intentionally by God to reveal the New in the light of Christ. We start to understand the purpose of the Ark of the Covenant when we look at Mary. We get a sense of worship when we look at the temple (incense, anyone?) and we can’t understand Baptism without the flood and the Red Sea. So what’s with all the sacrifice stuff all over the Pentateuch? And why is it always telling them who was supposed to eat of the sacrifice?
That’s right. Many kinds of sacrifices had to be consumed entirely, others eaten by priests, and some eaten by the one who offered it. The idea was that you offered your best to God, who made it sacred. Some of it went to the priests, some was burned up, but some was given back to you. You then feasted with your family, thanking God for the opportunity to make a sacrifice (now there’s some good theology) and being sanctified by consuming what was holy. The ancient understanding of holiness was that it was contagious. If you touched something unclean, you became unclean; if you touched something holy, you became holy (or got struck dead–2 Sam 6). God called the Israelites to consume their sacrifices so that they might become holy as their heavenly Father is holy. For Ancient Jews, a sacrifice without a meal was incomplete. A Passover without a Seder was sacrilege.
Jesus’ sacrifice on the cross is clearly a Paschal (Passover/Easter) sacrifice; so where’s the meal? Well, he had to go a little out of order, but the Apostles consumed the Lamb of God at the Last Supper, when he offered his body and blood to them under the form of bread and wine. You cannot have the Passion without the Last Supper–you cannot have Christianity without the Eucharist.**
Because for the Israelites, sacrifice was necessary, yes. But the feast was how they shared in that sacrifice. The meal was the source of sanctity for them just as the Eucharist is for us. It’s the source of our faith as well. In John, Peter makes his profession of faith after the bread of life discourse. In Luke, the disciples on the road to Emmaus didn’t recognize the risen Christ until after he broke open the Scriptures for them (Liturgy of the Word) and then took bread, blessed it, broke it, and gave it to them (Lk 24:30). It’s through consuming the Passover Lamb that we are drawn to faith.
And here’s the thing of it: this isn’t just some accident of allegory where we felt as though we had to get all the details right. “Okay, well, there’s something in here about eating it standing up, so let’s nix the altar rails….” No–God created the Passover for the purpose of showing us what the Passion meant–and showing us that it didn’t end on the cross or in the empty tomb or even on Ascension Thursday.
My friends, Jesus loved you too much to spend only 33 years on earth. It wasn’t enough for him to live for you, nor to die, nor even to rise again. He needed to be with you, here for you, every moment of every day.
At the Last Supper, he made this promise: I will not leave you orphans; I will come to you (Jn 14:18). This wasn’t a promise made only to his Apostles, merely a promise of the Resurrection. He’d told them about that a half dozen times. They weren’t suddenly going to get it now. No, this was a promise to you that he would offer himself for you not once but eternally.
“I refuse,” he said, as he stared death in the face, “I refuse to leave her. I will come back for her. I will wait for her, weaker than I was on the Cross, poorer than I was in the manger. I will suffer abuse and ridicule, be ignored and profaned, every day for the rest of time rather than leave her. And most days she won’t bother to come see me. And she’ll receive me without a thought about me. And some days–Father, forgive her–she’ll come to me mired in sin. But I will never leave her nor forsake her. I will wait for her in the tabernacle. I will stare at her from the monstrance. I will kiss her as she receives. I will dwell in her heart. I will be borne in her life. I will not leave her.”
The act of receiving is so intimate, this moment at which we accept the love of another person given entirely for us. We the Church walk up the aisle to our groom. When a groom takes his bride to their marriage bed, when they consummate their marriage, they say to one another, “I give myself completely to you forever.” And each time they make love, they renew the covenant of their marriage, making again with their bodies the vows they spoke on their wedding day: I give myself completely to you forever.
As he stretched out his arms on the cross, Jesus said to his bride the Church, “I give myself completely to you forever.” In the person of the priest, he says at each Mass, “This is my body, which will be given up for you”–I give myself completely to you forever. That is the promise of the Eucharist, the sign by which Christ renews his covenant with the Church. It’s an act of marital love, and act of intimacy so profound that it’s called the summit of the Christian life. Jesus, the lover of your soul, is drawing you to himself, giving himself completely to you–not just spiritually but physically–begging that you be captivated by him as he is by you. Begging that you give yourself in return.
Sure, he could do this by sending his Spirit into our heart or stirring up a desire for union with him. But God made us physical and spiritual–he knows that we’re not purely spiritual creatures and we can’t survive on the spirit alone. He gave us the Eucharist as a physical expression of the all-encompassing, life-giving love we were made for. The reality of his presence allows us to give ourselves completely to him as he offers himself completely to us.
This physical reality of the Sacrament touches our hearts in a way that spiritual certainty just can’t. Because it’s real. It’s tangible, it’s physical, and it’s beautiful. A perfect love for Christ would desire to possess him completely–which we do when we receive. A perfect love for Christ would desire to be transformed into him–which we are when we receive. A perfect love for Christ would desire to give ourselves completely to him–which we can when we receive.
Praise God for the gift, the incredible gift of the Eucharist. Here is the one place where you are fully known, loved exactly as you are, and called to be greater. Here is the one place where you are completely accepted by the one person whose acceptance matters. My friends, if you are blessed to be Catholic, please, oh, please learn to love Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament. You won’t always feel it (Lord knows I don’t) but when you choose to see him with eyes of faith, your life will be transformed. The Eucharist is the source and summit of the Christian faith. It is our strength to endure and the reason we sing. It is the promise of his love and a foretaste of heaven. It is, quite literally, the meaning of life.
Jesus longs to love you in the Eucharist. Let him.
*Can I just tell you that when this was first explained to me it absolutely blew my mind? I was in high school and I seriously freaked out. I knew Jesus and all, but I had no idea that this Christian thing could be intellectually stimulating. Little did I know….
**Incidentally, this seems to have been Tolkien’s biggest problem with The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe; Lewis set up a whole Passion narrative with no Last Supper, a whole Passover with no Seder.
I once took a class on prayer. It was very interesting, I’m sure, but I still have no idea how to pray. I’ve even taught classes on prayer. I know there are all kinds of distinctions about mental prayer and vocal prayer and contemplative and mystical and meditative and on and on, but in all my many hours of “praying” (by which I generally mean sitting in a chapel talking to myself about things that have little to do with anything spiritual) I’ve only discovered three kinds: saintly prayer, snotty prayer, and boring prayer.
Saintly Prayer
When I speak of saintly prayer, I don’t mean the prayer the Saints generally speak of. That’s often bitter and empty (à la Mother Teresa or John of the Cross). When it’s not, it’s selfless and self-emptying. It’s entirely about God, not about the one who prays. I tell you, friends, I am not there yet.
Although I wouldn’t mind a little ecstasy now and again.
I’m talking here about the prayer that feels good. The kind of prayer where you’ve got something to say and so your holy hour speeds by. The emotional high of singing praise music or the comfort of finding meaning in Scripture that hits you exactly where you are. I hope you’ve all experienced this–some peace, some joy, some answer in prayer. It’s a beautiful thing, a true gift. And for those of us who have felt God in this emotional way, the experience can strengthen us through times of emptiness.
This kind of prayer is nice. It might strengthen your faith or give you a passion for sharing the Gospel. That’s lovely. But emotional highs are candy–they are not daily bread. If your prayer were all lovely and happy and fulfilling, you’d soon stop praying out of love of God and start praying out of love of the feeling of prayer. That’s not virtuous and it’s not love. If prayer is about growing in love for God, it can’t always be fun. There has to be struggle and sacrifice and trudging through months of blah if it’s going to mean anything.
Cherish the gift of prayer that touches your heart and stirs your soul. But don’t seek that in prayer. God made you for something better than thrills.
Snotty Prayer
I was talking with an 18-year-old boy the other day and he started describing his experience from the previous night. It seems he was having a miserable time over a girl and he needed to pray it out. So he walked as far away from his house as he could get, off into the wilds of Kansas corn, and fell to his knees, screaming at God.
“I was sobbing,” he said, “tears pouring out of my eyes, snot running down my face. It was disgusting. And one of the most inspiring moments of my life.”
God didn’t answer his question, the desperate “Why?” he was crying into the night, but he came away comforted anyway. Because that prayer, that desperate, guttural cry to the one who made the universe and holds us in his hand–that prayer reminds us that we’re alive. When life is good and pleasant, it’s easy to start feeling lost. This is why people in this country are so rich but so, so poor. We coast through a life that gives us everything we’ve ever asked for but leaves us empty. Snotty prayer reminds us with a stab to the heart that we are very much alive. The pain exhilarates in a way that joy rarely does and we begin to feel again, to strive again, to fight again. Sometimes rock bottom is exactly where we need to be.
I think that snotty prayer is also a testimony to the depths of our faith. We doubt God’s existence when we’re unhappy, but we blame him when we’re miserable. We hope he’s not watching us when we’re trying to get away with something but we insist that he listens when we feel abandoned. I have my doubts about God–we all do–but never when I’m snotty. When I’m on my knees in the cornfield (or sitting in the driver’s seat of my car, more often), I know God’s there. I scream, “Are you listening? Do you even care? Why won’t you answer me??” But in those moments of desperation, it never occurs to me that he might not be there at all.
There’s a depth of faith, still beneath the rolling surface of daily mediocrity, that we doubt until we find ourselves raging against a God who, it seems, we knew was there all along.
This prayer is miserable, but it’s a blessing. It’s a reminder that we’re alive, a reminder that God is, too. And so, as much as it hurts, it’s beautiful. But faith can’t be sustained by this kind of prayer, either. For one thing, it would be exhausting. For another, your face would probably start to chap. But more importantly, prayer is more than emotion, positive or negative. Faith can be strengthened by this prayer, too, this prayer which in its suffering is somehow more real than even the saintly prayer. But what feeds our faith is much more mundane.
Boring Prayer
Maybe your daily prayer time is meaningful and directed without being thrilling. Maybe you find peace in practicing the presence of God and the stillness of your meditation strengthens you to continue. If so, I commend you (with slight bitterness and more than slight suspicion). For the rest of us, let’s talk about how boring prayer is.
It really is, isn’t it? No, not always. And, in my experience, it becomes less so the more you practice it. Until it doesn’t. And you go to the chapel and check your watch every 2 minutes until your holy hour is up.
Maybe I’m just more ADD than most, but my half hour meditation sometimes feels like a herculean task. I remember going to visit a former student when I was fresh out of the convent. I was a professional pray-er. She was 17. We went to do a holy hour together and mine looked like this:
Dear Jesus, I love you so much. Um, I really love you. A lot. You’re great. (58 and a half minutes to go) Um, help me be holy. I really want to do your will. Make me like you. (57 minutes to go)
Imagined continued platitudes and watch-checking for another 27 minutes, then various books and devotions and such to fill my hour. Meanwhile, Katherine knelt silently for an entire hour. I was so frustrated–I’m supposed to be good at prayer! I certainly practice it enough, right?
First of all, Meg, don’t be an idiot and quit comparing yourself to people. Remember when Peter did that?
Peter turned and saw the disciple following whom Jesus loved, the one who had also reclined upon his chest during the supper and had said, “Master, who is the one who will betray you?” When Peter saw him, he said to Jesus, “Lord, what about him?” Jesus said to him, “What if I want him to remain until I come? What concern is it of yours? You follow me.” (Jn 21:20-22)
Jesus basically says, “Peter, shut up and deal with your own issues.”
But I think the real issue is that I naturally look down on prayer that’s difficult. I think it’s not real prayer unless I feel something. Why? The Christian life is difficult. It’s even dull much of the time. Why would prayer be any different?
Here’s what I think: a lot of the time, prayer is boring because it’s supposed to be. If I went to prayer every day because I enjoyed it, it would have nothing to do with love of God. Yes, sometimes I enjoy prayer. More often, though, I go because it is good, because he is good, because I want to be good. St. Thérèse said that when we want to leave prayer 3 minutes early, we should stay 3 minutes longer. If I took her at her word, I’d probably have to double all my prayer. But the point remains that the prayer we do not desire has the most merit.
People are always telling me that they don’t pray (or go to Mass or read the Bible or whatever) because they don’t “get anything out of it.” But that’s exactly when you get the most out of it! You get discipline and selflessness and the satisfaction of offering yourself to God not because of what he does but because of who he is.
Look at it another way: I hate to run. I refuse to do it. ((Seriously, if you chased me with a knife, I wouldn’t run. If I’m going to die anyway (which I will–I couldn’t outrun someone in a coma), I at least want to die breathing.))
Running is awful because I’m so out of practice. If I ran every day, I’m sure eventually it would become bearable. ((That’s what they tell me, anyway. And the crazies even say that running becomes fun. That I do not believe.))
Prayer is similar. We were made to worship but the Fall has us terribly out of shape. We need to practice. And as we pray each day and gradually increase our time in prayer, we will learn to hunger for it and even to experience God, to “get something out of it,” if you will. It won’t matter which of the Teresian mansions we’re in or what approach to prayer we’re taking because it will have transcended all that. But I would hazard a guess that most days it will still be boring.
I do get saintly prayer occasionally and I cherish it. And I even manage to rejoice in the gross, snotty prayer. But it’s the boring prayer where I put my money where my mouth is, where I kneel before the crucifix and tell God I love him.
I hate failure. I know, I know, everybody does, but I’m one of those type A folk who would rather be set on fire than get a B on a test. I still feel the need to justify the C that I got on a Scarlet Letter test in 7th grade even though I hadn’t read the book.* There’s something about failing that makes me burn with shame. I lose sleep. I’m honestly surprised I haven’t given myself an ulcer yet. And the thing is, I started life off pretty well. As long as success was about school and not souls, I did well. I achieved and achieved and achieved and was quite pleased with myself all through my academic career.
And then, apparently, the Lord decided that I was better than that. And the failure began.
It was little things at first, things that didn’t overshadow the good I felt I was doing. Students who hated me, friendships cut off; even leaving the convent after I had told everyone I’d be there forever didn’t seem too bad in the face of all the ways I’d succeeded. Sure, there were failures, but overall I felt I was changing the world and winning souls for Christ.
Lately, though, it hasn’t been that easy. Failure these days isn’t occasional, it’s daily. Every day, some kid I’ve poured my life out for tells me my class is a waste of time. Or makes really bad choices and lies to me about it. Or listens to every word I say and then throws his life away at some party. And there’s nothing I can do.
So my motto recently has been Mother Teresa’s: God has not called us to be successful, he has called us to be faithful.
Because the Christian life is not about success. I suppose I should have figured this out the first time I noticed that the guy everyone was talking about was hanging dead on the wall. Here I am worshiping a man who was executed naked while almost nobody looked on, and somehow I thought my life was going to look different?
When you follow a crucified Lord, you will be a failure. You will fail at work because you refuse to compromise integrity. You will fail in your pursuit of holiness because you are fallen. And, as I have learned to my chagrin, you will fail in your service to the kingdom because it’s not about you.
This summer, mired in self-pity because I’m a total failure, I found myself listening to yet another homily on the Parable of the Sower (Mt 13:1-23 for anyone following along at home—does anyone else feel as though that reading comes up ten times a year?). This time, though, Father wasn’t talking about what kind of soil we are. He focused on God’s prodigality. God doesn’t choose only fertile ground; he sows his seed everywhere on the off chance that it will take root. He’s not jealous of his grace but lavishes it on even the most unwelcoming hearts.
God offers his life to every punk kid there is—even to me, self-obsessed as I am. And when he asked me to take up my cross, he asked me to be crucified along with him. Sitting in the comfort of my first world home, it seems it would be easy enough to suffer martyrdom (although I’m sure I’d feel differently when faced with the opportunity) or even to be persecuted for righteousness’ sake. But this pathetic daily failure? This inability to meet deadlines or love well or change hearts? That’s a cross.
The central paradox of Christianity, though, is precisely this: it is our greatest defeats that are our greatest victories. We lose all we have to be filled with the riches of the kingdom. We mourn and are comforted. We die to rise again.
Jesus failed—again and again and again. He lost his disciples because he was too extreme (cannibalism—John 6). He fell three times under his cross. He couldn’t even keep those he loved most from falling into grave sin. He is fully God and fully man, like us in all things but sin. Like us especially in failure.
But Jesus’ defeat was victory specifically because it was redemptive. And that’s what he’s called me to as well—a life of failure embraced for the salvation of souls. He’s asking me to lavish myself on barren soil, to offer myself again and again to be crucified by those whose salvation I desire more than anything else. And when, in the throes of passionate prayer, I offer my life to him as a sacrifice for souls, he takes it gladly.
(Seriously, though, you have to be careful what you pray for. I once told God I’d do anything if he’d make my students holy. I woke up the next morning with my eye swollen shut and then broke my tooth in half.
I’m warning you–if you follow Jesus, he might make you really ugly.
A month later, I prayed the same prayer, and again he took me at my word. I walked into my apartment to discover green mold growing on everything I own. Don’t tell God you’re willing to suffer for something if you’re not prepared to scrub cinder blocks for hours on end.)
And his promise is this: “In the world you will have trouble, but take courage; I have conquered the world.” Not “you will conquer the world,” but “I have conquered the world. The promise is that I will suffer. And I will fail. And as my life draws to a close, I may look back and see nothing gained. But Christ has conquered the world. And my life of failure will bear fruit, whether I see it or not.
We are an Easter people living in a Good Friday world. We fall and we fall and we fall beneath our crosses. But still we rise because the promise of the empty tomb leads us on. So let’s ignore success and failure and broken teeth and broken hearts. Let’s plant in whatever soil we find and forget about looking for fruit. Let’s embrace our crosses and rejoice in defeat. Because when we go before God, unemployment and divorce and teenage drama and middle school exams and pimples and even Bush Push 2005 will count for nothing. We will realize, with Graham Greene’s whiskey priest, “that at the end, there was only one thing that counted: to be a saint.”
Let’s begin.
*But really, what teacher has a kid take a make-up test in a room filled with socializing kids?? I was so distracted I didn’t even finish!
I love you. Completely and entirely. I don’t care who you are or where you’re from. I don’t care about your race or class or level of education. I love you if you’re inconvenient or homeless or disabled or needy or loud or ugly or stupid or way too smart for your own good. I love you so much I don’t even put those labels on you. I just love you.
It didn’t change his love for me.
