RonRolheiser,OMI

Feeding Off Sacred Fire

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Complex Mystery of Suffering

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By their fruits you will know them!

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

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

A Mini Treason

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Thomas Merton once said that what he feared in his own life was not so much a massive betrayal of his vocation, but a series of mini treasons that lead to a different kind of death. And that’s the peril that I fear too, for myself and for our culture.

Sixty years ago Kay Cronin wrote a book entitled, Cross in the Wilderness, chronicling how, in 1847, a small band of Oblate Missionaries of Mary Immaculate came from France to the American Pacific Northwest and, after some bitter setbacks in Washington State and Oregon, moved up the coast into Canada and helped found the Roman Catholic Archdiocese in Vancouver and the Roman Catholic Church in significant parts of British Columbia’s mainland.

She describes these men, no doubt with some over-idealization and hagiography, as tough, totally dedicated, and completely without concern for their own comfort and health. They left their beloved France while still young, knew they would probably never see their loved ones again, and accepted to live constantly in danger both from the harsh elements of their frontier environment and from the threat of death from various Native tribes and various government forces and mercenary soldiers who distrusted them.

They were threatened many times, chased out of various missions, some were kidnapped for periods of time, and a number of their houses and missions were burnt down. They lived perennially on the edge of danger, never secure, never free from threat.

Moreover, they had very little in terms of creature comforts. They lived in log or mud hovels and ate bad food. They had virtually no access to doctors, little access to what might make for good hygiene, and often, while travelling, had to sleep outside without proper shelter from rain and cold, causing many of them to develop rheumatism and other such illnesses at an early age. As well, they were never able to sink roots, to get comfortable at any place, to make the kinds of friends and contacts who could be a comfort and support to them. They had faith in God and each other, and little else.

But they were able to take all of this in stride without undue self-pity or complaint. They wrote positive and idealistic letters to their motherhouse in France and to their families and kept journals in which they expressed mostly joy about their modest successes in the ministry, seldom uttering a complaint about the bad housing, bad food, and instability in their lives.

As an Oblate missionary myself, as a member of the same religious family, I am proud of what these men did, and rightly so. They were selfless to the point of death.

However, that being said, reading their story is also humbling. Looking at their radical sacrifice of all comfort is for me a mirror that I peer into with considerable trepidation and shame. I look at my own life and see far too much in the way of an addiction to comfort and safety. I don’t want what they had: I want healthy food, clean water, proper hygiene, regular rest, access to good doctors, access to news and information, access to travel, regular contact with family and friends, opportunities for retreats and vacations, access to ongoing education, and, not least, I want safety. I want to be a good missionary, but I want to be comfortable and safe.

I take some consolation in the fact that today times are much different than they were when these French missionaries landed in the Pacific Northwest. I couldn’t do the work I do today, at least not for a very long, without proper housing, proper food, proper hygiene, access to education and information, regular rest, and healthy recreational outlets. My life and my ministry are a marathon, not a sprint, and proper self-care is a virtue not a vice.

Still, it’s easy to rationalize and become addicted to comfort and safety. St. Paul, reflecting upon his own missionary life, once wrote that he was comfortable with whatever was dealt to him – much or little. I like to believe that too for my own life; but, and this is true for most of us, the more we live with plenty, the more we tend to protect ourselves inside that cocoon.

As children of our culture, I believe we can easily become addicted to comfort and safety. Once we have grown used to safety, good food, clean water, proper hygiene, access to good doctors and proper medicine, access to constant entertainment, access to instant information, regular connection with our loved ones, boundless educational and recreational opportunities, and wonderful creature comforts of all sorts, the danger looms large that we will not easily, or at all, be able to let go of any of these. Consequently, we can end up as good people, no big betrayals, though no big self-sacrifices either, good but not great, admiring the greatness of others from the comfort and safety of a snug armchair.