Do Not Cling To Me

 I have always struggled with the idea of impermanence. Why do people we love die? Why do friends come into our lives and then just ghost us for no good reason, or leave? Why are cities bombed and monuments destroyed? Why do things fall apart?

I think it's why I was drawn to Buddhism initially as a teenager before becoming a Christian. Impermanence--or if you like in western metaphysics, the law of entropy--is not the exception, but the rule. Tibetan Buddhists manifest this law tangibly in their creations of intricate sand mandalas that take months to create, working eight hours a day for weeks on end. Then in one final ceremony, they brush every last grain of colored sand away.

I was thinking about this this afternoon because I had been struck yet another blow at work with someone on our team leaving for greener pastures--my sixth director in five years. I felt foolish, thinking it would be different this time with this man, whom I had grown close with professionally. In a small way, I got a taste of what foster children must feel like.

When I lived and worked in the inner-city serving Christ's poor, the man who had founded the House of Hospitality told me as we were smoking cigarettes on the dilapidated back porch, "Rob, this work is hard. I pray a lot that my heart not close off and get hardened." He, too, would leave a few months later...in the dead of night, and without a word, leaving the rest of our community to figure things out on our own. 

When I meditate on the Mystery of the Ascension, I often pray, "Lord, I know you will not leave us orphans." And yet I experienced this feeling very acutely and unexpectedly when we were told the news at work. Instantly, my heart scabbed over and developed a shell. I was hurt and angry, even though I knew I shouldn't be. I didn't congratulate him on his new position; in fact, I went off camera, shell-shocked. I shouldn't have been. His position seems cursed almost, too much for one person to manage. I don't even blame him. But once again, I find myself professionally orphaned and starting once again from square one with a soon to be new direct report. This is normal in my industry; why I should think otherwise points more to my foolishness, not any fault of those who leave or get better opportunities elsewhere. 

Even though this is a professional scenario, I've been thinking too that it applies to our life as Catholics remaining in the Church. We don't have a loving shepherd for a spiritual father in the universal Church, but one that seems cold and vindictive, elevating apostates and giving audiences to heretics while he throws those prelates who are faithful to the wolves. I wrote in To Have Become Like Orphans in a text to a priest-friend, 

"All I feel is peace, because the fissures are so clearly drawn, and we have no excuse not for girding our loins for what's coming. Just because your father is passed out at the wheel doesn't mean there's not work that needs to be done and siblings who need to be fed and cared for."

Who are we to rely on? Who can we trust? The bad bishops stay in power, while the faithful ones stepping "out of line" get called into the Vatican's principal's office. Good priests get canceled, while the lukewarm and those riding out their status quo terms stick remain insulated because they don't rock the boat. We are essentially neutered as Catholics by the episcopacy. And yet the harvest which is great still needs to be gathered in, the vineyard still needs pruning. It gets tiring, because there are so few doing the work.

This idea of impermanence, however, I don't think is resigned to the East. It takes a different guise in our own tradition, but it is a universal law. 

Our Lord reassures the disciples that there is a purpose in his going back to the Father after his forty days on earth: "But I tell you the truth, it is better for you that I go. For if I do not go, the Advocate will not come to you. But if I go, I will send him to you" (Jn 16:7). 

And to Mary Magdalene after he was raised, "Do not cling to me, for I have not yet ascended. to the Father; but go to my brothers and say to them, 'I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God" (Jn 20:17). 

On Mount Tabor, Peter wanted to preserve the moment of transfiguration in time, proposing to Jesus, “Lord, it is good for us to be here. If you wish, I will put up three shelters—one for you, one for Moses and one for Elijah" (Mt 17:4). But Moses and Elijah vanish, and God the Father makes His terrible voice heard, "This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased. Listen to him!" (Mt 17:5). 

Peter, who loved the Lord Christ so much, with a obstinate zeal, refused to accept his Master's death initially. "Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him. “Never, Lord!” he said. “This shall never happen to you!”" (Mt 16:22). 

The fact that people leave, loved ones die, bosses transfer, priests get reassigned, and bishops don't have the back of the faithful should not scandalize us or lead to hurt or dejection. We should expect it. And yet, we are still human, and so it does hurt, because we attach ourselves to that which we don't want to die, leave, or end. Our suffering is proportional to our attachment, and so few of us (myself included) are perfectly detached. 

We can sometimes compensate by scabbing over our hearts to keep this hurt at bay, saying things like "I don't care," "Whatever," or "Screw them anyway." But this isn't what we are called to. It is a carnal, worldly response; and as Christians, we are not called to conform ourselves to the world. The supernatural rises above the natural. Job is a good example here of the detachment (which does not mean dispassion) that is righteous: "Naked I came from my mother's womb and naked I return there" (Job 1:21) Job cursed the day he was born, but he did not curse his Creator. 

Christian life is not a life of dispassion. You cannot love without freedom, and love involves loss as well. We don't shield or wall ourselves off from potential hurt or betrayal, because we imitate Christ who left the comforts of Heaven to debase himself in the Incarnation; was betrayed by one of his closest friends; had no where to lay his head. Our sojourn on earth is limited to a hundred years at most--a drop in the bucket compared to eternity. 

In many ways, though, it will remain a mystery to me why good things don't last, why we suffer loss after loss, and why people will leave us orphans. I've struggled with it for years, and today was a reminder that these instances touch a wound deep in my soul that I didn't even realize was there. But there is still work that needs to be done. And so our only choice is to take time to mourn it, then get back to work.

A Good Name

 

You may or may not have noticed some drama in the Catholic, Inc. world lately over who can or should speak publicly at which events and with whom they associate themselves with (if not, Eric Sammons can give you some background here). There are a lot of big and medium names either hopping on or pulling out of certain events on the circuit; for those who have discerned for whatever reason to withdraw from certain engagements, you have Tim Gordon calling on Twitter to "shame the cowards" and replace them with "high-T chads" (whatever that is), while Patrick Coffin is threatening to sue for libel those who take it upon themselves to raise red flags about his views. You're either a "spineless coward" or a "brave truth-teller." There is no in between. 

I generally don't make a thing of attending Catholic conferences (especially "on-line only" ones). One exception was driving to Detroit a few years ago to attend a Street Evangelization conference. I mostly wanted to connect with others like myself involved in this apostolate to "talk shop" and make contacts in this work. It was also nice to finally get to tell Dr. Janet E. Smith in person after her talk that "You are the reason why we have our youngest child." (she smiled and said she never gets tired of having people tell her that).  I found her character relatable, since she seems to have an open mind and is amenable to changing her position when it needs to be reformulated based on new evidence. She's also very funny, and a sense of humor is always a good sign when I interact with anyone.  

It can't be easy to be a big name in the Catholic world, as you have to walk a tightrope a lot of times, and your daily bread is baked in the oven of your personal faith. I wrote about this in Don't Quit Your Day Job. I think God in His mercy has spared me from making any money or getting any notoriety in the Catholic (TM) world. 

This whole ordeal brought me back to the story of the revered Orthodox saint Nektarios, whose life and story is recounted in the excellent film Man of God (2021). Nektarios was passed over as Patriarch because he was not politically astute, gave all his alms to the poor, and lived a virtuous life. His good name was slandered, and he was essentially exiled to work on a remote island. He did not attempt to correct or repudiate the claims, but endured them and often did his charitable works in secret. 

The thing that struck me about Nektarios as a man of God was his dispassion--not in the stoic sense, but along the lines of detachment. He is unconcerned about his reputation or good name (there is a great scene where one of his spiritual sisters/nuns pleads with him, "why don't you SAY SOMETHING?" when he is being calumniated and he puts his finger to his lips and points skyward in silence). As Catholics (especially as Catholic men), emotive responses (anger, worry, jealousy) come from a lower appetite, and although we are not stoics who see emotion or passion as negative in and of themselves, we must in the Augustinian sense have control over them as a matter of temperance. The man who has no self-control is not a detached man. I for one have a lot of work to do!

Dispassion (or rather, a detachment from the passions) does not mean we do not think hard or love deeply. It means we are in control of our emotions and do not act reflexively. It means we answer to One, who is God, and recognize that He is the one who renders our ultimate judgment. It also means we live with the possibility of enduring misrepresentations of those who have something against us, but that we do not return the action as a matter of Christian charity. This is all the exercise of virtue for the One who sees in secret. 

I have never been invited to speak at a Catholic conference anywhere, so this is not really my dumpster fire to be concerned about--I'm simply observing the smoke. I do think if someone believes in the message of a conference, and are willing to endure whatever fallout comes from it by way of the peanut gallery, they should speak. But also, if they've discerned not to, they shouldn't be "counter-canceled" as a "spineless coward." It's also unfortunate this drama clouds over what has the potential to be a sharing of wisdom and hope, even if you have to sift through some fringe stuff to get there. 

But can we live the life of a Christian without these conferences? Yes, we most certainly can. For those who speak, it is a platform and some monetary compensation. For the attendees, one would hope they would grow in faith, hope, and love so as to live better lives as disciples.  But is it true? It is beautiful? Is it necessary? I'm not sure if it is. 

So, besides a quick prayer for those caught up in the lose/lose situation of having to discern whether or not to attend these various conferences, I will lay the topic to rest. There's a lot of work to be done!

Do The Hard Thing

 "Suffering ceases to be suffering at the moment it finds a meaning."

--Victor Frankl (neurologist, psychiatrist, philosopher, author, Holocaust survivor)

Wim Hof, colloquially known as "The Iceman," has climbed Mount Everest in shorts and sandals, run a half marathon barefoot in the Artic Circle, and been submerged in ice for almost two hours. But for the sixty-two year old Dutchman, these cold weather endurance feats are the least painful of what he has endured. “I can do it all," he notes "because compared to a grieving heart, it is nothing.”

His wife (who suffered from schizophrenia) took her life in 1995 by throwing herself from an eight story building, leaving Hof--a young father of four at the time--to pick up the pieces. Between the grief of losing the love of his life, and being forced to continue living and providing for his children, Hof had no consolation, no answers to deal with the pain and no recourse to relief. He was paralyzed with fear, gripped by anxiety, and swallowed up in emotional agony...and nothing alleviated it.

Until he disrobed and slipped into a freezing lake one Sunday morning.

While his body was gripped and paralyzed by the cold, his fear, grief, and anxiety melted away.

"Instead of being guided by my broken emotions, the cold water led me to stillness and gave my broken heart a chance to rest, restore, rehabilitate."

"The only thing that gave me peace," he recalls, "was the cold."

While I am not a devoted follower of the so-called "Hof method," I have been employing the relatively simple habit of turning my thermostat down in my house to 55 degrees, and taking cold showers every morning for the past few months. It is both the worst part of my day...and the best. The worst, because the shooting pain of ice water stinging your frigid body with no place to hide from it is akin to a mild form of torture. The best, because it did not kill me and I live to see another day.

The author Natalie Goldberg, when she was going through a divorce, approached her roshi (Zen master) and asked him, "Roshi, will I get used to loneliness?"

"No, you don't get used to it," he said, "I take a cold shower every morning and every morning it shocks me, but I continue to stand up in the shower. Loneliness always has a bite, but learn to stand up in it and not be tossed away."

The jury is still out in the scientific community as to the verifiable health benefits of cold therapy and ice baths. Anecdotally, I feel more alert, more alive, and suspect that there are more endorphins flowing through my body after emerging from the shower.

But there is something else, though, beyond the positive physiological effects.

I know the emotional agony and sense of darkness Hof experienced when he lost his wife. But in my case, I was the one standing on the proverbial ledge eight stories up, unable to find a way to escape. The moral guardrail of my religious faith restrained my desire to meet the same fate as Hof's wife, to escape a jet-black depression that seemed like it would never end. In the darkest clutches of depression, the things that would most benefit mental wellbeing--exercise, friends and family, prayer--are the most aversive.

But what if we could will our bodies away from atrophy--doing the exact hard thing we have no desire to do?

If we are convinced we can't survive two minutes in an icy lake, and we jump in anyway, what do we have to lose if we want to die in that moment anyway? If we die, we obtain the wish of our distorted mind. But if we come out of the experience, panting and shivering but very much alive and with a new lease on life...what if that was the spark needed to ignite the will to live again?

Indeed, in the city of Yukutsk, Siberia--the coldest city in the world--men routinely remove their clothes when it is minus 50 degrees Farhenheit to take ice baths outside. Their bodies are acclimated to the cold, and they rarely get sick. And in Russia and Ukraine, the Orthodox faithful celebrate the Feast of Ephiphany in January by plunging into icy lakes. "Epiphany is purification," one congregant of the ritual observes, "My soul is cleansed and I'm charged with a good mood for the whole year ahead."

There is no denying that Hof has attained a level of physical transcendence of the limitations of the body by the power of the mind that is remarkable. But he maintains that he is not unique, and that anyone can push themselves farther than they thought possible and gain mental clarity and emotional control, simply by doing the harder thing.

"As humanity has evolved and developed ways to make our lives more and more comfortable, we have lost our ability not only to survive but to thrive in extreme environments," the Iceman notes. "The things we have built to make our lives easier have actually made us weaker."

Though I'm still soft in a lot of ways, I've grown to love my morning cold shower. I mean, I hate it. But I love it. Every time I step into the stall, I know what is waiting for me: cold, hard pain. And every time I turn the shower handle as far to the right as it will go and pull it back, there is a part of me that feels like I am going to die as soon as those thousands of icy needles fly the wall and strike my naked torso.

But then, I don't. I yelp, and curse, and cry a little. But I don't die. A few minutes, and it's over. I'm still here. I continue to stand up. And I will not be tossed away.

Detachment In The Spiritual Life

 

Last night my daughter heard heard a giant crack in the backyard during a thunderstorm. A few seconds later, the familiar engulfment in darkness ensued.

We lost power for a total of about five hours. We were all together, and though it was a hot day it wasn't life-threatening sweltering. We had some lanterns and some summer sausage, crackers and cheese, and some carrots. All in all, we were fine, and it was a minor inconvenience.

I still found myself on edge, irritable, hot and annoyed, mostly because we didn't know how long before our power would be restored. It's funny the things you take for granted until they are violently in a swoop, taken away. We couldn't cook, couldn't do laundry, couldn't run even fans, and didn't want to open the fridge or freezer. 

I quickly realized I, like most people, talk a good game. We are confident when the lights are on and our stomach is full. But you really don't know yourself or your attachments until someone takes them away.

St. Claude de la Colobiere said, "If you ever have a fit of sadness or trouble, remember that is is because you are still attached to life, or health, or some comfort, or person, or thing that you ought  to forget or despise that you may desire Jesus Christ only."

That attachment of the heart extends beyond just creature comforts. I find one of my defects is my attachment to people as well. I tend to expect too much of people--friends and those in my community--and find myself often experiencing that sadness St. Claude speaks about when my expectations are met with disappointment. This is a form of attachment as well. 

In addition to the advise I received in spiritual direction recently of not being able to advance in the spiritual life without mental prayer, we cannot advance while we are still attached to "creatures," as Thomas a Kempis notes. Want to know your level of attachment? Have whatever it is you suspect yourself attached to taken away. God will often do this with our health, our family, our finances, and often violently so in a way that hurts, to get our attention. 

This is why we mortify the senses and do penance in this life, so that we suffer less the pains of hell in purgatory in the next. It's much easier to do so now than later. 

But even then, it's painful, and we find ways to maintain our attachments. But God is a just Judge, and restitution must be made one way or another. I think we overestimate the severity and frequency of our penances and virtue, and underestimate our level of attachment to the things of this world until the object of our desire is no longer there and we realize how much we cling to. Last night was just a minor wake up call for me--embarrassing, but a good lesson as well. 

There is a truthful, somewhat comical saying I heard once that seems to hold true: "If you think you are enlightened, spend a week with your parents." We often have a noble idea of our spiritual piety in our minds, but moments of crisis reveal the true nature of a man's character. I find myself guilty as charged. 

When the power came back on around midnight, all was right in the world again. If I was a more spiritual man, I may have met that with an indifferent shrug, but instead it was a sense of relief and "now we can get on with things." But it may not be long until God takes out the big stick for us as a collective and violently rips the blankie off us to reveal our true dependence on the world, rather than Christ. Then we will see ourselves as we really are, with no comfort to turn to. It may very well be the best thing for us in the end. But it won't come without the pain, proportionate to our attachment in this world.