Holey Heart

Yesterday was Mother’s Day. It was also the day that the Church in North America celebrates the Ascension of Jesus into Heaven. The irony of these often concurrent events is that the message of the weekend’s scripture selections and the message my mother perennially attempts to impart on me are the same – stay put.

After spending time with the risen Jesus, whose crucifixion and very real death and burial they had witnessed personally, the Apostles were excited about the prospects for the repressed cultural minority to which they belonged. At one time the nation of Israel was a force to be feared and revered, but at the time of the Gospel, the Hebrews were little more than just another troublesome sect crushed under the foot of mighty Rome. But if their beloved Jesus could defy even death, surely He could and would restore God’s chosen people to their former glory.

Jesus’ response to them was twofold and probably not what they wanted to hear. First, He said, “It is not for you to know the times and seasons that the Father has established by His own authority. But you (emphasis mine) will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes upon you.”

The power Christ promises just before He leaves them is not the power to change political structures or institute utopia on earth. It is a power promised to each one of the Apostles (and each one of us) personally. Although it is not described in yesterday’s readings, it has been touched upon in the other Easter Gospels. The power is the peace of Christ. Not world peace. Inner peace. There is nothing more powerful on earth, as it is in heaven.

But in order to receive this peace, we must follow Jesus’ direction to His Apostles. Stay in Jerusalem until the Holy Spirit comes.

What does it mean to stay in Jerusalem? For the Apostles, it was a place of conflict, corruption, and crucifixion. It was also a place of hope, joy and miracles. It was a place of upper rooms – of suppers shared with friends, of doors locked in fear, of foreshadowing and revelation.

Each of us has our own Jerusalem, a place of earthly contradiction and spiritual paradox, of death and resurrection. And like most earth-bound beings, we don’t feel comfortable staying in such a place for very long. I may be able to accept the fullness of my Jerusalem for a few days, maybe even a few weeks. But while I’m there, I’m longing for God to redeem and make everything the way it “should” be, or rather, the way I think it should be. And when that doesn’t happen on my time schedule, my instincts tell me to move on, now.

Yet Jesus told the Apostles to wait. And he gave them no indication about how long.

The mother figures in my life are continually telling me to do the same. The woman who gave birth to me is forever encouraging me to think twice, nay, three times, before taking action. I don’t like it one bit, but the Bible tells me to honor my mother, so I swallow my pride. I know her prayer for me is not unlike the prayer Paul had for the early Church at Ephesus – wisdom and enlightenment.

I have other mother figures whose wisdom and enlightenment I trust. And they, too, tell me to wait. To sit with my feelings. When I ask how long, they tell me I will “know” when the time is right.

In the mean time, I am called to do what the Apostles did after they watched their savior float away. They “returned to Jerusalem with great joy, and they were continually in the temple praising God.” I don’t plan to follow that literally. However, my body, mind and spirit is the temple I tend. I need to sit with myself and praise God with every small act of love toward myself. I’m not sure what I’m waiting for, but it promises to be more than I could ever imagine.

“I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one gets to the Father except through me.” This is one of the most oft-quoted lines uttered by Jesus, usually re-uttered by Christians claiming a corner on the market of salvation.

I remember being in elementary school and asking my mom if people who didn’t know about Jesus would go to hell. You see, I had a fundamentalist Baptist neighbor who taught neighborhood kids (me included) about the bible and Jesus every Wednesday after school, and she very forcefully insisted, using the above line from the Gospel of John, that anyone who hadn’t asked Jesus into their hearts would not go to heaven, no matter how good they were – even people who didn’t know about Him. That is why it was so important to support missionaries in the world, she said.

I was born a skeptic. Not of God, because I knew God before I even knew what name to call Him. I was a skeptic when it came to people who think they had all the answers, or the only answer. By the way, I still am, if you hadn’t noticed. Nothing pushes my buttons more than someone who thinks they have the only possible answer. (Unless, of course, that “someone” is me!)

Even as a youngster, I’d been going to Catholic Mass long enough to hear the apparent contradictions that can be found in Holy Scripture. For example, the passage in today’s daily reading, also from the Gospel of John.

“No one can come to me unless the Father who sent me draw him.”

So what is it, Jesus? You can’t have it both ways, can you?

(There is some great commentary on these two passages at http://www.patheos.com/blogs/christianpiatt/2012/02/belief-in-jesus-the-only-way-to-heaven/)

I must have posed this question, or something like it, to my mother. I can remember her response like it was yesterday. She pulled out her own well worn Bible (the New American version, not King James) and read a few things I can’t remember. But with the authority of that book sitting on the kitchen table in front of us, she shared with me what she was taught by the nuns in Catholic school – that we get to heaven by being baptized. That those who aren’t baptized, she was taught, go to “limbo” – a state of bliss that is not fully in God’s presence the way heaven is. And those who had been baptized but had died with sin in their hearts would have to somehow have to be purified and “purged” in purgatory.

As for the folks who never had the chance to know Jesus or be baptized, she told me that the Catechism of the Catholic Church taught something called the “baptism of desire.” It is worth looking up if you are curious, especially if you are concerned about those who reject God because they’ve been harmed in some way by an inauthentic witness of what it means to believe in God. The priest scandals come to mind, as does my own imperfect example of trying to love like Jesus.

Ultimately, though, my mother just looked at me after sharing all this and said, “But we really don’t know, do we? This is what we believe, though, and it certainly couldn’t hurt to believe it just in case.”

If you ever doubt, as a parent, that you do not have what it takes to pass on your faith (whether it’s faith in a deity or a social structure or an ever-changing understanding of the physical world), think of my mom and the power of her humble and honest imparting of what she believed and why. I was probably only seven or eight, yet her words were so important that I remember them vividly 30 years later, and they are the bedrock of my faith.

She didn’t try to explain the contradictions with some deep understanding of theology. She certainly didn’t take every word literally – we Catholics are taught that the Truth of Holy Scripture is as much in the metaphorical and literary structure of The Word as it is in the words themselves. If there is something we don’t understand, “It’s a mystery,” is the answer we often must accept.

I have a lot of friends who don’t or can’t accept mystery and metaphor and metaphysics. And if that works for them, more power to them.

But in those times of doubt, when the lawyer in me is parsing passages of John’s Gospel (which is more poetry than narrative and was never intended to be read literally), I find my mother’s approach to faith reassuring: “It certainly couldn’t hurt to believe, just in case.”

I don’t think it has hurt me to believe. But perhaps I have hurt other people. I’m sure there are times when I’ve held so rigidly to something I don’t really know that I’ve disregarded different dogmas in a personal and callous way. I strive for a “live and let live” approach to religious faith, but I know I’ve fallen short of that with certain people in my life.

I think it’s because I’ve felt responsible for them. Some of that Baptist missionary talk must have sunk in, because I’ve certainly done my best to “save” more than a few souls. Or maybe I wanted the rush that comes from that kind of ego trip.

Ultimately, we don’t have empirical proof that God or His Heaven exist. But we don’t have empirical proof that they don’t exist, either. It takes as much faith to disbelieve in God as it does to believe. So for me, it doesn’t hurt to believe. Not because I’m afraid that I’ll go to hell if I don’t, but because if I die and there really is nothing, there won’t be a “me” left to be disappointed anyway, will there? If believing in the Way, the Truth, and the Life gives me comfort and direction in this life, more power to me.

That’s one thing believers and atheists can agree on. This life matters. And perhaps it doesn’t matter what source we turn to for Good Orderly Direction, for it is written in the prophets:

They shall all be taught by God.

Jesus is not the only Gospel character who was transformed by the resurrection. Today’s first reading from the Acts of the Apostles shows a Peter who is quite different from the fisherman Jesus called in Galilee. He speaks to the crowd with such eloquence, conviction and purpose. It’s difficult to believe that he is the same man who tentatively lingered around the Christ until he had no other choice but to abandon his livelihood after his nets tore due to Jesus “miracle” that we read about before lent started.

Most of us are like the old Peter. We dance around the doors of church and pay lip service to the spiritual life, but for the most part our lives are consumed by material concerns. And why wouldn’t they be? We are, after all, material beings. We have to eat, don’t we? Provide for our families? Ensure some basic security for ourselves? Isn’t that what God wants of us: to become mature, responsible individuals who can then “give back” through the families we raise and the charitable donations we make?

If this is what Christianity has been reduced to, no wonder it is faltering.

Frankly, we don’t really want to be transformed like Peter was. What we want is to be comfortable. We want spirituality to be “fix it and forget it.” Like Peter at the Transfiguration, we want to set up tents for Elijah and Moses and Jesus instead of carrying their truth with us back into the valleys of our lives. We want to jump out of the boat, walk on water, and be God. We certainly don’t want talk of crosses and death on the road to Jerusalem. We want to supersize our faith and get not just our feet but our whole bodies washed by the Savior. We protest any suggestion that our modern lifestyle runs contrary to the Gospel, and deny not only Christ in our actions but deny the cockcrow too.

Of all the characters in the Gospel, Peter is the one with whom I most identify. Stubborn, willful, bold, a bull in a china shop who frequently puts cart before horse because he lacks spiritual understanding. Yet Jesus calls him “rock” and designates him as the foundation of an institution that has weathered more that 2000 years. Not because of what Peter was, but because of who Peter could be and would be after the power of the resurrection transformed him.

The challenge for me this Easter season is to allow myself to be transformed like Peter. Not just changed temporarily, but completely transformed. I can feel it happening through many of my day to day interactions and struggles. My Peter-like ways are being brought to my attention, and it is quite humbling. But today’s readings give me hope that if Jesus could turn a little nobody from Galilee into the Father of the Church, He can transform me too. I may not like the process. But it is the destination of the Christian spiritual path. Either I’m walking the path, or I’m not.

What if the Ten Commandments were not a list of prohibitions, but rather a list of promises that are fulfilled when we follow the first commandment to put God first?

This idea was first planted in my heart on a college retreat, and it came to mind as I was meditating on today’s Gospel about the woman caught in the act of adultery, specifically the part at the end when Jesus says to her, “Go, and from now on do not sin any more.”

As if it were that easy.

There have been many times in my life when I felt convicted by my own well-deserved guilt and shame, only to be shown mercy. But it was not enough to stop me from making some of the same sinful mistakes again. Why?

Perhaps it is because “sin” is not what we think it is.

I used to think of sin as a specific action. Like lying, cheating, stealing, killing, being mean. These may be sinful behaviors, but I propose that they are not sin itself, but the result of the one and only sin there is – to willfully separate myself from the will of God. If I am obeying the first commandment, it follows that I would be obeying them all, because it’s not possible to commit adultery or murder or steal or wish for what someone else has or deceive other people if I am right with God.

So when Jesus tells the woman (and the rest of us) to go and sin no more, what He is really saying – no, PLEADING – is, “Stop trying to go it alone. From now on, walk with God, and for your own sake, don’t let go of His hand, even for a second.”

As I was writing that, I thought of one of my own deep needs -to have someone hold my hand. It’s what I want to do when I’m falling in love. It’s what I want to do when I’m praying the Lord’s Prayer. It’s what I want to do when I’m angry with someone and can’t seem to rein myself in. It’s what I want when I’ve been disobedient and am being corrected. It’s what I want when I go to confession. It’s what I want when I have been forgiven but I’m still afraid I’ll do it again.

This longing for human touch is just a physical manifestation of my real longing to hold the hand of God and walk with someone who can keep me from harming myself and others. It is an admission of my own spiritual immaturity and my need for a God who can parent me with love. Like Paul says in today’s epistle, “I consider everything as a loss because of the supreme good of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord . . . it is not that I have already taken hold of it or have already attained perfect maturity, but I continue my pursuit in hope that I may possess it.”

Holding hands is also what I want to do with my children. I want to hold their hand to guide them, to lead them, to correct them, to comfort them, and to show them my love. Perhaps my divine parent wants to hold my hand as much as I want to hold His.

What is love? It’s a question I’ve been asking for many years, and every time I get the scriptural answer, I find myself wishing I hadn’t asked and pretending I didn’t hear it. Many people cite 1 Corinthians Chapter 13 as their favorite piece of scripture, but whenever I hear it I get a sinking feeling in my stomach.

If it is jealous, it is not love.

If it is arrogantly confident, it is not love.

If it is puffed up with flattery and gifts and drama, it is not love.

If it interrupts and gives advice that wasn’t asked for or tells offensive jokes, it is not love.

If the phrase, “What’s in it for me?” is uttered or thought silently, it is not love.

If it involves verbal or physical violence, it is not love.

If it holds a grudge and nurses resentment, it is not love.

If it takes any pleasure in someone else’s misfortune or unhealthy behavior, keep looking, because it’s not love.

I’m hard pressed to find any relationship in my life that didn’t reflect one or more of these characteristics that are not love, either on my side or theirs. And yet, I say I love my family members, my significant others, or members of my beloved spiritual communities. It is a disconnect that leaves me feeling disillusioned and discontent.

Saint Paul uses a lot of words to describe what love is not, but only two words to describe what love is – patient and kind. Perhaps this is because before we can live lives based on authentic love, we must rid ourselves of everything that is not love. That’s such a tall order, and that’s why this oft-quoted New Testament passage is one I struggle to embrace.

It reminds me that I am a hypocrite, surrounded by hypocrites.

And that’s a great place to start to love, because love rejoices with the truth – the whole truth. And the whole truth is that whatever hypocrisy we may exhibit is part of a spiritual journey, a natural growth process. Love is patient and kind, not harsh and judging.

Love bears all things, even the unpleasant truth about our attitudes and behaviors.

Love believes all things – the truth and the illusions – because love knows only the truth will prevail.

Love hopes all things. It is not afraid to hope that the addict will stop using, that estranged family members will be reconciled, that a job will be found, that there can be world peace.

Love endures all things: grief, heartbreak, illness, uncertainty, pain, loss.

Love bears, believes, hopes and endures all things – all with patience and kindness. What an uncommon way to live.

It seems to me that most of us just survive, clawing our way through life with varying degrees of jealousy, arrogance, self-importance, rudeness, individualism, reactive anger, resentment, guilt-tripping, and  spitefulness. As Thoreau put it, most men live lives of quiet desperation.

If this is making your blood pressure go up a bit in protest, perhaps you can relate to the hometown crowd in Nazareth whom Jesus addressed in today’s gospel passage. They were ready to throw Him off a cliff after He dared to question the attitudes of the “chosen people.”

Much like the ancient Hebrews, I have tried to sweep the unpleasant characteristics that Paul enumerates under the rug and focus on the appearance of a life blessed by God. I’ve nurtured my faith life and shared it with others. I’ve made sacrifices and done “the right thing” most of the time. Paul says those things may be well and good, but without love, I’ll be empty, and I know this to be true. I’ve felt it. It’s the God-shaped hole in my heart. The love-shaped heart.

When we are spiritual infants, we fill that hole with whatever gives short-term relief – it’s a survival reflex, in some cases biological, emotional and psychological. As we grow spiritually, we begin to fill it with prayer, learning about faith, and serving others, but even this does not fill the void completely. Love is the fruit of spiritual maturity, and in order find it, we have to let go of everything that is not love. We have to put aside childish things if we want to thrive rather than merely survive. We have to be willing to let go of the illusions we’ve outgrown.

I’ve mentioned before that my attempts to fix myself make things worse. This epistle reminds me to bear up my shortcomings to God, believe He will love me in spite of them, hope He will replace them with patience, kindness and integrity, and endure the waiting and the fear of loss. “When the perfect comes, the partial will pass away,” Paul says. This process of letting go of old notions of love and being transformed is a grieving process. Most of us would rather hold onto what little pseudo-love and security we think we have than release it all to God and wait for the fullness of love. This requires willingness, courage and strength.

I need to have faith that letting go of jealousy, arrogance, self-importance, rudeness, individualism, reactive anger, resentment, guilt-tripping, and spitefulness will not leave me empty. Actually, when I allow God to clear away some of the clutter, I begin to see that patience, kindness and integrity were in me all along, buried under outdated childhood coping skills. I guess this is what they mean when they say that if I am searching for love outside myself, I’m looking in the wrong place.

As I was meditating and writing this reflection, I thought of a song (Alanis Morissette, of course!) that embodies Paul’s spiritual message in an admittedly secular way. Enjoy!

Republished from Sept. 3, 2011

I spent quite a bit of time over the holiday weekend writing a much-overdue scripture reflection. I’d been meditating on it for a week, opening my eyes and ears to the voice of God to guide me, and I was not disappointed. Everywhere I was seeing messages from Him: in my daily readers, in the songs on the radio, in the quotes that friends posted on Facebook, in my pastor’s sermon, and even in the tiny frog that greeted on my door frame when I got home last night.

Last night I was half-done with a fantastic treatise on the nature of sin and my utter powerlessness over it, with the wonderful final conclusion being the only way to fight sin is to refuse to fight, to turn the other cheek and face God with both our light and our darkness.

As if to prove the point to me, when I came back to finish up my writing this evening, I found that everything I’d written was gone.

I was more powerless than I thought.

I’d love to go back and try to recreate what I created. I’d love to reconstruct each carefully crafted paragraph. And maybe one day I will. Tonight, I am humbled by yet another lesson learned the hard way.

The lesson is this: I must allow God to work in me, or the work won’t last. Doing it alone won’t work.

Unless I “Fully Rely On God,” my efforts, however valiant, will be in vain.