Saved by Another

Les Mis is about the redeption and salvation of a soul, namely that of Jean Valjean.  And after seeing the film version, it struck me how fitting it was that Fantine should lead Jean Valjean into heaven.  And I realized that this is because we are saved by other people.  Yes, it was love that saved Jean Valjean. It was his love for Cosette, whom he raised.  It was his love for Marius, whom he saved from the barricade.  It was his love for Fantine and his mercy even to Javert.  It was the practical charity into which Jean Valjean grew that saved him, that allowed him to escape his past deeds.  And we should not forget that all this was made possible by the love which was shown him by the bishop and others along the way.  In a word, it was made possible by grace.

I think this is an interesting reflection for us.  When we make the final transitus, the final journey home, who will lead us?  You can't get to heaven on your own.  So who will be the people who will take your hand and guide you there?

Take my hand, and lead me to salvation
Take my love, for love is everlasting
And remember the truth that once was spoken
To love another person is to see the face of God.

Taming

Too many people, too little time.

I've been blessed to live in places where there have been an abundance of people to whom I can easily relate and get along with.  Actually, I have a theory that you could be friends with almost anyone, because people are generally awesome once you get them talking.  But regardless of that, I still think I've been put in places where I have an extraordinary amount in common with an extraordinary amount of people.  Which leads to a problem: we are finite creatures which means that we only have a finite amount of time to spend with other people.  There are lots of people, lots of personalities to which I am drawn.  There are many people about whom I've thought, "we could be really good friends."  But there are only so many people that you can know in any meaningful way, and even fewer that you can become really close with.  (Sociologists would agree.)  So how is one to choose? How is one supposed to figure out who, out of all the smart, funny, relatable people that one could know, are the smartest, funniest, and most relatable?  Is it even possible to find the "perfect" friend?

What I've come to realize, is that the people you end up knowing and knowing well are random.  You happen to do the same activities as a certain person, live near a person, belong to the same organizations as a person, have a number of the same classes as a person.  Chance circumstances have a lot to do with who you know.  I think this used to bother me.  Its especially troubling, I would imagine, when it comes to things like deciding whom to marry.  How can anyone be "the one," the perfect match when who you get to know seems random anyway.  I remember once making a list (I was like thirteen at the time) of all the pretty girls I knew and ranking them according to categories like 'looks,' 'personality,' 'intelligence,' etc. all so that I could come to some sort of rational basis for choosing to set my affections on one of them.  But what thirteen year old me didn't realize is that love has its own dynamic, its own internal 'logic,' which cannot be captured by mere rationality.

I thank Antoine de Saint-Exupéry for giving me the language to express what I have come to realize over time.  "Taming" is the secret to how one rose, that at first looks just like any other rose on the bush, can become the most beautiful flower in the world.  It is the secret to how one person, not much different from any other person, can become a special friend. In The Little Prince, this is expressed perfectly in the dialogue between the little prince and the fox.  The fox explains to the little prince that if he wants to have friends, he needs to 'tame' someone, which is 'to establish ties.'  He says:

To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys.  And I have no need of you.  And you, on your part, have no need of me.  To you, I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes.  But if you tame me, then we shall need each other.  To me, you will be unique in all the world.  To you, I shall be unique in all the world.

This is what it means to be in relationship with someone.  It means to put yourself in a position of vulnerability, a position of needing someone.  It's this process of coming to know someone that makes them stand out, that makes them important to you.  And I think this is what makes the question of whether the people we know are the 'best' people we could know a silly one.  To tame someone is to know them, to let them enter your heart, to care about them and let them care about you.  They may not be the best or the brightest, but that's okay because they are the ones you know.  There is a freedom here to not question why you are friends with someone (and not someone else) but to accept the fact that they have become unique to you and to accept the 'logic' of love.

"'Go and look again at the roses,' [said the fox,] "You will understand now that yours [the one the little prince left on his home planet] is unique in all the world."
. . .

"The little prince went away, to look again at the roses."
. . . 

"[To the roses he said], 'You are beautiful, but you are empty...One could not die for you.  To be sure, and ordinary passerby would think that my rose looked just like you--the rose that belongs to me.  But in herself alone she is more important than all the hundreds of you other roses: because it is she that I have watered; because it is she that I have put under the glass globe; because it is she that I have sheltered behind the screen; because it is for her that I have killed caterpillars (except the two or three that we saved to become butterflies); because it is she that I have listened to, when she grumbled, or boasted, or even sometimes when she said nothing.  Because she is my rose.'"
. . .
"And he went back to meet the fox"
. . .
"' Goodbye,' said the fox. 'And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye."
. . .
"'It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important.'"
. . .
"'Men have forgotten this truth, but you must not forget it.  You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.  You are responsible for your rose...'"

This, I think, is what it is to truly live.  It is to tame others, and to let ourselves be tamed.  It is to waste time with people, because that is kind of what other people are there for.  And when we do this, it enables us to see others in a way that no one else sees them.  And we when we do this, we allow others to have a claim on us...forever.

To everyone whom I have had the great pleasure of getting to know in little ways or in big ways: thank you.  Even if that fact that we are both finite means I haven't yet gotten to know you as well as I would like, you should know that you really have made a difference in my life.  All of you.  So thank you.

Monks' Hearts

One of the things of which I have been reminded time and again in the recent past, (and of which I am in need of constant reminding) is the simple fact that we are called to have hearts for God alone.  There is a hunger and a loneliness inside each of us that only God can fill.  Growth in the Christian life is one of stripping away all temporal things to which we are attached, so that we can be filled with God alone.  And while this may be easiest to do in the context of the religious vows, and most particularly in the context of a monastery, it is something that everyone is called to do.  Whether priest, religious brother, religious sister, single, married, we are all called fundamentally to have monks' hearts.  Just like the men who go through these gates at the Abby of Gesthemani.

Photo by Bryan Sherwood, used under Creative Commons license.

The Catechism of the Catholic Church has this gem about distractions in prayer and what they tell us:

To set about hunting down distractions would be to fall into their trap, when all that is necessary is to turn back to our heart: for a distraction reveals to us what we are attached to, and this humble awareness before the Lord should awaken our preferential love for him and lead us resolutely to offer him our heart to be purified.  Therein lies the battle, the choice of which master to serve.  -CCC #2729
 

It is through the stillness and silence of prayer that we can learn what is disquieting our hearts, what is weighing them down, and there learn to free ourselves from all worldly attachments and to love God above all else.

Edit: I should note that the phrase "monks' hearts" isn't mine originally, but came most immediately from a priest I know.  I don't know if he got it from anywhere.

The Sacrament of the Present Moment

Different paths led us here.  We each came here on our own journey.  And soon we will follow different paths away from here.  For our journeys are different.  But what matters is that now, in the present, they overlap.  We cover the same ground. We take in the same scenery, pass by the same waypoints, and even share the company of the same fellow travellers.

Sometimes I think the sadness that sometimes falls between us is not so much because the part of the journey we have together is so short, but because each of us can't understand the path the other must take in the end.  I can only really know what it is like to travel the journey I was given, and you yours.  In the end, my path is not to be your path, and your path is not to be my path.  This keeps us apart even now.  For how can I understand you, if your path and mine are not the same?

But come, let us walk together for as long as we can.

Transforming Desire

Travelling about the lake (this time running) has been a good source of thoughts lately.  On my run today it struck me how living a good life and living a Christian life are as much about transforming our desires as they are about transforming our behavior.  In paraphrasing William Law, Peter Kreeft once said "If you will look into your own heart in utter honesty, you must admit that there is one and only one reason why you are not even now a saint. You do not wholly want to be."  This, then, is the task.  We must want to be saints.  The most successful people really want to be successful.  This holds true in the spiritual life, as much as in the world of business or the world of athletics.

But how do we begin to transform our desires?  I suppose it starts by living as if we had them.

Humilitas

While I was walking back home today, it stuck me in a new way why humility is such an important virtue and why pride is such a deadly vice.  It's a simple as this: all the greatest things in life are gifts.  Without much qualification one could say that all things, including life itself, are gifts.  Not only does grace perfect nature, but nature itself is gratuitous.  Humility recognizes this and experiences everything as a gift.  Pride does not.  The prideful person sees himself primarily as a giver rather than as a receiver.  The guy who thinks he is God's greatest gift to women would do well to think rather on how women are God's gift to him.  The truest friendships have made me feel humbled and completely unworthy.

Here's the summary:

The world is pure gift.
Humility experiences world as pure gift.
Pride thinks it has more to give than to receive.

Thus, humility is the attitude which is properly oriented toward reality.

The Searcher

Bill smiled to himself.  The symbolism could not have been clearer.  (Or was it symbolism?  Bill had forgotten nearly everything from his college semiotics class.  In any case the meaning was obvious.) There was the answer staring him directly in the face.  His thoughts jumped back to last night.  Not that they had far to jump.  All day thoughts of last night had been rolling around in his head.  Last night had been one of those rare, wonderful moments in time that you can't really be sure will ever happen again.  If Bill had counted the moments like this that he could remember (moments that were by definition unforgettable), they would have fit on one hand for sure.  Close friendships are rare enough, he mused.  But then there are those moments, that you certainly cannot control or try to make happen, when those barriers that keep even kindred spirits apart are removed or let down.  Perhaps it was the calm of the night. (It was almost always at night, wasn't it?)  Perhaps it was the impermanence of their situation.  No, this was not their final parting of ways, but the impending, albeit temporary, spatial separation was in someways a microcosm of a much more permanent separation they knew would eventually be coming.  Whatever it was, the conversation ran deeper than usual.  "The meaning of life" would be an apt way to describe its content, although Bill meant that in the most inclusive sense possible.  Bill had decided long ago that the meaning of life had something to do with music, religion, and sex.  No other things have quite the power to captivate and are so central to the human experience.  (If you are a tone-deaf, impotent atheist, you probably don't have much to live for, Bill figured.  Bill also liked having an excuse to introduce people to the term "hemidemisemiquaver.") But it was obviously more than just the content of the conversation that made last night so special, Bill thought.  It had to be the people he was with.  Maybe he should add friendship to his "meaning of life" list.  He had never wanted so much just to pause time.  He didn't care that he was now doing manual labor on barely two hours of sleep.   Bill would have gladly done it all over again.  It just added to the a strange, wonderful, indescribable, and oddly dissatisfied feeling had pervaded him all day.  Yes, dissatisfied.  That was the part that Bill hadn't quite understood until now.  Strange, because they had even talked about this very thing, about Augustinian restlessness, about how humans can't quite ever be satisfied, and about how the best sources attest that the most ecstatic human experiences only make the ache, the longing, the dissatisfaction even worse.  Hadn't C.S. Lewis called this Sehnsucht?  Hadn't Tolkien mentioned "regions where pain and delight flow together and tears are the very wine of blessedness"?  Of course, Bill had felt this restlessness before, and accepted the received wisdom that it only gets stronger the more ecstatic your experience.  But he had never felt it to quite this extent before.  Usually, it was the chance sighting of a pretty face that would drive him crazy.  But the happiest things he could remember?  Not so much.  This was probably why he didn't know what to make of his dissatisfaction, until now.  But there it was, the answer staring him directly in the face.  (It's all in Lewis, all in Lewis! He was right after all!)  Or perhaps more correctly, pounding his eardrums. Someone nearby was playing music.  Overall, not a bad selection, Bill had thought.  It sort of makes the day less monotonous.  But then a song by U2 came on.  Bill had always enjoyed U2, and this song in particular, but hadn't really paid close attention to the lyrics until now. 


I have climbed the highest mountains
I have run through the fields
Only to be with you
Only to be with you...


...I have kissed honey lips
Felt the healing in her finger tips
It burned like fire
I was burning inside her...


...But I still haven't found
What I'm looking for
But I still haven't found
What I'm looking for


Bill couldn't help but smile.  It all made sense now.  Last night was but another reminder that no matter how much we seek, even though we reach the very heights of human experience, we won't ever find quite what we are looking for.  Not in this lifetime, anyway.

Not Something to be Grasped

So, I finally got around to reading Leisure, the Basis of Culture.  It didn't quite have the content I would have guessed, but nevertheless it helped me pull together some things I had been reflecting on.  The question, my friends, is one of outlook.  How are we to approach the world around us?  Last summer and indeed last fall, I struggled with a certain restlessness.  It's hard to describe, but is this not in any way the 'good' kind of restlessness I associate with the sublime, with that yearning for still something more found at the very heights of human experience.  No, this was something more akin to boredom, probably having its proximate cause in not having enough to do.  I had all this time to do what I wanted, and yet I wasn't happy.  In the worst moments, I didn't really even want to do anything.  It took a visit to Carmel, a nudge from St. Thérèse, and a blast of autumn air to draw me out of it, although I don't think my recovery was completed until recently (assuming full recovery is even possible, "inquietum est cor nostrum" etc.).  What Joe Pieper's book did was help me to understand that experience.  You see idleness and its fruit restlessness are so far removed from the leisure and true rest, they are its very opposite.  Idleness is marked by countless diversions, designed simply to kill time.  The only point to them, if there is one, is to distract from work and to take a break from being 'productive.'  The person who is idle doesn't really have a goal in mind, except perhaps to snatch little bits of pleasure while he can.  I suppose what such a person is really going after is happiness, but there is a certain aimlessness to idleness that makes this pursuit impossible.  So there I was, filling my free time with countless diversions.  At the same time, I was concerned with gathering up all the pleasant experiences I could.  I was grasping after good things.  And this attitude of grasping is directly opposed to true leisure.  This is related to the difficulties I've always had with trying to hoard into my mind good ideas or good memories/experiences.  This very act of mental possessiveness often prevents me from enjoying the things in the first place.  An analogous thing happens when you put a camera into my hand so that I can document experiences, which often leads to an obsession of getting photos of good things, rather than enjoying them in the moment.

The very opposite of this attitude or grasping is one of opening up or of letting go.  Consider how restlessness and sleeplessness are related.  To fall asleep you must let yourself go.  The same is true with true rest or leisure.  You must let yourself go.  It is this posture of receptivity, or openness that allows for one to enjoy good things, to receive them as a gift or a blessing.  Just as, in the words of the psalmist, God gives good things to His beloved while they sleep, in the same way, as Pieper writes, "greatest, most blessed insights, the kind that could never be tracked down, come to us above all in the time of leisure."  Truth, goodness, and beauty cannot be seized.  They are more to be passively received, just as one passively perceives things with the senses.  And where does this receptivity, which allows for good things to be enjoyed, come from?  It comes, first of all, from a sense of wonder.  Philosophy, poetry, art, and love all begin in wonder.  It is this sense of wonder that goes beyond scientific rationality, the empirically verifiable, what can be 'proven.'  Wonder transcends this, and breaks in with the intrusive question "why is there anything rather than nothing?"  To wonder is to see the world through the eyes of innocence, the eyes of a child.  To wonder is to be amazed that things exist at all, to see all things as new, and to delight in each as it comes into view.  To wonder, above all, is to recognize everything as a gift.  We could also say then that wonder is the beginning of morality.  It is by looking at humanity with wonder and looking with at nature with wonder that we lose all desire to misuse these good things, to grasp at them, to bend them to our own will, to make them means for our selfish ends.  This sense of wonder is the essence of fairy-tale morality.  This is why Chesterton said "We are perishing for want of wonder, not for want of wonders.”  This, my friends, is why mooreeffoc is so valuable.  Mooreeffoc is all about reclaiming this gaze of innocence, which allows us to receive things as gift.

This, then, is the way to enjoy life and to head towards that ever elusive goal of happiness.  It is to experience the present moment as a sacrament, as a gift.  It is to reclaim that sense of wonder so that you can to stand with a posture of receptivity to the world.  It is to let yourself go, to give yourself over to the good things you experience, without trying take hold of them.  To put an image to this, life is to be approached not with a fist tightly closed as if to hold on to something, but with arms wide open as if ready to receive an embrace.

The Best is Yet to Come

“The great thing about getting older is that you don't lose all the other ages you've been.”  
- Madeleine L'Engle

For a student, Spring presents a paradox of sorts.  Just as nature is teeming with new life and promise, the year (the one that matters most to us students, the academic) comes to an end.  Granted, this is usually a much anticipated end, and certainly one which comes in the fullness of its time.  This end also marks new beginnings.  Always it marks the beginning of summer, and for those graduating, the beginning of an entirely new phase of life.   It is just the way of the world that "Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end." (Words which apparently belong to Seneca, as much as to Semisonic.)  But no matter how exciting these beginnings are, there is a  certain sadness that still comes with the ending.  I have to say goodbye to seniors I know who are graduating, and I don't know when I will see them next.  Moreover, this is all a reminder that I have just one short year left myself.  At the end of that time, I will have to say many goodbyes, and to part ways with many people.  We were travellers together for awhile, and now we are to be no longer.  Our paths may cross again; they likely will, but it won't every really be the same.  Time gradually takes is toll, leveling out emotions, weakening our bonds.  Close friendships fade.  Weeks become months become years.  The tragedy is not the parting; it's that eventually the parting no longer seems tragic.

Yet, if there is one thing I have learned over the past few months, it's that life is constantly going to surprise you.  It's hard to describe, but I didn't have the Spring semester I expected to have and if I had planned it out beforehand, it wouldn't have looked anything like it did.  But the semester was better than I ever could have imagined.  I was surprised by the friendships that blossomed, the moments I shared with others, and the things I learned.  God showers his blessings in ways which are so unexpected.  I can honestly say that it just keeps getting better and better.  Each year I live seems better than the last.  I remember when I was fourteen, thinking that that was the perfect age to be.  Then, I felt that way about age fifteen, and then about age sixteen, and so on and so forth.  At every stage, it's hard to imaging life getting any better but I am always surprised.  So now, more than being sad that the year is over, I am excited to see what the next year has in store.  The key, I think, is not to grasp to what you have or to what you think you want, but to let the gifts of the year come to you.  After I graduate, as sad as it will be to leave certain places and people behind, I take comfort in knowing that there will be new people that God will put into my life, ones that I can't even imagine now, but who will become as much a part of my life as people I am closest to now.  As I grow, I will continue to learn more things, about life, about myself, about my faith.  I can't even imagine now what that will be like.  I think this is what L'Engle is getting at with the quote above.  Each year adds to the richness of the one before it.  I don't lose the friends, the experiences, the lessons I learned before.  They all have become a part of me, made me who I am, and continue with me as I become who I am to be.

Yes, the end of the year is sad.  That's the way of life.  Even our most joyful moments are tinged with sadness, that sadness which knows that all things on this earth are passing away.  But if we approach life with arms wide open, ready to receive blessing, I am convinced that the best in life is yet to come.

Ineffable Beauty

Obviously, I can't explain this to you.  I just have to trust you know what I'm talking about.
































I sometimes wonder if all art, all literature is simply an attempt to express what is ultimately inexpressable.  Words just can't do some things justice.  But this raises the question: why do we try at all?  Also, why do we listen to other people try?

Maybe reality itself is trying to express something (a deeper reality?) that is unexpressable.

Signification

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy

-Hamlet

Last night, the post-sunset sky was beautiful.  Overhead was a deep blue canopy with just a few of the brighter starts poking out.  Near the horizion the blue gradually changed to the deep orange which was touching the horizon.  It was lovely in its own right, but I think part of its beauty was it reminded me of when I was in Assisi and how the sky looked just the same that night right after the sun set.  Last night's sky visually quoted what I had seen before.  It's funny how our memories work like that.  I think Fall is one of my favorite seasons partially because there are so many memories which are associated with its sights and smells.  These memories aren't necessarily concrete either, but there is a certain emotional memory that becomes active.  There is something that stirs within me.  But this happens not just with Fall.  All the other seasons, particularly at the change of the seasons, have their own associations and their own different feelings.

Dusk in Assisi, Italy

These feelings are often inarticulate.  You can't really describe them, or why they are so moving.  Explaining them is about as difficult as explaining beauty.  But it's as though when you experience Fall, you experience not just this Fall, but all your Falls.  Indeed, if you stop to think, you might realize that its not just your Falls either, but all the Falls in the history of the world.  For the season are all part of this circle of life, an experience our fellow humans have shared for centuries.  It seems to me that every Fall, not only is the immediate experience there, but implicitly all of those other Falls are present as well.  They are re-presented. 

This phenomenon is recreated in many ways.  At the weddings of others, couples remember their own vows with joy.  At funerals, the sadness of loss is compounded as people recall other loved ones that they have lost.  When you see a wonderful sunrise, you think of other such sunrises.  Certain places have associations, perhaps that treasured place in the woods or the experience of being on a hill or at the seashore in general.  It happens when we see ourselves in someone younger because we were one like that, or when we recognize patterns in our own behavior.

This is the nature of a symbol.  It brings with it not just itself, but all the other things it represents as well.  It shouldn't be surprising that the good art makes heavy use of symbol, for symbols endow life with meaning and significance.  Think even of subtle ways art does this.  In Wagner's Ring, his delightful series of operas, there are musical themes which are associated with different characters or places.  These musical themes not only reinforce the significance of these characters or places, but also work in the opposite direction, bringing the places or characters into the music.  The same thing is used in well written movie soundtracks, such as the Lord of the Rings.  I need not list more overt artistic symbols, but the Scartlet Letter itself comes to mind.  Again, we need not be able to explain how these symbols work, but we somehow know that they bring extra meaning with them.  (P.S. If anyone has ideas about what the deer crossing the tracks in the movie Stand by Me was all about, let me know.)

As I have reflected elsewhere, the Lord of the Rings (the books, not the films) is effective perhaps because of the smallness of the events in the book.  Yes, the War for the Ring is exciting and the biggest thing to happen in any of the characters' lifetimes, but it is set against the background of a deep history of Middle Earth.  Sauron isn't the greatest evil that has even existed, but is a mere shadow of Melkor, the fallen Vala.  Aragorn and Arwen are only fully understood in the light of Beren and Luthien.  But symbols are also dynamic.  They can articipate the future.  One could make the case that Beren and Luthien can't be understood without Aragorn and Arwen either.  The reality goes much deeper than the surface.

As the literary symbols show us, we need not be conscious of the symbolism for it to work.  The characters of a book certainly don't have to know they are acting symbolically for it to be so.  This is reinforced by the fact that symbols are dynamic and can reach into the future.  So while many of my examples suggested that symbols have a reality that is only contained in personal memory and consciousness, this is not entirely true.  I want to suggest that symbols carry a certain meaning, regardless of whether anyone be aware of them.  However, memory is extremely important, because this is the way in which individuals become aware of the deep reality which surrounds us.

Because memory is so important, and I suppose something could be said about the way in which corporate memory can also help to preserve symbols and their meaning.  I mention, as once before, the importance of memory in the Christian and Jewish traditions, in particular giving meaning to the Eucharistic meal or the Passover meal respectively.  These symbolic meals are not 'mere symbols,' but are understood to make present the reality which they symbolize.  But, without taking away from the special significance of these religious memorials, I'm not sure that there is a such thing as a 'mere symbol.'  Symbols all seem to contain what they signify to varying degrees.

I guess the point of all this is that there is meaning all around you, if only you open your eyes and look for it.  Reality runs deep.

(Note: Something should be said about my use of the word 'symbol.'  In most, if not all, instances where I used the word, 'sign' might be an appropriate substitution.  Symbols are strictly defined as things with represent another thing, but are distinct from it.  So language is a symbolic system, where there is no intrinsic relationship between the sound of the word and its meaning (except perhaps in cases of onomatopia).  The word 'cat' could easily have been used to refer to what we call 'dog.'  This stricter use of the word 'symbol' gets blurred and acquires meanings similar to the word 'sign' in more common parlance.  I use the word 'symbol' in this other way. Hopefully, the reader has understood what I meant throughout the post.)

Self-Forgetfulness

The following is the text of a paper I delievered on February 11, 2012 at the Edith Stein Conference held on the campus of the University of Notre Dame.  The title of the 2012 conference was "Encountering Vulnerability: Courage, Hope and Trust in the 21st Century."  The title of the paper is "Self-Forgetfulness: The Little Way to Love and the Path to Vulnerability."

Vulnerability is a particularly human problem.  To be human, to have an existence which is both spiritual and material, means that the possibility of suffering is unavoidable.  As long as we are alive, there is a chance that somehow we will be hurt.  There are two possible responses to this fact of the human condition.  The first is what I take to be our instinctive reaction.  We can try to minimize our vulnerability.  It seem like it would be best if we were free from the possibility of pain, brokenness, and anxiety.  And who can blame this inclination? Life, comfort, and security are good things after all.  The other response is to embrace our vulnerability.  Although we might not want to seek out vulnerability for its own sake, perhaps there is some great good whose existence necessarily entails the possibility of suffering.  One reason to think that vulnerability should be embraced rather than avoided is because vulnerability and love are apparently connected. The Christian author C.S. Lewis, in his book The Four Loves, writes that:

“To love at all is to be vulnerable.  Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken.  If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal.  Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin or your selfishness.  But in that casket–safe, dark, motionless, airless– it will change.  It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.  The alternative to tragedy, or at least to the risk of tragedy, is damnation.  The only place outside Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell.”[1]

A similar point is made by the author Madeleine L’Engle in her Reflections on Faith and Art.  “When the phone rings at an unexpected hour,” she writes, “my heart lurches.  I love, therefore I am vulnerable.  When we were children, we used to think that when we were grown-up we would no longer be vulnerable.  But to grow up is to accept vulnerability.”[2]

My goal today is to explore this connection between love and vulnerability, which is suggested to us by authors like Lewis and L’Engle, and to really take up the question of how it is that we are to love and how this leads in its turn to the possibility of pain and brokenness.  I mean to do so primarily through a look at the spirituality of St. Thérèse of Lisieux.  Her spirituality is sometimes called The Little Way and it can be summarized as doing little things, particularly the mundane, day to day things, with great love.  If to love is in some way the purpose of life, as Thérèse would most certainly have agreed, the spirituality of Thérèse presents an immensely practical challenge and a call for us to embrace our vulnerability.

 Thérèse, you may know, was a Carmelite religious who was born in Alençon, France to her quite devout parents, Louis and Zelie Martin.  At a very young age she felt called to religious life and entered the cloister in Lisieux at the age of just fifteen, taking the name Thérèse of the Child Jesus.  Although she lived a life of relative obscurity, devotion to Thérèse spread quickly after her death at the age of just 24, thanks to the help of her spiritual autobiography, today commonly titled The Story of a Soul.  She was canonized in 1925, a mere 28 years after her death, and was later named a doctor of the Church by Pope John Paul the Second.

Put most simply, Thérèse’s spirituality is one of total self-forgetfulness. She recognized that to truly love God, above anything else, requires a focus that is totally outward directed.  Truly loving others and wanting what is best for them necessitates that we set aside our cares, desires, and well-being for the sake of others.  This self-forgetfulness follows naturally, as it were, from complete love of others.

This Little Way starts with humility.  One of spiritual writings which had the most influence on Thérèse, was Thomas à Kempis’ The Imitation of Christ.  The Imitation roots its reflections in humility.  “All is vanity,” the author reminds us, “except to love God, and Him only to serve.”[3]  It is vanity to seek our own advancement, our own wishes and our own desires, while neglecting the things of heaven.  True humility is to recognize that nothing really belongs to us, because everything, even our very life, was given to us from without.  We recognize our dependence and our own weakness, and thus our insignificance.  Inspired by The Imitation, Thérèse was nothing if not acutely aware of her own littleness before God.  She considered herself but a ‘little flower’ offered to God.

It is only from this position of humility that one can embrace suffering with open arms.  Even as a child, Thérèse realized that the way of perfect love is the way of suffering.  She writes, “I realised at once that there was no reaching sanctity unless you were prepared to suffer a great deal, to be always on the look-out for something higher still, and to forget yourself.”[4]  Thérèse resolved to “choose the whole lot”[5] of suffering which was offered to her.  “No point in becoming a Saint by halves,”[6] she writes.  “I’m not afraid of suffering for your sake; the only thing I’m afraid of is clinging to my own will.  Take it, I want the whole lot, everything whatsoever that is your will for me.”[7]  Thérèse developed a great love of suffering, rejoicing to put God’s will and the happiness of others before her own.

To be clear, Thérèse’s attitude towards suffering is not one of self-destructive, self-hatred.  Suffering is not an end in its own right.  The key thing is the self-forgetfulness which is manifest by an acceptance of suffering.  It is true that thinking not of oneself often leads to pain which is the denial of the will.  There is also the pain of empathy.  But what matters is the love embodied by the willingness to suffer, not suffering itself.  Although Thérèse had a developed a great love of suffering, she reached a point where she was willing to give up even suffering itself if that was what was asked of her.

There is a certain danger in continually asking “what can I do in this moment to better love and to surrender my own will?”  That’s not a bad question. It’s just that the question is itself self-focused.  But the goal here is complete self-forgetfulness.  Thérèse recognized this peculiar danger, as she prepared to enter Carmel.  After having been initially denied permission to join the Carmelites at an exceptionally young age, Thérèse went on pilgrimage to Rome with her sister, her father, and others from the diocese.  On a biographical note, it was on this trip to Italy that Thérèse famously asked Pope Leo XIII at the audience her group received if she might have permission to enter the Carmel early.  But before this on the pilgrimage, Thérèse describes riding on the train through Switzerland.  She was amazed by the display of natural beauty out the windows of the train, the mountains, the waterfalls, and the valleys.  It was so spectacular that it took her breath away, and Thérèse remembers wishing she could have been on both sides of the train at once to take it all in.  This memory left a deep impression on her, and she felt “as if I were already beginning to understand the greatness of God and all the wonders of heaven.”[8]  She recognized that this moment would help her to keep a proper perspective as she closed her self away forever in the cloister.  “I shall find it easier to forget my own unimportant concerns as I contemplate, in the mind’s eye, the greatness and power of the God whom I try to love above all things.”[9]   It would help her to avoid what she saw as a subtle danger of religious life.  She could see that the religious life was “the surrender of your own will, the unregarded sacrifices you make on a small scale,” but “how easy it must be to get wrapped up in yourself and lose sight of your high vocation.”[10]  Even in a religious life of sacrifice, there is a danger in becoming self absorbed.  Thérèse welcomed this natural beauty as reminder of the smallness of things we do, including the sacrifices we make.

One of the powerful images Thérèse used when thinking about herself was as victim of divine love.  She describes how on the feast of the Holy Trinity one year she was “given the grace to see more clearly than ever how love is what our Lord really wants.”[11]  Turning towards Christ, she writes, “If only you could find souls ready to offer themselves as victims to be burnt up in the fire of your love, surely you would lose no time in satisfying their desire…Jesus, grant me the happiness of being such a victim, burnt up in the fire of your divine love.”[12]  Thérèse gives us an image of a heart completely consumed with love for another.  She holds nothing of herself back, but offers herself completely.

If the Little Way seems difficult, that’s because it is.  It requires you to give your whole self.  But, the beauty of it is that this is the only thing required.  You must love, plain and simple.  Even Thérèse struggled with the seeming smallness of this way of life.  Thérèse describes how she wanted to do all sorts of things.  She would have been “a fighter, a priest, an apostle, a doctor, a martyr,”[13] all at once if she could.  Martyrdom was her childhood dream, but just one kind of martyrdom wouldn’t have been enough for her.  “I should want to experience them all,”[14] she writes.  She describes being tormented by all these unfulfilled longings of her heart, recognizing her own littleness and inability to achieve these great things.  On one occasion she asked an older nun, Mother Anne, “Does God really ask no more of me than these unimportant little sacrifices I offer him, these desires to do something better?  Is he really content with me as I am?”[15]  Mother Anne had to assure her “God asks no more.”  What Thérèse soon came to realize was that charity is the key to every vocation.  She writes:

“If the Church was a body composed of different members, it couldn’t lack the noblest of all; it must have a heart, and a heart burning with love.  And I realized that this love was the true motive force which enabled the other members of the Church to act; if it ceased to function the Apostles would forget to preach the gospel, the Martyrs would refuse to shed their blood.  Love, in fact, is the vocation which includes all others; it’s a universe of its own, comprising all time and space–it’s eternal.  Beside myself with joy, I cried out: ‘Jesus, my Love!  I’ve found my vocation, and my vocation is love.’”[16]

 Thérèse realized that she was not meant to do spectacular things, but that this was okay.  She would be like a little child scattering flowers, missing no opportunity to make small sacrifices,[17] and repaying love with love.[18]  Thérèse accepted who she was and her lowly status, realizing as St. John of the Cross said that “the slightest movement of disinterested love has more value than all the other acts of a human soul put together.”[19]  To love is what she was meant to do.  If she could do that, nothing else really mattered.

The lesson here is that love is lived out in the ordinary and the everyday, perhaps even more so than in the extraordinary.  Moreover, the challenge to love and to self-forgetfulness is not reserved only for certain, special people.  If anything, love is even more important for a person living an ‘ordinary’ life.  All one has to do is be fully oneself.  Each present moment for every person is an opportunity to love.   This is the basic idea of the transformation of the every day, and indeed the every-minute, found in Thérèse is also found in the book Abandonment to Divine Providence.  This book, sometimes titled in English The Sacrament of the Present Moment is the work of a French Jesuit named Jean-Pierre de Caussade.  In it, de Caussade writes that the key to spiritual perfection is found in “passive surrender” to God’s will so that we become like a tool “in the hands of a craftsman.”[20]  We are to submit with humble trust to God, not worrying about the future or anything out of our control, but “reserving for ourselves only love and obedience to the present moment.”[21]  For it is in each passing moment that God reveals His unchangeable, eternal will.[22]  The lesson here is that self-forgetful love is possible for everyone and, indeed, in every possible moment.

            Until now I have speaking rather abstractly, but the point is that this all pervasive love can’t help but have an effect on lived experience, no matter how mundane.  For Thérèse, love took the form of little things like volunteering to lead the elderly and cantankerous Sister St. Peter to the Refectory every evening.[23]  Another good is example is Thérèse’s treatment of the sister who sat behind her in the chapel during the evening.  The sister would grind her fingernails against her teeth, making a noise which Thérèse found extremely annoying.  Thérèse longed to turn around, and just give the sister a simple glance, so that she would stop.  But Thérèse figured the most loving thing to do was to save the sister any embarrassment and keep on trying to pray, even attempting to incorporate the frustrating noise into her prayer.[24]  In another example, when Thérèse would do the dishes with a particular sister, the other sister would always splash dirty dish water on Thérèse when picking up the handkerchiefs from the ledge.  Rather than show her annoyance or even wipe the water from her face, Thérèse learned to look forward to, as she put it, “this new kind of Asperges.”[25]  Thérèse talks about how she would try extra hard to show love to the nun in community whose personality rubbed her the wrong way.  Thérèse was so successful that the sister once asked Thérèse, “What is it about me that gets the right side of you?”[26]  These are just a few examples of the ways in which Thérèse lived out this call to love in the ordinary moments of life.

            You will notice I have pointed out only little ways of showing love which involved some sort of sacrifice.  Of course, one should just as readily point out the more pleasant moments of her daily life which also show love, such moments in her relationships within her family.  These too are important, because they help to drive home the point that love is the key thing, not suffering.  But these small sacrifices connect us back to the theme of vulnerability.  Love, especially in the small and ordinary things, makes you vulnerable in small and ordinary ways.  For Thérèse, it took the form of possibly being subjected to the auditory pain caused by a nail-biter.  Lewis and L’Engle naturally lead us to think of the personal attachments and empathy which we feel for others.  Love means, though often in the smallest of ways, we might feel sorrow at others’ misfortune, the burden of their problems, or the pain of separation.  Love, self-forgetting love, is borne out in every moment and in hundreds of ways.  If this is fully lived out, one also becomes vulnerable in every moment and in hundreds of little ways.

            Up until this point, we have been operating under the assumption that to love is very good thing, perhaps the best thing that we can do.  If this is true, all the vulnerability that comes with love is certainly worth undertaking.  But why should perfect love be the focus, if all I want is to be happy?  All this about forgetting myself and my own wants seems to be moving in the wrong direction.  At worst, love will maximally expose me to all the pain and brokenness of the world.  I’ll love if its suits me, and maybe there are even good reasons even to die for someone, but why even think about making the small sacrifices?

            Certainly no full treatment of this question is possible here, but one suggestion is that personal happiness, living for one’s self, breaks down as a meaning for life.  It may not be the best example, but I think here of the movie Good Will Hunting, where the mathematical genius Will Hunting has no motivation to do anything significant with his life.  In one of the turning points of the story, he has a conversation with his friend Chuckie Sullivan, who, like so many other people, wants Will to make something of himself.  Chuckie tells Will that there is no way they should still be neighbors in twenty years.  You’d better have moved on to higher things, he tells him, because you have that special ability, that “winning lottery ticket,” which no one else has.  Will responds angrily, “Why is it always this? I owe it to myself to do this or that? What if I don't want to?”  “No, no, no,” Chuckie interjects, “you don’t owe it to yourself, you owe it to me.”[27]  Living and thinking only of himself and his own desires, Will could find neither meaning nor motivation in his life.  But once challenged to live for others, he finally found a direction to go.

            Another reason not to make happiness an ultimate goal is more of a psychological principle.  You will never be happy so long as you are trying to be happy.  It’s a bit like the fact that you’ll never be able to fall asleep, as long as you are thinking about how to fall asleep.  Or like the fact that trying to avoid being self-conscious makes you self conscious.  Perhaps the similar gospel principle is relevant here, namely “Whoever wishes to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.”[28]  Trying to be happy entirely on your own terms simply does not work.  If you want to be happy, forget about yourself, love to the fullest, and happiness will follow.  If this is not apparent to you, one can only say “try it out and see what happens.”

            To return to Thérèse for one final point, Thérèse’s eschatology is very striking.  It reveals just how deep this attitude of self-forgetful love goes.  Thérèse did not look forward to heaven as a place of well deserved rest from her labors on earth.  “I really count on not remaining inactive in heaven,” she writes, “My desire is to work still for the Church and for souls.”[29]  Elsewhere she writes, “If God answers my desires, my heaven will be spent on earth until the end of the world.  Yes, I want to spend my heaven in doing good on earth.”[30]  You can see where this eschatology comes from; indeed, one could say that it is the logical conclusion of Thérèse’s spirituality.  But it is still shocking to realize just how powerful love is, transforming and perfecting desire itself, so that we desire nothing more for eternity than to do what is good for others and to reciprocate love.

            The Little Way is a challenging path.  There is no doubt about that.  But this way of perfection is open to everyone.  All it requires is that you forget yourself in total love.  Yes, it will make you vulnerable in a million little ways, but this vulnerability is something to be embraced.  We need look no further than St. Thérèse of the Child Jesus to see how this way of life, this way of love, this way of vulnerability, produces something as beautiful as a shower of roses, namely a saint.

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[1] C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves (New York: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 1991), 121.

[2] Madeleine L’Engle, Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art (Macmillan, 1995), 190.

[3] Thomas à Kempis, The Imitation of Christ (New York: Macmillan, 1924), Book 1, Chapter I.

[4] Thérèse of Lisieux, Autobiography of a Saint, trans. Ronald Knox (London: Harvill Press, 1958), 51.

[5] Ibid.

[6] Ibid., 51-52

[7] Ibid., 52.

[8] Ibid., 158.

[9] Ibid.

[10] Ibid.

[11] Ibid., 219-220.

[12] Ibid., 220.

[13] Ibid., 233.

[14] Ibid.

[15] Ibid., 232.

[16] Ibid., 235.

[17] Ibid., 237.

[18] Ibid., 236.

[19] John of the Cross, Spiritual Canticle, commentary on Stephen, XXIX, quoted in Thérèse, Autobiography, 238.

[20] Jean-Pierre de Caussade, The Sacrament of the Present Moment, trans. Kitty Muggeridge (San Francisco: Harper Collins, 1982), 10.

[21] Ibid., 11.

[22] Ibid., 21.

[23] Thérèse, Autobiography, 295-297.

[24] Ibid., 298-299.

[25] Ibid., 299.

[26] Ibid., 268-269.

[27] “Quotes for Chuckie Sullivan (Character) from ‘Good Will Hunting,’” IMDB.com, accessed February 10, 2012, http://www.imdb.com/character/ch0003604/quotes.

[28] Matt. 16:25. New American Bible.

[29] Letter from Thérèse of Lisieux to P. Roulland, July 14, 1897, in Letters of St. Thérèse of Lisieux, Volume II, trans. John Clarke, O.C.D. (Washington D.C.: Institute of Carmelite Studies, 1988), 1142.

[30] Thérèse of Lisieux, July 17, 1897, in St. Thérèse of Lisieux: essential writings, ed. Mary Frohlich (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2003), 117.