The Cultivation of Solitude

In our senior year of college, a group of friends began hosting “professor dinners” in which we crowded around a mediocre meal and asked a beloved teacher an impossibly difficult question.

In the final weeks before graduation, three professors were asked, “what is the greatest challenge of our generation?”  

The first answered, “the ability and conviction to speak truthfully.”

The second answered, “solidarity with the poor.”

Then, the third answered that “the cultivation of solitude” was to be our greatest challenge.

Wait… the WHAT?

Largely an overzealous, justice-minded bunch, reactions ranged from sceptical acceptance to muffled horror.  Didn’t this guy know about the urgency of the struggle for justice?  

Of course he knew.  But, he also knew that without solitude, we would not be centered within ourselves, be capable of sharing this center with others, or authentically build communities worthy of trust strong enough to bear the challenges of our age.

Neither Faith nor Works

In Scripture and Tradition, the conversation of “faith or works” is a well trod path.

Sometimes, though, it strikes me that a more present danger of our age is that we have neither faith nor works.

Certain ideological narratives can masquerade as faith, but have nothing to do with trust in a loving God.  And often this narrative only serves to whip up self-righteousness instead of actual work on behalf of real people. 

Let’s work and pray with each other instead.

Saving Frogs from the Pool

A friend once told me that, when he would visit his mother’s home, he found her preoccupied many times a day with searching her pool and screened porch for tiny trapped frogs.  When she found one, she would catch it in a net and release it into the yard.  

For her, the house was the extent of her sphere of influence.  This assumption limited how she considered the possibility of her life and thus bound how she chose to spend her attention and energy.

Certainly, to engage the world productively, we have to judge what is actually in our control, and then make prudential decisions about how to engage the world.  None of us is infinite.  

Too often, though, we encounter too little, and spend time stressing out over frogs.

Far better to encounter actual suffering and address it actively and compassionately.

What Do You Have to Say for Yourself?

Years ago in Chicago, we had a friend who, on someone’s birthday, would put them on the spot and ask: “So, now that you are x years old, what do you have to say for yourself?”

I came to love the exercise, to watch others take account and share a bit of their distilled wisdom.

My birthday was this week, and my brother challenged me to answer the beloved question on the blog.  So, for 2021, here is my answer.

It has been of great value to me to discover my story, to understand who I am and how I tend to engage the world.

It has also been of great value to me to discover our stories, to understand the narratives of the tribes of which I find myself a part.

And it is of ultimate value to me to consistently lay both my story and our stories into the narrative of The Story, the mystery of a loving God. This movement saves my story and our stories from becoming idols over which I obsess.

Put another way, kenosis before The Story returns me to my story and our stories with power, clarity, and the freedom to love, tuned to what is of ultimate value.

Toddlers as an Antidote to Self-Sufficiency Before God

Trying to keep a toddler relatively chill during an hour-long liturgy can be a uniquely punishing experience.  

The little human often grasps neither the rhythm of the mass nor the utility of whispering when communicating.  He is quite heavy, a thirty pound bag of rice that wants to move, point, be held a little higher, and be balanced in odd ways on my body.  The setting is quiet and public, and so visibility (and potential for embarrassment) is high.  

All of these details sum to a basic and physical reminder, during the mass, that I am in need and not in control.

For a long time, I regarded this strain with varied levels of resentment.  Now, I try to see it as an asset to prayer.  

I try to recall, during this strain, that the worst disposition I can carry into the liturgy is one of self sufficiency… that I am basically okay on my own and do not depend, each day, on the grace of God.  

The presence of a toddler, then, is a very physical antidote to this lie of self-sufficiency.  The strain can actually crack me open to experience the grace of the mass and of my life.  

If we let them, toddlers can act as an antidote to our self-sufficiency before God.

Forgiving Reality

A friend recently shared with me the following story.

He was, some months ago, on a road trip with Fr. Richard Rohr, OFM.  

(Moment of delightful appreciation for what it must be like to make a road trip with the good Friar.)

In a glorious non-sequitur, Fr. Rohr shared one definition of sanctity.  He said: “You know, a saint is someone who has forgiven reality.”

Since hearing this definition, I’ve thought about what this might mean… to “forgive reality.”  

Surely, understanding this definition could take a lifetime, but for me, now, “forgiving reality” means relinquishing my emotional reactivity (anger, judgment, pride, etc) as I confront any reality that appears, in this moment, imperfect or threatening.  (It is my hunch, also, that I am able to do this to the extent that I experience forgiveness myself and trust in the loving kindness of God.)

As I am able to forgive reality, I am able to see more clearly, live more artfully, and respond to reality with love.

Ways to Limit Our Intelligence

If we want to limit our intelligence, the following list is a good place to start:

1) Love being right.

2) Be addicted to the moral high ground. 

3) Restrict your sources of knowledge.

4) Relate only with people who are like you.

5) Relate only with people who agree with you.

Let’s acknowledge that intelligence can be a communal virtue, and work diligently to cultivate it.

Rest and Haircuts

I love getting a haircut, and I think it is mainly because, for those fifteen minutes, it is my job to do nothing.  There is zero pressure to accomplish anything.  There is no real way to use my smartphone.  I can just breathe and enjoy the experience.

And, really, releasing my mind from all tasks for a chunk of time may be the best thing I do all day for my imagination, and so my productivity.

Put another way: Imagination without rest is not possible, and skill without imagination is barren.

Saaka and Dandora

The novitiate for the Congregation of Holy Cross in East Africa is located at Lake Saaka, a crater lake hidden by the rolling hills of rural Western Uganda.  It is impossibly temperate and beautiful.  Here, the men in formation will work, pray, and study for a year before taking first vows.

And, for many years, their next stop in formation was Dandora, a slum of Nairobi, Kenya.  In Dandora, one hundred thousand people struggle to survive on four bleak square kilometers that border Nairobi’s largest dump.  Depending on which way the wind is blowing, the air smells either strongly or faintly of burning garbage.  Save for the sunrise and sunset, there is no natural beauty.  Here, the religious who took vows at Lake Saaka, would continue their formation with pastoral work and theology studies.  

Both Saaka and Dandora are places of sincere intensity.  At Saaka, it is the intensity of witnessing the growth of one’s own inner life in a wildly abundant experience of God’s creation. In Dandora, it is the intensity of witnessing the visceral resilience, strength, and prayer of God’s people.

I have thought about these extremes for some time.  They certainly defy clean interpretation.  What remains clear to me, though, is that I have known religious of the Holy Cross who, because they have lived in both intensities, carry a profound capacity to witness to the unrelenting and merciful love of God.