What God Wants For Your Life

Mitchell Sviridoff died at the age of 81. In over three decades, Sviridoff worked in the area of social policy and philanthropy. He worked on strategies for lifting people out of poverty and rebuilding neighborhoods. According to an obituary in The New York Times, in 1985 at a party held to celebrate his life’s work he recited these lines from a poem from William Butler Yeats:

God guard from those thoughts
Men think in the mind alone.
He that sings a lasting song
Thinks in a marrow bone.

Asked why he quoted Yeats, Sviridoff responded: “That is the way I function. I do things that do not seem logical at the beginning and sometimes fail. But when they succeed, they tend to be lasting songs.”

Have you found your song? That one thing you are, no matter what you are doing. It is perverse to think that the one thing God wants is what you are not. Our lives are God’s gift to the world in the making.

One of the most helpful works of a general nature on the subject of transitions is the work of David Bridges — not a bad name for someone writing about transition. In it Bridges argues that those who navigate transition take one of two approaches to the challenges that they face. Some are disillusioned, others are disenchanted.

Bridges is not a theologian and he does not take a theological approach to his subject, he argues that in the transitions in life we experience we confront the difference between our expectations and the nature of reality. To one degree or another, he argues, we are all “enchanted.” That is, we have magical or unrealistic notions of what our jobs and relationships — or the future in genral — can hold for us.

The disillusioned, he notes, are people who never realistically examine this difference to determine the extent to which this enchantment has shaped their expectations. So, when they confront the difference, they are “disillusioned” by it; and immediately begin looking for a new experience that will match their expectations. These, are the people who, Bridges argues, go through multiple relationships and jobs, looking for the optimal experience and, never quite have it. Others are always to blame, they are forever the victims.

By contrast, he notes, those who are mature go through a process of “disenchantment.” The disenchanted experience the same dissonance that the disillusioned experience, but before initiating change, they also confront the degree to which their expectations are shaped by magical and unrealistic assumptions. Having taken that difference into account, the disenchanted then weigh the wisdom of making further changes. As a result, they are able to make realistic changes, hold themselves and others accountable, and avoid the perils of a life dominated by unrealistic desires and the inevitable disappointment that shadows it.

One could argue, I think, that a moment’s reflection would reveal that Bridges’ analysis, as psychologically astute as it is, might benefit further still from theological reflection. What is at stake here, I believe, is not just our ability to confront the distortions in our perceptions and expectations — or the ability to recognize the way in which our life experiences can plunge us into transitions that are calculated to mask the greater inward, psychological transition needed. What is at stake is, at a fundamental level, is our ability to confront the deeper transition that is repentance.

Spiritually, the disillusioned are not simply dogged by the dissonance between their expectations and their experiences — they are dogged by the spiritual presumption that their views are the measure of the way in which the world around them should perform and they pridefully resist the need to examine that — idolatrous — presumption.

This is not to suggest that the spiritually mature preacher blithely accepts the status quo as somehow ordained and appropriate. To do that is to lapse back into a baptized fatalism and to cut the engine of spiritual and moral critique. But it is to suggest that until we take ourselves out of the equation in ways that are presumptuous, we privilege our own views with a preeminence that only God’s perspective rightly deserves.

I once participated in a mentoring program in which the rector of a large, complex parish graciously took the time to discuss the challenges he faced where he was ministering. Looking back on the demands that the transition had brought his way, he observed, “You know, like my peers who now serve as bishops, going in I was convinced that I could remain a priest and do this job, but that isn’t possible.”

At the time I remember thinking I was not quite sure what shocked me most — the fact that he could say something like that in public, that he took obvious pride in having reached an impasse of that kind, or that he thought it was a helpful observation to make in front of younger priests. But, of course, the truly stunning dimension of his remarks was the absence of awareness — awareness of the peril that anyone is in, no matter how complex the transition he or she faces, in which she makes a deal with the devil, trading his vocation as a bearer of sacramental presence for the mantle of CEO.

That lack of awareness is, of course, perennial among clergy. Years ago I sat between two pastors who were twenty years my senior, anxious to get some insight into the way in which they balancing the challenge of listening for God’s guidance in pursuing their vocation, while navigating the exigencies of church communities that had a seemingly tin ear for such considerations. Both men — who presented on the face of it as satisfied practitioners of their vocation, spilled over with anger at the ways in which they had felt thwarted, ignored, and abused by the church. And, yet, there they were.

Not all of the demands that institutions and places of employment make upon us should be embraced. Living into our vocation — as a calling from God to be a particular person — is deepened and refined in navigating the changes are forced upon us, the ones we choose, and those we refuse to make. To name those choices — and the places where there are none we can make —- is to live in full awareness of their significance.

Welcome and unwelcome, we live more fully in God’s presence when we live aware.

Years ago while cutting the grass, my three year old daughter shouted out to me while standing on the porch. “Look, Daddy, bug, bug!” The urgency in her voice prompted me to stop what I was doing and run to her aid. But before I could get very far at all, she put her foot down hard and announced, “Dead bug!”

Parenting can be like the cowboy in the old western who is asked to boil water because someone is having a baby. It isn’t that you need boiling water to deliver the baby, but the cowboy needs to have something to do while the baby comes.

As important as nurture can be and is, there are times when what our children most need is our support and presence. They will do the rest.

A friend of mine observes in the introduction to one of his books, “Growing up it was never my ambition to be married to a priest.” I can understand the sentiment.

But I am — and it turns out that it has wonderful benefits. Not the least of which is the fact that when she preaches I can count on hearing a good sermon. That’s not a foregone conclusion otherwise!

Today she was celebrating Eucharist for a small provincial gathering of lay women and I was invited to join them. Natalie talked about the beatitudes and, in particular, the beatitude that declares, “Blessed are the merciful…”

The merciful, she noted, are lumped together with the “meek” who — though the Greek means “obedient” — are labeled “milk toast” by most people who read an English translation. The merciful are — like them — willing to forgive anything, spiritual door mats — well, milk toast.

In fact, the church has always understood acts of mercy very differently. There are two kinds, corporal and spiritual.

Corporal acts of mercy include:

Feed the Hungry
Give Drink to the Thirsty
Clothe the Naked
Shelter the Homeless
Visit the Sick
Visit the Imprisoned
Bury the Dead

Spiritual acts of mercy are:

Instruct the ignorant
Counsel the doubtful
Admonish sinners
Bear wrongs patiently
Forgive offences willingly
Comfort the afflicted

The stories she told were of two women who devote themselves to just such acts of mercy. One, who in Canada, acted as power of attorney and guardian to disabled people who were without relatives to safe guard their interests and provide for their the own care. The other a woman who does volunteer work teaching dancing in a prison.

Pretty impressive and not the work of milk toast. She asked them, “What act of mercy can you perform?”

It’s a question worth pondering….from a fabulous preacher.

Achievement, too, figures prominently in American adult life. It may, in fact, be the quintessential American life narrative.

But then, again, that may be my own demon. As a first child — the child who grew up with the motto, “second is the first loser” — I’ve always struggled to balance life’s true priorities with the drive to achieve. It’s bad enough that my brother has declared his house a “no Scrabble zone;” my father quit playing chess with me; and I’ve had racquetball opponents complain, “I thought you were a nice guy.”

The “arc of ambition” (the title of a book) is not just a phrase used to describe our work-world, but is now used to describe the character of life itself.

The problem, of course, is there is always someone stronger, smarter, faster, or just younger. A life shaped exclusively by achievement is bound to disappoint.

So, what is a healthy organizing center for a life narrative? At the risk of sounding trite — love. Fundamental to the character of God and fundamental to the fabric of life is the longing for relationship. And the love of God does not exclude other passions, it orders them and gives balance.

Acquisition, exchange, and achievement are dimensions of life that are natural and, in the right balance, can enrich life. But is love and the relationships that it nurtures, that gives life meaning and depth. Find time to nurture it today.

Life as exchange is not entirely distinguishable from life as acquisition, but it has it’s own rhythm and energy. We trade up, we swap, we bargain.

Having lived in the Middle East where bartering dominates, I could be convinced that there are cultures in the world that are dominated by the habit of exchange.

Just as owning things is indispensable and unavoidable, trading up and swapping is as well. Some of life’s exchanges are, in fact, imbedded in the life experience itself. If we are fortunate, we trade youth for experience — strength for wisdom (one can hope!).

But we can also force exchanges or rely on them in unhealthy ways as a means of resolving life’s challenges.

The forced exchanges I have in mind are, for example, the way in which we drive our children to “grow up.” I am not thinking here of the necessary process of maturation. I have in mind the process of “Growing up too fast,” in which our children are introduced to the demands of adult life long before they are spiritually, emotionally, or intellectually prepared for them. The sexualization of childhood is a good example.

The unhealthy habit of exchange that I have in mind is the way in which we confuse changes in geography or relationships with solutions to our problems. To be sure, we can find ourselves in untenable jobs and destructive relationships. But some people resort to an endless cycle of exchange, avoiding the tough challenges of growth and maturation.

It is worth asking ourselves whether our life narrative is dominated or shaped by forced or unhealthy patterns of exchange.

What is your life all about? I’m not talking about jobs or families, as important as those can be. What drives the way you live, shapes the choices you make, fills your waking moments, and occupies your dreams?
The individual narratives are each a bit different, but many American stories are shaped by one of three leitmotifs or themes:

• Acquisition

• Exchange

• Achievement

The more prominent one, on display almost everywhere, is the acquisitive vision.

Sometime ago now a colleague of mine went shopping at the grocery and noticed a mother and her small child shopping together. The little girl pushed her own diminutive grocery cart, proudly displaying a flag, announcing “consumer in training.” And in cyberspace the socialization of yet another generation is well under way.

Advertisers talk with regularity about the “lucrative cybertot” market and are quickly developing new methods of gathering information on a generation of children who do not yet get an allowance to spend. Marketers offer free t-shirts and chances on CD players to children in exchange for completing on-line surveys. One children’s web-site called Batman Forever declares that ”Good citizens of the Web, help Commissioner Gordon with the Gotham Census,” using loyalty rather than t-shirts as the ploy.

As if part of some science fiction plot, we are cultivated as customers, consumers, and acquisitive machines destined to feed the economy. General Motors used to remind its workers, we take you from cradle to grave. You grow up in a Chevrolet and you’re buried in a Cadillac. But as we begin to develop market profiles on 4 year olds, even that declaration seems benign by comparison.

Indeed one could argue I suppose, that given the assumptions that govern our economy and the assumptions about one that looks healthy (i.e., one in which people buy and sell a lot, all the time) that we have been co-opted in our own enslavement to the “I am what I own” model of adult existence.

Owning things is not bad in and of itself. Those who argue that it is are typically people who were educated by parents who acquired enough money to pay their tuition bills and/or hold endowed chairs at universities that are paid for by rich folk.

The more important question is this: Is your life narrative all about getting stuff?

Tomorrow…life as exchange.

Cheryl sat in her wheelchair Sunday after Sunday. She made her way to the sanctuary thanks to the efforts of her friends and her presence there made a difference.

Afflicted with ALS or Lou Gehrig’s disease, she was unfailingly hopeful, deeply interested in the comparatively minor struggles of her friends, and deeply in love with God and those around her.

When I think of Cheryl, I remember her faith and courage. I am also reminded that there are always gifts that we can give to one another — regardless of the apparent limits and frustrations that slow us and seemingly confine us.

Shortly before her death we held an appreciation dinner meant to thank her for the gifts she gave to each of us. I was away at the time, so I wrote to Cheryl. It captures only a bit of what we received from her seemingly weak hands — which were, in fact, filled with strength.

Dear Cheryl,

I had so hoped to be with you today. So, this letter is a poor substitute; and typewritten only to insure that you are able to read it.

When I was much younger, like most adults I think that I measured much of life in terms of physical well being and freedom from pain. It’s not hard to imagine why, I think. We live in a world where much of our energy is focused on staying healthy and which endlessly features perfect, strong bodies. I think it can also be traced to being consoled when I was younger with the words, “you always have your health.” In fact, of course, none of us enjoy the kinds of flawless, undiminished strength we imagine having; and those who do enjoy years of strength are never able to keep it.

What I have realized, as a result, is that true strength, growth, and wholeness is about something that lies much deeper. A strength and wholeness of soul and spirit that shines through in courage, compassion, love, and prayers that do not finally depend upon our physical strength at all.

You, dear one, are such a person; and we are stronger and closer to being whole, thanks to your life and witness. Worship will always and everywhere be about adoring and giving thanks to God. But no one who attends the nine o’clock service can have failed to notice that a congregation that goes about the business of worship with a fairly predictable set of habits, makes a singular exception in greeting you. I have watched enough congregations to know that the regular round of greetings, smiles, and hugs from young and old is not a function of sympathy. We don’t feel sorry for you. We are drawn to you.

We are drawn to you because the grace, love, and wisdom that God works out in our lives is something we see and feel worked out in your life; and that realization gives us hope. We have felt it in your smile, in your words, in the wise counsel, and gracious spaces that you have created for each of us along the way —- in the ways you have reached across the difficulties and struggles of your own life to remind us of God’s love for each of us.

Know this and hold onto it in the days ahead, Cheryl…..the space that you occupy in our lives is not tied to that space in the sanctuary where you sit every Sunday, but in our hearts and spirits.

God’s keeping and our love……

Always,

Fred

I spent some time this last summer at Creighton University. Creighton is a Jesuit University and devoted to Jesuit faith and practice.

One of the central practices in Jesuit devotion — the one that Ignatius of Loyola considered indispensable — was the prayer of Examen. Ignatius felt that the key to spiritual growth was to cultivate an awareness of when and where God had been present in the course of the day. It was so important, in fact, that he urged his followers to do the Examen, even if it cost them the little time that they might have for prayer.

One writer calls it “rummaging for God” in our lives — a wonderful, commonplace activity we have all done with far less to show for it when we have rummaged around for something we have lost.

The Examen is a practice that tells us something important about the spiritual life: Spiritual practice is preeminently about cultivating a sense of God’s presence.

It isn’t about devotional practice or about the number of hours we spend in overtly religious activity. It isn’t an anxious, endless effort to earn the love of God. The spiritual life is about cultivating a habitual awareness of God’s presence that shapes and informs the lives we live.

Rummaging around in our lives for God can be the source of inspiration, encouragement, strength, and gratitude. Not a bad result for an activity that any other time in life leads to the discovery of dust bunnies and old newspapers.