Ignatian Spirituality

A (Very) Short Story: To See Thee More Clearly

Steve · December 5, 2020 · 10 Comments

She sat on the porch, the air around her turning colder, reminding her that the cool days of fall and the memories of even warmer summer days were drawing to a close. It saddened her, as the thought of winter did just about every year. Another year older, another trip around the sun without seemingly much to show for it. What’s the point after so many years, she wondered?

Her eyes turned to the trees. With the exception of a few tough hangers on, the leaves had all fallen, the branches barren and brown and gray. Ugh. She closed her eyes and dreamed of green. “Make it a short winter, Lord,” she prayed.

And then they arrived, birds by the dozens. Or were they already there and she hadn’t noticed? Sweet brown and black sparrows flitting from limb to limb. A pair of cardinals flashing red as they rounded the corner of the house and came to rest on a branch near the feeder. A lone blue jay lurking nearby, his cobalt hue enough to take the woman’s breath away. A red-breasted robin dug for worms in the soggy soil, while a small downy woodpecker worked his or her way up and down the trunk of the maple at the center of the yard. Through the bare branches, high above, a flock of Canada geese noisily made their way to the Missouri River flyway nearby.

So much to see, she thought, even in the deadness of early winter. And the voice deep within her said: “You see so much now because the leaves are gone, because the cycle of life and death continues, because sometimes to see more clearly you must die to yourself. You need to declutter your life once every so often, must set aside for a while the busy-ness of green summer and immerse yourself in the quiet of something sparse and clear. By leaving behind what you think you most want, you open up the possibility of all you need and can only find in the stark beauty of right now. Enjoy my birds. You’re welcome.”

And the woman smiled, pushing away the thoughts of green for the moment, relishing now a quiet moment with a friend, and she sang: “To see thee more clearly, love thee more dearly, follow thee more nearly. Day by day.” Even in winter. Even now.

Ask yourself in silence:

+ What is something new or surprising I saw today?
+ What might it mean?
+ Am I grateful?

And here’s a video that reminds us to pay attention to the ordinary so as to discover the extraordinary and overwhelming glory of God in the world around us. Enjoy.

Leadership: Stewardship and Awareness

Steve · August 22, 2020 · 6 Comments

[Third in a series of posts about being the kind of servant-leaders the world needs.]

Last weekend, Sue and I spent a few days away from home (our first small trip since the onset of COVID-19), in Missouri Wine Country, a stretch of beautiful and rich land just west of St. Louis in the Missouri River Valley. 19^th-century Germans immigrated here in large numbers and, finding the land of little use for much else, discovered that it wasn’t bad for grapes. It’s no Napa Valley, perhaps, but it was at one time America’s largest producer of wine and was designated the nation’s first American Viticultural Area (AVA) in 1980.

It’s a long and complicated history, interrupted by prohibition and anti-German sentiment around the time of both World Wars. But spending time amidst this landscape that boasts both natural and cultivated beauty was a reminder of the importance of stewardship of the land and, by extension, stewardship as the proper model for servant-based leadership.

For stewardship, as it relates to leadership, implies something more than supervision, oversight or authority. Stewardship begins with a deep awareness and care for whatever it is we are stewards of. Winemakers, like many others who steward the land, have a deep understanding and awareness of all their land holds and promises, so they care deeply for what is in their care and oversight. They rejoice with each great vintage and die a little when hard frost, pests, drought (or too much rain) interfere with the work of turning vines into wine.

Whatever and whoever we lead, we would do well to emulate the model of stewardship, the central point of which is that this organization (or this piece of land) is not ours for the taking but, rather, ours for the caring. As Pope Francis said in remarks during a meeting with political, business and community leaders in Quito, Ecuador, in July 2015:

“We received this world as an inheritance from past generations, but also as a loan from future generations, to whom we will have to return it!”

The same can be said of any organization, and it should be that same ethos of care and stewardship that guides us if we are called to help lead it. At the core of this kind of leadership is our awareness of God’s presence in everything, and this sense of God’s presence consoles and guides us to make good decisions and lead with love and care. To be true servant-leaders means knowing that God is at the heart of all we do. This awareness becomes prayer itself, and then our prayer grows out of ourselves and becomes action.

We become servant-leaders and “contemplatives in action” when we use (and offer back to God) the gifts we have been given without stifling, distorting or wasting them. These gifts — our temperament, character, education, experience, skills, creativity and much more — add up to what it is we have to offer the world and the organizations we lead.

Where and how we meet people in our daily walk and work is where and how we meet God, and it is our obligation to “never resist that call,” as St. Ignatius once wrote to one of his young companions, writing that his encouragement was like the old proverb of “spurs to a willing horse.” We are called to be that willing horse, accepting the gentle (if sharp) nudge of God to move ever forward in our lives of service.

Greetings from the Missouri River Valley

So we need ask ourselves:

Can we meld and balance the “being” and “doing” of our lives?

Is our service to others “large-hearted and humble?” (Pedro Arrupe SJ)

Can we draw energy by being radically centered in Christ and transform that energy into loving, creative, generous, compassionate, healing service to others?

Leadership: St. Ignatius and Compassionate Leadership

Steve · August 15, 2020 · Leave a Comment

[Second in a series of posts about being the kind of servant-leaders the world needs.]

St. Ignatius of Loyola, the 16^th-century founder and leader of the “Company of Jesus,” later to be called the Society of Jesus or the Jesuits, was a tough, fearless military man. He was wounded in battle helping face down a much larger force. Those closest to him in his post-military days remembered him as a man who led with compassion and encouraged and nurtured friendships among his companions. He led like a loving father, making no distinctions between his charges. No favorites. And like a good father, he could be strict while being gentle, and he tended to see the good in others. Because of his approach to leadership, he was admired, readily followed and loved.

He also insisted on unity of purpose and mission, and at the center of that unity was his companions’ love for God. From this mutual love of God came a conformity of spirit that would ultimately lead the Jesuits to preach the Gospel around the world and establish some of the world’s leading educational institutions. Although spread throughout the world even during his lifetime, he nurtured this sense of unity of purpose among all in the company.

This is leadership based on love and the common good, on passion for the work and compassion for fellow workers. It is a model of leadership for all Christians and reminiscent of the days of the early church, as Bergan and Schwan write in “Praying with Ignatius of Loyola” (Saint Mary’s Press, 1991):

“Jesus called all Christians to build community through mutual concern, compassion, sharing, and developing friendships. Indeed, at the very beginning of the Church, people pointed to the Christians and remarked on how they loved one another.”

Are we still living up to that ideal as a people of faith? “Being a leader” so often equates to questions of “who’s in charge?” and “to whom do I report?” These reporting lines are not unimportant in most organizations, but the kind of compassionate leadership fostered by St. Ignatius and so many others extends far beyond organizational charts and into the realm of creating organizations that work always toward the common good, the common goal, and unity of purpose. Leadership that sows discontent, especially within an organization, is not leadership at all, nor is leadership based on a cult of personality of the leader.

Ignatius was strong, yet gentle and flexible, able to adjust to the needs of others. He guided others with love and an intuition that sprang from a life of prayer and awareness. He encouraged others’ strengths while being aware of their sensitivities, emotions, and fragilities. He was a master of fitting the job and his direction to the individual.

So, when we are asked to take on leadership roles and responsibilities within our places of work, worship or service, we might be wise to ask how we can best emulate the care that Ignatius showed to those in his company. Are we leading because we want to be seen as a leader or because we believe we can make those with whom we work feel more important, needed and valued?

Ask yourself:

Am I consistent and fair in my support and affirmation of those who work with me?

Do I nourish life-giving relationships?

Do I cope well with differences and diversity or demand uniformity at all costs?

Do I work to enable and enhance the work of others?

Do I pray for the people I lead?

Being There: Who Do You Say I Am?

Steve · May 11, 2020 · 3 Comments

In today’s reflection, based on Mark 8, I ask you to imagine yourself one of Jesus’ new followers. You’re not sure about him yet, not sure what it is you’re supposed to believe and feel. But your eyes are wide with wonder and your heart is open. Pray with this reflection, maybe read it a couple of times, and then ask yourself the question that Jesus asks his followers: Who do you say I am?

If you’d like, and if it will aid you in prayer, you can listen to this recording I made reading the reflection: Mark 8 — Who Do You Say I am?

Written and narrated by Steve Givens
Music composed and performed by Phil Cooper

You are not what anyone would call a disciple of this man yet, but here you are trailing along behind him and his followers, listening to his stories and staring open-mouthed and astounded as the most unusual and unbelievable things happen. You don’t know what to believe for sure, but there’s something going on here that is beyond anything you have ever experienced before. Something about him that urges you to follow just to see what happens next. If nothing else, he’s one heck of a teacher and magician. So you guess you’re a follower in that sense. You’re the quiet one at the back of the pack.

Just ahead, you hear his disciples bickering. Evidently, no one remembered to bring any bread to eat and there seems to be some confusion about whose responsibility that was. The teacher turns around and looks at them, disappointment on his face, as if he is dealing with a group of unruly children.

“Why are you worried about bread?” he says to them. “Don’t you know we’re about bigger things here? Don’t you get it? Have you forgotten a few days ago when I took five loaves of bread and fed 5,000 people? Do you not remember the baskets and baskets of leftovers?”

They stand looking at him with sorry, embarrassed eyes.

You remember, you think to yourself. That was your first day with him. Seven baskets of leftovers. That was some trick.

“We didn’t forget,” one of them says, “But we didn’t want to bother you again…”

“We don’t expect miracles every day,” says another, laughing.

“It’s not about the bread,” he responds, his eyes soft now with compassion. “It’s about the trust. Trust me. Every day is a miracle.”

You arrive at Bethsaida. As you have seen happen in just about every town he enters, he is quickly surrounded by people wanting something from him. They want a story. They want to see a miracle. They want to be healed or see him heal. They want proof. As do you. This never gets old, you think.

Up through the crowd comes a trio of people pulling behind them a blind man on a rope. He stumbles behind them, his arms stretched out in front of himself, grasping at air and preparing for any abrupt stop. “Please, heal our friend,” they say.

Jesus turns and looks at the man, compassion and love on his face. First, he unties the rope and takes him by the hand, leading him back out of the village and away from the noise and crowds.

Then he does the most remarkable thing. He spits in his own hands and then gently rubs the spittle into the man’s eyes. He embraces the man’s head, cradling it like a treasure. You inch closer, longing to hear what is being said. Jesus asks the man: “Do you see anything?”

The man looks up and his once-sightless face glows red-orange in the late afternoon soon. “I see men,” he says, looking around at you and the disciples, smiling and trying to find the right words for something he has never seen before but only imagined. “They look like walking trees.”

Jesus smiles at his words and stretches out his arms once again. “I can make it perfect,” he says, once again taking the man’s face into his hands. The man clings to Jesus, as if he doesn’t ever want the embrace to end, afraid that his lack of faith might push him back into darkness.

“Go straight home and show yourself to your family,” Jesus says. “See them perfectly.”

The man backs away from Jesus and the look on his face tells you all you need to know. He sees you. He sees you looking at him. “How can this be?” he whispers to you, and you have no response worthy of what you have just experienced.

You are on the move again, walking in the wilderness and headed out for the villages around Caesarea Philippi. As you and the others pause and gather around him, Jesus asks: “Who do the people say I am?”

One of his disciples answers, “Some are confused and say you are ‘John the Baptizer. Some say Elijah. Others say you are one of the prophets.”

“And you,” he says, looking straight at you, the quiet one at the back of the pack. Who do you say I am?”

The Beatitudes teach us where to stand

Steve · April 17, 2020 · 6 Comments

“The Beatitudes are a geography. They teach us where to stand.”
– Fr. Greg Boyle, SJ

Below is a new, short, spoken-word video from me inspired by an idea from Fr. Greg Boyle, SJ.

“We’re in the right place if: A new look at the Beatitudes.” Written and narrated by me, with music by my friend and collaborator John Caravelli.

If you’d like to read the words, see this previous post.