Scripture

Called to be “Poor in Spirit”

Steve · January 31, 2021 · 5 Comments

Artwork above courtesy of the artist, Steve Tadrick.

It’s the first of the beatitudes. It comes easily to mind and rolls effortlessly off our tongues: “Blessed are the poor in spirit.” But what exactly does it mean?

Jesuit priest and author James Martin writes: “If you ask a practicing Christian if he should be charitable, he will say yes. If you ask if he should be “poor in spirit,” he might say, “huh?”

“Blessed are the poor in Spirit” is more than just the first beatitude. It’s the one on which all the others are built and can be likened to childhood, according to renowned theologian Gustavo Guttierez, OP.

“It is a stance of trust and dependence on God as source of life,” Guttierez writes in his book, In the Company of the Poor. “We can all be spiritual children when we place our lives in the hands of God. The requirements of discipleship are stated fundamentally in the first and most critical blessing: being poor in spirit. The other blessings are variations and shades of the first. Disciples are those who make the promise of the kingdom their own, placing their lives in God’s hands.”

So being poor in spirit is not a meditation or a prayer — it’s a stance of our dependence on God and should lie at the very heart of everything we do. It is a reminder that:

God is God and we are creatures: created to praise, love and serve God.
We should have a radical dependence on God for everything.
We are called to be aware and grateful for our gifts and talents, offering them back to the Giver.
We must be willing to let go of these gifts in order to serve others.
We must empty ourselves so that God can fill us.

Jesus is the model for this kind of living. Jesus lived in material poverty, not as an end in itself but as a call to us to deepen our commitment to the poor, to live simply and in freedom with respect to the things we own and have, such as our possessions, talents, reputation and influence.

This “spiritual poverty” is an invitation to freedom — an interior freedom of the mind and heart that allows us to overcome ourselves and our disordered affections when it comes to making the daily decisions (large and small) that come to define us. It is the freedom to know ourselves as we are made by God, complete with both our gifts and limitations. Freedom and poverty of spirit allows us to be honest with ourselves because we are, above all, children of God.

Poverty of spirit is an awareness that we are “coming from God, going to God, and being with God.” (John J. English, SJ)

We begin to live lives “poor in spirit” when we put God — and not ourselves —at the center of our lives. We become more aware of that divine presence, more aware of God’s call and our response. We become more aware of what keeps us from responding and what creates chaos in our souls, leading to poor choices that give into our fears, prejudices, greed, self-interest, need to control, perfectionism, jealousies, resentments and self-doubt.

Without poverty of spirit and spiritual freedom, we become excessively attached to the things that — while they might be good in themselves when ordered and directed to the love of God — become disordered when they push God out of the center. Without poverty of spirit:

We resist admitting our reliance on God.
We are tempted to try and make it on our own.
We are more likely to despair when we fail.

Living “poor in spirit” is a life-giving goal and stance to take, a turn toward living with humility and in the love and grace of God.

“Poverty of spirit is not just one virtue among many,” wrote Johannes Baptist Metz, a 20^th century German Catholic theologian. “It is the hidden component of every transcending act, the ground of every theological virtue.”

It’s where we are called to stand.

Ask yourself in silence or while watching the music video below:

What are the things keeping you from living in spiritual freedom and poverty of spirit right now?
Of what do you need to be emptied?

A (Very) Short Story: The Impossible Night

Steve · December 19, 2020 · 4 Comments

The old couple lowered themselves into their chairs by the fire on Christmas eve, the tree lit up and twinkling to the right of the flaming logs. The small manger scene, carved by a Bethlehem artisan and purchased at their parish church years ago, was nestled in its traditional place beneath the tree, surrounded by just a few small presents. They sighed at the same time.

“It‘s just not the same,” she said, pondering this pandemic Christmas and the absence of children and grandchildren. They had shipped the presents a week ago and made arrangements for a Zoom call in the morning. It would have to be enough.

“No, it’s not,” he said, “but he’s still there, waiting.” He pointed to the manger, at the little carved figure of Jesus he had just placed into the scene a moment ago. That was the family tradition — no Jesus until Christmas Eve. She put down the book she had just picked up to read and stared at the tree.

“So much has changed this year, so much of life put on hold,” she said. “But this story never changes and somehow never gets old. The star, the shepherds, the Magi, the poor young couple and their baby. It’s all so hard to believe and, yet, here we are once again pinning our hopes and lives on what happened so long ago.”

“The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight…” he sang, his once-vibrant voice now cracking and shallow.

She smiled sadly at his attempt at singing, remembering earlier days when his booming voice would fill the house and draw the children toward the tree for the annual reading of the Christmas story. The Bible, opened to Luke 2, sat on the table nearby, as always.

“Everything changed after that night,” she said. “It had to. For the world, for us, for anyone brave enough to believe in all these impossible things — incarnation, virgin birth, angel choirs. It would be easier to not believe, of course, but it would be oh so boring. It would make everything else we do seem meaningless, wouldn’t it?”

He nodded and slowly hauled himself out of the chair. He crossed himself and then crossed the room, lifted the Bible from its cradle and held it in his arms.

“In those days,” he read, “a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed…”

She closed her eyes. She knew the scene. She believed. It was enough.

+ + +

Merry Christmas to you all, and thanks for reading and sharing this year. Below is a brand-new song and video, “After This Night,” created just this week with my musical collaborators John Caravelli and Phil Cooper. I hope this story and this video will both serve as moments of quiet contemplation for you in the days leading up to Christmas. See you in 2021.

Watching for Wisdom

Steve · November 8, 2020 · 10 Comments

I don’t know about you, but I could use a little wisdom. I’m sitting on my back porch this Sunday morning, enjoying the last remnants of warmer weather, relishing the chance to sit out here just a little longer before the days get colder and I have to stay inside for my time of morning coffee, reading and prayer.

It’s the day after the national election results and, no matter which side you were on or how your candidate did, you’re likely feeling some of the same uneasiness I’m feeling today. The battle will likely go on for a while. Social, racial and political unrest will continue. Violence and war rage. COVID continues its march across the world and seems to be resurging in some areas, including mine. My 29-year-old daughter, Jenny, and her husband and nine-month-old baby tested positive this week and are making their way through it. Sue and I would appreciate your prayers for Jenny, Zach and little Jason, who came into the world prematurely back in January and has been making steady progress ever since. He’s a fighter.

The world just seems a little disheveled these days. Maybe it always has been. But eight months of masking up and hunkering down are taking their toll on us all in myriad ways. I awoke (thankfully) this morning from a dream in which I had lost all control of my ability to make my own way through the world, and I’m still a little shaken by the whole ordeal. You don’t have to be Freud to figure out where those kinds of dreams come from.

No politician on either side of the aisle is going to make our lives right. Scientists, given time and the freedom to do their work, will ultimately bring us a vaccine, but it’s going to take some time. The country and the world can heal, but no one person or party is going to get us there. That job of healing belongs to us, and it is found in the ways each of us arise each day and set about our own work of moving and working in the world.

And where do we begin? Today’s reading from the Book of Wisdom is a start. Wisdom — deep understanding and knowledge — is not as elusive as we might believe. Rather, presented as a woman, she is ”resplendent, unfading and readily perceived”:

Resplendent and unfading is wisdom,
and she is readily perceived by those who love her,
and found by those who seek her.
She hastens to make herself known in anticipation of their desire;
Whoever watches for her at dawn shall not be disappointed,
for he shall find her sitting by his gate.

I don’t have a “gate” these days but sitting on my back porch on this warm autumn day, I can yet imagine her out there among the falling leaves, beckoning for me to come a little closer. As I do, she offers me a seat beside her and gently reminds me where wisdom lies. For it is not the wisdom of the world and its leaders that we yearn and thirst for. That wisdom is always flawed and fleeting. Rather, her wisdom is a “knowing” that that lies deep within and comes only from the Creator. Wisdom lies in the beauty and truth of ancient scripture, yes, but also and perhaps more importantly in our deepest selves and in the sacredness of quiet times of solitude and prayer. Wisdom is not earned, nor can it be bought, sold or elected.

Wisdom is a gift that, like the peace in William Butler Yeats’ poem, “The Lake Isle of Innisfree,” comes, “dropping slow” for those wise enough to pause and wait.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

Wisdom is not to be found in the flurry of social media and a 24-hour news cycle, but it can be found by those who look for it in faith and in the knowledge that we are not it. It’s right there by the garden gate, next to the pile of red and yellow leaves.

Looking for Hope in all the Wrong Places

Steve · October 30, 2020 · 18 Comments

Sunset in southern Illinois. Photo by SJG.

It’s a cold and sunny day
here in St. Louis, following a number of days of cold and wet. Fall is sinking fast and winter is lurking in a tree somewhere not too far off, ready to sweep in like a red-tailed hawk on us unsuspecting varmints just doing our best to gather enough energy for the long road ahead.

On top of all that seasonal analogy, of course, is the general state of the world. We’re still hunkered down and masked up (at least we are in my family and circle of friends) against a sneaky and unforgiving virus that scientists are still struggling to understand and create a vaccine for. The national election is a few days off and, no matter which side you choose and vote for, you are likely feeling a sense of foreboding and even fear about the results and what it will mean for the United States in the foreseeable future. The country and the world seem to be in a state of unrest, incivility and hopelessness that many of us have never experienced.

It’s easy to lose hope, and perhaps it’s even easier to place our hope in the wrong things and people. I’m not here to tell you what’s right and what’s wrong. But since the theme of this blog has always been — broadly defined — about the intersection of God in our lives, I would like to make a few observations today and then leave you with a song and prayer of hope written by one of my very close friends and creative collaborators.

First, a few observations about hope:

No elected official and no political party’s platform will restore hope to us; we will have to find a way to do that ourselves.
If we hope for a better and more civil society, we will need to begin with the way we treat everyone around us and not look to leaders to emulate it. They will undoubtedly let us down.
If we hope to count ourselves among the friends of Jesus, we need to remember that when Jesus was asked about the greatest commandment, he didn’t lay out a complicated set of rules that told us if we could be in his inner circle or not. He just said: “Love God and love your neighbor as yourself.” There’s hope in that.
And if you’re not sure who your neighbor is or think it is just those people who live in your neighborhood and look, love, believe and act like you, remember again the words of Jesus in the parable of the good Samaritan: “Our neighbors are those in need.”

There is, despite all evidence to the contrary, reason for hope right now, but only if we are are willing to recommit ourselves to the teachings and love of Christ and only if we’re willing to do the hard spiritual work of using those teachings of love, forgiveness and grace as the foundation for the way we interact with the world.

Still, we may find it hard to hope right now.

My friends and collaborators John Caravelli, left, and Phil Cooper, working out the arrangement of “It Looked Like Hope.”

“We have all been there,” writes my friend and collaborator John Caravelli. “You may call it emptiness, a dry spell or a dark night of the soul. Many of us are feeling that way right now and for good reason. We are in the midst of a deadly pandemic. This election season has been filled with uncivil discourse, reported to us incessantly via social media and a 24-hour news cycle. We are experiencing the consequences of racial divisions and climate change. Whatever the reason, we can all find ourselves feeling lost, angry or sad for periods in our lives.”

Acknowledging all those emotions and yet holding out for something better, John wrote a song not about the darkness but the light, about what we experience when the heaviness lifts.

That’s me, singing. Photo by John Caravelli.

“Very often, it’s not something you can really identify, but you know when it happens,” he says. “Suddenly, you notice more about what is right with the world and not only what is wrong. You see the beauty, the kindness, the love and the blessings. Despair gives way to hope, as it should.”

John wrote the song, “It Looked Like Hope,” about the experience of searching for hope in all the right places — in an autumn day, by the light of a full moon, in the dawning sun, in places where we might least expect to find it — and finding in those still moments not just beauty but the very face of God; of knowing, like Julian of Norwich, that “all will be well and all will be well.” That God is near, no matter how we’re feeling about it.

John let me do the singing while he played guitar, and our friend and third collaborator in the CCG songwriting trio, Phil Cooper, played the keyboard. John and I produced the video below, and I added a quote at the end from John’s favorite saint, St. Therese of Lisieux, which seemed to sum up how we were feeling, or at least hoping:

Above the clouds, the sky is always blue.

It Looked Like Hope

It’s been a long time coming
It’s been a long time tired
I’ve been lost and angry
As if some evil fates conspired.

Dark autumn wind blew all day
There was a hunter’s moon last night
It shone through my bedroom window
My bed glowed in the Lord’s moonlight.

And when the dawning sun broke through the clouds,
From my dream as I awoke,
I believe I saw the face of God
I believe it looked like hope.

But there’s an end to every dark road
The light will shine at last
A song of hope will deliver you
From a helpless lonely past.

I believe I heard the angels sing
A pure and simple song
To relieve me of the mournful tune
I’ve been singing much too long.

And when you least expect it
In a dream that you have, in a song that you hear
It’s then that you know
That all will be well, and all will be well
That your God is near, that your God is near

I believe I heard the angels sing
A pure and simple song
To relieve me of this mournful tune
I’ve been singing much too long.

And when dawning sun broke through the clouds,
From my dream as I awoke,
I believe I saw the face of God
I believe it looked like hope.
I believe I saw the face of God
I believe it looked like hope.

Leadership: Standing Still and Stepping Out

Steve · August 9, 2020 · 12 Comments

(First in a series of posts about being the kind of servant-leaders the world needs.)

Generally speaking, Sue and I enjoy sleeping through a good thunderstorm, but last night Mother Nature put on a display of thunder, lightning, driving wind and incessant downpour that made us jump out of bed a few times just to make sure the world hadn’t come to an end and our house wasn’t floating away.

Luckily, the morning brought some cool and calm, and we spent a good chunk of the morning on the back porch watching the gold and house finches, chickadees and hummingbirds visit our feeders out in their storm-soaked world. They seem no worse for the wear. The squirrels go on as ever, and that’s a story for another time. Someday soon, I intend to write an insightful essay about how to love the pesky “squirrels” in our lives. But as they just recently destroyed another birdfeeder, that time is not yet.

As always, there seems to be a lesson to be learned from the two great works of “scripture” in our lives — nature and the written word of God. Today, both are speaking to me of resilience and of the necessity of finding pieces and places of quiet and solitude in order to be effective leaders — at home, at work, in our churches and other organizations.

Today’s readings (for the 19th Sunday in Ordinary Time, for those of you who follow the liturgical cycle) give us two stories that resonate with the storm that was thrown at us last night. With last night’s tempest still lingering in the air and in my memory, we get stories from both the Old and New Testaments about finding God in the storm. The lessons are clear, especially for leaders who frequently find themselves trying to navigate themselves and others through the most recent cloudburst. (I almost wrote “unexpected cloudburst” but that would be poor leadership indeed, huh? For the storms, however far apart, will always return.)

In the first reading (1 Kings 19:9-13), we are reminded that sometimes being a leader requires us to channel our inner Elijah, standing at the mouth of a cave (at the front of our organizations?) amid strong winds, crushing rocks and consuming fire and still having the faith and the wherewithal to seek the quiet whisper of God’s voice that says, “Here I am, never mind the storm.” If we’re going to lead others effectively through rough times, we need to put ourselves in the right place to hear that voice. That “place” is a regular return to prayer — to quiet, to solitude, to “silence,” even when the world and those in it seem intent on screaming in our general direction.

In today’s gospel reading from Matthew 14, we read the well-known story of Jesus walking on the water to comfort his friends, stranded as they are in a storm-rocked boat in the Sea of Galilee. Jesus, compassionate leader and teacher that he is, leaves his needed place of quiet and solitude and prayer (see above!) and sets out to help his friends, walking on the waves to prove his point and get their attention. For the floundering, fearful, faltering followers (and future leaders) in the boat (that’s us, too) the lesson is obvious: When we’re getting hit hardest, when we are most confused about what to do, we need to look beyond our abilities to navigate a storm by ourselves. We need to watch for Jesus walking and working in the most unlikely of places — perhaps where we seem least likely to find him even though we ought to know better by now. Like Peter, we need just enough faith to step out of the boat and into the storm instead of cowering in the bow and waiting for it all to pass.

We seek God in quiet. We are nourished and calmed by that presence. But we also must be prepared to wade into the depths and find a hand waiting for us. Alone, it can all seem too much to bear. With that hand in ours, it’s still not a walk in the park on a sunny day. Storms always return. But that hand is enough. We never lead alone.