IN EXILE
By Father Ron Rolheiser, OMI
There are times when our world unravels. Who hasn’t had the feeling? “I’m falling apart! This is beyond me! My heart is broken! I feel betrayed by everything! Nothing makes sense anymore! Life is upside down!”

Jesus had a cosmic image for this. In the Gospels, he talks about how the world as we experience it will someday end: “The sun will be darkened, the moon will not give forth its light, stars will fall from heaven, and the powers of heaven will be shaken.” When Jesus says this, he is not talking as much about cosmic cataclysms as of cataclysms of the heart. Sometimes our inner world is shaken, turned upside down; it gets dark in the middle of the day, there’s an earthquake in the heart; we experience the end of the world as we’ve known it.

However, in this upheaval, Jesus assures us that one thing remains sure: God’s promise of fidelity. That doesn’t get turned upside down and in our disillusionment we are given a chance to see what really is of substance, permanent and worthy of our lives. Thus, ideally at least, when our trusted world is turned upside down, we are given the chance to grow, to become less selfish and to see reality more clearly.

Christian mystics call this “a dark night of the soul” and they express it as if God were actively turning our world upside down and deliberately causing all the heartache to purge and cleanse us.

The great Spanish mystic John of the Cross puts it this way: God gives us seasons of fervor and then takes them away. In our seasons of fervor, God gives us consolation, pleasure, and security inside our relationships, our prayer and our work (sometimes with considerable passion and intensity). This is a gift from God and is meant to be enjoyed. But John tells us, at a certain point, God takes away the pleasure and consolation and we experience a certain dark night in that where we once felt fire, passion, consolation and security, we will now feel dryness, boredom, disillusion and insecurity. For John of the Cross, all honeymoons eventually end.

Why? Why would God do this? Why can’t a honeymoon last forever?

Because eventually, though not initially, it blocks us from seeing straight. Initially all those wonderful feelings we feel when we first fall in love, when we first begin to pray deeply, and when we first begin to find our legs in the world. These are part of God’s plan and God’s way of drawing us forward. The passion and consolation we feel help lead us out of ourselves, beyond fear and selfishness. But, eventually, the good feelings themselves become a problem because we can get hung up on them rather than on what’s behind them.

Honeymoons are wonderful; but, on a honeymoon, too often we are more in love with being in love and all the wonderful energy this creates than we are in love with the person behind all those feelings. The same is true for faith and prayer. When we first begin to pray seriously, we are often more in love with the experience of praying and what it’s doing for us than we are in love with God. On any honeymoon, no matter how intense and pure the feelings seem, those feelings are still partly about ourselves rather than purely about the person we think we love. Sadly, that is why many a warm, passionate honeymoon eventually turns into a cold, passionless relationship.

Until we are purified, and we are purified precisely through dark nights of disillusionment, we are too much still seeking ourselves in love and in everything else. Therese of Lisieux used to warn: “Be careful not to seek yourself in love, you’ll end up with a broken heart that way!” We’d have fewer heartaches if we understood that. Also, before we are purified by disillusionment, most of the tears we shed, no matter how real the pain or loss, often say more about us than they say about the person or situation we are supposedly mourning.

In all this, there’s both bad news and good news: The bad news is that most everything we sense as precious will someday be taken from us. Everything gets crucified, including every feeling of warmth and security we have. But the good news is that it will all be given back again, more deeply, more purely, and even more passionately than before.

What dark nights of the soul, cataclysms of the heart, do is to take away everything that feels like solid earth so that we end up in a free-fall, unable to grab on to anything that once supported us. But, in falling, we get closer to bedrock, to God, to reality, to truth, to love, to each other, beyond illusions, beyond selfishness and beyond self-interested love that can masquerade as altruism.

Clarity in eyesight comes after disillusionment, purity of heart comes after heartbreak and real love comes after the honeymoon has passed.

(Oblate Father Ron Rolheiser is a theologian, teacher and award-winning author. He can be contacted through his website www.ronrolheiser.com.)

FROM THE HERMITAGE
By sister alies therese

I have a habit of trying to learn new words every few days. I am not always successful, but here are two I learned on an art app: polloglyphs and pareidolia. The first means hidden images and the second is seeing patterns in randomness. Though they were used to describe an ongoing argument amongst art critics about Jackson Pollock’s work and whether he had things hidden beneath his famous drips, I think they are words that will ‘preach!’

Into Lent, we are confronted with the pain and reality of the Passion of Jesus and our passion. Perhaps we can look for hidden images and some patterns of randomness in suffering, ours and the world.
A few weeks ago, in our readings at Mass, we explored Sirach, a book not found in non-Catholic Bibles and not included in the Hebrew Bible either after the first century. It has always been considered divinely inspired and canonical by Catholics. I have always found it soothing and reassuring. It was written somewhere between 200-175 BCE in Hebrew by Jesus, son of Eleazar, son of Sirach, primarily to present moral teaching to catechumens and the faithful.

The opening strophe, “All wisdom comes from the Lord and with God remains forever,” (1:1) suggests there are things to uncover. “True wisdom is God’s external revelation of Himself. Throughout the book, Sirach describes in great detail just what wisdom is: sometimes it is divine, sometimes a synonym for God’s law; sometimes it is human. But the author makes clear that even human wisdom, properly understood, comes from God.” (footnote, 1:1, NAB)

The revelation of God permeates all things … nature that surrounds us, the universe and the myriad of artistic galaxies, the faces of children, the workers and entertainers, and even ourselves have many hidden images, woven daily as we journey, as we cast off the false self. One of the ways our false self is put away and our transformed true selves emerge is through friendship. Sirach has a bit to say about that. Consider chapter 6.

For Lent you may have given up chocolate, TV, beer, or scanning your phone every three seconds, … consider giving in, giving more, giving, and in that giving, changing … establishing a new friendship! You might discover hidden images; possibly experience pareidolia, those patterns in the randomness of the human condition. Friendship can begin in many ways. Look about when you attend church or a ballgame or an art class. Consider the folks there. Who would I like to get to know? Who would I choose to become friends with? What are your criteria? What are you willing to risk?

That’s one way. But what if you first prayed and asked God to put a new person in your path? What if you asked God to open your heart to folks who are not like you? Oh my. Where would I meet such a person, you wonder, when the church I go to is all the same, as is my grocery store, school or golf course. Where can I meet someone of another faith, ethnic background or age? Where can I learn something new or be challenged in my well-organized heart?

The art argument I mentioned implied that Pollock painted things under his drips, and that if you stared long enough, you would see them. If you paid enough attention, you would see the randomness hidden beneath. If we go with that, how about what happens when we meet a new person … a person so unlike us in gender, color, education or marital status? What wisdom do we need to explore a new relationship?

One difficulty is perhaps that we already have an imagination or thoughts about ‘those kind of people’ … and now when we meet x or y we find those ideas challenged. Those very ideas cause us to review how open or closed our hearts are. Sirach reminded us that all wisdom comes from God. Wisdom is needed in friendship; how do we move in this new way? How do we eat new food, appreciate different clothing, or listen to political or religious differences, and gain wisdom, our growth goal? How do we learn to love?

Perhaps you read Judy Blume’s books? In “Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret,” she writes, “I like long hair, tuna fish, the smell of rain and things that are pink. I hate pimples, baked potatoes, when my mother’s mad, and religious holidays.” This may be her wisdom as an eight- or nine-year-old, but will she stay stuck to those notions or be able to go beyond them and discover what is hidden within?

Lent offers so many opportunities to shed false selves and to allow our true-Godly self to emerge. We can splash around or sit in a puddle and need a time out, or we can be reminded that others and their wisdom and generosity can help us grow. We can indeed learn to love in a whole new way. In John 15:15ff Jesus makes this clear: “This is My command: Love one another the way I have loved you. … put your life on the line for your friends. You are My friends because I’ve let you in on everything I’ve heard from the Father. You didn’t choose Me; I chose you and put you in the world to bear fruit.” (Peterson, “The Message”) So, choose.

BLESSINGS.

(Sister alies therese is a vowed Catholic solitary who lives an eremitical life. Her days are formed around prayer, art and writing. She is author of six books of spiritual fiction and is a weekly columnist.)

FOR THE JOURNEY
By Effie Caldarola

So, a random guy walks into a bar. No, this isn’t the beginning of a joke. For me, it’s a Lenten meditation.
A friend of mine tends bar in a neighborhood tavern. It’s a small place where “regulars” gather. Once, on the rare occasion I visited, I asked for red wine. My friend shook her head. “I wouldn’t order wine here,” she said. Apparently, a bottle of Merlot can sit open for weeks. This is a beer drinker’s haven.

She told me that one night as she stood behind the bar, she was looking at a GoFundMe page for a friend, a young woman diagnosed with very serious cancer. The woman had to quit her job to begin treatment.

A customer my friend didn’t know was sitting at the bar sipping a beer and asked what she was doing. She explained the young woman’s situation. This random guy, a stranger, pulled out two $20 bills and pushed them over to her. Add that to the GoFundMe, he said.

What does this have to do with my Lent? I’ve been thinking about generosity. More specifically, I’ve been pondering spontaneous generosity and what it says about the heart. My heart.

Spring brings two familiar rituals – one, the penitential season of Lent with its many graces. The other, tax season, with its obligations. Although ostensibly very different things, they may intersect at the point where some of us use our charitable donations as deductions.

Tax season holds us hostage to paper, and I’ve carefully recorded the donations my husband and I have made. Again, the intersection: I want a deduction, but I also use this as a time to evaluate my generosity. Were our contributions “enough?” Were they more than last year? Did they reflect our church’s preferential option for the poor? What do they say about our priorities?

But then, a random guy pushes $40 across the bar in a spontaneous act of compassion, and my receipts suddenly seem less important and a bit more calculated. Where, I wonder, is my record of everyday acts of generosity, acts which held no hidden benefit to me except the grace of a God whose generosity is boundless?

I think back to times I’ve failed at spontaneous generosity. I sometimes recall, long ago, a man loitering on the early morning street, me rushing to a coffee shop before a meeting. I had no cash to give him, but later I asked myself why I didn’t offer to buy him a coffee. Maybe a muffin? I had a credit card.

There’s nothing wrong with planned giving. Actually, it’s important. Maybe we tithe, or maybe we choose a sacrifice so that we can give more. In these troubled times, with so many people suffering and even dying because federal contracts to Catholic charities have been frozen, our charitable planning is critical.

But generosity should be a way of life, not just a budget line item. Generosity is stumbling out of bed after a sleepless night and smiling brightly at our family. It’s letting someone else have the last piece of cake. It’s spontaneous compassion on a daily basis, through our time, our words, our resources. Without payback. Just sliding a little cash across the bar.

Did that guy have a sister or mother who struggled with the same cancer? Or did he just have a generous heart? We’ll never know.

People often ask a deacon friend of mine how much they should give, almost as if his answer would justify them. He would always smile and say, “More.” That’s a good daily Lenten mantra. After all, how can we give God less?

(Effie Caldarola is a wife, mom and grandmother who received her master’s degree in pastoral studies from Seattle University.)