When even the shadows can heal

 

 

 

 

 

 Yet more than ever believers were added to the Lord, great numbers of both men and women, so that they even carried out the sick into the streets, and laid them on cots and mats, in order that Peter’s shadow might fall on some of them as he came by.    Acts 5:14-15

 

In this passage we hear of people so desperate for healing and hope that they are taking to the streets, gathering in the hopes of healing, restoration and wholeness. These are people whose endurance of pain has moved them beyond fear, and they boldly emerge into the public square to cry out. It’s not hard for us to imagine such a scene because this is something we know now, and see now.

 

Then Peter’s shadow passes over the crowds gathered on the streets of Jerusalem, and across our imaginations. What do we make of this?

 

A shadow: that thing our bodies cast across the ground when we stand in the light. One of the poems I remember hearing as a very young child was by Robert Louis Stevenson, and it began with these lines:

 

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,

And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.

He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;

And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed . . .

 

I assume this is the shadow that Luke is speaking of. However, the story evokes for me another understanding of shadow offered by the 20^th century Swiss psychologist Carl Jung.

 

Jung used the word shadow to describe that portion of ourselves that we do not fully see, comprehend or understand. My shadow is made up of the unconscious aspect of my personality, as well as those parts of myself that I’ve chosen to avoid looking at in the light of awareness – a choice made out of a need to self-protect, or because of fearfulness and unease.

 

Our shadows include those things that have felt too painful to address or accept: the traumas we have experienced, the pain we have suffered and the pain we have inflicted. It includes the prejudices and blind assumptions I make about my world. The shadow can be individual but it can also be collective—a whole community, an entire society can have a shadow aspect that it is unable or unwilling to see. The shadow of racism is a prime example for the way it has structural/systemic presence as well as a deeply internalized expression.

 

I’m risking oversimplification here, but Jung suggested that if we insist on ignoring or denying these hidden parts ourselves we will tend to project them outwardly onto others and onto our world, oftentimes inflicting harm in the process. If, on the other hand, we are willing to do the uncomfortable, vulnerable work of addressing the shadowed aspects of our being—to allow the light of loving awareness to shine there—we can travel a path that is ultimately integrating and healing.

 

Awareness and acceptance of our own shadow can be painful, however, it is often a creative path and one that leads to our greatest wholeness and truthfulness. It helps us become more fully human.

 

To translate this into more theological terms one might say with John, the gospel writer, that there is a Light—the light of God’s enduring and deathless Love—that shines in any darkness and cannot be overcome. The path of faith means welcoming that light to illumine not only the parts of our being we can readily see or prefer to see, it means allowing enough vulnerability to acknowledge the shadows of our own brokenness, the fears that grip us in the night, the shame, blame and guilt we have assumed to be our birthright, our lingering wounds, and our capacity to wound ourselves and one another.

 

It means allowing that light of God’s love to reveal there, deep within us, the original blessing, the imprint of divine life that we bear at the heart of our being. Integrating our shadow side allows us to share more fully the image of God we each carry.

 

What does this look like?  We can look at the disciple Peter as an example. Peter’s earnestness, extroversion and passionate faith are evident throughout the gospels. Peter is often the first to speak, the first to step out of the boat to join his teacher in a walk on stormy waters, the first to jump into the water when the risen Christ was recognized on the seashore, and the first to say aloud “You are the Messiah, the Son of God.”

 

We also get clear glimpses of Peter’s shadow. Peter names Jesus as Messiah but will immediately and fearfully rebuke Jesus when he learns that the Messiah must face the deeply human experiences of pain and death. Peter promises to follow Jesus no matter the cost, yet, when he’s confronted in the most dire moments he denies even knowing Jesus.

 

Peter is so much like us: beautiful and broken, gifted and flawed, faithful and despairing, capable of doing great good and great harm.

 

When we meet Peter in the Book of Acts we can tell something has changed in him. He acts and sounds more rooted, more clear, more mature. Peter by this point has walked through deep valleys of soul-aching loss. He has had to squarely face the pain of his own mistakes, and the fear that caused him to betray the ones he most loved. He has also been surprised by the light of resurrection, forgiveness and grace.

 

Life has worked away on Peter and he has been forced to face parts of himself he might have preferred to avoid seeing—his shadow.

 

This is how it often works; it is the challenges we face, the mistakes we make, the wounds we cause and must confess that will reveal our own shadow to us. It is in our defensiveness, our moments of self-interest and harsh judgment that bring the shadow to light. It is in times like these that we are living in that we are given a unique opportunity to grow in awareness of our shadows—individually and collectively.

 

For most every person I know, no matter their background or point of view, life is currently in some form of uncertain upheaval. What we once assumed to be solid ground now feels shaky. What once gave us some feeling of having control over things is reduced to a very thin tether if it remains at all. Life is working away on us.

 

I think of words spoken by my friend, John Gaeddert. John is living into his tenth decade of life, and one of the great passions of his long life has been artfully sculpting wood. Unfortunately he is no longer able to do that creative work, however, it indelibly marks his view on life. As we were talking one day about the changes that come with growing old, John said this:

 

“Sometimes when life carves away on us it feels like the chips are flying everywhere…and we cannot yet see what is emerging.” 

 

Indeed. Chips are flying everywhere right now. Life is working on us right now and this carving away can be disturbing and painful. It can also be gift for the way it allows us to see more clearly what is most true and real within us and among us.

 

Right now the ills of our society that have shaped and shadowed each of our lives are being revealed. And we have an opportunity to name our shadows more truthfully…

The shadow of racism and the other prejudices that sever the bonds of human community and deny the truth of God's image within each of us.

The shadow of unchecked greed and self-interest.

The shadow of hyper-individualism.

The shadow of religiosity that is devoid of compassion.

The shadow of the degrading way we treat non-human life and our planetary home.

The shadow of our dependence on violence to solve problems.

 

These and other shadows must be named and held in the light of loving awareness; they are part of us and our common experience. We cannot keep pointing at others’ shadows and playing the blame/shame game, assuming that if it were not for them, all would be well. We cannot grow more whole without acknowledging and accepting these shadows as our own, and trust in faith that in God’s light of love even these shadows can heal.

 

I want to close these reflections with the words of a prayer that I first encountered nearly twenty years ago. It has stuck with me because it is a prayer that has a way of inviting my awareness of my own shadow. There is always something in these words that leaves me squirming and uncomfortable, and this is usually a good indicator that it is touching on something I might pay closer attention to.

 

I encourage you to take these words into your own spiritual practice and see what arises…

 

The Welcoming Prayer     

by Mary Mrozowski

 

Welcome, welcome, welcome.

 

I welcome everything that comes to me in this moment

Because I know it is for my own healing.

 

I welcome all thoughts, feelings, emotions,

Persons, situations and conditions.

 

I let go of my demand for security.

I let go of my hunger for approval.

I let go of my insistence on control.

I let go of my blind desire to change any

situation, condition, person or myself.

 

I open to the love and presence of God

And the healing action and grace within. Amen

 

on the cushion

wanted: true humility, not false privilege

I am white. I was born in the United States during the tumult of the late 1960s, and I'm now living into my 6th decade of life. I was born into affluence. I identify as male (my preferred pronouns: he/him/his) and heterosexual. I was raised in the Christian faith, and I'm now an ordained pastor serving as a chaplain in a faith-based institution and also as a spiritual director/companion to individuals on their diverse life journeys.

I grew up believing that humility sounded something like this:

Oh, what I'm going through really isn't really that bad. Yes, it's painful, but look how much worse they have it over there. I really don't have any right to complain.

That's such a nice thing to say, but I didn't do that much . . . and really, all the glory goes to God.

Aw shucks, really, it wasn't much of anything. I was just doing what I needed to do. Anyone else would've done the same thing. 

There are so many others who would be better at this than me. You really don't want me to do that.

I've never gone through what you've experienced, so I'm probably not the best one to help you with that. You need someone who's much better at this than I would be.

The primary place I heard such statements was in the church. This, I believed for a long time, is what faithful, Christ-like humility sounds like and looks like.

I've come to learn that these are not expressions of true humility at all. There is a lot that is problematic with these statements of what I would term "false humility," and here I want to identify just a couple of those things, and then welcome your reflections on other things you see and understand to be true.

First, notice how each statement above creates some sort of distancing in relationship. The words belie a disassociation of oneself from the experiences of the other, even though on the surface there may be an acknowledgement of someone else's perspective or pain. Each of these statements expresses a withdrawing from the other and even from the truth of one's own experience. Each statement sidesteps a more direct encounter with life and mutual relationship. I would add that this, by definition, means it also sidesteps a more direct encounter with the Divine.

Second, it has taken me a long time to perceive and understand how I was trained well to use such statements to draw attention to myself in ways that amplified my own privileged status in the church and in our society. I'm beginning to realize now that when I, as a white male, speak such statements, it actually has a way of causing people to give me greater attention and respond with affirming sentiments, such as:

Oh, you are being so modest, but really you are doing something quite remarkable!

No, no, we really do think you are the best person for this and we really want you to join us!

When I make such statements of false humility I am often considered more noble and good, especially in faith communities where such statements are mistaken for faithful modesty and true humility. Such forms of self-deprecation comes with little or no cost to me, and in many cases it actually enhances my privilege and my power.

It does not work that way for those who do not possess the same privilege and power I do by virtue of my skin color, gender and sexual orientation. This false notion of humility is one of the subtle ways the theological teachings and the culture of the North American church have nurtured the savage inequalities and enduring oppression of our society experienced by people of color, women, the LGBTQ community, the poor, and others.

For example, someone who faces the oppressive weight of racism every day, speaking any of the statements of "false humility" above, may likely be met with a response, either implicit or explicit, that communicates: yes, you're absolutely right.

Yes, you're right, there are those who have it worse than you, so you shouldn't complain.

Yes, the glory really doesn't belong to you, it does go to God.

That's nice, you did the right thing, and really anyone else should've or would've done the same.

There are others who might be better suited for this than you and who will fit in better anyway.

False humility only enhances the inequalities and injustices that hold lives, including the life of faith communities, in bondage. I am trying, and failing, and trying again to learn more, practice more, the ways of true humility. I believe it is one thing we are being called to as people who have been given unearned privileges at the expense of others.

Here are some of the things I'm learning about what true humility means for me, as someone who has lived with many false privileges. To be clear, I offer these as expressions of true humility specifically for those of us whose privilege and power has come at a cost borne by others. More specifically, I see these as important expressions of true humility that can be made by white men:

True humility for me is the recognition that I am here today thanks to burdens borne, prices paid, sacrifices made by others--sometimes unjustly. To use Maya Angelou's words above, "I've been paid for" in some particularly painful, violent and unjust ways as a white man living in the United States of America. The privileges I've been given in this life are not my inalienable right, and, for the most part, they are not what I have earned via my own efforts. I must be willing to live my life in such a way that I am willing to make sacrifices for others, to "pay for" the well being of those who will follow after me.

True humility is shifting my story away from the center, and centering the voices and stories of those who have been on the margins of my awareness and my realms of experience. It will mean listening first and speaking second. It will mean allowing myself to be led by those who've not been permitted to lead, and being willing to follow the voices of oppressed peoples to places that will very likely be uncomfortable and disturbing to me, trusting that I need these sisters and brothers to lead me to deeper health and wholeness, and more expanded experiences of community. 

True humility means accepting that my own growth and well-being will involve not only an identifying of the privileges I've taken for granted, it must also involve a divestment of these privileges. This may include declining certain leadership roles in order to make room for marginalized voices. It will include using the access to channels of power and authority that I have been given to advocate for the oppressed and those on the margins. It will mean encouraging my white brothers and sisters to keep on learning, growing and transforming. It means remembering that I will always have more room to learn and grow--this is a lifelong commitment.

True humility means growing in the understanding that I become more fully and truly myself when I am supporting each and every person around me in doing the same, and prioritizing in my support those who have suffered most acutely. This is, I sense, what Fr. Gustavo Gutierrez, in his book A Theology of Liberation (1971), described as having "a preferential option" for the oppressed. I concur with Gutierrez' conclusion that such a preferential option lies at the heart of biblical scriptures and at the heart of Christian discipleship. A preferential option for the oppressed is reflected in the important statement of priority that is proclaimed at this historic moment: "Black Lives Matter."

True humility is ultimately not about individuality, it is about community. True humility is about becoming more truthfully myself, yes, and in doing so, discovering the deepest, inseparable connection and mysterious unity I share in with all. I think of the literal meaning of the word humility: "of the earth," or "of the soil." Humility means to be brought down to the rich, messy soil of our lives and to know that we live on shared ground with one another and with all that has life and breath, all that exists.

True humility [for white peacemakers and allies] is . . .
[What would you add here? Feel free to post your thoughts in the comment section below.]

 God has shown you, O mortal one,
what is good and what is required of you:
to act justly, and to love mercy, 
and to walk humbly with your God.

MICAH 6:8

extraneous

Yesterday I enjoyed a birding walk along the Sand Creek Trail, a local path that follows thick hedgerows bordering cultivated fields, community gardens and the athletic complexes of a nearby college. Hedgerows make for interesting birding because they form a threshold between woodland and open field, and quite often there is a greater diversity of creatures here in these ecological borderlands, including birds.

One challenge with birding along this particular trail, however, is that a section of it borders the busy traffic artery of I-135. If you look closely at the image above you can catch just a glimpse of the interstate's cement through a gap in the foliage.

The highway makes birding difficult because of the incredible noise generated by steel-belted tires on asphalt. Birding this time of year, after the trees and shrubs have leafed out, is done more by ear than eye. As I traveled this section of trail yesterday my ear caught a faint, familiar song. At first, all I could hear was road noise, and I found that my first impulse was to focus on it--it was the most obvious and obnoxious sound--and I felt a growing frustration and resistance to the din. Then, I decided to just try and listen first for the bird.

I took some deep breaths, caught the faint song, and simply allowed my attention rest there. Very gradually the outer noise of the highway faded to background, the inner noise of my frustration quieted, and the sound of the bird became more clear. At first I thought the bird was flying closer, and that the traffic on the highway had lessened, but that was not the case. The traffic was rolling by thick and fast as ever, and the bird remained some distance away, but now its rich, clear whistle was more defined and I could tell it was one of my favorite birds, a Tufted titmouse.

All that had changed was my intention and focus. There was a releasing that happened in that moment, a letting go of extraneous noise, and a corresponding choice to focus differently. The result was greater simplicity and increased clarity.

There is so much extraneous noise in this world and in our daily lives--not just sound but also visual noise, noisy activity, noisy information, etc. Some of this noise is external and some is internal. Our rapid-fire minds struggle to process the incessant input and sometimes it can be quite overwhelming to discern what is worthy of our attention and reflection.

The temptation may be to resist that which we deem unnecessary and unwelcome; but we soon find that the resistance has a confounding way of amplifying the very things we may want to be relieved of. What is needed is a shift of the heart, an intentional shift of focus that directs the intention toward that which is most essential, most truthful, most life-giving, and most worthy of our loving awareness.

'Tis a gift to be simple
'tis a gift to be free,
'tis a gift to come down where we ought to be . . .

(from "Simple Gifts" by Joseph Brackett)

unmoored

I'll make another beginning here. I note that the last entry was nearly three years ago. No need to try and explain the hiatus; perhaps it was needed, perhaps it was neglect. 

Now is a good time for beginnings and restarts; because they are intertwined with endings and so much loss. This pandemic season has been a time of unmooring, a disconnecting from familiar patterns and practices. Most of this has been by necessity, but some has been by intention.

Time passes differently now. Many things that anchored me to the passage of hours, days, weeks and months are now released. Relationships, too, are subject to the unsettled currents and the open-ended absences we endure.

What is ground?

Where is center?

 Who remains?

With so much voluntarily released or involuntarily removed, what holds?

This is the via negativa. We are now given the opportunity to learn by unlearning, know by unknowing, and begin by ending. First, though, we must be willing to know our need for such loss and letting go.

I've been wondering about what it means to grieve right now. The need for grief now is visceral. Private grieving of the most personal losses, yes, but so much more: the collective grieving of great communal and even global losses. How do we grieve as a community? How do we grieve as a whole people? How do we grieve with life beyond our human experience? With a planetary whole? Is this possible? Are we willing? Who are our guides?





So, I return here to wonder and remain
curious and brokenhearted,
courageous and fearful,
still and moving,
alone and with countless others,
with love.


image:  personal rune, Ⓒ2019

There is this

This thing I wanted
I now possess. Clutching it
I find it lacking.


This moment for which
I waited: I'm living it
wondering what's next.


This, you say. And this!
Your eyes gaping with wonder.
Look now! There's this, too!

A Good Friday call to prayer

                                                 St. John's Abbey Church Window

A Good Friday Call to Prayer:

 

The story of Christ’s death that we tell today

invites our gathering, worshiping and praying.

This story of Christ’s death also invites our silence.

There must be silence somewhere in this day because now

we are asked to remember and connect our lives to

something that defies our full comprehension or explanation.

Here we witness a love that words will never contain.

The One whom we meet here dwells

above, below, within and beyond anything we might say.

We must make room for silence.

The silence of Good Friday is a heart-broken silence.

For here we witness the needless suffering of a good person;

here we encounter the unjust death of an innocent one.

Here we are asked to stay awake to such suffering

as it exists in this world today, and to the many ways

Christ is still crucified.

We will make room here for a heart-broken silence.

The silence of Good Friday is a humble silence.

For here we witness disciples who flee and hide,

friends who cower and remain silent in their fear.

We hear leaders who ask cynical questions like: “What is truth?”

And here we must remember that we are not so different;

we, too, hurt one another with our action and our inaction.

We will make room here for a humble silence.

The silence of Good Friday is a reverent silence.

For here we witness just how far love is willing to go,

and it goes much farther than anyone could’ve imagined.

Love surrenders all claims to power or privilege.

Love shows mercy in the face of ignorance and violence.

Love lays down life, so that life might flourish.

We will make room here for a reverent silence.

Kyrie eleison. 

You are the moonflower and the moth

During the past year I've enjoyed co-facilitating a poetry discussion and writing series at the retirement community where I work, together with Karen Sheriff LeVan, Professor of English at Hesston College. We've entitled this series Words & More, and our primary intention is to use poetry to invite reflections on aging and identity.

Each installment of Words & More has two sessions, one week apart. In the first session we introduce the poet and poem that we've selected. Poems have included Jane Hirshfield's "Optimism", Li Young Lee's "From Blossoms", Naomi Shihab Nye's "Famous" and William Stafford's "Yes".

In the first session the poem is read aloud at least twice and the group engages in a facilitated discussion of what is first encountered in the poem. Conversation is always lively and the hour passes quickly. Before wrapping up the discussion we offer the group one or two writing prompts that are in some way connected to the selected poem. Participants are encouraged to spend time in the following week using these prompts to come up with their own pieces of creative writing.

In the second session we begin by reading the poem aloud again and inviting any additional reflections that may have emerged during the week. The majority of the hour is spent listening to and responding to the pieces created by participants. Each time it is a uniquely rich and creative experience!

As facilitators Karen and I also become participants, and we enjoy playing with the writing exercises that we've offered the group.

In our last installment of Words & More we spent time with Billy Collins' poem "Litany". Here is a video of Collins reading the poem live:

I wish I could share here all of  the inspired pieces offered by our group members. Here is the one I wrote:

 

Wait for it      (after Billy Collins’ "Litany")

You are the moonflower and the moth.

You  are the first mosquito bite of spring

and the snap of the small-mouth bass

who eats the mosquito

as it lingers too long

over the still pond.

You are not the still pond.

Actually, I am the still pond

and the heron with the broken, unhinged bill

patiently fishing at the water's edge.

I am the gingko tree undressed by winter

and I am the husk of the cicada

still clinging to its trunk.

You are the actual cicada

the cicada nymph to be exact

(and it’s important to be exact here)

surviving underground

beneath the yellowed patch of grass

where the dog pees each morning

and you wait to emerge

in about seven years.

Eric Massanari

 3/13/17