Advice from a Boxer

I don’t typically take my spiritual advice from professional boxers.  But one day while driving, I happened to hear part of an interview with pro boxer George Foreman (yes, the one who named all five of his sons “George”).  With a stereotypical idea of what boxers are like, I was caught off guard by something he said.  Actually “caught off guard” doesn’t really do it justice.  I was quite touched!

Foreman was talking about his estranged relationship with his father, who was an alcoholic.  Foreman said that one day he looked at his father and asked himself, “Do I want to have a father or not?”  He realized his choice was to either forgive his father or just be without.  He decided to forgive him even though it was very, very hard.  Foreman went on to say that forgiveness is the greatest of life’s lessons, an indispensable life skill.  Without forgiveness, he said, there are no relationships.

If I had heard this sentiment during a homily, I probably would have mildly appreciated it and gone on with my life.  But coming from George Foreman, I admit it, I was deeply impacted.  There are no relationships without forgiveness.  At least no meaningful ones.

Forgiveness is one of those spiritual arts that is best learned at home, in the family.  Goodness knows we have many occasions there to practice!  If we don’t learn forgiveness at home, it can be very difficult to learn in the world; and if we don’t learn it young, it can be much harder to learn later in life.  That being said, it is never too late to learn or practice this life skill.  So break out that George Foreman Grill (you know you have one) and gather the family around.  Have a burger or a panini and celebrate the art of forgiveness!

Note:  I just read up on George Foreman and discovered two very important pieces of information.  First, he is a native Texan.  Second, he is an ordained minister!  I also found an interview in which he was asked if there could be any circumstance where he would not be able to forgive someone (beliefnet.com, “George Foreman’s Second Chance”).   His response:  “Oh, not in this life now.  I've found my peace of mind.  If you wake up one morning without forgiveness in your heart, you'll wake up without children, without a husband, without a wife.  Forgiveness is the only way that you can bind love and friendship.  Without it, you are empty."  Preach it, George!

Content with Weaknesses

Several days ago on a long drive to visit a friend, I was thinking about my voice and how I wish it was louder.  I was thinking about Mariah Carey and how she belts out a tune, and how I always wished I could sing like her.  That made me start thinking about how it would also be nice to look like Jennifer Lopez.  And keep house like Martha Stewart.  All with the heart of Mother Teresa. 

I don’t usually hear voices in my head, but somewhere in my consciousness I heard a divine chuckle.  And in the laughter, I heard a truth.  For some reason, our God is very comfortable with human weakness.  Have you noticed how he likes small things (“Unless you change and become like children….” Mt. 18:3), broken things (“Those who are well have no need of a physician….” Lk. 5:31), things that in some way must die before they can fully live (“Worthy is the Lamb who was slain!” Rev. 5:12)?  This is a God who creates greatness in ordinary things (“You are only a man!” Jn. 10:33) and who requires of his people a similar way of thinking (“The last shall be first, and the first shall be last.” Mt. 20:16).

St. Paul claimed that he boasted of his weaknesses.  He did this because he believed they placed him where he rightfully belonged – on the cross of Jesus.  Is it possible that the things we perceive as weaknesses or failings are actually the things that bind us most closely to the Holy One?  Our weaknesses, our sins, our problems and burdens – yes, they make us small, ordinary, broken.  But they are how we learn about dying and rising, about surrender, about needing a savior, and about what it truly means to be loved.

I will never look or sound like a celebrity.  And I will never be worthy to unbuckle the sandal of Mother Teresa much less aspire to her heart!  Like you, I have many things about myself that I would like to change (some more shallow than others!).  But I don’t perceive these things – even my serious weaknesses that are much more than skin-deep – as rotten parts of myself.  Rather they are the part of my humanity that still awaits transformation, they are my emptiness yet to be filled.  They are an invitation to God to be with me, because I know I am not whole by myself.

“So, I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may dwell in me.  Therefore I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities for the sake of Christ; for whenever I am weak, then I am strong” (2 Cor. 12:9-10).

I Don't Understand Eternity

After a very long, very cold winter here in the Northeast, I took my two sons out for a walk on the first nice day we’d had in months.  As we turned a corner onto a long straight sidewalk, my 18-month-old wriggled down from my arms and took off running.  He ran for a third of a mile.  (Fortunately his legs are really short so I was able to keep up!)  I was amused by his reaction to wide open spaces.  He had obviously been indoors far too long.

I wonder if this experience could be an analogy for eternity, a concept I don’t understand (and I doubt I am alone).  We understand the limits of this world; we understand the finite.  But the infinite?  We only have brief glimpses of it, short bursts of understanding that flash in our minds and disappear quickly.  I had one of these bursts as I watched my son running as far and free as his little legs would take him after being pent up in the house all winter.  For Eli, being so young, winter was the only reality he could remember.  His was a restricted world – indoors except for quick trips back and forth to the car, bundled in bulky layers, glimpsing the sun only in passing, experiencing the beauties of winter from the other side of a window.  Of course it wasn’t all bad – there was warmth inside, family, food, books and toys.  But spring?  This was new.  It meant being outdoors, a seemingly limitless place full of wonders and discoveries.  It meant boundless freedom that went on and on, all the way down Milford Point Road.

Eternity hangs around the edges of our consciousness – a promise we can’t live without, but an incomprehensible future that may scare us a bit because of its…forever-ness.  It isn’t our fault that we just don’t get it – it is something we have never experienced.  But here we trust – we live in trusting expectation.  For now, our winter does have its joys, and one of them is the anticipation of spring. 

Eli enjoys the warmth of spring after a long winter.

"No eye has seen, nor ear heard, nor the human heart conceived, what God has prepared for those who love him” (1 Cor. 2:9).

Taming My Wild Horse

One of the hardest and most wonderful things I did as a teenager was to help train my young horse, Callie.  I didn’t have a lot of “horse experience” – but in a situation where you are face-to-face with or riding on top of a half-ton animal with a mind of its own, you learn rather quickly.  In the years since, I have heard the term “wild horse” used as a metaphor for the untrained mind, especially in the context of prayer and meditation.  It is a helpful image – and particularly meaningful for those with some “horse experience.”

One of the first things you discover when a horse comes into your life is that there is a big difference between the dream of a horse and the reality of a horse.  Children dream only of the perfect horse – the one that delights in their presence, obeys their every command, and follows them adoringly around the meadow. In reality, one quickly discovers that this animal is an independent being with its own mind and personality, its own likes and dislikes, and its own instinctive appreciation for freedom.  Unless you happen to have a horse that naturally loves people, you face more of an ongoing challenge than a spontaneous friendship.

Then there are the challenges of training.  Books could be written about the training process and its analogies to corralling the mind.  I will only mention this:  When training Callie, my teacher and I learned a valuable lesson, and I’ve thought of it many times since in other contexts.  We tried weeks of typical training techniques, but Callie did not respond well; in fact, she seemed more ornery and less disciplined than ever.  Finally, we decided to try something different.  When Callie got stubborn, we simply stopped everything.  We stood still and quiet.  We did not get upset or frustrated.  We waited for the heart rate of horse and rider to return to normal, and then we simply continued our work.  Callie responded to this.  She relaxed.  She was no longer on edge.  She rebelled less and less.  The training continued slowly, but with fewer setbacks and more understanding.

Even when Callie was fully trained, we were not always in sync.  She still had her quirks.  She was frightened by harmless things like deer.  She refused to walk through wet mud, even if it was only an inch deep.  And she always moved at a brisk clip on the way home to the barn, but at a snails’ pace as we started out on our trail rides!  Callie always had her own mind – full of things like carrots, and pastures, and baby horses.  The things I asked her to think about – things like following directions or venturing far from the comforts of home – were not necessarily instinctive.

I wouldn’t say that Callie and I ever fell in love.  Even when she was fully trained and a bit mellowed out by mothering, she preferred the freedom of the pasture to trail rides with me.  But over the years we developed a familiarity and a working relationship.  I looked after her, and she tolerated me.  We went about our times together with contentment and relative peace.  And there were even moments of unity, when she took me places it seemed no one else had ever been, and in moments of stillness and silence, we enjoyed together the same breezes and views. 

The metaphor of the wild horse works.  It is like myself and my mind – and like yourself and yours.  You dream of an easy mind, one that is effortlessly guided along paths and does your bidding every time.  This mind does not exist.  In reality, there is an ongoing push and pull that takes place as you try to control the majestic half-ton beast.  Sometimes, the gentler you are, the better your results.  In standing still, you can move forward.  You will not ever have full mastery, because your mind would rather dream of open pastures and lazy afternoons, and maybe even baby horses.  Even after some training, your mind will retain its own quirks.  But you will get to know them, and you will accept them.  And together your trail rides will take you through dense forests and open fields, across sunsets and into dusks. There will be incredible moments when you will both be still and look upon the same things – in quiet, fully tame, witnessing the beauty that surrounds God’s searching creatures.

How Long We Wait

Ready or not, Lent is upon us!  We can think of Lent as a teacher, a school that we faithfully attend for 40 days in the hope that we will be changed – that we will be altered in some way by what we are taught.  One lesson Lent teaches is the lesson of waiting.

My students and I spent the last six months studying some of the treasures of the Hebrew Bible, leaving me with more appreciation than ever for the amount of time the people of Israel waited patiently for their God to fulfill his promises.  Yes, there were questions, there was confusion, there were times when things looked awfully bleak and murky.  But as a people, they refused to give up on their God who, they believed, would keep every promise, win every battle, and triumph over every evil:

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
Why are you so far from helping me, from the words of my groaning?
O my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer;
and by night, but find no rest.

Yet, you are holy,
enthroned on the praises of Israel.
In you our ancestors trusted;
they trusted, and you delivered them.
To you they cried, and were saved;
in you they trusted, and were not put to shame.

This is one of Lent’s lessons.  And of course, it is one of the lessons of the Cross.  God unfailingly keeps his promises.  But sometimes, how long we wait!

The poem “How Long We Wait” by Thomas Merton was given to me years ago by someone who wanted to see me through a time in my life when things seemed upside down and backward.  I’ve treasured it ever since.  The movement and imagery of Merton’s poem helped me understand the beauty of waiting – the perennial questions, posed a million ways, and the prayerful expectations of human longing.  It captures the faith of the Israelites, the life-altering lessons of patient waiting, the joyful expectation of our Lenten longing – we who wait for the Bridegroom to laugh, when the dark is done.

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