"I die daily," St. Paul, 1 Cor. 15:31.
Admittedly, I live in the affluent West. I also come from an Evangelical Christian background, though I now find myself wholly in the Catholic fold. Taken together, these two facts have contributed in my life to a total lack of experience of (non self-inflicted) suffering. Whatever suffering I have had to endure up to now has been the result of my own moral and social insufficiencies. In a word, from a lack of
virtue in my own life. For example, I've had to struggle with debt and acquiring too much of it (and all the usual corollaries of this--deficit spending, etc.). I've also struggled with patience, and the lack of this particular virtue goes toward creating all manner of struggles in a life. But, the point about all of these types of suffering is, again, that they are self-inflicted. (BTW, when I use the word virtue, I am specifically employing the Aristotelian-Thomistic framework. If that means something to you, great. If not, don't worry about it. It's probably close to your idea of virtue-whatever that is-anyway.)
Strictly speaking, of course, one's upbringing does come to bear on these discussions, but in terms of culpability one can only fall back on that for so long. At some point, the individual in question takes center stage in terms of responsibility for his own life and can no longer spread blame much beyond his own person. So, in 2 months I will turn 30. Therefore, I think I'm well beyond the finger-pointing stage of life and into the "OK, I guess I've got to get hold of things now. The time for assessing the causal origin of why I don't possess much virtue is over. And the time for beginning to cultivate it within myself is now."
However, beyond simply desiring to inculcate within myself more virtue, the concept of suffering is beginning to be unfolded for me more profoundly from day to day. It is of course sad to think that for me "suffering" is still a 'concept,' rather than a reality of my life. But, I am beginning to progress in this now, I think. Allow me to relate a short bit of history to further unpack this?
Probably, the first theological book that I ever read was Dietrich Bonhoeffer's
The Cost of Discipleship way back in 1997. Its impact on me was monumental. One aspect of the book that is so great is his unfolding of the implications of discipleship and especially in the light of the Sermon on the Mount. The basic punchline of the section is that being a disciple of Christ costs
'not less than everything' (T.S. Eliot). The grace God gives is free, but it also costs everything--your very life, in fact. This is the sense which Bonhoeffer makes of later words of Christ in the Gospel of Matthew:
"Then said Jesus unto his disciples, 'If any man will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross (daily), and follow me. For whosoever will save his life shall lose it: and whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it.'" (Matt. 16:24-25)
On my limited understanding of these staunch requirements of being a Christian back in 1997, I naturally interpreted these comments in the light of my overriding Evangelicalism. This led me to commit to a routine of Bible reading (I actually read the Bible in a year through committing to 3-4 chapters a day!) and prayer and to stick them no matter what. Also, of course, in the very concept of "Evangelical" is the act of evangelizing. This is the mortifying aspect of being an Evangelical--that you have to actually talk to people, even total strangers if necessary, about Christ and the Good News he brings. This is where my own understanding of the suffering of a disciple began and also where it pretty much ended.
And then as I began to be rather Catholic in my approach to Christianity and what it is to be a disciple, I think what happened was a building on that foundation of grace and discipleship bequeathed to me by Bonhoeffer. Not only are all those things he speaks of required, but suddenly the reality of being a Christian comes to be much more radical, and yet, perhaps ironically, much more quiet.
This is what I mean by that. I was listening a few months ago to a lecture series by Scott Hahn, the famous recent convert to Catholicism. It was on catechetics and was rather good. But, one thing in particular that stuck with me from that series was his comment on "little mortifications." He noted that it is easy for young people especially (which I was when I read Bonhoeffer's book) to engage in extreme mortifications--fasting for several days straight, engaging in all-night prayer vigils or Eucharistic adoration, etc. But, as one looks at the lives of the saints, and begins to see just what is fully involved in embodying the virtues and the beatitudes in one's own life, a deeper view of mortification ensues: one which, argued Hahn, encompasses "little mortifications" as well as great ones.
The more I reflect on that idea, the more truth I see in it. It is certainly true that we can at times engage in those mortifications writ large (e.g., fasting, prayer vigils, reading 4 chaps of Scripture every day, talking to others about the Gospel), but how often do we couple this with little mortifications? How often do we opt to not do something that brings us great pleasure (e.g., watching a certain TV show, blogging for hours ;-), having that second cup of coffee) for the purpose of engaging in something greater? I am coming to realize that the call to dying daily in inextricably bound up with these little mortifications...and with love.
In the recent film
The Fellowship of the Ring, when the elf Arwen has taken Frodo to Rivendell in an effort to protect him from the Ring Raiths and save his life through the magic of her father Elrond, just as she crosses the river that separates the land of Rivendell from the outside Frodo begins to pass fully into the realm of the shadow. She exclaims her grief and says (in effect) "Let what grace that has been given to me pass to him [Frodo]. Let him be spared." How quickly would we say the same thing? And ought we to?
Peter Kreeft gave a tremendous lecture called
"How to Win the Culture War". (I highly recommend you give it a listen.) In the lecture, he explored the concept of sainthood as the only thing capable of genuinely fighting evil. Quoting from William Law's
Serious Call, Kreeft gives this chilling quote:
"If you will look into your own heart in utter honesty, you must admit that there is one and only one reason why you are not, even now, a saint: you do not wholly want to be."Why do I not bring upon myself more of these little mortifications? Why do I not go for the bigger ones? Why do I not look for (and I know that may sound extreme!) suffering, that others might be spared it? That it might come to me so that someone else may not have to face it. Why do I not look to show charity whenever and wherever I can? Why do I not regularly read and meditate on the Sacred Scriptures? Why do I not daily participate in the Divine Liturgy? All of these questions have the same answer, I fear: I do not wholly want to do any of these things. Partly, I want them all. But, I do not want the suffering that comes with them. I do not want to give up the liberty of doing other things when I bloody well want to, thank you.
My middle son, whose name is Truson, has a severe speech delay. He turned 4 this January and still has a vocabulary of about half a dozen words. So, with some trepidation my wife and I entered him into this public school special-ed program for children like him. He's this little guy getting on the bus everyday (it's quite a hoot to see, really), and he's therefore in a regular elementary school environment with other children all the way up to 11 years of age. That's not to say that he interacts with these older children; just that they are all in the same building. Sometimes I can't help but to think of some wayward bullies getting a hold of him when no one is looking. Doing unthinkable things to him, as he is so vulnerable and could never fight back. Rather than describe the things I imagine (which I'm sure you're grateful I'm sparing you), I only want to share with you what popped into my head almost immediately upon thinking such tragic thoughts. Know what I thought? Let whatever suffering that might come his way pass to me. Of course, every parent would quickly say such a thing--'if it were possible, let me suffer and not this helpless other, especially my own child.' But, this thought occurred to me in a deeper way. Something that perhaps I would ask God for. That I would have as an intention that I could keep ever in my heart
whenever I engage in prayer or any religious devotion.
I think I'm starting to get it. I'm starting to more fully understand love, discipleship, suffering and their interrelation.
But truth be told and to my shame, I'm not ready for that. I'm not ready to exemplify in my own life T.S. Eliot's definition of Christianity:
"A condition of complete simplicity/Costing not less than/Everything." In other words, I'm not ready to start on the path of the saints. Some of you might say, "Of course you're not. Who is? How many St. Paul's or Mother Teresa's can there be?" That's a fair point. But, in all such reasoning I cannot help believing that the only thing stopping me from fully embracing the 'cost of discipleship,' the price of giving God and others "everything," is, ultimately, me.
This seems like a haunting truth. But, I'm at a place where I
want to be haunted by it. I want to understand suffering and its intrinsic connection with love in this life until the day I fully reckon with it. I'm not there yet. But, I think I'm impugned by that fact. "He who has ears to hear, let him hear," anyone?
{Sorry for the long entry. I know you've had to suffer to get through it. ;-) This sort of thing has been burning to get out of me, and I would love any and all feedback. Would love to hear your own thoughts on suffering, love, discipleship as a great cost, etc.}
