Weavings

Reprinted from Weavings: A Journal of the Christian Spiritual Life, Vol. XIX, No. 1 (January/February 2004. Used by permission of the author.

Epiphany—this is the season of growing light. The days lengthen, slowly and often imperceptibly. In step with nature, the church marks this as the season of the manifestation of Christ’s light in the world. As we absorb and reflect that light, we manifest and nurture life lived in faithfulness and fullness. But how do we do this? How do we embrace epiphany and become light bearers each day? One of the ways I’ve found in my own life is to acknowledge, honor, and cultivate my experiences of deep desire and holy satisfaction. Doing so, however, is usually easier said than done. I must continually look for and open myself to the subtle and not-so-subtle manifestations of the Holy. I must “come and see,” as Jesus says to John’s disciples (John 1:39) where the Holy lives in my midst. ¹

WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING FOR?: DESIRE AND SATISFACTION

When Jesus encounters John’s disciples, he asks, “What are you looking for?” (John 1:38). If Jesus asked me that question, I’d probably stammer an inarticulate but honest, “I don’t know.” Although that response may be symptomatic of midlife crisis, for me it is also a sign of deep desire—a desire to reach beyond who and what I am to what is yet to be. At the same time, my “I don’t know” challenges me to acknowledge and embrace what brings about holy, or true, satisfaction in my life now—those people, places, and things that sustain, delight, and encourage me but which I often take for granted.

In many ways, Jesus’ invitation to John’s disciples to “come and see” is an invitation into desire and satisfaction—those manifestations of the reign of God that draw us more deeply into life and into relationship with the Holy. Jesus invites us all into the realm of God—into both its being and its becoming. To “come and see” challenges us to be fully present now even as we are fully open to God’s future.

Although the Bible does not recount this, I suspect the question “What are you looking for?” was also on the lips of Herod when he met with the Magi, who had left their homes to seek the one whose star they had seen in the east. They seek “the child who has been born king of the Jews,” for they have, they tell Herod, “observed his star at its rising, and have come to pay him homage” (Matt. 2:2).

But manifestations of the Holy—as was true for the Magi as they followed the star—can involve long and uncertain journeys. We find ourselves leaving behind what is safe and familiar and seeking who-knows-what. Our elation at seeing the true star and our excitement as the journey begins often wane as the starlight grows dim in the stark light of day and the hardships of travel. And even when we encounter an undeniable manifestation of the Holy, as the Magi did when they found the Christ child in the manger, our journey does not end.

This journey of life and light is seldom clear—at least that’s often the case for me. Most of the time, my path is circuitous, and the movement of the Spirit is subtle and difficult to discern. Occasionally I experience epiphanies, or moments of truth, that come with startling clarity, only to be followed by years of discovering and working through their implications as well as gathering up the courage to act faithfully on them. I’m right in the middle of that courage-gathering now as I uneasily move from certainty into uncertainty in my professional life, trying to trust Jesus’ invitation to “come and see.” Let me give you a little background to put my current dilemma into context.

Many years ago, a friend asked what I most wanted to do in life, and immediately I blurted out, “To create!” My response startled me with its clarity and truth. I didn’t even know that’s what I wanted. What that “to create” meant I didn’t exactly know, and today I’m still trying to live into and out of that truth—just as the Magi must have done when they returned home after finding the Christ child. When I mentioned to my friend, in that same conversation, that I wanted to write but doubted my ability to do it, she said, “Sometimes it’s harder to do what we don’t know we can do.” Another truth—this one harder to accept than the first. If I haven’t figured out anything else in life, I have learned that manifestations of the Holy aren’t always warm, fuzzy, or welcome. Frequently they cut me to the core, simultaneously revealing my deepest desires and fears, my greatest strengths and weaknesses. Truth, I’ve found, while offering profound clarity, direction, and affirmation, can also be an extremely disturbing life companion.

More recently the life truths that emerged in that conversation long ago were joined by yet another more challenging and unsettling truth. One winter day as I walked by a bare yet gracious old cottonwood, a voice deep within said, “Sometimes you have to lose everything in order to do what you want to do.” Again, I didn’t know—and wasn’t sure I wanted to know—what that truth entailed.

The power of these epiphanies has been growing lately, pushing me to let go of the security of my work as an editor in order to complete a dramatic musical. It is a project I’ve been working on for nearly five years around the edges of my editorial and other writing commitments. Even now as I write about this, I feel vulnerable. Although I feel compelled to follow my deep desire to complete this play and the music to go with it, I can’t help but feel I am crazy to do so. Despite my love of theater, I have no formal theater education. Despite my love of music, my preparation in music is woefully inadequate. I was forty before I began to study piano, and even older before I studied theory and composition. And yet, it’s as if I’m being asked to “come and see” where God might be in this, to trust that in my weakness, somehow power may be made perfect (see 2 Cor. 12:9). I’m also being asked to discern between the unholy and holy manifesta­ tions of desire and satisfaction, and to turn away from what blocks me from the Holy.

ROOTED IN FEAR: UNHOLY MANIFESTATIONS OF DESIRE AND SATISFACTION

Unholy, or negative, manifestations of desire thrive in our culture. Advertising promotes blatant materialism, greed, and attitudes of I-deserve-it and whatever-I­want-I-get. It’s easy for me to point out these destructive forms of desire. It’s much harder for me to recognize and acknowledge the negative manifestations of desire within me—the many ways in which I am self-centered rather than Spirit-centered. Particularly difficult to admit are the ways I let my fears squelch the call to live faithfully and to use my gifts for the good of the larger community of faith and world. I claim, for example, that I must contribute to the family finances, even though I know, at least at this time, that my income is not crucial to our survival. I assert that I don’t want to burden my husband, but in reality I fear being financially dependent. I maintain that one of the purposes and gifts of marriage is to help each other become most deeply who each is called to be, but I struggle to accept the love manifest in my husband’s desire for me to fully develop and use my gifts. Perhaps more destructively, I choose to stay with work I can do because I doubt my ability to do what I long to do and perhaps even am called to do. This reveals a lack of trust not only in myself and in my husband but also, more crucially, in my God. As I dress my distrust, my unholy desire for control and predictability, in the clothes of responsibility and concern for family, I shut out joy and possibility, shoving them into the dark recesses of my life closet. In doing so, am I also shutting out God?

At the root of this negative, destructive desire for control and predictability is fear—in particular, a fear of nothingness or worthlessness. I shore up my own worth by my list of clients, my long hours, and my paychecks. If I control my work I am something, I am someone. If I control nothing—and true creativity is never controlled, it is gift—I fear that I will be perceived as nothing, particularly in a society where income, professional accomplishments, and feverish workaholism determine stature, status, and worth. If l finish the musical, but nothing comes of it—it is never produced, is poorly received, or is never financially remunerative—will I feel that I have done what I’ve been called to do? In short, can I face being faithful without being successful? Can I trust that God can work through anything, even my failure?

The negative manifestations of satisfaction are often more subtle than those of unholy desire. On the surface, they may appear as contentment or an easygoing manner when in reality apathy and stagnation reign. I may stay with the work I’ve done for years because it’s familiar and I’m considered good at what I do, even as it drains my creative energy and erodes any semblance of courage I once may have had to follow my deepest desire. I become self­absorbed and complain about what the work is doing to me, but can’t see or admit what I’m doing to me—or more accurately, what I’m allowing my fear to do to me. I cover up my timidity with false altruism, claiming that I can’t let my clients down. In doing that, however, do I let both myself and God down? Do I avoid what I am to do for the larger community simply because I can’t see where it will all lead? Through my actions and inaction, I proclaim that certainty is better than uncertainty, stagnation is better than change. I refuse to venture into the unknown, to take risks without knowing what the results will be. I choose job over joy, fear and familiarity over faithfulness.

ROOTED IN LOVE: HOLY MANIFESTATIONS OF DESIRE AND SATISFACTION

I know those negative manifestations of desire and satisfaction well. I’ve lived by them and others like them much of my life. But even as I’ve settled into them, the Spirit continues to unsettle me and offer me experiences of deep desire and holy satisfaction. At times, I willingly open myself to this grace. Other times, the Spirit works in spite of me. One of my continual challenges—I learned early that any desire I had was wrong—is to recognize that when I desire to use the gifts God has given me, I am not being selfish. Those gifts—some of which I may not even recognize—may bring me deep joy and holy satisfaction, a wonderful grace. But those gifts have not been given simply for my own pleasure or edification; they have been given for the good of all, even if I can’t imagine how.

But what distinguishes holy desire and satisfaction from the unholy? Two clues I’ve come to recognize are joy and what researcher Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi calls flow, “the state in which people are so involved in an activity that nothing else seems to matter; the experience itself is so enjoyable that people will do it even at great cost, for the sheer sake of doing it.” For me, flow—a very focused time of work—is often followed by joy, an experience of the wonder of creation: a new song, a fresh musical idea, a surprising insight into a character, or simply the ever-amazing experience of something emerging from nothing. My husband smiles knowingly when he gets home from work and I tell him that I started my day by working on the musical. My plan, I say, had been to work for an hour before I turned to my “real” (i.e., paying) work. Then with a sheepish grin, I add, “But the hour turned into three!” This kind of desire is rooted, I believe, in God and in love. In a very concrete way, I am experiencing that God is love.

Just as the Magi journeyed beyond the world they knew, deep desire rooted in love compels us to seek something beyond ourselves, our fears, and our excuses. God continually draws us on, deeper into areas where we are uneasy, uncertain, and lack confidence. God asks us to grow, to give, to be grace and light in the world. God challenges us to push the boundaries of self and world from what is to what can be. We trust that, as we do this, God will be our guide.

At the same time, holy satisfaction draws us more deeply into the “at-home-ness,” or immanence, of God. I can’t help but think that the Magi experienced home in a new and more satisfying way because of their encounter with the Holy. Holy satisfaction savors what is—the slant of the morning sun on a newly mown field of alfalfa, the trill of a red-winged blackbird, the refreshing taste of a ripe orange. We trust that God provides and is ever present. Instead of moving toward God, we rest in God. We recognize that what we have, are, and do is enough. It is gift. God holds us within the boundaries of grace.

How do I respond to the desire to do more, be more, and have more, to be most fully the one God calls me to be? At the same time, how do I let go of all the possible things that I might do and have, and be satisfied with who, what, and where I am right now? In short, how do I balance moving toward God and being in God? It is this dynamic tension that animates our faith and our faithfulness. As I ask, “Where, God, do you live?” I am sustained by the experiences and epiphanies of God here and now as well as drawn toward epiphanies yet to come.

One of the mysteries of faith is that God is both transcendent (ever beyond us) and immanent (present with and within us). By honoring our deep desires and holy satisfactions, we enter into that mystery and into the realm of God.

1 All Scripture references are to the New Revised Standard Version Bible unless otherwise indicated.
2 Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience-Steps toward Enhancing the Quality of Life (New York: HarperCollins, 1990), 4.