Walking in Valleys of Darkness Read online

  Sacred Scripture

  Kainos is used also in Mark 1:27, 14:25; John 13:34; Acts 17:19; Gal 6:15; Eph 2:15; Heb 8:8; and Rev 21:1.

  Rule of Benedict

  Elsewhere Scripture says: O God, you have tested us, you have tried us as silver is tried by fire (Chapter 7, “Humility,” v. 40).

  2. Finding Courage

  I COULD HEAR THE HEAVY OAK CHAIRS SCRAPING on the floor as the rest of the monks stood up and began leaving the long oval table. I had stayed seated, eyes closed, resting my forehead on the table top, slowly shaking my head and moaning inwardly. I’d never been a risk-taker. In fact I’d always prided myself on my measured, cautious approach to life. But that night, Oct. 12, 1972, my cautious side had taken a back seat: We had just voted unanimously to open a new school in our old buildings the following year.

  Over the previous five months, since the closing of St. Benedict’s Prep, a lot had happened to our community and to me. The mere feat of surviving as a community had given us courage, and we had grown into a unified group determined to stay and live as monks in the city. So under the circumstances it was not completely unreasonable for us to try to put our school facilities and our talents to use once again and attempt to run a school. But I had my head on the table just the same.

  Once the decision had been made, the reality of the daunting challenge began to sink in. Next would come, at least for me, the onslaughts of my own timidity and fear. Over the following months and years, as I wrestled with my own fears, I would I ask myself “How can you be afraid if you really believe that God is with you?” Fortunately our mothers and fathers in the faith have left us some helpful insights into how we can confront failure, frustration, and in their case, persecution.

  You need to know that the New Testament has two different words for fear. First, there is the common Greek word for fear, phobos,3 giving us our English word “phobia,” which can sometimes refer to a fear that is wholesome and productive, such as the fear of the Lord or of someone in authority. But the kind of fear that can paralyze us and keep us from moving on to the future is better expressed by a second Greek noun, deilia,4 which conveys more the sense of “timidity” or “cowardice.” This was what I was feeling that night as I sat there with my forehead on the table in the meeting room.

  Jesus used the adjective form of this word when storm waves were threatening to swamp the boat in which the apostles were crossing the lake: “Why are you afraid [deilos], O you of little faith” (Matthew 8:26)? The connection is clear, that anyone who is timid and fearful in the face of a threat must be lacking in faith.5

  To know that our lack of faith is what is behind our worrying is not in itself very helpful or consoling, but fortunately the New Testament offers some practical suggestions for dealing successfully with our cowardice and timidity.

  One passage in the Second Letter to Timothy has been particularly helpful to me over the years: “For this reason I remind you to stir into flame the gift of God that you have through the imposition of my hands. For God did not give us a spirit of cowardice [deilia], but rather of power and love and self-control” (2 Timothy 1:6–7). Here Paul is contrasting the spirit of cowardice with three qualities of the “spirit” that can help us respond more courageously to the problems and challenges of life. Each of them—power, love, and self-control—can be a help in dealing with our own anxiety.

  The first attitude that can help us overcome the spirit of fear, according to Paul, is the “spirit of power.” Here the crucial question is, “In this situation, whose power will we automatically rely on, our own or God’s?” That night I was naturally thinking only in terms of the limited resources of our little group: our talents, our buildings, and so forth. But if we were going to count only on our own limited, feeble forces, then of course we would run into plenty of situations that would threaten to overwhelm us. But in the very next verse Paul offers an alternative to this approach: “relying on the power of God, who saved us” (2 Timothy 1:8). If the power we rely on is not our own but God’s, then everything changes, for “I can do all things in Christ, who strengthens me” (Philippians 4:13). We certainly worked hard during the next few months, most of us at jobs outside the monastery, while devoting a lot of energy to community projects and problem solving. But we were all conscious from the start that if our venture was going to succeed it would be because God had made it happen. No matter how much time and effort we spent, ultimately it would all depend on the Lord. From time to time under the pressure of trying to get things done I would forget this truth, but my brothers, through their homilies and conversations always helped me regain my perspective.

  The second characteristic that can help us to conquer cowardice is “the spirit of love.” John tells us “there is no fear in love” (1 John 4:18). A mother’s love makes her capable of heroic actions to save her child from danger even at the risk of her own life. Contrast this with the spirit of self-centeredness, which practically guarantees that everyone and everything will be seen as posing some sort of threat to us. If our small group had felt a need to be in control of everything, then we would have had to live in constant fear that events might get beyond our power, or that our plans would be foiled. But our shared sufferings and frequent meetings and informal conversations had created a bond of caring for one another, making the “spirit of love” a reality in our lives. Because of this intense sense of community, any fears about what might happen to our plans and projects were much easier to handle. I know this was certainly true for me.

  The passage from 2 Timothy offers a third quality for countering fear: “self-control.” The Greek word, which is sometimes also translated “discipline,” means literally “sound-minded.”6 If we let ourselves be controlled by our emotions so that we’re always flying off in one direction or the other, then we will be insecure, unsure of our ground, and thus afraid of what may be lurking around the next bend in the road. I remember how the senior monks were a good example to us younger, more brash, and impetuous members in those first days of planning a school. Eighty-five-year-old Father Celestine, with his heart and mind “firmly grounded in the Lord,” was never given to deilia. I used to envy him. He was always offering us words of encouragement: “Don’t worry! God is good! The Lord will take care of things.” More than once during the previous few months I’d had to borrow some of his courage because I didn’t have enough of my own.

  As I finally lifted my head from the table and pushed back my chair, the future loomed ahead of us like a wall of impenetrable fog. But over the years my brothers and I have learned a lot from Paul: “God did not give us a spirit of cowardice, but rather of power and love and self-control.” The more we accepted the gift of that spirit from the Lord, the more confidently we could walk together toward whatever future the Lord had in mind for us.

  Reflection

  Think of something you are afraid of and consider how each of the three spirits mentioned in 2 Timothy might help you deal with that particular fear: (a) relying on God’s power instead of your own; (b) loving (sharing your fear with others?); and (c) being rooted firmly in God.

  Sacred Scripture

  “Afraid” [deilos] or “fear” [deilia] appear in Wis 9:14; Sir 2:12; and 1 Macc 3:56.

  Rule of Benedict

  Do not be daunted immediately by fear and run away from the road that leads to salvation. It is bound to be narrow at the outset (Prologue v. 48).

  3. Losing Your Nerve

  “WHAT IF WE CAN’T GET ENOUGH STUDENTS to come?”

  My own unsettling question jarred me out of a fretful half-sleep. I checked my alarm clock. Two A.M.

  A month before, our monastic community had voted to reopen our inner-city school, St. Benedict’s Prep. It was at best a chancy venture, but we assumed that the Lord would somehow take care of us. It was only when I lay awake at night that the problems started attacking in packs like monsters in a nightmare: “What if we can’t raise enough money?; How can we run the thing if none of us has any experienc
e in school administration?; What if God has other plans?” Of course I always believed that God would help us, but I also knew, without ever admitting it out loud, that our project was a very risky gamble and could easily fall apart.

  I was caught between two contradictory beliefs—that the Lord would take care of us, and that the new school would fail before it ever began. Being caught in this position has, it seems, always been quite a common experience for Christians. I was happy to notice that it even happened to Saint Peter himself one night on the Sea of Galilee (Matthew 14:22-33). I learned a lot from his ordeal.

  The apostles, you remember, were out on the sea in a boat in the middle of the night. Jesus, who had remained back on shore, suddenly appeared walking toward them on the water. They were frightened, thinking they were seeing a ghost. Peter, being his usual impulsive self, spoke up, “Lord, if it is you, tell me to come to you over the water,” and Jesus invited him, “Come!” Peter immediately climbed out of the boat and began to walk on the water toward Jesus. So far so good. But when he saw how strong the wind was, Peter suddenly remembered that humans can’t walk on water, and he became terrified. He started to sink, and shouted, “Lord, save me!” Immediately Jesus stretched out his hand, caught hold of Peter and lifted him to safety. Then the Lord scolded him, “O you of little faith! Why did you doubt” (Matthew 14:31)?

  The Greek verb meaning “to doubt” is very revealing: distaz7 comes from di-, “double” and stasis, “standing.” Literally it means “to stand in two places at the same time.” When Jesus asks Peter “Why did you doubt?” he is asking literally “Why were you standing in two places at once?” His question describes Peter’s situation perfectly: Peter is thinking two contradictory things, namely that Jesus has the power to let someone walk on water, and that walking on water is physically impossible for humans, including him. Distaz also describes the struggle that was keeping me up at night. I was experiencing firsthand what the Prince of the Apostles must have felt when he tried to walk on the waves, when faith and doubt started wrestling with each other in his heart.

  I had been drafting a school philosophy, designing a curriculum, and estimating a budget for the school in the belief that our idea would work. But there I was, unable to sleep, worried and wondering about the future. I firmly believed that God was in charge and would watch over us, but I also held on just as strongly to the idea that this project was liable to come crashing down around our ears. I kept switching back and forth between the two positions, and wound up standing in two places at once: Each evening, often exhausted with the effort of planning our new school, before getting into bed I would prayerfully leave the venture in God’s hands, confident that the Almighty would take care of it, but then, in the middle of the night, I would lose my nerve and start to doubt that the Lord was really going to help. Standing spiritually in two places at once, I believed both things at the same time, and, just like poor Peter, I would panic. I would start to picture the catastrophe that was about to unfold, and begin tossing and turning, feeling alone, afraid and abandoned; then I would start to sink into the storm-tossed sea.

  I untangled myself from the covers, which had gotten twisted by all my tossing and turning, and closed my eyes in one more attempt to get some sleep. I imagined myself and my brother Benedictines in an open boat that was being engulfed by towering waves in the middle of the night. Then I imagined Jesus walking toward us on the angry-looking waves. He looked a lot like a ghost. I said, “Lord, if it is you, tell me to come to you over the water.” And he invited me, “Come!”

  Just as I stepped out onto the water I finally fell asleep.

  Reflection

  1. When are you most likely to doubt God and “stand in two places?” When you are standing in two places, how does it feel? How do you act?

  2. Using yet a different word for “doubt,” James 1:6 reads: “Ask in faith, not doubting, for the one who doubts is like a wave of the sea that is driven and tossed about by the wind.” Have you ever experienced being tossed around by the winds of doubt in a situation? If so, were you able to overcome those feelings eventually? If so, how?

  Sacred Scripture

  Distaz appears in an interesting context in Matt 28:17.

  Another more common word for “doubt” also uses the root di-, “two.” The adjective dipsuchos, “doubting, undecided,” comes from di-, “double” + psuche, “heart, mind,” and involves literally “being of two minds”; it is found in James 1:8 and 4:8.

  Rule of Benedict

  Place your hope in God alone (Chapter 4, “The Tools for Good Works,” v. 41).

  4. Being a Paraclete

  THE SPRING SUNSHINE WAS BEAMING BRIGHTLY through the stained-glass windows of the church of Our Lady of the Most Blessed Sacrament, bathing the congregation and me in a multicolored glow—just right for Pentecost Sunday, 1972. I enjoyed exercising my ministry as a priest, celebrating mass here every Sunday, especially because this had been my parish church as a child. Sitting in the presider’s chair on an elevated platform, I could see the entire church and all its familiar details: the wooden roof beams, the Stations of the Cross on the walls, the scenes in the stained-glass windows.

  When the organ began playing the Offertory hymn, I started singing the familiar tune from memory, “Come Holy Ghost, Creator Blest. . . .” I was praying extra hard for the gift of the Spirit that morning because our monastic community was now actually writing out a curriculum for our proposed school, and I was the one in charge of putting together the course of studies. I swallowed hard at the thought, as I watched the ushers start to take up the collection using the same long-handled wicker baskets they used when I was sitting in those seats.

  I studied the people in the pews. There were some familiar faces, most of them starting to show the passage of the years. I recognized one woman, though, who hadn’t changed very much since my childhood; she had her six-year-old grandson beside her. I’d heard that she was raising him because his parents had gotten divorced and neither of them wanted the child. Then there were the more recent parishioners, African-Americans and folks from the Caribbean, many with children of different ages.

  I was still singing the hymn from memory when we began the second verse “O Paraclete, to thee we cry. . . .” Oops! The congregation had just sung something different! What was it, “O Comforter, to thee we cry. . . “ The hymn continued, leaving me behind to think about the difference between calling on the Holy Spirit as “Comforter” instead of as “Paraclete.”

  Even if its meaning is pretty complex, the word “Paraclete” is rich with theological insight. It comes from parakletos,8 originally a legal term in classical Greek referring to someone literally “called to stand beside” an accused person and act as an ally and legal advisor.9 As a result of these varied meanings, parakltos offers many insights into how the Holy Spirit, the “Paraclete,” works in our everyday lives. During his Last Supper discourses Jesus describes some of the roles of the Paraclete:10 “The Paraclete, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you everything, and remind you of all that I have said to you” (John 14:26). “When the Paraclete comes, whom I will send to you from the Father, the Spirit of truth who comes from the Father, he will testify on my behalf” (John 15:26).

  If Jesus is sending us the Paraclete to be a dynamic force in our lives, teaching, reminding, and witnessing, then the translation of parakltos as “comforter” is a poor and misleading one. When John Wycliffe first translated it as “Comforter” in his English translation of the Bible in 1382, the verb “to comfort” still had its original Latin meaning based on the adjective fortis, “strong.” It meant “to give strength,” as a general might do for his troops before sending them into battle. Since then many translators have held on to Wycliffe’s translation of parakltos even though the meaning of the English “comforter” has changed radically. The Paraclete will come as “comforter” only in the original sense, to give us courage and strengthen us for the struggles of life, to h
elp us to keep fighting our daily battles without losing heart.11

  I was still thinking about the wonderful richness of “paraclete” as I stood and began walking down the steps from the presider’s chair and past the altar to receive the gifts being brought in the Offertory procession that had already started towards me down the long center aisle. As I walked I thought of a beautiful passage in which paraklesis is used half a dozen times:12 “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the merciful Father and the God who gives us every possible encouragement; he supports us in every hardship, so that we are able to come to the support of others, in every hardship of theirs because of the encouragement that we ourselves receive from God” (2 Corinthians 1:3-4). The point of the passage is clear: Since we have received the gift of the Paraclete, the Lord is calling us to pass on that gift to others by encouraging and helping our brothers and sisters who may need our help. We are to be paracletes for one another.

  As I stood waiting for the procession to arrive, I looked out over the congregation as I usually did. To my left I noticed a woman whose husband had died a few months before; sitting beside her, one on each side, were her two longtime friends—they had now truly become paracletes for her, giving her strength and helping her through her ordeal. In the pew behind them was the grandmother with her six-year old grandson whom she was now raising—a grandmother turned paraclete. Just then the pastor, Father Denman, walked in the rear door of the church. He was still good friends with my brother Bob from ten years ago when Bob had been a member of the parish Catholic Youth Organization. Fr. Denman had been a real help to so many young people over the years. And he’d now taken me, a young priest, under his wing, offering advice and sharing good ideas. Just this morning he’d given me my own copy of a little book for the Rite of Reconciliation. I thought to myself as I watched him walk down the side aisle, “He must truly enjoy being a paraclete.”