On close inspection, so much of our indecisiveness concerning life’s purpose is little more than a variation on the minister’s so-called theological doubts. Ultimately it is fear that holds us back, and we avoid this fear through rationalization. We are afraid that if we ever did commit to emulating the Brother Johns of the world that we would merely end up like the Presbyterian minister: pulled apart between the poles of how we are living and how we ought to live and unable to look away. We are afraid that if we ever did venture out we would find ourselves with the worst of both worlds. On one hand we would learn too much about life to return to our comfortable illusions, and on the other we would learn too much about ourselves to hope for success.
However, in our fear we forget the miraculous.
This fear of the change we need to make in our lives reminds me of an old friend who, though in his thirties and married for some time, was constantly fighting with his wife over her desire to have a baby. Every time he thought of changing into a father the walls closed in. Fatherhood, he thought, was nothing more than dirty diapers, stacks of bills, sleepless nights, and doting in-laws in every spare bed and couch. Fatherhood meant an end to spontaneous weekends and evenings with the guys. It also meant trading in his sports car for a mini-van and a bigger life insurance policy. It was all so overwhelming.
Then one day he gave in. He set his jaw and made the decision to transform himself from a man into a father. He took the chance that he would find himself with all the responsibility of fatherhood and with none of its compensations. Then on another day, his wife handed him his newborn boy.
Unexpectedly an inner alchemy began, and something came over him from a direction he didn’t know existed. He melted and magically the baby gave birth to a father. He was so full of love for this child that he didn’t know what to do with himself. While he once feared losing sleep he began checking his baby so often that the baby lost sleep. He found himself full of boundless gratitude for his re-birth, regret for the fool he was, and compassion for single friends who simply couldn’t understand. He called it a miracle.
Similarly we must take a chance and act on faith. We must give in, make the commitment, and be willing to pay the price. We must commit to becoming one with that passive spark of divinity longing for actuality that Thorton Wilder in Our Town describes so well.
Now there are some things we all know but we don’t take’m out and
look at’m very often. We all know that something is eternal…everybody knows in their
bones that something is eternal and that something has to do with human beings.
All the greatest people ever lived have been telling us that for five thousand years
and yet you’d be surprised how people are always losing hold of it.
There’s something way down deep that’s eternal about every human being.
We must commit to facing our doubts, limitations, and self-contradictions head on while holding on to this voice of eternity. This eternal voice is urging us to take a chance on an unknown outcome in much the same way that nature’s voice urged my friend to take a chance on a new life. And we must fight distraction, futility, rationalization and fatigue at every step.
From this side of the chasm we may react with dismay at all the work involved in never again “losing hold of it.” From this side it may be hard to imagine that just as changing a diaper can be magically transformed from drudgery to an effortless privilege, so can standing outside in the rain for others. But to experience the magic of this transformation we must put aside these doubts. We must resolve to act decisively while trusting in the aid of something we don’t understand and can never predict. We must open ourselves up to the miraculous, to grace.
Working toward this miraculous transformation, re-birth, or inner alchemy is the true purpose of life. This transformation is what the West calls “conversion” and the East “enlightenment,” and is the fruit of our commitment to the authentically purposeful life that Father Christian described so well. It is this transformation that turns work into effortless privilege, makes the unnatural values of Brother John second nature, and proves that the answer to the monk’s last prayer each night at Compline for a “restful night and a peaceful death” is eternally ours. And when we’re ready Brother John will be waiting for us eager to share this miraculous umbrella. Like him we will be utterly grateful for who we have become, remorseful for who we were, and compassionate towards those who do not understand.
I am not a monk, but I spend enough time at Mepkin Abbey that Father Feliciano introduced me to a visitor recently and followed it with, “He’s always here.” I am often asked why I go. I go because Brother John loves God so much he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He doesn’t know what to do with himself so he stands outside on a cold Christmas night with an umbrella waiting. Waiting to offer us some protection and human comfort on our long journey home.
