Have you ever wondered what the world, and our lives in it, would be like if Adam and Eve had admitted to eating the forbidden fruit? If they hadn’t hidden from God and then, once confronted, blamed everyone else instead? What if they had simply come humbly before God, acknowledged their sin, and sincerely apologized?
I’ve often wondered about that while reflecting on the account of the Fall in the Book of Genesis. Certainly, the world—and we in it—would still be in a fallen state. The disobedience of our first parents disrupted the harmonious relationship they had at first enjoyed with God, one another, and with all of creation. We would still be in need, certainly, of redemption possible only in a Savior, Jesus Christ. Humanity would still be broken.
However, I can’t help but speculate if perhaps we wouldn’t be as broken as we are today, if Adam and Eve had immediately confessed and repented of their wrongdoing. If they had been transparent enough to stand naked before God’s merciful gaze, warts and all. Perhaps, if they had done that, the punishment for the sin we inherited wouldn’t have been quite as harsh and difficult as we experience it today.
Perhaps. But that is not what happened, obviously. To refresh our memories, let’s revisit the passage from Genesis (3:7-13) which picks up immediately after Adam and Eve had disobeyed God by eating of the forbidden fruit:
.. and they knew that they
were naked; and they sewed fig leaves together and made loincloths for
themselves. They heard the sound of the Lord God walking in the
garden at the time of the evening breeze, and the man and his wife hid
themselves from the presence of the Lord God among the trees of the
garden. But the Lord God called to the man, and said to him, “Where
are you?” He said, “I heard the sound of you in the garden, and I was
afraid, because I was naked; and I hid myself.” He said, “Who told you
that you were naked? Have you eaten from the tree of which I commanded you not
to eat?” The man said, “The woman whom you gave to be with me, she gave me
fruit from the tree, and I ate.” Then the Lord God said to the
woman, “What is this that you have done?” The woman said, “The serpent tricked
me, and I ate.”
In these six verses from ancient history, it’s
not difficult at all to see the state of modern-day humanity. First, Adam and
Eve try to hide from God. When they are called out, they are fearful—not
because they have sinned, but because they are exposed. When asked directly if
they had disobeyed God, the man does not take any responsibility, blaming
everyone but himself—even God. “The woman
whom you gave to be with me, she gave me fruit…” Not my fault, he says. She gave it to me. Besides, she wouldn’t even be
here if it weren’t for you. That’s basically what he says! When God turns
to question the woman, she also does not take any responsibility. I was tricked into it by the serpent,
she says. Not my fault.
There is no accountability in this scene, no
transparency before God and one another. Our relationships with God, creation,
and one another have not been the same since. Besides the initial and
long-lasting rejection of God through human pride, reverberating along the same
fault lines are also cover-up, deceit, denial, and finger-pointing.
As Adam and Eve demonstrated, this lack of
accountability or transparency, this blame-shifting, is fundamental to our
human brokenness, and it is present all around us in today’s world. We see it
every day in the news, in politics, in the self-righteous rage that often seems
to fuel Twitter and other social media platforms. Sometimes, it seems that everyone
is pretending to be someone they’re not, doing things they themselves condemn,
protecting themselves at all costs, or blaming everybody but themselves. Unfortunately,
and perhaps most shamefully, we also see
this behavior among leaders in the Church, harming and scandalizing those whom
they are commanded by Christ to inspire, guide, and assist.
No human being, no institution is immune from
this tendency. We are all confronted with the constant challenge of resisting
it by intentionally leading humble, transparent lives in which we hold
ourselves accountable to God and one another, relying on divine grace and
mercy. God is constantly calling out to each one of us: “Where are you?”
Our natural tendency as a result of Adam and
Eve’s original sin is to hide from God, to deny any culpability, and to place
the blame anywhere but on ourselves. What we too often witness in the world
around us every day is the scene related by Jesus in his parable of the
Pharisee and the tax collector in the Gospel of Luke (18:9-14):
Jesus addressed this parable to those who were convinced of their own righteousness and despised everyone else. “Two people went up to the temple area to pray; one was a Pharisee and the
other was a tax collector.
The Pharisee took up his position and spoke this prayer to himself, ‘O God, I
thank you that I am not like the rest of humanity—greedy, dishonest,
adulterous—or even like this tax collector.
I fast twice a week, and I pay tithes on my whole income.’ But the tax collector stood off
at a distance and would not even raise his eyes to heaven but beat his breast
and prayed, ‘O God, be merciful to me a sinner.’
Keep in mind here the historical context. In
Jesus’ time, the Pharisees were learned religious leaders—the ones the Jewish
faithful looked to for guidance and instruction. They were generally considered
righteous people. Tax collectors, on the other hand, were known sinners—greedy,
dishonest people who could not be trusted. Yet Jesus tells us that the tax
collector in this parable is the transparent one, because he humbles himself
before God. He acknowledges who he is, and his need for God’s grace and mercy.
The Pharisee in the story, however, is portrayed as non-transparent. Like Adam
and Eve, he hides his true self from God by denying any sinfulness of his own,
instead pointing a finger at the tax collector. He is a self-righteous
hypocrite, a term Jesus often uses to describe the Pharisees.
The Greek word for “hypocrite” means an actor,
someone playing a part or pretending to be what one is not. Hypocrites are
people who say one thing to present themselves in the best possible light, but
actually do something quite different. They are not the people they appear to
be. They are hiding behind a false front or mask. Often, they lead double
lives.
We see hypocritical behavior all around us
today—as we’ve said, it is present every day in the news, in politics, in
social media, and regrettably, in the Church. There seems to be very little
personal accountability today—in either a religious or strictly moral sense.
However, lest we judge others too harshly, let
us take to heart another of Jesus’ teachings—namely, that we should concentrate
on removing the wooden beam from our own
eye before attempting to remove the splinter from another’s (cf. Matthew
7:1-5).
While we may not be in the headlines, and are (hopefully) not engaging in
criminal behavior, the fact is that in one way or another, to one degree or
another, we all struggle daily with genuine transparency in our ordinary lives.
How often do we truly allow ourselves to
be held accountable for our failings and shortcomings without denying or
minimizing them, or without projecting the blame onto someone or something else?
In our day-to-day lives, do we speak and act with genuine sincerity, humility,
and honesty—or do we put on some type of mask in order to “save face,” as the
saying goes? Do we present our true selves—weak and vulnerable as they may
be—in response to God’s constant call to each one of us: “Where are you?” Or, do
we hide—from God and one another? Are we the same person—acting in the same
way—regardless of whether we are with others or alone?
Author and journalist Judith Valente, in
her book How to Live, illustrates one
instance of what non-transparency may look like with an anecdote from her own
life. She writes: “I am one of those people who go around trying to camouflage
a host of insecurities with various emotional face powders. I must be pretty
good at it. People often comment after they get to know me that they found me
intimidating at first. This is laughable to me, since I am a breathing, walking
pack of anxieties” (p. 146).
She relates how this “false self” of
hers—the intimidating one—sometimes gets the best of her when she feels that one
those deep-seated insecurities has been provoked. Once, she says, while working
for the Wall Street Journal’s Chicago
bureau, she boarded a city bus and casually flashed her monthly rider’s pass
(p.55-57). Apparently, the driver did not see it. As she took her seat near the
front of the bus, she began reading a book, and the driver said, “Hey Miss, you
didn’t pay your fare.”
At first, she thought he was speaking to
somebody else, so she just kept reading.
“Hey you,” the driver said, glaring at
her in the rear-view mirror.
“Are you speaking to me?” she asked.
“Yeah, you,” he said.
She told him that she had shown her pass, and suggested that
perhaps he didn’t see it because he was wearing sunglasses.
“No, you didn’t,” he insisted. As he
continued to rant at her for attempting to ride without paying the fare, she sat
fuming, believing him to be disrespecting her. She would not, she thought, give
him the satisfaction of getting up and displaying her pass again, because in
her mind at that moment, that would be acknowledging she hadn’t shown it in the
first place.
Finally, she angrily rose and got off
the bus, saying to the driver loud enough for all to hear: “If you knew who you
were talking to, sir, you wouldn’t be so rude.”
In her book, she writes that she didn’t
know what she meant by that, and realized afterward that it was a ridiculous
and inappropriate thing to say from a Christian perspective. But in that
moment, her wounded sense of pride had gotten the better of her.
It didn’t take long for someone to bring
her down to earth. As she got off the bus, one of the passengers yelled out,
“Hey, lady. If you’re such a big shot, how come you’re riding the bus?”
Humiliated, she realizes now that the
moment was one of grace. It showed her who she often pretends to be because of her deep-seated insecurities, and who she
really is. She writes: “A little
humility on my part would have gone a long way that day.”
Her recollection of this incident has
served as a helpful reminder in her life as she strives to be transparent
before God and others—the person she is really called to be in Christ. And she
acknowledges she’s not there yet—which, in itself, is an act of humility and
transparency.
Perhaps you are able to recall similar
lessons in your own life. It is important to examine ourselves regularly, to
constantly question our motives, and to reflect upon what really lies at the
root of our acting, speaking, or feeling a certain way— so that our false
selves may gradually be stripped away and our true selves emerge more fully in
the light of Christ. The goal is to be authentic. In the end, that is all God
really asks of us, but it takes our cooperation with his grace.
This is precisely what Jesus is talking
about in the gospels when he says: “If any want to become my followers, let
them deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me. For those who
want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake
will save it” (Luke 9:23-24; cf. Matt 16:24-25, Mark 8:34-35).
Reflecting upon this, the Trappist monk
Thomas Merton wrote: “In order to become one’s true self, the false self must
die … [This involves] a deepening of the new life, a continuous rebirth, in
which the exterior and superficial life of the ego is discarded like an old
snakeskin, and the mysterious, invisible self of the Spirit becomes more
present and more active.” (The New Man,
Love and Living)
Again, God is continually saying to each
of us, “Where are you? The real
you—the person I created you to be. I know who you are. Don’t hide from me.
Don’t be afraid. The truth will set you free” (cf. John 8:32).
When we respond to this call, and are
truly authentic and transparent, we allow God and others to see us as we really
are—just as the tax collector in Jesus’ parable. We don’t appear or pretend to
be someone we’re not. We take responsibility for our actions, whatever the
consequences, and learn from such experiences. We are honest with God, with
ourselves, and with others in appropriate fashion. We acknowledge our faults, seek
forgiveness, and if necessary, make restitution. With the humility and mercy
that only God can provide, we forgive others their faults and transgressions—for
Jesus tells us that it is only by that
measure that we ourselves will be forgiven by God. And, because we all have
blind spots that will remain with us to our dying day, we pray in the words of
Psalm 19: “[Lord], who can detect all his errors? From hidden faults acquit
me.”
This journey toward transparency,
obviously, is not completed overnight. It may literally take a lifetime. However,
it is one we all need to embark upon. But how, exactly? What practical steps
does one take?
This is an area where Benedictine
spirituality can be particularly helpful, and has been for centuries. The Rule of St. Benedict is filled with
practical guidelines for striving to live a life of transparency, humility, and
accountability before God and others. Moreover, it is rooted in the earlier monastic
tradition of the Desert Elders, who encouraged their followers to reveal their
thoughts, struggles, and failings. Doing so, they insisted, exposes malevolent
forces to the light of Christ, who robs them of their power over us so that
God’s grace can take hold.
For example, in Chapter 4 (:50) of the Rule, Benedict tells his monks: “As soon
as wrongful thoughts come into your heart, dash them against Christ and
disclose them to your spiritual father.”
Benedict is not talking about
sacramental confession here. Obviously, that is also good and absolutely necessary
to the Christian spiritual life—it is through the sacrament that we seek pardon
for our sins, obtain absolution, and reconcile with God and the Church.
However, what Benedict is referring to
is more akin to spiritual direction, wherein one freely and openly reveals his
or her innermost thoughts and spiritual struggles—which may or may not involve the
actual commission of sin. It goes deeper than sacramental confession, and is
helpful as a tool to complement the sacrament. Ideally, one participates in
both.
The Church requires all Catholics to go
to confession at least once a year, and to do so before receiving Holy
Communion if one is aware of having committed a mortal sin. In the monastery at
Saint Meinrad, all monks are also
required to meet regularly with a spiritual director. In 2011, Pope Benedict
XVI said all Christians should have a spiritual director in order to avoid
self-deception, realize the limits of their own understanding, and grow in
their relationship with Christ. So, this is something we can all do—whether a
monk or not.
In the absence of a spiritual director,
the next best thing would be to have at least one person in your life with whom you can—and will—share everything
you are feeling, thinking, or going through—whether it’s a spouse or a best
friend. This needs to be someone with whom you can be completely honest, and from
whom you will accept honest feedback and constructive criticism.
Another practice from the Rule of St. Benedict that aids in the
journey toward transparency is one that you may have witnessed during visits to
the Archabbey Church at Saint Meinrad. Have you seen a monk kneel in front of
the ambo (or lectern) after Vespers, or one of the other offices, as the rest
of the monks process out of the church? Doing so, the monk is acknowledging
before everyone that he made a mistake or disrupted the ordinary flow of the
office in some way—such as a cantor’s intoning the wrong antiphon. This
practice is addressed in Chapter 45 of the Rule,
where St. Benedict writes: “Should anyone make a mistake in a psalm,
responsory, refrain or reading, he must make satisfaction there before all.”
This is not a punishment, but rather a
practical way of being transparent while living in community. It is a way of
acknowledging to everyone: “Sorry, I messed up.” Then, the entire matter is
forgotten.
We have other such practices in the
monastery which are not as public. In Chapter 46, St. Benedict says that anyone
who commits a fault during work or other community exercises—by breaking
something, for example, or speaking during periods of silence, or missing
Morning Office by oversleeping—should “come before the abbot and community of
his own accord, admit his fault and make satisfaction.” We normally call this
“saying culpa.” Practically speaking,
it would be difficult to do this before the entire community every time someone
committed some type of fault (otherwise,
that’s all we would be doing all day long!). Instead, what we typically do
is go to the Prior and admit our fault. He then usually gives a small penance,
or offers some counsel if it is a more serious offense.
In addition, several times a year at
Saint Meinrad, we monks hold what is called a “Chapter of Faults.” During this
meeting, the entire community gathers in the Chapter Room, and one by one, we
each acknowledge before everyone some chronic fault we know that we struggle
with, and which we realize annoys or inconveniences others. It’s usually
something of which everyone else in the room is already aware. It’s simply each
monk’s way of saying, “I know I do this, and that it irritates some of you. I’m
sorry. Please pray for me.”
It should be noted that in each of these
cases, we’re not talking about serious
sins or revealing matters of the conscience that should only be addressed
during spiritual direction, confession, or in a private conversation. What is
being acknowledged in these instances is some specific, public behavior which openly affects others in a
community setting. For example, during the Chapter of Faults, a monk may say
something like, “For my impatience and for my tardiness at Office, I ask you to
pray for me.” Then the rest of the community responds: “Lord, have mercy.”
All of these practices are ways of prayerfully
striving for transparency in the monastery, allowing ourselves to be held
accountable by others in the community, and exercising true humility. They are
tools to help us in our monastic journey, which is rooted in conversion of life.
It behooves all Christians to apply the
same principles in their own circumstances—whether married or single, in family
life, in one’s parish, workplace, school, or other relational settings. It is
quite counter-cultural, and is often not easy (especially at first), but it is
amazing what kind of positive effect it can have on any community when just one
person openly acknowledges a public fault or failing, and apologizes for it. It
is simply a way of saying: “Sorry, that’s on me.”
Think how about how rare (unfortunately)
that is today, when the inclination is so often to act like Adam and
Eve—denying any responsibility and blaming someone or something else.
Again, we’re talking here about specific, public behavior here—not
serious sins or matters of conscience. Still, whether it’s a relatively minor
offense or a serious sin, the important thing is that there is a need—in the appropriate time,
manner, and place—to acknowledge our faults and failings, apologize, and, if
necessary, make restitution. Hiding our transgressions, denying responsibility,
or shifting the blame only creates further disharmony and leads us away from
God.
Undergirding this entire effort to be
more transparent, of course, is prayer. Without God we can do nothing.
Ultimately, it is God upon whom we rely, and even prayer is never our own
doing. It is a response to God’s calling out to us as he did to Adam and Eve:
“Where are you?”
Let us pray always for the humility that
allows us to answer that call, to honestly stand before God with a knowledge
and appreciation for ourselves as we really are—weak and sinful human beings in
dire need of the mercy that God, in his superabundant love for all persons, is
only too willing to bestow (cf. Cloud of
Unknowing).
In my opinion, Psalm 138 is the perfect
prayer for one seeking to be more transparent before God and others. The psalm
is fairly lengthy, but it begins with these familiar verses:
O Lord, you
search me and you know me,
you know my resting and my rising,
you discern my purpose from afar.
you know my resting and my rising,
you discern my purpose from afar.
And it ends with these lines:
O search me, God, and know my heart,
O test me and know my thoughts.
See that I follow not the wrong path
and lead me in the path of life eternal.
O test me and know my thoughts.
See that I follow not the wrong path
and lead me in the path of life eternal.
In terms of public prayer, there may be
nothing as straightforward as the Confiteor,
which we monks say every night after the examination of conscience during
Compline. To me, it’s a beautiful witness when the faithful pray those words
together and mean every single one of them. It’s a public act of transparency, just
as the tax collector in Jesus’ parable demonstrated. So, let us pray:
I confess
to almighty God and to you,
my brothers and sisters,
that I have greatly sinned,
in my thoughts and in my words,
in what I have done,
and in what I have failed to do,
through my fault,
through my fault,
through my most grievous fault;
therefore I ask blessed Mary ever-Virgin,
all the angels and saints,
and you, my brothers and sisters,
to pray for me to the Lord our God.
to almighty God and to you,
my brothers and sisters,
that I have greatly sinned,
in my thoughts and in my words,
in what I have done,
and in what I have failed to do,
through my fault,
through my fault,
through my most grievous fault;
therefore I ask blessed Mary ever-Virgin,
all the angels and saints,
and you, my brothers and sisters,
to pray for me to the Lord our God.
May almighty God have mercy on us,
forgive us our sins,
bring us to everlasting life.
forgive us our sins,
bring us to everlasting life.
Amen.
Beautifully written...you've given me many points to ponder. God bless!
ReplyDeleteThank you, Kaytee.
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Br. Francis