Author: DV Dan

There is a Norwegian proverb that reads: Heroism consists of hanging on one minute longer. There is a story of a young boy who had fallen through the ice while skating and was left clinging, cold and alone, to the edge of the ice with no help in sight. As he hung on in this seemingly hopeless situation he was tempted many times to simply let go since no one was going to come along to rescue him. But he held on, despite all odds. Finally, when everything seemed beyond hope, he clung on one minute longer and after that extra minute help arrived.

The story is simple as was its moral teaching: This young boy lived because he had the courage and strength to hang on one minute longer. Rescue comes just after you have given up on it, so extend your courage and waiting one minute longer.

Scripture teaches much the same thing about moral heroism: In the Second Letter to the Thessalonians, Paul ends a long, challenging admonition by stating: You must never grow weary of doing what is right. And in his letter to the Galatians, Paul virtually repeats the Norwegian proverb: Let us not become weary of doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.

This sounds so simple and yet it cuts to the heart of many of our moral struggles. We give up too soon, give in too soon, and don’t carry our solitude to its highest level. We simply don’t carry tension long enough. When we have to choose between giving up or holding on, carrying tension or letting it go, is a crucial moral site, one that determines character: Big-heartedness, nobility of character, deep maturity, and spiritual sanctity often manifest themselves around these questions: How much tension can we carry? How great is our patience and forbearance? How much can we put up with?

Mature parents put up with a lot of tension in raising their children. Mature teachers put up with a lot of tension in trying to open the minds and hearts of their students. Mature friends absorb a lot of tension in remaining faithful to each other. Mature young women and men put up with a lot of sexual tension while waiting for marriage. Mature Christians put up with a lot of tension in helping to absorb the immaturities and sins of their churches. Men and women are noble of character precisely when they can walk with patience, respect, graciousness, and forbearance amid crushing and unfair tensions, when they never grow weary of doing what is right.

But all of this will not be easy. It’s the way of long loneliness, with many temptations to let go and slip away. But, if you persevere and never grown weary of doing what is right, at your funeral, those who knew you will be blessed and grateful that you continued to believe in them even when for a time they had stopped believing in themselves. [Excerpt from Ron Rolheiser’s “Never Grow Weary” October 2012]

There is such a thing as a good death, a clean one, a death that, however sad, leaves behind a sense of peace. I have been witness to it many times. Sometimes this is recognized explicitly when someone dies, sometimes unconsciously. It is known by its fruit.

I remember sitting with a man dying of cancer in his mid-fifties, leaving behind a young family, who said to me: “I don’t believe I have an enemy in the world, at least I don’t know if I do. I’ve no unfinished business.” I heard something similar from a young woman also dying of cancer and also leaving behind a young family. Her words: “I thought that I’d cried all the tears I had, but then yesterday when I saw my youngest daughter I found out that I had a lot more tears still to cry. But I’m at peace. It’s hard, but I’ve nothing left that I haven’t given.” And I’ve been at deathbeds other times when none of this was articulated in words, but all of it was clearly spoken in that loving awkwardness and silence you often witness around deathbeds. There is a way of dying that leaves peace behind.

When Jesus is giving his farewell speech in John’s Gospel, he tells us that it is better for us that he is going away because otherwise we will not be able to receive his spirit; and that his spirit, his final gift to us, is the gift of peace. Two things should be noted here: first, that the disciples couldn’t fully receive what Jesus was giving them until he had gone away; and second, that ultimately his real gift to them, his real legacy, was the peace he left behind with them.

What may seem strange at first glance is that his followers could only fully inhale his energy after he had gone away and left them his spirit. That is also true for each of us. It is only after we leave a room that the energy we left behind is most clear. Thus, it is after we die that the energy we have left behind will constitute our real legacy. If we live in anger and bitterness, in jealousy and unwillingness to affirm others, and if our lives sow chaos and instability, that will be what we ultimately leave behind and will always be part of our legacy. Conversely, if we are trustworthy and live unselfishly, morally, at peace with others, bringing sanity and affirmation into a room, then, like Jesus, we will leave behind a gift of peace. That will be our legacy, the oxygen we leave on the planet after we are gone. [Excerpt from Ron Rolheiser’s “Leaving Peace Behind as Our Farewell Gift” May 2020]

The famed and feisty psychologist, Fritz Perls, was once asked by a well-meaning Christian if he was saved. He responded by saying, I am still trying to figure out how to be spent! A personal and affective relationship to Jesus is not, for a Christian, any Christian, an unimportant or negotiable thing. in Gospels, particularly in the Gospel of John, a deep, affective, personal relationship to Jesus is the central component within Christian discipleship and is an end in itself. We develop an intimate relationship with Jesus because that is an end in itself, the ultimate reason we become Christian.

Nothing trumps a personal, affective relationship to Jesus and outside of that connection we aren’t in fact real disciples of Christ. However Jesus, himself, mitigates any fundamentalism or one-sided devotional understanding of this by linking intimacy to him with the other half of the great commandment: Love God and love neighbor. Simply put, we show our love for God, our intimacy with Jesus, by laying down our lives for our neighbor. Christian discipleship is never only about Jesus and me, even as it is always still about Jesus and me.

Theresa of Avila suggests that we’re mature in following Christ if our questions and concerns no longer have a self-focus: Am I saved? Have I met Jesus Christ? Do I love Jesus enough? These questions remain and remain valid; but they’re not meant to be our main focus. Our real question needs to be: How can I be helpful? Fritz Perls simply puts it more graphically: How can I be spent? During our adult lives that trumps the question: Have I been saved? [Excerpt from Ron Rolheiser’s “Have I Been Saved?” August 2013]

It was April, but still very cold and the chapel where we had just celebrated the Eucharist and the cafeteria to which we had retired for coffee lacked somewhat both for heat and light. There were about a hundred of us present, monks and seminarians mostly, along with a few lay people. All of us were somberly drinking coffee and making small talk, except for one child, a little girl of four. She, dressed in a smart, bright little coat, was skipping smack down the middle of the cafeteria, singing to herself, letting off steam after having been forcibly silenced during the long liturgy that had just preceded.

Everything about that little girl spoke of life, while everything about the rest of us spoke of soberness, lack of color, lack of life, age, and dram duty. At that moment, for all the world, it looked like there was more real life in one little girl, who had just been released from church, than in all the rest of us, God-fearing, duty-driven, church-going, wisdom-filled persons, none of whom could skip publicly if our lives depended on it.

How often does it appear as though what is happening in our churches is dead, duty-driven and sterile? Alanis Morissette, is a bitter, ex­ Catholic who complains of the “loveless priests” who run the faith and who stifle love and energy.There is a lot that needs to be reflected upon here, although in the end it is a considerably more complex than what is spontaneously suggested when we see a little girl happily skipping among sombre monks.

We often see a wisdom that is disconnected from life that precisely lacks any real connection to energy, eroticism, color, wit, intelligence, beauty, and raw health. That is why sometimes someone can deal with the issues of meaning, pain, death, and forgiveness and yet be unable to radiate any real energy or health. You go to church for wisdom, not for fun.

It can be very helpful to know this. One should never confuse Alanis Morissette with Mother Theresa, nor Jerry Seinfeld with John of the Cross. In one, we see more the raw beauty and pulse of God’s life; in the other we see the maturity of God’s wisdom. Part of our task is to bring them together. [Excerpt from Ron Rolheiser’s “Life versus Wisdom” November 1998]

It’s interesting how the believers at that first Easter experienced the resurrected Christ in their lives. The Gospels tell us that they were huddled in fear and paranoia behind locked doors, wanting only to protect themselves, when Christ came through their locked doors, the doors of their fear and self-protection, and breathed peace into them.  Their huddling in fear wasn’t because of ill-will or bad faith. In their hearts they sincerely wished that they weren’t afraid, but that good will still didn’t unlock their doors. Christ entered and breathed peace into them in spite of their resistance, their fear, and their locked doors.

Things haven’t changed much in two thousand years. As a Christian community and as individuals we are still mostly huddling in fear, anxious about ourselves, distrustful, not at peace, our doors locked, even as our hearts desire peace and trust. 

At the end of the day, the image of the “locked doors of our fear” contain perhaps the most consoling truth in all religion because they reveal this about God’s grace:  When we cannot help ourselves we can still be helped and when we are powerless to reach out, grace can still come through the walls of our resistance and breathe peace into us. We need to cling to this whenever we experience irretrievable brokenness in our lives. The resurrected Christ can come through locked doors and roll back any stone that entombs us, no matter how hopeless the task is for us.

There is one Lord, one faith, one baptism, one God who is Father of us all (Ephesians 4:5-6). That’s a lot in a few words! This creedal statement, while Christian, takes in all denominations, all faiths, and all sincere persons everywhere. Everyone on the planet can pray this creed because ultimately there is only one Lord, one faith, one baptism, and one God who created and loves us all.As Christians, we believe that Christ is the unique mediator between God and ourselves. As Jesus puts it, no one goes to the Father, except through me. 

If that is true, and as Christians we hold that as dogma, then where does that leave Hindus, Buddhists, Taoists, Jews, Muslims, New Agers, Neo-Pagans, and sincere non-believers? How do they share the kingdom with us Christians since they do not believe in Christ?

As Christians, we have always had answers to that question. The Catholic catechisms of my youth spoke of a “baptism of desire” as a way of entry into the mystery of Christ. Karl Rahner spoke of sincere persons being “anonymous Christians”. Frank de Graeve spoke of a reality he called “Christ-ianity”, as a mystery wider than historical “Christianity”; and Pierre Teilhard de Chardin spoke of Christ as being the final anthropological and cosmological structure within the evolutionary process itself.

What all of these are saying is that the mystery of Christ cannot be identified simplistically with the historical Christian churches. The mystery of Christ works through the historical Christian churches but also works, and works widely, outside of our churches and outside the circles of explicit faith. Christ is God and therefore is found wherever anyone is in the presence of oneness, truth, goodness, and beauty. [Excerpt from Ron Rolheiser’s “A Universal Creed” October 2024]

Among all the religious symbols in the world none is more universal than the cross. Rene Girard, an anthropologist, once commented that “the cross of Jesus is the single most revolutionary moral event in all of history.” What is so morally revolutionary in the cross? Precisely because it such a deep mystery, the cross is not easy to grasp intellectually. The deeper things in life, love, fidelity, morality, and faith are not mathematics, but mysteries whose unfathomable depths always leave room for more still to be understood.

The cross is seen as revelation, and as being redemptive. Both concepts, even to the limited extent that we can intellectually understand them, are thoroughly morally revolutionary. Christianity is 2000 years old, but it took us nearly 1900 years to fully grasp the fact that slavery is wrong, that it goes against heart of Jesus’ teaching. The same can be said about the equality of women. Much of what Jesus revealed to us is like a time-released medicine capsule. Throughout the centuries, slowly, gradually, incrementally, Jesus’ message is dissolving more deeply into our consciousness.

There have been popes for 2000 years, beginning with Peter, but it was only Saint Pope John Paul II, who stood up and said with clarity that capital punishment is wrong. Mark, the Evangelist, speaking as a disciple of Jesus, puts it another way: For him, the cross of Jesus is the deep secret to everything. To the extent that we don’t grasp the meaning of the cross, we miss the key that opens up life’s deepest secrets. When we don’t grasp the cross, life deep mysteries become a riddle.

There’s a real difference between our achievements and our fruitfulness, between our successes and the actual good that we bring into the world. What we achieve brings us success, gives us a sense of pride, makes our families and friends proud of us, and gives us a feeling of being worthwhile, singular, and important.

Henri Nouwen frequently reminds us, achievement is not the same thing as fruitfulness. Our achievements are things we have accomplished. Our fruitfulness is the positive, long-term effect these achievements have on others. Achievement doesn’t automatically mean fruitfulness. Achievement helps us stand out, fruitfulness brings blessing into other people’s lives.

Hence we need to ask this question:  How have they helped make the world a better, more-loving place? This is different than asking: How have my achievements made me feel? And so the truth is that we can achieve great things without being really fruitful, just as we can be very fruitful even while achieving little in terms of worldly success and recognition. Our fruitfulness is often the result not so much of the great things we accomplish, but of the graciousness, generosity, and kindness we bring into the world.

It will be the quality of our hearts, more so than our achievements, that will determine how nurturing or asphyxiating is the spirit we leave behind us when we’re gone. Jesus teaches us repeatedly that it’s better for us that he goes away because it’s only when he’s gone that we will be able to truly receive his spirit, his full fruitfulness.  The same is true for us. Our full fruitfulness will only show after we have died. The fruit that feeds love and community tends to come from our shared vulnerability and not from those achievements that set us apart. [Excerpt from Ron Rolheiser’s “Achievements versus Fruitfulness” September 2017]

The biblical greeting of “grace, mercy, and peace” should be understood as an unconditional and universally accessible gift from God, rather than a limited commodity to be earned or selectively distributed. Fr. Rolheiser argues that we must risk proclaiming the “prodigal character” of this divine generosity, mirroring Christ’s example of offering love and acceptance to all, regardless of merit. religious people often try to protect God and limit who receives divine mercy, a tendency he sees as misguided. Drawing a parallel to the apostles who tried to shoo away children and sinners from Jesus, he argues that God does not want or need our protection. He asserts that we must risk letting the infinite, unbounded, and undeserved mercy of God flow freely to everyone, including those we might deem unworthy. We often witness the tension between extending unconditional grace and the fear of making it “cheap” by removing all conditions. He counters that grace is, by its very nature, unmerited and cannot be “cheap.” He points out that the fear of giving out grace too liberally often stems from a desire for fairness, a legalistic mindset, or a sense of self-righteousness, like the older brother in the parable of the prodigal son. 

Fr. Rolheiser contends that divine grace, mercy, and peace are not contingent on morality, orthodoxy, or a person’s preparation. He writes that God desires everyone—”regardless of morality, orthodoxy, lack of preparation, age, or culture”—to come to the “unlimited waters of divine mercy”. The journey from “paranoia to metanoia,” from a mindset of clenched fists to one of open hands is framed by moving from being judgmental to forgiving and living out of God’s grace rather than our own wounds. The writer George Eliot observed that “When death, the great reconciler, has come, it is never our tenderness that we repent of, but our severity”. This reflects his own conviction that as he has aged, he has grown more inclined to risk God’s mercy rather than err on the side of severity. 

We are blind to the fact that the greed, the wars, and the violence that we see being played out on a world stage (and which we blame politicians and world leaders for) are, to a large extent, merely a magnification of what is happening inside of our own hearts and among us in our private relationships. There can be no peace on the big stage when there is greed, jealousy, unwillingness to forgive, and unwillingness to compromise within our private hearts.

There are many aspects to waging peace. The social justice literature of the past decades has given us a crucial insight which should never again be lost, namely, that private virtue and private charity, alone, are not enough. There is sociology as well as psychology, systemic evil as well as private sin. In the face of unjust systems and corrupt governments, Christians cannot get away with simply practising private virtue and saying to their less fortunate neighbours: “I wish you well. (Stay warm and well-fed!) I’m a good and honest person, I did nothing to cause your suffering!” There are real social and political issues underlying war, poverty, oppression, and violence. Peace-making must address these.

There is a story told about a Lutheran pastor, a Norwegian, who was arrested by the Gestapo during the Second World War. When he was brought into the interrogation room, the Gestapo officer he placed his revolver on the table between them and said: “Father, this is just to let you know that we are serious!” The pastor, instinctually, pulled out his bible and laid it beside the revolver. The officer demanded: “Why did you do that?” The pastor replied: “You laid out your weapon – and so did I!” In waging peace we must keep in mind what our true weapons are and who the real enemy is. [Excerpt from Ron Rolheiser’s “Waging Peace”  April 1994]