This refreshing of our land is a lifelong task.
And when we die, our descendents, presumably, will continue the job.
For me this outdoor labor mirrors the discipline
of spiritual formation, for just as one cultivates the land, so one
must regularly, systematically even, cultivate the deepest parts of
the interior life where God is most likely to whisper (not shout)
the everlasting promises into one's life.
To be candid, I've gone through periods where I
neglected spiritual formation. I had all the reasons I hear from
others: too busy, not practical, unable to concentrate, no clear
sense that spiritual formation gets results. My neglect in those
moments was pure foolishness.
Spiritual formation involves cutting, weeding,
digging, raking, and planting—not with a chainsaw or shovel, of
course, but through the work of worship, reflection, prayer, study,
and a score of other soul-oriented activities described in books by
Richard Foster, Dallas Willard, and Henri Nouwen, to name a few.
When a piece of our land is renewed, Gail and I
are always surprised at the beauty that occurs almost overnight.
Wild flowers appear; forest animals visit; good trees mature. The
virtues of creation just seem to appear. And when the soul is
similarly attended to, there appear the virtues of godly character.
A frank opinion? I don't think a lot of men and
women in leadership know this. I mean really know it. What
drives my opinion are these impressions.
First, the primary subject matter of most
training and motivational conferences on leadership seems to be all
about vision, about clever, well-researched programs, about growing
large, successful institutions. Admittedly good stuff. But missing
is the recognition that soul cultivation goes before institution
building. How do you grow large, healthy, and authentic churches
(the current rage) without growing the soul of a leader, which
sustains the effort over the long haul?
A second impression: the dreadful casualty list
of men and women who do not make it to a tenth anniversary in
Christian ministry. Burnout, failure, disillusionment are exacting a
terrible toll. I'm amazed how many ministers just disappear, drop
off the edge.
A third: the constant conversations I have with
younger men and women who confide that they are spiritually dry,
unmotivated, despairing, and wondering what to do about it.
And maybe there's a fourth: I never forget how
close—how really close—I myself came to missing the cut. Though my
own defining moment of personal crisis came twenty years ago, the
memory is always fresh.
Saint Paul's words to Timothy are too easily
ignored in this high-pitched, high-casualty leadership lifestyle of
ours: "Train yourself to be godly … godliness has value for all
things, holding promise for both the present life and the life
to come" (1 Tim. 4:7-8) I smell
spiritual formation in these remarks.
The forming of the soul that it might be a
dwelling place for God is the primary work of the Christian
leader. This is not an add-on, an option, or a third-level priority.
Without this core activity, one almost guarantees that he/she will
not last in leadership for a life-time or that what work is
accomplished will become less and less reflective of God's honor and
God's purposes.
In his twenties, William Booth (founder of the
Salvation Army) wrote a letter to his wife, describing his feelings
of discouragement and ineffectiveness. He was close to quitting, he
said.
Catherine, a remarkable woman, wrote back: "I
know how possible it is to preach and pray and sing, and even
shout, while the heart is not right with God. I know how
popularity and prosperity have a tendency to elate and exalt self,
if the heart is not humble before God. I know how Satan takes
advantage of these things to work out the destruction (if possible)
of one whom the Lord uses to pull down strongholds of his kingdom,
and all these considerations make me tremble, and weep, and pray
for you, my dearest love, that you may be able to overcome
all his devices, and having done all to stand, not in your own
strength but in humble dependence on Him who worketh 'all in all.'"
As far as I can tell, Catherine was 23 when she
wrote these words. But she was not too young to "get it." William's
spiritual core, she understood, was the key to everything.
I shall leave the techniques of spiritual
formation to other, more qualified spiritual directors. What
occupies my thoughts presently are the evidential virtues that
spring—like wild flowers—out of a soul aligned with Heaven.
Anthony Bloom writes of a desert father who was
invited to preach at a mass where a visiting bishop would be in
attendance. The monastic refused saying, "If my silence doesn't
speak to him, my words will be useless."
The monk's point provokes me because I spend a
large part of my life depending upon words, social skills, and an
ability to think quickly on my feet to communicate with people. But
how should I communicate if I were limited to silence? It could only
happen if there were virtues growing out of my soul like flowers
erupting from a renewed piece of ground.
What virtues might those be? With caution I
nominate five that are all too often in short supply and which, if
long neglected, will signal our demise. The list is neither
exhaustive nor guaranteed to be the best. But it's mine.
Harvested humility
If I was bound to silence, I would wish that people would see that,
as a result of my soul-work, I have made progress in humility.
Humility is not something one achieves; it is the result of other
pursuits.
To be frank, people who knew me in the earlier
years would never have associated me with humility. I fear such
people would remember me as full of self, perhaps over-confident,
endlessly in motion. Talented, a bit gifted, perhaps: but not a
humble man.
"A humble man," Isaak of Syria, said, "is never
hurried, hasty, or perturbed, but at all times remains calm. Nothing
can ever surprise, disturb, or dismay him, for he suffers neither
fear nor change in tribulations, neither surprise nor elation in
enjoyment. All his joy and gladness are in what is pleasing to the
Lord."
If even a sliver of the virtue of humility grows
out of the ground of my soul today, it is only because I am old
enough to be well acquainted with the overpowering effects of sin,
the realities of personal limits and liabilities, and the corrosive
effects of perpetual accomplishment. Beyond that it is because I
have slowly(!) come to appreciate the grandeur of God and my place
before him as a small child.
"The way of the Christian leader," wrote Henri
Nouwen, "is not the way of upward mobility in which the world has
invested so much, but the way of downward mobility ending on the
cross. … It is not a leadership of power and control, but a
leadership of powerlessness and humility in which the suffering
servant of God, Jesus Christ, is made manifest."
Nouwen's words drip with mystery. They make
little sense in the life where planning, promotion, creativity, and
charisma seem to mean everything. But this is the direction for the
leader who lasts and who, in the end, may not produce large
institutions but will eventually produce great saints.
Productive compassion
If I were forced into silence, I would wish, secondly, that people
would see the evidence of compassion as a product of my soul
work. Compassion: the ability to identify at heart—level with the
vulnerabilities, fears, and sorrows of others. And to identify in
such a way that one is not paralyzed but energized with great love.
An e-mail comes to me this week from someone who
wishes to know whether or not they would really be welcomed in our
congregation if certain secrets in their life were revealed. "I
don't want to be somebody's project," this person writes.
Those words bored into my soul because I realize
how easy it is to slot people, as projects, into programs and bypass
the taxing experience of authentic identification with struggle.
I'll be frank with my opinion. The larger world
is not picking up the signals of compassion from the branch of
Christianity of which I am a part. While Nicholas Kristof of The
New York Times often applauds our movement for its farflung
programs in AIDS, home building, hospitals, and disaster response,
we are not known as compassionate people as we do these things. All
our good efforts are covered by the sense that we are proud, angry,
and vindictive in our selective approaches to those needing some
form of redemption.
I don't want to be perceived as a hard person
with an accusatory message who occasionally does good deeds. Much
better to be perceived as the wounded healer who exchanges his
bandages with the one who has none to offer back.
Steadfastness, not
stubbornness
If I were to live in total silence, I would wish, thirdly, that
spiritual formation would produce steadfastness in me. Steadfastness
is not stubbornness, nor is it a resistance to change. Instead it is
a ceaseless embrace of certain purposes and commitments from which
one will never retreat.
Steadfastness means reliability of character,
fulfillment of promises, faithfulness to key relationships, and
(most important) living in obedience to Jesus.
Such steadfastness has not been a part of my
nature. If it is part of me today, it is because I have had to
acquire it. The impulse to quit, to avoid, to cut and run comes
naturally to me, and were it not for some mentors and a very strong
wife who challenged me to face this, I have no idea where I'd be
today.
It was in the process of spiritual formation that
I faced down the "quitter's gene" that lives in me. Through rebuke,
through the inspiration of the lives of the biblical greats (and the
saints beyond them), and through the encouragement of my personal
community, I acquired something of the discipline of steadfastness.
Today I like to think that I'm a pretty good "sticker," but without
the continuous restoring of the soul, it just wouldn't have
happened.
"Be steadfast, unmovable, always abounding," Paul
wrote to the Corinthians. He was obviously driving at something
important. Perhaps he was speaking to people who were habitually
undependable, short-lived in their commitments, caving in to
pressure— people like the natural me.
Faith beyond sight
If words were taken from me, I would hope that others would see
faith in me. Faith: an ability to trust in and draw upon the
power God beyond my rationality, my instinctive pessimism, my
willingness to settle for less than best.
I love to read about and observe faith-driven
people, and this is part of my spiritual formation activities.
Faithful people inspire me. I can't get enough of John Wesley,
William Wilberforce, the Countess of Huntingdon, and Charles Simeon:
all 18th century evangelicals who had the temerity to believe that
the gospel of Jesus Christ could alter the social fabric of England.
When I finish with any of them in my books, I'm ready to spring into
motion believing God for such transformations today.
I'm often drawn to the Bible story of the poor
widow who put her two "mites" in the Temple treasury and gave,
according to Jesus, "all that she had." That's faith in a nutshell:
a calm, quiet, unostentatious offering of all her assets believing
that God would provide for her needs.
Spiritual formation means building a heart that
is comfortable in asking for and believing in God to do the
seemingly impossible. Praying for healing of the sick,
transformation of the wicked, the lifting of the hand of the
oppressor.
There is an intimate connection between faith and
vision. I see a lot of both when it comes to building institutions
and buildings. I guess I would like to demonstrate my own faith and
vision less in institutions and more in the possibilities that God
has for people.
Self-control
If my life, like the monk in Anthony Bloom's story, were to be lived
in silence, I would hope that the spiritual fruit of self-control
would be in evidence.
This, of course, has a lot to do with discipline
and one's willingness to cultivate the ability to say no to wrong as
well as yes to the right things in life. Not a popular subject,
really.
Self-control is in play when a leader is opposed,
slandered, unappreciated, ignored, or required to go the second
mile. How does he/she respond? Self-control speaks to our use of
money, our handling of power and influence, and our response to
inflated adulation. How do we bring healthy limits to our lives?
The Older Testament offers several portraits of
individuals who lacked self-control: Samson, Saul, and Solomon come
to mind. And the champions? Joseph, of course. And Daniel. And
Esther.
When I imagine self-control at its fullest, I
picture Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane surrounded by failing
friends, cruel soldiers who have come to arrest him, and the
scurrilous Judas Iscariot. What a time to lose one's cool. But he
didn't. He kept his dignity and became the calm center of a wildly
chaotic situation. That's self-control.
"It is the quality of leaders that they can bear
to be sat on, absorb shocks, act as a buffer, bear being much
plagued," wrote Fred Mitchell a one-time leader in the old China
Inland Mission. "The wear and tear and the continual friction and
trials which come to the servants of God are the greatest test of
character."
Outside the window of the little study I maintain
here at Peace Ledge is a large boulder. It would probably take a box
four feet high, wide and deep if I were going to ship it someplace.
Many years ago the boulder was buried in the ground, and only an
inch or two of it poked through the soil. My wife, Gail, thinking it
to be a minor task, began to dig it up.
The more she dug, the more she realized how big a
project she'd undertaken. But there was no going back now. Two days
later we (now she had me involved) were removing this gargantuan
piece of stone from a hole big enough for a swimming pool (I
exaggerate to make my point). As I write this piece, I see the
once-submerged boulder out my window.
The stone remains a constant reminder of
spiritual formation. Some things need to be dug out. Still more
things need to be cut away. Other things need to be planted. Then in
the long run, you have something beautiful. Really beautiful.
And you don't need words to tell other people
what they're seeing. They observe God at work in one's life—even if
there is only silence. Spiritual formation can happen, without
saying a word.
