Canon 603, Desert Spirituality, and Chronic Illness or Disability

[[Hi Sister, I just wondered if it was right to exclude someone from profession just because they have a chronic illness or disability. I know that religious communities do this because they feel the person can't keep up or do all the things active ministry requires, but how does this work with eremitical life? You write about chronic illness as vocation so I thought you might have already written about this. If you have, could you point me to where I might find that? Thanks!]]

Thanks for this question. It is an important one and one I care about more than most. I get occasional anecdotal information about this question from hermits seeking to be professed under c 603 in various dioceses. Still, I have only received a report about one diocese that excluded a candidate because of chronic illness per se; in this case, they cited the impediment to orders 1044.1 which struck me negatively in several ways. First, the candidate was not petitioning for admission to orders or to a highly social lifestyle. This made the canon noted doubly irrelevant, nor did the diocese have a general prohibition on professing anyone with any history of mental illness. If there was some such history (the canon still uses the terms "insanity" and "psychic defect") it needed to be assessed in terms of the solitary eremitical vocation and the candidate him or herself. 

Also, a diocese needs to be able to give sufficient time and attention to discerning such a vocation or simply refuse to profess anyone under c 603. In the case mentioned here, this "impediment" was only noted after the candidate was asked to write a Rule of Life and had worked hard on it. (Writing a Rule is not an easy project; moreover, it takes a significant period of time, prayer, reflection, and probably, several consultations with a mentor to complete an adequate (liveable) Rule that is deeply rooted in both c 603 and the candidate's lived experience. Dioceses must understand all of this before requesting someone even begin writing their Rule, particularly if one is planning on using something like C 1044.1 as an absolute impediment to eremitical life.) Thus, in this case, the chancery's decision and justification struck me as lazy, essentially dishonest, and disrespectful. Again, it is not a surprise to find a diocese not understanding c 603 or vocations lived under it, but applying c 1044.1 after several meetings with the candidate coupled with the prior request that s/he write a Rule of Life, offends against the canon and the candidate pursuing profession under it.

Chronic Illness and the Desert Vocation:

It is especially important that a diocese recognizes that eremitical life is a desert vocation with desert spirituality at its heart. By definition, chronic illness is itself a profound desert experience. The Gospel that eremitical life witnesses to is the Gospel of a God whose power is perfected and most perfectly revealed in weakness. (2 Cor 12:9) Thus, dioceses who have a good sense of the vocation in general, will recognize not only that each vocation must be individually discerned, but that various forms of chronic illness, far from serving as impediments to eremitical life, may be important formative influences that allow one to form an essentially eremitical heart long before one embraces eremitical life in a formal or even a conscious way. This is a really critical element of the discernment of such vocations that flies in the face of much writing about eremitical life focusing on its austerity and physical demands.

While some few contemporary eremitical vocations may look like images of eremitical life drawn from past centuries and instances of solitary eremitical life, and while it remains true that this vocation is demanding and should not be watered down, it is also true that theologies of prayer, penance, the silence of solitude, and the other central elements of the canon have shifted some to allow the demands of the life to be primarily spiritual and holistic, not narrowly physical. What cannot be lost sight of is the desert character of the calling and our expanding sense of the myriad ways such a vocation is encountered and expressed. 

Similarly, we cannot forget what it means to witness to the Gospel in significant and fruitful ways for the praise of God and the salvation of others. Hermits are not navel-gazing nutcases who isolate themselves from the larger world for fear of being contaminated nor because they are on an entirely individualistic quest for holiness. They are individuals committed to living ecclesial lives of wholeness in a unique relationship and dialogue with God. In the silence of solitude, they do this in Christ through the power of the Holy Spirit of love and communion. When this is lived with integrity, others will also come to know that however fragile or threatened their lives, the faithfulness of God will not allow them to return to Him void. This "for others" quality is the reason for everything the hermit lives in her hermitage; it marks every movement toward authentic holiness just as it defines the risen Christ and every member of the Communion of Saints.

For the chronically ill or disabled who are already marked as separated from the world of the differently abled and whose illness isolates them, the solitary eremitical life may be the context in which their anguish and isolation can be redeemed by the love of God. In this context, the hermit becomes a person of prayer meeting the pain of a suffering world with compassion. The poverty of spirit demanded by being chronically ill can be transformed into the inner wealth of one who knows s/he is deeply regarded by God. Many of the values associated with our consumerist world, the ways meaning and success are measured are countered by the hermit, especially the chronically ill hermit. To be a person who encounters the pain and anguish of the world with the compassion of eremitical prayer is to share in the fundamental vocation of Jesus. It is to live a penitential life oriented toward health and wholeness and builds on the suffering already built into human life. Dioceses need to be able to see the possibilities chronic illness and/or disability create for authentic eremitical life.

All that considered, it remains true that not all chronic illnesses lend themselves to eremitical life. This is especially true of some forms of mental illness. More to the point, however, not every person with a chronic illness will be able to come to live and pray their illness in the way a solitary hermit must come to do.  While endurance is important, one is called to do more than endure the illness; one is called to allow it to become subject and transparent to the transforming love of God so the world might be blessed by it and the life of the one who suffers from it. The bottom line in all of this, however, is that the diocesan team or personnel charged with discerning and assisting in the formation of the solitary hermit must discern on a case-by-case basis with the requirements of c 603 and the life it envisions uppermost in mind. To answer your question in your own terms, No, it is wrong to exclude someone from profession and consecration under c 603 merely on the basis of a chronic illness.

Thanks and Why Did You Reprise the Piece on Solace?

[[Dear Sister Laurel, I wanted to thank you for the piece you put up yesterday by David Whyte. It is really wonderful and I missed it the first time you put it up several years ago. (Maybe I didn't miss it and it didn't really speak to me then, but it did this time!) I know this is a personal question but do you mind telling readers why you put it up again? I don't think you have done that with your "Contemplative Moment" posts so it piqued my curiosity. Is it because of the pandemic? Did you think this was particularly meaningful at this time because of the suffering the world is experiencing? I thought maybe the reason it spoke to me this time was because I really needed consolation that did justice to my own suffering and this piece did that. Sometimes what you write makes me think you know me and just what I need! I am going to get David Whyte's book!]]

Many thanks for your comments and questions. Yes, David Whyte is a really wonderful writer and what he has to say is rooted in a deep wisdom which is only gained through experience. I think you will love his book; I have posted several passages (definitions) from it over the years and it confirms for me that quite often we need to spend more time thinking about the words we use too blithely or facilely. Consolation (and/or solace) are among these. 

For instance, in spirituality people speak of experiencing consolations and usually they mean by that that somehow God did something "pleasant" or pleasurable for them in prayer, and sometimes they will mean that something that happened in prayer eased their pain and made them feel better. Thus, they will speak of "sweet consolations" and play these off against "bitter desolations" --- where desolations are unpleasant and, at least momentarily, make one feel worse. But in Ignatian spirituality these words are not so easily defined in this sort of black and white way. Instead, what Ignatius meant by a consolation was anything that helps us grow closer to God (and our deepest selves), and desolation is anything which does the opposite. A consolation in this sense might be immensely painful; it might entail serious struggle and various lesser forms of death (or even death itself), while a desolation might be deceptively pleasant when in reality it draws us away from God, and so, away from the very source of life and meaning which is the ground of real happiness or beatitude. David Whyte's piece on solace understands the complex dynamics of these words and captures them very very well.

So why did I reprise this piece? In the Scripture class I am teaching on the Gospel of Mark we had finished the first half of the Gospel, the portion that includes Jesus' non-stop "campaign" through Galilee and environs, his seemingly unceasing miracles, exorcisms, teaching, and his calling and missioning of his disciples/Apostles. This is the story Mark tells in a breathless way, much as an excited 4 year old might recount the story of Christmas morning or a beginning writer just discovering conjunctions might link sentences together with "and" after "and" after "and". This section concludes with Jesus' transfiguration and Peter's compromised profession of Jesus as the Christ or anointed One of God and Jesus' instruction on his death. As Jesus and his disciples move towards Jerusalem and the cross, the first story of the second half of the Gospel (Mark 9:14-29) is Jesus' last recounted exorcism, the healing of the boy with epilepsy which occurs against the backdrop of the disciples' failure to do this and the boy's Father's request to Jesus to heal his son if he can. 

I have never taught this story before and, because of my own seizure disorder, it has always been a difficult one for me. I have tended not to spend a lot of time with it, but now I had to teach it and that meant understanding the story in terms of Mark's Gospel, why it is placed where it is in the text, and attending to what Jesus says about the disciples' failure and the place of prayer in the successful healing. As part of this I especially had to be ready to deal with my own identity as a woman of prayer and the importance of suffering in discipleship (because of the story's context); I needed to do this in light of my own struggles with continued seizures.  Consequently, I spent more than two weeks with the story, reading commentaries, journaling, praying with it (lectio, etc.), and using a couple of sessions with my spiritual director to explore all of this and particularly the way the story affected me. Central to this period was recognizing and articulating the questions characterizing my own struggle to be myself in the face of competing gifts and limitations. Especially I had to pose some sharp questions to God, questions I had never specifically asked Him (unlike the exchange that occurs in the dialog between Jesus and the blind man in the story of the healing of Bartimaeus which ends the section in Mark 10:46-52!!); the process was both incredibly painful and healing for me. Thus, the following paragraph was timely and particularly powerful:

To look for solace is to learn to ask fiercer and more exquisitely pointed questions, questions that reshape  our identities and our bodies and our relation to others. Standing in loss but not overwhelmed by it we become useful and generous and compassionate and even amusing companions for others. But solace also asks us very direct and forceful questions. Firstly, how will you bear the inevitable that is coming to you? And how will you endure it through the years? And above all, how will you shape a life equal to and as beautiful and as astonishing as a world that can birth you, bring you into the light, and then just as you are beginning to understand it, take you away?

A second reason had to do with several conversations I had with a writer for the New York Times. (More about this later.) We were talking about eremitical life and the place of solitude in a truly human life, but also, yes, there were links to the pandemic and the added dimensions of solitude so frequently forced upon people as a result. Especially, we were talking about what is possible and necessary then with regard to solitude, not only for hermits, but for every human being. I had written some about the place of struggle and even of suffering in growing in one's capacity for compassion and had cited Douglas John Hall's God and Human Suffering where he says: 

[[The question therefore becomes: How can one at the same time acquire sufficient honesty about what needs to be faced, and sufficient hope that facing it would make a difference, to engage in altering the course of our present world towards life and not death?]] a page later he observes that acknowledging suffering is not enough. What is also required is [[ the trust that something --- the life process or Providence or God --- something “enduring,” as Isaiah put it, is able to take into itself all that does not endure, even things that are not, and give them a future that infinitely transcends the bleak promise of their past.]] 

Eremitical solitude combines all the elements needed for sufficient honesty about "what needs to be faced" with a defining orientation to God and God's Providence; together these provide significant hope in the midst of suffering in a way which is profoundly consoling. Above all I recognize my own eremitical life as motivated by the desire and sense of a call that, by virtue of the grace of God, can [[shape a life equal to and as beautiful and as astonishing as a world that can birth (me), and bring (me) into the light.]] So this too was on my mind and in my heart, and David Whyte's piece on Solace helped clarify and contextualize all of this for me personally. However, yes, I certainly believed it would speak to readers during this time.

Catching Up and Questions on Suffering Well

The latest Planned power outage is well over here in Lafayette and another one planned for early Wednesday morning into Thursday was put on hold. I am grateful because while I can manage many things without power some things are simply very difficult or impossible without it (hot showers, laundry, hot food). We actually had a couple of fires here in Lafayette and watched planes drop fire retardant and helicopters dropping water to prevent forward movement during wind events. There were some evacuations but they were short-lived, thanks be to God! Meanwhile, North of here the Kincaid fire continues with limited control (about 47%) and South of here (several hours) the Getty fire threatens museums, colleges, Motherhouses I know, and other institutions as well as many individual residences. 

I  have received some questions about a post I put up in June on the notion of suffering well (cf, Question on Suffering well). (Sorry but it took a couple of days to actually write an answer and there are other questions still waiting; I appreciate everyone's patience.) At this point in time, when so many people here in my state are suffering tragic losses, displacement, inability to work, etc., it is timely to be reminded of it. In that piece and the follow up (Followup on Suffering well: Suffering and the will of God) I wrote that for me the only way to suffer well was to live well in Christ in spite of suffering. I also wrote that it is important to distinguish between Jesus' suffering at the hands of humankind and what God willed for him.

Here I wrote that God wills Jesus to live a fully human life and death, but God did not specifically will Jesus' torture and suffering on the cross. It is true that if Jesus embraces authentic or genuine humanity in self-emptying and solidarity with God and others his life will entail profound suffering but what God wills for Jesus are those choices which bring greater and greater life, not choices simply for greater and greater suffering. Is there a difference? Yes. it is possible to will that a person lives fully and accepts the consequences of that life without willing the consequences per se. Think of parents who send their children to public schools. They will their children get all the benefits of a rich and diverse educational milieu; they do not will their children get bullied or run into teachers who are burned out but have tenure, for instance. Or think of the  Peace corps; it sends people all over the world to assist those in need. It does not will these workers become victims of mercenaries, etc. And yet, these unwilled consequences do occur.

So what were the follow up questions? They included: 1) Isn't our suffering reparational? Don't we make up for what is lacking in Jesus' suffering? 2) How do we distinguish between the suffering that comes as part of life and suffering that we can't let go of or that we take on rather than choosing life? and 3) why is it so hard to let go of suffering?

It is true that Colossians 1:24 speaks of making up for what was lacking in the sufferings of Christ but what does this mean? Does it mean, for instance, that Christ's own sufferings per se were insufficient and must be supplemented with our own --- as though Christ's passion was  objectively inadequate for the redemption of all creation? No, I don't think we can ever suggest such a thing. Objectively speaking Christ's passion, death, and descent were a perfect sacrifice marked by perfect obedience (perfect openness to and trust in God) and destroyed sin and death. But subjectively speaking the fruits of Jesus' passion, death, descent, and resurrection must become our own, that is we must embrace the life he brought to us as the Risen Christ in the Spirit of God, and we must do so as fully and faithfully as we can. This will mean learning to let go of a great deal (including a great deal of bad theology and spirituality), just as it will mean allowing the love of God to heal us of a great deal --- and both of these processes will entail suffering at the service of healing and selfless or generous life --- but it does not mean embracing suffering which, whether implicitly or explicitly, claims that the passion of Jesus was inadequate in some way.

Jesus' death allows the Love of God (the Love-in-act that IS God) to overcome all of those things which mark us as alienated from God. It does this with Jesus taking all of these things into himself while remaining open to God's presence and refusing to let these godless things separate him from God. This refusal to let sin and death separate him from God opens these realities to God. In absolute vulnerability Jesus took on sin and death (and thus every form of godlessness) and remained obedient to God (open and vulnerable to both suffering and the God who brings life out of nothingness) so that God might triumph over these things. Not only because of the weight of what he took on, but because of his openness and vulnerability, Jesus' suffering and death was more intense and deeper than anything you or I will ever know. But it also allowed God to enter into (or, from another perspective,  to take these things into himself) and transform them with his presence. Objectively speaking, sin and death were destroyed; they were transformed from godless realities into realities where God might be met face to face.

The result is the perspective we hear from Paul in tomorrow's reading from Romans 8 [[ If God is for us, who can be against us? 32He who did not spare his own Son, but gave him up for us all-how will he not also, along with him, graciously give us all things? 33Who will bring any charge against those whom God has chosen? It is God who justifies. 34Who then is the one who condemns? No one. Christ Jesus who died-more than that, who was raised to life-is at the right hand of God and is also interceding for us. 35Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall trouble or hardship or persecution or famine or nakedness or danger or sword? 36As it is written: "For your sake we face death all day long; we are considered as sheep to be slaughtered." 37No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. 38For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, 39neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our LORD.]]

Does this sound like Paul (who only may have written Colossians) thought there was anything objectively lacking in Jesus' passion and death? No. At the same time, however, Paul knows that suffering continues and some must be embraced, not in reparation for sins (God in Christ is victorious over sin and death) but in order that we ourselves may embrace life and witness to the truth of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. God's objective victory over sin and death must be appropriated subjectively so that one day God might be all in all. It is only in this sense that we can speak of our own suffering (and our own victories over suffering as life is more and more fully embraced!!) as reparative with the accent on repair not reparation.

Why is it so Hard to Let Go of Suffering? 

Suffering is a very difficult reality for us. It seems meaningless and it tends to make our lives seem meaningless as well as it cuts us off from work, recreation. relationships, and, more profoundly, a sense of self which seems truly valuable. While all of this seems like a great reason to let go of suffering for some this suffering becomes a part of their very identity. When that is exacerbated by flawed theodicies --- theologies of evil/suffering in light of the goodness of God --- that validate suffering even when this occurs at the expense of life and choices for health, it becomes especially difficult to let go of suffering. For instance, the notion of victim souls is one of these approaches that validates one's suffering despite the problem that it diminishes the degree and meaning of the suffering of others. Similarly, but in less dramatic interpretations our suffering can make us feel special; we don't feel like victim souls but we may be victims in some sense and that can make us feel special, something hard to let go of.

Likewise it can become hard to let go of suffering when one has chronic illness which makes it intimidating to live without the limitations it imposes; we have to learn how to live a fuller life than illness allowed and that can be frightening. Even without the secondary gain associated with our illness this can be true. I think there are many reasons letting go of suffering becomes difficult for us and I have only mentioned a couple, but my own concern is with interpretations of suffering and evil that make them the will of God in one way and another. The versions of these theologies I have seen (heard or read) make of God something abhorrent. This God is not a God of life, a God who takes on sin and suffering in order to destroy them ultimately. Neither in these theologies is suffering a symptom of our estrangement from God (i.e., sin) nor do they draw a sufficient distinction between the permissive and active wills of God. The "God" they give us is a "God" who torments his creation -- but then they dress it up in pious language --- the language of reparation, discipline, and atonement. (Suffering can be a source of discipline, but generally this is because grace transforms pain from being something merely intolerable or destructive into a suffering that can occasion growth.)

It feels wonderful to believe God has chosen us. On the other hand it feels awful to be different from others, especially when the difference is caused by something like chronic illness or the sense we are not special to anyone. Some of us learn that God loves us no matter what and that we have value because of this. When we come to know ourselves as loved by God so too can we know ourselves as the same as others and simultaneously special; we will cease to need our illness as something that sets us apart or makes us special. Others, however, learn somehow that their suffering is an expression of God's love or that they are only loved by God to the extent they suffer. When this happens it may be almost impossible to let go of suffering and the victim status that seems to me to be a form of bondage unworthy of the Son/Daughter of God. But the God of Jesus Christ is the God who asks us to live well and offers us opportunities for ever-fuller or more abundant life -- even in the face of chronic illness for which little can be done. We Christians are called to learn to embrace these opportunities first of all and only thereafter and secondarily the forms of suffering which are consequences of living well in Christ.

So how do we distinguish between suffering that is a consequence of living well and is embraced as a part of living well and that which is more primary and can lead to a life of victimhood? I think sometimes it is a fine line, but not always. A number of years ago I wrote about someone who had made a "vow of suffering". Part of that vow was a promise to extend or prolong a life of suffering and a related promise to choose whichever option provided greater suffering. I admit the entire idea was appalling to me. I think we have to ask ourselves what are we choosing first of all and what are its fruits in the here and now: does it lead us to greater human wholeness, love of others, generosity, ability to empty ourselves and embrace responsible freedom? Does it take advantage of opportunities which lead to greater human wholeness and the ability to participate in community (and yes, even hermits need to be cognizant and careful of this for isolation and solitude are not the same thing!!)? For instance, do we act to end what suffering isolates us and curtails our life and especially our life in community when this is possible using normal remedies or do we turn in on ourselves and create an idol who supposedly wills our suffering and our isolation and diminishment as human beings in some sort of propitiation for the sinful condition of humanity?

It is absolutely possible to choose life and the suffering that comes from that (i.e., all kinds of sacrifice and forms of self-emptying which serve life and wholeness in ourselves and others) without believing God wills our suffering. At the same time it will be necessary to embrace the God who has chosen to be with us in all things including our suffering so that life in and of God can be truly sovereign here and now in this world. Our task in Christ is to allow heaven to ever more fully penetrate our world so that in and through our lives the Kingdom of God is truly at hand! We are not to be focused on heaven in a way which orients our life toward escaping this world; we are focused on heaven (life in and with God shared with all) in a way which transforms everything we touch with the love and life of God. If the God we believe in does not call us to a life committed to the transformation of all creation and to the sacrifices necessary to make that truly possible (unnecessary suffering actually stands in the way of this), then we are not believing/trusting in the God of Jesus Christ.

I hope this is helpful. If you have questions about specific examples of suffering and whether they fall into one category of suffering or the other please get back to me. Discerning when we are choosing life and suffering as a consequence as opposed to choosing suffering which is really a rejection of life can be difficult in some instances but in this as in every other thing we choose , the gospel admonition, "it is by their fruits that you will know them" is our ultimate criterion.

Dealing With Chronic Illness as a Hermit

[[Dear Sister, you have written you have chronic illness with chronic pain. I was wondering if that gets in the way of living of living eremitical life. For example, if you have a bad spell or relapse or something what happens to your Rule? Have you ever had to deal with long-term hospitalization or surgical rehabilitation? Did that change the way you prayed?. . . Do you ever feel like a failure as a hermit or contemplative?. . . Do you ever worry that God will not be able to put up with your weaknesses or failures (or falling short)? . . . I wonder if you would ever consider seeking dispensation of your vows for any of these reasons.]]

Interesting questions. I think I have answered something like this before but I looked for it and couldn't find it. You might want to check through the list of posts (under months and years) or the labels to the right and see if you can do better. Still, let me answer this briefly. Neither illness nor the chronic pain get in the way of my eremitical life per se. Both have led me over time to consider chronic illness as a potential vocation with eremitical life as a specific instance of this. However, there are certainly times when there are flares of illness and when pain is more difficult to control than other times. When this is the case my horarium changes, I spend more time in bed, I am unable to do some of the limited ministry I usually undertake, I tend not to study or sing as much, and my reading choices change. What does not change is my approach to the day as one sanctified by God through prayer at intervals throughout the day, some lectio divina, and some inner work via journaling or other writing.

While morally and canonically binding, my Rule is written more in terms of gospel and less in those of law. What I mean by this is that it lays out the ways I live the Gospel of Jesus Christ as the source and ground of life, love, and meaning for me, and it does this less than it spells out things I must or must not do. It defines what makes my life healthy and whole as a contemplative and eremitical life. But in times where I am not well or where chronic illness flares up especially, I will not be able to live this without modifications. Yes, at these times the ways in which I pray will likely differ in one way and another. For instance, rather than praying the whole of any hour of the Office I am more apt to pray a single psalm with antiphons, the Lord's Prayer and a canticle, but slowly while letting myself rest in God's hands. If I miss an hour I miss an hour. When I am awake or up again I pick up what seems most important to me --- the part that draws me most, for instance or the piece missed where I am most truly at home. Sometimes I will substitute a hymn on CD or a Taize chant for structured prayer/Office and just give myself over to the music. If I miss lots of prayer periods (and unfortunately this is sometimes unavoidable), I trust that "God gives to his beloved in sleep" (Psalm 127:2) and pick up wherever I can with whatever I most need once I am awake (whether prayer, food, water, shower, sunshine, contact with my director, etc). I think during times of flareups or extra difficulties it is critically important to keep in mind the difference between "praying all the prayers" and "praying always."

My Rule is helpful in letting me move back into various rhythms of the day as I can, but even more it is helpful in reminding me of the vision I seek to live whether well or ill, namely, "My grace is sufficient for you, my power is made perfect in weakness." I know that God is with me in every circumstance including sin and death! God accompanies me whether I am conscious of that or  capable of cooperating with him or not. So long as that is the case every moment of my life, from chronic pain, to intractable seizures and post ictal sleep, to the emotional pain and joy of inner work, to the favorite or latest Chaim Potok or Anne Perry book, can become a prayer and a source of growth in holiness. Again, prayer is the work of God within us. As for God giving up on me or some other absurd notion that somehow or other I could exhaust his patience, love, mercy, or will to accompany me well, that's the same as suggesting that my weakness might be too much for God to be the God Christ revealed! Whenever I am even tempted to give up on God in this way (not something that has happened often!), I remind myself of the following from Paul, [[ But God demonstrates his own love for us in this, that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.]] (Rom 5:8) In other words, when we are at our worst God loves us and gives his very life for us.

I don't feel (and have never felt) like a failure as a hermit or contemplative but I (like anyone else I imagine) always fall short in the sense that I can always grow in my vocation/authentic humanity and prayer. Again, my Rule (and the God and Gospel that inspires it) envisions and helps empower my growth in this vocation and in communion with God and love of myself and others. Sometimes I will fail at a given task (for instance, a reflection I am supposed to give, inability to meet with a client and need to postpone sessions, etc), and sometimes I will resist what is happening in prayer or the personal formation work I am doing, but while I find these failures frustrating, this is not the same as failing as either a contemplative or a hermit. When physical pain is a problem I treat it in the ways I can (medicine, TENS, exercise, meditation) and I do what I need to do while meds are kicking in (online scrabble, coloring or painting, walking around, watching the news or other TV program or great course lecture, reading an engrossing novel, etc) --- things which are engrossing and distract from the pain while ensuring I give the meds a full time period to work as they usually do. I ordinarily cannot sit in quiet prayer at these times because I really cannot be physically still in the way that requires. Even so, whatever I do to get through these periods, I pray and entrust myself to God's care as I wait.

There are periods of time when illness dominates (and yes, I have had periods of hospitalization that extended for weeks or even several months at a time including a period of (7) experimental neurosurgical interventions --- this latter about 8 years before I became a hermit). On the whole the essential elements of my Rule remain in some form or configuration. Were I to be unable to live dimensions of my Rule for a significant period of time I would need to redact these to account for necessary changes while ensuring it remains an eremitical Rule with the same vision of such a life. (Since my Rule is drawn from my own experience it could change on the basis of my own experience --- though my vision of the nature and importance of eremitical life according to canon 603 is very unlikely to change radically; I just can't see that happening, especially because of illness/pain.)

Dispensation of vows would be unlikely to come up as an issue or option, and certainly is not something I can see myself requesting! (More likely the question of a change of vocation would come up in the beginning of a hermit's professed life, especially if there is a radical change in circumstances occurring before they have developed the heart and prayer life of a hermit.) Once these are formed, however, and the hermit has been admitted to perpetual profession and consecration, dispensation is much less likely to be something that will be considered because of illness. It is possible, however that significant illness can reveal an eremitical life which is inadequately formed and rooted in the first place. Suffering is a wonderful test of the foundation of our lives and spirituality! At this point in my life, however, I am a hermit; it is a matter of my deepest inner truth as well as outer expression and even canonical standing; this means that I have and will always live illness and pain as challenging but integral parts of eremitical life. I think all the hermits I know, but especially those with chronic illnesses, feel essentially the same way about this.

Touching the Wounds of Christ: Proclaiming a Power Perfected in Weakness (Reprise)

(Please note that while I am writing about eremitical and consecrated life in this article because of the questions posed, most of what I am writing here is completely applicable to lives transformed by and living the consecration of baptism. Similarly, while I am referring explicitly to chronic illness the same dynamics can apply to many aspects of our lives whether or not one is chronically ill.)

[[Dear Sister, if a person is chronically ill then isn't their illness a sign that "the world" of sin and death are still operating in [i.e., dominating] their lives?  . . . I have always thought that to become a religious one needed to be in good health. Has that also changed with canon 603? I don't mean that someone has to be perfect to become a nun or hermit but shouldn't they at least be in good health? Wouldn't that say more about the "heavenliness" of their vocation than illness? ]] (Combination of queries posed in several emails)

As I read these various questions one image kept recurring to me, namely, that of Thomas reaching out to touch the wounds of the risen Christ. I also kept thinking of a line from a homily my pastor (John Kasper, OSFS) gave about 7 years ago which focused on Carravagio's painting of this image; the line was,  "There's Another World in There!" It was taken in part from the artist and writer Jan Richardson's reflections on this painting and on the nature of the Incarnation. Richardson wrote:

[[The gospel writers want to make sure we know that the risen Christ was no ghost, no ethereal spirit. He was flesh and blood. He ate. He still, as Thomas discovered, wore the wounds of crucifixion. That Christ’s flesh remained broken, even in his resurrection, serves as a powerful reminder that his intimate familiarity and solidarity with us, with our human condition, did not end with his death. . . Perhaps that’s what is so striking about Caravaggio’s painting: it stuns us with the awareness of how deeply Christ was, and is, joined with us. The wounds of the risen Christ are not a prison: they are a passage. Thomas’ hand in Christ’s side is not some bizarre, morbid probe: it is a  union, and a reminder that in taking flesh, Christ wed himself to us.]] Living into the Resurrection

Into the Wound, Jan L Richardson

My response then must really begin with a series of questions to you. Are the Risen Christ's wounds a sign that sin and death are still "operating in" him or are they a sign that God has been victorious over these --- and victorious not via an act of force but through one of radical vulnerability, compassion, and solidarity? Are his wounds really a passage to "another world" or are they signs of his bondage to and defeat by the one which contends with him and the Love he represents? Do you believe that our world is at least potentially sacramental or that heaven (eternal life in the sovereign love of God) and this world interpenetrate one another as a result of Jesus' life, death, and resurrection or are they entirely separate from and opposed to one another? Even as I ask these questions I am aware that they may be answered in more than one way. In our own lives too, we may find that the wounds and scars of illness and brokenness witness more to the world of sin and death than they do to that of redemption and eternal life. They may represent a prison more than they represent a passage to another world.

Or not.

When I write about discerning an eremitical vocation and the importance of the critical transition that must be made from being a lone pious person living physical silence and solitude to essentially being a hermit living "the silence of solitude," I am speaking of a person who has moved from the prison of illness to illness as passage to another world through the redemptive grace of God. We cannot empower or accomplish such a transition ourselves. The transfiguration of our lives is the work of God. At the same time, the scars of our lives will remain precisely as an invitation to others to see the power of God at work in our weakness and in God's own kenosis (self-emptying). These scars become signs of God's powerful presence in our lives while the illness or woundedness become Sacraments of that same presence and power, vivid witnesses to the One who loves us in our brokenness and yet works continuously to bring life, wholeness, and meaning out of  death, brokenness, and absurdity.

To become a hermit (especially to be publicly professed as a Catholic hermit) someone suffering from chronic illness has to have made this transition. Their lives may involve suffering but the suffering has become a sacrament which attests less to itself  (and certainly not to an obsession with pain) but to the God who is a Creator-redeemer God. What you tend to see as an obstacle to living a meaningful profoundly prophetic religious or eremitical life seems to me to be a symbol of the heart of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. It also seems to me to remind us of the nature of "heavenliness" in light of the Ascension. Remember that one side of the salvation event we call the Christ is God's descent so that our world may be redeemed and entirely transformed into a new creation. But the other side of this Event is the Ascension where God takes scarred humanity and even death itself up into his own life --- thus changing the very nature of heaven (the sovereign life of God shared with others) in the process.

Far from being an inadequate witness to "heavenliness" our wounds can be the most perfect witness to God's sovereign life shared with us. Our God has embraced the wounds and scars of the world as his very own and not been demeaned, much less destroyed in the process. Conversely, for Christians, the marks of the crucifixion, as well therefore as our own illnesses, weaknesses and various forms of brokenness, are (or are meant to become) the quintessential symbols of a heaven which embraces our own lives and world to make them new. When this transformation occurs in the life of a chronically ill individual seeking to live eremitical life it is the difference between a life of one imprisoned in physical isolation, silence, and solitude, to that of one which breathes and sings "the silence of solitude." It is this song, this prayer, this magnificat that Canon 603 describes so well and consecrated life in all its forms itself represents.

Bowl patched with Gold

We Christians do not hide our woundedness then. We are not ashamed at the way life has marked and marred, bent and broken, spindled and mutilated us. But neither are woundedness or brokenness themselves the things we witness to. Instead it is the Sacrament God has made of our lives, the Love that does justice and makes whole that is the source of our beauty and our boasting. Jan Richardson also reminds us of this truth when she recalls Sue Bender's observations on seeing a mended Japanese bowl. [[“The image of that bowl,” she writes, “made a lasting impression. Instead of trying to hide the flaws, the cracks were emphasized — filled with silver. The bowl was even more precious after it had been mended.”]]  So too with our own lives: as Paul also said, "But we have this treasure in earthen vessels, so that the surpassing power will be of God and not from ourselves."  (2 Cor 4:7) It is the mended cracks, the wounds which were once prisons, the shards of a broken life now reconstituted entirely by the grace of God which reveal the very presence of heaven to those we meet.