On the relationship of Chronic Illness to Eremitical Solitude

 

[[Dear Sister Laurel, it seems to me that your insistence that eremitical solitude is not a matter of isolation but an experience of community has close ties with the way you experience chronic illness. I realized recently that isolation is a key problem for those with chronic illness and was led to your blog. As a result of my reading I wondered if you have been sensitized to the relationship of isolation to solitude by both chronic illness and eremitical life? Do you ever think about the way these two pieces of your vocation are related?  Assuming you do, have you ever wondered if your own chronic illness has led to an illegitimate conclusion about the relationship of isolation and solitude in eremitical life?]]

Wow! Really excellent observations and questions! Definitely make me want to ask you about your own background  (psychology, theology, spirituality, etc). Thank you. I would answer all of your questions in the affirmative except the last one about an illegitimate conclusion. That one I would argue has to be answered in the negative. In one way and another I have thought about the relationship between isolation and solitude and the way chronic illness is related to eremitical life not just occasionally but in an ongoing way for the last 50 years!

While both my own chronic illness and eremitical life sensitized me to the relationship between isolation and solitude and their distinction from one another, they did so in a mutually illustrative way. Moreover, it was precisely my move to eremitical solitude which represented a final move from the isolation of chronic illness to solitude itself. This move from isolation to solitude, something which comes with and requires growth and healing in an ongoing way, is part of the redemptive experience I have said is necessary in discerning an eremitical vocation --- at least it is part of the redemptive experience at the heart of my own eremitical vocation! If eremitical life is about isolation rather than solitude, or if these two things are not distinguishable, then eremitical solitude would have increased the isolation associated with chronic illness and could in no way have been redemptive for me. It has done just the opposite. Because of this, because the fruit of eremitical life actually was the redemption of isolation associated with a medically and surgically intractable seizure disorder couple with a Regional Complex Pain Syndrome, I have been able to move back and forth in my own reflection on eremitical solitude, between solitude's nature and quality, the ways the isolation of this illness can be redeemed, and also the idea of chronic illness as (potential eremitical) vocation. These three elements especially are interwoven in my thought and writing.

 Originally I dealt only with chronic illness and the tension between my own need and desire to be part of ordinary life in the ways "everyone else" supposedly is. I was educated in systematic theology and had prepared to teach and otherwise minister in the Church and Academy but could not because of chronic illness. Eventually, because of my engagement with theology (especially Paul's theology of the cross and a strong theology of language or theological linguistics), my work in spiritual direction, reflection on Scripture (especially Paul and Mark), and my own prayer, I came to think about chronic illness as vocation. The heart of the gospel message I heard was: "My grace is sufficient for you, my power is made perfect in weakness!" (2 Cor 12:9) In 1983 canon 603 was published as part of the Revised Code of Canon Law and that triggered some more thought while it led me to the idea not just of chronic illness as vocation but as a potential vocation to eremitical life. In all of this I was looking at the way a person who is chronically ill is searching for ways to live a meaningful life and see their life as one of genuine value. When illness prevents so much, especially meaningful ways of giving of oneself and living community, what does one do? How can one look at things and find meaning? How can one be who one is most deeply called to be? Does chronic illness need to prevent one finding and living the answers to these questions?

After some time living an experiment in eremitical life I decided I had discovered the context for living my own vocation to authentic humanity. It was here I began thinking and praying in a more focused way about the distinction between solitude and isolation. I realized more and more that the two were different and was beginning to see more clearly that eremitical solitude (only one kind of solitude afterall) might, in fact, represent the redemption of isolation -- both generally and for me specifically. Out of this experience came a number of strands of thought: physical v inner solitude (a perennial distinction in the thought of every hermit), stereotypes of eremitical life, the distinction between validating and redeeming isolation, the way God alone is sufficient for us --- what this means and does not mean, becoming the Word of God, person as question and God as completing answer, relinquishing discrete gifts for the gift one is made to be by God, the necessity of a redemptive experience at the heart of one's eremitical life in discerning such vocations, the communal nature of solitude, the indispensable place of spiritual direction in eremitical life, and especially the silence of solitude as context, goal, and charism of eremitical  life. At the heart of all of these is the redemptive activity of God and especially the way the grace of God transforms isolation into solitude and renders chronic illness and the life touched by chronic illness richly meaningful and profoundly humanized. Illness raised the existential question of meaning for me; Eremitical life proved to be the context mediating God's own answer to that question --- the answer that God alone can be for every person.

Because of all of this I would have to say that chronic illness has led me to understand some things about eremitical life I might not have appreciated as much otherwise. I believe chronic illness has thus been a gift which sensitized me to dynamics inherent in the hermit vocation, not only the nature of eremitical solitude as an experience of community and the way it cannot be used to validate misanthropy and isolation from others, but also the way the person we become through God's love is the gift we bring to the Church in place of discrete gifts and talents we may have to give up or leave unrealized. At the same time chronic illness is part of the way God has shaped my own heart into the heart of a hermit. Far from agreeing that it has led me to an illegitimate conclusion re the relationship between isolation and solitude. I believe it prepared me to raise the question in a particularly urgent and acute way while opening me to the answer embodied in or represented by eremitical life.

I suspect you were not looking for such an autobiographical answer, and to be sure, I could have outlined my answer in a less personal way; however, I really have been living the question and the answer in one way and another through the whole of my adult life. I sincerely hope this is helpful!

The Essence of Prayer : Living in the Name of the One we call Abba (Reprise of an Advent Post)

With Lent's focus on Prayer, today's Gospel asks us to look again at the model or paradigm of all Christian prayer, the Lord's Prayer. After all, it summarizes what Jesus' vocation was all about, how he prayed, how he lived, what had priority for him, and what, by extension, constitutes Christian existence. Learning to pray this prayer is not a one-time task, and recitation of it is not without risks and challenges. Instead, we are invited to learn to pray as Jesus did, to pour ourselves into its petitions, day by day and "layer" of self by layer of self. It calls us, and provides a concrete way, to allow our hearts and lives to be shaped as Jesus' was --- first by the Kingdom or sovereignty of God, and then (and only then) by our own. Yes, it teaches us to pray rightly, but more, it initiates us into a life of prayer; more correctly said perhaps, it molds and shapes us into the very prayers we are called to BE. (I am convinced that the admonition to "pray always" is a statement of the purpose of human life, and that prayer is not only an activity we are to undertake, but something we are to become. When we call Jesus "the Word made Flesh," we really are calling him an incarnate prayer, a Word event whose whole being glorifies (reveals and allows God to be) God in space and time.)

One of the things that comes up again and again is just how deceptively familiar the prayer is for us. We recite it daily, sometimes several times a day; and yet, almost every petition holds surprises for us. We simply don't know what the words mean or what they summon us to. The invocation is a particularly striking example. Luke's version of the prayer has simply, "Pater" (or "Abba"), while Matthew's has the more litugically suited and formed, "Our Father, who Art in Heaven!" Some people in parishes have problems calling God "Father," because they treat the word as a metaphor, and as an instance of human patriarchy or paternalism writ-very-large. Others love that God is called "abba, pater" because it apotheosizes or raises to divine level their own patriarchal pretensions. And yet, both groups have gotten something very basic wrong, namely, the invocation to the Lord's Prayer is not merely a metaphor describing divinity's "paternalness" --- one characteristic among others including maternalness. It is instead a NAME, and as a name it is symbol, not merely metaphor, and it FUNCTIONS as a name does. It symbolizes the whole reality of the person, not just those characteristics we know, but the profound mystery the person is. The Lord's Prayer begins with the revelation of and permission to invoke God BY NAME even if Matt's elaborate formulation obscures this for English readers. In Christ we are allowed, and in fact, empowered by the Holy Spirit, to call upon God as Abba, where Abba is a personal word of address which does far less to describe God than it does to give him a personal place to stand in our world and in our hearts.

We will miss this though, if we do not move beyond the prayer's familiarity and merely treat the invocation as a description of or metaphor for God. Remember, for instance, that the word "Abba" is in the vocative case, the case used for direct address. Remember that Jesus used the term "Abba" with a unique intimacy and familiarity, not as a description of God, but as direct address and name. Remember that his usage was unprecedented in Palestinian Judaism (Judiasm of the diaspora was somewhat different), not only because Jews tended to avoid referring to God as Abba (pagans did that all the time!), or because using Abba as a name and speaking it directly was too presumptuous (Divine names were not spoken or even written out), but also because the times they did refer to God as Father, it was in a collective sense and more metaphor or descriptor than name. Remember too that in Matt's day people LONGED to know both the REAL Name of God, and that their prayer was truly effective. So desperate were they for access to the real God that they stood on street corners reading from magic papyri which listed every known name of God. When Matthew warns us about using empty words in our prayers this is the practice he is referring to, a practice driven by the need to know and invoke God by name --- a need to pray with genuine authority and power, a need to allow and experience God's personal presence in all its ineffableness.

But, along comes Jesus with his unique relationship with this One he calls by name as Abba, thus addressing God with an unheard of familiarity and intimacy. He speaks, lives, and teaches with a new kind of authority. To put it plainly, Jesus is on a first name basis with God; he speaks in the NAME of God. Their relationship is unique and the exchanges between them equally so. When we attend to his prayer, we see that Jesus calls upon God BY NAME as "Abba, Father." He gives this One a personal place to stand in the world in the way only invocation can do, invocation in both narrower and broader senses: that is, addressing or calling upon another by name and living one's life in the name of that other implicating them in all one is and does. Jesus reveals (makes real in space and time) a new Name for God. God is no longer known simply the One who will be who he will be [ehyeh asher ehyeh, YHWH]; he is Abba, and the One whom he will be is revealed definitively in Christ in terms of unfathomable love and mercy. By extension, Christians are those marked by this name, who, through the adoption of baptism live within its power and presence, who "call upon" or invoke God in this way. It is the symbol or name marking our vocation in this world, just as it marked that of Jesus.

As I have written here before, the life of Christian prayer is a life of invocation. The task before us and which we reflect on anew each Lent is to learn and embrace what it means to live as those who call upon and live life in the Name of another --- and not just any other, but the One Jesus revealed as "Abba, Father." The Lord's Prayer initiates us into this life, and the first line, the only non-petition in the entire prayer, embodies or symbolizes the whole of this vocation. It is both invitation and challenge: not only to take this Name upon our lips, but to glorify the name of God with our lives, to become those who truly are adopted daughters and sons of the One we call Abba, Father.

The Lord's Prayer: Initiation into a life of Invocation (brief)

With Advent nearing I am looking afresh at the Lord's Prayer. After all, it summarizes what Jesus' vocation was all about, how he prayed, how he lived, what had priority for him, and what, by extension, constitutes Christian existence. Learning to pray this prayer is not a one-time task, and recitation of it is not without risks and challenges. Instead, we are invited to learn to pray as Jesus did, to pour ourselves into its petitions, day by day and "layer" of self by layer of self. It calls us, and provides a concrete way, to allow our hearts and lives to be shaped as Jesus' was. Yes, it teaches us to pray rightly, but more, it initiates us into a life of prayer; more correctly said perhaps, it molds and shapes us into the very prayers we are called to BE. (I am convinced that the admonition to "pray always" is a statement of the purpose of human life, and that prayer is not only an activity we are to undertake, but something we are to become. When we call Jesus "the Word made Flesh," we really are calling him an incarnate prayer, a Word event whose whole being glorifies (reveals and allows God to be) God in space and time.)


One of the things that comes up again and again is just how deceptively familiar the prayer is for us. We recite it daily, sometimes several times a day; and yet, almost every petition holds surprises for us. We simply don't know what the words mean or what they summon us to. The invocation is a particularly striking example. Luke's version of the prayer has simply, "Pater" (or "Abba"), while Matthew's has the more litugically suited and formed, "Our Father, who Art in Heaven!" Some people in parishes have problems calling God "Father," because they treat the word as a metaphor, and as an instance of human patriarchy or paternalism writ-very-large. Others love that God is called "abba, pater" because it apotheosizes or raises to divine level their own patriarchal pretensions. And yet, both groups have gotten something very basic wrong, namely, the invocation to the Lord's Prayer is not merely a metaphor describing divinity's "paternalness" --- one characteristic among others including maternalness. It is instead a NAME, and as a name it is symbol, not merely metaphor, and it FUNCTIONS as a name does. The Lord's Prayer begins with the revelation of and permission to invoke God BY NAME even if Matt's elaborate formulation obscures this for English readers. In Christ we are allowed, and in fact, empowered by the Holy Spirit, to call upon God as Abba, where Abba is a personal word of address which does far less to describe God than it does to give him a personal place to stand in our world.

We will miss this though, if we do not move beyond the prayer's familiarity and treat the invocation as a description of or metaphor for God. Remember, for instance, that the word "Abba" is in the vocative case, the case used for direct address. Remember that Jesus used the term "Abba" with a unique intimacy and familiarity, not as a description of God, but as direct address and name. Remember that his usage was unprecedented in Palestinian Judaism (Judiasm of the diaspora was somewhat different), not only because Jews tended to avoid referring to God as Abba (pagans did that all the time!), or because using Abba as a name and speaking it directly was too presumptuous (Divine names were not spoken or even written out), but also because the times they did refer to God as Father, it was in a collective sense and more metaphor or descriptor than name. Remember too that in Matt's day people LONGED to know both the REAL Name of God, and that their prayer was truly effective. So desperate were they that they stood on street corners reading from magic papyri which listed every known name of God. When Matthew warns us about using empty words in our prayers this is the practice he is referring to, a practice driven by the need to know and invoke God by name --- a need to pray with genuine authority and power.

But, along comes Jesus with his unique relationship with this One he calls by name as Abba, thus addressing God with an unheard of familiarity and intimacy. He speaks, lives, and teaches with a new kind of authority. To put it plainly, Jesus is on a first name basis with God; he speaks in the NAME of God. Their relationship is unique and the exchanges between them equally so. When we attend to his prayer, we see that Jesus calls upon God BY NAME as "Abba, Father." He gives this One a personal place to stand in the world in the way only invocation can do, invocation in both narrower and broader senses: that is, addressing or calling upon another by name and living one's life in the name of that other implicating them in all one is and does. Jesus reveals (makes real in space and time) a new Name for God. God is no longer simply the One who will be (present with us as) who he will be (present with us) [ehyeh asher ehyeh, YHWH]; he is Abba, and the One whom he will be is revealed definitively in Christ. By extension, Christians are those marked by this name, who, through the adoption of baptism live within its power and presence, who "call upon" or invoke God in this way. It is the symbol or name marking our vocation in this world, just as it marked that of Jesus.

As I have written here before, the life of Christian prayer is a life of invocation. The task before us and which we reflect on anew each Advent is to learn and embrace what it means to live as those who call upon and live life in the Name of another --- and not just any other, but the One Jesus revealed as "Abba, Father." The Lord's Prayer initiates us into this life, and the first line, the only non-petition in the entire prayer, embodies or symbolizes the whole of this vocation. It is both invitation and challenge: not only to take this Name upon our lips, but to glorify the name of God with our lives, to become those who truly are adopted daughters and sons of the One we call Abba, Father.