Why does the Church Need Hermits? On the Journey of Existential Solitude and Jesus' Cry of Abandonment

[[Hi Sister, is the inner journey you speak about under the name "existential solitude" frightening? Maybe that's a weird question, but you have said that everyone hesitates to undertake this journey even though it is necessary in order to be truly human. Why is this form of solitude so scary, or why do people want to avoid it? You also said, My sense is that Vatican II gave us a more robust access to Scripture and to a Jesus whose humanity was rooted in faithful prayer (i.e., dialogue with God at every level of his being) and expressed in his active ministry and life with others, as well as in his regular turn to solitude. Both of these revealed Jesus' union with God and the nature of divinity and humanity. But if Jesus was rooted in prayer in this way and united with God, why did he cry out in abandonment on the cross? Did God really leave him, and if he did, then how did God raise him from the dead? I have never understood that or believed that God would abandon any of us, so how could he abandon his only begotten Son? The way I have felt about this is, if God could do that to Jesus, then what chance do any of us have?]]

These are all great questions, and difficult ones. They are questions I have struggled with myself, especially in light of my own recent experience of journeying to the depths of myself and there discovering both God and my deepest, truest self. I haven't asked the questions in the same way you have. What I said to myself was, if Jesus was entirely open and attentive to God (because that is what obedience means), and if he was open in this way even unto death on a cross (even unto sinful or godless death), how could he have not been aware of God's presence unless God truly turned away from him? And yet, how can Jesus reveal God is truly and most profoundly God With Us, if he is a God who abandons us in our sinfulness? I recognize there is paradox right at the heart of this experience of Jesus, but this didn't completely resolve my own questions --- especially as I made my own journey into the center of my Self and discovered the deep darkness and hunger there.

Thomas Merton once wrote, [[My brother, perhaps in my solitude I have become as it were an explorer for you, a searcher in realms which you are not able to visit -- except perhaps in the company of your psychologist. I have been summoned to explore a desert area of man's heart in which explanations no longer suffice, and in which one learns that only experience counts. An arid, rocky, dark land of the soul, sometimes illuminated by strange fires which men fear and peopled by spectres which men studiously avoid except in their nightmares. And in this area I have learned that one cannot truly know hope unless he has found out how like despair hope is.]] It was reflecting and meditating on that last sentence, and in conversations with my spiritual director exploring my own experience and the meaning of all that, that I came to an understanding of what Jesus' cry of abandonment both did and didn't mean.

After all, what does it mean to say that despair and hope are very like one another? This line of Merton's comments fascinated me precisely because of my own inner journey where, in the midst of darkness and anguish, I came to experience light and know hope in a new way. And yet, I also knew I had never felt abandoned by God, was never abandoned by God! So, how could Jesus have been? Was this also something Jesus' death and resurrection changed? Or, did God abandon Jesus and then come back to raise him from the depths of godforsakenness? (I admit, that last possibility didn't make theological sense to me!) Was Jesus' cry of dereliction like my own cry in the darkness of despair or near despair? Did he discover God there in that dark and anguished journey to the depths as I had recently done? But I knew that Jesus' cry was from a darker and more anguished and godforsaken place than my own could ever be precisely because Jesus had made that journey before me, and for that reason, because he implicated God in even that godless place/space/time, I truly never had experienced abandonment by God.

And this still left me wondering what abandonment meant in Jesus' cry. If he was abandoned by God, then how had God raised him from godless death? How could Jesus continue to "exist" at all? And if God continued to hold Jesus in existence in some way, then how could someone entirely open to God, as the scriptures tell us Jesus was, not sense God's presence? I won't multiply my questions further here. Needless to say, there were a number of them. So, I began at the beginning by looking up the Greek word for abandonment. What I discovered was that it is a composite word made up of three words: to leave, as in forsaken; down, as in (experiencing) defeat or hopelessness; and in, as in (left in) a set of hostile circumstances. When I put these together, I saw that "abandoned" meant "left in a hopeless set of hostile circumstances" or better, God "failed to rescue" Jesus from these circumstances. Abandonment thus meant the absence of rescue. And then I remembered several examples of someone loving me precisely in NOT rescuing me from terrible circumstances. One of these involved a story I believe I have told here before regarding my major theology teacher and a group of us undergraduates.

John Dwyer once said, "If I see you (any of you students) doing something stupid, I will not stop you! The majors among us looked bewilderedly at one another and asked, "But he loves us! How could he not rescue us??!!" John saw all this and went on, "If you are impaired in some way, yes, I will intervene, but if you are just making a stupid decision, I will not stop you!" He continued, "Let me be clear. I will always be there for you, and I will do what I can to help you both before and afterwards, but I will not rescue you from your decisions." It took me years to learn that this was what genuine love looked like!! It took me even longer to see this as the key to understanding Jesus' cry of abandonment.

Jesus "set his face toward Jerusalem". He took step after fateful step toward the authorities' violent reactions and subsequent actions as he continued to proclaim his Father's kingdom. His prayer in Gethsemane asked his Father if there wasn't another way, and, I believe that in response, his Abba asked him to continue acting with integrity,  choosing to discern and continue his vocation step by step, wherever those steps led him; I also believe he promised Jesus he would be with him -- for that was also his will. Jesus' Abba promised to reveal himself fully as Emmanuel (God with us), and Jesus continued to act with integrity and trust in his Abba's promises. God did NOT promise to rescue Jesus from the hostile circumstances his integrity led him to face. Quite the contrary. And in the very depths of Jesus' journey into the darkest absence of being and meaning, life and love, God was there. But Jesus' question in the Garden was also sharpened there on the cross: why can't you pluck me out of this situation? Why HAVEN'T you rescued me? How will you vindicate me and, more importantly, my proclamation of the truth of your Reign, your sovereignty, if sinful, godless death is allowed to win out? Don't you see, godless death is swallowing me up!! I have nothing whatsoever left to give!! My God (not the more intimate, Abba!), why haven't you rescued me? 

I don't think there is any sense that Jesus felt God turning away in a failure to love him -- and usually, it seems to me, that is what we mean when we speak of being abandoned by someone, namely, they failed or ceased to love us adequately or appropriately. God did not rescue Jesus from the depths of the darkness and anguish of his journey into godless, sinful death, but neither did he cease loving him profoundly and effectively. Neither did Jesus, for his part, close himself off from God (or from the depths of darkness and anguish). Jesus remained wholly open to God, and God continued to accompany him as Emmanuel into the farthest, most alien land we know. Here is the paradox. In his moment of deepest distress and even despair or near-despair, God was there and would bring consolation and life out of it all -- though not immediately or in the way we tend to expect or desire, perhaps. And this dark, even horrific, journey that Jesus made was made for God's sake and for ours. Indeed, it was the most human journey we are each called to make, the journey of inner or existential solitude where what seems infinitely dark and empty of either being or meaning to us, is also the place where we discover the presence of God, and so, a hope that is capable of sustaining and enlivening us in unimaginable ways.

We often want to be rescued from circumstances, and we cry out to God and others when this occurs, but God does not promise us rescue in the usual sense people mean this, I think. God's rescue means to give us the space to be ourselves and experience the consequences of our decisions (along with the consequences of others' decisions and actions as well, whether these are loving or unloving), and it means he will accompany us there. God's rescue means giving life and meaning to our circumstances, sometimes immediately, often eventually, or even only ultimately. God's rescue means transfiguring our darkness and anguish into sources of grace and hope, life and love, confidence and trust. He does this with his Mysterious presence, a presence we may not always be aware of and can never "comprehend". One point is incontrovertible: God cannot do this if he simply lifts us out of these circumstances and drops us into what is really some (or no) other person's life. That, as I eventually learned from John Dwyer's comments that day in that moral theology class, and from my spiritual director and others, for instance, would not really be loving.

The journey Jesus made, from birth right on up to Golgotha and beyond, was thoroughly human. Yes, in many ways, it was also the journey that human sin colored and made necessary. It was the journey of existential solitude, the journey we each make throughout life as we embrace death in all of its many degrees, forms, and faces so that God might redeem these with and in his life and love. Though you didn't ask about this, Merton understood that hermits (and monks and nuns more generally) make this inner journey in a way most do not because they choose and commit their lives to doing so!** They make this choice so that they might experience genuine hope rooted in God and the Christ Event for the sake of God's Kingdom and Gospel. Doctrine, per se, while important, is not enough for the life of the Body of Christ. Interpretations of the cross by others are a critical start, but what is essential if one is to really witness to the truth of the Gospel to others, and bring them to genuine hope, is the truth of our own experience -- even, and perhaps especially when that experience is one of journeying into the shadow of death and despair or near-despair. Recently, I said to my director, "I would not wish this particular journey on anyone, and yet, what I have come to as a result of this very journey, I want for everyone!" 

I think that too is reflected in Merton's comments cited above and in the following continuation of those comments, The language of Christianity has been so used and so misused that sometimes [we] distrust it: [we] don't know whether behind the word 'Cross' there stands the experience of mercy and salvation, or only the threat of punishment. If my word means anything to you, I can say that I have experienced the Cross to mean mercy and not cruelty, truth and not deception: that the news of the truth and love of Jesus is indeed the good news, but in our time it speaks out in strange places. Recently, as I think you refer to, I wrote about hermits under c 603 as pioneers and explorers. What hermits explore is the realm of existential solitude, and that brings with it both great suffering and ineffable joy. We do this because our experience here undergirds and verifies the Church's proclamation of the Gospel. We do this for her, as well as for ourselves and for the entire world. 

One person recently also asked me if I knew what I was committing myself to when I made my perpetual eremitical profession and accepted consecration. I have to say, no, not clearly. Maybe hardly at all. It never occurred to me that the darknesses and anguished places I explored along this journey could truly benefit anyone -- sometimes not even myself -- yet now I know that in that "strange place" occasioned by trauma and serious and chronic illness, that place where I faced despair and the desire for death straight on while yearning almost beyond words for life and wholeness, is a privileged place where I met God (and my truest self) and was granted the hope, joy, and healing that such an encounter brings. THAT is the journey of existential solitude, and it is also the heart of Paul's theology of the Cross that I, in my youthful "naivete", once told Abp Vigneron I wanted to explore and understand completely. 

I know this doesn't answer all of your questions, but it is already quite long, and I hope it is a good start. May the peace of Christ be with you!!

** Consider what every Benedictine affirms as their primary motivation when they enter a monastery. They declare they are here "to seek God". They do this, not because they do not know God or because God has "gone missing" from the larger world, but because they do not know themselves or God as well or as profoundly as they are called to, and because the monastery (or hermitage) is a privileged place to pursue such intimate knowing. It is this journey of existential solitude, a journey in search of fullness of life and hope rooted in God, that they enter to pursue. So too with every hermit under c 603.

Does God Send or Choose Suffering for Us?

[[Dear Sister Laurel, do you believe God chose for you to experience the trauma you wrote about yesterday? Some people affirm that God chooses the pain they experience or the difficulties they have. I understand how that seems to make sense of things for them but for me it makes God something of a sadist. Maybe that's a bit strong but I think you know what I mean. Anyhow, do you think God chose the trauma you referred to so that you would become a hermit?]]

I have answered questions similar to this before, not about the trauma I referred to yesterday, but  in general and perhaps in reference to the chronic illness/pain I deal with daily. You might look at, On Bearing the Crosses That Come Our Way. Other posts on the Theology of the Cross during the same time frame (@Aug. 2008) may also address this topic. My position on this has not changed but your questions take this position in a somewhat different direction than I may have taken in the past.

First, my foundational credo on suffering: I believe that God willed me and wills each of us to know God's love in whatever situation in which we find ourselves. I believe profoundly that God never abandons us --- even when others do. I believe that to whatever extent suffering is part of our lives because of the brokenness and distortion of our world (because most forms of suffering** are the result of the sin or estrangement from God which afflicts our world), our God will be there offering (his) comfort, encouragement, and empowerment --- even when we do not recognize the nature or the source of these things as we find ways to continue to live our lives and be our truest selves.  I do not believe that God wills suffering, sends suffering, or somehow manipulates our lives and responses with suffering so that we might answer this vocation or that one. As I affirmed in the post linked above, God does not send us the crosses that come our way, but he does send us into a world full of them so that, through (his) grace, we may redeem them, and he certainly commissions us to carry those that come our way.

When I look at my own life I recognize that some of the pivotal circumstances of that life along with the life/love of God that dwelt and dwells at the core of my being together gradually created the heart of a hermit. But as I also noted, I could have lived that truth as a religious doing theology in the academy, working in a hospital chaplaincy program or in full time spiritual direction, as well as in a hermitage. I don't believe God created me to be a hermit, but I do believe God created me to be the fullest version of myself I could possibly be, that (he) continually worked to shape my heart, and when it began to look like a hermitage might be a place living my truth could happen, the shaping God had done helped me to perceive the promise of this way of life despite my own prejudices against it. (He) helped me listen to my heart, to the profound questions and yearning that resided there and to appreciate the way eremitical life might answer these beyond ordinary imagining. On the other hand, had I not discovered the possibilities or even the contemporary existence and meaningfulness of this vocation, I am certain God's shaping of my heart and movement within it would have empowered my recognizing and embracing another way to live the truth of who I am.

Whatever sense we make of suffering it is important that we do not truncate a theology of human freedom or a theology of Divine goodness and mercy in the process. I don't think your use of the term sadist is necessarily too strong in reference to a God who sends suffering or makes us suffer. Manipulative might be a better fit in some cases, but in either instance, the willing or sending of suffering is unworthy of the God of Jesus Christ who is Love-in-Act. Always God calls us to the fullness of human existence. What God ALWAYS wills is human life in abundance. When suffering comes our way God will accompany us and love us in a way which can prevent suffering from being ultimately destructive ("all things work for the good in those who love God," Romans 8:28), but this is far far different from sending or willing suffering.

I hope this is helpful.

** N.B., There are four forms of suffering that are "natural" or "existential"; that is, they belong to the human condition itself without reference to sin. Douglas John Hall outlines them in his book, God and Human Suffering. These are loneliness, anxiety, temptation, and limits. Loneliness underlies our hunger for love or the completion that comes to us in the other; it points to the dialogical nature of our very being. Anxiety is part of our need for security, peace, and the ultimate comfort of and communion with God. Temptation allows us to grow and mature in expressing our human dignity, to develop into persons of character, while limits are part of our drive for and achievement of transcendence; limits open us to surprise, to dreaming, to wonder and joy. There are also pathological and sinful versions of these forms of suffering but Hall is not speaking of these here.

More Questions: Does God Will ANY Suffering?

[[Dear Sister O'Neal. Again, thanks for your response. It is clear you don't believe God causes chronic illness, nor that he actively wills it. Do you believe that ANY suffering is the will of God?]]

Actually, I do believe that God wills some suffering. This would include forms of suffering that are simply part and parcel of being (or becoming) authentically human on and in their journey towards union with God. Such a journey involves struggle and struggle involves suffering. For instance, loneliness would be a form of suffering I think God wills because it causes us to be open to others, to our own sense that we are not isolated or non-relational monads. It also underscores the gift quality of the love relationships we share in; these are not things which are necessary (in the technical sense of that word). That is, they might not have been and in fact they might not be again. Above all this "existential" or "ontological" loneliness marks us a made in the image of the Triune God, relational and made for love in all aspects of our being --- solitary (eremitical) as our lives might also be.

I think that some non-pathological forms of anxiety are normal and willed by God, not only because such anxiety marks us as incomplete and finite of ourselves and also opens us to those things which bring comfort and actual joy, but because we find creative outlets for it. The peace of Christ is not the numbness that can come with drugs or other forms of artificial distraction, etc. It includes a kind of anxiety, a yearning for more, a sense of being made-for more and challenged to embrace it. Similarly, temptation is part and parcel of the human situation (temptation is clearly present in Scripture prior to sin) and leads either to sin or to self-transcendence. Of itself temptation is neutral but it can serve life and spiritual maturity.

Even death itself (the greatest cause of anxiety) is intended by God. But this is, as I referred to in my earlier post, death-as-transition, not sinful, godless, death-unto-oblivion. We are made for eternity. It is death as limit (and this includes all the limits of contingent being we meet each and every day) that reminds us we have but one life which we are called to live and in which we are called to achieve authentic humanity. We are made for eternity, and God sustains us eternally, but growth into authentic graceful humanity is a task we have only a limited time to complete. We need the spur of death to put things into perspective, to remind us who God is and who he is for us, who we really are and what the ultimate challenge before us is. But note well here that ordinary death does not call attention to itself, it does not serve itself. (Sinful death is a different matter.) Ordinary transitional death witnesses to the eternal "more" or fullness and abundant life we are called to. This is true with each of the forms of "existential" suffering I have referred to here. None of them call attention to themselves. They all witness to something other and more than suffering itself. They are life-serving and it is this that predominates.

What I think we cannot do is make a religion out of suffering. Our experience of the God of life and wholeness, the God who enters our existence exhaustively, must be what puts suffering in perspective, not vice versa. The living God can use suffering and transform it with his presence, but he does not wield it like a weapon nor does he send it directly; some of it it is built into the situation and structure of human life and is necessary for growth and development in authenticity and maturity. Other suffering is the result of sin and evil per se and we especially cannot trivialize this by minimizing its reality as evil and an example of the absurd. Especially we cannot attribute such evil to God. Ultimately, as those who proclaim the Gospel of the God of Jesus Christ however, our witness is to be to life, to wholeness and holiness, and to all the ways God empowers transcendence, not to suffering per se whether that suffering is existential or the result of sin.