As the son of wealthy parents, St. Francis observed first-hand the ways in which an attachment to money and to keeping up social appearances could pinch off our natural capacity to live full out.
He saw non-attachment to worldly wealth (and worldly things in general) as a key to being available to the Spirit’s presence within us and he knew that purity of heart was essential for living in the fullness of eternal life.
He also knew that experiencing detachment and purity was possible for the human. He knew we could overcome the false self and its endemic tendency to let the love of money overtake our attention at the expense of bringing our totality to our belonging to God. He said, “Above all the grace and the gifts that Christ give to his beloved is that of overcoming self.” What words could reflect greater divine optimism?!
Put in slightly different words, we could take his proclamation to mean we are able to overcome our false selves because of the Christ within.
St. Francis’ passion for detachment was broad, reaching into the crevasses of all things that had a hinted of being of the world. He stated that one “has not given up all things to God” if one keeps the “purse” of their own opinions. He asked us to recognize the importance of surrendering our opinions about the world and about ourselves. To do so, we must be willing to admit that the conclusions we’ve drawn about the world and about ourselves may be wrong or incomplete.
In today’s world, many of us are attached to our worldview and prefer that it not be challenged. This inflexible attachment to keeping our opinions intact has led to the decline of listening. The art of conversation has dwindled. No longer do people say, “I never saw it that way; do tell me more.” Some of us are no longer intrigued by a novel idea nor curious about unexplored territories.
It is not unusual for us to be strongly invested in viewing the world only the way we want to view it. We can see only what we want to see in large measure because of the intensity of our desire for the world to be the way we imagine it to be.
None of this needs to be a cause for shame. Shame is optional. We need only look to people whose worldviews have dramatically changed from one moment in their lives to another, to celebrate the possibility of adopted a point of view when confusion or cognitive dissonance requires one. Saul’s encounter with Jesus and Malcolm X’s week on a retreat with Caucasian brothers and sisters both serve as examples of dramatic, sudden pivots in perspective, both of them opening way for a life of greater nobility and Servanthood.
A Course of Love illuminates the dynamics that may be at play, dynamics that are ever-present and may be exacerbated in this era.: “The mind so hates to be confused, to be open, and to not know.” The text continues:
“It desires anchors to hold it in one spot, and held there suffers the pounding of the sea of change, resists the current . . . The mind will always return to where it feels safe and sure of itself and so it goes nowhere and sees not transformation, or creation, or the new horizon that would defy its reality.” [C:I.4]
When we are attached to our opinions about the nature of the world and our self-image, when we insist that we are right about this matter or that perception, we are not overcoming the false self but rather we are forfeiting the gift Christ within is always willing to give us.
When we decide that no questions are to be entertained vis a vis our own understanding of the world, especially when we do so with 100% intensity, we turn our map of the world into false idols. This leads to stigmatization, ostracization, and demonization of those whose view differs even slightly from the false idol (from our understanding of the truth).
Saul, a.k.a. St. Paul, thought he was doing the “right” thing when he left Jerusalem intending to arrest Jesus’ followers. He very quickly released his long-held interpretation of the world, his never-previously-questioned understanding of who Jesus was and changed his life trajectory after encountering the glorified light of the ascended Jesus. No longer was he bent on capturing the first Christians.
In contrast to Saul, Albert Speer, the architect for Hitler, in his memoirs titled Inside the Third Reich, provides us with an example of someone who excused himself from needing to ask questions about his engagements with the world. He saw attributed responsibility for all of the doings of the Third Reich to other leaders of the Third Reich and saw his own engagement limited to his role as architect.
His internal story, centered around his identity as architect and as a German, crowded out any space for his relationship with the Divine. His inner conversation from one day to the next fell within the parameters of “this is what a good architect does” and “this is what a good German does.” The story he lived with as the reference point from which he came was inadequate for helping him to reflect on his life and actions. It didn’t push him to question the narrative, nor did it provide a scaffolding from which to do so.
When our self-understanding is limited to job title and nationality, something’s missing, something central. At the core of each one of us is our authenticity, our relationship with the Cosmos. An objective rehearsal of Speer’s life can only conclude that Speer didn’t discover his authentic self.
When we see ourselves as part of the whole, each of us a bead on a necklace, our stories are less likely to include superiority of one bead over another. If Speer’s story had been influenced by the image of all people as part of the body of Christ consciousness or by an image of all people as jewels on Indra’s net, each jewel reflecting every other jewel on the net, his story might not have served him so well in covering up his engagements with the world and their consequences., or would he have been more likely to sense that something was off, perhaps not just “off”, maybe even more than “off”, but unacceptable.
We could say that we live our lives in a dark room with a story, the story serving as our flashlight. If we are like Speer, we might be holding the flashlight in such that a way that a chair is illuminated but nothing else. We do not know what it is we are not seeing. An adequate story is one that provides a larger flashlight that illuminates more of the room.
The journey from being stuck to mutability
I wondered what might have Speer’s life experience might have been like if he had overcome his self-deception and taken ownership of his wrongdoing.
I decided to interview this imaginary Speer, this Speer whose memoires might have been entitled “Leaving the Third Reich” instead of “Inside the Third Reich.”
I wanted to ask this imaginary Speer about what served as the bridge from seeing himself as innocent despite his awareness of what the Third Reich was doing to a less distorted view of his engagements with the world. (In the Nurenberg trial, Speer always said the he devoted none of his attention to anything beyond the scope of his role as architect, leaving all other matters to Hitler. And while this may (or may not) be true on a granular level, Speer did know what nearly everyone on Earth knew at the time, viz., he knew that Jews were being taken to concentration camps.
I share a short excerpt from the interview here:
Speer:
Shortly after I got on the train, I dozed off. I hadn’t slept well the night before and I was tired to the bones.
I sort of woke up from my nap and looked out the train window. It was almost dusk, but I could make out a family off in the distance. Walking in the direction of the wind. They were far away so I couldn’t see their faces, just their profile. A man and a woman with two children in a sparsely populated part of Germany.
I found myself immediately wondering if they were Jewish and if they were trying to escape, if they were looking for a hiding place. I stayed awake for only a few minutes, but somewhere during that minute there was a subtle tug on my heart, a barely noticeable stirring or sympathy.
I dozed back into sleep and dreamed of the family being captured and being take to a train stop where a train was waiting for them.
It was odd. It was just that family. Not a crowd of people being herded onto a train. I think that’s what made it poignant and powerful for me. A real family. All of them loving and caring about one another.
When I woke up, I knew I couldn’t stay in the Third Riech. I had to leave no matter what. The cost didn’t matter.
Me:
And did you follow up accordingly or did you weasel out?
Speer:
I never saw Hitler again. But I didn’t have the courage to contact him. I started a letter and I couldn’t complete it. It was too much for my heart to tell him it was over.
For the first time in my life, I was spending time at home, I was more than a passing shadow. It was really awkward at first. I really didn’t know my children, or my wife, very well. And while I didn’t pick up on it at the time, looking back, it seems they weren’t interested in getting to know me.
I had devoted all my time and attention to my work for Hitler and my efforts to cultivate a friendship. They must have felt neglected, and for good reason. They must have had a huge grudge.
They’re out of the house now, all grown. So the tension of awkwardness has dissipated. But they come over rarely and I never impose on them when they’re leading their lives with their little children.
Me:
What feelings were present for you about the time you had spent in the Third Riech? How was it to go on living with that as a memory, as part of your life story, as your previous engagement with the world?
Speer:
I was troubled. The first few months were a time of disbelieve and sadness, maybe depression.
Then I met a spiritual director who was a godsend. He felt we needed to start with weekly meetings, so I met him at his church, he was also a priest, a Franciscan priest, and I was willing to meet with him even though I didn’t believe in God.
At first, I was completely disinterested, but he said it didn’t matter weather I believed in God or not. He would be happy to work with me either way. And he promised not to say anything about God, or Jesus, or divinity ever unless I asked him to. And then he went on to say he would introduce divinity to our conversation if he sensed I wasn’t genuine in my request for him to do so.
Those first weeks were all the same. He always held space for me to look unflinchingly at the one within me from the past, the one within me who wanted to befriend Hitler and was willing to be blind to what was going on in order to maintain his friendship.
We looked at the ugliness of this part of me, this voice in me, this face.
He told me we all have many voices, many faces. Later he told me most of our voices and faces are fabricated, not original, not organic, not true.
Most of our time together, we were both sending love to this one. After a few weeks, he invited me to see this one as a child and to kiss it.
And he began to give me homework assignments. Always the same homework assignment at first: to take a minute every day to let this one within me know I love him and to kiss his face no matter how ugly I thought it was.
Later, he added to the homework assignment. He wasn’t me to be open to the notion that the face might not be ugly but beautiful. It might be that I was seeing that face through a lens, a lens I needed to let go. So part two of my assignment was to just reflect on that possibility. Not to change. Just to reflect.
Me:
Are you still working with a spiritual director?
Speer:
Yes. My spiritual director moved and recommended someone else. She’s wonderful. We meet once a month. She supports me on my continued journey. It’s no longer about that moment in my life. That’s been healed. Love heals.
Me:
Is she very much like your first spiritual director?
Speer:
Yes and no. I guess all spiritual directors are basically the same. Holding space. Being open, vulnerable, listening compassionately. No agenda. They are like someone in a garden holding birdseed in their stretched-out hands. I’m a bird. I’m invited and welcome to come or not come. My new spiritual director has told me that I am absolutely welcome to take a few months off if I feel that might be best.
Me:
And how about the “No.” How is she different.
Speer:
My first spiritual director never worked with images in the same way my new spiritual director does.
Yes, my homework assignment involved visualization. I saw myself as a youngster and loved this one.
My new spiritual director has given me a new assignment. She says it’s entirely optional but I’ve chosen to work with it. I’ve been doing it only for a few days so I can’t say anything about its value or power.
I’m taking a minute or two to meditate on a star exploding in the universe. To wonder about the volume of power that might be needed to cause a star to explode. And to wonder about the nature of that power.
My spiritual director explained that she thinks this image might be a good image for me to start with. Another might replace it. And she’s invited me to be open to other, new images that can serve as a master image, or ruling image, or central image.
The image represents an aspect of the cosmos. In this case the power of the cosmos.
After I have spent a few minutes sitting, visualizing this, returning my thoughts to the question, “What if this same power with this same nature or qualities is in me?” I spend three or four minutes lying down for silent, quiet, integration.
There you have it. An imaginary interview with an historical figure. Dipping into “what if?” history, something I generally shy away from.
The imaginary story of Albert Speer as someone I met only once (when conducting this interview) continues. There’s one more piece to it.
I received a letter from Albert two years later:
If you’d like to interview me again, I’m game.
We could pick up where we left off. An interview about the last two years of my life.
I’ve developed an interest in the saints. I’m not interested in Jesus, nor in the church. Just the human saints. I can relate to them. They had their weaknesses.
Just yesterday I stumbled upon something St. Terese of Lisieux wrote to her sister Leonie:
Consider a small child who has vexed his mother by a display of bad temper or disobedience. If the child hides in a corner through fear of punishment, he feels that his mother will not forgive him. But if instead, he extends his little arms towards her and with a smile cries out: ‘Love, kiss me, mamma, I will not do it again,’ will not his mother press the little one to her heart with tenderness, and forget what the child has done? And yet, though she knows very well that her dear little one will misbehave again at the first opportunity, that means nothing if the child appeals to her heart.
It reminded me of my first spiritual director, the homework assignments he gave me.
Perhaps I’ll go back to them. Healing is always a good thing. And Love Itself always embraces us.
