Is it safe to trust? (Is the Holy Spirit God?) 

We live trapped in fear.  We are afraid of losing our jobs, of being ridiculed by our friends, that people will talk, that we will be failures, that our spouses may be unfaithful, that we may get cancer. We fear that we are not raising our children properly, that the neighborhood will deteriorate, that we may be mugged, that the airplane may crash.  We may be out of fashion or, even worse, old-fashioned. 

On a more cosmic level we fear thermonuclear war, too much ozone in the lower air and not enough in the upper air.  We are afraid of earthquakes, depression, recession, inflation, and world famine.  The Ice Age may return, our country may turn into a desert, the Russians may invade us, the Chinese may dominate the world.  The world may come to an end. 

We may even die.  Indeed, we will die.  So we are afraid of sickness, disease, hospitals, doctors.  Above all, and quite reasonably so, we are afraid to die.  And worse than physical dissolution at the end are those daily deaths of self and the fear of being tricked, chumped, taken advantage of, deceived, made a fool of, put down.  They may laugh at us, and then we would die of shame. 

And all the other fears are linked to that one.  Shame is the fear of being cut off, seen through, destroyed, put out of existence.  When we are ashamed, we die a bit; and no one wants to die even a little bit. 

So we build up massive walls of protection around our bodies and spirits.  We will protect ourselves so that we need never feel shame.  We will have so many defenses that we don't need to think about death.  We amass material goods, power, pleasure, prestige as guarantees against death.  They do not provide us with permanent security, of course, but for at least a time they do offer the illusion of security. 

We invent defense mechanisms to keep others at bay.  We are silent and reserved so that they will think us strong.  We must always have our way.  And, so that they will think we are dominant, we can never admit that we are wrong (much less apologize).  We often become nasty, vindictive, tyrannical, unreasonable so that they will be afraid of us.  Or, so that they will take pity on us, we become weak, pathetic, dependent, incapable of coping.  We turn to neuroses, to compulsions and obsessions, to erratic and unpredictable behavior, to paralyzing fears, even to physical symptoms of illness in order to focus attention away from who and what we truly are.  We take up drink or drugs or excessive eating or compulsive work or sex to kill the pain of our fears.  We kill ourselves slowly in order to protect ourselves from the sudden death by shame of being seen for what we really are.  We never stop running. 

So we live our tight, narrow, rigid, frightened, inflexible, dull lives.  Any other way of living would involve our taking intolerable risks.  We become cautious, careful, somber, grim, conservative.  It is a very dangerous pilgrimage that we are on, and there are many dragons and demons lurking in the bushes alongside the road.  If we are not wary we will be in deep trouble. 

Yet there are interludes when all of this fear seems foolish, when we see dimly that it is possible to live differently.  These times seem to come particularly at the turning points of our lives-the dawn of reflective self-awareness in adolescence, the beginning of serious thought a few years later, our first serious love, marriage, having a child, crossing the crucial markers of thirty, when we are no longer young; at forty, when we begin to get old, and then in the last years, when we can look back at what our life has been.  At each of these times we may briefly glimpse other options available to us.  We sense that we are free to choose.  We can continue down the path of dull, bland, fearful mediocrity, or strike out bravely and boldly, becoming someone very different yet remaining our own true self. 

It is almost as though we were on one bank of a river and there was someone else on the other side calling to us.  He is beckoning to us and we seem to hear the words that Jesus said to Lazarus when he brought him out of the tomb: "Come forth." 

This call to come forth, to leave foolish fears behind, to take risks, to trust, to begin to live, comes to us urgently from other human beings.  We are made with the capacity to challenge and to be challenged by others, to be stirred up, "turned on." The attractiveness of other humans, as well as their tenderness, opens up to us the possibility of intimacy with them.  We quickly learn that intimacy can only succeed if one is willing to give death to shame and let the other one see us as we really are, taking the risk that he might laugh at us, ridicule us, break our heart.  Intimacy can be achieved only if we are willing to be defenseless, vulnerable; it can survive only if we are willing to give to the other such untrammeled power over us that he can break our heart.  In an intimate relationship we must remain vulnerable; we must knock down defenses every day of our lives. 

Marriage is the intimate relationship par excellence.  It is in marriage that most humans receive the principal challenge to come forth.  It is through marital intimacy that we hear the voice from across the river, assuring us that there is nothing to fear, that it is safe to trust.  The sheer power of physical passion and pleasure draws the bodies of man and woman together; they are driven to reveal themselves physically to one another, and in that revelation they discover the possibility of something even greater-though the possibility may be only dimly and fleetingly perceived.  But the very intimacy of their bodies creates interpersonal tensions and frictions.  Their life together combines the joy of physical union and the friendship of shared experience with the constant aggravation of the conflicts involved in a common life.  The man and woman either open themselves up to one another, slowly and laboriously constructing a life together, or they pull back into themselves and settle for a marriage that is "like every other marriage," in which fear, defensiveness, shame, stored up hurts, and petty punishments alternate with bursts of passion-ever more infrequent-that seem to have increasingly less meaning. 

Still, on occasion, they may faintly hear the voice telling them that it need not be this way, that it is still possible to begin anew, to start all over again. 

Jesus came to tell us that the voice we hear calling to us is inviting us to the wedding feast; it is the Spirit of God, the Spirit who hovered over the waters when God called forth life. 

   Play music in Yahweh's honour, you devout, 
    remember his holiness, and praise him. 
His anger lasts a moment, his favour a lifetime; 
in the evening, a spell of tears, in the morning, shouts of joy. 

   'Hear, Yahweh, take pity on me; 
    Yahweh, help me!' 
You have turned my mourning into dancing, 
 you have stripped off my sackcloth and wrapped me in gladness; 
 and now my heart, silent no longer, will play you music; 
 Yahweh, my God, I will praise you for ever. 

    Ps 30:4,5; 10-12.

Jesus told his apostles that they need not be afraid when he left them to return to the Father, because the Spirit would come to them.  The Spirit is light, he is fire, he is wind.  His light is truth, his fire is passionate commitment, his wind is enthusiasm.  The great wind and the tongues of flame at Pentecost showed the Spirit "turning on" the apostles, filling them with a confidence and an enthusiasm which sent them out to convert the world. 

The Spirit is the paraclete, the helper, the advocate, the comforter.  He calls us forth with his dazzling fire and his howling wind; but he also encourages us and reassures us when we are discouraged and frightened.  The Spirit calls us forth out of our narrow fears and our timid anxieties by stirring us up, by attracting us, and then by reassuring us when the fears and timidities reappear.  And thus it is with any lover whose beloved is fearful and hesitant. 

The Father is the God who creates, the Son is the God who speaks, the Spirit is the God who calls. 

The mystery of the Holy Spirit does not tell us that life is completely safe.  It does not tell us that despite all evidence to the contrary we can trust everyone and take every risk.  It does not assure us that we will not get hurt.  It does not hide from us the evil of death.  It does not claim to protect us from all the pain that vulnerability entails.  The mystery of the Holy Spirit merely tells us that there are grounds for trust, that it is all right to take risks, and that being vulnerable to others is a better way to live. 

We will get hurt sometimes.  We will fail often, we will be ridiculed frequently, we will be rejected occasionally, we will be shamed at least once in a while; but we will only die once.  It is not safe over on the other side of the river; on the contrary it is more dangerous.  But it is a much better place to be, and whichever side we choose, death will find us. 

The mystery of the Holy Spirit, then, reveals to us that the pains, the failures, the rejections, the ridicule, the shame we risk in the open life are not permanent.  They are costs we must pay in the search for satisfaction, growth, and love.  They are costs that are worth it because through them we learn how to love.  And no matter how great the pain, the Holy Spirit, the healer, will bind up our wounds, soothe our hurts, heal our injuries, erase our shame, and encourage us to try again. 

Life is not easy, but the doctrine of the Holy Spirit tells us that the full life is possible.  Growth is painful, but the doctrine of the Holy Spirit tells us that we can still grow.  The intimate vulnerability which is required for love is terrifying, but the mystery of the Holy Spirit tells us that with all the agonies and sorrows abroad in the world it is a place where it is safe enough to love.  The Holy Spirit guarantees it. 

But the Spirit does not remake us.  The apostles on Pentecost were not turned into men they never were before.  Rather they became themselves for the first time.  The Spirit called out of them that which was most creative, most courageous, most generous, most fully and completely human; and he does that to us, too.  He broke through the barriers of the apostle's petty ambitions, their blind materialism, their cowardly fears; and he can do that for us, too.  The Spirit did not transform Peter and James and John and the rest into totally new human beings.  He liberated that which was best in each of them . He did not attempt to create a new kind of man, as does Marxist brainwashing.  He spoke to those depths of the personality of each apostle which had already heard his call but feared to respond. St. Paul tells us that the Spirit speaks to our spirit.  The God who calls speaks to that spark of divinity which is in each one of us.  The God without speaks to the hunger for God within.  God's Spirit touches that finest, sharpest point in our personality, the very core of our identity, which tells us that we can be far more than we are.  With the unerring instinct of a skillful lover, the Spirit knows exactly how to turn us on; he knows our weak link, which is in fact our greatest strength.  He calls us from across the river with telling impact, because he knows that beneath our terrors and rigidities and hesitations, we want to respond. 

We are free not to go.  We can hear the invitation to the dance with the Spirit and turn it down.  We know that part of us wants to let the Spirit blow us whither he wills, but another part of us is afraid to take the chance.  What would happen?  What would people say?  Isn't is much safer to cool it, to run no risks, to take no chances?  We have only one life, and we ought to live it cautiously.  It is better to rust out than to burn out, better to oxidize slowly rather than explode in a great burst of flame. 
 

The Holy Spirit, the Spirit of and beyond this world, wants the human world to abound with the same wild profligate diversity which can be seen in the world of rocks, the world of plants, the world of animals.  Only among humankind is it possible to resist the impulse of the variety-crazed Spirit.  Bluebirds do not decide to be blue, the Grand Canyon cannot give up its many hues, the petunia cannot refuse to blossom, the fish darting among the corals cannot decide that its beauty is irrelevant.  Only we humans can say no to the Spirit as he wheels and deals through the universe, twirling and whirling, dancing and leaping, spinning and jumping, shooting forth sparks of this divine creativity wherever he goes.  We are the only ones who can say: "Thanks, Holy Spirit, but no thanks." 

We can turn in on ourselves, pile up our earthly possessions, amass power and prestige, lead narrow, rigid, futile, desperate lives.  We can become so atrophied that we don't hear the call from across the river and are unable to disregard those faint whispers and echoes that may intrude. 

God's Spirit, then, is a spirit of creativity, variety, and enthusiasm.  He is not, however, a spirit of mindless irrationality.  If he speaks to that which is best in us, he certainly speaks to our minds as well as to our emotions.  Spontaneity and creativity are not the same thing as undisciplined frenzy.  The Spirit liberates the authentic self, not the unrestrained libidinal id.  The dance of the Spirit is not the dance of drunken revelers.  False spirits, as well as the Holy Spirit, are abroad in the world.  The voices we hear in the night may be voices of evil, irresponsibility, and destruction.  The most destructive of undisciplined human enthusiasms both to the individual person and to the social order are those that confidently but naively claim to be inspired by the Holy Spirit, when in fact they are in the possession of the spirits of madness, of this world, and of all those little hurts, angers, and resentments that have been turned in on the self for so long. 

So we must listen carefully to make sure that it is God's Spirit who inspires us to make a decisive change in our life, to begin anew, to start all over again, to break with the past, to commit ourselves enthusiastically to a new vision.  There is always a risk in change, and the risk becomes even greater when we realize that we may be deceiving ourselves about what is motivating our change.  Instead of stripping away the barriers and defenses so that we can become truly ourselves, it may be that we have simply found a new means of keeping ourselves hidden from others.  Now we can cope with the intimate stranger who threatens us so terribly by attacking him in the name of authenticity and enthusiasm, in the name of the Spirit.  We aggressively try to strip away the defenses of others and pretend we are being open ourselves. 

How can we tell whether it is God's Spirit or the spirit of this world who is speaking to us?  If it is God's Spirit there is no nervousness; no frantic, fierce, anxious tensions; no desperate need to convince or to convert others; no compulsion to force others to share in our joy.  God's Spirit brings peace, patience, kindness, tolerance, generosity, gentleness, tenderness, perseverance, serenity, openness, respect for the freedom of others.  If our new beginning, our rebirth, our new enthusiasm, and our sudden discovery of self are not marked by those characteristics, then they are the work of a false spirit, a spirit of hatred, punishment, self-deception. 

Most human activities are the result of complex, intricate motivations.  It is hard to tell whether it is the Holy Spirit who is blowing us along with new energy and vigor or a howling demon of fear and anxiety, masquerading as a good spirit.  It often seems that both spirits are at work at the same time.  We must listen carefully.  If it turns out that we are not more loving to those who are closest to us which often means that they do not perceive us as more loving-then the Holy Spirit is losing the contest. 

Many Christians have come to believe that the Christian life consists of discreet, cautious, sober respectability.  They are offended by the idea of a spirit of variety, a lord of the dance.  Surely there are times in human life when discretion, caution, sobriety, and respectability are very much in order.  The indisputable Christians, the apostles and the saints, could be discreet and cautious when the occasion called for it, but such behavior was not the hallmark of their lives.  On the contrary, they were so outgoing, so open, so vulnerable to others, so generous, so creative, so ready to run risks, so eager to trust in the fundamental goodness of their lives that they often seemed to their friends and neighbors to be just a little bit mad. 

You will remember that that is what the relatives of Jesus and the crowds who attended to the enthusiasm of the apostles on Pentecost thought.  What a shame that grown men should be drunk so early in the morning! 

We all know such people, men and women of sensitive, well-disciplined enthusiasm who are a joy to be with, who challenge and attract us while they are comforting and reassuring us at the same time.  They may seem a little bizarre at times, and we both envy and hate them for their freedom and creativity. (If we could, we, too, might well try to crucify him.) Still we admire them. A world composed of such men and women would be much less predictable and well-ordered and respectable than the one in which we now live.  By our inflexible standards, it might even seem a bit crazy; but it would be a more joyous and happy place. 

That's what God's Spirit has in mind. 

THEOLOGICAL NOTE 

The doctrine of the Holy Trinity was not revealed to us to test our faith or to provide an abstruse puzzle for metaphysically inclined theologians.  It was revealed to tell us something about God, and hence something about the purpose and meaning of human life.  Briefly, the doctrine of the Trinity means that while God is one, he is not solitary.  God is rational, God is interactive, God is a community, God is interpersonal love.  The God who creates, the God who speaks, and the God who calls have been involved in an eternal love affair with one another and are now inviting us to join their dance of loving joy and joyous love.  If the invitation is frightening, the reason is that we are being asked to join very fast company.  But we are free to bring our friends. 

LITURGICAL NOTE 

While dancing is absent from Christian liturgy today (save for some experiments, especially in college communities), it was part of the liturgy in days gone by.  In the early centuries, Christians danced at martyrs' tombs or in churches in their honor on the vigil of the martyr's feast.  In medieval France there were dances in the churches on Christmas and Easter that involved the bishops and the priests.  In Spain, in the last century, dances in church marked the Feasts of the Immaculate Conception and Corpus Christi.  Even today in Seville young boys in peasant garb dance a pavane in the cathedral in the presence of the blessed sacrament exposed on the altar, and accompany their dance with castanets.  The medieval carol "My Dancing Day" echoes this Christian insight about a dancing God. 
 

The same theme has been echoed more recently in the song, "Lord of the Dance," sung to the Shaker hymn "Simple Gifts." 
 

This page will be updated whenever I become aware of errors. Please, send me any "scannos" or typos you find.