The Victory of Weakness: Poverty Transformed into a Space of Grace

In the last meditation I spoke about the way in which God desires to come to us in the midst of our weakness and limitation, to draw near and make contact with our poverty and neediness. Sometimes we can fear to bring to God anything that is not “holy”—either because others have told us this is what we should do, or because of our own shame and sense of inadequacy—but the fact is that precisely these places of woundedness are where God wants to go, what he wants to touch directly with his healing presence. Only look at the “company” that Jesus kept! His ardent thirst was to make direct, intimate contact with the hearts and lives of sinners…to be the Light shining in their darkness, the Physician touching and healing their wounds, the Good Samaritan taking them up and caring for them, the Redeemer bearing their guilt and shame and breaking it open from within by the indestructible power of his Love.

Our invitation, therefore, is not primarily to “struggle” against our faults and disordered tendencies, as necessary as this, too, is. Rather, first of all and within all we are called by God to come to him, to lay our hearts, vulnerable and naked, before him. As Jesus said so tenderly and lovingly:

I thank you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, that you have hidden these things from the wise and understanding and revealed them to the childlike; yes, Father, for such was your gracious will. All things have been given to me by my Father; and no one knows the Son except the Father, and no one knows the Father except the Son and any one to whom the Son chooses to reveal him.

Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light. (Mt 25-30)

In a sense this is when the intimate movement of prayer truly blossoms: when we cease to pray “at a distance” from God like the Pharisee congratulating himself for his performance, and lay ourselves, misery and all, before the immense Mercy of God; when we cease to flee from his face among the many “trees of the garden” and instead allow him to look upon us in our nakedness; when we cease to demand of God that he fulfill our expectations of what we think to be best, or that he “uphold” our efforts with his grace, and instead simply lay our being before him, bare and exposed, without any limitations or conditions…giving him complete permission to do what he, in his infinite and tender love, knows to be best.

I say all of this, but in doing so I am aware of the truth that, even in all of our fumbling and flight, God is still intimately present and deeply at work. But he wants this work to receive our consent, and, indeed, he will not force our freedom or go into places into which we do not invite him. He comes to us just like he came to the houses of sinners and tax collectors: when he is invited…or at least when he is allowed—as when he saw Zacchaeus in the tree and called out, “Hurry and come down, Zacchaeus, for today I must stay at your house.”

He comes, too, to the homes of the “righteous,” like to the house of Simon the Pharisee, and yet his desire is always an intimate, personal contact of love…a contact of his healing Heart with our needy heart, a contact that flowers in the joy of gratitude and the praise of adoration. We see this powerfully in the scene that unfolds at Simon’s house. While they are at table a sinful woman comes in and bathes the feet of Jesus with her tears, drying them with her hair. “But she’s a sinner!” That’s what Simon the Pharisee thinks. “Only things that are pure, righteous, and holy should touch this great Teacher.”

But Jesus turns to Simon and says:

Do you see this woman? I entered your house, you gave me no water for my feet, but she has wet my feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair. You gave me no kiss, but from the time I came in she has not ceased to kiss my feet. You did not anoint my head with oil, but she has anointed my feet with ointment. Therefore I tell you, her sins, which are many, are forgiven, and therefore she has loved much; but he who is forgiven little, loves little. (Lk 7:44-47)

And then he turns to the woman, looking tenderly upon her and says, “Your sins are forgiven… Your faith has saved you; go in peace” (v. 49, 50). The result of this intimate contact between our misery and his Mercy is the succulent fruit of love, and the sweet fragrance of adoration! The space hollowed out in our being by the experience of forgiveness—the reality of our weakness touched, irradiated, and transformed by grace—brings forth a spontaneous liberty and joy, not as the fruit of our own efforts and accomplishments, but as the simple flowering of a loving encounter and an intimate relationship, in which Jesus, by his grace, comes to live in our inmost being, and takes us, in turn, to live within him.

Then I realize that my very sins, with which I have struggled so much, are precisely expressions of my flight from the vulnerability of God’s gaze and the nakedness of his touch. Now, in times of temptation, rather than hiding among the trees of the garden, I can open my heart, in its weakness and disorder, and invite God’s protecting and liberating presence, abandoning myself as a little child into his care, into the shelter of his loving Heart. And if I still allow myself to fall in sin, I know the Mercy of God, and I can open myself again immediately to his Love, allowing the wound of my sin to become a meeting-place with God’s grace, a space of deeper, more vulnerable encounter, and thus a space of healing and transformation.

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We see this movement of prayer—as an encounter between our misery and God’s mercy, our weakness and his grace, our neediness and his care, our darkness, suffering, and death and his redeeming and saving Light—in the scene of the raising of Lazarus (cf. Jn 11:1-44). The Evangelist John, in writing about this event, is very clear about the deep and intimate love and affection that Jesus bore for Martha, Mary, and Lazarus, these three siblings from the town of Bethany. But he says that, precisely because of this love, when informed that Lazarus was ill, Jesus “stayed two days longer in the place where he was,” and only after Lazarus has already died does he come.

Martha and Mary both reproach him—or at least express their pain and confusion: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” Yes, they have faith in him; they trust in Jesus and welcome his healing presence—and yet it seems that he has been absent when they needed him the most. But Jesus knows what he is doing, and he has been, and is, intimately at work in ways that they cannot yet see and understand. He is inviting them to a deeper faith and a more radical surrender of their lives to him. In a word, he brings forth in them the profound awareness of their neediness and poverty, their absolute and desperate need for the One who alone is true Life. This is precisely because he wants to minister to this need, to bring healing into this place of greatest poverty, and to bestow life in the place of death…in an intimate encounter with Love deeper than they have had before.

Yes, Jesus prepares to make his way to Lazarus’ tomb, witnessing the anguish and grief of the sisters and of all those present, and is himself moved to tears. The Gospel says simply: “Jesus wept. And the Jews who saw him weeping said: ‘See how he loved him!’” Indeed, precisely through the tenderness of his own human Heart—a Heart that feels, knows, loves, and suffers just like our own!—Christ reveals the immense compassion of the heavenly Father. In this space divinity and humanity come together in a profound interpenetration…as the divine Compassion weds itself to our suffering, the Light pierces our darkness, and Love descends into the place where all love seems torn asunder by death.

When they come to the tomb, Jesus asks them: “Take away the stone,” but Martha objects: “Lord, by this time there will be an odor, for he has been dead four days.” Ah, Martha, don’t you see that God wants to come and touch his beloved children in the place of their greatest need? Don’t hold him back because you’re ashamed at the smell! He is not put off by the places of “death” in our own life—spiritual, emotional, relational, or physical—but always sees deeper, into the intimate place of our heart created for him and radiantly beautiful in his eyes. Yes, he reaches out to touch this intimate place and to bring it to life by his healing and redeeming Mercy.

Even when it seems that he has waited, that when we call out to him he does not come, the truth is that he is already intimately and ceaselessly at work. He is inviting us to a deeper trust, a deeper receptivity, a deeper self-abandonment into the arms of his Love. He is reaching out to touch us anew, and ever more deeply, in order to heal our deepest wounds and to bring life and light where we need it the most.

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We have spoken about the way that our weakness and need are transformed into a space of intimate encounter with God, who comes to us in a profound way precisely in such places. To pray therefore is truly to allow my heart to freely express itself, to let my emotions and desires, my fears and hopes—even my frustration, anger, and discouragement—to surge to the surface, if only to be laid bare before the loving and healing gaze of God. As a little child has no “filter,” but simply and unaffectedly shares all with her parents, and receives in turn all that comes from them, so too am I to be in my relationship with God. This very “opening” of my heart and my life to him is a restoration of the nakedness that was lost in original sin—and from which I flee whenever I myself choose to sin. This opening is the way in which the vulnerability of loving encounter between God and myself matures and deepens, and indeed flowers in the beauty of intimacy.

Here allow me to quote at length the wise words of a Carthusian monk, who, after speaking of the “prayer of the heart” as the meeting between our wounds and God’s merciful touch, begins to speak about what he calls “the victory of weakness.” Here is what he says:

Fear of one’s weaknesses is a basic reaction of any human being. From the day we first realize, in one respect or another, that we cannot rely on our own strength, a tendency to worry takes root which can grow into great anxiety. All that we have said up to now leads to the loss of personal security by bringing to light what we have termed our vulnerability, our hidden disorders and the limits of our created condition. Each time, then, we have said to ourselves there is only one solution—to recognize the reality of what we are and place it in the hands of the Lord.

Recall the episode of the stilling of the waters. The Apostles are panic-stricken by the way their boat is being tossed about in the storm and go to wake Jesus. Astonished, he turns to them and asks: ‘Why are you afraid, O men of little faith?’ (Matthew 8:26). Then, with one gesture, he calms the waves.

Then why be afraid of my own weaknesses? It is a fact that they exist; but for a long time I have refused to look them in the face. … Moreover, if I wished to forget them, the Father would soon bring them back to my attention. He would permit some fault or other in the face of which I would be unable to deny that I am a sinner. He would allow my health to play tricks on me, so that I would admit defeat and deliver myself defenseless to the love of the Father. …

What is new is that in the future these weaknesses, instead of representing a danger, give me the opportunity to make contact with God. For this reason I must gradually allow myself to become at ease with them, no longer considering them as a disturbing side of my personality, but as something…accepted by the Father; not as some hopeless inevitability but as a basic presupposition for the gift to me of divine life. When I suddenly find myself faced with a previously unknown weakness, my first reflex in the future will not be to panic but to ask myself where the Father may be hidden in it.

We cannot avoid asking ourselves a question: is this transformation of a weakness which seems to be nothing but defeat into a victory of love a sort of second thought on God’s part, an alchemy whereby he changes evil into good or, on the contrary, are we not in the presence of a fundamental dimension of the divine order?

One could say a great deal about this. Let us be satisfied with simply stating that, even in the natural order, all true love is a victory of weakness. Love does not consist in dominating, possessing or imposing one’s will on someone. Rather love is to welcome without defenses the other as he or she comes to meet me. In return, one is sure of being welcomed unreservedly by the other without being judged or condemned, and without invidious comparisons. There are no contests of strength between two people who love each other. There is a kind of mutual understanding from within which a reciprocal trust emerges.

Such an experience, even if inevitably imperfect, is already a very compelling one. Yet it is but a reflection of a divine reality. Once we really begin to believe in the infinite tenderness of the Father, we are, as it were, obliged to descend ever more fully and joyfully into a realm in which we neither possess…nor control anything.

Thus, almost without being aware of it, we enter into communion with the divine life. The relation between Father and Son in the Spirit is, at a level completely beyond our comprehension, a perfect embodiment of weakness transformed into communion.

In a way closer to ourselves, this intimate tenderness of the thrice-holy God is revealed in the relationship between the incarnate Son and his Father. We cannot help but be struck by the serenity and sense of infinite security with which Jesus quietly proclaims that he has nothing of his own, and that he can do nothing but what he sees the Father doing. What man would accept such powerlessness? Nevertheless, this is the path we must follow if we wish to live in the depths of our heart as God has made it, and as he transfigures it through the death and Resurrection of his Son.

Mary points us in the same direction. The Magnificat is at once a song of triumph and a recognition of total powerlessness. The two go hand in hand. From the beginning, she realized and accepted her utter weakness; thus does she find herself in a state of readiness to receive the Son which the Father gives her. She becomes the Mother of God because she is the closest to the poverty of God. (“The Prayer of the Heart,” in The Wound of Love: A Carthusian Miscellany, 85-87.)

The poverty of God…yes, the life of the Trinity is a life of complete vulnerability, in which each Person is “naked” before the others in an attitude of radical receptivity and unconditional trust. This is the “divine weakness” that does not force, impose, or manifest any kind of violence, but is rather the pure tenderness of loving receptivity and reciprocal gift, which flowers eternally in the breathtaking intimacy shared by the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit in their single life of love.

And such divine poverty and weakness, such loving vulnerability, comes to meet me in my own places of weakness and vulnerability. When I no longer deny or flee from them, but through them open myself to the loving gift and touch of God, I find myself drawn into the very openness and intimacy of the divine life.

This does not mean, however, that I need always to be focusing on my wounds and struggles, preoccupied with my own healing and transformation. Rather, as my trust in God’s immense Love deepens—through an ever-renewed encounter with him—I am able to simply entrust myself wholly into his care without complex struggles or numerous questions. Rather I can simply find rest in his sheltering Heart, letting my weakness be held and cradled by his Mercy, my littleness be sheltered within the immensity of his Love. I can simply look upon him, the Beautiful One, the Loving One, who looks unceasingly upon me. In this simple meeting of looks—vulnerable in trust and love—hearts themselves meet and are united, woven together through the silent communication that occurs in this place.

Yes, here true loving adoration—a spirit of joyful praise and gratitude—blossoms. Indeed, this spirit of adoration is but the spontaneous exclamation of the beloved heart, as it beholds the ineffable beauty and lovableness of God: “How good you are, my God! And how good it is that you are! I rejoice in you, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, in your endless life of joy and intimacy; and through praise and gratitude I welcome this life as my own.” We see this spontaneous attitude beautifully manifest in Mary of Bethany. After witnessing Christ draw near to the very place of darkness and death—to tomb of Lazarus—and call forth new life through the power of his Love, she learns to see this Love present and at work in all things. Yes, on the eve of his Passion she comes to him and anoints him with a precious perfume, an expression of her inexpressible love and gratitude, a gift of pure, exuberant adoration. And this gift, this perfume of Mary’s life prodigally poured out in love, is also an act of radical faith, since through it she anticipates the very meaning of Jesus’ ensuing Passion, in which his Love, prodigally pouring itself out, will once again pierce the darkness of suffering and death and bring forth life from the tomb…this time an indestructible Life that is definitively victorious over death, drawing us all into its own victory and carrying us into the fullness of the eternal life of the Trinity.

I said that adoration springs forth from this heart-to-heart encounter and union between God and myself. There is something else, too, which springs forth in this place—or rather simply another dimension of the same reality. In this encounter, the lightheartedness and joy of a little child springs forth in me—as I rediscover the “joy of my youth” (cf. Ps 42:4). This is a true spiritual childlikeness within the enfolding Love of God, which is purer, deeper, and more enduring than anything I knew even in the earliest years of my life. Yes, I find myself cradled in the Heart of Jesus, gentle and humble, and I am sheltered, with him, in the very bosom of the heavenly Father. In this place I can welcome in simplicity and trust each day of my life, allowing God to work freely within me through the activity of his grace. Indeed, I can place myself wholly in his hands and simply let myself be carried, taking each step, moment by moment, as the light of his love marks out the way before me.

At times he will show me a particular, specific path or choice that he desires, and my trust in his goodness and love will enable me to obey, without objections or the need to understand completely. He has asked it, and I know all that he asks and desires is simply for my good and for the good of all of his children. At other times I will walk without any specific, fore-ordained direction, as God, in his tenderness, invites me to spontaneously exercise my freedom as his beloved child. But I will be walking in the Light if only I seek to walk in love—in love for God and for my brothers and sisters, and truly seeking my own true well-being and that of others. Yes, I will never walk in darkness as long as I let his Love enfold and cradle me, and take every step of my life hand in hand with him, as a little child who, loved, sheltered, and cared for, is free to let life unfold in playfulness and joy.