In the Bible, prophets (people who do what John does) proclaim and preach. They provoke and convict. They encourage and condemn. They cajole and comfort, all with whatever tools are given them for that task. It usually amounts to powerful words of exhortation to a people either hurting or hurting someone else. In Jeremiah’s case it meant a lot of rather unnecessarily embarrassing antics that included wearing loincloths, ox yokes, smashing clay pots. For Isaiah it meant walking around stripped and barefoot for three years. Ezekiel was instructed to lay on his side for over a year. In Ezekiel’s case it meant and chomping on a scroll that, although sweet to the taste, made his stomach turn and laying on his side for over a year. With Hosea it required marrying a prostitute, that one girl his parents refused to let into the yard. It promised him a life of knowing winks from the unrighteous and huffs from the self-righteous.

Yet, what was John’s weapon of choice? Baptism. What a strange way to reveal a person’s intentions. Only a God of utter mystery with a lot of secrets would conjure this up. Unlike other rites of passage like fancy handshakes, drinking a yard of ale or running with the bulls, baptism is hardly manly or even especially daring in and of itself. It is, however, anything but neat and tidy and forces dry, respectable people to become soggy, vulnerable ones. As a former Baptist, now Presbyterian, I have seen baptism from more than one angle and I can safely say that, regardless of dunk or sprinkle, lake or font, bathtub or teacup, baptism is an odd practice at best. It has that weird insiders only feel about it like those funny Shriner hats, holy underwear or cryptic Freemasons chant.

It is surprising to me just how clear a picture John had not only of his ministry but of Jesus’ ministry as well. John’s baptism was rather like the promissory note that hinted at the banquet to come. It was like the paper wedding invitation before the personal one from the bridegroom’s own lips or perhaps like the ticket to the concert yet to begin. Although John was rather more than mere ticket-taker, he was fully aware of his preparatory role in this strange unfolding of much anticipated but little understood events.

Imagine if you will the first chair violinist from the New York Philharmonic approaching Homer Simpson and asking him to restring his violin. Better yet, imagine the Pope asking you to offer the New Year’s Eve homily. If ever there were a time to feel both baffled and horrified it would be then. This must have been the case for John as the one he had spent his entire deprived life preparing to introduce; the Lord of heaven and earth approaches him, asking to be baptized.

For my part, I would be excitedly fumbling for my cell phone in my soaking wet camel hair dungarees in order to fire off the quickest mass text to my sure-to-be-impressed friends of my good fortune. Man, would this look good on a résumé and the guys at the office would have first round rights for some time to come.

But John was a well-formed, humble man who knew his place. This request made of him wasn’t flattering as much as it was shocking; puzzling at the very least. Jesus had just asked him, calmly, to do for him what John had just shouted at the Pharisees and others to do: “be baptized for the remission of sins” to the end that they “bring forth fruit worthy of repentance.” This was something others did in preparation for him and something not applicable or even sensible for Jesus to do.

But there it is. Jesus enters the water where John is standing, looks him square in the eyes and requests as much. In keeping with John’s character, he questions the request with a nervous quip about his own suitability. Jesus, always ready with an enigmatic, oft ambiguous, but always life changing statement, replies simply, “let it be so now; for it is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness.”

I end here because, quite simply, to imagine for one minute that I could render up any better interpretation of Jesus’ remarks here than others far more educated and astute than I have done would be the height of pretense. Besides, it gives me something more to write at some other time.

In a little over four days from now I, along with 18 other stellar individuals, will graduate from a 3-year foray into an M. A. in Spiritual Formation and Leadership. Part of our final synthesis/integration class was to encapsulate in 2 pages or less our personal philosophy of spiritual formation. Well, as a guy generally wallowing in my own self-important verbosity with ne’er a hope of eschewing obfuscation, what follows is mine, such as it is.

The term, spiritual formation, presupposes a number of things. It assumes that we are possessive of a spirit to which spiritual matters of concern point and from which emanate certain characteristics. The word formation is both a practical and a conceptual word suggesting that whatever spirit is, it can and should be formed in some way. Together, they presuppose the possibility and potential for such change to occur.

God is. God’s self-revelation tells us all we need to know about who God is, who we are and how we inter-relate (1 Cor. 1:30; Gal. 4:4-7; 1 John 3:2). Our very existence testifies to a God whose boundless desire to express Godself is bespoken through the created order in which we share (Psalm 19). We exist because God did before us and spoke all things into being (Gen. 1:26-31; John 1:11-5). We are like God (Psalm 8). More importantly, God is like us (Matthew 1:22; Luke 2:7-20; Gal. 4:4; Hebrews 4:15-16). Before he ever spoke a word, Jesus, as God-with-us, made it astonishingly clear that this God loves us and desires to identify with us (John 3:16-17). Spiritual formation begins in our awakening to these mysteries.

I am. When we awoke this morning, what we saw in the mirror gazing back at us was a complex being indeed. We are polyvalent but indivisible beings possessive of a mind, heart, body and soul; all of it “fearfully and wonderfully made” (Psalm 139:14). We grow to become the amalgam of our every thought, word, relationship, joy, pain, experience, decision and whim. Everything shapes who we will become. When all of the varied parts of one’s life are functioning optimally under God’s leadership, integrated and moving toward the singular end of “holiness”, we may be said to be a spiritually formed person. Our growing awareness of this, the intentionality with which we capture this reality and the ever-increasing depth of our relationship in the Triune God may be said to be the process of spiritual formation. 

The gap between God’s self-revelation as both immanent and wholly other and our existence as good and perfect beings, but marred by sin, is the region of our redemption, the place wherein God finds us in Christ Jesus and begins, in partnership with us, the process of re-formation (Luke 19:10; 2 Cor. 3:18, 5:17; Gal. 3:19-20; Eph. 2:4-9; Phil. 2:20-21; Col. 1:19-20). It is less about obedience to a prescribed body of law as it is about wholeness and integration of all the varied and complex facets of our human existence under God (Rom. 1:17, 4:3, 9, 22, 10:4; Gal. 2:16, 19, 20). We join God in something God, in love through grace, has already started. As such, spiritual formation is more about the Who than the what and how (John 14:6-7; Col. 1:15-18; Rev. 1:8; 4:8b, 9b-11; 5:9-14).

God as perfect community, eternally existing as Father and Son, whose mutual love is the Spirit, portrays the fullest expression of communal love. God’s desire is that we share in this love. “The aim of God in history is the creation of an all-inclusive community of loving persons with God himself at the very center of this community as its prime Sustainer and most glorious Inhabitant (Eph. 2:19-22; 3:10).”[1] To the extent that we live out our lives in similar loving community we in fact mirror the Trinity.

Hence, the goal of all authentic spiritual formation is the tri-fold love: God, neighbor, self, as shared by Jesus in the “Great Commandment” (Matthew 22:36-40; Mark 12:29-31; Luke 10:26-28). All self-discovery when under the guiding rubric of a humble seeking after all that is true will result in a simultaneous self-love with love for the One whose fingerprints we bare (John 14:21). The result, in keeping with God’s self-giving nature, is a love for all God loves (John 13:34-35; 1 Cor. 13; 1 John 3:14, 16, 23; 4:7-21).

As distinct from prevailing marketplace spiritualities, Christian spirituality will, in cruciform identification with the Savior, always lead to our death whether real or symbolic (Matthew 16:24-26; 2 Timothy 4:6-8). Nurtured inwardly but expressed outwardly, Christian spiritual formation aims at Someone else for everyone else (John 15:12-14; Phil. 2:1-11; 3:7-11).

God’s forming work is done in an effort to make us more like the archetypal human person, Jesus.  Until we are as he is in all things, the oft-painful road of spiritual formation is the one we must travel. It is the road I choose.

Contemporary Christianity loves its corporate America-style constructs of vision statements, leadership gurus, definitions and strategies. Sometimes churches and Christians fall prey to “we are our vision statement” reductionism.  In other environments lacking the redemptive pressures of the gospel to the contrary, these become designs for “getting everyone on the same page” – a bottom line for the bottom line so to speak.  The unfortunate ramifications of a purely rationalist paradigm in such matters (clearly the love of post-Enlightenment humankind) is a lust for unanimity rather than a move toward diversity in unity.  After all, homogeneity is easier to control and quantify.

With all of that as precursor I must say that writing a personal mission statement has been one of the most meaningful undertakings of my entire adult life.  Although not a complete picture of the tapestry unfolding, it has acted nonetheless as an important organizing principle for my life in general terms. It has also acted as a helpful guide in my own spiritual formation.

I’ve often questioned whether spiritual formation can ever be “offered” as such, believing that it can only be “encountered.”  However, I am pleased by the resurrection of the terminology in post-modern thinking to describe this deepest of life goals.  It is a classical Christian perspective on one’s continual conversion, incarnationally, into the person of Jesus Christ.  Unfortunately, “discipleship”, has become its modernist, Descartian counterpart, by contrast more suggestive of a mental assent to universally agreed upon systems of thought and doctrine birthed in rationalism.  It, for me, has often been the clearing house for “believe this and all shall be well” data-driven Christianity.

God’s personhood and redemptive action (and by extension, my own) work both in and through the worshipping ecclesia. As God’s physical voice in the world, we are, clearly and hopefully, to state God’s loving intentions without the typical “mighty speak” rhetoric which can have the effect of bull’s eye Christianity loudly declaring who’s in and who’s out.   A progressive orthodoxy, diversity in unity, and holistic sensibilities are what encourage me. If that is what the church is about, count me in.

The Chicken and the Egg: Henri Nouwen and the Coinherence of Christian Spirituality and Theology

Henri Nouwen’s spirituality was all of a piece. Although not necessarily all at the same time, he lived as the fullest picture, an amalgam as it were, of everything he believed to be true about life, love and God. His Catholic sensibilities offered him the mystical and relational foundation he needed upon which to build a life of inspiring integration. Nouwen loved movement. Journey. We find it everywhere in his writing. From loneliness to solitude; from hostility to hospitality; from illusion to prayer[i]; from opaqueness to transparency; from sorrow to joy; from resentment to gratitude; from fear to love, from exclusion to inclusion and from denying to befriending death,[ii] all which point to a profound understanding of the dynamic character of the spiritual life as lived out with God and among others leading toward self-understanding.

In the Great Commandment, Jesus gave to those who asked him a comprehensive curriculum for the invitation and expectation of the Triune God. It presents in kernel form the foundation and direction – the point – of the Gospel. It can be summed up in a single word: love. I am intrigued by the fact that Jesus did not say to believe in the Lord God absolutely with unassailable doctrine because out of it will come the safety of heaven. Nor did he say that, once our doctrine is without spot or wrinkle, will we then find the love to which Jesus herein alludes.

What Jesus does in fact tell them/us is that the sum total of the Gospel is a thoroughly inner disposition toward God and by extension, others. Moreover, since God’s definition of love is exceedingly more practical than ours, this idea takes root in the day-to-day realities with which we are faced. And, as love becomes an increasing reality in our lives, not only do we become more fully aware of God’s love for us but, reciprocally, others become the beneficiaries of this love. This is the integration I seek. It is the integration that Nouwen sought and, better than most, found.

As I would love to use the words “Rob” and “theologian” in the same sentence I must honestly affirm that I am an armchair academic at best. I know just enough theology to be interesting at parties, impress strangers and frustrate true theologians. I have, however, been an avid reader of theology among other areas of interest and believe I have sufficient epistemological architecture upon which to put the meat of life and my heart’s true passion: Christian spirituality. It is one of many ways I relate to Henri (as he would insist we call him). He believed that God was much more interested in the many ways theology serves spirituality, not the other way around. I suppose in a sense I am drawn primarily to what Henri Nouwen did intuitively – live an integrated life where all facets function in one kaleidoscopic whole.

For Henri, as for me nowadays, if it doesn’t start, continue and end in the vast expanse of contemplative prayer I am generally interested but not particularly invested. It was Nouwen’s answer for everything. His theology was apparent in both his teaching, his priestly duties and, with most clarity, through his spiritual disciplines. This, I think, is why I find him utterly refreshing and a good companion for my own journey.

I have already indicated that a reasonable summation of Christian theology could well be the ethic of love; love exhibited most beautifully and effectively through the presence, teaching and sacrifice of Jesus Christ. Much of contemporary evangelical theology leaves one with the impression that the incarnation and teaching of Jesus is of little account as long as one intellectually accepts the substitutionary-penal atonement (with ne’er a hint that, historically, other theories abound) made real through the crucifixion and heaven made available, personally, through the resurrection. Nouwen would find this insufficient at best, individualistic and self-serving at worst.

Nouwen’s Catholic theology permitted him to view the Incarnation as a central focus for his spiritual journey. The very fact of God-with-us told him everything he needed to know about the God he loved and served. Everything else was icing. It also gave much more room to see prayer as more than just ancillary to the Christian experience. It is the primary conduit through which we learn life-with-God in the now. For Nouwen, prayer was a daily, vital experience best found in silence. He advocated in almost all of his writing the further experience of prayer as silence in the context of solitude.

The Scriptures give us ample encouragement to do the same. Jesus’ wilderness temptations (a favorite passage of Nouwen, see Matthew 4:1-11; Luke 4:1-13), the choosing of the apostles (see Luke 6:12-16) and Gethsemane (see Matthew 26:36-46; Mark 14:32-42; Luke 22:39-46) provide Jesus’ own practice of peace and resolve through prayerful solitude. Although it is true that the reasons for our own foray into the spiritual desert, unlike Jesus, involves our battle with the ravages of sin, Nouwen is a tireless advocate for the place of silence and aloneness in which we are found and loved by this Jesus. Contemplative prayer can only happen between lovers; like the married couple, together for decades, each in their own chair beside the fire. Neither speak a word. There’s no need. They’ve said it all in the silence.

Throughout the entire two and a half years of our program a number of key words have lodged themselves rather obtrusively in my consciousness: integration, transformation and grace. That is, if I could distill from the Christian journey a singular notion it would be this: spiritual transformation takes place in my life to the degree that the grace of God is woven into my entire being to the end that my personhood becomes visibly and existentially integrated.

With adequate observation and honesty, one can see just how much we have prostituted theology to rationality, reducing it to points of doctrine best kept on paper but divorced from our actual experience, much like studying quantum physics or cellular biology. When theology never makes its way out of the intellect and into one’s experience, it remains an abstraction and about as useful as reciting the phonebook. It is fascinating but ultimately worthless.

For Nouwen, theology should have the quality of prayer. In fact, theology should always lead to prayer. All theology starts with “fear” or “our trembling response of unknowing to the unknown God.”[iii] Just as Mary in the annunciation…”what was experienced as a moment of interruption proves to be a moment of revelation. The theologian responding in faith to the situation of the moment discovers God’s active presence in the midst of the pain and, trusting in that presence, dares to raise a question.”[iv] It is a primarily relational, not intellectual matter. Knowing God and loving God are one and the same. It is relational in terms of community and not to be understood as an ivory tower pursuit where individualistic intimations are done with cool detachment much like the study of genomes, tectonic plates or planetary motion.

Nouwen insisted that theology is best done in a spirit of obedience and awe. The irony of this is that, to some degree, we are all sinners on a theological journey in and toward salvation. From start to finish it is a work of grace – unearned and uninitiated. In the words of Augustine, “I believe that I might understand.” Faith, in terms of how we live our lives and with Whom must ever precede the intellectual tenets by which we define such faith. Christian theology rightly understand is that it is ultimately only a scaffolding for the cathedral of our soul under construction. It is the skeleton upon which the meat of our spiritual existence adheres and grows. This was ever Henri’s way. I would that it were mine, too.

I’m a musician. Musicians learn scales like Christians should learn theology – to forget them. The point is the music. Theology lies hidden, like the trout swimming just below the surface of the water, which is the peaceful beauty we see. They not only live in concert together but also are utterly dependent upon one another. The water needs the fish to add a practical context to the beauty it possesses. It will yield something wonderful to those who seek. The fish requires the water for life and survival. Without it, it lives but a moment and then perishes.

This, to me, is Henri Nouwen’s greatest gift to the faith community. Equal parts theologian, priest, prophet, psychologist, educator, communicator, author and friend, he spun out these numerous roles in richly diverse but integrated ways. I have never read a single word of Nouwen’s vast output that didn’t lead me into much deeper, more real, more genuine places in my spiritual journey. Long after others’ works have faded into distant memory and are collecting dust among my innumerable other “important” books, Henri’s will still be on my nightstand, my desk or even the car.

A favorite phrase parents everywhere direct at their self-seeking children, ourselves included, is “you can’t have your cake and eat it, too.” Similarly, whenever budding philosophers submit mutual queries for mental acrobatics a favorite one is, “what came first, the chicken or the egg?” When it comes to how we embrace God and the Good News of Jesus Christ, Nouwen would suggest, as much from his life as from his words, that, in the marriage of Christian theology and spirituality, we can indeed have our cake and eat it, too. God’s best-kept secret translates well to the necessary coinherence of what we believe with how we believe it. And, as far as chickens are concerned, no chicken, no egg; no egg, no chicken.

At least, that’s what Henri might say…

[i] Nouwen, Henri Reaching Out: The Three Movements of the Spiritual Journey Image Books: Doubleday Publishing, ©1975

I promise I’ll be done with these soon. I gotta get it all out first, though!

What was to become an ever increasing reality however was that I had not merely been invited into a saving knowledge of Christ but to a journey replete with the confusing pain of God’s purifying crucible of suffering. In short order the heady elation of my conversion experience gave way to the darker waters of the journey into…journey. My family scoffed, my friends left, my stomach tightened and I became the pilgrim whose path is unclear and whose control over the exigencies of day-to-day experience disappeared entirely. I lost what little control I did have for the uncertainties of living by faith and not by sight.

Concurrently, I was enjoying my foray into the realm of discipleship and learning the language of faith. I attended a “Bible believing” church which leaned fundamentalist. Although restrictive in certain ways, my lack of comparatives disallowed me the luxury of complaint and I developed meaningful relationships with wonderful people. Here I sat under the tutelage of my first mentors who helped establish in me a deep love for the Scriptures. It is a love I carry to this day. It would not be until much later that I would discover this new faith language would prove vastly insufficient in providing clear descriptors and adequate paradigm for one predisposed to mysticism and more…let’s say, progressive (small ‘p’) proclivities than my contemporaries.

Be that as it may, my original career path of English Literature succumbed to God’s call to enroll in Bible School and for the next six and a half years I hungrily devoured whatever theological morsels were on my plate. A careful, oft defended, construct of conservative evangelical Calvinism provided the framework and the desire to further discover my identity in church music – the impetus for my call to paid ministry. However, cracks were beginning to appear in the perceived safety of this construct. I hid from all but a few people a deep and abiding love for Catholic spiritual formation, music, and art, a growing dis-ease with the conservative ideologies I had been taught so assiduously and a longing for “something more.” Hence, my collection of “odd” books, well outside prescribed parameters, a change to a local Anglican church and a quickly expanding John Michael Talbot and Gregorian Chant album collection (yes, record albums!), all belying my surroundings. My vast spiritual curiosity was also enriched through my discovery of the charismatic movement, a movement with which I’ve enjoyed an uneasy love-hate relationship for many years. In those meaningful but mystifying days, the addition of a few kindred spirits with whom to share this journey I will forever be grateful.

It was in this intellectual-spiritual funk that I offered my prayer in the gymnasium. And twenty-six years later, from the environs of a Master’s program in spiritual formation I see the undeniable power and centrality of that prayer.

There have been further indicators of God’s redemptive activity through my prayer. I graduated from Winnipeg Bible College (now Providence Christian College) with a B.A in Music in 1988 and was married two weeks later to the girl who would not only bear my two boys but with whom I would ramp up exponentially my decades long search for the “something more.” I have since belonged to a host of varying churches from Pentecostal to Baptist to Lutheran. Now, at the Presbyterian congregation where I presently serve as Minister of Worship and Music I am forced to consider the question: is this spiritual stew the result of the fulfillment of an intentional curiosity, the pragmatisms of ministry or merely the result of an identity crisis? Who am I, indeed! On countless levels, I am a poster child for the Spring Arbor Master of Spiritual Formation and Leadership program!

Twenty-six years after saying a rather unremarkable prayer I can safely say that my week of community, prayer, lecture, laughter and tears has revealed the deepest levels of God’s answer for me. For the first time in this twenty eight year spiritual journey, the pieces came together to form the clearest picture I’ve yet enjoyed of what it means for Rob Rife to be an integrated man of God. My best attempt at a summary would be to say that, similar to Job before me who asked hard questions of God, the answer to my question came in the guise of a better question. The rich, heady tributary waters of the Christian faith merged in even more spectacular fashion as God invited me this week to consider not who I am but rather, who am I becoming? Not the “what” and “when” but the “who”, “how” and “why”.