“God doesn’t give us the Cross we ask for; He gives us the Cross we need.”
This was perhaps the most helpful teaching I received from my Novice Master, when I was a young novice. Youth is a time for ideals, for great efforts in service of noble goals. This is as it should be, and it is part of what makes the young so attractive. And so, at that tender age, I was eager for ascetical practices of all kinds, ready for every kind of self-denial—so long as I was still in control. I was eager to take up several Crosses of my own choosing.
Eventually, a great purification began to take place in me through sufferings that were not of my choosing. In fact, these were often baffling, contrary to my beliefs about what religious life ought to be like. It helped me to remember that this was the Cross God chose for me, the one I needed. It was precisely in those areas in which I was spiritually blind that I needed the painful actions of grace to open the eyes of my heart. That meant accepting all manner of contrary experiences as a participation in the saving Cross of Christ, the Cross I had not (intentionally) asked for.
In a similar way, repentance is never easy, but at least when we can name our own faults, we can rebrand repentance as self-help. We can seek out the advice that appeals to our tastes and promises improvement according to our own self-assessment.
On the other hand, when someone else points out our faults, however accurately, it is quite a bit more painful. They might even call our attention to faults that we didn’t know we had.
Sometimes a hidden fault of ours is uncovered in the rough and tumble of everyday life, revealed through circumstances not entirely in our control. In monastic life, we often find that progress against one sin uncovers a completely different sinful habit that we weren’t aware of. For example, pushing back against gluttony by fasting often makes us irritable. What this reveals is that I have the sin of anger within. But I’ve been avoiding it by distracting myself with delights of the palate. Here, a sinful disposition is revealed to me. But this time, instead of a person pointing it out to me, the revelation comes through the hard truth of reality.
There is a conundrum in all of this. If we want to be holy, we must address our hidden sins. Yet these are the ones we most readily resist confronting. This raises a question: is there a way to dispose ourselves so that when unexpected criticism arrives, we can receive it humbly, with a willing heart? Can we take up this unasked-for Cross?
To answer this, I offer another anecdote. A couple of years before entering the Monastery, I was having dinner with a very dear friend. I can no longer remember the context of her criticism, but I remember the substance of it well. In the course of our conversation, she suggested that I could do a better job of listening to what other people were saying and asking them questions. I remember the sting of hearing this, but I also went home resolved to capitalize on this tough advice.
What made me able to receive this rebuke profitably (I hope!) was the mutual love shared between two friends. My esteem for my friend short-circuited the typical reaction of defensiveness. Love turned the shame of acknowledging a fault into motivation for change. The effect is the one that Jack Nicholson’s character discovers in the movie “As Good As It Gets.” He says to Helen Hunt’s character, the only person in the movie who has shown him kindness, “You make me want to be a better man.” Her kindness opened his heart and made him ready to welcome the hard truth that he needed to change his life. Love makes all things possible.
So a strategy for living in the truth with greater fidelity is to love more. Whether the hard truth is delivered by a comment or by the unbending fiber of reality, love provides an opening to our hearts. “Where there is not love, put love — and you will find love [Saint John of the Cross].” When we love our neighbor, we are better disposed to any and all truths about ourselves that he or she may bring to light.
This also works in our encounter with the world around us. When we love, in a proper way, the creatures that God gave us, we can learn to trust them as His messengers. God’s message always emanates from His love. Reality is not an obstacle—even when it brings suffering—but was fashioned by God for our benefit. For “all things work for the good of those who love Him [Romans 8: 28],” even the Cross that we have been avoiding.