Rector's Blog: Nourished by love

That’s the trick with nourishment: It is not permanent. It is not one-time only. Our need is ongoing. We must be fed again and again. This is not because we are broken or faulty – this is how we were made. Our bodies are built in such a way that they use the nourishment we are given and then need more. It’s perpetual, and in fact is a sign that we are alive and thriving.

I tell my kids I love them every day. I have one child who, when I call him over to tell him something, says, “You’re gonna say you love me.” And he’s right. I am. Every time. Because I do. And also because I do not believe once is enough. I’ve heard people say, “Well so-and-so never says it, but I know they love me.” That is not going to be the case for the people around me. I try to tell people that I love them regularly. Because I do, and because I believe hearing it repeatedly matters. I don’t often think of myself as a disciplined person, but telling people I love them is one of my disciplines.

And I know words aren’t everything. I know it. “I love you” can ring hollow if not backed up by action. The words can be misused, abused, twisted. If rule number one is tell them you love them, the second rule is act like it’s true. But the act of loving people cannot be a one-time event. It cannot be. Because our Gospel belief is that we are made by the God of Love, that we are made out of the abundance of God’s love, and that we are made for loving and being loved. It is the most fundamental truth of our being. And that means we need to be nourished by love. We need it again and again, day in day out.

when I was first priesting I met a young man who was a philosophy major in college. He would accompany his girlfriend to church, and then stick around and ask a lot of beautifully skeptical and thoughtful college philosophy major boy questions. He once asked me something to the effect of, “Can’t you learn what you need from this Jesus story and then move on?” He said, “If you use this faith thing to climb the ladder, and then you get to the top, can’t you get rid of the ladder?” As he was asking this, I was thinking about how I never have gotten to the top of said ladder, had never figured it all out, and responded with something like that.

You know how you always think of how you should’ve responded to someone after the fact? Well it’s been ten years and now I know what to say to him. Love is not a ladder you climb to get to the better place. And love is not a never-ending ladder. It’s not like that stair machine at the gym where you climb up moving stairs and make no progress. Love is nourishment for your soul. Like food, it feeds you and allows you to grow. Like food, it makes life possible. And like any other nourishment, you will never stop needing it. Your faith life is not a vehicle for your personal progress. It is the wellspring of your nourishment.

Stop thinking about progress for a moment, please. You can come back to it later, I promise. But for a moment, think with me about your faith life, about your relationship with your God, about your life in your community. Imagine for a moment that you are not tasked with the responsibility of becoming a better person, that your faith is not a tool you’ve chosen for the work of self improvement. Instead, imagine that your very human and very blessed soul, like your very human and very blessed body, is by its nature in need of nourishment. Then it’s not about attaining the right amount of knowledge, or accumulating spiritual brownie points from the great Hall Monitor in the sky. No, your faith is meant to nourish you with love.

Every week in our community, we come together and do the same thing. Literally, the same thing. Every week. We hear the stories of how God loves us. We hear a preacher describe the love God has for us. We sing songs about that love. And then, in the Episcopal Church, we take communion – which we describe as spiritual food and drink. We say God is nourishing us with love, that God is nourishing us with God’s very self. And that’s why we do it every week.

Growing up, I used to think I took communion to be forgiven from my sins. That for a brief shining moment after chomping the wafer and sipping the wine, I was ok in God’s eyes. And I wondered how long I’d be able to stay there in that grace. Have you ever wondered if you could be flawless? How long you could stay flawless? I have. And if I could stay there, I could say, “I’ll never eat again!” If I could stay there I’d be at the top of that ladder, full of brilliance and understanding.

But I don’t want God to make me brilliant anymore. Or flawless or full of understanding. Because that desire was only ever rooted in the notion that I could reach a certain level where I wouldn’t need the help, wouldn’t need the faith, wouldn’t need to wonder or question or struggle or suffer. And that’s not real life. I’m here, now, in this life, in this world, and I don’t need perfection. I need to be nourished by love. I need to be fed. Again.