Our Second Birth E-Book

Henri J. M. Nouwen

• Herausgeber: WS
• Kategorie: Religion und Spiritualität
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2006

Seitenzahl: 263

Beschreibung

The inspirational readings of Our Second Birth throw light on the meaning of life, friendship, and the love of God, and are seen from the perspective of the life to come. Drawn largely from Sabbatical Journey, but newly packaged for devotional and gift markets, this volume is the newest addition to the attractive Crossroad Nouwen Library.

Leseprobe

“The many events of life so easily pull us in all directions and make us lose our souls. But when we remain anchored in the heart of God, rooted in God’s love, we have nothing to fear, not even death, and everything joyful and everything painful will give us a chance to proclaim the Kingdom of Jesus.”

(from the book)

HENRI J. M. NOUWEN

Our Second Birth

CHRISTIAN REFLECTIONS ON DEATH AND NEW LIFE

A Crossroad Book

The Crossroad Publishing Company

New York

Material in this book excerpted from Sabbatical Journey: A Diary of His Final Year

The Crossroad Publishing Company

www.crossroadpublishing.com

© 1998, 2006 by the Estate of Henri J. M. Nouwen

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available from the Library of Congress.

ISBN: 9780824523657

EPUB: 9780824522094

MOBI: 9780824522100

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Contents

A Note from the Publisher

September 1995

October 1995

November 1995

December 1995

January 1996

February 1996

March 1996

April 1996

May 1996

June 1996

July 1996

August 1996

Nouwen Book Ideas for Every Reader

About the Author

About the Publisher

A Note from the Publisher

“I’m curious about Henri Nouwen—what’s the first book I should read?” We hear this question constantly. We often suggest Life of the Beloved or Return of the Prodigal Son as good starting points. When serious fans ask us about a book that can take them more deeply into Nouwen’s thought, we suggest Sabbatical Journey, a feast of intimate insights into what would become the final year of his life. We have long wanted to bring these two audiences together, abridging Sabbatical Journey in a way that could make its core insights into life, illness, death, and new birth accessible to the thousands of readers who, every year, turn to Nouwen for the first time. Our Second Birth is the culmination of this wish.

The root questions of life rarely change, and Nouwen’s perceptive and rich writings on these questions are as compelling today as when he first penned the words some ten years ago. Whether seeing his father again, enjoying the hospitality of friends, or speaking with characteristic energy and charm to a small gathering, Nouwen was never clearer about the sacredness of life and the need to honor and embrace it fully. Nouwen’s trust in Christ to bless this life and prepare us for the next life has never been more in evidence.

Whether you are a newcomer to Nouwen or a longtime reader, we hope you enjoy reading this book.

Our Second Birth

September 1995

Oakville, Ontario, Saturday, September 2, 1995

This is the first day of my sabbatical. I am excited and anxious, hopeful and fearful, tired, and full of desire to do a thousand things. The coming year stretches out in front of me as a long, open field full of flowers and full of weeds. How will I cross that field? What will I have learned when I finally reach the other end?

During this weekend nine years ago, I arrived at Daybreak. I had just finished the journal in which I wrote down the many thoughts, emotions, passions, and feelings that led me to leave Harvard Divinity School and join “the Ark.” It had taken me a year to make that transition. It was in fact my first sabbatical, during which my heart was gradually opened to a new life, a life with people with mental handicaps. The Road to Daybreak was the record of that sabbatical.

Now, exactly nine years later, I am sitting in my little apartment in the house of Hans and Margaret in Oakville, near Toronto. Hans and Margaret invited me to spend the first two weeks of my “empty year” with them, “just to relax.” Hans said, “Just sleep, eat, and do what you want to do.”

I feel strange! Very happy and very scared at the same time. I have always dreamt about a whole year without appointments, meetings, lectures, travels, letters, and phone calls, a year completely open to let something radically new happen. But can I do it? Can I let go of all the things that make me feel useful and significant? I realize that I am quite addicted to being busy and experience a bit of withdrawal anxiety. I have to nail myself to my chair and control these wild impulses to get up again and become busy with whatever draws my attention.

But underneath all these anxieties, there is an immense joy. Free at last! Free to think critically, to feel deeply, and to pray as never before. Free to write about the many experiences that I have stored up in my heart and mind during the last nine years. Free to deepen friendships and explore new ways of loving. Free most of all to fight with the Angel of God and ask for a new blessing. The past three months seemed like a steeplechase full of complex hurdles. I often thought, “How will I ever make it to September?” But now I am here. I have made it, and I rejoice.

One thing that helps me immensely is that the Daybreak community has sent me on this sabbatical. It is a mission! I am not allowed to feel guilty for taking a whole year off. To the contrary, I am supported to feel guilty when I am getting busy again. Although many of my Daybreak friends said, “We will miss you,” they also said, “It is good for you and for us that you go.” They affirm my vocation to be alone, read, write, and pray, and thus to live something new that can bear fruit not only in my own life but also in the life of our community. It is such a support for me that I can live my time away not only as a way of doing my will but also as a way of doing the will of the community. I can even think of it as an act of obedience!

Last night, Hans and his daughter Maja came to Daybreak to participate in the Friday night Eucharist and to pick me up. As we drove to Oakville, Hans said, “I came to be sure that you had no excuse to stay another day.”

Right now I have no excuses for anything but to embark on a new journey and to trust that all will be well. It is clear to me that I have to keep a journal again, just as I did during the year before coming to Daybreak. I have promised myself not to let a day pass without writing down, as honestly and directly as possible, what is happening within and around me. It won’t be easy, since I don’t know the field I am entering. But I am ready to take a few risks.

I am starting this year with the prayer of Charles de Foucauld, the prayer I say every day with much trepidation:

Father, I abandon myself into your hands.

Do with me whatever you will.

Whatever you may do, I thank you.

I am ready for all, I accept all.

Let only your will be done in me,

and in all your creatures.

Into your hands I commend my spirit.

I offer it to you with all the love that is in my heart.

For I love you, Lord, and so want to give myself,

to surrender myself into your hands,

without reserve and with boundless confidence,

for you are my Father.

Amen.

Sunday, September 3

My unconscious certainly has not gone on sabbatical yet! Last night was full of the wildest and most chaotic dreams. Dreams about not making it on time for a meeting, not being able to keep up with all my obligations, and not finishing anything that I was supposed to finish. My dreams were full of people who were angry with me for not doing what they asked me to do, and full of letters and faxes that urgently needed responses. Every time I woke up between my dreams and found myself in the quiet, peaceful, guest room of my friends, without any plans for today, I laughed. The only thing I could say was that simple prayer, “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me.”

Prayer is the bridge between my unconscious and conscious life. Prayer connects my mind with my heart, my will with my passions, my brain with my belly. Prayer is the way to let the life-giving Spirit of God penetrate all the corners of my being. Prayer is the divine instrument of my wholeness, unity, and inner peace.

So what about my life of prayer? Do I like to pray? Do I want to pray? Do I spend time praying? Frankly, the answer is no to all three questions. After sixty-three years of life and thirty-eight years of priesthood, my prayer seems as dead as a rock. I remember fondly my teenage years, when I could hardly stay away from the church. For hours I would stay on my knees filled with a deep sense of Jesus’ presence. I couldn’t believe that not everyone wanted to pray. Prayer was so intimate and so satisfying. It was during these prayer-filled years that my vocation to the priesthood was shaped. During the years that followed I have paid much attention to prayer, reading about it, writing about it, visiting monasteries and houses of prayer, and guiding many people on their spiritual journeys. By now I should be full of spiritual fire, consumed by prayer. Many people think I am and speak to me as if prayer is my greatest gift and deepest desire.

The truth is that I do not feel much, if anything, when I pray. There are no warm emotions, bodily sensations, or mental visions. None of my five senses is being touched—no special smells, no special sounds, no special sights, no special tastes, and no special movements. Whereas for a long time the Spirit acted so clearly through my flesh, now I feel nothing. I have lived with the expectation that prayer would become easier as I grow older and closer to death. But the opposite seems to be happening. The words darkness and dryness seem to best describe my prayer today.

Maybe part of this darkness and dryness is the result of my overactivity. As I grow older I become busier and spend less and less time in prayer. But I probably should not blame myself in that way. The real questions are, “What are the darkness and the dryness about? What do they call me to?” Responding to these questions might well be the main task of my sabbatical. I know that Jesus, at the end of his life, felt abandoned by God. “My God, my God,” he cried out on the cross, “why have you forsaken me?” (Mt 27:46). His body had been destroyed by his torturers, his mind was no longer able to grasp the meaning of his existence, and his soul was void of any consolation. Still, it was from his broken heart that water and blood, signs of new life, came out.

Are the darkness and dryness of my prayer signs of God’s absence, or are they signs of a presence deeper and wider than my senses can contain? Is the death of my prayer the end of my intimacy with God or the beginning of a new communion, beyond words, emotions, and bodily sensations?

As I sit down for half an hour to be in the presence of God and to pray, not much is happening to talk about to my friends. Still, maybe this time is a way of dying with Jesus.

The year ahead of me must be a year of prayer, even though I say that my prayer is as dead as a rock. My prayer surely is, but not necessarily the Spirit’s prayer in me. Maybe the time has come to let go of my prayer, my effort to be close to God, my way of being in communion with the Divine, and to allow the Spirit of God to blow freely in me. Paul writes, “What you received was not the spirit of slavery to bring you back into fear; you received the spirit of adoption, enabling us to cry out, ‘Abba, Father!’ The living Spirit joins with our spirit to bear witness that we are children of God” (Rom 8:14–16).

My wild, unruly dreams will probably keep reminding me of the great spiritual work ahead of me. But I trust that it is not just I who have to do the work. The Spirit of God joins my spirit and will guide me as I move into this blessed time.

Monday, September 4

Last night I drove to downtown Toronto to have dinner with Nathan and Sue. Nathan is the director of Daybreak, and Sue its pastor, replacing me during my sabbatical. We came together just to affirm the friendship between us that has grown during the past nine years. Nathan and I came to Daybreak on the same day, and Sue, who has lived at Daybreak during most of its twenty-five years of existence, was one of the main voices calling me to Canada to become member and pastor of the community. The three of us not only live in the same community and work together in many ways but also have become close friends. Last night was a night to celebrate that friendship.

As I reflect on the year ahead, I realize that friendship will be as important a concern as prayer. Maybe even more important. My need for friendship is great, greater than seems “normal.” When I think about the pains and joys of my life, they have little to do with success, money, career, country, or church, but everything to do with friendships. My friendship with Nathan and Sue proves that clearly. The moments of ecstasy and agony connected with both of them mark my nine years at Daybreak.

I have felt rejected as well as supported, abandoned as well as embraced, hated as well as loved. All through it I have come to discover that friendship is a real discipline. Nothing can be taken for granted, nothing happens automatically, nothing comes without concentrated effort. Friendship requires trust, patience, attentiveness, courage, repentance, forgiveness, celebration, and most of all faithfulness. It is amazing for me to realize how often I thought that it was all over, that both Nathan and Sue had betrayed me or dropped me, and how easily feelings of jealousy, resentment, anger, and depression came over me. It is even more amazing to see that we are still friends, yes, the best of friends. But it certainly has been hard work for all three of us.

My question as I leave Daybreak for a year is, “How can I live my friendships during this time?” Am I going to feel that out of sight means out of mind and give in to despair? Or can I move to a new inner place where I can trust that both presence and absence can deepen the bond of friendship? Most likely I will experience both ends of the spectrum of human relationship. I had better be prepared for it. But whatever I will “feel,” it is important that I keep making inner choices of faithfulness.

In this respect, my struggle with prayer is not so different from my struggle with friendship. Both prayer and friendship need purification. They need to become less dependent on fleeting emotions and more rooted in lasting commitments. As I write this, it sounds very wise! But I know already that my body and soul might need an immense amount of discipline to catch up with this wisdom. . . .

Wednesday, September 6

From the bay windows of Hans and Margaret’s house I have a splendid view of Lake Ontario. My eyes are continually drawn to the mysterious line where water and sky touch each other. It is blue touching gray, or gray touching blue, or blue touching blue, or gray touching gray. Endless shades of blue and endless shades of gray. It is like an abstract painting in which everything is reduced to one line, but a line that connects heaven and earth, soul and body, life and death.

Just focusing on that line is meditating. It quiets my heart and mind and brings me a sense of belonging that transcends the limitations of my daily existence. Most often the water and sky are empty, but once in a while a sailboat or a plane passes by in the distance, neither of them ever crossing the line. Crossing the line means death. . . .

Thursday, September 7

Last night I called Cardinal Joseph Bernardin, the archbishop of Chicago, to ask him about his health. He said, “Henri, I’m so glad to hear from you. Yesterday I went back to work, half days. I am doing really well.” His voice was strong and energetic. I said, “Ever since I visited you in July I’ve been thinking of you a lot and praying for you, and I’m so glad that you feel so well and are ready to go to work again.” Then he said, “I can’t tell you, Henri, how much it meant to me that you came to see me, prayed with me, and gave me some of your books. Thanks again. This truly is a time of special graces for me.”

I vividly remember my visit to the cardinal in July. At that time I was at the National Catholic HIV/AIDS Ministries Conference in Chicago. The newspapers had widely reported that Cardinal Bernardin was suffering from pancreatic cancer and had undergone intensive surgery and follow-up radiation treatments. Soon after I arrived in Chicago, my priest friend Bob called to say that the cardinal would like me to visit him.

I spent half an hour talking and praying with him. I was deeply moved by our conversation. He told me about Steven, who had falsely accused him of sexual abuse and had later withdrawn his accusation. It had been major news and had caused great suffering for the cardinal. After it was all over he decided to visit Steven in Philadelphia and offer him his forgiveness, pray with him, and celebrate the Eucharist. Steven, who lives with AIDS and had very hostile feelings toward the church, was deeply touched by this gesture of reconciliation. For Joseph Bernardin as well as for Steven this had been a most important moment of life, a moment of true healing.

“Now both Steven and I are severely ill, Steven with AIDS and I with cancer,” the cardinal said. “We both have to prepare ourselves for death. Steven calls me nearly once a month to ask me how I am doing. That means a lot to me. We are now able to support each other.”

As the cardinal was telling me this, I started to feel very close to him. He really is a brother to me, a fellow human being, struggling as I do. I found myself calling him Joseph and dropping the words “Cardinal” and “Your Eminence.”

“This is a very graced time,” Joseph said. “As I go to the hospital for treatment, I do not want to go through the side door directly to the doctor’s office. No, I want to visit the other patients who have cancer and are afraid to die, and I want to be with them as a brother and friend who can offer some consolation and comfort. I have a whole new ministry since I became ill, and I am deeply grateful for that.”

We spoke about death. My mother had died after surgery for pancreatic cancer, so I knew how dangerous Joseph’s illness was. Although he was very optimistic and expected to survive and be able to return to his work, he was not afraid to talk about his death. As I sat with him I became deeply convinced that his illness and possible death might be the greatest gift he has to offer to the church today. So many people are dying of AIDS and cancer, so many people are dying through starvation, war, and violence. Could Joseph’s illness and death become a true compassionate ministry to all these people? Could he live it as Jesus did, for others? I was so grateful that he didn’t go through the back door to the hospital but through the front door, visiting the patients. I was so grateful that Steven, living with AIDS, is there to encourage him. I am so grateful that he is willing to drink the cup of sorrow and to trust that this is his finest hour.

Obviously I hope that Joseph will completely recover from his cancer, and I am very glad to know that he has returned to his work. In my view Cardinal Joseph Bernardin is one of the most significant leaders in the Catholic Church today, and I know how much his people in Chicago hope that he will be able to continue his leadership.

Still, Joseph will die someday. His illness has confronted him with the closeness of death. I pray that what he has lived this year with Steven and his own cancer will make the time ahead of him, whether short or long, the most compassionate time of his life, a time that can bear fruit far beyond the boundary of his death.

Friday, September 8

Last night the Toronto International Film Festival started. It will last until September 16 and bring hundreds of new films from different countries and cultures to the city. Hans bought the richly illustrated catalog in which all the films are described and gave it to me to “study.”

Going through the pages of the catalog, it strikes me that this is a contemporary storybook. Each film tells a story about how people live, suffer, and die. Most stories are about human relationships, gentle and caring, violent and abusive. All of them offer glimpses of what our world is like today, in Africa, Asia, Latin America, Australia, and North America.

Although the catalog is subtitled Nourishment for a Modern Age, much of the food tastes quite bitter. Ours is certainly an age of immense confusion, radical upheavals, and emotional and moral bewilderment. But in the midst of it all there is heroism, kindness, sacrifice, and a deep yearning for belonging. I can hardly think of a better way to learn about the human aspirations at the end of the twentieth century than through this festival. The stories that it tells are the stories of men, women, and children of our day and age. One might object by saying that most of these stories are abnormal or exceptional, but it does not take much to realize that they are touching the most sensitive nerves of our society.

It is very hard, if not impossible, to get tickets for any of these films at this late date. They were sold out long before the beginning of the festival. People want to see and hear stories and experience their own stories in the context of larger, maybe more dramatic, more explicit, or more intense ones. I have written many essays, reflections, and meditations during the last twenty-five years. But I have seldom written a good story. Why not? Maybe my moralistic nature made me focus more on the uplifting message that I felt compelled to proclaim than on the often ambiguous realities of daily life, from where any uplifting message has to emerge spontaneously. Maybe I have been afraid to touch the wet soil from which new life comes forth and anxious about the outcome of an open-ended story. Maybe. But I am sure that we all want to hear stories, from the moment we are born to the moment we die. Stories connect our little lives with the world around us and help us discover who we are. The Bible is a storybook, and the Gospels are four stories about the birth, death, and resurrection of Jesus, who himself was one of the greatest storytellers.

As I begin this sabbatical year I realize that as a priest I must become a storyteller. I have many stories to tell. The first question is, “How can I tell them well?” It is not easy to tell a story, certainly not when you have an inclination to run quickly toward a happy ending. The second question is, “How can I find the courage to write stories that don’t fit a prefabricated frame?”

Whatever is ahead of me, the Toronto International Film Festival is a clarion call to write stories and not be afraid.

Sunday, September 10

Each evening before dinner I celebrate the Eucharist in the dining room with Hans and Margaret and their guests.

I am always grateful for the opportunity to bring friends together for prayer before we share a meal. Listening to the readings from the Bible, reflecting on their significance for our lives today, praying for the many people of whose needs we are aware, and receiving the Body and Blood of Jesus unite us in a way that no good conversation or good meal can accomplish. The Eucharist indeed makes us church—ecclesia—which means people called away from slavery to freedom. Yes, we are family, we are friends, we are business associates. But more than that we are people of God journeying together to our home, the place where Jesus went to prepare a place for us.

There is much to enjoy in life, but unless it can be enjoyed as a foretaste of what we will see and hear in the house of God, our mortality will easily make all pleasure vain, transitory, and even empty.

The second reading today (Phlm 10, 12–17) is a part of the remarkable letter that Paul wrote to Philemon to plead for Onesimus, a runaway slave whom Paul had converted to Christ while in prison.

This letter is a masterpiece. There is affection for Philemon and his slave Onesimus, there is persuasive arguing asking Philemon to take his fugitive slave back not as a slave but as a brother. There is even some subtle cunning, suggesting that Philemon owes Paul a favor. Paul is “prudent as a snake and gentle as a dove.” His deep love for Onesimus is obvious. Indeed he would have liked Onesimus to remain where he was. But Philemon, most likely a landowner in Colossae and a convert of Paul, is a powerful man, and Paul doesn’t want to alienate him. So he sends Onesimus back to his owner, but not without loading some hot coals on his head. He writes, “If he has wronged you in any way, or owes you anything, charge that to my account. I, Paul, am writing this with my own hand: I will repay it” (Phlm 18–19).

But then he adds in a nearly mischievous way, showing that he does not expect to pay anything, “I say nothing about your owing me even your own self.” In Paul’s opinion, Philemon’s conversion is worth a lot more than whatever Onesimus might owe him, and if he takes his conversion—and his personal relationship with Paul—seriously, he had better treat Onesimus in the way Paul wants him to!

To be in the world without being of the world, to use the tactics of the world in the service of the Kingdom, to respond to people with wealth in a fearless way, convinced that you have more to offer than to receive, to plead for the poor in ways that the rich can understand, to carry the Gospel in one hand, a stick in the other . . . all of that is part of Paul’s militant servanthood. It is also part of our common journey home.

We might think about ourselves as converted slaves who continue to live in this world and ask our many “bosses” to treat us as brothers and sisters. Not every Philemon in our lives will respond favorably to our request. It might not hurt to have with us a letter such as Paul wrote. Sometimes we might even have to write such a letter to our converted friends!

Monday, September 11

Why am I so tired? Although I have all the time I want to sleep, I wake up with an immense feeling of fatigue and get up only because I want to do some work. But I feel extremely frustrated. I want to write, read, and respond to some people’s requests, but everything requires an immense effort, and after a few hours of work I collapse in utter exhaustion, often falling into a deep sleep. I expected that I would be tired after the intense and busy summer, but now, after ten quiet days, it feels that the more I rest the more tired I become. There seems no end to it.

Fatigue is a strange thing. I can push it away for a long time. I can go on automatic, especially when there are many routine things to do. But when finally the space and time are there to do something new and creative, all the repressed fatigue comes back like a flood and paralyzes me.

I am quite possessive about my time. I want to use it well and realize some of my long-cherished plans. I can’t tolerate wasting time, even though I want to write about wasting time with God, with friends, or with the poor! There are so many contradictions within me.

Hans keeps laughing at me. “You are here to relax, to turn off your busyness, but you are living your vacation as a big job!” He is right, but the distance between insight and practice is huge.

The real question for me is how to live my fatigue as an experience that can deepen my soul. How can I live it patiently and fully experience its pains and aches?

But I am not the only one who is tired. When I walk in downtown Toronto, I can see fatigue on the faces of the men and women moving quickly from one place to another. They look preoccupied, thinking about family, work, and the many things they have to do before the night falls. And when I look at the faces that appear on the television newscasts from Bosnia, Rwanda, and many other war-torn places, it feels like all of humanity is tired, more than tired, exhausted.

Somewhere I have to connect my little fatigue with the great fatigue of the human race. We are a tired race, carrying a burden that weighs us down. Jesus says, “Come to me, you who are tired and feel the burden of life. Take on my burden—which is the burden of the whole world—and you will discover that it is a light burden.” It moves me deeply that Jesus says not “I will take your burden away” but “Take on God’s burden.”

So what is God’s burden? Am I tired simply because I want to do my thing and can’t get it done, or am I tired because I am carrying something larger than myself, something given to me to alleviate the burdens of others?

Thursday, September 14

This is the end of my time here. I will return to Daybreak for the weekend and then drive to Boston, where I plan to stay until Christmas.

The weekend at Daybreak will be important for me. Six friends will visit the community from Friday until Sunday. The community decided that this would also be a good occasion to “officially” send me on my sabbatical. That will happen during the Eucharist tomorrow evening.

Utica, New York, Sunday, September 17

At noon Nathan picked me up to drive with me to Boston, where I will be with my friend Robert Jonas and his family until Christmas. I had worried about doing the twelve-hour drive from Toronto to Boston alone, and I am deeply grateful that Nathan was willing to drive me there and take a plane back to Toronto so that I could have my car in Boston. We made it as far as Utica, New York.

Watertown, Massachusetts Monday, September 18