Religious Simplicity Revisited
by Robert P. Maloney CM
(From the 65.1 issue of Review for Religious)
Everyone needs a guiding star, but the stars in the sky are countless. Saints have chosen different ones. Jerome focused on the Scriptures: “Love the Holy Scriptures, and wisdom will love you.” Francis of Assisi fixed on God's love in the gifts of creation and the crucified Lord, praising God in Brother Sun and Sister Moon and uniting himself with suffering humanity. Vincent de Paul, especially as he grew older, chose simplicity, or truthfulness, as the star to guide him to know what to say and do. “It is the virtue I love most,” he wrote to a priest-friend, François de Coudray. “It is my gospel,” he told the Daughters of Charity, the community he founded with Louise de Marillac.
There are many contemporary ways of describing simplicity: authenticity, integrity, genuineness, realness, passion for the truth. In the two sections that follow, I will focus first on simplicity as “being in the truth” with God, with oneself, with others, and with the created universe surrounding us. Then I will discuss combining the simplicity of the dove with the prudence of the serpent.
Simplicity as “Being in the Truth”
There is a wonderful freedom in those who live simply. They project joy and peaceful confidence. One of the most popular hymns in the English-speaking world, Joseph Brackett's “Simple Gifts,” began proclaiming in 1848: “'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free.” Simplicity involves making God our ultimate concern, identifying our will with what God is asking. Vincent de Paul remarked rather wryly to Louise de Marillac: “How easy it is to become a saint. The only thing necessary is to do the will of God in everything.”
For simple persons the kingdom of God becomes the focal point of their life, the ideal that integrates all that they are and do. Of course, growth in single-mindedness before God, in purity of intention, is a lifelong process. Our sinfulness continually interrupts our unity with God's purposes. Limited objectives like self-promotion easily distract us from our single-minded pursuit of God's kingdom; even worse, they may substitute for it. In our sinful condition, we are never able to pull our lives together into a perfect opus, finished once and for all. Even those who seem to have done so fall often, sometimes badly. Our final integrity comes only from God's forgiving, healing love. It is a gift.
In commenting on the simplicity and purity of intention that he had witnessed in the Shaker tradition, Thomas Merton once wrote, “The peculiar grace of a Shaker chair is due to the fact that it was made by someone capable of believing that an angel might come and sit on it.” That sentence is surely worth meditating on. In religious life, many helps have been offered for being in the truth with God: the daily Eucharist, daily mental prayer, and daily examination of conscience are among the most prominent.
Human beings are social beings. Human relationships are not just an add-on. They make us who we are, forming us gradually. Having friends, falling in love, building a family, joining a community, being part of a nation, an institution, a movement—all these forms of union with others are possible only if there is truth-filled communication. In fact, the English word truth is related etymologically to trust, faithfulness, covenant. Older English-speaking readers may recall the now archaic marriage promise: “I plight unto thee my troth,” which we might translate today as: “I pledge to you my truth (my word, my trust, my commitment).” In fact, we still speak of a promise to marry as “betrothal.”
In truthful relationships with others, simplicity has its most obvious meaning: honesty. Trust in the word of another is the condition for life together, for friendship, marriage, community, business ventures, and all sorts of other relationships. Lies bring about the disintegration of communities, the fracture of marriages, the downfall of governments. Lies are not just verbal; they may be present in actions. Marriages collapse through infidelity. Families break down through covert, competing interests. Friendships unravel through secret betrayal. Being in the truth keeps people together; falsehood tears us apart. To put it tersely, simplicity unites; duplicity divides.
Necessary as it is, speaking the truth with consistency in religious life is difficult. We are tempted to blur the truth for our own convenience or to avoid being embarrassed. It is difficult to be enduringly true to our word when circumstances change. In the present our statements are true or false right then and there, but, when we make a commitment for the future, it is true only if we keep it true. Truth is fidelity. It is especially in this sense that Jesus is true to us. He promises to be, and is, with us always, even to the end. We too are called to be true in this way—to vows, to friendships, and to our commitments to serve.
Thomas Merton once wrote: “We make ourselves real by telling the truth.” The truth at the core of each human person strives to emerge. When we express the truth, we construct and reveal our true self. When we distort the truth, we damage not just our relationship with others, but the center of our own being too. Being in the truth with our own self is, of course, vitally related to being in the truth with God and being in the truth with others. But our own truth is nevertheless distinctive. There is a distinctive giftedness, a personal vocation from God, that we may not renounce, but must treasure.
Simplicity calls us to integrity, authenticity. But, as we journey in quest of personal wholeness, most of us experience our own fracturedness. We sense inner contradictions, a broken center, cracks in our personality; sometimes we fall apart. Philosophy, psychology, and sociology have described polarities that people sense within themselves: body/mind, feeling/thinking, heart/ head, unconscious/conscious.
Being true to oneself is not as easy as it might seem. Accurate self-knowledge is rare, as Robert Burns eloquently noted: “O wad some Power the giftie gie us / To see oursels as ithers see us! / It wad frae mony a blunder free us, / An' foolish notion: / What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, / An' ev'n devotion!”
Knowing oneself accurately is essential in life. The philosopher Wittgenstein observed: “You cannot write anything about yourself that is more truthful than you yourself are. That is the difference between writing about yourself and writing about external objects. You write about yourself from your own height. You don't stand on stilts or on a ladder but on your bare feet.”
Regular confession and the relationship we call “spiritual direction” are very important means toward self-knowledge. A perceptive confessor or spiritual guide can be a mirror, reflecting back to us what we are not able to see on our own. Speaking the truth is especially important in such relationships. We choose a “soul friend” so that, with his or her help, we may grow in the Lord's life and in discerning those things which promote God's kingdom. It is imperative, therefore, that this relationship be characterized by free self-disclosure and by the avoidance of “hidden corners” in our lives. We need others to echo back to us what is happening or not happening on our journey toward the Lord. The quality of spiritual guidance will depend largely upon the simplicity with which we disclose ourselves.
Philosophers and theologians have recognized from the earliest times that human existence is inseparable from matter. We are not pure spirit, but have bodies. The philosopher Merleau-Ponty reminds us: “I am my body.” We are also related to and dependent on the earth. In a certain sense, as Genesis suggests in the creation story, we come from the earth. Food, water, air, sunshine, and other elements are nutrients of our human existence.
Consequently, if we are to be in truth with God as the Creator, with ourselves as incomplete beings, and with others, we must also be in truth with the created universe that is our home. In other words, being fully human involves caring for the earth. In broader terms it means caring for the surrounding universe, whose proportions are staggering and even incomprehensible to us.
We do not yet have a comprehensive ecological theology, but some of its foundation stones are quite visible and have been set for centuries in Christian tradition: • the presence of God in all creation; • the goodness of all that God has made; • God's providence in accompanying history and ongoing creation; • the gratitude, wonder, contemplation, and care for God's gifts that people have as a response to God's gifts.
Those who live close to the land often see its importance more vividly than others. When in 1851 the president of the United States , Franklin Pierce, proposed to buy two million acres of land from the Indian tribes around Puget Sound in the present state of Washington , Chief Seattle (after whom the state's principal city is named) reacted. His famous reflections from the 1850s, about which some historians raise doubts, are nevertheless a most eloquent environmental statement:
Every shining pine needle, every sandy shore, every mist on the dark woods, every clearing and humming insect is holy in the memory and experiences of my people. . . . We are part of the earth and it is part of us. The perfumed flowers are our sisters; the deer, the horse, the great eagle, these are our brothers. The rocky crests, the juices in the meadows, the body heat of the pony and man—all belong to the same family. . . .
We will consider your offer to buy our land. But it will not be easy. For this land is sacred to us. This shining water that moves in the streams and rivers is not just water but the blood of our ancestors. If we sell you the land, you must remember that it is sacred, and you must teach your children that it is sacred and that each ghostly reflection in the clear water of the lakes tells of events and memories in the life of my people. The water's murmur is the voice of my father's father. . . . You must teach your children that the rivers are our brothers and yours, and you must henceforth give the rivers the kindness you would give any brother.
These words were prophetic. Polluted rivers, contaminated air, and depleted forests rank high among the problems of modern society. In this matter, as in many others, immediate gratification often wins out over long-range goals. But when the environment is neglected, society pays a heavy price, with the poor suffering most. In many places where religious missionaries serve, ecological deterioration adds to the crushing burdens of the neediest of the needy.
The Simplicity of the Dove and the Prudence of the Serpent
Even for those with a bright guiding star, Christian living is filled with paradoxes: initiative/obedience, flexibility/stability, listening/advising, animating/directing, creativity/humility, trusting/planning, serving/governing, simplicity/prudence. Matthew's Gospel recognizes that the simplicity of the dove must cohabit, in the same person, with the prudence of the serpent. And in life people's common sense and prudence quickly teach them that they cannot simply speak the unabashed truth at all times. Experience teaches us that virtues like truthfulness, charity, and respect for the privacy and good name of others at times “compete” with one another. In moments of apparent conflict, prudence enables us to balance and blend such competing virtues.
Over the centuries moral theologians have written volumes on the dilemmas that arise in the context of truth-telling. Below I simply offer a few reflections on three of the most common moral dilemmas that religious and all those committed to truth-telling face.
Truth derives from God. It is related to beauty. But the expression of “truths” can sometimes be ugly, cold, arrogant, and angry. Declarations like “I'm just telling you the truth!” can be a facile excuse for harsh words or an escape valve for pent-up rage. In the Christian tradition truth and love are inseparable. Growing in love involves penetrating to the deep truth of the beloved, coming to understand others not just on the surface but deep down. Likewise, growing in truth involves moving toward deeper communion, overcoming differences, “looking for the larger truth that embraces my little truth and that of the other,” as Timothy Radcliffe reminds us. There is a delicate interplay between mind and heart in the search for truth. For those with a highly intellectual formation, Pascal's corrective can be helpful: “The heart has its reasons, which reason does not know. We feel it in a thousand things.” Antoine de Saint-Exupéry in The Little Prince expresses the same conviction: “It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.”
The problem is that we sometimes use “the truth” to massacre others. Under the pretext of being sincere, we destroy truth with “the truth.” In a striking essay, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who was himself a martyr for the truth, wrote as follows:
If it is detached from life and from its reference to the concrete other person, if “the truth is told” without taking into account to whom it is addressed, then this truth has only the appearance of truth, but it lacks its essential character.
It is only the cynic who claims “to speak the truth” at all times and in all places to all people in the same way, but who, in fact, displays nothing but a lifeless image of the truth. He dons the halo of the fanatical devotee of truth who can make no allowance for human weaknesses; but, in fact, he is destroying the living truth between persons. He wounds shame, desecrates mystery, breaks confidence, betrays the community in which he lives, and laughs arrogantly at the devastation he has wrought and at the human weakness which “cannot bear the truth.”
We must learn to speak the truth while taking other truths into account: the dignity of other persons, their human weakness and ours as well, the love that must characterize all Christian relationships. Our statement of a truth must blend with these other truths. Speaking the truth is therefore a delicate art rather than a blunt instrument.
Very early in life we learn that it is sometimes harmful to tell the truth. Our parents teach us as children that some personal and family matters are private; others have no right to know about them. As we grow up, friends begin to entrust secrets to us. As problems arise in our own lives, we ourselves sense the need to talk with someone, but only on the condition that what we say is kept utterly confidential. These universal human experiences have given rise to a whole body of ethical and legal literature concerning truth-telling, secrecy, and confidentiality. Confessors and spiritual directors, doctors and nurses, psychiatrists and counselors, lawyers, secretaries, journalists, and many others are bound, in varying circumstances and within various limits, to professional secrecy.
Paradoxically, we have a moral obligation to tell the truth, but we sometimes have a moral obligation not to tell the truth. This is often the case in religious life, where others frequently entrust us with matters of conscience and where there are also many “family matters” that are private and should remain within the community. So how does one protect private, even “sacred” truths?
Silence, of course, is often the most effective method. In some cases, in the face of inappropriate inquiries, we may be able to communicate, with a combination of gentleness and firmness, the delicacy of our situation: “I am sorry, I am not really free to talk about that. I hope you understand.” Sometimes, too, with a little bit of ingenuity, we may say something that some or all recognize as good-humoredly evasive.
But for centuries philosophers and theologians have pointed out that there are situations where silence or evasion simply make matters worse and where the right course seems to be to dissemble the truth. To resolve such moral dilemmas, Thomists, defining moral truth as correspondence between what we think and what we say, used the “broad mental reservation.” Others, defining truth in relational terms (communication of what is in one's mind to someone who has a right to know), permitted “false speech” when utterly necessary to put off those who have no right to know. Neither theory is ideal. Each, in fact, has notable weaknesses. But both recognize that at times there is a moral obligation to “protect” the truth and to put off importunate, inappropriate inquiries, even by misleading the inquirer.
In the end, strange though it may seem, one must “learn” to tell the truth. Each word has its own place, its own time, its own audience. Much depends on who is calling me to speak and what entitles me to speak. One of the most poignant, and wise, lines in American literature is what Hester Prynne says to her daughter, Pearl , in The Scarlet Letter (chapter 22): “Hold thy peace, dear little Pearl . We must not always talk in the market-place of what happens to us in the forest.”
Statements involve a relationship with the person being addressed and at times also with third parties. The truth-teller respects those relationships and maintains them. The nosey inquirer seeks to violate truth and intrude on relationships that truth fosters carefully. It is important to learn how to put such inquirers off, and to put them off well.
Truths not only have their time, their place, and their proper audience; they have their own particular pedagogy. Certain truths have their “moment” in history. Victor Hugo once pointed out that, when an idea's time has come, not even armies can resist it. But, until that time, “new” truths enter most minds and hearts slowly. As mothers and fathers instinctively know, the wise teacher must often wait for the right moment and the right place. I once gave a rather pacifist-sounding conference to a group of college students, who loved it. A few days later I gave the same conference to a parish group, which hated it. The time and place were almost the same, but I learned rather painfully that a new audience often requires a new pedagogy.
How to present the truth is the key question. This question becomes all the more important as we grow in consciousness that our goal in speaking is not merely the transmission of data but communication and communion in the truth. From that perspective pedagogy is not just a clever means of packaging a “truth” well; rather, it is an integral part of communicating a truth to the other. Emily Dickinson puts it this way: “Tell all the Truth but tell it slant . . . The Truth must dazzle gradually.”
This lesson is especially important for teachers who think they have done their job when they have lectured for an hour, citing all the facts and uttering all the “truths.” But they must ask themselves whether they have communicated truth or simply uttered it in front of an inattentive audience. Method is important. Teachers must often reflect not only on the content they wish to communicate, but also on the means for communicating it. The same is true of parents, friends, counselors, and others who must sometimes communicate truths which they know hearers will find it hard to accept.
The Greek word for truth, alêtheia , means “uncovering.” Speaking the truth opens us out. What lies within us comes forth. In speaking truthfully we disclose what otherwise remains hidden in our depths. In Greek mythology the goddess of truth puts two pathways before Parmenides: one of uncovering and one of hiding. It is only by “uncovering” that one's true self emerges. The New Testament states this very clearly: “Put on a new self, created in God's image, whose justice and holiness is born of truth” (Ep 4:21).
