THE SEARCH FOR REST
I began this book by describing my own unrest. As Ronald Rolheiser says, spirituality is what we do with our unrest.1 We try to place our rest in different external pursuits. In the phrase of Saint Augustine, our hearts are made for God, and we won’t rest until we rest in him.2 I can say to Augustine something very similar to what Ricky Bobby says to his father: I understand my whole life by that phrase. I take comfort in the knowledge that others have found that phrase to be true to reality.
The search for rest is the human predicament. In the pursuits of truth, goodness, beauty, and community, we are on a quest for rest. All of us desire to be known and loved by God and to know and love others in return. The end of rest is a life of eternal love.
When God saves us, he doesn’t give us a laundry list of faults and sins we must conquer. He doesn’t expose all that we don’t know. That would be cruel and overwhelming. Can you imagine? Rather, he graciously reveals one step and one sin at a time, slowly refining us—sometimes slower than we wish. In my own life, it seems the closer I get to God, the more sin is revealed. Unrest is part of the Christian life. We’re pilgrims journeying to the homeland, but the homeland is yet to come. Our citizenship is in heaven, from which the Savior will come (Phil. 3:20). If the end of rest is eternal love, then it’s no surprise we’re not there yet.
In the meantime, our unrest is channeled into growth. We become broad and deep people as we increase in truth, goodness, beauty, and community. Saint Gregory of Nyssa advises, “Let no one be grieved if he sees in his nature a penchant for change. Changing in everything for the better, let him exchange ‘glory for glory’ [2 Cor. 3:18], becoming greater through daily increase, ever perfecting himself. . . . For this is truly perfection: never to stop growing towards what is better and never placing any limit on perfection.”3 The Transcendent One can never be exhausted. He’s always inviting us into deeper life with him.
WHERE TO START?
I began this book with the truth tradition because it is the foundation of spirituality. But there are some who would argue that we ought to begin in beauty, because that’s how we start every pursuit. We aren’t convinced by all the reasons Jesus is the Son of God. Rather, we experience his beauty, and we’re compelled to follow him. Answers are sought as a result of encounter. Philosopher Peter Kreeft believes that “beauty is the ambassador for truth and goodness; we fall in love with the beauty of a theology or of a morality first—and the same is true of a religion.”4 We are compelled and drawn into Christ, and then we work out our questions and virtue in the aftermath of that initial attraction. Theologian David Bentley Hart says the whole of our existence is poetic, founded in beauty. Hart argues,
The truth of being is “poetic” before it is “rational” (indeed, it is rational precisely because of its supreme poetic coherence and richness of detail), and this cannot be known truly if this order is reversed. Beauty is the beginning and end of all true knowledge: really to know, one must first love, and having known, one must finally delight; only this “corresponds” to the Trinitarian love and delight that creates.5
Beauty is the means and end of life with God. Knowing the Bible, practicing virtue, and living in community are all directed to the end of beauty: seeing God in his fullness. To make any other pursuit an end is idolatry. All things must be subordinate to the beauty of God. Seeing God is life in heaven.
Hans Urs von Balthasar was a twentieth-century theologian known for his work on theological aesthetics and beauty. Writing in a time of stale and dry academic theology, von Balthasar thought it was a travesty to make as rich and beautiful a subject as God dry and boring. Summarizing von Balthasar’s work, John W. de Gruchy writes, “Truth without goodness and beauty degenerates into dogmatism, and lacks the power to attract and convince; goodness without truth is superficial, and without beauty—that is without graced form—degenerates into moralism. Alternatively, we could say that truth and goodness without beauty lack power to convince and therefore to save.”6 Along the same lines, Jennifer Allen Craft adds,
Balthasar’s theological aesthetics are relevant here in terms of Christian mission as he demonstrates the ways in which the power of beauty and love can bring forth both ethical action (goodness) and true contemplation of the form of God (truth), the ancient transcendental formulation of beauty, goodness, and truth suggesting something of this microcosmic moving out, the particular moment of Beauty apprehended in form, which motivates both ethical action and knowledge of God.7
As counterintuitive as it sounds, the best way to pursue spiritual formation may be to start with beauty: beauty that leads to the gospel, contemplation that leads to truth, purging that leads to union.
While it may be interesting to think about where spirituality begins, the important thing is to start somewhere. I’m indifferent as to which stream people choose as long as they start and realize that the work of formation needs to be holistic. Growth shouldn’t be confined to one transcendental, or we will be malformed—as with someone who goes to the gym and only does bicep exercises. We may be prone to flex a certain muscle, so to speak, but we need a whole routine. We need all the transcendentals if we are to develop into the image of the Transcendent One.
However, God has wired us each differently, and as we discover our true selves in the presence of God, we may not look very well-rounded to those around us. All the exemplars we’ve seen are extreme and radical in the best sense. The work of formation is one of wholeness but not a clean well-roundedness—at least not by outward appearance. Dorothy Day was fully formed, but I’m not sure we would describe her as well-rounded. She was a love warrior for the poor and homeless. Augustine was righteously misshapen as an intellectual giant. Teresa of Ávila did not fit in as she intimately encountered Jesus. Dietrich Bonhoeffer was a radical for justice and community.
Likewise, we may be extreme. Perhaps we ought to be. And if we are, we’re in good company. The work of maturity is to become a whole, holy fool. As Thérèse of Lisieux puts it, “I have no other desire than to love Jesus even unto folly.”8 Love drives us to foolishness for Christ.
HOLISTIC HOLY FOOLS
In the Eastern tradition of Christianity, especially in Russia, there is a legacy of certain people being labeled “holy fools.” These are people who look foolish to the world in their pursuit of Christ. They live in weird places or eat weird things. They don’t fit in. They’re loony.
Holy folly has a rich biblical tradition too. David dances before the Lord in a manner that is too undignified for his wife, Michal, but he is content to be abased before her eyes in worshiping God (2 Sam. 6:20–23). Isaiah walks around Assyria naked and barefoot (Isa. 20:2). Ezekiel bakes a cake on burning dung as an object lesson for Jerusalem (Ezek. 4:12). John the Baptist preaches in the wilderness, wearing a garment of camel hair and eating honey and locusts (Matt. 3:1–4). Jesus thanks God for hiding things from the wise and revealing them to little children (Matt. 11:25). When the Holy Spirit falls on the early church on Pentecost, the people think they are drunk (Acts 2:13). Perhaps most clearly, the apostle Paul writes, “We are fools for Christ’s sake” (1 Cor. 4:10). Wisdom and strength are reoriented in Christ (1 Cor. 1:18–31). Indeed, being misunderstood as fools seems to be part of the Christian witness.
John Saward describes nine different elements of holy folly, and for the sake of this discussion, I’ll highlight three.9 The first is Christocentricity: “The inspiration of all their actions is identity with Christ crucified, participation in the Lord’s poverty, mockery, humiliation, nakedness, and self-emptying.”10 Holy fools identify with the weak, the homeless, the dependent, because they are following the life of Christ. If “Christian” means “little Christ,” then they take that identifier seriously. The foolish love of God turns us into foolish lovers of God. If we take spiritual formation seriously, we may look strange by the world’s values and standards.
Second, holy folly is eschatological. Holy fools see the conflict between what the present world values and what the kingdom of God values. There’s an antithesis between this world and the world to come. Holy fools don’t mind looking odd when they live by the logic of a different system. Wendell Berry has written a poem called “Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front.” In the poem, Berry encourages us to do things that don’t compute: love the Lord, give to the poor, work for nothing, plant sequoias, work for a future even if it’s a future you won’t see this side of the resurrection. Holy folly operates with a similar value system. It won’t compute by the world’s logic.
Third, one of the most common motifs of holy fools is pilgrimage. They tend to be nomads. They’re committed to the church and are recognized by the church, but they exhibit some restless tension. Holy fools don’t divide themselves from the church, but they strengthen the church through challenge or from the margins.
Holy fools invite us to unlearn self-importance and to learn the way of simple, humble, obscure obedience. Spiritual formation is about becoming not an intellectual genius but a spiritual infant. Holy fools are holy and whole but have some rough edges. There is no cookie-cutter spirituality. Based on how God wired you, maybe there’s a way for you to love Jesus unto foolishness.
So, friends, I invite you into a full formation by a theological life, a virtuous life, a beautiful life, and a connected life. Pursue Christ fully and deeply. And don’t forget to be a fool.
Where there is wholeness, there is holiness. Where there is holiness, there is rest.
May your search for rest find its satisfaction in the love and presence of God.
1. Rolheiser, Holy Longing, 5.
2. Augustine, Confessions 1.1.1.
3. Gregory of Nyssa, On Perfection, 121–22.
4. Kreeft, “Beauty Is the First Thing We Notice and Love.”
5. Hart, “Offering of Names,” 26–27.
6. De Gruchy, Christianity, Art and Transformation, 107.
7. Craft, Placemaking and the Arts, 147.
8. Thérèse of Lisieux, Letters, as quoted in Saward, Perfect Fools, 211.
9. Saward, Perfect Fools, 25–28.
10. Saward, Perfect Fools, 25.
Acknowledgments
Like most good things, this book was a group project. Sometimes, when I’m in a group project, I feel like I’m the only one doing anything. In this group project, I felt the group constantly holding my dead weight and carrying me to the finish line. I can’t do most things by myself (try as I might), but as I reflect on this book coming together, I can’t help but be especially grateful for the help I received. There are so many on whom I’ve depended.
I wouldn’t have been able to write this book without the pastoral care I’ve received in my life. Thank you to Matt Koons, Jason Spodnik, Jim Hibschman, Drew Carroll, Nathan Loudin, and Gary Ball. You have all traveled with me during lows and highs. You’ve seen me at my worst, and you know me well enough to know when I’m faking it. I am indebted to you because of your care, teaching, love, and shepherding. If I have picked up any virtues, it is thanks to you.
When I was in seminary, Dr. Russell Moore was one of my favorite professors. We weren’t particularly close, but I always admired his wisdom, grace, and personal kindness. Over the years, many of the people I looked up to as models of conviction have seemed to change convictions. It was all disorienting to me. Was I changing? Were they? Probably a little bit of both. But Dr. Moore seemed to be saying the same things with the same signature convictional kindness. He was a model of a long obedience in the same direction. He was someone I wanted to be like. And so I couldn’t be more pleased that he agreed to write the foreword. Thank you, Dr. Moore. You have encouraged me to “be good” by being Christlike—no matter the cost.
