Of Gods and Men and "the Lord's Strategy of Liberation"

 We have only to allow ourselves to be awakened by [God's] words, 
chosen by the divine prudence like so many hands extended to caress our sadness; 
and then we shall be caught in the trap set by the Lord's strategy of liberation.

--Erasmo Leiva-Merikakis, Fire of Mercy, Heart of the Word

Recently (and finally!), I watched the film Of Gods and Men, a true story about a community of Trappist monks who have lived with, loved, and served their impoverished Muslim neighbors in Algeria for many years. As the country erupts in sectarian violence, the men must decide whether to stay or return to the safety of their native France.

Instinctively, many of them wish to flee: What is the point of committing collective suicide, one monk asks? Over time, however, the monks realize, through a lengthy process of individual and collective discernment, that they have no choice but to remain where they are.  As French citizens, they have the privilege and opportunity to escape the growing danger whenever they choose. But if they wish to be faithful to their calling, to the gospel, and to the Christian path of love, they cannot run away without suffering a fate worse than death: a conscience forever disturbed by a failure to live in solidarity with their Muslim brothers and sisters, who have no such privilege or freedom to escape the instability and violence.

The monks accept this truth with simultaneous peace and dread. Like Jesus in Gethsemane, they know and accept what awaits them as a consequence of their obedience to what Love demands. They do not seek martyrdom but suffer it. Such is the cost of discipleship, the inescapable share in the cup of Jesus's own suffering and death (Matthew 20:22).

The monks' story reminds me of Etty Hillesum's, a young Jewish woman who died at Auschwitz and whose diary I recently read. As scores of friends, neighbors, and colleagues were rounded up and sent to "transport" camps, Etty was given several opportunities to escape. But she refuses. "I don't think I would feel happy if I were exempted from what so many others have to suffer," she writes. "It is sheer arrogance to think oneself too great to share in the fate of the masses." As frightened and horrified as Etty was by what she witnessed, she was clear in her will to never to escape the fate of her own people.

I see my own dilemmas in these stories, though far less is at stake in my case (at least on the surface).  As a relatively privileged person accustomed to having education, resources, a million options, and a great deal of freedom to exercise them, it's easy for me to become dissatisfied with my lot in life and to assume I can (and should) just change my circumstances at will. I habitually follow the glib conventional wisdom that says, "Just look for another job" or "do something else" or "do what makes you happy."

Such advice may have sufficed ten years ago in the grim aftermath of my dot-com days, but it doesn't hold up too well now. I'm no longer a wanderer but a follower (I hope) of Christ on the narrow road that leads to life (Matthew 7:14). That means I have far fewer options if I want to squeeze through the narrow gate or pass through the eye of a needle. I can't just skip away from life's challenges whenever I choose. I can't just be a seeker of self-fulfillment. If I desire eternal life, I must, like the rich man (Mark 10:17-22), sell all I have, which in my case means sacrificing the privilege of restlessly searching for "something better" and instead coping with life as it is. I'm not always happy to realize this and, like the rich man, I have often walked away shocked, sad, and even angry because I don't want to accept the cost of discipleship.

I often wonder what happened to the rich man after he walked away. Did he grieve for awhile then come back to Jesus? Was he overcome by Jesus's compelling love, so much so that, in the end, he was able to drop everything he knew to follow it?

Perhaps shock, grief, and dread are normal "features" of the spiritual journey. The Trappist monks felt it. Etty felt it. For they, too, were rich. But Love overcame their natural, human fear, and they gave their lives for it. Can I give mine?