Reading Francis

I took piano lessons when I was a kid for four or five years. I wasn’t good at it, but I learned to read music and could make my way through “Für Elise,” the “Star Wars” theme, “Send in the Clowns,” the theme to “Endless Love”. You know, the classics. But I never liked to practice, so eventually I quit. 

It wasn’t that I hated practice, really. Partly, I just enjoyed other things more – playing with friends, reading, watching TV, etc. But more so, I couldn’t stand my parents listening to me while I practiced. 

There are plenty of stereotypes of overcritical parents, but mine were just the opposite. My parents were not musicians, but they liked music, so they were nothing but supportive. In fact, they loved listening to me practice, even though I wasn’t good at it, and they gave me nothing but praise. 

Their presence, though, made me more self-conscious of the mistakes I was making, and my knowledge that I was mediocre at best made their praise ring hollow to my ears. I was good enough at critiquing myself that I couldn’t accept that Mom and Dad would be happy with what they were hearing from the living room upright. I would ask them to stay out of the room when I was at the piano, and knowing that they could still hear me throughout the house, I shied away from practicing at all. 

As a parent, I now know where Mom and Dad were coming from. While Betsy never played piano, I loved watching her do pretty much anything she took on – gymnastics, singing, swimming, aerial arts, theater, you name it. The point wasn’t the activity, or how well she did it. I just enjoyed watching her while she worked at something she was interested in. It was a particular way to cherish my daughter for the person she was and is.

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This Lent, I’ve been reading Practicing the Presence of God by Brother Lawrence. While the book itself is short and easy, it’s been a challenge to adopt his approach to maintaining a constant conversation with God. Primarily, I think, that’s because I get caught up in whatever is in front of me, and I can’t focus on the person or project before me while simultaneously talking with God. From what science tells us about the myth of multitasking, I’m probably not alone in that. I can talk to God while doing something that doesn’t take much thought, but if I have to pay attention to what I’m doing, I can’t pay that same attention to God. 

Last night, something clicked that helped change my understanding of Brother Lawrence’s approach. I remembered that experience of a parent enjoying the opportunity to cherish their child in action, and realized that that’s how God sees us. Practicing the presence of God, for me, can include conversation, but more than that, it’s recognizing and welcoming God’s cherishing gaze as I go about my day. 

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If this sounds mushy, all-affirming, and not severe enough for Lent, it doesn’t make it less true. Moreover, the key that unlocked this insight wasn’t some namby-pamby new age retreat center. It was the world’s largest gang intervention program. 

For those who are new to my feed, Father Gregory Boyle, S.J., is a spiritual hero of mine, and Homeboy Industries, which he founded in Los Angeles almost 40 years ago to help former gang members, is a sign of hope for humanity. Whenever I feel spiritually stuck, I look for a video from Homeboy, a commencement address by Fr. Boyle, an interview with him, or an excerpt from one of his books, because they remind me that what works for the most marginalized people in the most difficult circumstances is probably what will work for me. 

Fr. Boyle and the Homeboy team are clear and consistent in explaining what works in their efforts. Together, they create a community of cherished belonging in which people are reminded of their essential belovedness, that they are “exactly what God had in mind” when God made them. Once a “homie” internalizes that truth, they find the strength to grow into it more fully and gain the capacity to share the kindness they’ve received with others. The point isn’t to correct a behavior or learn a new skill, at least not at first. It’s to fill up on belonging until it overflows into joy and freedom that equips trainees with the resilience and hope to work on themselves.

My guess is, it’s hard for us to believe that God just wants to soak up our presence rather than offer a critique. We know deep-down where we’re missing the right notes, and our image of God has too often been shaped toward a harsh judge. 

Maybe, though, we can try to imagine God looking at us the way a parent cherishes their kid at the piano, and see if that image changes the way we see ourselves. Then we can try to see those around us the way a cherishing God does. 

It might not come naturally at first. But we can get there, if we practice.