Failure and the peace that transcends understanding

 “My peace I give to you…”

--John 14:27

 

At this time of year we enter into something schools call: graduation season.  This is that time of year when speeches are made and there is too much talk of achievements and goals and the glorious future that awaits all those graduating seniors. Yesterday I attended a graduation ceremony and in less than an hour, I think I heard the phrase: change the world come out of the mouths of three different speakers.  Of course, it is certainly possible, even likely perhaps, that one or two of the graduates who will walk across the countless graduation stages this month will do something, someday, that changes the world (or some corner of the world). Why shouldn't they? And, of course, it sounds encouraging and hopeful, something to aspire to. I guess.

But, my favorite advice to seniors at this time of year is this:  Failure is always an option. 

I mean that on a couple of levels. One, failure actually is possible. Always. No matter how prepared we are.  No matter how hard or long we study or practice or rehearse… failure is always a possibility. And, secondly, failure may even be a worthwhile choice… if we aren’t prepared to go forward.  In this context, I also like to point out to my students that their librarian (me) barely passed high school and mostly due to the fact that he barely ever showed up.  Which, I also like to point out, has lead to me being stuck in high school for the rest of my life!  In the immortal words of Charles Barkley—I am not a role model.

And yet… recently I learned a lesson about failure that  I can’t seem to let go of.  

I lead a Rosary at school every Thursday during the break time.  This involves sending out an email reminder the day before, and arranging to have my library covered while I go to the chapel.  Not a lot of responsibilities there, but sometimes even that can overwhelm me.  A couple of weeks back, I woke up, shut off my alarm and immediately realized: it was Thursday and I had forgotten to send out the email, and had forgotten to get someone to cover the library for me.  It was 5 am, there was still time… but, my first thought was that no one had come to the Rosary the past few weeks. I had been alone in the chapel.  So, I began considering simply letting it drop. Who would notice? Who would even care?

By the time I was headed to school, I was feeling guilty and quite defeated. The voice in my head was reminding me of all those emails teachers get every day asking for help, another meeting, another duty. They certainly didn’t need another email from me. And especially not at this late hour. I was certain that I wouldn’t be leading a rosary that day. In fact, I was beginning to wonder whether I should just give up.  I have been doing this Rosary thing at school for over 20 years now. There had been some good years, but of late—not so much.  Perhaps the real problem had nothing to do with organizational skills, perhaps the real problem was me. My personality, my goofiness, my reluctance to use a calendar! I had tried. And I had failed. Maybe it was time to let this thing die, so someone else could start over and do it better.

 

I was feeling pretty low when I got to school that morning, but for some reason—instead of just letting go, the first thing I did was open my computer and send out the Rosary email.  I still didn’t have coverage for the library, but at least I had sent out the reminder. It was kind of like a Hail Mary pass! So to speak. But, in a way, it was kind of hypocritical. I think I was more concerned about how it would look to my co-workers if I didn’t send out the Rosary email.  But…  You know how every once in a while those passes get caught…  It feels like a miracle. Time is running out. In desperation, the quarterback hurls the ball into the air—as high and far as he can.  And somehow it falls right into the outstretched hands of the receiver—mid-stride—and sprinting across the goal line where… Well... Enough football.

 

But, that is kind of what happened to me.  Almost like a miracle, (like Billy “Whiteshoes” Johnson popping up in the midst of a bunch of Pittsburg defenders) at the last minute, a volunteer walks in and asks if I have anything I need her to do. Sadly, for a moment, I considered telling her no. But, instead I asked her to watch the library while I went to the chapel.

 

And that is when the real strangeness began.  I walked into the chapel and there was a teacher already praying. Someone I had never seen in there before.  She smiled at me as I sat down and said she had come early because she had to go to a meeting.  I guess I looked a bit stunned or frazzled, because she looked at me with a tenderness I cannot explain and asked how I was—as if she really wanted to know.  Anyway, suddenly I was telling her about my life, my worries, my daughter’s health, our family struggles and… and with a kindness and sincerity I cannot explain, she listened and offered words of comfort and consolation. Even thanking me for making the rosary available to the school every week, telling me what an important gift that was.  As we talked, a student came in. Again, someone I had never seen in there before. When she did, the teacher stood to leave.  She assured me that she would be joining me again. 

 

When she left, I asked the student if she were there for the Rosary.  She was. When I asked her if there was anyone she needed to pray for, she looked at me and I could see she had been crying.  Hesitantly, she told me it was the first anniversary of her grandmother’s death, and she really needed to pray for her.  As she talked, I could tell that her grandmother had been very important to her. It sounded like she had been the glue that held their family together. And once this young woman began talking about her grandmother, sharing memories and tears, there was a lightness in her eyes that had been missing before. She was still sad, but she no longer seemed hopeless.  In fact, she seemed at peace.  And I guess I was too.

 

And so, there you go: success or failure? I felt like I was a failure. And, in many ways, I guess I was. I’m not good at organizing. Terrible at advertising. At best I am a D- in calendar usage, and definitely an F- when it comes to asking for help and yet… What seemed to me a failure was in fact a blessing. I think God used that teacher and that student to make that lesson quite clear.  He wasn’t asking me to be perfect or to be successful. All that was necessary was the willingness to just keep failing. 

 

The verse at the top of this piece is from John’s Gospel.  Jesus is speaking to His disciples who, a few hours later would scatter in terror and even deny ever knowing Him.  And before night would fall again, Jesus would be hanging on a cross. To the eyes of the world, an utter failure.

 

So, here is my graduation advice:  Don’t worry about success or failure.  Ultimately, that is God’s business.  The fact is, you will never find peace in a resume or a list of achievements. You were not made for success or failure. You were made to be a gift; give yourself away.  And let God do the rest. That is where you will find real peace.

 

Every graduation address needs a couple of memorable quotations.  Here are mine.  The first is from the Irish author Samuel Beckett: Ever tried? Ever failed? Try again. Fail again.  Fail better…

 

And the second is from Mother Teresa: God doesn’t call us to be successful. God calls us to be faithful. 

 

Class of 2022, don’t be afraid to go forth and fail… boldly, when necessary.

 

The Perfection of Love

“God is love

and whoever remains in love

remains in God

and God in Him.

Love comes to its perfection

in us when we can face

the day of judgement fearlessly.”

--1 John 5: 16b-17

Two of my daughters graduated this past weekend; one from high school and another from college. At the same time, on the same day, two daughters graduating.  Quite a time for celebrating and, if it were only possible (Padre Pio...), bi-locating.  Instead to make sure we were present for both, my wife and I had to split up and each take one.  She did the high school and I did the college. It was quite a week (and weekend). 

Two things about the graduation experience that stood out to me:  first, the crowd of people arriving before the ceremony; almost all of them smiling.  Despite the fact that a graduation is a tedious and painfully drawn out event, most people seemed truly happy to be there. And somehow (of course) it all reminded me of Dante.  Second, afterwards I ran into a woman that I knew in college.  Her daughter was graduating too. Meeting her, I had the awkward experience of hearing something of the person I used to be.  And though this old friend spoke only kind words and greeted me eagerly, I was left with a sting of shame and the sensation of being haunted by the ghost of Herman past.

In canto II of Dante’s Purgatorio, Virgil and Dante witness the arrival of souls hopeful to climb the mountain of Purgatory.  As the joyful souls step onto the shore, they look around for some sign or guide, looking “like those whose eyes try out things new to them.” (53-54). They are confused and excited and happy and filled with wonder. But not sure which way to go or what to do next.  Like parents and grandparents at a graduation ceremony. Excited about the reason they are there, but uncertain which way to go and where to sit, and a little anxious about what lies ahead (a few speeches and 2 hours of names).  We all wandered those halls of NRG arena with a little trepidation.

And just like in Dante, as I was standing there waiting for someone, a soul approached me –an old friend.  Walking past with her daughter, she noticed me holding up a wall and came over to give me a hug.  Her oldest daughter was graduating that day as well. She felt a need to explain to me that this daughter had taken a bit longer to graduate: 8 years. And that the last few she’d worked for the university full-time to get her classes for free, and I said: Just like me.  I was on that same 8-year track and ended up working for the registrar’s office for 4 ½ years to finish my degree. Heck, that’s where I met my wife (when she came to get her diploma).  We laughed and she asked me if I still make great pizza.  Not as often, I said. But, I still dream of it.  As she left, she told me to watch for her husband --but I didn’t. I took a book out of my pocket and started reading instead.  Crowds can be a bit overwhelming to me, and hiding in a book seems like a safe coping mechanism: it’s legal, not too addictive, and if anybody asks, because I’m a librarian, I can always say: it’s okay. I’m a professional.

But, in reality, I only pretended to read. My eye kept rising from the page to watch the people. Parents carrying small children, laughing excitedly; dressed in their best. A small child clutching flowers and balloons looks so proud, a little boy wearing a fedora and suspenders wiggles about like he can’t wait to start dancing, and the elderly move with delicate, cautious steps; slowly and with great solemnity, intent on not missing this momentous day. 

That solemnity, that exuberance, that was a sign of true love. Graduations aren’t fun for the audience (or the graduates, usually). But these people were excited and looking forward to being a part of this special day –not because it would be fun for them, but because it was important to someone they loved.  Their very presence in the NRG arena was a physical manifestation of their love for someone.  It was a love so overpowering that it wouldn’t let them stay home in bed; it wouldn’t let them just send a card; it was too big to stay put; it had to get out and go. It had to become flesh, so to speak, and dwell among us (among the beloved).  Like Jesus, the word made flesh; God’s love made flesh; God so loved the world that His love became flesh and came to dwell among us, to live with us, to share our lives with us (all of it, the boring and the beautiful) and to bless it by His presence.  That’s what all those parents and grandparents and brothers and sisters, friends and neighbors, were doing; they were (in a sense) sanctifying the moment by their presence.

And what was the other experience? It was a more intimate moment. At the end of the ceremony there was a brief yet very moving talk given by one of the graduates.  As I listened, I sensed an odd familiarity in her voice.  On the big screen over the stage, I could see her face and it too had a strange familiarity to it.  Then she mentioned her mother’s name and suddenly I saw. Wow. That is the daughter of someone I used to see almost every day.  Someone I would visit and drink tea with and talk with; we’d discuss literature and music and why neither one of us had a date --ever. 

Afterwards, as I looked for my daughter, I kept an eye out for this old friend; wondering if I would even recognize her.  Looking for her, I was greeted by other friends and old familiar faces (mostly professors I knew long ago).  Even though very welcomed, I began to feel shy and a little anxious,  lost; began to try and call my daughter, though my phone wasn’t working very well, and neither were my trembling fingers.  I was ready to give up on finding anyone when suddenly I saw her. My old friend.  I hadn’t seen her in over 30 years, but there she was and I knew it the moment I saw her.  My first thought –sadly, I must admit—was to turn and walk away. I was afraid. All those people, all that joy, all that noise, and exuberance; I felt an urge to withdraw and go hide in my car. And I was a little nervous that she wouldn’t even remember me.  But, instead I walked toward her; telling myself I needed to at least let her know what a great job her daughter did. When I spoke her name I immediately saw that old familiar light flash in her eyes:

Herman! And she pulled me in and gave me a wonderful big hug and then turned to the young men standing nearby and said: This is Herman.  The guy who taught me about Max’s Kansas City and the Velvet Underground! And then looking back at me, exclaimed: These are my sons. They love the Velvet Underground. This one sings just like Lou Reed. He sings that song: shiny, shiny, shiny boots of leather…

For a moment I was a little embarrassed. This was the mark I had left on my friend’s life? A song about… leather? But, as she continued to tell me of her family and tell them of me, I realized it was something more. It wasn’t about the music or the tea or the literary talk. It was the community that we had shared. We had –for a time—helped each other carry our crosses. We had given each other time, encouraging words, and most of all: presence. Our (very platonic) friendship had been a true self-giving. Whether it was sitting at her table sipping Celestial Seasons, or going for a jog at Hermann Park, or running over to Cactus records, we had dwelt together, borne each other’s burdens, and shared not a few moments of sanctifying laughter (and Velvet Underground songs). 

And perhaps the key to God’s love becoming perfected in us is that simple; perhaps all it takes is our willingness to become flesh, to dwell physically (and sanctifyingly) among others and give ourselves fully to them. Don’t be afraid, just be present to the moment and place wherein you find yourself.  God’s word, God’s love becomes flesh every time we give ourselves fully (and un-selfconsciously) to the person next to us –whether it is our spouse, an old friend, a child, or a complete stranger.  Let us bear witness to God’s love, let us become God’s love and let us bear that love to the world –one person at a time. Make it your mission today to let someone feel that they matter, that they are wanted, that they are loved. Wherever you are, even if it is only at some boring old graduation ceremony.  You may never know how much that will mean to them, or what details (or songs) they will remember, but be certain of this: it will matter. In fact, it will probably be the most important thing you ever do.