A personal theme for the past 2 years or so has been living with wholeheartedness. If you’ve read my blog, you’ve probably noticed the theme coming up time and again in different contexts.  The launching point for it, of course, has been David Whyte’s excellent thought that “the antidote to exhaustion is not rest, but wholeheartedness.”

This is always challenged in practice, however.  So, as I prepared to vacation this summer, I was thinking about how getting away might impact me.  Would I find myself, as I typically have, depressed on the last day of vacation?  Might I find that I really didn’t rest as I had hoped to?  Would my vacation be a long-awaited respite only to bring dread as the end approached?

I’m delighted to say that I’m back, refreshed, and rested.  But I’m also delighted to say that I didn’t crave this vacation like I have in the past.  Nor, did I dread its end.  In fact, many things were different.  Here are a few reflections:

First, I’ve tried to live with more of a sense of presence and wholeness daily, rather than working busily and exhaustingly up until that ‘salvation’ called vacation.  Strangely, on the day we left, I told my wife that I really wasn’t excited to go, that living in the present felt so good that I was a bit afraid to lose this sense of presence in the busyness of our packed two weeks of activity.

Second, I didn’t take 10 books on this trip, hoping to read what I hadn’t gotten to in my busyness.  Rather, I had only the books that sat on my iPad Kindle, which were opened just a few times.  My goal was to stay connected, to God, to my own heart, to my wife, and to my kids.

Third, I prepared well in advance not to run away.  In other words, when you live without wholeheartedness, as divided and fragmented and ‘not yourself’, you can’t help but want to get away to ‘find yourself.’  No doubt, rest and solitude is necessary, and aids this process.  But everyday American life affords little opportunity for real, daily solitude, especially for those of us with children.  Therefore, I wanted to live more wholly daily, mindful of the fact that it would mean that I had to confront my patterns of escape, numbing, and coping which have stifled me spiritually and relationally over the years.  Preparation helped me to live more wholly throughout the year, enabling me to leave for vacation rested already, in one sense, and able to really enjoy the time with others.

Finally, I found that living this way was not merely self-help.  This has enabled me to live more missionally, more mindful of others and more engaged with my family, my neighbors, and my world.  When I live a fragmented existence (busily working to achieve, to gain approval, to meet demands, to avoid my own issues), I live disconnected from others.  Paradoxically, the need to meet everyone else’s needs disconnects me from those who I am called to love and serve.

This experiment in wholeness has been fruitful, particularly over the past two years or so.  It’s an oasis in the desert, but I’m also aware of my own propensity to manufacture disaster in my own life, amounting to even more fragmentation, self-sabotage, and more.  I pray for God’s grace to continue in the way of wholeness, knowing that I can be extraordinarily creative at practicing dividedness, as well.

At some point in life all of us, no matter our vocation, feel as if we’re frauds.

It often emerges as a battle to be an authentic human being.  By authentic, I mean wholehearted, integral, one.  And it’s precisely when we feel unable to be ourselves, fully ourselves, in our work, in a relationships, or even in our prayers, that we feel fraudulent.

I often feel as if I’m most myself in the counseling room.  It’s there where I can connect to others in a way that ‘public’ life rarely affords.  It’s behind the closed doors of my office where pretense and politeness dissipate.  The roughest sessions, of course, occur when pretense is confronted head on.  Some part of us resists being known, and therefore becoming whole.  We all know this inner battle.  It’s an everyday battle for even the greatest saints.

People who know me know that I return over and again to the theme of wholeheartedness.  I’ve often quoted the poet David Whyte, whose spiritual advisor once told him that the antidote to exhaustion is not rest but wholeheartedness. What he meant, of course, is that no amount of rest or sleep can cure our inner divisions, our extraordinary capacity to show up each day as a caricature of our very selves in order to please, to succeed, or to climb the never-ending ladder to approval.  Eventually, we need to face the fraud.

I often think that the most basic message of Jesus is that we are the beloved, loved for who we are and not who we pretend to be.  Pharisaism, after all, was an exercise in pretense.  For all its obvious theological problems, it was a psychological problem in the end, a problem of fraudulent living as “whitewashed tombs.”  The question all of us, and particularly those of us who make our living as ‘the religious’ must ask is, Am I a whitewashed tomb?  Am I a fraud?

What Jesus confronts is a religion that desires sacrifice and not mercy.  In other words, his chief complaint is reserved for those of us who say and do the right things, but live without integrity, without wholeheartedness, as…frauds.  Mercy emerges from the heart that knows its messiness and corruption, and seeks to love those who are just as messy and corrupt.  A merciful heart knows no pretense or judgment.  It basks in humility.  It enjoys its status as the beloved.

Wholehearted living is illusive to most of us, particularly those of us plagued by fear.  Coming out of hiding is a difficult thing.  It cannot be done by willpower alone.  I’m convinced that its only in the context of knowing that we are the Beloved, deeply and intimately, that we can enjoy the freedom to be ourselves.  The Cross and Resurrection, in the end, is not simply about some objective transaction.  It is the greatest act of Love offered for those of us who wake up each day feeling exhausted, divided, and fraudulent, working tirelessly to fight back that part of us that is convinced that today is the day we’ll be found out for who we are.

Receiving this love may be the hardest thing Christians must do.  And its perhaps because it is so hard that we major on the minors, avoiding our greatest internal fear and shame by clinging to agendas that we can control and areas in which we feel some sense of power or certainty.  I confess that I do this more than I know.  Living in integrity, to be sure, is much, much harder.

And so we wake each day to face the fraud.  But, the larger question each of us must face is this:  will the fraud, once and for all, receive the love it so desperately longs for?

“The antidote to exhaustion is not rest but wholeheartedness.” David Whyte

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The poet David Whyte has become a hero of mine, not least for quotes like these.  Who would have imagined that rest was not the antidote to exhaustion?  Whyte, like all good poets, encourages us to look beneath the surface, not settling for traditional remedies.

But what might this mean for the pastor?  And is it not a violation of a biblical call to Sabbath?

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I want to suggest that wholeheartedness…integrity…might just be a new way through the difficulties we experience as pastors.  No, not rest.  Not a longer vacation.  Not a week at the beach.  But wholeheartedness.

A few stories may help.

I once counseled a man who as a young boy was pudgy.  Add to it that he was from a blue collar family in a white collar town, and he just didn’t fit in.  The words he used described his feelings: “rejected, inadequate, stupid, weak.”  His Dad worked a lot and was verbally abusive.  But this young man found salvation in football in middle school.  It became a place of belonging, and gave him a sense of identity.

And so he did something most of my clients have done.  He put all of his shame and insecurity in a little black bag.  The poet Robert Bly talks about this black bag – the place where we put all of the rejected parts of ourselves.  He put his weakness, his powerlessness, and his shame in the black bag – and he emerged feeling powerful, and even a bit angry.  Perhaps, a lot angry.

Another story.  I counseled a woman who grew up in a very patriarchal home.  Her Dad was a misogynist, a true, blue woman-hater who believed women are weak, emotional, and reactive – at best.  However, in high school she found that she had a voice, becoming Student Body President.  She, like many others, put her feelings in a black bag.  She put her weakness, her powerlessness, her fragility, her vulnerability in the black bag.  Being strong just felt better.

A final story.  I counseled a man whose Dad was a very successful pastor.  It seemed like Dad was positive with everyone, but with his own son it was always disappointment.  He was too shy, too uninterested in reading and studying, too disruptive in Sunday School.  Eventually, because of who he was (the son of a pastor!), he was simply expected to have answers in youth group and expected to take leadership.  And so he did.  He got praised for his leadership…and it felt good.  So, he put his sense of failure, disappointment, and rejection in a black bag and tucked it away.

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What do all three of these stories have in common?

Of course, each found a way through difficulty.  Each channeled a powerful part of themselves which would overcome hardship.  However, each client stuffed large parts of themselves in the black bag.

But one other piece of information is critical:

They all became pastors.

And by the time the had come to see me, that black bag had grown to be a football field long…and each person struggled to carry it.  They were exhausted.  And it was time to open up the black bag and look inside.

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What if David Whyte is right and the “antidote to exhaustion is wholeheartedness”?

Then the diagnosis for those of us who feel burned out and exhausted in ministry is a divided heart.   And the solution is not merely better boundaries or a break or a good vacation, although all of those are important.  The solution is wholeheartedness …wholeness…an inner peace or shalom.

Or, as we’ll see shortly – integrity.

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There was a youth pastor who was exhausted.  In his exhaustion he became angry and reactive, and at one point went in to his senior pastor’s office and demanded a vacation.  He said, “There are too many people and too many things demanding too much of me.  I need a break.”  The senior pastor agreed.  He told his staff member, “Get some rest.  Let’s talk when you get back.”  The young pastor went away for two weeks and laid on a beach.  When he returned, he sat down with the pastor.  The pastor said, “Are you rested?”  The young pastor said, “I wish.  But the weather was colder than normal and the books I brought were disappointing and the hotel treated me poorly and I kept thinking about the talk I need to give in youth group next week and kept wondering why women always break up with me.”

The senior pastor asked him, “Have you ever considered that your problem is not external to you, but within you?”

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Why is it that we can go on vacation, and not feel rested in the end?

Why is it that the problem of exhaustion is always everyone else’s fault – our hard-charging senior pastor, our demanding parishioners, our needy staff, our difficult relationships.

Maybe the answer lies in our heart?

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In Matthew 5, Jesus says, “Blessed are the pure in heart.”  The Greek word is katharos, which in the LXX translates tom – completeness.  From this, we derive the English word integer…which hints at the all-important concept of integrity.

Jesus is suggesting that there is a basic problem with our hearts – a problem of division, of fragmentation, a loss of shalom.  St. Augustine called this problem disordered desire.

In Romans 7, St. Paul says, “The things I want to do, I do not do.  But the things I do, I do not want to do.”  This is the absence of katharos, of inner integrity, of wholeheartedness.  This is a divided heart.

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Exhaustion, in other words, is at least in part due to a divided life.  Consider the high rates of ministry failure:

– 50% of ministers have considered leaving the ministry in the last months.
– 50% of ministers starting out will not last 5 years.
– 1 out of every 10 ministers will actually retire as a minister in some form.

Let’s return to our opening examples.  And let’s consider how they are illustrations of a divided life, yet how wholeness began to emerge:

That rejected and insecure football player became an angry and powerful Baptist pastor.  He held his Reformed Baptist theology like a weapon, and dominated all of his relationships, including his marriage.  When his wife finally threatened to leave him, he decided to see me.  He liked me because I was a seminary professor and had a Master of Divinity.  (Powerful people like to see ‘experts’.)  He couldn’t figure why his wife thought he was intimidating and mean, but in a few short sessions I was able to see why she’d feel that way.  I felt that way.  So, I shared this with him, albeit carefully, but honestly.  And then I asked him to watch a movie – The Kid.

When he returned the following week, he was noticeably quiet.  I asked him about the movie.  He remembered a key scene in which a pudgy little boy is silenced by his father when he cries.  I asked, “Is there any part of you that feels like that little boy?”  He began to cry, and cry like he hadn’t in years.  That day, we opened the black bag, and started pulling out parts of himself disowned long before.  In time, he became a more tender, vulnerable man and pastor.  All of the emotional energy used to keep the vulnerable little boy inside was no longer needed.  And strangely, he found himself energized – more healthy and more resilient.

Remember the second story – the story of the woman who grew up in a very patriarchal home but succeeded and found a voice as Student Body President?  By the time we met, she had become a very hard, very tough, and (dare I say it?) a very masculine young woman mired in confusion about her gender, among other things.  It turns out that as a seminary student and young pastor, much of her energy was given to living up to the expectations of being “one of the guys.”  It took a short time before I began triggering feelings associated with men – abusive, powerful, contemptuous of women.

However, I did everything I could to create safety.  And strangely, this male seminary professor who reminded her of her father became a safe man. I spoke to the moments when I saw her vulnerability, her inkling of trust in me.  And she actually did begin to trust.  Reaching into her black bag, she pulled out a part of herself that was stuffed long ago – a tender, soft, and feminine woman who did not need to, in turn, disown her strength or lose her voice.  In fact, she has become a strong and beautiful pastor and leader.

Do you recall the final story?  It was about a young man whose Dad was a very successful pastor.  He was a disappointment – too shy, too artistic, too uninterested in reading and studying, and too disruptive in Sunday School.  He came to me as a successful worship pastor for 20 years in ministry after it was discovered that he was looking at pornography on the church computer.  However, it did not take long before he confessed experimenting with other destructive behaviors – cutting, intoxication, and drugs.  He was trying to kill off the many disowned parts of himself, but they wouldn’t go away.

I asked him what he longed for in it, at one point, particularly in his pornography viewing.  Interestingly, he was able to say, “The feeling of being held and loved.”  I said, “Tell me about that part of you that wants to be held and loved.”  And he said, “He’s really, really young…maybe 6 or 7…and it’s Sunday afternoon, and he’s all alone, and Dad is watching football and I hate football.  And I sit next to him.  And he says, ‘Sissies don’t like football.’”

That was the day he put his interests and longings in the black bag, and did all he could to learn about football and ministry.  As we opened the black bag, we learned about all kinds of things.  We learned that, at least in part, the porn was about both a longing for love and also a hatred manifesting in sabotage.  He hated the church, despised working for the institution his Dad represented, and needed to step away from ministry.  And so he did.  We also learned more about him as opened the black bag.  We learned that he loved classical music and poetry and cooking.

And this man who was 15 years my elder at the time I counseled him felt like he was sitting with his Dad telling him about himself for the first time.

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The journey from a divided life to wholeheartedness re-energized 3 people who in their own ways were not really living…but merely surviving…and hurting a lot of people along the way.

They were not thriving in ministry.  People experienced them as the false selves that they were living out of – angry, embittered, passive-aggressive, hostile, demanding, critical, invulnerable, unapproachable.

And in each case, the typical approaches to pastoral soul care – better boundaries, a much-needed vacation, more quiet times – might have put a bandage on the wound, but wouldn’t have cured it.  They needed surgery.

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I once knew of a major men’s ministry that talked a lot about integrity.  Men wore shirts labeled “MEN OF INTEGRITY.”  But the conferences were pep talks.  One guy summed it up in this:  “I tell guys, ‘Hey man…buy your wives flowers, don’t look at porn, and don’t be a sissy – women hate sissies’”.  He laughed, and maybe even grunted.  Manhood at its best, right?

Integrity, in this men’s ministry, was about behavior-modification and motivation-by-sissifiying.  It was not about heart change.  It was not about wholeness.  In fact, many of these behavior modifications only served to further solidify the divisions within.  This was not a place where guys would open their black bags.  These men did not want to see fear, or pain, or vulnerability.  They wanted a warrior – a man whose black bag was shut and sealed for good.

Let me be honest with you, pastors:  That version of pastoral soul care does not require a Messiah to do the major surgery.  Rather, you can fix yourself with techniques.  But when your heart is as fragmented and disordered as mine is and yours is, then we need a God who is big enough and safe enough to open up our secret lives and stories to.

In each story I shared in this essay, the pastors felt re-born.  They felt as if they were keeping large parts of themselves away from the healing light of the Gospel.  They discovered wounds that could not be healed by techniques.  The wounds, of course, required therapy.  But they also required the church.  You see, when you live a divided life, you don’t need Jesus, you don’t need the church, you don’t need community, and you don’t need the Lord’s Supper.  You simply lead an exhausting life of self-preservation.

And then you go on vacation.  And you’re mad as hell at your spouse, your kids, your hotel, your car, your server at the restaurant.  You can’t rest.  You can’t rest because you can’t stop keeping your real fears and insecurities inside, and that takes a lot of energy.

It’s time to re-consider what the real problem is.  It’s time to remember that God gives you the Sabbath not simply to sit on the couch, but to become whole.  God wants you to flourish, to thrive, to experience shalom.

The antidote to exhaustion is not rest, you see.  It’s wholeheartedness.