When I was a young Jesuit, at least relatively speaking (I was in my early twenties), I received some “constructive” feedback from a fellow member of my community. I had openly criticized some of the men in the class a year ahead of us for being so competitive with one another that it was creating divisions and conflict in the whole community. This Jesuit was just a few years older than me, and I really valued his opinion, which is also why what he said stung me. He said, “David, you may have a point about those guys, but I’d be careful of calling others out that way without looking in the mirror yourself.” He went on to detail how, on a few recent occasions, I was talking about my accomplishments in a boastful manner, and how it felt to him like I was trying to outshine everyone else.
I went back to my room to reflect about this, though in truth, I had so many stirring feelings that it was hard to reflect. First I felt a little angry, then embarrassed, and maybe even a little ashamed. I was at an age when it was hard to receive critical feedback without feeling insecure, exposed, and defensive. But when the feelings settled, I had to admit, he was right. I had a blindspot about this tendency: that I had to win, to be first, and even to appear a bit better than everyone else. Not easy to admit, but true.
So, what to do? Well, of course I set my attention to uprooting this egotistical tendency from myself so that I could make progress in holiness! How could I make progress in my Jesuit life if I was so imperfect?
Maybe you can guess how fruitful this was. Every time I noticed this tendency arising in my speech or my actions, I tried to smother it, as if I was putting out a fire. In fact, I became a bit scrupulous and neurotic about any intention, thought, or action that would give in to this urge I had to be superior to others. Within a few weeks, this neurotic strategy was driving me a little crazy, and everyone else in my community as well.
The more I tried to stifle these tendencies in myself, the more I was obsessed with the same tendencies I saw in everyone else. It didn’t take long before I appeared a little depressed and miserable, and my judgementalism was alienating everyone. My Novice Master asked me to see him and asked what was going on. I gave him the backstory and explained that I was “on top of it,” as if I was going to eventually succeed in overcoming my “problem.”
Fortunately, my Novice Master was a wise and insightful person (and even more so now, all these years later), and had a sense of humor. He laughed and asked me to let him know how this project turned out. I was at a loss for words. How could he laugh at something so serious as my imperfections? Really, all these years later, I laugh too at how ridiculous I was. Somehow, I was completely missing how I had turned my quest for spiritual perfection into another self-centered, ego driven project.
My Novice Master helped me to take perspective on myself, something that I was entirely unable to do by myself. He helped me to see how I had fallen into the grip of the “enemy spirit,” who takes our good nature and twists it by all kinds of subtle means, including the traps of perfectionism, and self-sufficiency. He helped me to see how futile this way of thinking was, and how problematic it is for the communities in which we live. The pursuit of purity, perfection, or moral superiority… All of these paths, while in part noble and good, are also filled with traps and unforeseen consequences for ourselves and others.
When Jesus tells this parable of the weeds and the wheat, he speaks to a broad audience of those who saw themselves as believers, each dedicated to obedience to God’s commandments and a path of spiritual and religious faithfulness. And he sees how zealousness, excessive rigor, and perfectionism could overtake the people filled with good intention, leading to harm to self and others.
How many of us have encountered such attitudes and behaviors in ourselves at times, and in our communities?
Now, while there is another temptation on the other end of this spectrum from spiritual perfectionism, and that is excessive laxity, an “anything goes” way of living which can be superficial and morally vacuous. But that is for another reflection.
When Jesus speaks of allowing the weeds and the wheat to grow until the harvest, he acknowledges that so many of these issues get worked out over time. We mature in our understanding personally and collectively about what is good and what is not. We evolve in our capacity for tolerating ambiguity and for the complexity of being human in a range of circumstances. We learn to become more self-accepting, and thus, more tolerant and loving of others. And as we mature further, we learn the wisdom of allowing ourselves to learn and grow as living things do, undergoing seasons, cycles of dying and regeneration supported by God’s loving faithfulness.
This path of learning and maturing spiritually is a way of gradual integration, of humbly giving God the space to work with our partiality, fragmentation, and contradictions to bring about a wholeness which only God is able to grant.
What does this mean for us as leaders?
As leaders, we can fall into the trap of ambitious self-perfection, an illusory sense of superiority, and a demanding rigor from those with whom and for whom we lead. But when we stand in the light of God’s love, these neurotic projects are seen for what they are. And we are gently liberated from the endlessly subtle temptations that detour us from following Jesus’ own humble, self-emptying path.
How does this parable speak to us today about our relationship to our own imperfections and those of others? What inspiration do we draw from “allowing the weeds and the wheat to grow together until harvest?”
With you on the road,
