Perfect Love Casts Out FOMO

Perfect Love Casts Out FOMO

Last week Jesus consoled us and commanded that we have no fear. Not even a fear of death. He wasn’t talking about an emotion. We have very little immediate control over our emotional response to things, especially things we don’t often encounter like our lives being threatened. The word He used still exists in English—phobia. When we say someone has a phobia we almost always mean that their internal fear or anxiety translates into action which is disproportionate to the thing they fear.

Being creeped out by seeing a spider in your bathroom isn’t arachnophobia, but burning down your house and moving to another continent is. Sometimes when I talk to people I have this internal conversation critic who seems to think every word out of my mouth is The Dumbest Thing Ever Said, but I wouldn’t dare minimize the suffering of someone with actual social anxiety by calling mine a phobia. It’s just an annoying worry with little power over me—anyone who knows me knows I keep on talking anyway. No, the fear Jesus forbids is of the sort that dictates our behavior—a fear that can make us choose to do and be less when Christ invites us to greatness.

For us, discipleship doesn’t carry fear of death (for now). Instead we suffer from a spiritual FOMO. FOMO means fear of missing out. It’s a word coined in 2004 that immediately became overused and annoying. But it is a real phenomenon. Some people think social media is to blame. We see posts of our friends and family at the Best Party Ever or the Best Concert Ever and we get a sense of anxiety over our loss for doing something less important like going to work or taking care of family. It makes people fail to see the good things right in front them while they worry about the other things they could be doing. For some people, it results in a failure to commit to doing anything at all because what if it’s the wrong thing? For most, it means a nagging feeling that there’s always something better than the present moment.

FOMO is nothing new though and it’s much older than Facebook or Instagram. Spiritual fear of missing out goes all the way back to the Fall. The serpent convinced Eve that God was holding out on her and Adam.  God had promised paradise, but what if he was holding out? They feared, they disobeyed, and the rest is history. Come to think of it, maybe FOMO isn’t that much older than social media. I can’t help but notice the logo on my phone: an apple with a bite out of it.

When we fear that life in Christ isn’t the greatest good, that it will make us miss out on something better (what could be better?) we become less. Saint Irenaeus said, “The Glory of God is man fully alive.” We fall short of the Glory of God if we give power to fear of missing out on comfort, or a chance to shore up our ego, or to achieve acceptance and worldly success, or any number of lesser things. We fail to be fully alive.

This is the point of the first part of Sunday’s Gospel.  It sounds harsh, I know. On the one hand, I think Jesus is saying to love him more than even our own family to drive home the point that He is the greatest good. If we’re supposed to love Jesus more than we love our own mom then you better believe we’re supposed love Him more than we love Sunday sports, political ideology or money.  Loving Jesus more than our parents, more than our children, and more than our own lives doesn’t convey their unimportance, but it demonstrates Jesus’ absolute importance. It’s not a command to not love mother and father, sons and daughters, and ourselves, but an opportunity to love them more by loving Him more. In other words, if, as disciples of Jesus, the upper limit of our capacity to love is measured by how much we love Christ, then seeking to know and love Him more can only mean we will love others more, especially mom and dad, the kids, and ourselves.

There’s no denying the difficulty of taking up our cross daily to follow him, even in a nation where free exercise of religion is supposed to be unrestricted. When we should be more engaged in prayer, or doing spiritual and corporal acts of mercy, or fulfilling our Sunday obligation to attend Mass, it is all too easy to let spiritual FOMO slip in. The Catholic life, the life of a disciple of Jesus Christ, is not easy, it is not popular, and sometimes the temptation to be less than our calling is overwhelming.

Maybe that’s the rationale for the second half of Sunday’s Gospel. We are commanded to show hospitality, especially to fellow disciples, especially the little ones (maybe they’re little because the weight of their cross has crushed them). They, like you, are walking a hard road. They too struggle with fear of missing out—a nagging feeling that might not be a true doubt in God’s goodness but still represents a persistent anxiety that this isn’t the right path. We need to help carry each other’s crosses. That could take the form of a note of encouragement, a warm greeting at Mass or on the street, prayer for our fellow disciples, fellowship and time spent together simply being present to and loving each other–there are countless examples. None of us can carry our cross alone, so I’ll end by taking my own advice:

Please know that I am constantly in awe of the sacrifices you make to be fellow disciples. Your sincere love for Jesus and His people encourages me. Sunday is my favorite day of the week not just because I get to attend Mass and receive the Eucharist, but also because I share it in communion with you. There’s no place I’d rather be than in His presence and I am blessed to be there with a family of which you are part. The Body of Christ truly is beautiful and I have genuine affection for each of you. I hope that your example of faith inspires people Monday to Saturday as much as it inspires me on Sunday.

In Jesus and Mary,

Frank

 

 

When Christmas isn’t What You Expected

When Christmas isn’t What You Expected

Three children. God is good and we were truly blessed. First God gave us Ronan, then Caleb and now a new child would change our life forever (again). And if the miracle of it all weren’t plainly obvious already the baby’s due date underscored what a gift we had been given: December 24th. We were obviously going to need a Christmas themed name. Maybe Noelle for a girl? Or Holly? After two boys we were fairly certain this third child would be a girl. We both liked the name Gabriella in honor of the angel Gabriel.

Just shy of 12 weeks into the pregnancy we learned that we had lost the baby. As our expectations for the future were dashed, the decade old wounds from Ronan’s death reopened, wounds which I thought were fairly well healed. My prayer life shrank. Mostly it shrank down to just one word: Why? If I had my way I would be waking up this Christmas morning to embrace my 10 year old son, his 16 month old brother and their newborn sibling. Jesus, why can’t I have that? I know that my ways are not his ways.   The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.  I have to trust Him.

Trust can be a bitter pill to swallow. This is especially so when our expectations aren’t met. This season can be one of such wonder, excitement and joy. But the season of light can also painfully illuminate those areas of our lives that fall short of our expectations. For so many the joy of Christmas will be accompanied by the sorrow of empty chairs, illness, addiction, divorce, discord with loved ones, financial hardship—the list seems endless. What does God say in answer to our collective why? He asks us to trust Him. To trust that in all things, even the worst things, He is working for the good of those who love Him.

Christmas is all about defied expectations. A young virgin is pregnant and her soon to be husband is not the biological father. The long awaited Messiah of the Jewish people was expected to be a mighty king like David, not a poor, temporarily homeless child born in a stable. And yet this little baby is the rival to King Herod and Caesar Augustus. The Sovereign King of the Universe was tiny, naked, cold and crying in His teen mother’s arms. The only witnesses to the arrival of the Author of Life in our midst are Mary, Joseph, some shepherds, and a few animals. Yet his birth points toward our salvation and gives hints of how it will come about. The manger isn’t a special crib for babies but a place to put food for us, the sheep.  Myrrh is an embalming oil for the dead, not a children’s toy. We hear the story so often we forget how astounding and unexpected it all is. One of the most remarkable things for me is Mary and Joseph’s trust in the Father’s plan of loving goodness. They had no way of knowing then that their difficult circumstances were part of an unfolding plan of cosmic proportion that would ultimately end on the day when their own Son would wipe away the tears from every eye. They simply trusted.

This Christmas will not be what you or I had expected it to be. But with the eyes of faith we can see, despite appearances to the contrary, that our Father still has a plan for us and that plan is ultimately for our good—for a future filled with hope. Our God is with us to save us. Jesus I trust in you. Merry Christmas.

In Jesus and Mary,

Frank