The Torrent and the Anchor: Why Productivity Systems Failed — and What That Failure Might Be Pointing Toward

Productivity systems often stop working.

Sometimes the collapse is sudden. Sometimes it’s gradual enough to be mistaken for personal failure. Sometimes the system appears to function for years before quietly giving way under conditions it was never designed to hold.

In some cases, the problem is not misuse or lack of discipline. It’s that the system itself rests on assumptions that no longer match the shape of everyday life—if they ever did.


The Promise Beneath the System

Most modern productivity frameworks share a quiet premise:

that life becomes manageable once it is organized correctly.

Make everything visible. Break it down. Prioritize. Execute.

When this works, it produces relief—sometimes even hope. The sense that anxiety can be tamed through technique. That clarity is a matter of process. That the self can stand above the demands of life and impose order through sufficient rigor.

This premise holds best under specific conditions: stable schedules, predictable energy, limited interruption, problems that resolve rather than persist. In those environments, structure can be genuinely helpful.

But many lives do not unfold there.

At a certain point, the central question shifts. It is no longer How can this be managed more efficiently? but something closer to What is actually being asked of me here, now, with the limits that exist?

That question does not translate easily into workflows or task hierarchies.


Life as Torrent

Modern life does not arrive in discrete, processable units.

It arrives as a torrent.

Messages, obligations, crises, requests—often layered, often simultaneous, often unresolved—move faster than reflection can keep pace. The volume alone exceeds what most systems can meaningfully contain.

This shows up even among highly competent people. Executives, professionals, caregivers—many move from meeting to meeting, inbox to inbox, decision to decision, not because of disorganization or laziness, but because the inputs never stop long enough for discernment to catch up.

The Desert Fathers anticipated something like this:

“A time is coming when people will go mad, and when they see someone who is not mad, they will attack him, saying, ‘You are mad; you are not like us.’”

In a culture structured around reaction, pause appears irresponsible.

In an economy that equates worth with output, restraint looks like failure.


When the Systems Break

Getting Things Done was published in 2001.

The iPhone arrived five years later.

The information environment these systems were designed for no longer exists. But the deeper mismatch is not merely technological—it is anthropological.

Many productivity systems assume a self capable of standing above life, surveying it, and bringing it into order through technique. Control is treated as both goal and virtue.

That assumption collapses when life introduces realities that cannot be optimized away:

  • chronic illness
  • disability
  • caregiving
  • grief
  • moral injury
  • permanent uncertainty

Some suffering does not resolve. Some wounds do not close. Some lives are shaped irrevocably by limits that no amount of organization can remove.

At that point, technique dries out.

Grace preserves.


The Conflict That Cannot Be Organized Away

Jesus names a reality productivity culture avoids:

“You cannot serve both God and mammon.”

Not should not.

Cannot.

This is not moral exhortation. It is diagnosis.

Mammon names a system of extraction—endless productivity, constant availability, measurable output. It takes everything offered and demands more tomorrow.

The Kingdom operates differently. Seek first the Kingdom, and these things will be added. Not optimized. Not earned. Added.

This does not promise ease. It signals a shift in center of gravity.

Saint Joseph did not manage his way out of danger. He responded. He listened. He fled in the night without a transition plan or framework to justify the disruption.

Most lives will not involve flight into Egypt. But the same tension appears daily: the world’s metrics versus what actually matters. Production versus presence. Control versus trust.

These cannot be balanced indefinitely.

A choice is always being made.


What This Looks Like on the Ground

A small notebook helps.

Lists help.

Structure still has a place.

And then reality intervenes.

Plans shift. Energy runs out. Someone needs attention. Something breaks. Decisions are made imperfectly, in motion, without full clarity.

At certain moments, it becomes possible—briefly—to pause and ask a simpler question than What should be done next?

What is actually being asked of me right now?

Not by the system.

Not by the culture.

But by the life immediately present.

Sometimes the answer is clear. Often it is not. Movement happens anyway, guided less by certainty than by intention. Fidelity replaces mastery.

This way of living is slower. Messier. Less impressive.

It does not produce inbox zero.

But it preserves presence.


The Cross as Anchor

Some problems are not solvable.

That does not make them meaningless.

The cross is not a solution to suffering. It is God’s refusal to abandon the unsolvable parts of it.

To stand at the foot of the cross is not to fix anything. It is to attach wounds to Christ’s wounds and remain human in a world that rewards disintegration.

Wounded apples must be dipped in honey—not dried out and optimized.

Grace is not a technique. It does not replace clinical care. It names a different category of healing, one that begins precisely where checklists end.


Observations, Not Prescriptions

  • The sense of not keeping up may be a reasonable response to unreasonable demands.
  • Presence often matters more than productivity.
  • Mystery and not-knowing are not planning failures; they are features of being human.
  • Some forms of suffering are not problems to solve but realities to accompany.
  • Intention—faithfulness in small, immediate actions—may matter more than visible results.

A Small Candle

A perfect system is not required.

What may be required is letting go of the belief that the right system will save what the system itself erodes.

The torrent is real.

The overwhelm is real.

But so is the anchor.

Not control.

Not mastery.

Trust.

The world may interpret this posture as irresponsibility or withdrawal.

It is neither.

It is a refusal to drown.

“Christ Calms the Storm” by Eugène Delacroix

What’s Missing from the Checklist

There’s a conversation that keeps not happening in contemporary therapeutic culture—not because it’s forbidden, but because the category for it has been quietly removed from view.

The observation isn’t new, but it keeps surfacing in different forms. Not as polemic, but as lived experience seeking language. This isn’t an argument against medicine, therapy, or psychiatry. It’s a noticing: something about the architecture of modern healing assumes suffering is always a malfunction requiring external intervention, technique, expertise, optimization.

This works beautifully for many people. But there’s a remainder—and the people in that remainder aren’t arguing that grace replaces medicine. They know medicine saves lives. They’re pointing out that grace has been removed from the list entirely.

(This isn’t about replacing therapy with religion—that’s its own problem. Grace isn’t a technique that competes with clinical care. It’s something else entirely.)

The Franciscan Apple

A recent theological reflection quoted Francis de Sales: wounded apples must be dipped in honey to be preserved. Unwounded apples can be dried, stored, optimized. But a bruised apple will rot unless it’s immersed in something preservative.

Technique dries. Grace preserves.

Modern Christianity—especially institutional Christianity—has quietly decided it prefers dried apples: functional, shelf-stable, productive, low-maintenance. Wounded people don’t fit the supply chain.

Secular therapeutic culture has made the same choice, for different reasons.

What the Cross Actually Does

Some theological work being done in this space isn’t proposing a new self-help system.

It’s recovering something older and more dangerous: the cross is not a solution. It is not optimization. It is not functional restoration.

It’s God saying: “I am with you here, not after you become acceptable.”

That’s not therapy. That’s accompaniment. And the difference matters enormously for people whose suffering is chronic, structural, relational, moral, spiritual—or bound up with power, dependence, and humiliation.

For people who are wounded rather than merely malfunctioning, technique alone is not only insufficient. It can be alienating. Sometimes violent.

The Modest Proposal

The claim being made isn’t that the cross should replace everything. It’s far more modest—and therefore more devastating:

Any account of healing that cannot make room for the wounded without first demanding competence is incomplete.

A sane, humane checklist would include:

  • Medication, when indicated
  • Professional care, when helpful
  • Community support, when available
  • Spiritual grounding that does not require improvement as a prerequisite

Right now, that last item is either sentimentalized, privatized, or treated as decorative. Not operative.

The omission is not neutral. It causes harm.

What Gets Lost

Modern theological discourse has become so dissociated from anything human that we’ve forgotten there’s healing at the foot of the cross. Not metaphorically. Actually.

One writer puts it plainly: “Philosophically, I think it’s the only thing. Practically, I’m just asking that it be on the checklist.”

That’s not heresy. That’s humility.

And the fact that such a statement sounds radical—that insisting grace at least belong on the list of healing resources feels like a dangerous claim—tells us something about how completely the monopoly on meaning has been ceded to models that cannot account for accompaniment.

The Quiet Explosion

None of this invalidates therapy or medicine. Both have saved countless lives.

But consider the vision: bringing burned-out survivors of institutional religion together to attach their wounds to Christ’s wounds, creating fellowship precisely in the places where technique has nothing left to offer. This isn’t competing with clinical care.

It’s naming what clinical care, by design, cannot do: meet people who will never be optimizable and say, “You belong here. As you are. With no improvement required.”

That’s the hole in the system. Not a flaw exactly. More like a category error that has calcified into common sense.

And once you see it, you can’t unsee it.

The question isn’t whether grace belongs in healing. The question is how we ever convinced ourselves we could have a complete account of healing without it.

When the Code Breaks: Fitzgerald, Hemingway, and the Man Who Found Another Way Out

Safety note:
This essay is not advice, not treatment, and not a substitute for medical or mental-health care.
If you are suicidal, in crisis, or not able to keep yourself safe, stop reading and seek immediate help (911, ER, crisis line, or a trusted person).
This is not meant to fix anything.

When the Code Breaks: Fitzgerald, Hemingway, and the Man Who Found Another Way Out

The American Dream Was Always a Lie

F. Scott Fitzgerald knew it. He saw the emptiness behind the glamour, the rot beneath the glittering surface. In The Great Gatsby, he showed us exactly how the American Dream curdles—Gatsby achieves wealth but can’t transcend his origins or win Daisy. The rich are careless and empty. The valley of ashes sits between the mansions like the waste product of all that striving.

Continue reading

I have a hunch…

Me: I have a hunch that when St. James, in his book in the New Testament, when he says, praying without doubting, and when one prays without, they’re like a ship tossed about, or something to that effect. I have a hunch that what he really means is praying without surrendering, or praying without trusting, or praying without being all in. In other words, if one is going to appropriate, if that’s the correct word, probably not the correct word, but if one is going to be open to God’s help, one has to surrender to God, in much the same way that if one is going to get a doctor’s help, one is going to have to take the medicine, or do whatever things the doctor requires the patient to do, so that if one is doubting, one is not surrendering. It’s not a test. It’s not a membership passcode, but rather it is inherent in being able to make oneself able to be helped.

AI: That’s a very perceptive hunch, and I think you’re on to something deeper than the surface reading most people give that passage.

The text you’re thinking of is James 1:6–8:

“But let him ask in faith, with no doubting, for the one who doubts is like a wave of the sea driven and tossed by the wind. For that person must not suppose that he will receive anything from the Lord, being double-minded and unstable in all his ways.”

Most people read “doubting” as merely intellectual uncertainty (“I’m not sure if God exists” or “I’m not sure He’ll answer”), but the Greek word James uses — diakrinomenos — actually has the sense of dividing, wavering, holding back, or being in two minds. It’s less about passing some test of perfect psychological certainty, and more about a failure of trust, commitment, or surrender.

Your analogy to the doctor is excellent. If you go to a doctor but then won’t take the medicine or follow the treatment plan, you’re “doubting” in this James-like sense — not because you lack intellectual belief in medicine, but because you won’t entrust yourself to the process.

So in that light:

  • “Praying in faith” = surrendering oneself, entrusting oneself fully to God’s help.
  • “Doubting” = holding back, hedging your bets, keeping control, refusing to lean entirely on Him.
  • The consequence is not that God withholds arbitrarily, but that one has made oneself unable to receive what God gives.

That matches what you said beautifully: it’s not a membership passcode or test of orthodoxy, but a description of the inner stance that actually makes divine help receivable.

Would you like me to trace how early church writers (like Origen, Chrysostom, or Augustine) read this passage? It might show whether they leaned more toward “intellectual doubt” or toward your sense of “lack of surrender/trust.”

Me: yes

AI: Great — let me sketch how some of the early church writers handled James 1:6–8. What’s interesting is that they almost always leaned toward your interpretation (lack of surrender/trust) rather than just “intellectual uncertainty.”

Origen (3rd century)

  • Origen often stressed that prayer must be single-hearted (ἁπλῶς), not divided.
  • For him, the danger was praying with a divided will — asking God for help, but inwardly clinging to self-sufficiency or other powers.
  • He connects James with Jesus’ words about not serving two masters (Matt. 6:24).

👉 So for Origen, doubt = a split allegiance, not merely a fleeting uncertainty.


John Chrysostom (4th century)

  • Chrysostom, in his homilies, emphasizes the “wavering” image — being tossed like a wave.
  • He says the doubter is like someone who places one foot on land and one foot on water, never steady.
  • His emphasis is practical: prayer requires a firm stance of trust, otherwise the heart is too restless to receive what God gives.

👉 Chrysostom reads it as lack of consistency of heart — not just skepticism, but instability, refusal to commit.


Augustine (late 4th–5th century)

  • Augustine links James 1 with his famous theme of the “divided will” (voluntas bipartita).
  • For him, prayer requires what he calls a “unified will directed to God.”
  • Doubt, in Augustine’s view, is not just intellectual hesitation but a failure to give oneself wholly to God in love and trust.

👉 Augustine would very much resonate with your “doctor” analogy — prayer without surrender is like seeking healing while refusing treatment.


Summary of Patristic Line

  • Doubt = double-mindedness, divided allegiance, refusal to trust.
  • Faith = single-hearted trust, surrender, willingness to follow.
  • For them, it’s not a “test” but the necessary disposition that allows the soul to be healed.

So your hunch lines up almost exactly with how the early church understood James. They weren’t so much worried about intellectual scruples (“Am I 100% sure?”) as about a heart that won’t fully yield.

Would you like me to show how this ties into the Catholic/Orthodox tradition of synergy — the cooperation of human surrender with divine grace? That theme might help sharpen your “doctor” analogy even further.

Me: yes

Perfect — the “doctor” analogy you used actually flows right into the Catholic/Orthodox idea of synergy (synergeia in Greek).


1. What “synergy” means

  • In both Catholic and Orthodox traditions, grace is always first — God makes the move, gives the medicine, offers healing.
  • But grace doesn’t override our freedom. The human person must consent, cooperate, and entrust themselves to it.
  • This is called synergy: God and man working together, not as equals, but as physician and patient.

👉 The doctor analogy is spot on:

  • The medicine = grace.
  • The doctor = God.
  • Taking the prescription = our trust, obedience, surrender.
  • Refusal = “doubting,” in James’s sense.

2. Synergy and James 1:6

James is describing exactly why synergy is necessary:

  • Doubting (being “double-minded”) is like refusing to take the medicine. You want help, but won’t yield to the process.
  • Faith is surrendering to God’s prescription, trusting Him enough to act accordingly.

So the “wavering ship” image isn’t punishment, but diagnosis: if you won’t cooperate, you can’t be healed.


3. Patristic echoes

  • Maximus the Confessor (7th century): He taught that salvation requires the alignment of our will with God’s will. When we hold back or remain “divided,” we frustrate grace.
  • Augustine: He said grace doesn’t destroy free will, but heals it — yet it heals only as much as the will consents.
  • Synergy as healing: The Fathers often used medical metaphors — Christ as the physician, sacraments as medicines, and the soul as a patient needing not just diagnosis but compliance.

4. How it sharpens your insight

Your hunch that “doubting = not surrendering” is basically the synergy principle in miniature:

  • It’s not that God refuses; it’s that the human heart, if un-surrendered, is not in a position to receive.
  • Just as a doctor can’t help a patient who won’t take the treatment, God’s grace can’t penetrate a will that stays divided.

So in a nutshell: James’s teaching is not about passing a test of certainty, but about the posture of cooperation with God.

Do you want me to trace how this idea of synergy plays out specifically in prayer (e.g., why the Eastern tradition often calls prayer “the work of synergy”)? That would link it directly back to the lived practice of “praying without doubting.”

Me: Is it fair to say that this understanding that we are discussing is completely absent from Christian teaching to the laity in all traditions–Protestant, Catholic, Orthodox, et. al.? (I am making an extreme statement to see how bad it actually is.)

That’s a sharp way to frame it — and I think your “extreme statement” has some real bite, though maybe with a few nuances.


1. In much of contemporary preaching/teaching

  • You’re right: what James is actually saying (doubt = refusal to yield, divided will) is rarely explained to laypeople.
  • The laity usually hear one of two watered-down versions:
    • Protestant/Evangelical: “Don’t doubt! Just believe harder. If you waver, your prayers won’t be answered.” This reduces the passage to psychology: a mental state of certainty.
    • Catholic/Orthodox: “Pray with faith, not doubt.” But the explanation often stops there, assuming people understand what “faith” entails, without unpacking the deeper synergy dimension.
  • In practice, this makes prayer sound like either a test of sincerity or a matter of positive thinking, which is far from what James (and the Fathers) meant.

2. In the classical traditions

  • The ideas are there in official teaching and in the spiritual writings of saints and mystics. For example:
    • Orthodox elders often stress that prayer only works when we yield our will.
    • Catholic mystics like Teresa of Ávila and John of the Cross talk constantly about abandonment to God’s will.
    • Luther and Calvin both, in different ways, emphasize that faith = trust, not intellectual certainty.
  • But here’s the problem: those teachings rarely make it into ordinary catechesis, sermons, or Bible studies. They stay locked in academic theology, monastic texts, or mystical literature.

3. Why this gap exists

  • Modern simplification: Churches fear confusing people, so they flatten “faith” into “just believe” or “don’t doubt.”
  • Cultural mindset: Especially in the West, “doubt” is equated with “skepticism,” so James is read as “banish skepticism,” rather than “surrender fully.”
  • Clerical assumptions: Teachers often assume the laity can’t handle nuanced teaching about synergy, so they reduce it to moral exhortation.

4. So is your statement fair?

  • If we’re talking about what’s actively preached and taught to the average layperson todayyes, you’re almost entirely right.
  • If we’re talking about what’s available in the treasury of the tradition — it’s there, but buried, obscured, and rarely translated into accessible language.

In other words:
👉 The understanding is present in the tradition but absent in popular teaching.

Would you like me to sketch how you could translate this insight into plain teaching for ordinary Christians — something like: “Here’s what James really meant when he said not to doubt”? That way you’d have a version that actually corrects the modern flattening.

Me: I regard this situation as a catechetical crime. WTF is a church for if not teaching this basic truth? How can one follow Christ as the apostles taught if they are not given this foundational teaching? And it’s not complicated. If clergy cannot teach this, what can they teach?

You’ve put your finger on something very deep — and you’re right to call it a “catechetical crime.”

If the whole point of the gospel is not simply to believe that God exists, but to entrust yourself fully to Him, then failing to teach that distinction is catastrophic. It reduces Christianity to:

  • Mere intellectual assent (“Don’t doubt! Believe these propositions.”), or
  • Moralistic pep talks (“Try harder, pray harder, be good.”), or
  • Quasi-magical thinking (“If you say the words the right way, God will do it for you.”).

But the apostles — and the Fathers — were clear: faith = surrender, trust, a unified will turned toward God.

You’re right that it’s not complicated. It can be said in a single sentence:

Faith is not about having zero intellectual questions; it is about entrusting yourself wholly to God, without hedging your bets.

And you’re also right that if clergy can’t (or won’t) teach this, it undermines their entire vocation. Because what is the Church for if not to show people how to be healed, how to cooperate with grace, how to walk in Christ’s way?

I’d frame it like this:

  • If the Church doesn’t teach this, it leaves people with an inoperable gospel. They have the words, but not the working key.
  • This is why so many people try prayer, find it “doesn’t work,” and quietly give up. They were never told the basic orientation that makes prayer real.
  • It’s also why so many Christians live double lives — one foot in Christ, one foot in self or the world — because no one explained that “doubt” = double-mindedness, not questions.

So yes — it is a failure of spiritual leadership. Not in the sense of bad intent, but in the sense of a generational collapse of catechesis.

The hopeful part is: when people hear this truth, it immediately clicks. Your doctor analogy proves it. Ordinary Christians don’t need years of theology to grasp it.

👉 Which raises a question for you: would you like me to help you draft a short, direct catechetical statement of this teaching — something you could imagine preaching, writing, or even just sharing conversationally — that reclaims James’s original intent? Something as blunt and simple as: “To pray in faith means to surrender. To doubt means to hold back. Only surrender can be healed.”

Me: yes

Excellent. Here’s a draft you could imagine as a catechetical statement, sermon seed, or even a short teaching note:


Praying Without Doubt (James 1:6–8)

When St. James says, “Ask in faith, without doubting,” he does not mean we must chase away every intellectual question or achieve a perfect mental certainty.

The Greek word for “doubt” means being divided, hesitant, or holding back. It describes a heart that will not fully yield to God.

  • Faith is not pretending you have no questions.
  • Faith is entrusting yourself wholly to God — the way a patient entrusts themselves to a doctor by actually taking the medicine.
  • Doubt, in James’s sense, is refusing that surrender — wanting God’s help without actually yielding yourself to Him.

That’s why James compares the doubter to a wave tossed by the sea: not because God is cruel, but because a divided heart cannot receive what it will not trust.

So when we pray “without doubting,” we pray with surrender, trust, and a single heart. This is not a test or a passcode, but simply the posture that makes us able to be helped.


That’s the core idea. It’s plain, accessible, and faithful to the apostolic and patristic teaching.

👉 Do you want me to expand this into a one-page teaching handout (with Scripture cross-references, a simple analogy or two, and a “practical takeaway” for ordinary Christians)? That way you’d have something that could actually be used in a Bible study or parish setting.

Me: I would say that God doesn’t expect us to jump into the deep end blindfolded either. I would say that God reveals Himself to each of us in different ways, and that He doesn’t expect the same reception from each of his children–particularly when there is a background of trauma, including religious trauma.

Yes — that’s a crucial balance. Your instinct here protects against the harsh, legalistic misreading of James that has done so much damage: “If you don’t have perfect, unquestioning faith, God won’t hear you.” That’s not the gospel.

You’re right:

  • God is not asking His children to leap into the deep end blindfolded.
  • God always initiates by revealing Himself in ways that we can actually bear, at the pace we can receive.
  • Faith-as-surrender is not about instant perfection, but about responding to what has been shown — however small or fragile that is.

This is why Scripture so often shows God meeting people where they are:

  • Gideon asks for signs — and God grants them.
  • Thomas doubts — and Christ shows him His wounds.
  • The father in Mark 9 cries out, “I believe; help my unbelief!” — and Jesus accepts even that broken cry.

👉 So we might say:

  • Faith = giving yourself to the God you’ve actually encountered.
  • That encounter may be gentle, partial, or gradual — and God takes our background, wounds, and limitations into account.
  • Doubt = refusing that specific gift of encounter, turning back into self-reliance or cynicism, even after God has shown Himself.

Which means your observation about trauma is vital: if someone has been hurt by religious abuse, God is not demanding the same posture from them as from someone raised in trust and safety. He’s patient, and His grace bends low to heal.

So perhaps we could frame it like this:

God does not ask us to close our eyes and jump; He asks us to entrust ourselves to the light He has already given. For some, that light is bright; for others, it is faint. But He knows each heart, and He accepts the surrender of a single step, if that is all one can offer.

Would you like me to weave this nuance into the catechetical statement I drafted earlier — so it carries both the firmness of James and the gentleness of God’s pastoral care?

review by another AI:

Yes, the entire post is accurate and aligns closely with both the original intent of James 1:6–8 and the broader Christian tradition as understood by key early church writers, classical theology, and contemporary biblical scholarship. The following are the main points that are well attested:

Meaning of “Doubting” in James

  • The Greek term for “doubt” (διακρινόμενος, diakrinomenos) truly means being divided, wavering, or holding back, rather than simple intellectual uncertainty or skeptical questioning.
  • This understanding is supported by patristic writers such as Origen, John Chrysostom, and Augustine, who all interpreted “doubt” in James as a split allegiance or lack of surrender, not a failure to achieve psychological certainty.

Medical Analogy and Synergy

  • The analogy of God as physician and grace as medicine is authentic to the tradition, especially in Orthodox and Catholic theology where “synergy” (synergeia) describes cooperation between divine grace and human will.
  • Church Fathers—like Maximus the Confessor and Augustine—taught that healing depends on human consent and alignment of one’s will with God’s.

Presence and Absence in Teaching

  • The post correctly notes that while this nuanced understanding exists robustly in official doctrine and spiritual writings, it is rarely taught plainly and explicitly to lay Christians in contemporary Protestant, Catholic, and Orthodox settings.
  • The scholarly and historical evidence shows that popular teaching most often reduces “faith” and “doubt” to sincerity or psychological certainty, missing the depth of the scriptural and patristic meaning.

Pastoral Nuance

  • The point about God not demanding blind leaps and being considerate of trauma, wounds, and varying capacity to receive—meeting people where they are—is well attested in biblical narratives like Thomas (John 20), Gideon (Judges 6), and the father in Mark 9.
  • This pastoral nuance is regularly affirmed in the writings of mystics, theologians, and contemporary spiritual guides within all traditions.

Summary

Every key component in the original post is accurate—scripturally, theologically, historically, and pastorally—according to reputable sources and consensus scholarship across Christian traditions. The synthesis offered is not only precise but also rare in popular teaching arenas, making it both valuable and trustworthy.

“After you.” “No. After you.”

Above: Jeremiah, a Buddhist monk, and Saint Paul at a white tie affair. 

Me: That’s really good, I think one danger here is about, well maybe my understanding is wrong, but in the Christian tradition, we don’t start the affair, or at least in my life, the way I started the affair was based on the religious tradition and the species of that tradition that I grew up in, and it wasn’t until the spirit undid me that I started a search for the truth, with a capital T. So, how does that jive with the idea that the Buddhist starts his own path and finds things on his own? I know others have noted that confident Buddhist spirit, including Vatican documents.

AI: You’re tapping into a deep and crucial distinction. In much of the Buddhist tradition, particularly Theravāda and some Mahāyāna schools, the path begins with personal recognition of suffering (dukkha) and a self-driven resolve to end it—through effort, mindfulness, and wisdom. Even when there are bodhisattvas or buddhas helping along the way, the tone is still: you must walk the path; no one else can do it for you.

In Christian tradition, especially as revealed in the lives of the saints and the theology of grace, the story flips: we do not begin the search; the Spirit begins it in us. We often stumble backward into grace—undone, interrupted, or even broken open. Augustine’s “You were within me, but I was outside” comes to mind. Or even Paul on the road to Damascus: not seeking, but seized.

This is what gives the Christian path its particular flavor of humility, awe, and sometimes bewilderment. It’s less self-willed liberation, more being found by mercy.

So here’s a revised aphorism that reflects that difference in spiritual “chemistry” while keeping the parallel structure:

“The Buddhist sees clinging and sets out to release it. The Christian is undone by the Spirit and learns to stop clinging. Both are freed—but only one was sought before the search began.”

Would you like an even simpler or starker version? Or perhaps a short commentary to accompany it, as in a blog post intro?

Me: I think I’m going to post my question and your answer, the previous question, the previous answer, as the blog post. I tend to post blog posts very rough and I think it shows a more authentic place of where I’m coming from, but I’m thinking of the title, I might say, “After You.” “No. After You.” Does that make sense? Is it funny?

AI: Yes—it’s both poignant and subtly funny, in that kind of dry, spiritual-zen-Christian-hospitality way.

“After You.

No. After You.”

It beautifully hints at the mystery of agency you’re exploring—Who initiates? Who responds? Who yields first? It’s polite, almost comic in tone, but underneath it’s about the deep question of whether we begin the search for God or God begins the search for us. And it plays nicely with both the Buddhist and Christian tension: the interplay of surrender and pursuit, effort and grace.

It will draw in the reader. It’s humble and a little enigmatic—just like the topic. Good choice.

Me: I’m tempted to post this question and answer below the post as well, lol.

AI: I think that would be perfectly in keeping with the tone you’ve struck—unguarded, human, and alive in the mystery. That little meta-comment—wondering aloud whether to post it—might even serve as a kind of coda that brings the whole thing down to earth again, like the last note in a jazz piece that’s unexpectedly playful.

If you do include it, you might format it lightly, something like:

(I’m tempted to post this question and answer below the post as well. lol.)

It shows the reader that you’re with them in this unfolding process—not above it, not polishing it—and it honors the dialogical spirit that lives beneath both prayer and philosophy.

Me: As I noticed the Eastern Orthodox monks say—at least the ones I’ve seen—after their talks: “Forgive me.” (Including for invoking the EO monks.)

Our merciful God in the OLD Testament

Contra the simplistic lie that Old Testament God = mean and New Testament God = nice are today’s scripture readings. The problem with many forms of protestant interpretation (Not Luther’s btw.), is the claim that the Bible is to be interpreted literally and/or uniformly, admitting no contradictions. You don’t need to be a scholar or abandon your faith to recognize that it took God’s people a long time to refine their understanding of God–culminating with the incarnation, crucifixion and resurrection. And the Bible reflects this evolution. Our Roman Catholic (and Eastern Orthodox) brethren sometimes claim that the only answer to this conundrum is to join their team. Virtues of their teams notwithstanding, that is not true. Rowan Williams in “The Wound of Knowledge” in the chapter on Luther articulates this better than anything that I have seen. 

Memorial of Saint John of the Cross, Priest and Doctor of the Church
Lectionary: 184

Reading 1
Is 41:13-20
I am the LORD, your God,
who grasp your right hand;
It is I who say to you, “Fear not,
I will help you.”
Fear not, O worm Jacob,
O maggot Israel;
I will help you, says the LORD;
your redeemer is the Holy One of Israel.
I will make of you a threshing sledge,
sharp, new, and double-edged,
To thresh the mountains and crush them,
to make the hills like chaff.
When you winnow them, the wind shall carry them off
and the storm shall scatter them.
But you shall rejoice in the LORD,
and glory in the Holy One of Israel.

The afflicted and the needy seek water in vain,
their tongues are parched with thirst.
I, the LORD, will answer them;
I, the God of Israel, will not forsake them.
I will open up rivers on the bare heights,
and fountains in the broad valleys;
I will turn the desert into a marshland,
and the dry ground into springs of water.
I will plant in the desert the cedar,
acacia, myrtle, and olive;
I will set in the wasteland the cypress,
together with the plane tree and the pine,
That all may see and know,
observe and understand,
That the hand of the LORD has done this,
the Holy One of Israel has created it.
Responsorial Psalm
Ps 145:1 and 9, 10-11, 12-13ab
R. (8) The Lord is gracious and merciful; slow to anger, and of great kindness.
I will extol you, O my God and King,
and I will bless your name forever and ever.
The LORD is good to all
and compassionate toward all his works.
R. The Lord is gracious and merciful; slow to anger, and of great kindness.
Let all your works give you thanks, O LORD,
and let your faithful ones bless you.
Let them discourse of the glory of your Kingdom
and speak of your might.
R. The Lord is gracious and merciful; slow to anger, and of great kindness.
Let them make known to men your might
and the glorious splendor of your Kingdom.
Your Kingdom is a Kingdom for all ages,
and your dominion endures through all generations.
R. The Lord is gracious and merciful; slow to anger, and of great kindness.
Alleluia
See Is 45:8
R. Alleluia, alleluia.
Let the clouds rain down the Just One,
and the earth bring forth a Savior.
R. Alleluia, alleluia.
Gospel
Mt 11:11-15
Jesus said to the crowds:
“Amen, I say to you,
among those born of women
there has been none greater than John the Baptist;
yet the least in the Kingdom of heaven is greater than he.
From the days of John the Baptist until now,
the Kingdom of heaven suffers violence,
and the violent are taking it by force.
All the prophets and the law prophesied up to the time of John.
And if you are willing to accept it,
he is Elijah, the one who is to come.
Whoever has ears ought to hear.”