The Priest and Persona
One of the most damaging things about Christian ministry is the mask!
I am a priest and with that comes a sincere desire to help other priests navigate the ministerial journey. My vocation also brings a genuine desire to help others grow spiritually. At present, I’m in the final stages of my first doctorate. I’m writing a dissertation, and hopefully, a book informed by it. This article comes from that research. I hope it highlights some of my findings and those findings can be helpful to clergy and spiritual people in general.
One thing Christians do that is often damaging is hand their priest or minister a mask and say, “Here, we expect you to wear this.” They do not mean ill. They usually wish their pastor no harm. Yet many still have an unconscious persona that they expect the priest to wear. What the unconscious parishioner unknowingly says is, “This is what I expect you to look like, this is how I expect you to preach, and this is how I expect your family to act.” Of course, this applies to nearly any service-oriented role, but I think it causes ministers a particular hardship.
I have heard most people explain the mask as a “higher standard” to which they hold the priest. The congregants often expect the minister to met the projection and accept the mask without resistance. Failure to wear it often leads to what Jung would call projection of the personal shadow and thus judgment. What he means is if the priest does not wear the mask, the congregants will project their own guilt, shame, and personal issues on to the clergy. In other words, what we resist in others usually tells us a lot about ourselves.
Jungian Archetypes at work in faith communities.
Jung pioneered the work on archetypal psychology. I think it can be particularly helpful for modern spirituality. I’ll never forget an encounter I had with an archetypal persona of the priesthood. The year was 2010, and I was deployed to Afghanistan. I was, upon my entry into the military, the youngest chaplain on active duty. There wasn’t much I could do about that.
My battalion executive officer embarrassed me in front of a crowd of other officers. He said, “I don’t have much faith in you. Chaplains are supposed to be old, like your grandfather, who can offer advice. You’re too young for that.” It was hurtful, but I tried to play it off as just fun banter and save face in front of my colleagues.
Enter Jung’s archetype of the Wise Old Man.
The Wise Old Man serves as a spiritual guide and a giver of knowledge. The Wise Old Man can be a mask that we personally wear or one we expect of others in religious roles. We see the Wise Old Man often in the journeys of heroes in mythology and stories. He is there to accompany, serve, and offer wise advice. He never fails to be the bigger person and do the “right” thing.
What my old executive officer did not know, and what many Christians are unaware of, is they project this persona from their clergy. When we, as flawed humans, fail to meet the “higher standard” of the projection, we become the opposite of wise. We then receive the stigma of immature and uninitiated.
The problem with the priestly mask is that it leaves no room for the ambiguity of life. It is constraining, and it ignores the three-dimensional complexities that make us humans.
The Star Wars Archetype.
In my spiritual tradition, a new priest is “installed” into a church with a ritualistic ceremony. I vividly recall one of my installation ceremonies where the priest who preached the sermon directly confronted the persona in the congregation. He said, “Your measure as a parish will not be if you love Rian when he pleases you. Your measure as a parish will hinge on how you treat Rian when he disappoints you.”
I’ll take some liberty and paraphrase that priest. To put a pop culture spin on it, he said, “What you really want is Obi-Wan Kenobi. There are times when your priest can be that for you, but he is not, nor can he ever be reduced to the one-dimensional role of simple spiritual guide.”
He was right, Obi-Wan was an excellent guide for Luke in Star Wars. However, how would we feel if Obi-Wan disappointed us? Said another way, Obi-Wan could only be Obi-Wan to Luke because he failed his father, Anakin in the first place. Part of the growth process is learning to see others in three dimensions.
The real problem is when the priest, or any other person, becomes so identified with the mask that they can’t tell where the mask ends, and they begin.
A friend, a priest, came to my office sobbing. He walked in, sat down, and by his tears I could tell he was in a crisis. I stood up from the chair behind my desk and sat on the couch opposite him. Through his sobs, I heard him say, “I need to do confession with you. I need to confess that I am a failure.”
I was surprised because my friend was the definition of “non-anxious presence.” He was always calm, and he seemed to be in control of his emotions. So I asked him, “What’s wrong?” All he could say was, “I’m a failure and a fraud.”
I pressed the issue and said, “I’ll do confession with you, but you’re going to talk to me first.” He experienced what he termed a “moral failure.” (That term is quite elusive because it begs the question of who creates the moral in the first place? And why did your deity force you to agree to it? Anyway, that’s another post for another time…)
As my friend cried, I realized the problem.
He was so immeshed with the priestly persona that he was utterly undifferentiated from it. The mask consumed him.
He worked so hard to become Obi-Wan and when he failed he fell into existential crisis. His priestly persona only gave him room for a one-dimensional life.
After confession, I told him, “Brother, you are not defined by one small problem. You are not perfect; you will never be perfect. Now, forgive the god you thought you worshiped who judged you harshly and forgive that god’s people for forcing you into this mask. Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.”
Any spirituality that does not begin with mercy is not spirituality at all. A spirituality that begins and ends with “accountability” is just another telling of the mythology of The Man in the Iron Mask.
It’s important to note, the mask is not merely one archetypal persona.
It can be many. I’ve worn so many masks at times that I had no clue who I was beneath them all. The most attractive ones for clergy are The caregiver, the wounded child who seeks to please the father figure, the sage (previously discussed), the magician, and the hero.
This is not merely a spiritual approach to the ministry, but it also connects to all aspects of life, including relationships as well. I’ve watched spouses struggle because of a projected mask on their husband/wife, who is the pastor. I’ve sat with people in counseling sessions who never could please another person because the person held them to a one-dimensional ideal or forced them into a simplistic role.
The solution is to embrace a spirituality of compassion!
When we embrace compassion as a worldview, we allow others to be who they are. When we accept someone for who they are, flaws, complexities, and all, we can greet the real person with compassion. It takes awareness, mindfulness, and a lot of mercy to offer others the freedom to be themselves. If we are willing to accept that journey, then our souls can find independence and liberation.
I hint at this in my poem “Destiny.” Give it a read and tell me what you think.
The true self is not merely the “me.” It is the “me” that is permeated by the divine. We do not have to be afraid of our complex parts or the complexities in others, especially our priests and ministers. A compassionate spiritual approach encourages us to welcome all parts of the self but not to be defined by them. Jung saw conflicting feelings and experiences in the human psyche as a necessity for growth. When we engage the personas we place on ourselves and others; we allow the internal conflict to mold us into compassionate and loving people. And that is the goal of the spiritual life.
Compassion and mercy are the transformation agents to loving rightly and growing spiritually.
Peace, R+
Posted by Rian Adams
Memorial Day: The Conflicting Feelings of a Combat Officer
By Rian Adams
Another Memorial Day is here…. I find myself conflicted as usual. On one
hand, I’m very thankful to be counted among the living today. It could have easily gone the other way.
I’ll confess that I didn’t sleep last night. I’m well aware of the reason. I remember my friends.
This morning I made espresso and took medicine that prevents me from dying of seizures. Thanks, Afghanistan, eye roll. I don’t want to take this medicine because it often robs me of an appetite. Then my shoulder tells me I was injured. It also tells me that I had 3 CCs of steroid injected a couple of days ago. My back reminds me of a spinal fusion, I take four Advil liquid caps to take the edge off. My ankle says “Hey, remember me, I could use some of that Advil too.” These scars testify to a journey few are expected to make.
Yet through all the physical pain, I have a sense of gratefulness. I’m thankful to be here, I’m thankful to be alive. I’m certainly glad that I can say “I love you” to the ones who are important to me.
I have friends who will never again tell their wives or kids how special they are. Some of their numbers are still saved in my phone because I can’t bring myself to delete them… it would be as if they died all over again.
To those brave men and women who gave up everything, I say this: Thank you for teaching me what love is.
Greater Love
Jesus said, “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”
I once sarcastically remarked that the military taught me more about love than the church. I’ve watched friends die for each other in combat, often holding hands in a hospital.
I haven’t watched very many people sacrifice themselves – in the way of Jesus – to save their friends in church. As one professor remarked to me recently, “You mostly watch the wagons circle the institution to protect it.”
That’s probably accurate, but I refuse to accept that answer. Call me arrogant, naive, or a host of other words… I’ve been called worse, trust me. Yet I’m silly enough to believe that if military members can give their lives for others, Christians can too.
In this way, my service as a military officer taught me what we should expect from a church: sacrifice, love, and mercy. Hold my hand when parts of me die!
On the one hand, I’m thankful, on the other I’m frustrated.
Some of my friends, veterans, are quick to be rude and obnoxious when people say “happy Memorial Day.” Instead of absorbing pain they tend, rather, to feel the need be social police. Sure, they make a valid point that Memorial Day is more than a three day weekend. They are also right that “happy Memorial Day” is not correct.
But when I’ve checked my phone today to noticed texts saying “happy Memorial Day,” I’ve just replied, “thank you.” Sometimes it’s important to lay down your own life (and the incessant need to be right about everything) for the sake of saying “Thank you” or “I love you.”
However, there is something deeper at work. My belief is that Memorial Day is about absorbing pain and transforming it into love.
The opportunity that combat veterans have is quite profound. If we are willing to shoulder the weight of being the 1%, then we can live, and then die, with the dignity worthy of our friends who did not come home.
When we choose to love, we understand the true message of military service.
My first Command Sergeant Major in the Army stood next to me at a re-enlistment ceremony (which always took place in the Battalion memorial) and said, “Father Adams, the Army has saved more souls than the church.”
I replied, “I can’t say for sure Sergeant Major, but what I can tell you is that love for the guy in the fox hole next to you is a central message of Jesus.”
I’ve learned, much like the Trojan War, that one does not have to agree with the political reasons for war to love the person who stands next to you.
I’ve written a poem about my feelings. It’s below. And with that, I think it’s time to get rid of some stress in the gym.
To my friends who didn’t make it back: I love you… more every day.
Peace,
R+
Reflections on Grace: The 62nd Wedding Anniversary of My Grandparents
By The Rev. Rian Adams
Today my grandparents, both alive and in good health, celebrate their 62nd wedding anniversary. I learned many lessons about grace as I watched and reflected on their relationship.
I woke up early this morning intending to work on my dissertation that, ironically enough, focuses on a theology of mercy. That’s when it hit me; a great way to understand mercy is to reflect on how amazing people have lived their vocations together these past 62 years. Their love has modeled compassion and mercy to me and countless others. They were both pastors, and as I look back over their relationship, I realize they were pastors to one another too.
Not long ago they were in Asheville, “just to visit.” (By the way, that’s code for “We needed to see that grand-baby.”) During that time my grandfather said something so profound I have quoted his spiritual approach to forgiveness in my doctoral work: “You can never understand grace until you’ve needed it. The problem with the church is most folks have never truly needed it.”
When I’m around them I tend to revert to my country dialect, so I said, “Now ain’t that the truth.” The part of the quote I decided to leave out of my dissertation, which is probably the best part, is the third sentence, “There ain’t no need to be a horse’s rear end in the name of God.”
That’s better pastoral theology than I can write.
Growing up with grace
I was fortunate enough to grow up in their home, so I have the inside scoop on what shared grace looks like. That grace was extended to a young boy who was five years old, afraid and needed to be loved past some of the trauma of his first few years of life. As I’ve gotten older, I cry more when I’m alone. Often when I reflect on their mercy toward me, my eyes fill with tears and I let them roll down my cheeks. I’ll forever be grateful that a couple of empty nesters, who loved their freedom to travel, welcomed the responsibility of raising a little boy.
Grace… to stoop in kindness… it’s the one word that defines how I understand them. Grace is also the one word that described their approach to raising me. I can recall numerous instances where I messed up and didn’t meet expectations, yet I was not met with rebuke, violence, or bible verses. The notion of “tough love” didn’t exist in the hearts of these two people because their world view was shaped by the Beatitudes of Jesus.
Looking back I don’t think I got away with nearly as much as I thought I did. Now that I’m a parent I see things a bit differently. They knew all along what I was up to; they just decided that mercy was more important than justice. That is why they let most of my shenanigans go. Mainly, they knew that life could teach me more than punishment ever would. Punishment would have fostered resentment and motivated secrecy whereas their grace taught me to give mercy to others because I first received it.
Education, common sense, and grace
My grandparents pushed me to get the education that was never afforded to them. But it didn’t stop there because they made sure common sense accompanied my education.
Riley taught me how to wire a breaker box, fix a car, frame a house, and repair a home heating system. He taught me how to stand up for myself against bullies, how to talk about difficult subjects and not ignore them, how to ride a bike, and how to preach a sermon for the congregation, not at the congregation. I’m particularly thankful for that lesson because out of all the classes in homiletics that I have taken; most view the pulpit at a top-down educational tool instead of a table filled with soul food.
When I was 14, he bought a classic Chevrolet Bel-Air so we could restore it together over the following two years. He worked hard, running his heating and air business while serving as a church pastor. However, he never sacrificed our relationship on an altar of ministry.
He always had time for me.
Erlene helped me with my math homework by learning it during the day while I was in school so she could teach me in the evenings. She taught me how to play the guitar, how to sing, how to think critically about biblical stories and how to study. She fostered my love of music and purchased numerous instruments for me. If that wasn’t enough, she taught me the important lesson that “The Lord wants us to love people.” She carried herself with grace and exuded a kindness that made time for everyone. One of her great lessons was that my morning should start slowly with a cup of good coffee and some quiet time.
They were always kind. Once I made some media and was mocked on Episcopal Church social media sites. Guess who was there to show me grace before anyone else? My friend, mentor, father, and pastor. Riley. His words of wisdom were simple and true, “Ah… son, don’t worry about it. Anyone with half a brain knows the news is all garbage these days. That mess lost its credibility the moment journalism became a 24 hour a day cycle.”
Some History
I’ve often wondered if grace was the byproduct of transforming a problematic early life into a spirituality of mercy and love. The more I contemplate their lives, the more it is particularly evident.
Riley quit school in the 5th grade during the second world war to support his mother and four younger siblings because his father was hours away in a hospital ward suffering from tuberculosis. To ask an 11-year-old boy to be a man is asking a lot. However, there was only one option, go to work at the sawmill.
One thing that inspires me about him is his work ethic. To this day he keeps himself occupied with physical activity. An active life is probably why he’s still strong.
I love the story he tells about how he met my grandmother.
He claims he fell in love with her the moment he first saw her. Call me silly, but I do believe in love at first sight. He drove down the street and looked out of the car window to see Erlene sitting in an open door of a house. She was smiling. That was the moment he says he knew. After some inquiries, he learned who she was, and he landed a date with her. The rest is 62 years of history.
They are people of compassion. In Latin, the word misericordia is often translated compassion. It means to have one’s heart (cordia) at one with those in need (miseri). I’ve watched them transform their suffering and struggles into compassion for one another, the poor, and those in need.
They have three children buried in Pine Memorial Cemetery. I’ve often wondered if, somehow, God’s grace transformed that pain into a willingness to hold the pain of others and not shy from it. Like skilled therapists, they can take the light of compassion and shine it on difficult circumstances. They can put themselves in another person’s shoes before making judgments. Are they perfect? They would instantly say no. But what makes them who they are is their compassion for each other and those around them. They knew a secret… when you live out of kindness, most issues are minimal in the grand scheme of things.
Travels
They taught me a love for travel. On their last visit, we examined a map and realized that we visited 38 states through our travels together. In the 1990s they took a sabbatical from church, and we traveled from Florida to Alaska and back. I’ll never forget Riley working on Houston Lolley’s truck on that trip… The fuel pump malfunctioned. He worked on it for an hour or so and finally lost his cool. He hit it with a hammer. The fuel pump started running and remained in perfect health for years. He claimed God did it. Maybe God did…
We toured the Middle East together. We visited the Rocky Mountains, California, the Great Plains, and the Smokies. They were there when I fractured my ankle roughhousing with Ben (rest in peace my dear friend) in Texas. They were there when I had altitude sickness mountain climbing in Colorado. We’ve watched the sun rise over the Atlantic in Florida and watched it set over the Pacific in Oregon. We rarely took the beaten path, and when we did, we didn’t stay on it very long.
They made sure that I traveled enough to know that the world was bigger than my small town context.
A working man’s theology
Neither was raised in religious settings. That’s probably what made them a good fit for ministry because they didn’t have to unlearn anything to love people. My grandfather had a reputation for being a hell-raiser in his younger days, so his youth gave room for compassion. He knew he needed grace and mercy and that made him a good pastor. They both came to Christianity a little later in life and soon after they discerned calls to ministry.
These were the days long before women were accepted in ministry (women are still banned from ordination in many denominations). Those rules didn’t stop my grandmother. Her quiet tenacity kicked in, and she followed her calling anyway.
She didn’t care if the majority of the Christian church had no room for her at the time; she knew Jesus had room.
She didn’t care for “clothes line preaching,” finding it shallow and missing the message of the Beatitudes. Erlene knew the Gospel was good news, not another political rant. In a time when their conservative denomination looked down on jewelry and hair dye, she dyed her hair and wore jewelry anyway. That strong woman never caved to a religion that based its spirituality on behaviorism, persona, or contemporary social standards. She preached grace, not only in her sermons but with her life. I’ve only heard her speak ill of people on two short and private occasions… One a president, the second, well… that’s between her and me.
They were always kind to people with different ideas and theologies. When I was ordained a priest, my grandfather was there, and at the invitation of the bishop, he joined the other priests in laying hands on me. I was ordained to the sacred order of priests with his hands on my shoulders. He understood grace, so did that bishop. Interestingly enough he never mentioned his opinions on Anglicanism to me even though I knew he differed. On the contrary, he supported me wherever my vocation took me.
Another example of accommodation, they were Pentecostal and did not baptize infants. When I baptized my son, they were there with love and support. Riley stood with me and participated by placing his hands on the boy to offer a pastoral blessing. He put his theology of infant baptism aside and participated because being right took a back seat to the importance of relationship.
Riley also officiated my wedding. My only regret was that he couldn’t be my best man at the same time because he was both my friend and my pastor.
Legacy
As I conclude my thoughts, I’ve asked myself about their legacy. I figured the best way to ponder it is through the eyes of a child. So I asked their great-grandson, who’s eight now, for help. I said, “Hey Brody, what’s the most important thing about your great grandparents?” He said, “Wow, I’m not sure where to start. They are nice and kind, and generous. They have always been with me for all my surgeries and granny gives the best hugs.” His experience of them is the same as mine… Grace.
There is a strong message there: Trust the people who give you heartfelt hugs in your times of need.
They also accomplished something that is quite rare these days; they showed the same amount of attention and love to my spouse as they did me. They always spent as much money, or more, on Amber for Christmas and birthdays. While I was deployed to Afghanistan, they constantly checked on her and treated her like a daughter. In many ways, she was a spiritual daughter. Riley baptized Amber in the same sandy creek where he baptized me.
In honor of the grace they share and the compassion they give I have written this poem, titled Grace, for them. You can read it by clicking here.
On a personal note
To them specifically, if by chance they read this, I say… Erlene, Riley… you’re still who I want to be when I grow up. Thank you for showing me what love is by loving one another with a grace that endured all hardship. I adore you both, and as importantly, I respect you. I hope to celebrate 63 with you in person next year. Happy Anniversary.
Yours Always,
Rian