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5. INWARD SIMPLICITY: THE DIVINE CENTER
Oh, blessed simplicity, that seizes swiftly what cleverness, tired out in the service of vanity, may grasp but slowly.
—Søren Kierkegaard
In his lofty mythology, The Silmarillion, J. R. R. Tolkien gives a penetrating picture into the effects of inward simplicity, “But the delight and pride of Aüle is in the deed of making, and in the thing made, and neither in possession nor in his own mastery; wherefore he gives and hoards not, and is free from care, passing ever on to some new work.”1 What an inviting picture of movement and work in harmony with the divine Center of the universe. And what a contrast to the frantic and often frustrated rush of our daily lives.
We dash here and there, desperately trying to fulfill the many obligations that press in upon us. We jerk back and forth between business commitments and family responsibilities. While we are busy responding to the needs of child or spouse, we feel guilty about neglecting the demands of work. When we respond to the pressures of work, we fear we are failing our family. In those rare times when we are able to juggle the two successfully, the wider issues of nation and world whisper pestering calls to service. If anyone needs a simplification of life, we do.
What will set us free from this bondage to the ever-spiraling demands that are placed upon us? The answer is found in the grace of Christian simplicity. This virtue, once worked into our lives, will unify the demands of our existence; it will prune and trim gently and in the right places, bringing a liberty of soul that will eliminate constant reversions to ourselves.
Life at the Center
I still remember one particular rainy February morning inside a Washington, D. C., airport many years ago. Exhausted, I slumped into a chair to wait for my flight. As always, I had brought reading material in order to make good use of free moments. For the first time in my life I opened Thomas Kelly’s A Testament of Devotion.
Immediately, he caught my attention by describing perfectly my condition and the condition of so many I knew: “We feel honestly the pull of many obligations and try to fulfill them all. And we are unhappy, uneasy, strained, oppressed, and fearful we shall be shallow.”2 Yes, I had to confess I was in those words. To all who saw me I was confident and in command, but inwardly I was tired and scattered. Then my eyes came upon words of hope and promise: “We have hints that there is a way of life vastly richer and deeper than all this hurried existence, a life of unhurried serenity and peace and power. If only we could slip over into that Center!”3 Instinctively, I knew that Kelly was speaking of a reality beyond what I had known. Please understand me, I was not ungodly and irreverent—in fact, just the opposite. My problem was that I was so serious, so concerned to do what was right, that I felt compelled to respond to every call to service. And, after all, they were wonderful opportunities to minister in Christ’s name.
Then came the sentence that was to prompt an inner revolution: “We have seen and known some people who seem to have found this deep Center of living, where the fretful calls of life are integrated, where No as well as Yes can be said with confidence.”4 This ability to say yes and no out of the divine Center was foreign to me. I had always prayed over decisions, and yet I too often responded on the basis of whether or not the action would put me in a favorable light. To say yes to pleas for help or opportunities to serve usually carried an aura of spirituality and sacrifice. I could say yes easily, but I did not have the ability to say no. What would people think of me if I refused?
Alone, I sat in the airport watching the rain splatter against the window. Tears fell on my coat. It was a holy place, an altar, the chair where I sat. I was never to be the same. Quietly I asked God to give me the ability to say no when it was right and good.
Back home, I was once again caught up into a flurry of activity. But I had made one decision—Friday nights were to be reserved for the family. It was a small decision at the time; nobody but me really knew about it. I had told the family in a casual, offhand fashion; they didn’t know it was a covenant commitment, a crossroads decision. Nor did I, really. It just seemed the right thing to do, hardly what one would call a God-given directive.
But then the phone call came. It was a denominational executive. Would I be willing to speak to this group on Friday night? There it was, another wonderful opportunity. My response was casual, almost unconscious, “Oh, no, I can’t.” His reply was also casual, “Oh, do you have another commitment?” I felt trapped. (In those days I did not know that I could quite legitimately say that I did indeed have a very important commitment.) Cautiously but purposefully, I answered simply, “No,” with no attempt to justify or explain my decision. There followed a long period of silence which seemed to last an eternity. I could almost feel the words, “Where is your dedication?” traveling through the telephone wires. I knew I had made a decision that made me seem less spiritual to one for whom I genuinely cared. After a moment we shared a few pleasantries and then hung up; but as the phone hit the receiver, inwardly I shouted, “Hallelujah.” I had yielded to the Center. I had touched the margin of simplicity, and the effect was electrifying.
The incident was so small and insignificant that it is almost embarrassing to relate it to you. I’m sure my denominational friend does not even recall the phone conversation. And yet somehow I had turned a corner. Even now I sometimes wish I could say that something terribly important precipitated the change. But there it was, a trivial event, yet it had changed everything. Perhaps it has been that way for you also. It seems that the genuinely important issues are often decided in the small corners of life.
I mention these little incidents of the airport and the phone conversation only because they were the first opening to me of what it meant to respond to the demands of life from the divine Center. But it is this reality, this divine Center, that lies at the heart of all Christian simplicity. As we yield to the Center everything about us becomes focused, synoptic. This yielding is nothing more than the experience of the great commandment to love God with all our being. A French Christian, Marie of the Incarnation, wrote in 1628, “My spirit was more and more being simplified…. In the depths of my soul…these words were continual; ‘Ah! My Love, my Well-Beloved! Be blessed, O my God!’…And since that time my soul has remained in its center which is God.”5
I hope you understand what I mean when I speak of living out of the Center. I am of course referring to God, but I do not mean God in an abstract theoretical sense, nor even God in the sense of One to be feared and revered. Nor do I mean God only in the sense of One to be loved and obeyed. For years I loved God and sought to obey him, but he remained on the periphery of my life. God and Christ were extremely important to me but certainly not the Center. After all, I had many tasks and aspirations that did not relate to God in the least. What, for heaven’s sake, did swimming and gardening have to do with God? I was deeply committed, but I was not integrated or unified. I thought that serving God was another duty to be added onto an already busy schedule.
But slowly I came to see that God desired to be not on the outskirts, but at the heart of my experience. Gardening was no longer an experience outside of my relationship with God—I discovered God in the gardening. Swimming was no longer just good exercise—it became an opportunity for communion with God. God in Christ had become the Center.
Our Many Selves6
You may be wondering what all this has to do with simplicity. Perhaps I could explain it this way. Within all of us is a whole conglomerate of selves. There is the timid self, the courageous self, the business self, the parental self, the religious self, the literary self, the energetic self. And all of these selves are rugged individualists. No bargaining or compromise for them. Each one screams to protect his or her vested interests. If a decision is made to spend a relaxed evening listening to Chopin, the business self and the civic self rise up in protest at the loss of precious time. The energetic self paces back and forth, impatient and frustrated, and the religious self reminds us of the lost opportunities for study or evangelistic contact. If the decision is to accept an appointment on the human services board, the civic self smiles with satisfaction, but all the excluded selves filibuster. No wonder we feel distracted and torn. No wonder we overcommit our schedules and live lives of frantic faithfulness.
But when we experience life at the Center, all is changed. Our many selves come under the unifying control of the divine Arbitrator. No longer are we forced to live by an inner majority rule which always leaves a disgruntled minority. The divine yes or no settles all minority reports. Everything becomes oriented to this new Center of reference. The quiet evening can be enjoyed to the fullest because our many selves have been stilled by the Holy Within. The business self, the religious self, the energetic self, all are at peace because they know we are living in obedience. There is no need to wave the flag of self-interest, since all things good and needful will be given their proper attention at the appropriate time. We enter a refreshing balance and equilibrium in life.
Until we begin to move into this way of living we cannot possibly make sense out of Jesus’s startling statement, “Let what you say be simply ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ anything more than this comes from evil” (Matt. 5:37). When all of life’s motions are governed by the heavenly Monitor, then we speak and make decisions in simplicity. Before, when asked to lead a campaign for minority rights (or teach a Sunday School class or whatever), our competing selves engaged in vigorous debate. “It’s the right thing to do!” “But really, I’m just too busy now.” “The need is so great; and besides, think of all those who will approve of the action.” “But then what of those who will disapprove?” “And what if I become entangled with the authorities, perhaps thrown into prison?” And on it went. We jerked back and forth between yes and no, indecisive, confused. From earliest days we had been taught that God is not the author of confusion, but there we sat in inward disarray.
But when we live out of the divine Center, thoughts and decisions flow from the Fountainhead. All relevant data are considered, to be sure, but decisions stem from a source deeper than facts and figures. Once we have understood the mind of the Father, we can speak our yes or no with confidence. We will have no need to reverse our decision if the winds of opinion change, for we have spoken out of a deeper Reality than the latest Gallup poll.
Earlier I spoke of God on the periphery of my life. Actually, it would be more accurate to say that I was on the periphery of his Life. It was I who needed to come into the Center, the Core. It is one thing for God to come into us (and a very necessary thing), but it is quite another for us to come into God. In the first instance we are still the center of attention; in the second God is the focal point. When God comes into us we still have a certain autonomy; when we come into God we have come in. He is in all and through all and above all. This is no infantile pantheism, as if God could be captured in his creation; it is a marvelous, majestic monotheism—one God from whom all life is sustained. It is life out of the divine Center.
The focus of Christian simplicity becomes more clear when we change the image flow from God coming into us to our coming into God. “Christ in you” was certainly an important theme in Paul’s teaching, but his favorite and most frequent image was of us “in Christ.” In the latter case, Christ has become the reference point and we are making the movement into him. When we are in Christ, truly in Christ, our deeds and words are of one piece, because they both flow from a single Spring.
A Perpetual Communion
You may well ask if such a life is possible. Can we really hear God in such a way that each decision can be ordered and governed by him? Can we live in virtually constant communion with the divine Center of the universe? Can Christ truly be present among his people so that he can be heard? Oh, yes! His voice is not hard to hear. His vocabulary is not hard to understand.
Through his illustrious missionary and literary career, Frank Laubach bore repeated witness to this reality. His diaries and books on prayer are peppered with his many experiments aimed at remaining in constant communion with God. On the first day of 1937 he wrote in his diary, “God, I want to give You every minute of this year. I shall try to keep You in mind every moment of my waking hours…. I shall try to let You be the speaker and direct every word. I shall try to let You direct my acts. I shall try to learn Your language.”7 What a marvelous resolve for the new year! Three months later, he noted his progress in learning to practice God’s presence: “Thank Thee…that the habit of constant conversation grows easier each day. I really do believe all thought can be conversations with Thee.”8
Think of the number of people who have been encouraged in this way by the simple writings and profound life of Brother Lawrence. How vastly enriched we are that he was finally persuaded, almost against his will, to write down how he had learned The Practice of the Presence of God. His famous words still throb with life and joy: “The time of business does not with me differ from the time of prayer; and in the noise and clatter of my kitchen, while several persons are at the same time calling for different things, I possess God in as great tranquillity as if I were upon my knees at the blessed sacrament.”9 Every thought, every decision, every action stemmed from the divine Root. A simple kitchen monk, who meekly referred to himself as the “lord of all pots and pans,” found constant communion with the divine Center to be possible. We can too!
But we fool ourselves if we think that such a sacramental way of living is automatic. This kind of living communion does not just fall on our heads. We must desire it and seek it out. Like the deer that pants for the flowing stream, so we thirst for the living Spring. We must order our lives in particular ways if we hope to quench that thirst. We must take up a consciously chosen course of action that will draw us more deeply into perpetual communion with the Father.
I have discovered one delightful means to this end: prayer experiments that open us to God’s presence every waking moment. The idea is extraordinarily simple. Seek to discover as many ways as possible to keep God constantly in mind. “There is nothing new in that,” you may say. “That practice is very ancient and very orthodox.” Exactly! This desire to practice the presence of God is the secret of all the saints. “Pray constantly,” urged Paul (1 Thess. 5:17). “In everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God” (Phil. 4:6). “For all who are led by the Spirit of God are sons of God” (Rom. 8:14). Of course it is not new. Countless millions have shown it to be a practical living reality.
Have you ever tried to live out your day so that you fill each moment with the thought of God? I do not mean that you are to cease normal activity. Oh, no! Just the opposite. Bring God into each activity, infusing it with the divine Light.
One night I made a high resolve: every person whom I saw the next day I would consciously try to lift into the light of Christ. In the morning I jumped up, had breakfast, and was on my way to work before I realized I had not prayed at all for the family. One by one I sought to immerse them in the Light. Once at the office I rushed in, gave the day’s work to my secretary, and was walking out the door before I realized my omission once again. I prayed for the joy of the Lord to enter her day. By now I was beginning to realize how far my life was from constant communion. I became more collected within. Then, as I went through the routine of my day, I sought to beam prayers at each person I met. I asked for discernment to perceive what was in people, inviting Christ to comfort those who seemed hurt, encourage those who seemed weary, challenge those who seemed indifferent. It was a wonderfully happy day. Sometimes people I passed on the street would turn, smile, and wish me a good day.
We can help people immensely in this secret ministry. Once, in an ordinary committee meeting, I felt moved to pray for one member who seemed weighted with sorrow, even bitterness. I continued to participate in the discussion, but all the time inwardly I sought to bathe this person in the light of Christ. The meeting was somewhat difficult due to her rather caustic remarks, especially toward two others in the group. But as we prepared to dismiss, this person suddenly began to weep and finally said to the group, “I wish you would pray for me.” After she had shared the source of her hurt and anger, the two who had been verbally attacked gathered around her and prayed the most tender prayer of healing and release. The room seemed full of power and joy.
Frank Laubach spoke of his “Game with Minutes.” The idea is to take a given hour each day and see how many minutes during that hour you can be conscious of God’s presence. At first you will find the practice difficult and your “score” will be low. That is all right; you are developing new spiritual muscles. With practice, the habit will become more and more ingrained. Make your first experiment in a worship service, and hopefully that will be an aid to your concentration. In time extend the experiment to the whole of your day.
When I first began reading Laubach’s journals, I was puzzled by the notations at the top of each day: “Conscious 50%…Conscious 25%…Conscious 80%.” No explanation whatever was given, and I would wonder, “Conscious of what?” Finally I realized that he was playing his little game with minutes and recording the percentage of each day that he felt he was living conscious of God’s presence.
I’m glad he called it a game, because it is a delightful spiritual exercise. Besides, there needs to be a certain joyful lightheartedness about our task. Otherwise we will become overly serious and dreadfully boring. Meister Eckhart remarked, “The soul will bring forth person if God laughs into her and she laughs back into Him.”10 Our work is no grim duty. It is a delightful privilege. We are engaged in a joyous adventure, not a sour-faced penance. God is no killer of happiness. In this little exercise we are coming alive to God. Every person, every tree, every flower, every color is alive with God for those who know his language. Toyohiko Kagawa, a Japanese Christian and activist of the twentieth century, said that every scientific book is a letter from God telling us how he runs his universe.
And the glory of this experiment is that it works best when we concentrate not upon ourselves but upon others. We miss the point if we are taking our spiritual temperature every few moments to see if we are concentrating upon God enough. How much better if we try every moment to give God to someone else. It is wonderful to walk onto a grade school playground and inwardly lift every child into the arms of Christ. Or to ride in the back of a bus and invite Christ to visit with each person that boards. Carpenters and plumbers and electricians can fill the homes in which they work with the light of Christ, praying for each member of the family (or, if it is a new home, for the family which will live there). Grocery store clerks and retail checkers can pray for each person who passes through the line, imagining him or her drawing closer to God. In my work I write many letters, and each time I sign my name I try to pray for the person to whom the letter is addressed. It is great fun to imagine the recipient opening the letter and being strengthened with a fresh sense of God’s presence. There are thousands of these little experiments you can try, and very often you will be startled by the results.
And most wonderful of all is what happens inside us. More and more we develop what Thomas à Kempis called a “familiar friendship with Jesus.”11 No longer is “Jesus, Lover of My Soul” a quaint song—it is an amazing experience. To our astonishment we find that we are walking with God. His thoughts are becoming our thoughts, his desires our desires. Increasingly, old ugly thoughts melt away and our minds become pure as a mountain stream. Proof upon proof begins to pile up that God is at work in our daily lives, until we become certain of God, not from books or preachers, but from experience. The old strain and indecision are replaced by a greater ease and confidence.
Of all the inward changes we experience, the most awesome is that we begin to know Jesus’s Voice. We become inwardly acquainted with the language of the true Shepherd. Humbled under the cross, we are able increasingly to discern the true Spirit from the clatter and clamor of human voices, and even the hollow voice of the enemy who comes under the guise of an angel of light. We begin to live in guidance. Inward prompts give unity to our decisions. All the demands for service are somehow filtered through the Light. Our lives are being simplified because we are giving attention to only one Voice, and our yes and no arise from that Center. We no longer rush puffing and panting through our jam-packed day, yet somehow we accomplish more. Thomas Kelly witnessed, “Life from the Center is a life of unhurried peace and power. It is simple. It is serene. It is amazing. It is triumphant. It is radiant. It takes no time, but it occupies all our time. And it makes our life programs new and overcoming.”12
The Principle of Contentment
One of the most profound effects of inward simplicity is the rise of an amazing spirit of contentment. Gone is the need to strain and pull to get ahead. In rushes a glorious indifference to position, status, or possession. Living out of this wonderful Center causes all other concerns to fade into insignificance. So utterly immersed was St. Paul in this reality that from a Roman prison he could write, “I have learned, in whatever state I am, to be content” (Phil. 4:11). To be abased or to abound was a matter of indifference to him. Plenty and hunger, abundance and want were immaterial to this little Jew with the Titan soul. “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me,” he said, and so he lived (Phil. 4:13, NKJV).
How cleverly Paul turned the tables on all those who taught that “godliness is a means of gain.” He replied that “there is great gain in godliness with contentment” (1 Tim. 6:5, 6). He saw that the problem with material gain is its inability to bring contentment. John D. Rockefeller was once asked how much money it would take to be really satisfied. He answered, “Just a little bit more!” And that is precisely our problem: it always takes a little more; contentment always remains elusive.
But the wonderful thing about simplicity is its ability to give us contentment. Do you understand what a freedom this is? To live in contentment means we can opt out of the status race and the maddening pace that is its necessary partner. We can shout, “No!” to the insanity which chants, “More, more, more!” We can rest contented in the gracious provision of God.
I still remember the day this reality struck me with unusual force. I was passing by some very expensive homes, and began pondering our perennial tendency to want something bigger, better, and more plush. At the same time, I was monitoring the rise of covetousness in my spirit as I admired those homes. I carried on a little inward dialogue. Was it possible, I wondered, to come to the place where you do not desire more house even if you can afford it? Couldn’t you decide on a particular economic livability level and rest contented with that, even if your income exceeded it considerably? The response was swift: “Oh, yes! It is not necessary to always crave more. You can live contented with what you have, with no further desire to accumulate more.” I’m quite sure I have not attained this holy contentment, but from time to time I have known a measure of its liberating graces and have found it a wonderful resting place.
Think of the misery that comes into our lives by our restless, gnawing greed. We plunge ourselves into enormous debt and then take two and three jobs to stay afloat. We uproot our families with unnecessary moves just so we can have a more prestigious house. We grasp and grab and never have enough. And most destructive of all, our flashy cars and sports spectaculars and backyard pools have a way of crowding out much interest in civil rights or inner-city poverty or the starved masses of India. Greed has a way of severing the cords of compassion. How clearly the Apostle Paul saw this when he warned that our lust for wealth causes us to fall into “many senseless and hurtful desires that plunge men into ruin and destruction” (1 Tim. 6:9).
But we do not need to be imprisoned to avarice. We can be ushered into a life of peace and serenity. With Paul we can say, “If we have food and clothing, with these we shall be content” (1 Tim. 6:8).
I wish I could end our discussion of contentment on this high note. But as you have probably already realized, contentment has certain difficulties. The great problem with a principle of contentment is its tendency to baptize the status quo, to give religious sanction to present conditions. It is the kind of counsel that the powerful enjoy giving to the poor and defenseless. Often it is the very spirit of discontent that has prompted wonderful changes for good. There is a kind of holy restlessness that inspires important social advances. And so we are faced with the practical issue of knowing when our disquiet stems from a God-given concern to improve conditions, and when it is the result of self-serving greed. There are, of course, no foolproof answers, but I share the following guidelines in the hope that they may at least turn us in the right direction.
First, we can share the concern with other brothers and sisters whose discernment we respect. Second, if our restlessness has its root in anguish over the plight of those whose condition is clearly desperate, most likely it is of the Lord. Third, if the concern involves the well-being of our children, it is often right. Fourth, if we are wanting to improve our own state, we should not automatically assume that it is wrong. Fifth, let us consider if our discontent has its source in a lack of inward peace with Christ. Sixth, we need to learn to distinguish a genuine psychological need, such as cheerful surroundings, from an obsession. Seventh, we must grow in our discernment between desires that spring from heavenly Love and those arising from the love of money. Eighth, by an act of the will we must still every motion that is centered in greed.
Moving Up and In
The inner integration I have described is the longing of many. We weary of competing commitments and exhausting schedules. We desire to be obedient to God in all things, and have a growing knowledge that this frantic scramble is not his will. We yearn to enter the deep silences that give unity and force to our service.
Desire, however, is not enough. If we expect to enter the inward simplicity for which we were created, we will need to order our lives in specific ways. The things we do will not give us simplicity of heart, but they will put us in the place where we can receive it.
One way to nurture simplicity is through the discipline of silence. Society is dominated by the inane notion that action is the only reality. Please, for God’s sake and your own, don’t just do something; stand there! Come in and enjoy his presence. Sink down into the light of Christ and become comfortable in that posture. Open the subterranean sanctuary of your soul and listen for the Kol Yahweh, the voice of the Lord. To do so gives us focus, unity, purpose. We discover serenity, unshakableness, firmness of life orientation.
At first we will hesitate to do this. It is strange territory, and as Blaise Pascal said, “The eternal silence of the infinite spaces terrifies me.”13 But if we will once overcome our fear and quiet ourselves, we will discover that Christ is our Friend who desires our company. Our fear comes from our unfamiliarity with centering down our lives. In his book Nurturing Silence in a Noisy Heart, Wayne Oates says, “Silence is not native to my world. Silence, more than likely, is a stranger to your world, too. If you and I ever have silence in our noisy hearts, we are going to have to grow it…. You can nurture silence in your noisy heart if you value it, cherish it, and are eager to nourish it.”14
Yes, we can have a holy silence within, but we need to nurture it. And when we do, miracles occur. If we are assailed by temptation, all we need to do is quiet ourselves into the power of God and watch the good rise up and the evil dissipate. It is wonderful—this resting in God, this stilling of frantic activity, this seeking first his kingdom.
At all times, but especially in the beginning, we need to find a specific time and place to nurture silence. As a teenager I used to go out behind the garage and sit on a wall with my feet on the trash cans. It was a quiet sanctuary there, and I learned to commune with the Father. One May day Frank Laubach wrote, “The day had been rich but strenuous, so I climbed Signal Hill back of my house talking and listening to God all the way up, all the way back, all the lovely half hour on the top.”15 Some draw near in the recreating silences of the early morning; others quiet themselves best in the deep quiet of the night; still others retreat from the blast of the day for a time of attentive, listening silence. We must have a time to still the churning, to quiet the restlessness, to meditate on the almighty God who dwells in our hearts.
Another important ingredient in opening the way for interior simplicity is to get in tune with the God-given cycles of life. There are cycles of eating, cycles of sleeping, cycles of work, cycles of play. And when these God-appointed cycles are broken, misery is the result. University students often suffer from a simple denial of the normal cycle of sleep. Large numbers of Americans endure immense heartache (and heartburn) from the failure to respond correctly to the cycle of eating. Finitude is a cycle, the cycle of growing old. And what a terrible burden we place upon ourselves and others in our desperate attempt to stay young. On the other end, of course, children struggle to be twenty-one and hence independent. People are in misery because they are not yet twenty-one, and people are in misery because they are past twenty-one, and that leaves most of us in misery most of the time!
Many of us would find great relief in discovering our own cycles of activity and quiet. For example, I function best when I alternate between periods of intense activity and periods of comparative solitude. When I understand this about myself I can order my life accordingly. After a certain amount of immersion in public life, I begin to burn out. And I have noticed that I burn out inwardly long before I do outwardly. Hence, I must be careful not to become a frantic bundle of hollow energy, busy among people but devoid of life. I must learn when to retreat, like Jesus, and experience the recreating power of God. We are told that Peter tarried in Joppa for many days with one Simon, a tanner (Acts 9:43). And along our journey we need to discover numerous “tarrying places” where we can receive heavenly manna.
This knowledge grants a wonderful freedom. No longer do I rebuke myself that I am not giving enough attention to study and meditation in the days of intense activity among people. Nor do I any longer malign periods of quiet reflection or vacation as unproductive sloth. I can understand and value the hidden preparation through which God puts his ministers. I am free from desiring public gaze when I need hiddenness.
Still another step toward simplicity is to refuse to live beyond our means emotionally. In a culture where whirl is king, we must understand our emotional limits. Ulcers, migraines, nervous tension, and a dozen other symptoms mark our psychic overload. We are concerned not to live beyond our means financially; why do it emotionally? Let us repudiate the modern success image of the person “on the go,” whose workload is double what any single person could possibly accomplish. Let us reject the delusions of grandeur that say we are the only ones who can save the world. We must learn our emotional limits and respect them. Our children and spouses will love us for it.
Is there anything more we can do? Yes, much! We can keep a record of all our activities for one month. Then we should rank them in the following way:
Next, we must ruthlessly eliminate all of the last two categories and 20 percent of the first two. We are too busy only because we want to be too busy. We could cut out a great deal of our activity and not seriously affect our productivity.
Purposefully, we can cultivate the life of reflection. We need not merely listen to the news or read the paper; we can ponder the significance of what we hear and read. Let’s get the broad picture on the events of our time and evaluate them. The real prophets of our day are those who can perceive what is happening in modern society, see where it will lead us, and give a value judgment upon it. Let’s wrestle with “existence clarification”—who we are and what our purpose for being is. We can take a one-day retreat just to reflect on our direction in life. We should not just absorb facts, but think about their significance. When a brilliant philosopher friend of mine went on a one-year sabbatical, I asked him what he would do. “For the first three months I plan to do nothing but think,” was his reply. Most of us cannot be unencumbered for three months, but we can think. Thinking is the hardest work we can do, and among the most important.
Another step that opens us to heart simplicity is the commitment to a previously agreed rule. The covenant of marriage is perhaps the clearest example of this. Think of the host of costly and painful decisions that are avoided by this commitment. No flirting with divorce, no casting about for better options—marriage becomes a decision to love and cherish each other until death. Financial commitments can likewise contribute to simplicity. For example, Carolynn and I have decided how much per month we will spend on entertainment. That simple commitment greatly reduces the strain and stress of decision-making. I have set a limit on the number of speaking engagements I can accept that will allow me to maintain my other obligations with integrity. When that limit has been reached, I can decline even “wonderful opportunities” with amazing speed, because I feel God has called me to that limit. I have been saved enormous frustration and overcommitment by the simple rule of never accepting a speaking engagement over the telephone. By the time a letter has arrived, my enthusiasm has been tempered by realism. A mother or father who has decided to stay at home until the children are school age eliminates many wonderings and vacillations about this or that job. Patterns are, of course, not always perfect, and they sometimes need to be broken, but for the most part they economize greatly the frustration of numerous decisions.
Of all the virtues, simplicity is the most inviting because it brings such inward unity. François Fénelon put it most emphatically: “O, how amiable this simplicity is! Who will give it to me? I leave all for this. It is the pearl of the Gospel.”16