Now & Then with Nouwen (yes, it's a cheesy pun, but, oh well!)

Kasey Cox

I’ve noticed that almost all of my book review columns for the Gazette start with the word “I”. If I manage not to begin the first sentence with an announcement that this is definitely all from my perspective, then, invariably, I won’t get through the first paragraph without a liberal smattering of me, myself, and I all over the place. When I tried to answer an advertisement to submit my freelance writing to several up-and-coming blogs on the web, I was not only a little shocked that they would ask me to send in two writing samples that were not written in first-person, but, furthermore, that I couldn’t even find one solid example from my writing over the last two years.

Perhaps this personal, subjective style of writing points to narcissism or selfishness in my character; I have been known to enjoy talking about myself and have occasionally been accused of over-sharing. Nevertheless, it is true that writing is an inherently personal process. One of my favorite writers – indeed, arguably one of the most influential religious and spiritual writers of the past century – explained his mission in writing thus: “But aren’t my own experiences so personal that they might just as well remain hidden? Or could it be that what is most personal for me, what rings true in the depths of my own being, also has meaning for others? Ultimately, I believe that what is most personal is most universal.”

This particular quote is from the original, 1971 preface to Henri Nouwen’s book, With Open Hands, though the thought reverberates throughout his work and his life. Of course, Nouwen was not saying that we should all have or will have the same opinions, or allowing his fan Kasey Cox to misuse his quote to justify how her take on a certain book is reflective of everyone’s experience with that author at this time. Whenever I doubt, however, whether or not I should share my deeper feelings in reaction to a story I read, or tell someone how a particular book touched my life, I think of Henri Nouwen. Over and over again, both during his life, and in the legacy of fellow believers he left behind, people have cited what made Nouwen special. Biographer and theologian Ronald Rolheiser, who called Nouwen this generation’s Kierkegaard, summed up Nouwen’s gift: "By sharing his own struggles, he mentored us all, helping us to pray while not knowing how to pray, to rest while feeling restless, to be at peace while tempted, to feel safe while still anxious, to be surrounded by a cloud of light while still in darkness, and to love while still in doubt.”

Never heard of Henri Nouwen? Then you are about to delve into a wealth of wisdom, kindness and inspirational reading, for Nouwen wrote over forty books during his life, as well as writing countless articles, facilitating hundreds of retreats, and teaching thousands of lectures. Among his most frequently-read books are The Inner Voice of Love: A Journey Through Anguish to Freedom; Bread for the Journey: A Daybook of Wisdom and Faith; The Return of the Prodigal Son; and The Wounded Healer: Ministry in Contemporary Society. Strangely enough, my favorite work of Nouwen’s, the book I have read several times already though I haven’t read many of his other works, doesn’t even crack the “top ten” Nouwen list of popularity. The book which has always been on my shortlisted list of favorite books – not just from Nouwen, but favorites from every author and genre – is the slim but powerful volume, With Open Hands.

I wish I could have met Nouwen, although, through his writing, I almost feel as though I knew him personally. Indeed, it felt like a personal loss when I learned that Nouwen died suddenly of a heart attack at the age of 64, in September of 1996. He was born in 1932 in the Netherlands, and felt called to the priesthood from a young age. He was ordained in 1957, studied psychology at the Catholic University at Nijmegen, then moved to the U.S. in 1964. Consequently, he taught at the University of Notre Dame, and the divinity schools of Yale and Harvard. But though Henri was a priest and a professor, he was also a restless spirit, so he spent much of the next two decades wandering, living with the Trappist monks in the Abbey of the Genessee, hosting spiritual retreats in a variety of settings and institutions, writing, living amongst the poor in South America, and eventually, settling at “L’Arche Daybreak” outside Toronto, Canada.

In keeping with Nouwen’s beliefs about relationships, the intimate and ultimate worth of every person, and the importance of compassion, “Arche” communities focus on the needs and gifts of people with disabilities as their core. Everyone who lives in at “L’Arche” helps someone with disabilities function with their daily routine. The atmosphere at Daybreak brought Nouwen out of a severe depression, allowing him to once again focus clearly on his writing, as well as his ministry to his immediate community and to the larger world. It was these “L’Arche” communities where he finally felt most at home, most centered, and where he believed his mission as giver and receiver felt ultimately fulfilled.