John Paul practiced intentional poverty because he already knew his answers to those questions. He already didn’t care all that much, one way or the other, about material possessions. The gifts he gave weren’t that important to him—not the receiving of them and not the giving of them. The poverty he lived was spiritual, even more than it was material. He was so focused on God and the transcendent, so aware of his own littleness and dependency on grace, that he simply didn’t give things that much thought. The only gift he really cared about was the gift of self. That was the most precious gift he gave others and that was the most precious gift he knew he could receive from others.
John Paul II understood what truly mattered in this life. That doesn’t mean he didn’t have favorite foods or appreciate beauty when he saw it. He saw the usefulness of things and was grateful for all that he did have. But those things had no power over him. In and of themselves, they didn’t interest him. They didn’t control him. He was free—free to serve, free to love, free to lead.
Pursuing True Poverty
All leaders need to seek that same freedom. That doesn’t mean you can’t invest for your retirement or buy your kids Christmas presents. It doesn’t mean you need to give away every gift that comes your way. As a parent or provider, you can’t do those things and still meet your responsibilities. Intentional poverty looks different for a husband and father of five living in the world than it does for a celibate pope living in the Vatican or women religious in a cloistered convent.
At least, it looks different from the outside. From the inside, it’s pretty much the same. You may have to own a car, but you don’t have to confuse your identity or worth with the type of car you drive. You may have to save up for retirement, but you don’t have to center your life on building up a retirement savings account. The sun shouldn’t rise and set according to your investment portfolio. Your world shouldn’t end if your business does.
The goal is to make the acquisition of spiritual wealth, not material wealth, the focus of your life. As part of that, when you face a choice between making a profit and being honest, you have to go with the being honest option. The moral action always has to come first. And it will, if that’s what matters more.
To develop detachment from material possessions, it helps to give generously. As we discussed earlier, the act of doing something can help produce the corresponding virtue. The more you give, the more generous you become, and the less attached you grow to what you posses. Similarly, the more you give away what’s yours, the more you realize that none of it was yours in the first place. It came to you through God’s grace, and through God’s grace you give it to another.
It also helps to consciously go without, forgoing upgrades to new cars, televisions, and the latest gadgets that you don’t need, passing up second helpings or dessert at meals, wearing last year’s suit instead of shelling out hundreds or thousands for a new one. All of those are little acts of self-deprivation, but together they help break the bonds that attach you to material wealth.
At the same time, you need to pursue spiritual wisdom: reading the Bible, attending Church, and receiving the Sacraments. You need to study the lives of the saints and the teachings of the Church. You need to grow in your knowledge of your faith, so that you can grow in your understanding of it. The more you know, the more you understand. The more you understand, the more you believe. The more you believe, the more clearly you see what matters in life.
Intentional poverty, like humility, isn’t easy to pursue. The line between valuing possessions rightly and too much or too little is a fine one. When you find a way to stay on the right side of the line, you find the same freedom John Paul II had—again, the freedom to love, the freedom to serve, and the freedom to lead.
***
Over the years, I’ve heard a lot of great stories about John Paul II from friends at the Vatican and others who knew him personally. One of my favorites is this one from Scott Hahn.27 I repeat it here, because I can think of no greater testimony to the detachment we’re all called to possess.
During the later years of John Paul II’s papacy, an American priest attended a conference in Rome. On the last day of the conference, he went to a church at midday to pray. As he walked in, he saw the ever-present beggars in front. He stopped, thought he recognized one of them, but dismissed the thought and walked inside. Still, he couldn’t help thinking about that beggar, so on his way out, he approached the man.
“Excuse me,” he said. “Do I know you?”
The man looked away, but answered, “Yes, we went to seminary together and were ordained together in Rome.”
The beggar priest then told the American about how horrific life choices and bad mistakes had poisoned and destroyed his vocation. The priest was devastated, but didn’t know what to say and hurried back to the Vatican.
That afternoon, there was an audience with the pope for all the attendees of the conference. The priest could not resist the temptation. As he approached John Paul, he said, “Holy Father, you have to pray for this priest I just saw.” And he told him the story.
After the audience, the American went back to that parish looking for the homeless priest. When he found him, he said, “The pope is praying for you.”
The beggar just stared at him with a look that said, “Well that’s great…whatever good that’ll do.”
But the priest continued. “That‘s not all. The pope and his secretary, Bishop Dziwisz, invited the two of us for dinner tonight.”
The man protested. He was dirty. He had no decent clothes. But the priest persuaded him with an offer of a shower and the loan of one of his own suits. So they went.
The Swiss Guard on duty let them in, and they were ushered up to the apartment where Bishop Dziwisz greeted them. He then led them into the dining room where the pope was already at table. Everyone exchanged greetings and the first course was served. Then the second course. At the end of the main course, the pope began moving his hand in a motion to Bishop Dziwisz. The American priest didn’t understand what the gesture meant, but the bishop did. He got up and said to him: “Please come with me for a moment.”
The two left and waited outside. One minute passed, then two, then five, then ten. Finally the bishop seemed to know it was time to go back in. They sat down just in time for dessert.
At the end of the evening, farewells and blessings were exchanged and the two priests walked back down the marble stairs to St. Peter’s Square. The American priest, however, was dying of curiosity, so as soon as they came out into the open he turned and asked: “What went on in there?”
The beggar said, “You wouldn’t believe it, even if I told you.”
“You have to tell me. Try me!” was the American’s response.
“Well, as soon as you left the room, John Paul turned to me and said ‘Father, would you please hear my confession?’ I said, ‘Holy Father, I’m not a priest, I’m a beggar.’ And the pope responded ‘So am I, I am just a beggar. You are a priest. Once a priest, always a priest.’
“‘But Holy Father,’ I told him, ‘I’m not in right standing with the Church!’
“‘As the bishop of Rome, I can reinstate you here and now,’ was his reply. ‘All you have to do is give me consent.’
“How could I withhold consent from the bishop of Rome?” the beggar concluded.
After hearing the story, the American priest said “But we were out there for more than ten minutes. It couldn’t have taken that long for him to confess his sins?”
“No,” the beggar agreed. “It was over in a couple of minutes. That’s when I dropped to my knees and begged him to hear my confession. And he did. Right before you came back in, he asked me where you found me, and upon my telling him, he asked me to report to the pastor there tomorrow. I’ll be assigned to that church, and my mission will be reaching out to all of our fellow beggars in that neighborhood. Because that’s what all of us are.”
St. Benedict’s 12 Steps to Humility
Fourte
en hundred years ago, St. Benedict developed a 12-step program to help his monks perfect the virtue of humility. It was probably the world’s first 12-step program.
In the book, The Benedictine Rule of Leadership, Craig and Oliver Galbraith took that 12-step program and adapted it into something practical and useful for leaders today.28 Here is a summation of what they had to say:
Step 1: Revere the simple rules. Don’t speed. Stop at red lights. Meet deadlines.
Step 2: Reject your personal desires. Fast when a little hungry. Avoid impulse buying. Skip dessert.
Step 3: Obey those in positions of authority. Pay your taxes. Follow your confessor’s advice. Rewrite the report for your manager. Take the trash out for your wife.
Step 4: Endure affliction. When someone insults you, turn the other cheek. When you’re sick, don’t whine. When you’re snubbed, smile.
Step 5: Confess your weakness. When you’re wrong, admit it. When a task at work proves difficult, talk with your manager about what you might be doing wrong. Do an examination of conscience every night. Go to confession.
Step 6: Practice contentment. Drive the old car. Keep the old house. Don’t upgrade to the next version of a gadget when the one you have is all you really need.
Step 7: Learn self-reproach: When something goes wrong—at home, at work, with friends—make the first question you ask yourself, “What could I have done differently to prevent this.” Be honest with yourself.
Step 8: Obey the common rule. Abide by organization policy faithfully and according to the spirit of the law, not just the letter of the law.
Step 9: Understand that silence is golden. Listen more than you speak. Make your orders few and reasonable.
Step 10: Meditate on humility. Read the Gospels. Study the lives of the saints. Think about the great men and women you’ve known. How were they humble? What example did they set? How can you imitate them?
Step 11: Speak simply. Talk in a low, quiet voice. Speak gently. Have a kind word for everyone.
Step 12: Be humble in appearance. Dress simply. Eat simply. Cultivate simple hobbies and simple tastes.
Questions for Reflection
Describe a situation where your pride has led you to act rashly or wrongly. What were you afraid of? What were the consequences of your actions? To you? To others? How would things have turned out differently if you had taken your own ego out of the equation?
To what are you attached? What can’t you do without? What things do you find yourself working for or pursuing that aren’t really necessary? Why? How might that get you into trouble in the long run?
What are three things you can do this month to help you let go of your attachment to your pride and possessions? What are three things you can do every day to do the same?
Epigraph. Encyclical Letter on the Value and Inviolability of Human Life Evangelium Vitae (March 25, 1995), 46.
Conclusion
Back in the Barracks
“Be still, and know that I am God”
“Be still and confess that I am God!”
Psalms 46:10-11 NIV
The call came via email: “Message from the Commander: Ex-Guards Needed For Active Duty.”
I was on retreat, and probably shouldn’t have been checking my messages to begin with. “I’ll only read those that have to do with an emergency,” is what I promised myself. But as soon as I saw that tagline, there was no way I wasn’t reading further.
The message was a direct request from the Commander of the Swiss Guards. He needed some former guards to come back to the Vatican, just for a few days, and help out the corps during a very busy time. They had thirty-three new recruits to be sworn in and he wanted to find some “ex-guards” to cover for them so they could take some time off after their swearing in to be with their parents and relatives that came to Rome for the occasion. This was the first time in the history of the Guards that they’d made such a request.
I don’t think I even finished reading the entire email before I sent my reply: “Tell me when, and I’ll be there.”
That was in early April. Four weeks later, on May 1, 2009, I arrived back at the barracks of the Swiss Guards in Vatican City. It was twenty years and five months to the day since I left.
In Conversation With Myself
So much had changed for me over the past two decades, but as soon as I stepped foot in those barracks, I felt like I was twenty-two again. There were new guards and a new pope, but other than that, everything felt the same. The barracks, after all, hadn’t changed. The atmosphere hadn’t changed. The young men, the uniforms they wore, the rooms they lived in, the tasks they performed—all was as it had been. I felt as if I’d traveled to this place via time machine.
As soon as I checked in, I was assigned a room in the barracks, given my bedding, and left to settle in before dinner. There were about thirty of us who responded to the call, many whom I’d known in the old days, so that first dinner felt more like a reunion than anything else. We sat and talked for hours, going over old times, new times, and everything in between. Then we all retired to our quarters. We had a long day coming up, and, actually, none of us were twenty-two anymore.
That night, as I lay in bed, I noticed how the light from St. Peter’s Square hit the ceiling of my room. Suddenly waves of memory came crashing over me. It was like I had been transported back in time to my last night at the Vatican twenty years before. I remembered lying awake under this same ceiling watching this same light. I also remembered the fear and anxiety that gripped me then.
I prayed long and hard that night twenty years ago. “Lord, what will you have me do? What will become of me? What are your plans for me.” I felt then like I was about to jump off a cliff. I didn’t know where I would end up, what I would do, and whom I would do it with. I was leaving to be with Michelle, but I had no idea if that would work out. I didn’t know if my time in the Guards would help me in any concrete way once I was back in the real world. I was young, insecure, and unsure of so many things.
As my forty-two-year-old self lay in bed, I could hear once more the prayers of the twenty-two-year-old young man I once had been. I could feel his fear, his excitement, his hope. But I knew what he didn’t. I knew the answers. I knew I would marry Michelle, that I would never stop loving her, and that after many long years of waiting God would bless us with a beautiful son to love and raise together. I also knew about the wild roller coaster ride my professional life would be, that there would be incredible highs and terrible lows, but that the whole thing, from start to finish, would bring me closer to God. I also knew how profoundly my time in the Guards and my relationship with John Paul II would shape that ride.
If I could, I would have told him all that. I also would have told him all that I’ve written in this book: Know how you’re called to give your life as a gift. Pray constantly and in all things. Seek to know what’s right. Work to choose what’s right. Look to the future but live with God in the present. Know and love those who are with you on the journey. Lead by example. Never neglect the most important things in life. Don’t invest yourself in that which isn’t important.
I would have told him one more thing. I would have told him the key that holds all those other ideas together and directs them to their proper end: Know that what you ultimately want is not physical, not material. If you strip everything else away, you will realize that what your heart really desires is God. It won’t rest until it rests in God.
“So do not worry and say, ‘What are we to eat?’ or ‘What are we to drink?’ or ‘What are we to wear?’ All these things the pagans seek. Your heavenly Father knows that you need them all. But seek first the kingdom (of God) and his righteousness, and all these things will be given you besides. Do not worry about tomorrow; tomorrow will take care of itself. Sufficient for a day is its own evil.”
Matthew 6:31–34
The Ultimate Objective
Back when I was twenty-two I wanted a lot—money, success, happiness—and I wanted these i
n about equal measure. My pursuit of these three ends led me in different directions, not all of them good. Eventually I learned that all these things don’t actually fulfill you. Each gives you something, but nothing profound and lasting. If I live for eighty or ninety years any one of the worldly achievements only last for a fleeting moment in comparison to my whole life. I found that ultimately there is only one thing worth wanting—to go to heaven and live forever in God’s love.
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