When I think about elementary school, I mostly think about how much I despised spelling tests. I didn’t like anything about spelling. I didn’t like getting new spelling lists. I didn’t like studying spelling lists. I didn’t like taking spelling tests. And I really didn’t like getting my spelling tests back with all the red marks and the failing grades plastered on them. I think I also annoyed my teachers with my lack of enthusiasm for that whole subject. I remember one time I didn’t bring my spelling list back to school, and this somehow angered my teacher. She pointed her finger at me as I sat there among my classmates, and said loudly, “You are a baby.” Then she picked up the chalk and wrote B, A, B, Y in big letters on the chalkboard. Then she sent me to the principal’s office to call my mother to have her bring my spelling list to school. I remember that I made it to the office, and picked up the phone there, but then I just started crying. Thankfully, I don’t remember the rest of that story. But I will say that I never forgot how to spell “baby.” So I guess she was pretty good at teaching someone how to spell.
I tell you that story because I think this had something to do with this idea that got into my head and stuck there for a long time, for decades really. I embraced and believed with every fiber of my being that I was fundamentally and irreparably flawed. I really thought that something was messed up inside of me, and I lived in fear that others around me would figure it out. So instead of going into any situation ready to enjoy it for what it was, I was playing defense. I wanted to make sure that other people didn’t discover that I had some unseen flaw.
I saw an image recently that I thought presented this concept very well. It was a picture of an apple that had been chewed up on one side. And there was a mirror showing the other side of the apple, and from the perspective of the mirror, the apple was flawless. I really wanted to make sure everyone saw the flawless side and never discovered the flawed side. The thing that made this kind of strange was that I didn’t know what my problem was. If I did know, then I would have tried to fix it.
I went through life with all sorts of worldly anxiety. Especially at work. To me, work looked like a lot of ways to be called out for being fundamentally messed up. My goal was to simply survive without being found out. And if I started to think that someone was not happy with something that I did at work, then I would go beyond overboard to get them back to being okay with whatever I was doing.
One time, I went to church on Passion Sunday shortly after I had surgery on my foot. I was still in the early stages of the healing process after the surgery, and when I was upright, my foot hurt more. Sitting was much better. But it was Passion Sunday, which means we stand all the time. Could I have been seated the whole time? Absolutely. No one would care or say anything about it. I was on crutches. But of course I feared sitting, because that would only bring attention to the secret that I was always trying to hide. I left Mass that day mad at the Church because they “made me stand” the whole time. They didn’t make me stand. I made me stand. The real problem was that my worldly anxiety completely choked out my opportunity to tune into God.
This Gospel is the parable of the sower. I read the short version because I want to focus on a particular part of that parable. In the long version, Jesus expands on each aspect of the parable. When he talks about the seed that grew up among thorns, he says that this refers to those who hear the word of God, but then they later become overwhelmed by worldly anxiety, so much so that they bear no fruit.
In Matthew chapter 13, in the story of the sower, the cost of immersing oneself in worldly anxiety is high. It’s a soul-crushing experience, and what will they have to show for it? I think it’s easy to see how Jesus is saying something that’s very true.
Eventually, I learned how to get past my concern that I was fundamentally flawed. This was probably one of the biggest lessons that I learned in my whole counseling experience that I had in my mid-thirties. I had done a lot of work to realize intellectually that there really wasn’t some kind of hidden and unknowable flaw inside of me. But in my heart, I could never shake the response that I would get if I suspected that others were getting close to seeing my flaws. One of the tricks that I used was to think about a physical object that I thought was valuable even if others would have discarded it. An easy example is to think about a diamond ring. If someone were to discard the ring, would the ring still have value? It’s easy to see how it does still have value. For me, it was a particular kind of airplane. It’s a kit-build airplane for two people, tandem seating, a glass dome so you can see everything, 220 miles an hour cruise. For the airplane people out there, I’m talking about the RV-8. It’s not that it’s the perfect airplane, but it’s one that I would enjoy flying.
So when I felt that worldly anxiety start to take over, I told myself, “Just be an RV-8 airplane.” The weirdest thing happened. The less time I spent all wound up about worldly anxiety, the more that I enjoyed all aspects of my life. I enjoyed work more. I had more fun at gatherings. I had more fun in my family. It was fantastic. Then many other things changed in my life. Some of that included coming into the Catholic Church.
This theme means a lot to me because I really want to help others avoid the needless suffering that comes with worldly anxiety, having the life choked out of you. I’ve lived both sides of this, and once you give it up, you’ll never go back. It’s such a better way to live.
In this homily, I’ve just given a particular example of how someone can suffer due to worldly anxiety. But humans are creative, and they can find all sorts of ways to be oppressed by worldly anxiety. If you see that you’re spending less time with God at the center of your life, and more time being upset with things you can’t control, it might be time to consider what it will take to be the kind of person that will ultimately bear much fruit.
If you walk into a room already sure you will be found out, start with the sentence the teacher wrote on the board. You are a baby. I carried that as proof that something inside me was irreparably flawed. I did not know what the flaw was. That is the strange part. Write the sentence you are defending. I am fundamentally messed up, and they must not see it. Then write what you actually know. I failed a spelling list. I do not know the hidden flaw, because I have not found one.
The next step is one ordinary exposure you have been refusing. I stood through Passion Sunday on a foot that hurt because sitting would have drawn the eye. They did not make me stand. Pick the small version. Sit. Leave the explanation unfinished. Do not repair the person’s mood before you know they are unhappy. The apple in the picture had a chewed side. Hiding it did not heal it, and I did not even know what I was hiding.
When the defense starts, use the object the way I used it. Not as a slogan. As a reminder that a thing can be discarded and still have value. Say the plain sentence: I am not waiting to be found out. Then stay in the room for the next ten minutes without managing their face. The thorns in this Gospel are the worldly anxiety. The fruit does not grow while the whole hour is spent on defense.
This is a pastoral reflection, not clinical care and not a substitute for it. If you or someone you love is in immediate danger, call 988 or local emergency services.Drawn from a homily first preached in 2023. 