With Passion and Purpose

His virile body reclined next to hers, spent and satiated. He lingered until she was in a deep sleep then tenderly brushed aside a dark tendril from her cheek before placing a goodbye kiss upon the fullness of her lips.

Parting was always difficult, especially when his infant son slept not a few feet from them. It was scandalous enough the object of his desire was beneath him in social standing, but that they conceived a child out of wedlock was something he knew would crush his parents—particularly his mother, who warned him repeatedly of the dangers of promiscuity.

The handsome young man exited the small house a few hours before dawn. Sounds of merrymaking could be heard escaping the tavern down the street. He stepped in for a drink and found three friends already intoxicated, begging him to join them. A nod of the head toward the bartender and his usual was ordered and served.

Uninhibited under the influence of ardent spirits, the lad’s witty intellect and confidant stature attracted an audience. Years of reading to appease an insatiable appetite for knowledge, combined with a formidable education, gave him a wealth of worldly wisdom (and a pompous opinion), which he shared with an air of authority.

A typical evening for this sensualist ended shortly before daybreak. And each time he staggered home, his mother stood, unnoticed, praying for her wayward son.

This may sound like most twenty-something males of today, yet this one lived in Thagaste, Numidia [now Souk-Ahras, Algeria], in A.D. 374. The lad: Aurelius Augustine, more famously known as Saint Augustine of Hippo.

In my early teens, I remember my mother invoking Saint Jude’s intercession for those impossible cases, Saint Anne for all her motherly problems (specifically regarding those dealing with her wayward daughter), and Saint Anthony for help in finding things. In my eyes, these saints lived a perfect, holy, and spotless life on earth. How else could they have attained sainthood? Never would it cross my mind they were real people.

I assumed saints were given a superhuman ability to be extraordinarily good. They spent hours in prayer—in a church—with hands folded pointing to the heavens. They didn’t listen to pop music, hang around with ribald friends, drink alcohol, go dancing in clubs, fool around, smoke, or use vulgar language. In my estimation, they avoided everything I considered fun.

Early in my return to the faith, I heard the gospel reading Matthew 4:28, “So, be perfect, just as your heavenly Father is perfect.” I remember telling a mentor friend I would never come close to being perfect, no matter how hard I tried. My crimson past scarred me with too many weaknesses. Plus, I had no desire; boring wasn’t in my makeup. At most, I could be a normal Christian—one who attended church on Sundays to learn about Jesus and went around being nice to others. That was doable.

My religious friends introduced me to Saint Augustine, Doctor of the Church, and one of the most influential Church Fathers and theologians in the history of Christianity. I was given a copy of his autobiography, The Confessions of Saint Augustine, and devoured it. For someone who was born a little more than 350 years after Christ walked the earth, it amazed me at how closely his life paralleled those of today.

Augustine was born into an upper-class family. His mother, Monica, was a devout Catholic; his father, Patricius, was pagan and converted on his deathbed. Both parents put an emphasis on education and enrolled their son in rigorous courses. Born with a stubborn constitution, the saint spent most of his childhood pursuing his own interests, which most often revolved around amusement.

Monica exposed her son to Christianity, which he found intriguing in his adolescent years. The thought of a God who loved him beyond all forms of human love was comforting, and his tender soul sought, more than anything, to be loved; but he did not know how to harness that love. Instead, he went in search of all that ignited his senses, thinking love came in forms of happiness.

His passion was aroused at an early age by the sweet taste of victory; he craved a challenge in all fashions, seeking conquest, even in dishonesty. Second to his love of women, he enjoyed the folly of the stage and found theatrics amusing. Literature set his imagination aflame, which developed into a love for philosophy and writing. As he got older, his curiosity of adult pastimes paved the road to destroying his innocence. By the time he was in his late teens, he had been exposed to much of a debased world and enjoyed its indulgent pleasures.

The saint describes himself at age sixteen:

“To Carthage I came, where there sang all around me in my ears a cauldron of unholy loves. I loved not yet, yet I loved to love, and out of a deep-seated want, I hated myself for wanting not. I sought what I might love, in love with loving, and safety I hated, and a way without snares. For within me was a famine of that inward food, Thyself, my God; yet, through that famine I was not hungered; but was without all longing for incorruptible sustenance, not because filled therewith, but the more empty, the more I loathed it. For this cause my soul was sickly and full of sores, it miserably cast itself forth, desiring to be scraped by the touch of objects of sense. Yet if these had not a soul, they would not be objects of love.

“To love then, and to be beloved, was sweet to me; but more, when I obtained to enjoy the person I loved, I defiled, therefore, the spring of friendship with the filth of concupiscence, and I beclouded its brightness with the hell of lustfulness; and thus foul and unseemly, I would fain, through exceeding vanity, be fine and courtly. I fell headlong then into the love wherein I longed to be ensnared.

“And Thy faithful mercy hovered over me afar. Upon how grievous iniquities consumed I myself, pursuing a sacrilegious curiosity, that having forsaken Thee, it might bring me to the treacherous abyss, and the beguiling service of devils, to whom I sacrificed my evil actions, and in all these things Thou didst scourge me! I dared even, while Thy solemnities were celebrated within the walls of Thy Church, to desire, and to compass a business deserving death for its fruits, for which Thou scourgedst me with grievous punishments, though nothing to my fault, O Thou my exceeding mercy, my God, my refuge from those terrible destroyers, among whom I wandered with a stiff neck, withdrawing further from Thee, loving mine own ways, and not Thine; loving a vagrant liberty.”

Augustine advanced to becoming a professor of rhetoric in Carthage. Intellectual minds intrigued him and discussing philosophy provided the food that fattened his literary talent. This lured him to Manicheanism. He found its teaching of an elaborate dualistic cosmology stimulating; the struggle between a good, spiritual world of light, and an evil, material world of darkness challenged his understanding of the universe. The one thing that did not resonate was Manicheans discounted the complementary relationship between science and faith, leaving him with many unanswered questions.

Though Augustine lived a debauched lifestyle, his very being relentlessly sought to taste and embody wisdom and all her beauty. Certainly the learned and worldly minds would be the ones with explanations, so he persisted in his quest. But stubborn as he was, not wanting to subject himself to his mother’s God, he continued to suffer the anguish of interior isolation and loneliness because of his inflated pride.

One day he heard a speech given by Saint Ambrose (then Bishop of Milan). Ambrose was a professor of rhetoric at the Imperial court of Milan. It was the intellect with which he spoke—tying science and nature into the spiritual world—that made Augustine take notice. No other orator, especially those of the Manicheans, could provide the answers to the questions his mind and heart sought. As it is with truth, when we hear it, while we may not want to succumb to it, we internally recognize its validity. And so began the journey of Saint Augustine to discovering the balm that satisfied his agonizing itch.

Like Augustine, since childhood I pined to feel love at its most passionate level and searched for it in all the wrong places. Almost every word of his Confessions spoke to my core. He brilliantly, and with vivid emotion, exposed his dance with God.

“Lord, make me chaste, but not just yet.”

Such lines as, “Lord, make me chaste, but not just yet.” rung like a bell, summoning my attention. This was real! His story wasn’t about a perfect Christian. Here was a man who blissfully wallowed in sin—even having a child out of wedlock—and struggled for a long time to overcome his passions. Then, upon finding the love for which his heart ached in a heavenly Father whom he had pushed away, he became one of the most passionate lovers of Christ and a model of authentic holiness.

I did not know my Creator as an intimate lover. I knew him as a just ruler, tallying all the bad things I’ve done in my life and dolling out tragedies as a punishment. Like calligraphy on a page—carefree, swirling letters making each word beautiful, artistic, sensual, and pleasing to the eye—Augustine described a kind of love that made me envious. I thirsted to experience what he had.

I wondered if his God could truly understand my longing for affection and validation. Could he know me so intimately to understand why I turned to sin? And could he possibly, as Augustine boasted, show the greatest mercy by wiping my slate clean—infinite times—because he knows how weak I am?

Many today can relate to the twenty-something person I described earlier. We search for ways to feel pleasure, thinking this must be the way to happiness. Yet, after the crescendo comes, the alcohol no longer satiates, the drug wears off, the wins have all been gambled away, or the over-dedication to work destroys our families and friendships, there is always a void.

Deprivation of love has been a source of much misery in lives. We’ve been created with a hunger for the kind of relationship with God of which Augustine speaks, but our appetite, placated by paltry imitations and preservatives, has, instead, left us malnourished by the unhealthy calories of spiritual fast food. The delectable, robust flavors and intricate textures of a nutrient-rich banquet meant to fuel us and excite all our senses have been (on the contrary) viewed as unattainable and left for an elite few. We don’t realize that choice banquet is meant for all of us to enjoy!

I grew up vying for my father’s attention. My dad was a wonderful man and taught me much, but he lacked warmth. I attribute many of the insecurity issues I’ve had with men to our relationship. As a young child, I often wanted to curl up on his lap and feel the assurance of his strong arms protecting me. But he wasn’t like that. At most I got a ten-second embrace, followed by a pat on the back, as if he were meeting a buddy at a ballgame.

When I became a teen and got dressed up for an occasion, instead of a compliment, there was usually a sarcastic joke about a tomboy wearing heels. Sarcasm was the defense mechanism he used to dodge emotion.

As an adult working extra hard to accomplish a goal—thinking for sure he’d be impressed—I got a smile and nod of the head. It was my mother who provided the hugs and accolades for my successes.

I now understand my father’s lack of warmth and affection stemmed from his own pain. His mother died when he was fourteen. Soon after, his father sent him to Canada, telling him his aunt could care for him since he was his mother’s child. The young boy convinced himself he must have contributed to his mother’s demise and deemed himself rotten. Feelings of abandonment and betrayal put in motion a life shadowed by self-reproach, which eventually built a wall to protect his heart.

We cannot give what we do not have. My father was incapable of giving me the affection and affirmation I sought because he was never taught how. So often is the case with people today. They are quick to blame others when left unfulfilled, yet if those from whom they seek do not have that which they seek, they will always be left disappointed.

Was Augustine raised by a mother who was cold and indifferent to affection? Did he have a father who could never please his own dad and thus passed on those fears to his son? Did his parents show love with rigidity and rules, lacking in warmth, thinking this was good parenting? Or, could his parents have been so wealthy they appeased him with material gifts instead of giving him time and personal attention?

None of us have perfect parents, but we must give them credit for the all the good they’ve done, knowing they did their best. Like them, we too likely wounded our own children with our hidden pain and insecurities. Just as we hope our children will be compassionate toward us for our parenting failures, we owe our parents that same compassion.

Almost twenty-five years have passed since I was introduced to our sinner who became a saint. I’ve read Confessions at least a half dozen times; each time finding more wisdom buried in those beautifully written words. Eventually the burning love of Augustine’s God seared my heart. Years of resisting him, years of anger for having to endure the tragedies placed on my path, years of searching in all the wrong places rendered me humble and grateful for his tenacity.

My heart wants to burst at times. This kind of joy cannot be found in human interaction. We are too beat up and bruised to love in this way. It’s unfair to look to others for the fulfillment of our needs when some of them can be fulfilled only by the One who knows how to love without limit and has the omnipotence to know precisely what makes us happy. And he does!

Figuratively, I am often I focused on wanting a chocolate chip cookie, but will hear, “No, Robin. Hold off. I have something better.” When I obey in abstaining from the cookie, placing my trust in him, I always end up with a three-layer chocolate cake, filled with decadent butter-cream and topped with shaved dark chocolate (which is a big upgrade for me). Our Lord is never outdone in generosity. I’ve come to realize the more I give up the flashy baubles that excite my attention and allow him to gift me with his will, the greater the gem I receive.

God never gives up on anyone, even the most hopeless—which is why we shouldn’t either. He waits patiently, sometimes putting people on our path to shower us with his love and mercy, pray for us, and fast for our return to his outstretched arms. It’s those people for whom I’m most thankful in my life, because without them I would not have what I do today.

It took a steadfast woman seventeen years to win the soul of her wayward son. Not only were her prayers efficacious in his abandonment of his sinful ways, but they were instrumental in him becoming a model of righteousness for others.

Both were needed in God’s greater plan: In order to become an amazing saint and teacher, Augustine needed to be a grandiose sinner. And Monica was needed to be the example of perseverance in never giving up praying for those who are broken. This should give even the worst sinners hope as well as those who pray for them.

My image of a saint has changed throughout the years. I no longer envision a perfect person, always doing the right thing (because even those types struggle in hidden ways). No. I believe a saint is a sinner like all of us, who recognizes their nature, falls, gets up, and keeps trying—endless times—out of a desire to grow closer in an intimate relationship with our Heavenly Father.

I also no longer look at saints as boring. Many of them did their own share of hell-raising, had big personalities, and stubborn constitutions. The difference between them and us is they discovered the secret to having joy. The more courageous we are in allowing God into our hearts, the less we seek an imitation of happiness because we become saturated with authentic love; the thing for which we are all looking.

Yes, Saint Augustine, in your words relating to God, “… our hearts are restless until they rest in you.”