Holy Indifference

Holy indifference.

It’s an interesting phrase, isn’t it? How can indifference, you might ask, be holy? 

It’s a question I asked when I was journeying through the Ignatian Exercises a couple of years ago. For Ignatius, indifference (also called detachment) wasn’t about being blasé or uncaring; it was about spiritual freedom (Larry Warner talks about this in Journey with Jesus).

Indifference is an invitation to hold all things with open hands before God, of letting go of anything that gets in the way of us receiving his love, returning his love, and extending that love to others.

Kevin O’Brien, author of The Ignatian Adventure, puts it like this: “indifference means that we hold all of God’s gifts reverently, gratefully, but also lightly, embracing them or letting them go, all depending on how they help us fulfill our vocation to love in everyday, concrete details” (The Ignatian Adventure, p. 63).

Michael Marsh, Unsplash

Recently, I was invited to actually live into this notion of holy indifference, rather than to simply treat it as a theoretical spiritual concept. In the spring, I became aware of a pastoral opportunity that caught my attention and heart, and I couldn’t let it go. I had no desire to leave my role with CURATE, but it felt like an invitation from God to consider applying. I processed it in prayer, with Bryan, and with close friends, and decided to throw my name in the hat. “Why not?” I thought. The worst thing that could happen would be that I wouldn’t get the job, and I’d keep doing what I love and feel called to do alongside Bryan. It felt like I couldn’t lose, no matter the outcome.

There was, though, this very clear invitation from God: hold it with holy indifference and trust him. 

So I applied for the role, and as I filled out the application, a written theological essay, and attended a few interviews in the following weeks, I noticed something: I was actually holding it all with holy indifference. I felt like no matter who got the job, the fact that this church was hiring for this position was a real gift. I felt honored to be in the running. Slowly, though, something in me shifted, and I began to really want it, and indifference wasn’t coming so easily anymore.

Well, long story short: I didn’t get the job. 

I made it into the top three candidates, but I wasn’t the right fit. When I got the call, I initially noticed a sense of freedom in finally having an answer. Then, as it sunk in, I was disappointed. I was sad. But I also wasn’t feeling lost or dejected–I felt held, seen, known by God, and I knew that there was a purpose in this whole process, even if it wasn’t the end result I’d ultimately hoped for. I learned it’s possible to be indifferent and hopeful at the same time–the two don’t have to be mutually exclusive. 

This experience brought up an important question for me, though: what do I do when I believe I’ve discerned well, listened to the Holy Spirit, held the outcome with as much holy indifference as I could, and things don’t turn out the way I’d hoped? Can I hope for an outcome and still hold it with open hands?

Discerning well and leaning into indifference don’t guarantee anything. But the process of discernment, the intentional choice to be indifferent, and to allow the outcome to remain a mystery was–and continues to be–a transformational experience. 

The Glory of God is to ConceaL

lI was at a gathering of local spiritual directors this past weekend, and Alice Fryling (a fellow spiritual director, leader in the ministry, and author) was attending. She brought up a verse I hadn’t read in a long time: “It is the glory of God to conceal a matter; to search out a matter is the glory of kings” (Proverbs 25:2). Eugene Peterson phrased that first part in the Message as, “God delights in concealing things.” 

I had to chuckle when she shared this verse. God delights and is glorified in concealing things from us? That’s not comforting. But as I sat with this verse for a few minutes, I had this image of God hovering over the fog of the unknowns of my life and smiling contentedly, even proudly, because while I couldn’t see what he was concealing, he could, and he knew the full story. He delights in revealing himself, his will, his love to me bit by bit, grace upon grace, from glory to glory.

The fog may not be a comforting place (in fact, it’s downright disorienting), but the God who holds it all in his hands is faithful–and that is profoundly comforting to me. As I’m searching out what he’s concealing, my trust and discernment has an opportunity to expand so that the fog no longer feels like a threat, but more like an invitation to a deeper knowing, or a “cloud of unknowing” as an anonymous author once called it.

Disordered Attachment

In this recent expedition through the fog of concealment, the cloud of unknowing, and holy indifference, I was confronted with a disordered attachment. Indifference, as I mentioned above, is often referred to as detachment, or remaining detached from anything that might distract or pull me away from living in and extending God’s love.

Even as I learned the work and value of holy indifference, I was still attached to the idea of holding a job in which I was called pastor. I’ve served pastorally in every role I’ve had, but I’ve never held the title of pastor. And as a woman in ministry, that title can mean a great deal (that’s a longer story for another day!).

Getting this job meant that I could carry that title for the first time. But why did that matter? Because I’d become attached to the idea of being seen as a “real pastor.”

I see now that God’s invitation to holy indifference through this process was really an invitation to release that desire, to let it go, so that it wouldn’t get in the way of my love for him and my love for those he’s placed in my life and care. 

One of the truths that has been solidified through this experience is that I am a pastor, title or not. I don't know how to be anything else. But the title in a job description doesn’t make a person a pastor. God himself does the work of making a pastor as they surrender to the Spirit’s work of transformation into the image of Jesus walking with others as they do the same. Guiding, caring for, tending to the lives and souls of other people and witnessing God’s movement of love within them is the call he’s given me, and I am overjoyed that, regardless of title or position, I will continue to do that for the rest of my life, by God’s grace. Even this, though, I am learning to hold with holy indifference. 

Someone once asked Ignatius what he would do if all that he’d done and built (including the the Jesuit Order) came crumbling down. His response: “If I recollected myself in prayer for a quarter of an hour, I would be happy, and even happier than before” (Chris Lowney, Heroic Leadership, p. 118).

I’m not sure fifteen minutes will ever be enough for me to grieve anything, but it is good to remember that all of this is God’s, not mine. “I want and I choose,” as Igatius wrote in his Principle and Foundation, “what better leads to God’s deepening life in me” (David Fleming, Draw me Into Your Friendship).