Call to Adventure, Call to Sorrow

Chapter 2: The Ignatian Myth & Narrative Project

This is the second part of a limited series I’m calling The Ignatian Myth & Narrative Project. If you want to get caught up, read the introduction and chapter 1.

And speaking of narrative and myth, one month from today, February 27, 2024, is the release of my new book “My Life with the Jedi: The Spirituality of Star Wars!” Don’t forget to preorder your copy!

Last week, we started where all good stories do: the beginning. The First Week of the Ignatian Spiritual Exercises—just like the opening scenes of any story—is a deep dive into the status quo world. We have to look closely at where we are now, how things stand now, who the character in question is now, so as to understand where we’re all being invited to go.

Where does the arc of the story find its beginning? Only after answering that question can we see how great an individual’s character arc can be.

We look plainly at our inevitable shortcomings and missteps not because we are being asked to wallow in guilt and shame but rather because embedded within our supposed mistakes is the spark that can set our adventure ablaze. I don’t want to live like that anymore. I think I’m called to something more.

That call, though—where does it come from? Somewhere within the chaos of our lives, within the sense of listlessness we may feel, we hear a whisper. That voice invites us to dream of a world that might shatter our status quo and thus our expectations of self and others. Last week I wrote,

I’m struck by [Joseph] Campbell’s definition of a story’s so-called “herald,” or the one that issues the call to adventure. “The herald…is often dark, loathly, or terrifying, judged evil by the world; yet if one could follow, the way would be opened through the walls of day into the dark where the jewels glow” (p 44).

If we’re going to say that our own sin and shame and paralysis of status quo is in some way the “herald” that sets us on the path of adventure, than this idea of a dark, loathly herald is a fine one. But as I wrote that paragraph last week, I knew that this week I was going to very well contradict myself.

Because we have in the Spiritual Exercises a literal call to adventure—the Call of Christ! As we close out the First Week, we come to this meditation that invites us to contemplate a leader whom we would readily follow, a leader’s whose call we would answer. A leader who is neither dark nor loathly.

This would-be leader, Ignatius says, invites us to collaborate in the work of loving and serving God and neighbor, building up God’s dream for all of creation. The leader is “generous and noble minded,” and Ignatius makes clear that, though we “must be content with the same food, drink, clothing, etc.,” if we “share in the toil,” we will also “share in the victory.” (Spiritual Exercises 94, 93)

We first imagine an earthly leader only to then realize that the same call comes from Christ. The same admirable qualities. The same love and affection. How do we respond?

Well, painted this way, we likely respond quite positively! The design of the meditation is to draw out of us the kinds of leadership qualities we respect so that we then realize that Christ embodies those very attributes and desires to draw us near through them. That Christ uniquely desires us.

And so, last week, I thought, “Well, there is an exception to every rule.”

And then I continued reflecting. Because, in reality, this is no exception; the Call of Christ does have within it something dark, loathly and terrifying. Something even judged evil by the world.

The Call of Christ necessarily includes the road to calvary, the cross and Christ’s own death. We know how this story ends: suffering, pain, injustice and death. For us, reading Christ’s story now, hearing Christ’s call now, we know that this is intrinsically part of the story. Part of the invitation.

But it’s not just that. Christ’s story is our story because God became human. Myth made manifest. We all know suffering; we’ve all tasted it, in some form or another. And we know, too, that accepting any call to adventure, embracing our own vocation, is a recipe for suffering. We can not escape it.

Simply living life means making ourselves vulnerable, allowing ourselves to risk, opening ourselves up to sorrow.

I wonder, then, how much more important our unfolding story becomes. Because suffering is inevitably part of our story, part of the adventure, part of our response to Christ’s call. But our story isn’t solely suffering, our adventure isn’t suffering, our response to Christ’s call isn’t suffering. It’s part of our story—at times a very big part. But it’s still just that—a part.

Our story is bigger. Our story encompasses more than the inevitable sorrow. And when we respond to that call of adventure, we ensure that our story gets bigger still. We are drawn to the beauty and potential inherent in that call in spite of the necessary darkness.

And by answering it, we make ever more room in our stories for wonder and awe.