Mother Teresa’s letters leave her emotionally naked on world stage

In the fall of 2002, the Zenit news agency published a collection of letters written by Mother Teresa. But the wider world has come to know these letters only recently, as the Roman Catholic Church continues to deliberate whether Teresa was a saint.

The letters speak of Teresa's crisis of faith. She writes of an unrequited love -- protracted times of relentless longing for God that she did not experience as acknowledged and reciprocated.

The letters are stunningly intimate.

This past August, author/atheist Christopher Hitchens published a response to these letters, actually empathizing with Teresa, and blaming her crisis on the church and religion itself: "It is the inevitable result of a dogma that asks people to believe impossible things and then makes them feel abject and guilty when their innate reason rebels."

(Remind me to write a column sometime about the surprisingly long list of things held in common by fundamentalist religionists and fundamentalist atheists. The former is convinced they are in possession of extraordinary faith. The latter are convinced they are in possession of extraordinary intellect. I am compelled by neither.)

All great love affairs include the experiences of emptiness, protracted times of disconnection and despair. Teresa's letters read not dissimilarly to the way despairing spouses talk and weep and anguish in therapy about the terrifying loss of "love connection" with their mates after years of marriage.

Not surprising that love affairs with God are no different.

My two favorite books on the subject are Jurgen Moltman's "The Crucified God" (which I don't recommend unless you suffer from insomnia or are a big fan of German theologians tediously translated into English), and Belden Lane's "The Solace of Fierce Landscapes." Lane contends that human beings cannot ultimately possess and apprehend relationships. Relationships are experienced. Or not.

Lane says we must love God with a "naked intent"; that is, without regard to God's benefits or attributes. John Lennon was widely vilified for saying the same thing in the song "Imagine":

"Imagine there's no heaven/ It's easy if you try/ No hell below us/ Above us only sky."

Meaning, stop fleeing God's wrath or currying God's favor. Love God. For the sake of love. And for the sake of God. And your own sake. Or don't. End of story.

If your spirituality has an ounce of authenticity, then it will inevitably include the experience of forsakenness. Sometimes flat-out despair. Just like all great marriages must include the experience of "hmm ... wonder why I don't feel in love with you anymore?"

The experience of forsakenness doesn't prove there is no God. Or that there is one. Just like the experience of falling out of love doesn't prove that your marriage is dead. Or that it isn't.

But if you'll forgive me the sharp left-hand turn, I said all that to ask this:

When people die, do they give up all rights to their privacy? Did we agree on that while I stepped into the men's room or something? Or is it just famous people that, upon dying, are expected to stand permanently naked on a global stage for those of us who -- how does the National Enquirer put it -- have inquiring minds?

I own a metal lock-box. In a codicil attached to my last will and testament are instructions for my best friend, Paul, who, in the event of my death, will take possession of the box and destroy its contents. He has my permission to browse first. I would expect him to.

Don't mean to titillate. I didn't kill Jimmy Hoffa, nor am I any other kind of criminal. I don't wear lingerie. I have no private porn stash.

The box contains some writings. Some photographs. Three letters to three people -- one asking for forgiveness, one extending forgiveness and one affirming love across time and space and mystery and brokenness. The box contains items symbolic of journeys so deeply personal and difficult that to share them would damage them. Like a sacrilege. Thoughts and feelings so naked, so raw ... no one should ever see them.

The box is like a medicine bag.

Why do I keep such things, you ask? Not sure. Good question. But the point remains, when I began to see Mother Teresa's letters in print, I mostly wanted to avert my eyes, the way I looked away at Malibu Beach last summer when that hapless woman lost her bikini top in the rugged surf.

It is the better part of decency not to want to see everything naked.

Steven Kalas is a behavioral health consultant and counselor at Clear View Counseling and Wellness Center in Las Vegas. His columns appear on Tuesdays and Sundays. Questions for the Asking Human Matters column or comments can be e-mailed to skalas@reviewjournal.com.