Part of effective Christian leadership is learning when to reach beyond and when to accept our own limitations. A spiritual director offers some thoughts and advice on how to do that. This article was first published on 7 Mar 2017 in Faith & Leadership from Leadership Education at Duke Divinity. Editor's note: This reflection is adapted from Rahberg’s book, “Enduring Ministry: Toward a Lifetime of Christian Leadership.”

It is curiously liberating to realize that tensions become life-giving. Christ walked in constant awareness of the world’s pain and beauty. I must accept myself in contradictions and contradictions in me. In Christ all things are held together. Recognize Christ’s love. Let yourself receive that love.

Benedict of Nursia (ca. 480-547) is one of the voices from Christian tradition who continues to help us understand what it means to walk together toward Christ the Light. The grand finale to the Rule of St. Benedict (RB) comes in chapter 72 on the topic of what Benedict calls "good zeal". (Bit of trivia: scholars agree that RB 73, the actual last chapter, functions as a bibliography). Having reached the bookend of all the wisdom collected in previous chapters, we might rightly wonder about Benedict's punch line for this vision of life in Christian community.

What is the point of discipleship

if not to live truthfully

in the Divine Presence,

to make our way, ready for thein-breaking of God’s grace?

Like desert monks we saturate

ourselves with Scripture

that we, too, might dwell in the Word

and put on the mind of Christ.

We who practice

receiving God’s touch

and waiting through its absence

cannot resist meeting joys and challenges

with more and more transparency.

Centeredness wells up

as biblical words and symbols

begin grounding priorities and decisions

in something other than mere ego.

The fullness of Christian life

spills over, then,

into convictions and actions

that serve the greatest good.

Call it prayer, call it lectio,

but do not let it be confined

to quiet moments before dawn.

By the time you find yourself drawn to the phrase "befriending your limits," you have likely built a home between a mountain and a shoreline. The desire to seek new perspective may well be an invitation that involves some element of discomfort . . . and a dash of hope. This peculiar mix suggests to me that God is at work and that it is time to pay attention. We cannot help but respond with honesty.

There is a beauty to these woods

that surpasses even the twilight

sound of the Great Horned Owl

or the crescent moon spilling stars

onto cedar tops and pines.

In this particular situation, and in contrast to other interactions I have had in ministry settings, I was able to quickly and clearly hold my ground. I said, "I do smell gas, in fact, and I need help finding a solution." This refreshing moment of clarity reminded me that it is not always so easy to hold the ground of true self. In the flow of life, we sometimes catch ourselves doubting what we smell. We might initially attempt to ignore it or succeed in explaining away our sensations for a time. When the smell still persists, however, we begin to second guess ourselves, occasionally surrendering our perspectives too quickly because someone has pressed against our convictions. To underestimate or fail to exercise our perspectives faithfully is to drift away from the authentic, Christ-centered self.

We all have limits. It is an undeniable truth for every member of humankind. Whether we understand them to be the end of our capacities or the boundaries of our identities, we know the discomfort that accompanies the attempt to exceed them. Were discomfort the only outcome, we would simply discount them as inconveniences and pretend to avoid them. That would, however, dismiss the potential appreciation for limits that Benedict has been encouraging since the sixth century. In Ch. 4 of the Rule he urges the reader, “Day by day remind yourself that you are going to die”

We are pails of many colors

shapes and marvelous designs,

searching for somethings—anythings

which will fill us to the brim,

sharing one unfortunate flaw:

We are pails of many holes.

The leaks of imperfection

worsen by hurts and fears

until more is lost than

gained by fetching.

“Pour life into me,” we cry,

“which I might hold and carry.”

and when all passes through

we weep, “If only this or that,

a bit more and fast, then

I would have life to give.”

All the while something

quietly wells up,

a flood rising all around

seeps into every pail,

entering first low openings.

Now within and around

still rising a tide consumes the world.

Higher it flows, fills pails

outside in,

up to the brim, then beyond.

Feigning emptiness we miss this:

we are holy pails submerged

in living waters.