Deserving: Building a Deeper Belief in You

Excerpted from
Building Your Field of Dreams
By Mary Manin Morrissey

Carla, a woman in our congregation, spent most of her life feeling unworthy. She got the message loud and clear in the third grade from a narrow-minded nun. Outgoing and a touch rebellious, Carla always seemed to be in trouble at school. One day Carla said or did something that annoyed the nun-she can't recall precisely what-and was called to the front of the room. The nun instructed Carla to stay there as, one by one, her classmates stood and announced something they did not like about her. Everyone obeyed, including Carla's best friend. She can still see the faces of her classmates; she can hear the disdain in their voices as they picked her apart. Yet she cannot recall a single word of their denouncements. She blotted the painful comments from her mind. The image that remains clearest is that of the nun urging those third-graders on, branding Carla with shame.

"To me, the nun was God. That was God telling me I was these bad things. So I grew up believing I was a bad person."

That afternoon Carla packed up her books, went home, and told her mother she had quit school. She didn't explain why, figuring her mother would think Carla had deserved the humiliation. Carla's mother made her return to school.

As a teenager, she numbed her pain with drugs and alcohol She wouldn't allow herself to take advantage of opportunities, because she didn't believe she was deserving of good fortune. She vetoed college and shunned the man she loved. She punished her body by stuffing it with food and then vomiting it back up. For years Carla was bulimic.

At age thirty-five, after several failed attempts to quit drinking, Carla finally became sober. Treatment included extensive counseling, during which Carla began to look at herself more objectively. She realized she was not despicable or unlovable. It was a single confused nun, and not God, who had deemed her bad. It was a confused Carla who believed the pronouncement

Forgiving the nun and recognizing herself as a worthy individual has profoundly affected every relationship in Carla's life. Although she still feels pain over all her missed opportunities, she's grown closer to her family and put herself through college. Most important, Carla says, she now trusts God to deliver her greatest good.

In the eternal dimension, each of us is whole and perfect and complete. Power springs from that place where we locate our divine dimension. We can find that place in ourselves or miss seeing it entirely. Amplify your feeling of deserving by reminding yourself of your true identity. If you recognized yourself as a living image of God, how much more would you believe you deserved? You cannot be any more deserving, but you can learn to feel more deserving.

Jesus tells us: "You are the light of the world." Let's take a look at that for a moment. You are the light of the world. Who is this you? Your personality? Your profession? When you're asked "Who are you?" do you answer "My name is …" "I'm a …," or "I'm so-and-so's wife (or husband)"? No matter your answer, that is not the "you" to whom Jesus is referring.

Now, for a moment, notice your shoes on your feet; just feel the pressure of leather on your soles. Notice the weight of your clothing on your body. Notice the air gently touching those places where your skin remains exposed. Notice, for a moment, your thinking. What thoughts are moving through your mind? Probably you're wondering, "Where is she going with this?" What were you thinking before you turned to this page? What thoughts interfere with your concentration? Whatever thought disrupts your concentration is one that your mind has labeled more urgent than the task at hand. Notice the thoughts you've been entertaining. Notice your emotions. Are you feeling joyous or sad, mellow or anxious, hopeful or full of despair?

Now that you are aware of everything going on inside at this moment, ask yourself one more question. Who notices your body, how it feels to have those shoes on your feet, notices your clothing, notices the air against your skin? Who notices the body but isn't the body? You can cut my hand off, but you haven't taken any of me away. Who notices the thinking but isn't the thought? Who notices the emotion but isn't the feeling? The one who can notice is the you Jesus is talking to when He says, "You are the light of the world."

There is a you that is pure life. There is a you that is spirit, indestructible, undying. Jesus says, "Let me tell you about you. You are ..." That is a very powerful word: are. Present tense. He didn't say, "Under certain conditions you can or yon will be in the future ... "He didn't say, "You might be ... "He said, "You are ... "Regardless of how you define yourself at this moment-despairing, undeserving, self-despising-to the one who sees you as God does, you are the light of the world.

Whatever you focus on expands Focus on God, the source of all good.

During workshops, I sometimes present this concept through an exercise I call the "Victim/Creator Game." Each person chooses a partner, someone they do not know well. Then all the participants close their eyes and think of a time when life treated them unfairly. Maybe you think of the time you parked your car carefully and returned from a meeting to find your vehicle sideswiped and no note left. Maybe you think of the time you gave your heart fully in a relationship, and then, without warning, your loved one announced, "Sorry, but I care about someone else. See you around."

The partners tell each other their stories and sometimes get a trifle competitive, each trying to outdo the other's ordeals. Then I invite them to consider that we contribute to every event in our lives. Every event is part of our co-creation with God and therefore contains an element of good. By denying our responsibility, we short-circuit our ability to claim the good and move into heightened power. When we remove ourselves from our own experiences, we cannot possibly profit from them. The participants need to decide, "Am I a victim or am I a creator?"

I tell about being nine years old and returning home from a basketball game with ink on the back of my calves. My dad asked, "How did you do this?"

"I don't know," I answered honestly. I hadn't even noticed the stains until my dad pointed them out.

"Come on, now. What happened?" he persisted. As hard as I tried to convince him of my innocence, he refused to believe me. Finally he said, "There's no way you could get all that ink on your legs without knowing it. Go to your room and think about this. When you're ready, tell me the truth or you'll be grounded."

I slammed the door after me. What a raw deal! Still, no way did I want to be grounded. I finally emerged from my room and falsely confessed that I'd covered my own legs with ink.

"There, don't you feel better now for telling the truth?" he asked.

Of course not. I felt victimized. I had told the truth the first time, and my father hadn't believed me. He had forced me to lie.

Many years later, using the co-creative model, I began to revisit those times in my life when I'd felt victimized. Only then did I realize I was responsible in part for the mystery ink.