The Testing of those who are blessed: Happiness, Near-Death Experiences, Christian Spirituality, and the Long Journey of Becoming

# The Testing of those who are blessed: Happiness, Near-Death Experiences, Christian Spirituality, and the Long Journey of Becoming

I sometimes find myself asking a difficult question: Why have I been so blessed?

The question is not born from arrogance. In fact, it often arises from a sense of bewilderment. Many people work harder than I do, suffer more than I do, and carry burdens I do not carry. I have a home, stability, meaningful relationships, enough income to meet my needs, time for contemplation, and the freedom to pursue questions that matter. I am deeply aware that these are gifts.

Yet the longer I reflect, the less I believe that blessings are primarily rewards. They are responsibilities.

Perhaps the real question is not why I have been blessed, but what I am supposed to do with the blessings I have received.

As I have grown older, I have begun to suspect that spiritual growth follows a pattern. Early in life, our struggles are often external. We struggle for money, security, recognition, relationships, health, and survival. But when some of those battles are won—or at least softened—the battlefield moves inward.

The tests become less visible.

The challenge becomes doing what is right because it is right.

The challenge becomes loving when nobody is watching.

The challenge becomes remaining grateful without becoming complacent.

The challenge becomes becoming good rather than merely appearing good.

And perhaps most difficult of all, the challenge becomes embodying truths we already understand intellectually.

I have come to realize that there is a vast difference between talking the talk and walking the walk.

The ego can survive almost anything. It can even survive spirituality.

It can hide inside religious knowledge, theological sophistication, philosophical insight, charitable works, and spiritual practices. It can become proud of its humility and vain about its selflessness.

The Desert Fathers understood this well.

These early Christian monks fled into the deserts of Egypt not because they hated the world but because they wished to confront themselves. They discovered that external simplicity does not automatically produce internal simplicity. One can leave behind possessions and still be possessed by pride.

One of the great insights of the Desert Fathers is that the deepest spiritual warfare occurs within the human heart. The enemy is not primarily outside us. It is our attachment to self-centeredness, illusion, and the endless attempt to build an identity apart from love.

Centuries later, this wisdom would continue through Eastern Christianity.

The Eastern Christian tradition often speaks of salvation not primarily as legal acquittal but as transformation. The goal is theosis—the gradual participation in the life of God.

God does not merely forgive us.

God heals us.

God does not simply declare us righteous.

God makes us righteous.

This vision resonates deeply with both ancient Christian spirituality and modern understandings of human flourishing.

Interestingly, the science of happiness points in a similar direction.

For decades, psychologists have attempted to determine what actually produces lasting well-being. Their findings repeatedly challenge popular assumptions.

Money matters, but only up to a point.

Pleasure matters, but adaptation quickly reduces its impact.

Status and achievement provide temporary satisfaction but rarely enduring fulfillment.

Again and again, research points toward deeper factors: meaningful relationships, gratitude, service, purpose, transcendence, community, and personal growth.

The great irony is that happiness often arrives indirectly.

People who chase happiness directly frequently fail to find it.

People who pursue meaning, love, virtue, and purpose often discover happiness along the way.

Ancient wisdom traditions understood this long before psychology existed.

Aristotle called it eudaimonia—a flourishing life grounded in virtue.

The Stoics taught that fulfillment arises from aligning oneself with reality rather than demanding reality conform to one’s desires.

Buddhist traditions observed that attachment and craving generate suffering.

Christianity teaches that losing one’s life for love ultimately leads to finding it.

Different traditions use different language, yet they often point toward a common truth:

The self becomes whole not by grasping but by giving.

This convergence becomes even more striking when we examine near-death experiences.

While interpretations vary and caution is necessary, certain themes appear with remarkable consistency across cultures and backgrounds.

People often report overwhelming love.

They frequently describe profound interconnectedness.

Many undergo life reviews in which they experience the consequences of their actions—not merely from their own perspective but from the perspective of those they affected.

What often matters most is not wealth, status, power, ideology, or achievement.

What matters is love.

How did you treat people?

How deeply did you care?

How much kindness did you bring into the world?

Researchers continue to debate the mechanisms behind these experiences. Some view them as neurobiological phenomena. Others see evidence of consciousness extending beyond the brain. The scientific discussion remains ongoing.

Yet regardless of one’s interpretation, the philosophical significance is difficult to ignore.

The values emphasized in near-death experiences often align remarkably well with the conclusions of psychology, philosophy, and spirituality.

Love matters.

Compassion matters.

Relationships matter.

Character matters.

The quality of our inner life matters.

The more I reflect on this convergence, the harder it becomes to dismiss.

The saints, philosophers, psychologists, and experiencers of profound mystical states seem to be circling around the same mountain from different directions.

Thomas Merton understood this beautifully.

Merton warned against the false self—the constructed identity built from achievement, approval, possessions, roles, and social performance.

The false self is always striving.

Always comparing.

Always defending.

Always trying to become something.

The true self, by contrast, is discovered rather than manufactured.

It emerges when we stop pretending.

It emerges when we encounter reality honestly.

It emerges when we encounter God.

Merton’s insight mirrors the wisdom of the Desert Fathers and resonates strongly with contemporary psychological findings. Human beings suffer when they become trapped in endless self-construction. We flourish when we become rooted in authenticity, presence, and love.

This realization has transformed how I understand blessings.

I once imagined that blessings existed primarily to increase comfort.

Now I suspect that comfort may be one of the least important aspects of blessing.

Blessings create opportunities.

They create freedom.

They create responsibility.

They create space for growth.

When life is difficult, survival consumes attention.

When life becomes more stable, a deeper question emerges:

What kind of person am I becoming?

This may be one of the highest spiritual questions.

Not what do I own?

Not what have I achieved?

Not how impressive do I appear?

But what am I becoming?

The answer to that question cannot be faked.

Eventually, every performance collapses.

Every image fades.

Every reputation disappears.

What remains is the soul itself.

Christianity teaches that the greatest commandments are to love God and love neighbor.

The science of happiness points toward relationships, meaning, gratitude, and service.

Near-death experiences repeatedly emphasize love and compassion.

The Church Fathers describe transformation into the likeness of Christ.

The Desert Fathers urge vigilance against ego and illusion.

Thomas Merton warns against losing ourselves in the false self.

Different voices. Different centuries. Different methods.

Yet a remarkable harmony emerges.

Perhaps the purpose of life is not primarily acquisition but transformation.

Perhaps the deepest measure of success is not what we possess but who we become.

Perhaps blessings are invitations rather than rewards.

And perhaps the highest stages of spiritual growth are not about learning new ideas but about embodying the truths we already know.

If that is true, then my task is becoming clearer.

I have spent years learning to talk the talk.

Now I must learn to walk the walk.

Not perfectly.

Not dramatically.

Not in a way that impresses anyone.

But quietly.

Patiently.

One choice at a time.

One act of love at a time.

One surrender of ego at a time.

The journey is far from over.

But perhaps that is the point.

The goal was never arrival.

The goal was becoming.