A Question of Spirit

How Subversive Was Jesus?

2009-07-03T10:15:00.004-04:00

Pilate then called together the chief priests, the leaders, and the people, and said to them,…“I have examined Jesus in your presence and have not found him guilty of any of your charges…. I will therefore have him flogged and release him.” Then they all shouted out together, “Away with that fellow! Release Barabbas for us!” (Barabbas had been put in prison for an insurrection that had taken place in the city, and for murder.) (Luke 23:13-19)

I cringe a little when people describe Jesus as a revolutionary. The word is so easily used to justify a particular agenda that may—or may not—have to do with Jesus.

Then I run across stories like this one.

From what I have seen and read, Jesus’ presence in Jerusalem came at a time of extremely high tension between the Jews and their Roman occupiers. To make matters worse, Passover week, during which these events took place, inevitably brought hordes of worshippers from all over Israel. Hordes mean instability; the slightest altercation could erupt in chaos—and, in response, a Roman crackdown.

Yet when Pilate (according to custom) gave them a choice of one prisoner to release in honor of the Passover, the religious leaders chose an insurrectionist and a murderer—the very person to ignite the tinderbox of contemporary Jerusalem—instead of Jesus.

Can you imagine how much they must have feared Jesus?

And why? True, he had caused a frightening stir since his entry into the city. Many in the Passover crowds were loudly hailing him as a king who would throw off the Romans. He entered the temple courts and overturned the tables of the moneychangers. But he also spent time quietly teaching in that same temple. More frightening than a murderer with a record of insurrection? Why?

Maybe it wasn’t Jesus’ actions. Maybe it was his words.

We don’t know whether Barabbas had a vision, but Jesus did: what he called “the kingdom of God.” It described a way to transformation, a turning to God from the inside out and a concern for the poor and the everyday. As he articulated this kingdom, he could not help but challenge the authorities around him, who (if the New Testament account is accurate) had lost that spirit in favor of “ritual correctness” and the status quo. In today’s parlance, he spoke truth to power.

An insurrectionist without vision can be suppressed with brute force. A vision is much harder to quash. So they chose Barabbas.

The kicker, of course, is that Jesus’ vision is just as relevant, and as dangerous, today. All too often, our leaders favor the status quo, or tinker at the edges, and avoid looking at transformation. The current debate over health care is the perfect example: while a single-payer system—a complete transformation of the current situation—might prove the best option, no one wants to put it forward because of vested interests.

I don’t see the Jesus of the New Testament wanting to replace Judaism so much as revive it. That’s more evolutionary than revolutionary. Even so, his vision proved too hot to handle; in many ways, it still is. And yet, in a world that desperately needs transformation, how can we not take up his vision once again?

When We Give Up Our Lives

2009-06-10T12:53:00.001-04:00

One of the monks at Holy Cross Monastery was telling me about his work with an Episcopal parish in the eastern U.S. He had worked with members to deepen the parish’s spirituality and reflect on its future. I can imagine hundreds of churches needing this kind of help, and I asked him if he ever thought about offering his services elsewhere. “No,” he replied with a smile, “because then I would no longer be a Benedictine.”

He’s right. As part of their vows, the Holy Cross monks pledge themselves to the Benedictine value of a balanced life. This means, in essence, that they must refrain from taking on too much because they have given up their lives to something else, something larger than themselves.

But this “living for something else” isn’t just for monks. It’s really for all of us who seek God. And it can be quite the countercultural adventure.

In what way? Well, a life lived for something else runs us afoul of many cultural expectations. Take the simple idea that if you do something well, you should do more of it. That makes for an excellent business strategy and a solid path to career success. But what if your “something else” pushes back? If you have vowed to live a balanced life, as our monk in the example above, you can’t always do more, no matter how well you do it.

Or consider the value of planning. “If you fail to plan, you plan to fail” goes the old maxim. Every company worth its salt has charted out where it wants to be in one year, three year, five years. But what if your “something else” pushes back? You can plan all you want, but God may steer you otherwise. In our “something else,” we have another—larger—consideration, and it may take us in directions we don’t fully understand. No wonder Jesus said of the Divine Spirit, “The wind blows where it will, and you can hear the sound of it, but do not know from whence it comes or where it goes; so it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit” (John 3:8).

Five years ago, I was passionate about my advertising career and happy to keep expanding it according to plan. But when I became an associate at Holy Cross—essentially pledging myself more fully to God—it dislodged the underpinnings of my life and raised a whole host of questions. Now I’m focusing a large chunk of my time on writing about spirituality, when that vocation may net me no income at all.

So why on earth engage “something else” if it’s so danged disruptive? Because a life out of our hands, and in the hands of the Divine, is much richer for us and more valuable for the world. By giving up control, we can let go our fears and vested interests and sacred cows—the things that often hold us back from becoming fully ourselves. We begin to realize that it’s not about me, but about we—which frees us to love others with abandon and serve them without regard for self-interest. By connecting with the Divine, we live in relationship with the Source of our lives, the Source of extravagant love.

It is an adventure. It rarely moves forward in a straight line. But travel that road far enough, and it’s hard to go back—because everything else pales by comparison.

Is This What Humility Looks Like?

2009-05-12T10:47:00.001-04:00

I was humble the other day, and I want to tell you about it.

OK, that does sound strange, so perhaps a bit of context is in order. Two weeks ago, a member of a professional organization nominated me for the equivalent of a lifetime achievement award. I am quite capable of reacting badly to this sort of thing in one of two ways: with an “it’s about time they appreciated everything I’ve done for them,” or (far more often) with a reluctance to accept the nomination because, after all, it’s just little old me.

But my reaction was neither of these. Rather, it was a simple acceptance of some basic facts: I’ve been in my profession for 20 years, I spent six years on the board of the organization, it’s a small club with a limited flow of available nominees—all of which meant that I would probably be nominated at some point.

And I wondered: was this reaction an example of humility?

Not if you buy our culture’s understanding of the word. In the U.S., we generally equate humility with low self-esteem, insignificance, giving short shrift to one’s gifts and uniqueness. Does anyone really want to eat humble pie or be of humble means?

I don’t believe the saints and sages had that definition in mind when they encouraged their followers to be humble. Rightly understood, humility is simply complete clarity about our individual selves and our place in the universe. As the Rule for Associates of Holy Cross puts it, “Humility is not self-denigration; it is honest appraisal. We have gifts and deficiencies, as does everyone else. We start from there, remembering that God loves each of us with a unique but equal love.”

When we honestly appraise ourselves, we see our place in the universe quite clearly. Specifically, we see that:

“I’m only one person.” As a result, I have only one person’s view of the world—and the views of other persons might hold just as much truth as my own.
“I am one person.” As a result, I can make exactly one person’s difference in the world.

This kind of humility can release all kinds of potential within us. It opens our minds and our hearts to others. It enables us to let go of our need for certainty. It liberates us from feeling powerless in the face of the world’s overwhelming problems; instead, we can start on the problems before us—serving this homeless person, making this city safer. By pointing up our limitations, humility also makes us realize our need for one another, and the exponentially greater impact we can have as we instead of me.

We need this kind of humility to live in harmony with what is. The world needs this kind of humility to move forward. With humility in our souls, we can work together more effectively and come to peace more readily. It is a virtue well worth cultivating.

Out With the Stale, In With the Fresh

2009-05-01T09:47:00.001-04:00

Sometimes a venerable spiritual practice jumps the shark—and opens a fresh opportunity to introduce people to the Divine.

This has been happening at Interfaith Partnership for the Homeless, our local homeless agency. In the absence of a clergy member at board meetings, I’ve been asked to give the opening prayer, asking God to bless our efforts, etc., etc. Perhaps this was once a valuable exercise, but now—with few connections between Interfaith and local faith communities, and many secular folks on our board—it’s lost most if not all relevance.

So a few months ago, inspired by a saint whose story I’d run across, I decided to scrap the prayer and tell her story instead.

The reaction was palpable and immediate. As the tale unfolded, I could see the faces around me relax, the eyes light up, the expressions take on the look of wonder we get when we’re looking deeply into life.

Since then I’ve told other stories to start our meetings. One involved a saint who served the homeless several hundred years ago. Another involved the lesson that a homeless man in Boston taught a tough-guy member of our church youth group. All of them include some insight about homelessness, or the human condition, or the value of each human being. Each time I see how much people welcome these stories.

This tells me two things. One involves the power of storytelling to stir us to our souls. It is at once a conduit for profound wisdom and a simple delight to the inner child. (Say the words “Tell me a story” and see how you feel.)

The other lesson has to do with this moment in time. Many thinkers believe we’re at a watershed in the history of spirituality—a time in which established faiths clear out the deadwood in their liturgy, doctrine, and practice and new forms emerge. This strikes me as especially true in the way we engage the secular world. I don’t know, for instance, that it’s most effective to “preach the gospel to all people,” especially when it implies that we have The Answer and they don’t. I see too much skepticism, if not downright hostility, in the public square for that.

So it’s just possible that overt displays of religiosity, like evangelism and public prayers, have run their course. In the marketing world, these displays are known as “push marketing”—telling your message to your audience—and “push” is out of favor. But the appeal of stories is universal. They express a desire not to sell, but to share, to genuinely connect, to “join the general conversation” with other faiths and those with no faith at all.

This could get exciting. It invites us to seek and discover new ways to share the extravagant Divine love with all creatures. In the process, it just might clear out some of our own deadwood and give us fresher, and broader, perspectives on the Divine.

What do you think? Can you see other spiritual practices that are actually blocking our way to the Divine or to others? Feel free to share them here.

Talk With Your Adversaries Without Throttling Them

2009-04-24T09:46:00.000-04:00

I almost never use this space for self-promotion, but we’ve been discussing spirituality and dialogue at www.interfaithforums/interview-zone, and I thought you might like to take a look. The moderator was kind enough to interview me on the topic, partly because I’ve been writing a book on preparing the soul for dialogue (working title: Why Can’t We Talk? Living the Way of Dialogue in a Shouting World).

God and my easily diverted brain willing, I’ll post more about this topic here as time goes on. For now, feel free to check out the interview. (You may need to register at Interfaith Forums to access the interview thread, but I’d recommend that you do; some really interesting discussions take place there.)

A Portrait of the Prophet as a Human Being

2009-04-07T20:01:00.003-04:00

O that my head were a spring of water, and my eyes a fountain of tears, so that I might weep day and night for the slain of my poor people! O that I had in the desert a traveler’s lodging place, that I might leave my people and go away from them! For they are all adulterers, a band of traitors. (Jeremiah 9:1-2)

Have you ever been sick of someone you dearly love—but whose failings drive you nuts—and just needed to get away for a while?

The prophet Jeremiah found himself in just this situation. The people of Israel had lost their way, committing the grossest injustice and idolatry; God had withdrawn from them and warned of judgment. Jeremiah, caught in the crossfire, expresses his intense ambivalence about Israel in this passage: wanting to weep for “my poor people” one minute, dying to get away from them the next.

This is so, well, human.

The Bible is full of moments like these. The psalmist asks God to do terrible things to his enemies. Jesus, in agony, prays in Gethsemane that he may skip the cross entirely. Ruth, a complete foreigner to Israel, pledges undying loyalty to Naomi, her people, and her God. David grieves long and loud over the waywardness of his son Absalom.

I wonder how many people know about this Bible and the faith it expresses. It tells me that the journey toward God is also the journey to become fully human, fully ourselves. And that means the full range of emotions and experiences. No curse or plea or grief is too intense or too offensive for God. These things are part of us, and so God embraces them because God embraces us. They are part of being human.

Contrast this with, say, the holiday season in December. There is tremendous pressure—from our shopping malls, from the movies, from our own expectations—to be happy. “It’s the most wonderful time of the year,” remember? It feels as though we’re supposed to set aside our complete humanity for a shallow facsimile thereof. No wonder so many churches hold Blue Christmas services for those who find the season difficult.

I wonder what Blue Christmas attendees would think if they read about the agony of Jeremiah—if they read the story of Gethsemane as well as Bethlehem. Would it give them comfort to know that even the darker emotions are welcome in the house of God?

In this week, the holiest in the Christian calendar, those emotions find their home. Peter weeps bitterly after denying Jesus. Judas suffers extreme remorse and hangs himself. Jesus, in all his humanity, begs God to take away the shadow of the cross. In doing so, he reflects a calling that is ours as well: to bring ourselves, with all our strengths and baggage and hidden darkness, to the One who loves us without pause, without conditions, without end.

The Love Behind "God Loves You"

2009-04-01T10:08:00.001-04:00

Maybe a friend tells you, or you read it on a bumper sticker, or you hear it in a sermon: God loves you. What’s your gut reaction?

I’ve heard the words uttered so often—and sometimes so glibly—that I draw a blank. It makes sense in the abstract. I can agree with the idea intellectually. But it doesn’t come alive for me.

Then something happens to make it come alive.

It happened last Sunday at church, when I was thinking about my Lenten vow to have more fun. (Lent for the Unusual explains the details.) This wasn’t a frivolous decision; it was, rather, about becoming fully human—and fully the person God intends me to be. As someone who suffers from an excess of intensity and often finds life a relentless grind, I have badly neglected the fun aspect of me over the years. In a way, I felt a Divine nudge to attend to this.

What does this have to do with God loves you? Think of it this way: If I’ve interpreted the nudge correctly, God actually cares whether I (and you) become fully human. In fact, God cares enough to guide us in certain directions that are good for us. Doesn’t God have better things to do? Granted, it does seem awfully frivolous in the face of war and financial disaster and other catastrophes.

Yet it speaks profoundly of a God who tends not only to his whole garden, but to every plant therein.

That “tending” also speaks to the very nature of love. Anyone can say “I love you.” It’s an entirely different matter to listen to another being, learn about her soul, and do things to bring that soul to fruition. That is love. It’s less like the automatic “I love yous” I toss out to my wife and more like the times I take care of a chore to give her more time in the garden, because the garden is so important to who she is.

God doesn’t stop with saying “I love you” or “God so loved the world” or other words. No, God acts for our good, always, even when it costs him. As we approach the Christian Holy Week, this is what we see in Jesus: a God who was willing, not only to tend to us, but to become us—to live our daily grind—and give himself away for our good and the good of the world.

In-line Skating and AIG

2009-03-24T09:32:00.001-04:00

Skating at a roller rink on Saturday can be hazardous to your health. But conducive to epiphanies?

You wouldn’t think it at first glance. Saturday brings out the kids, and kids bring out the chaos. Many are first-timers so of course they don’t know the safety rules. They cut across traffic, skate in the wrong direction and come to a dead stop—right in front of you. Multiply by about 100 kids and you can see that every linear foot presents a new and very sudden obstacle to anticipate, or navigate, or react to.

Think giant video game, and you’re in it.

I never thought of these weekend skates as training for the spiritual life until last Saturday, when the insight hit me right there on the rink: this is about mindfulness. The threat of constant surprise forces me to focus completely on the situation. If I lose focus, I risk injuring myself or, worse, running over a small child.

Thinkers from all faith traditions have long touted the value of mindfulness. When we are mindful, we devote our entire attention to the moment at hand. This enables us to encounter all its vividness, to appreciate its complexities, to see the Divine therein. Such full attention also makes us more effective in the task before us, whether it is a serious talk with our life partner, a complex project at work, or a collaboration to tackle social problems.

Mindfulness is in desperately short supply these days, and we’re seeing a classic example in the media coverage of AIG. To be sure, the bonuses are reprehensible; they symbolize the company’s astounding insensitivity to those outside the world of Wall Street. No wonder the public and the media have been glued to the story.

Ultimately, though, we focus on it at our peril.

Here’s why: the AIG story, involving about $200 million, draws our attention away from the larger question of how to recover from this mess—which involves $2 trillion. Every day that government leaders devote to punishing AIG is another day’s delay in working through the root causes of the crisis, which continue to weigh down the financial system. (Even now that the Obama administration has put forward a plan to deal with those root causes, the furor over AIG might make it much harder to implement.)

It’s true that the distraction might deliver some benefits. If the whole brouhaha motivates our government officials to improve oversight of the financial world as a whole, perhaps it will have been worth all the attention devoted to it. But as things stand now, they are focusing only on AIG while the rest of the system bogs down.

In short, they are distracted, as we all are these days. And that makes mindfulness as important as ever. In my case, it might keep a handful of kids at a roller rink a little safer. Applied to our government officials, it might hasten our journey on the road to recovery.

Turning the Faith into Flesh and Blood

2009-03-19T09:41:00.001-04:00

Our church is at an impasse. Or so you’d think.

We are searching for a new priest. In the Episcopal Church, any candidate for the job must win the approval of both the church’s vestry (like a board of directors) and the bishop. But what if the two don’t see eye to eye on an essential issue?

That’s our situation in a nutshell. The bishop has told the vestry that he will never approve anyone who might possibly—someday, somewhere, whatever the conditions—bless a same-sex marriage. The parishioners (or at least some of their most respected members) have told the vestry that they will not embrace anyone who believes in anything less than full acceptance of gays and lesbians. To top it all off, why would any self-respecting candidate put herself in the inevitable crossfire?

You can see the problem.

But here’s the fascinating part: it’s a problem in theory. A situation like this, we were certain, would result in zero candidates. And yet about 15 priests have expressed interest. At least one of them—and quite possibly more—have articulated a sort of middle ground that, other things being equal, might be acceptable to all sides.

This just might work.

The lesson here, I think, is that we fill our heads with abstractions to our peril. Impasses that can never be rationally resolved suddenly resolve themselves when concrete examples appear. We can’t imagine how something will work, and then lo and behold, along comes someone who, far from having the solution, embodies the solution.

This shouldn’t surprise us, I suppose. Christianity is a flesh-and-blood faith. According to our traditions, Jesus was a concrete example of God. The people of his time could listen to his words and watch his actions and, perhaps more fully than ever before, see what God was like.

Not that concrete examples necessarily make our lives easier. Sometimes we can happily hold to a certain doctrine until a living breathing example upsets our theological applecart. In my fundamentalist days, I was certain that homosexual practice was a sin until an elder in our church—one of the gentlest, most godly people I’ve ever known—came out and forced me to examine the scriptures afresh.

Should we abandon abstractions? Not at all. But if we live in our heads all the time, we tend to go off in high-minded (and often high-handed) directions without looking at the people involved. So our faith traditions argue over theoretical issues and write authoritative reports and make grand pronouncements. How curious, in contrast, that the greatest commandment in the law involves a concrete object of affection: you shall love your neighbor as yourself.

Lent for the Unusual

2009-02-26T11:34:00.003-05:00

I’ve decided to take up fun for Lent.

In case you’re not familiar with it, Lent is the observance of the 40 days before Christ’s death and resurrection. Christians use the time to engage in self-denial, acts of charity, and spiritual practices. Often this gets translated into “giving something up for Lent”—something you love, like chocolate or (in my daughter’s case this year) television.

I used to do this too: coffee is my besetting sin, so I’d go cold turkey for six weeks. But then I started thinking about it. Because of my particular background and neuroses, I had already spent many years denying myself the things I wanted, Lent or no Lent. How would “giving something up” help?

So I moved on to adding spiritual practices, like praying the psalms or extra scripture reading. That worked for a while. But then, four years ago, I became an associate of Holy Cross Monastery and started doing all those things as part of my Rule of Life. Now what?

In the last couple of years as Lent approached, I’ve simply paid attention to my life and adopted whatever filled a need at the time. That’s what brought me to fun. So far, 2009 has been extraordinarily trying. Earlier this month, I held our dog—our wonderful companion for 15 years—as she passed from this world to the next. Her illness in the month before left me dangerously sleep-deprived. Our parish’s search for a priest has placed me squarely in the crossfire over gays in the Episcopal Church. And it has been many years since I really understood how to have fun.

If my life is to be fully what God intends, I need to cultivate this side of myself.

So for the next six weeks, I’ll take in some movies. I’ll go skiing for a day or two. I’ll drive 300 miles to spend time with some of the funniest people on the planet. I may curtail my intake of news and study groups and even coffee hour at church to clear my head of the strident voices I hear in my daily life.

In the process—by attending to a shortcoming in my character—perhaps I’ll become more closely aligned with the person whom God created me to be. Put another way, I will become more of my best self. Sounds like a good goal for Lent, yes?

If you’re a Christian, what are you doing for Lent this year? If you’re from another faith tradition, do you have a season of the year for self-denial? And how does your practice bring you closer to the Divine? You’re more than welcome to post your own experiences.

We Have Read the Psalms and They Is Us

2009-02-13T10:22:00.000-05:00

Ever since my youth, I have been wretched and at the point of death;
I have borne your terrors with a troubled mind.
Your blazing anger has swept over me;
your terrors have destroyed me. (Psalm 88:16-17)

Because you have made the Lord your refuge,
and the Most High your habitation,
no evil shall happen to you,
neither shall any plague come near your dwelling. (Psalm 91:9-10)

The genius who developed the Episcopal lectionary (the daily schedule of scripture readings) put these two psalms together on the same day. Granted, one is to be read at Morning Prayer, the other at Evening Prayer. But because I only pray once a day, I said them both together—and it was gut-wrenching. By the time I got halfway through Psalm 91, I felt that I was lying.

How on earth can both these psalms be true? In one, God has left the psalmist blind, friendless, and in a place where “darkness is my only companion.” In the other, “he shall give his angels charge over you…lest you dash your foot against a stone.”

If we look at these psalms for a moment as unvarnished human responses to God (rather than absolute truth claims about God’s character), we get closer to what I see as the breathtaking beauty of the psalms—and the value of the liturgies that call us to pray them. Name a human emotion, and somewhere, in some verse, the psalmist probably expresses it to God. The 150 psalms, taken together, sweep across the whole range of our experience, unflinchingly expressing our anger and thirst for vengeance as well as our joy and devotion to the Holy One.

When we pray the psalms, then, we see ourselves. When we pray them in a regular order, we come face to face, eventually, with the parts of our humanity we don’t like. More important—and this is the key—we express them all to our Source without reservation.

Is this maybe, just maybe, what a spiritual life should look like?

Imagine it. Life throws everything at us: birth and death, unutterable joy and unspeakable sadness, wild success and crushing failure, validation and rejection. Whether we can say God causes these things or not, we look for God within each experience. In the process, we tell God our feelings about it—even the “bad” feelings—with the implied confidence that God will never reject us utterly…that if God seems absent, it doesn’t mean God is absent…that, indeed, Love itself is always there, leading or carrying us to the other side.

This doesn’t answer the question of why life—God?—throws everything at us. I have my suspicions, and I think we can sometimes glimpse the reasons in specific circumstances if we pay close attention. On a global scale, of course, we have no answer. What we do have, in the psalms, is a model of how to approach God at our best and at our worst: naked, unashamed, and unafraid.

When the Word of the Lord Is Rare

2009-02-05T09:27:00.002-05:00

The word of the Lord was rare in those days; visions were not widespread. (1 Samuel 3:1b)

You may have noticed that I haven’t blogged for a month. Silence in these parts has happened before, but this time is different. (Yes, I’m about to blog about not blogging. Ironic, isn’t it?)

During past silences, I had several topics to ponder here, but other commitments demanded my time. This time, though, I’ve simply had nothing to say. It doesn’t mean that nothing is happening: in fact, we’ve endured a major life event or two, and I’ve learned some lessons about myself. But nothing that translates to this space.

That nothingness reminded me of the verse from 1 Samuel. I’ve always felt a twinge of sadness when reading it. How heartrending, I’d think, to be this out of touch with God. I’d wonder what happened to put this distance between the Creator and his creation.

What if it’s not sad, though? What if it’s a natural part of life with God?

The mystics have written volumes about times like this: times when God appears to be absent and no spiritual practice brings comfort. Their “desert,” which I think I’ve experienced on a small scale, can feel desperate and lonely; this past month has been more benign—a simple recognition that nothing is happening. Either way, the great writers of Christian mysticism have described this desert as a pearl of great price in the spiritual journey: it strips us of all our unnecessary layers and brings us face to face with God as nothing else can.

So is there anything to do when “the word of the Lord is rare”? I think there’s real value in maintaining the rhythm of our spiritual lives, day after day after day. If we say Morning Prayer each day, let us continue. If we attend worship every week, let us continue. If we read sacred texts to learn wisdom—even if the words just seem like a jumble—let us continue. A day off here and there for refreshment is not bad. But the steady, soothing rhythm of our spiritual practice serves as an anchor for our souls. Especially when nothing is happening.

Because in truth, whether we know it or not, something is happening. The verse from 1 Samuel introduces one of the greatest outpourings of the Spirit in Israel’s history: the rise of the great prophet Samuel, the reign of David, the wisdom of Solomon. Who knows whether it all would have taken place without a time when “the word of the Lord was rare”?

A Bit Part in God's Next Act

2009-01-07T09:50:00.001-05:00

For an alleged introvert, December was a lot to take.

My wife and I hosted two open houses amid a severe ice storm. We invited my father-in-law and two friends over for Christmas turkey. We drove four hours one way to attend a family gathering. By taking part in these events, we conveyed blessing to people in ways neither of us had expected—particularly to those who were living without electricity, alone for the holidays, or missing spouses who had passed away.

And yet, in some ways, I had so little to do with it all. My wife initiated the gatherings (or at least our part in them). That left me uneasy: during such a holy season, I hadn’t done good works or learned deep things; I had simply gone along with the plan.

Lo and behold, that was the point.

I always think we’re supposed to set out to do good. We actively explore our calling, pursue what we hear as the Divine Will, and fulfill it. This mindset isn’t restricted to the spiritual arena either. Businesses seek out people who initiate, not those who react. Colleges strive to turn out leaders, not followers. We think we have to make a difference (in the sense of achieving some grand mission) rather than simply do what’s before us.

None of this is bad by any means. Sometimes we are asked to figure out what’s next. But sometimes we’re asked to live out what’s here.

Consider one of our most beloved Advent stories. The Virgin Mary wasn’t actively seeking her vocation when the angel came to her. She was told she would have a baby, and she went along with the plan. History would have been profoundly different if she had done otherwise.

How do you know when to figure out what’s next, and when to live out what’s here? I suspect it starts with paying attention—with being mindful. By clearing our heads of those ever-present distractions, mindfulness gives us a better chance to perceive what God is doing right here, right now, in these circumstances before us. Our daily life in God, particularly in prayer, can help us cultivate that attention.

God had a lot to do this December, and I played a minor role. That, to quote the creation story, was very good indeed. It reminded me of my place in the universe—as one person among many, not as me but as part of a larger we. And it called to mind the simplicity of God’s desire for us: as St. Thérèse of Lisieux once wrote, God “does not demand great actions from us but simply surrender and gratitude.”

"Everything Old Becomes New Again"

2008-12-22T12:11:00.000-05:00

You’ve probably heard the saying before. People use it to note the return of fashions from the seventies, or family values from the fifties. It’s more startling when the time between old and new is 2,700 years.

This Advent, the scripture readings for the Daily Office have taken us through some of the judgment passages in Isaiah. These can be disturbing in any year, but at the end of 2008—as an entire American era has come to a crashing halt—they are downright haunting, because they could have been written yesterday. For instance:

The Lord sent a word against Jacob, and it fell on Israel…but in pride and arrogance of heart they said: “The bricks have fallen, but we will build with dressed stones; the sycamores have been cut down, but we will put cedars in their place.” So the Lord raised adversaries against them. (9:8-11)

I’ve heard this unfounded optimism so often during the past 25 years. Stock market crashes in 1987 and 2000? Don’t worry, things will bounce back. Huge national debt? But it’s fueling the economy! Remember the books with titles like Dow 50,000? And then subprime mortgages came and swept it all away.

The Lord cut off from Israel head and tail, palm branch and reed in one day—elders and dignitaries are the head, and prophets who teach lies are the tail; for those who led this people led them astray, and those whom they led were left in confusion. (9:13-16)

Bernard Madoff and his Ponzi scheme. Investment bankers and their relentless push for higher profits. Before them, Ken Lay and Enron. All of them led us to believe things that shouldn’t have made sense to us, but did. They, too, have been swept away.

[The king of Assyria] says: “Are not my commanders all kings?...Is not Samaria like Damascus?...shall I not do to Jerusalem and her idols what I have done to Samaria and her images?” When the Lord has finished all his work on Mount Zion and on Jerusalem, he will punish the arrogant boasting of the king of Assyria and his haughty pride. (10:8-12)

Consider the Bush administration’s approach to Iraq. America knows how to fight wars; hell, we’ve won almost every one in the last 200 years! We’ll handle Iraq the same way. No need for overwhelming force. Five years later, Americans’ confidence in this type of arrogance has been swept away.

Should we view all these events, then, as God’s judgment against the U.S.? There’s no way to know for certain, and it’s dangerous to assume that we could. But I think we can read these passages simply as an apt description of the way the universe works: the arrogant and the corrupt and the complacent do get their comeuppance, eventually. When it happens, we come back to reality. We pay attention to the things that deserve our attention. Our life together recaptures a measure of sanity and health.

And eventually, something else becomes new again. Today the lectionary turns a corner:

A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots. The spirit of the Lord shall rest on him, the spirit of wisdom and understanding…. With righteousness he shall judge the poor, and decide with equity for the meek of the earth…. The wolf shall live with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid, the calf and the lion and the fatling together, and a little child shall lead them. (11:1-6)

A Messiah comes among us. He brings justice for the poor and the meek, the Divine Spirit to all of us, and an abiding peace to all the world.

In these times especially, we need such a Messiah. In these times as always, we have him—either in anticipation and hope (if you are Jewish) or as one who has come and will return (if you are Christian). Happy Christmas, Chanukah, or whatever feast you celebrate in this holy time.

The Danger of Balance

2008-12-11T17:29:00.000-05:00

Three and a half years ago, in my pledge to become a monastic associate, I promised to live a life of balance, built around the quest for God. Rather than dominating my existence, as it had for two decades, work would coexist with play, family, service, study, and above all prayer.

I never imagined how subversive—or how isolating—this would be.

Yesterday I attended a business seminar on social media, such as YouTube, Facebook, and Twitter. It’s easy for me to come away from these seminars with a fear that the world has passed me by: oh my goodness, my customers have moved on to the latest and greatest, how could I not have known, I have to rush back to the office to keep up.

Balance, on the other hand, makes it hard to care whether I keep up—because it forces me to see there’s more to life than the latest trends, or even success at work.

At business functions, it’s almost a cliché to ask people “How’s business?” and have them say, “Busy!” Constant activity seems to be required for membership in the club: if we’re not busy, maybe we’re not successful. No wonder so many people wear busyness as a badge of honor—or a protective shield.

Balance, on the other hand, asks us to let go of our obsession with busyness and pay attention to something larger.

The life of balance can be subversive because of what it leads to. You start asking, “Why am I rushing around?” You have more time and clarity of thought to question all kinds of other things too. And you begin to live differently. Perhaps, in the interests of a more spiritual, more balanced life, you pass on a promotion that requires crazy hours, or you refuse a social commitment on the weekend because you’ve decided to keep Sabbath. Maybe you decide not to hit the malls during the holiday season, or you’re just not as productive as you used to be.

Just like that, you’ve broken the social contract—the one that equates constant activity with individual self-worth. The social contract won’t care, but the people who adhere to it may not understand you anymore.

That’s where the loneliness comes in. Suddenly you no longer speak the language of your old pals and co-workers. They talk about how much they’re rushing around; you have no reference point. They look for a place to squeeze in coffee with you; your schedule is flexible.

This can be profoundly disorienting. In my life, I often wonder if I’m doing the right thing. I question my self-worth. Sometimes I think how comfortable it would be to dive back in to busyness.

And then I look at the benefits of balance. For instance, I think more clearly. My vested interests are fading away, leaving me freer to approach things with an open heart. I get to follow a mysterious Spirit one small step at a time on a path whose form I can’t begin to guess. Part of every day involves communion with the ground of all being. I’m privileged to, however imperfectly, try to live a life for something larger than myself.

This life of balance is lonely. It is disorienting. It can be dangerous to things like income or financial security. And yet I would never go back. Even if I could.

THAT Is My Neighbor?

2008-11-18T10:54:00.001-05:00

For days afterward, I couldn’t get Mark out of my head.

He took a room at Holy Cross Monastery during my last retreat—and he scared me. Well over six feet, chiseled, imposing, with a hard look in his eye, he never ate, rarely slept, and wandered the halls muttering to himself. The first time he started a conversation with me, he came out with a ramble of spiritual ideas and cited Satan as his teacher for at least one of them.

I assumed he was dangerous, or at least sinister. I thanked God I was not like him. And that was the problem.

Mark’s presence, together with some other guests who were “different” in their own way, made me realize how quickly I rush to judgment. I compare myself to others, disdaining many, including those who fly off the end of my approach/avoidance curve.

The funny part is, I think of myself as open-minded and compassionate, especially to those less fortunate. In much of my life, perhaps I am.

But God keeps pushing us, confronting us with the raw reality both within and outside ourselves. Exactly how wide can I throw my tent? I say I accept all people—but what about him? “The poor,” whom I can so easily romanticize, may not always look noble or dignified; can I deal?

The beauty of this Divine push, at least as I’ve experienced it, is that it is phenomenally gentle—and sometimes comes with visible grace. The last morning of my retreat, I was out on the porch, turning these things over in my mind, when who should come out but Mark. He started a conversation with his version of “hello”: “Have you ever read…?” For about 15 minutes, he rambled on about Jesus, monks, Hindu demons, and other topics. He revealed pieces of his hard and painful life.

And finally, when I got up to leave, he shook my hand, thanked me, and apologized for “laying all this stuff on you.”

The day before, the thought of that conversation would have made me queasy. When it happened, though, it was all blessing. It left me with a glimpse into my own raw heart, a tent that maybe got a little bit bigger, and another story of the extraordinary, awe-inspiring grace of God, who pushes and pulls and encourages and loves and throws challenges in our way so we take that next step toward the Divine.

Finding Your Way into the Future

2008-11-10T10:03:00.000-05:00

The world gives us some extremely good advice for setting goals. Too bad we can’t follow it—at least not exactly.

The whole idea of goal setting pervades our world. “When you fail to plan, you plan to fail” ranks high among the business world’s pearls of wisdom. Smart executives set objectives for everything, from this morning’s meeting to the next product launch. Job seekers prepare for the inevitable interview question “Where do you want to be in five years?” Parents sigh over their adult children who “have no direction.”

There’s a lot of value in setting goals. It’s hard to make progress in anything without some idea of where you’re going. And yet, for people of faith, there is a pull in another direction as well.

In many faiths, we commend our lives entirely to God’s care and direction. Christians take their cue from Jesus in Gethsemane, where, wrestling with God in the most agonizing moment of his life, he finally said, “Your will be done.” In that simple yielding, he expressed the profound truth that, ultimately, our futures do not belong to us. (This can bring indescribable joy and, ironically, freedom, but that’s for another post.)

What does all this mean for goal setting? Simply that the dynamic of our unfolding lives is different from the norm. We do not plan our future so much as we respond to a call. We aim not to strive for personal goals, but to seek and fulfill the Divine will.

Now maybe, if we heard God’s calling all at once, we could use goal setting to create a framework that would help us fulfill it. But to make matters even more complex, God seems to call us only a little at a time. How can we lay out detailed plans when we don’t know exactly where we’re going?

Instead, we engage in an ongoing, slowly emerging dialogue with God. Two or three years ago, I sensed a nudge to write. It unfolded gradually: poetry came first, then this blog, and finally, about a year and a half ago, a call to “write books.” I still struggle with what this means. I have to be sure I don’t glom my personal ambitions onto this call—can I earn a living this way (please), can I quit my job immediately and just write books (please please please), etc. Rather, I have to let the call unfold as it will, while preparing my heart—via prayer, meditation, dialogue with others, and silence—to hear it.

I think we can use goal setting to gently shape what we hear, to facilitate its taking on a concrete form. But for believers, there is another step that both precedes and pervades the goal-setting process: listening. By always listening to the Divine voice, we learn to hold our plans lightly, realizing that they may change or refocus according to the Will whose fulfillment, after all, is our ultimate goal.

Lessons from the Ordinary

2008-11-04T10:13:00.002-05:00

The fruits of the Spirit get less and less showy as we go on. —Evelyn Underhill, The Fruits of the Spirit

I just spent four days on retreat at Holy Cross Monastery. Normally when I visit there, even for an overnight, something happens. An encounter with the monks might raise a personal issue, and I use the monastic quiet to grapple with it. I consider God’s call on my life and discover an exciting new dimension. A scripture reading from the Office (the daily cycle of formal prayer which includes praying the psalms) strikes a chord in my soul. A profound lesson pervades the whole retreat.

This time was different. In fact, it was spectacularly ordinary: no great emotions, few profound insights. I took a walk at a nearby nature preserve, hoping to enjoy The Serenity Of Nature, but what I mainly got was winded. I walked into the Office, said the prayers, let my mind wander as usual, and walked out. There were a few exceptions—the writing I did was intensely joyful, and I had one encounter that will wait for another blog entry—but in general my retreat was awash with the commonplace. No profound lesson.

And yet that was the lesson.

Over the years, I’ve slowly learned to appreciate the fleeting nature of mountaintop experiences and breathtaking flights of spirit. Even so, I still unconsciously seek out the emotional payoff, the profound insight, the moment of bliss, the one tidbit that will validate my prayer and my life with God. Those payoffs and insights are not bad in themselves, but as objects of our focus, they distract us from the nearly imperceptible presence of God in the really, really ordinary—the dull and tedious and even annoying.

When we do perceive that presence, we encounter extraordinary grace. God is present during prayer whether my mind is on God or on lunch. God is present whether I serenely glide through the woods or cuss as I trip over every root. God is present, in short, even when life is routine and we are comically clueless. What a comfort.

I see the monks live out this “presence in the ordinary” every time they pray. There are few dreams or prophet ecstasies in their prayer. When the bell calls them to the Office, they put down their work, go to the chapel, pray, and go back to work. Rather than an ecstatic experience, prayer becomes seamlessly interwoven into their daily lives. And as my spiritual director says when his mind wanders during prayer, “There’s always next time.”

By finding God in the ordinary, we open ourselves to a minute-by-minute awareness of his action in our lives. We start to observe, and rejoice in, a cosmos permeated with the Divine presence. Our gratitude deepens, and so does our joy.

How Do We Know What We Know About God?

2008-10-27T10:31:00.000-04:00

Almost every day, I exchange emails about God with a longtime friend of mine. Over the years, he has become reformed in his theology and literal in his reading of scripture. I am neither, and that makes for some spirited emails.

His last email reaffirmed his belief in sola scriptura (“scripture alone”) as the first and best source of knowledge about God. That led me to start wondering just what I believe. I see the Bible as too full of contradictions, counterpoints, and cross-currents for all of it to be entirely, literally from the finger of God. And yet I do think it contains enough sacred wisdom to be taken seriously and thoughtfully.

Then it hit me: maybe the best way to know about God is to know God.

Isn’t this true of our human relationships? We can hear about someone from her friends and professional colleagues. We can Google her to learn about her background. We can read what others have written about her. But there is no better way to know the person than to build a relationship with her.

That explains why prayer, especially silent or contemplative prayer, is so valuable to the life of faith: it puts us in touch with the Source of all things. We open ourselves to God. God opens himself to us. When we enter that space of prayer deeply, day by day, year by year, we become intimately acquainted with the God of all things.

It is a relationship.

And out of that relationship, we can begin to approach faith’s other “ways of knowing”: scriptures, the writing of sages and theologians, the wisdom inherent in tradition, and our own experience. We see everything through the lens of our deep connection with God.

Here’s an example. The book of Exodus tells a story (4:24-26) in which God meets Moses and tries to kill him. My literalist friend, taking this story as a historical account, seeks to figure out why God would, with no apparent motive, kill the servant he sent to liberate Israel the chapter before. Because the story mentions circumcision as the palliative that averts God’s anger, my friend ties it into the Jewish law requiring circumcision for the men of Israel.

Meanwhile, I read this story and see nothing that resembles the God I’ve come to know. I turn the story every which way, seeking some metaphor or symbolic meaning that I can draw from the text. I get nothing, so I assume the story was either an erroneous insertion or perhaps a fragment of a larger story whose context might make sense of it.

Notice something here. Both of us wrestled with the text. Both of us tried to find meaning in the story. I do think it’s important to take these stories seriously, because otherwise we might miss the great wisdom they hold. In addition, our reading of scripture, in its turn, can shape the understanding of God that comes from our personal connection—just as our friends’ insights into someone can help us see something in her that we might not have seen otherwise.

But by starting with the relationship and incorporating the rest, we give ourselves a more flexible way to understand our faith tradition and apply it creatively to a time and a culture that are so very different from the land of Canaan millennia ago. This “relationship epistemology” may, in the long run, make our faith more relevant to confront the world’s most pressing problems and more accessible to the seekers of our own age.

P.S. One other little twist about the developing a deep connection with God: it can turn your life upside down. We’ll dig into that in another post.

Those Annoying Limitations That Never Go Away

2008-10-17T10:17:00.001-04:00

In a few weeks, I’ll be heading down to Holy Cross Monastery for a mini-retreat. I’ll meet with my spiritual director, write, read a good book, and soak in the silence. It occurred to me, however, that before the retreat I should visit my therapist, or get my meds adjusted, or somehow screw my head on straight before I go be all spiritual.

Why?

I always do this sort of thing. I have to be in the “right” frame of mind before I say Morning Prayer. I cannot pray immediately after eating too much, or watching NASCAR, because I’m not spiritual enough. Goodness knows, I can’t visit a bunch of monks without being spiritual enough.

As I ruminated on this, it suddenly hit me: after three decades on this journey, I still can’t accept the love of God as unconditional. So to earn the Divine acceptance, I continually strive to present God with my “best-dressed self.”

What nonsense.

And yet it’s my nonsense. I am always astounded when, just as I think I’ve resolved some of my personal issues and can “progress” to something else, up they pop again. They might take a different form, or appear at a deeper level, but there they are.

My therapist describes this graphically, by drawing a spiral with an upward trajectory. Sure, we make progress of a sort—we get a little better at dealing with issue X, or just living with issue Y—but in that progress we keep returning to the same old trash.

I wonder if it’s an exercise in humility—which I define as an awareness and acceptance of one’s place in the universe. I have been created as one person. I have been given exactly one set of strengths and weaknesses. So every time the same old issue keeps cropping up, it reminds me of my one-personness, and humility grows.

On a related front, we have no idea whether our limitations might actually help us help one another. How many times have you shared a personal weakness with a friend, and it meant so much to her because she struggles with the same thing? Or she’s made a bit more progress on that front and can offer you a new perspective? Or, by admitting your weaknesses, you allowed her to exercise her empathy and compassion?

And just like that, you’ve glimpsed another lesson of humility: that we need one another to become fully ourselves. That lesson can inspire us to strengthen the bonds that connect us—and to work together on the problems that confront our world.

Blog Silence: Good or Bad?

2008-10-03T09:44:00.002-04:00

A few days ago, a reader harangued me for not posting since August. Her comments have merit—you can only read Job’s exquisite rant so many times—but they got me thinking about the whys of not blogging.

There are, in fact, several reasons why I went dark in September. Some of them are the usual suspects: illness, overwork, full weekends, overwork, a focus on my book manuscript, overwork, etc. On another level, however, I just didn’t have anything to say. There were a few ideas floating in my head, but none really blossomed into a full post.

Which leads me to today’s question: What’s wrong with that?

Blog advisers insist on the necessity of posting something every day, or you’ll lose your readers. And maybe that’s true. But it also speaks of a much deeper dynamic at work. The emphasis is on quantity rather than quality, on talking rather than listening. Reflection—letting an idea come to bloom by itself, midwived by time and silence—is grossly undervalued.

This dynamic, of course, isn’t limited to the blogosphere. The business world routinely sacrifices depth of thought in its obsession with speed (the only way to keep up is to skim the surface). As a media-influenced society, we seem to lurch from one all-consuming issue to the next: from moose hunting to lipstick on a pig to God knows what next.

But here’s the problem: by communicating without reflection, by moving at warp speed through ideas and issues, we lose the ability to think through things with any depth. That makes it far more difficult for us to focus on substantive issues and sort them out.

This gets really important in public life, where staggeringly complex issues are too often reduced to sound bites. As a habit of mind and spirit, reflection gives us the space to take a moment, ponder any given “truth claim”—and, as often as not, see through it. Reflection helps us peer into issues, see their complexity for ourselves, and start pulling at the various strands within them to make some coherent sense. From reflection and silence emerge the questions that will probe behind the conventional wisdom to the substantive issues beneath.

Once that starts happening, we might have a shot at addressing the reality of issues. By appreciating their complexity, we’re more inclined to approach them (and the players on various sides) with humility, realizing that no one person can possibly come up with an answer to something so large.

Does all that explain my silence for the past six weeks? Goodness, no; it happened as much by accident as anything else. But maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing after all. Maybe contributing to the silence is as important as contributing to the conversation.

Job's Exquisite Rant

2008-08-27T10:06:00.001-04:00

Today’s Old Testament reading took my breath away, and I simply had to share a few lines from it. They speak volumes about God’s willingness to be present to every part of us, even our deepest rage, and care for us all the same. In Job, meanwhile, we get a role model for relationship and the hard work therein: a faithful soul who rants at God but will not walk away from him. May we drink deeply of such a relationship with the Divine—where we feel secure enough to be fully ourselves.

“I loathe my life; I would not live forever.
Let me alone, for my days are a breath.
What are human beings, that you make so much of them,
that you set your mind on them,
visit them every morning,
test them every moment?
Will you not look away from me for a while,
let me alone until I swallow my spittle?
If I sin, what do I do to you, you watcher of humanity?
Why have you made me your target?
Why have I become a burden to you?
Why do you not pardon my transgression
and take away my iniquity?
For now I shall lie in the earth;
You will seek me, but I shall not be.”

(Job 7:16-21)

Samson and the Odder Side of God

2008-08-15T09:46:00.003-04:00

(Samson) told his father and mother, “I saw a Philistine woman at Timnah; now get her for me as my wife.” But his father and mother said to him, “Is there not a woman among your kin, or among all our people, that you must go to take a wife from the Philistines?” But…his father and mother did not know that this was from the Lord; for he was seeking a pretext to act against the Philistines. At that time the Philistines had dominion over Israel. Then Samson went down with his father and mother to Timnah. (Judges 14:1-5)

You’ve got to feel for Samson’s parents. They did not see this coming.

Earlier in the story, God told them that their son would liberate Israel from the Philistines. He was to be raised as a nazirite, one specially consecrated to God. So they raise him this way. And what happens? Samson grows up and decides to take a wife from the oppressor. Even worse, God had warned the people of Israel not to intermarry with the Philistines and other Canaanite peoples.

Here’s where it gets interesting. In the next two verses, we get two pieces of information that may (or, in the second case, may not) hold profound relevance for us today:

“This was from the Lord.” In their complaint to Samson (“Can’t you marry one of your own?”), the parents were coaxing him to obey God. How could they possibly know that God had made other plans? Even when God speaks directly, it’s hard to let go of the former commandment and trust that voice: just look, for instance, at Peter’s resistance to God’s new work among the Gentiles (Acts 10:9ff).

It’s hard for us too. In matters of God, we often refer to scripture or tradition, and this is good. But God’s zigzag in this story reminds us to hold tradition lightly—because we have no idea when God will do a new thing.

Samson’s parents went along with it. They think he’s disobeying the Law by marrying this woman—and yet they go down to Timnah and help arrange it anyway. What gives?

This reminds me of Dan Quayle, the former vice president and ardent anti-abortionist. He once said that, if his grown daughter ever chose to have an abortion, he would support her “on whatever decision she made.”

There’s something going on here, and I’m not sure what it is. I’m not saying we should toss away what we know of God on a whim. Abraham nearly sacrificed his son to God; Jesus said people who loved family more than him were not worthy of him.

And yet compassion for one’s children, even when they do bad things, runs so very deep within our species—within most species. Maybe the lesson here is compassion above all else. Maybe it’s a simple respect for our genetic code and the God who made it. Maybe there’s no lesson at all.

What do you think?

In the World, Of the World

2008-07-29T09:53:00.001-04:00

Back in my college days, our campus Christian fellowship talked a lot about being “in the world, but not of the world.” Being young and confused about prepositions in the spiritual life, I never understood what that meant.

Thirty years later, I think I’m starting to get it.

I have always been in love with my career (specifically, writing ad and marketing copy). It has been a larger part of my identity than I ever cared to admit. I adored playing with words and being in demand for doing it well. Running my own business served as a vehicle for healing some of the major issues in my early life.

As I began to respond to a different call, though—the call that brought this blog into being—my zealous attachment to career suddenly faded. I began to see everything that appalled me about the advertising industry: the bending of truth, the overwhelming clutter of public life, the quest for awards. Perhaps because I wanted to leave advertising behind, the call to spiritual writing began to feel like a call to a career of spiritual writing.

I might be called to that career someday, but it’s not the case for now. Instead, as far as I can tell, my calling right now is precisely to what I’m doing right now: spiritual writing as part of my workday, copywriting as most of my workday.

As I’ve settled into that, something amazing has happened. I’ve learned not to love my career in advertising, but to like it. Somehow the prayer and the spiritual writing that frame my day keep my job in perspective—so I’m free to pursue it joyfully without finding my identity in it.

Is this what it means to be in the world, but not of the world?

I suspect it might be. Jesus wasn’t the only one to allude to this idea. Buddhism (as far as I understand it) emphasizes detachment from temporal things and compassion for all beings; the bodhisattvas—who are completely free to enter nirvana, but “stay behind” to guide others to enlightenment—are the role model for this. They are, in short, in the world but not of it.

It is a liberating, exhilarating place to be. The need for control falls away. We can live into our calling without concern for results. We can orient ourselves toward the eternal without denying the dignity of the everyday. We can take each day as it comes, for the blessing it is. No wonder the spiritual masters invite us there.

Touchstones

2008-07-15T09:00:00.002-04:00

Maybe it’s because I’m so weary of the conflicting voices that lay claim to absolute truth. Perhaps it has to do with just how elusive that truth really is. Whatever the reason, I find myself, as part of my spiritual path, constantly returning to certain touchstones: shards of truth that anchor my soul. I wouldn’t want to claim drop-dead certainty for these touchstones—as Brother Billy says, “Ultimately, it’s all unexplainable”—but to me they consistently ring true as other notions ebb and flow. Here are three:

God is. On one level, the evidence appears to defeat this entirely. Evolutionary theory includes autonomous mechanisms, like natural selection, to get us from amoeba to Homo sapiens. Researchers are beginning to explore the neurology behind faith, and they’ll undoubtedly find something. The impossibility of explaining the Holocaust in the context of an omnipotent, loving God leaves the alternative models—like Buddhism—far more satisfactory.

And yet…what started evolution, and why? Why are we (at least most of us) hard-wired to believe—rather than, say, to find other adaptive mechanisms for survival? Even more basic, how could a world of such staggering beauty and complexity come to be through impersonal processes? How could entropy be thwarted so many billions of times to create a cosmos? Why does life find a way?

I don’t think we require the traditional images of God to explain these things, but they all speak to some kind of God. A God who creates something from nothing, rather than lets nothing be. And that leads right into the next touchstone…

God is love. Given the aforementioned Holocaust, this is a big stretch. And yet I don’t think we have a choice. If God is, how do we even begin to live in a cosmos where God is hostile, or uncaring, or inattentive? In some ways, that is even more terrifying than belief in no God at all: at least with atheism, you can grieve at horrific world events while accepting them as random occurrences.

By their fruit you shall know them. How on earth are we supposed to evaluate rival truth claims? Many of them live in their own closed loop, impervious to refutation. We end up with little citadels of belief, each snug inside its own theological walls and occasionally catapulting rocks over the walls of its rivals.

Which is why this saying of Jesus carries so much import. If God is love, if God cares deeply about beauty and justice, wouldn’t those who follow God generate more love and beauty and justice as well? Therefore, could we use these “fruits” as a filter to explore the faith of those who practice them?

I’m not talking about people who profess a faith but don’t live it. Otherwise, we would have to evaluate Christianity by the Inquisitors, or Islam by al-Qaeda. My thought, rather, is to note people whose lives bear abundant fruit, and to explore the insights that produce fruit in them. In the process, we may just run up against other shards of truth.

So those are three of my touchstones. What are yours? And how do they give you hope?

Where Is God in This Picture?

2008-07-08T10:12:00.000-04:00

Tell me where you see God in the following story.

Often I try to pray when I run in the morning. Often it doesn’t work: my mind wanders off to (if it’s a good day) hobbies and books and things I love or (if it isn’t) anxiety about the day ahead or the week ahead or this difficult meeting or that difficult phone call.

Last Wednesday was not a good day. The week was tricky to begin with, and the trickiness was to reach its climax in the day to come. I have been working on mindfulness lately—paying complete attention to the here and now—but on this day my mind ran away from me. Toward the end of the run, I tried to get back to what was happening around me.

Which is when I saw the pileated woodpecker.

Birds enthrall me, and I’ve only seen a pileated once before in my life. They appear rarely, almost never, in our neighborhood. So all my attention was suddenly riveted on the woodpecker. In short, a single bird brought me back to the mindfulness to which, I believe, God is calling me.

So where was God in all this?

Was God somehow in my return to mindfulness—inspiring it, as it were—so that I could see and enjoy the woodpecker? Certainly possible. Did God call that bird to that tree for that particular purpose? A yes answer, of course, raises the oft-asked question of the whereabouts of God on 9/11, or during the Holocaust, or in the life of the child who dies suddenly. But ascribing this event to mere coincidence doesn’t work for me; the presence of the Divine in that moment was almost palpable.

I wrestle with questions like this all the time, and wrestling with God is good. Sometimes, though, I run up against the impenetrable, or at least the too-difficult-for-me. In cases like that, I’m beginning to believe, it’s time to stop thinking and simply breathe in the experience—specifically, the Divine within the experience.

There’s solid precedent for this approach. According to the sage Ben Sira, “Neither seek what is too difficult for you, nor investigate what is beyond your power” (Sirach 3:21). The psalmist speaks in a similar vein: “I do not occupy myself with things too great and too marvelous for me” (Psalm 131:1). Thomas Merton, the Franciscan monk and thinker, writes approvingly of Zen’s emphasis, not on explaining, but on paying attention.

Maybe, when we follow both wisdoms—the call to wrestle with God and the call to stop wrestling—we approach God with more of ourselves: our minds, certainly, but also our deepest selves. This, according to Jesus, is precisely what the Father so ardently desires: those who “worship him in spirit and in truth” (John 4:23).

A Reading from the Book of Lyndsey

2008-06-30T09:55:00.002-04:00

Be careful what you write. You just might get it.

Three weeks ago, in the last blog entry, I wrote about our uncertain cosmos and living in the here and now as a response. Two weeks later, we lost a dear friend very suddenly, at the ripe old age of 16.

An illness in infancy left Lyndsey with developmental disabilities. Something else, God knows what, left her with personality to burn. I would see her on weekends when her mother, who raises and shows animals as I do, would bring her to the shows. While Lyndsey didn’t take part directly, she was never far from the show table, and her exuberance at being with friends was palpable.

Our first meeting at every show followed something of a script. Lyndsey would lead with one of her giant, freely given hugs, then tell me excitedly who from her family was there. “Mom’s here, and guess what? Ty’s here too! And Stephan! He came too!” As though they never came to shows, and their coming was a great big deal.

Now, with Lyndsey’s passing, I realize she was right all along. It is a great big deal.

Here we are back at uncertainty. Every time we meet, we give the gift of our presence to others, and they to us. We have no idea whether it will be the last time we see each other. All we have is now, and the joy that this meeting, this presence, now brings us. All we can do is to be here now, fully attentive to the moment at hand, and relish the joy.

That is a very, very big deal indeed.

The Joy of Not Knowing

2008-06-12T09:25:00.002-04:00

Then I saw all the work of God, that no one can find out what is happening under the sun. However much they may toil in seeking, they will not find it out; even though those who are wise claim to know, they cannot find it out. (Ecclesiastes 8:17)

How, then, do we live with this mystery?

Surely we know ways not to do it. Over the millennia, the human race has had glimpses into the Divine and gradually shaped them into doctrine—which, in turn, ossifies into certainty. In times of catastrophe, many ask “why,” get angry when they hear no answers, and abandon God entirely.

Curiously, neither of these impulses is bad in itself. Well-considered doctrine can open even deeper insights into the truth behind the universe. Consider, for instance, the notion of the Trinity and what that says about the supreme importance of relationship among creatures.

Neither is it bad to rail at God. The Bible is packed with characters who do just that—as they hold an unflagging passion for the Divine. Even “abandoning God” might be a positive step for a time, especially if it means abandoning one’s preconceived notions about God.

It’s the insistence on fixed answers that runs us afoul of reality. We want certainty; we get God. That has some profound implications. With our understanding of God ever changing, we might someday have to give up our most cherished notions of truth. We might even live our whole lives by principles that turn out to be misguided.

So how do we live? Well, I don’t know for certain (of course). But here are two clues that might help us move forward.

The first comes from another passage in Ecclesiastes: “I know that there is nothing better for them than to be happy and enjoy themselves as long as they live; moreover, it is God’s gift that all should eat and drink and take pleasure in all their toil” (Ecclesiastes 3:12-13). I see this as an invitation not to hedonism, but to mindfulness—focusing on the Divine in the here and now. From what I understand, Buddhism provides extraordinary insight into this: because we can never know whether God exists (the idea goes), we must concern ourselves with what we can achieve, like mindfulness and enlightenment.

The other clue comes from St. Paul. After his rousing discourse about continually pressing on to the prize of knowing Christ, he admonishes his readers with “Let those of us then who are mature be of the same mind; and if you think differently about anything, this too God will reveal to you. Only let us hold fast to what we have attained” (Philippians 3:15-16).

So we focus on here and now, live out our lives according to what wisdom we’ve gained, and embrace the Divine mystery for what it is. It sounds like a life of faithfulness. And when we go off base, we can trust that, at the right time, the Divine will guide us back. Can we ask for a richer or more reassuring adventure?

The Power of God in Our Hands

2008-06-06T08:45:00.005-04:00

“Go to my brothers and say to them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’”(John 20:17)

… Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” When he had said this, he breathed on them and said, “Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.” (John 20:21-23).

Just how completely do we share the life of God?

In this passage, Jesus makes several earth-shaking claims about our relationship with the Divine. He calls his disciples by a new name: not servants, not even friends, but brothers. The God he has always called “my Father” is now “my Father and your Father.” He gives us power to forgive sins—a privilege traditionally reserved for God alone.

These aren’t the only sacred texts that present this kind of view. The psalmist says of human beings, “You have made them a little lower than God….You have given them dominion over the works of your hands” (Psalm 8:5). St. Paul says in his simile for the church, “For just as the body is one and has many members…so it is with Christ” (1 Corinthians 12:12)—when you’d expect him to say so it is with the church.*

Does this make anyone else a tad nervous?

Through millennia of training, many people of faith have adopted a much lower view of humanity. We think of God as Sovereign, as Judge. We adopt a “humility” that is more like self-deprecation. We emphasize scriptural passages that tell us (rightly, as it turns out) that without God, we can do nothing.

So what if God has shared with us, not just boundless love, grace, and guidance, but also power? What if we’re called to, in the words of my old therapist Harold Bussell, “trust God’s decision to trust us”?

Here’s what scares me: As humans, we don’t do power well. Either we forget the Source of that power and grow dangerously arrogant—five minutes with the nightly news provides all the evidence you need—or we shrink from it and become ineffective. Shrinking from power, ironically, creates a vacuum for the arrogant to step right in.

Maybe the key is in the relationship. If God is now our God too, if we have received a closer-than-breath connection with the Holy Spirit—and we live in that connection—the Presence stands as a bulwark against the fearsome pitfalls that power brings. It enables us to hold power lightly, remain constantly mindful of its Source, and wield it for good.

And wield it we must. The world desperately needs someone to effect change: to heal the starving, bind up the brokenhearted, toil for justice. In a word, God invites us to join him in co-creating a better world, bringing it closer to the vision of God’s reign.

As we do, let us look at this “power sharing” and see in it the utter extravagance of the Divine love. God has shared with us his work and his power to do it. Only deities that truly love can trust their creatures so completely.

*Thanks to Hal Miller, theologian extraordinaire, for this eye-opening insight into 1 Corinthians.

"Woman, Here Is Your Son"

2008-05-28T11:03:00.000-04:00

When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple whom he loved standing beside her [at the cross], he said to his mother, “Woman, here is your son.” Then he said to the disciple, “Here is your mother.” And from that hour the disciple took her into his own home. (John 19:26-27)

As the notes in my HarperCollins Study Bible tell me, “Many suggestions have been made for a symbolic meaning for this incident.” Catholic theologians, for instance, have said that Jesus is designating Mary as the mother of us all. That’s a comforting thought: everyone needs a mother now and then.

Today, however, I’m seeing the story differently. Appropriately for a tale about Jesus, it describes something both profoundly human and profoundly divine.

Focusing just on the details, we see a person on his proverbial deathbed, setting his affairs in order. He worries about who will care for his widowed mother—no small matter in a patriarchal society—so he entrusts her to a friend whom he loves. The friend accepts the charge and adopts her into his family. It is a touching display of attention to small but important details that gets played out at deathbeds everywhere.

And because Jesus is doing it, we see how completely he entered into, and embraced, the human experience.

What makes this act divine is the context. Jesus does all this in a state of unimaginable pain. He has been mercilessly beaten. He has faced angry crowds screaming for his death. He has carried a heavy crossbar through the streets of Jerusalem. He has been nailed to a wooden cross and is slowly suffocating.

And he still can look beyond himself to take care of those he loves.

If God is love, there is no more poignant example of the God-nature than a son tending to his mother with his last few breaths.

Through our connection with the Holy Spirit, we can do the same: enter deeply into the human experience and care for others with the ineffable divine love. It is hard to imagine a higher calling.

Things to Learn While You’re Sick

2008-05-22T09:40:00.002-04:00

For the last week, a severe head cold/chest cold/whatever has taken over my body and commanded attention. Symptoms include a profound loss of energy and, even worse, sinus pressure that has dropped my IQ by 50 points.

This sort of thing always upends my life, especially the part you might call “spiritual.” Saying Morning Prayer is more rote than substance. Silent prayer is impossible. I couldn’t give a rip about serving other people. You get the idea.

From this and previous illnesses, I’m learning at least two things about life in God. Both may seem obvious, but maybe they’ll give you hope when you get this bug.

I used to become terribly anxious about losing my grip on my “spiritual life” when sick. I’d try reeeallly hard to focus, castigate myself for letting my mind wander, etc. The lesson, it seemed, was always to let go and meet God “just as I am”—even if “just as I am” meant with no discernible thought of God at all.

This time around, miracle of miracles, I seem to be getting it. If I say Morning Prayer, or wait till Noonday Prayer, or just skip it and mumble something short at bedtime…if I skip the scriptures to read Dick Francis because that’s all my mind can take…it’s all good. And I know it.

In other words, I’ve actually learned something and moved forward. We humans can make progress. Who’d a thunk it?

The second lesson has to do with the reason our brainlessness doesn’t derail our prayer: we don’t do this alone. That may seem laughably obvious. Of course God’s there, we think. Of course it’s a two-way street. But how often do we give that idea lip service? Somewhere during my life, I picked up the notion that if something had to be done, I had to do it. So if prayer and devotion were to be successful—whatever that means—it was up to me. The thought of letting God shoulder the load is totally alien.

And yet…how utterly essential is it to do just that? I suspect Jesus had this in mind when he said, “Those who abide in me and I in them bear much fruit, because apart from me you can do nothing” (John 15:5). My experience with the contemplative life testifies to that: out of the stillness in my soul, where God dwells, comes a great deal of growth.

Maybe these lessons have a broader application too. It’s not just me making progress; it’s the whole human race. Look at the grand sweep of history: how far, for instance, we’ve come since crucifixion and slavery and the absolute rule of kings. We still have overwhelming problems—and make horrific steps backward (like the Holocaust)—but slowly, haltingly, clumsily, the race seems to move forward.*

And what would happen if more of us could take the Other in this God-relationship seriously? If we could find a way to let go, to “rest in the everlasting arms,” according to the old hymn? How much more good would flow from our lives—and our life together?

*A tip of the hat to my father-in-law for this astute observation.

What Do We Have to Believe? And Why?

2008-05-13T09:57:00.000-04:00

Belief (be and lyan, to hold dear). That state of the mind by which it assents to propositions, not by reason of their intrinsic evidence, but because of authority.

Creed (Latin credo, I believe). In general, a form of belief…the entire body of beliefs held by the adherents of a given religion.

—The Catholic Encyclopedia

I’m nearly finished my tour of two gospels—Matthew and John—and their two vastly different approaches to the Christian faith. Matthew is all about inner transformation and the practical living out of God’s kingdom; John focuses on believing in Jesus as Messiah.

What really amazes me, though, is what I haven’t seen: a requirement to “assent to propositions.” So why does the church require it?

Church leaders have spent millennia defining “legitimate” belief and rooting out variations of thought that fell outside its bounds. In many churches, we recite the creeds that sprang from this process. Some Christian traditions require assent not only to those creeds, but to a fairly specific list of propositions. In contrast, one of the towering strengths of the Anglican/Episcopal tradition—a strength that is very much in peril right now—is the latitude it gives to living the questions; we’re asked to believe the creeds, and everything else is open for discussion.

But why have creeds at all?

I suppose there’s a point at which, for purposes of sheer institutional cohesion, we all have to be on the same page. It might be difficult to build a functioning community in which one of us worships Jesus, another Vishnu, still another prays to the bodhisattvas, etc. Moreover, it may be that there’s a certain depth of wisdom in each faith tradition that can only be plumbed by communities of people in that tradition. So, although all faith traditions deserve respect and honor, there’s a place in the universe for communities of like-minded people.

But how like-minded do you really have to be in order to build community?

Perhaps I’ll find some mention of this in St. Paul or another biblical writer. But the thought that God actually cares about “getting the doctrine right” doesn’t square with the God I have come to know: a God whose very essence is love.

Why Wait?

2008-04-18T10:06:00.000-04:00

When the people saw that Moses delayed to come down from the mountain, the people gathered around Aaron, and said to him, “Come, make gods for us, who shall go before us; as for this Moses…we do not know what has become of him.” (Exodus 32:1)

Imagine this scenario from the people’s perspective.

Moses has led them out of slavery in Egypt. He is their leader, their judge, and the mouthpiece of their God—the embodiment of everything that might keep them moving forward with purpose. After traveling through the desert, they come to this foreboding mountain. Moses scales it to talk with God. Days pass.

Weeks pass.

These folks are in the middle of nowhere, with scarce resources and no one in authority to articulate a vision for them. They are waiting around for a disappeared leader who may never return—and a rather frightening God who may or may not speak to them. Strangest of all, this is exactly what God wants them to do.

Think of how profoundly countercultural this message is for us moderns.

We keep to-do lists and check off the items to celebrate our progress. We love to be busy, to feel productive. So much information and so many goods are now available in seconds.

In themselves, these are good things. But when they control our lives as they do in this century, it’s easy to lose the ability to wait and wander.

Now imagine what happens if we do wait and wander.

Suddenly we have time to ask deeper questions, like why am I living this way? The “necessities” of modern life look less necessary. The ideas and desires that shape our lives—excessive work, upward mobility, busyness as a virtue—seem vacuous. We start making less room for the urgent and more room for the important, including God.

Once we make room for God, anything can happen.

That may be the ultimate value of the desert experience. Our usual touchstones fall away, and we are left with the one relationship on which everything depends. As we live in that relationship, God produces an entirely different kind of fruit in us. It not only brings us peace of soul, but confronts the go-go culture around us by its very example.

If we live in the desert, then, God can work with us to change our small corner of the world. Is that too much to say? Or could there be truth in it?

The Vexing Gospel of John

2008-04-04T10:06:00.000-04:00

[Jesus said,] “You know the way to the place where I am going.” Thomas said to him, “Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?” Jesus said to him, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” (John 14:4-6)

Let me share an ongoing struggle with you.

About a year ago, I decided I needed a fresh look at the gospels. Among the motivators were two beliefs that could be at odds: first, that the Bible deserves to be taken seriously (whatever that means); second, that I cannot imagine God excluding any human soul because it did not subscribe to specific beliefs. That, to me, makes God smaller—and I distrust anything that makes God smaller.

I started with Matthew and loved it. I felt liberated by the overwhelming emphasis on inner transformation and outer practice as part of the reign of God—elements that, I think rightly, Marcus Borg cites as the core of the gospel in The Heart of Christianity. This gospel calls us to embrace the less fortunate, to be generous to all, to heal, to distrust wealth, all from the wellspring of a heart transformed by the Spirit. Wonderful.

Then I came to the gospel of John.

Suddenly it is not so much about the practice of Christianity as the person of Jesus. Belief in Jesus as Messiah is the path to God. In fact, verses like the one above—including “those who do not believe are condemned already” (3:18)—indicate that this belief is the only path to God. If true as written, that would pretty much take down my belief in an all-inclusive God.

So what gives? Is it that simple: we take it literally and assume that the Buddhists are going to hell? On the other extreme, do we simply ignore it because we don’t like it?

Those answers, I believe, are simplistic. Now look at the next (perhaps more thoughtful) level of response: Do we explain this message as a product of the times in which John was written? Or the understanding of that writer in that culture, time, and place? Or the fact that the whole gospel was written more than a half century after Christ, so who knows what he really said?

These seem more reasonable to me, and if I were a Bible scholar, perhaps I could adopt one of them with confidence. But without the scholarship to back them up, even these approaches seem too dismissive, too unwilling to stare into the text and then, like Jacob with the angel, wrestle it until it blesses us.

What’s the answer? I do have a couple of thoughts: it intrigues me, for instance, that Jesus calls himself the way—so the way is a person, not a belief system. But honestly, I don’t know. Maybe wrestling with texts, regardless of one’s academic background, is the only way to give proper respect to all the factors: the text, the context in which it was written, and where we live now. Maybe that’s the best way to get at the truth behind each passage. Maybe.

What do you think?

The Power of the Smallest Acts

2008-03-26T09:28:00.002-04:00

And they told [Jacob], “Joseph [your son] is still alive! He is even ruler over all the land of Egypt.” He was stunned; he could not believe them. But when they told him all the words of Joseph…and when he saw the wagons that Joseph had sent to carry him, the spirit of their father Jacob revived. Israel said, “Enough! My son Joseph is still alive. I must go and see him before I die.” (Genesis 45:26-28)

Can our actions possibly matter?

Much of the evidence points to a resounding no. Day after grinding day, the media show us the staggering size of our world, the tectonic trends that move nations and regions, the massive suffering on other continents. How can one person possibly make any impact at all? Why not just lapse into despair or, on the other extreme, live for ourselves and our own little corner of the world?

Then you run across stories like this.

Jacob’s sons had sold their brother Joseph into slavery—and told their father that Joseph was dead. Jacob had lived with the grief for years. Then, during a famine, his sons went to Egypt to buy food, only to find that Joseph had become a ruler, second only to Pharaoh. They bring the joyous news back to Jacob.

Then what happens? Jacob decides to follow every father’s most natural impulse: to go and see his beloved son.

And the whole history of Israel changes in an instant.

Maybe, if Jacob does not go, his clan does not settle in Egypt. They do not, over time, become a nation enslaved to the Egyptians. God has no reason to deliver the nation of Israel—and thus provide one of the greatest examples of God’s passion to save us. As a result, maybe we don’t even come to know God in quite the same way.

The very language of this passage foreshadows the impact of this small act. Up till now, the story refers to Jacob mostly by his birth name, Jacob. When he makes the decision to see his son, though, the passage suddenly calls him Israel—the name God gave him, the name that connotes his position as the patriarch of the future nation. In that one subtle name shift are the shades of what is to come.

This is such good news for us. The truth is, we have no way to tell whether even our smallest, most natural acts might have earth-shaking consequences. But clearly, as the story shows us, we do make an impact. It behooves us, then, to live our lives for good and not ill—to “do the things you have given us to do” (in the words of the Anglican prayer).

This good news also takes the pressure off. Jacob underwent no strategic planning process to consider the results of his actions. He did not attempt to “control outcomes.” He simply did what any father would do. When we live our lives in the Presence of the Divine, we can do the same, without obsessing over results—because the results are not up to us.

In short, then, this story liberates us to live with purpose, because we make an impact, without looking for results, because we can’t know the impact. We are free to lay aside our best-laid plans and simply do justice, love extravagantly, and walk humbly with our God.

Out of the Depths I Cry to You

2008-03-14T08:55:00.000-04:00

Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice! Let your ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications! (Psalm 130:1-2)

There is something all too familiar about the images of Silda Wall Spitzer standing by her disgraced husband’s side. I have seen that haggard look elsewhere.

In the mirror.

It is a look that can speak of unexpected upheaval or tired desperation, of sudden shocks or long tortuous battles. It is the look of someone who is losing a child to mental illness, who cannot escape the clutches of depression, who has been ground down by life’s vicissitudes…who, like Silda, has suddenly found a productive life destroyed by a tragedy in the classic sense.

If you’ve lived any length of time, you’ve probably seen that look in the mirror too.

It often comes with a complete loss of perspective. (I would suggest Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking for a vivid depiction of this.) Accomplishing the simplest tasks can be impossible. One moves as through water, or rapidly curing concrete. Suddenly it is easy to understand the emotional wallop in the first two verses of the de profundis (quoted above), which we often pray to commemorate the dead.

What can we say to faces like these? What can we say when the faces are ours?

I don’t know that there’s a clear way forward. The typical platitudes are rarely comforting, whatever seeds of truth they contain. The silent, listening presence of others can bear much fruit; sometimes, however, they might be blessed with just the right thing to say, and silence would be counterproductive. Certainly there is no way around the distress; there is only the way through.

Faith rarely makes the distress go away quickly. But it does have two words to speak. One involves psalms like the de profundis. If we can cry to God so desperately—if we are free to scream at God as the psalmist does—it makes faith a safe space in which to grieve. Before God, we can let everything out and slowly, slowly, work our way through.

The other word will be spoken next week, during the Christian Holy Week, when we commemorate the brutal torture and death that Jesus endured. God may not magically set things right, but in the person of Jesus, God has worn this face.

Sometimes clinging to these words is all we can do when that face confronts us in the mirror.

What’s All This About Sharing the Faith?

2008-02-29T10:01:00.000-05:00

Our parish priest has been nudging us to evangelize—to spread the word about Jesus to those we know in the secular world. Many ecclesiastical leaders, especially those with a conservative or literalist bent, push this as a necessary part of one’s faith journey. They cite Jesus’ words in the gospel of Matthew to “go out and make disciples of all nations” (28:19).

At the same time, as I mentioned several posts ago (“Explaining the Unexplainable”), we’re faced with formidable challenges in talking about God at all, among them a secular culture that’s often hostile to discussions of this structure. We get pushed on both sides, so we naturally end up doing nothing—and feeling guilty.

Maybe there’s another way to think about this.

Let’s start by taking the pressure off—by removing the imperative of evangelism. A “just do it” mentality will not help us reach a culture that is highly skeptical, prefers science over faith, and associates discussions of religion with aggressive televangelists.

Then, let’s redefine what we do when we evangelize. The traditional objective is to convert: this automatically puts pressure on both parties—the evangelizer, who feels the need to recruit more church members/save people from hell/whatever, and the evangelizee, who’s being asked to make an earth-shattering life decision that she may not want to consider at all.

I would suggest that we try a different objective: not to convert, but to engage—to share our experience of God in a way that “joins the general conversation.” This fits better with the sensibility of our culture, so it may bear considerably more fruit.

There are two curveballs here. One is the risk involved in joining the general conversation. When the discussion becomes two-way, we might be confronted with the validity of the other person’s ideas. We might have to let them shape our own belief system. I think that’s a good thing in general, but it does eliminate the possibility of staying in one’s comfort zone.

The other curveball involves what we share. For many progressives, there’s no imperative of hell involved, so why even bother talking about faith? As far as I can see, the primary reason is that we can’t help it: the sheer bounty of God’s work in our lives takes our breath away, and we just have to share.

But what if that joy is not part of your faith journey? If that’s the case, I’m thinking, you put the entire evangelism business on hold. There’s something more important for you to do right now: to find that joy.

This is an incredible life we lead. By all means let us share it—respectfully, with humility, when and if we’re ready.

Is Imperfect Better?

2008-02-27T09:55:00.000-05:00

As [Jesus] walked along, he saw a man blind from birth. His disciples asked him, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” Jesus answered, “Neither this man nor his parents sinned; he was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him.” (John 9:1-3)

Can our best selves spring from our most broken parts?

In some ways, my entire adult life has been a quest for the approval of others. It can be a painful and crippling affliction. It has led me, in many instances, to make nice and keep my mouth shut, even when speaking up would have been more appropriate. I have worked for years on the causes of this, and I am making progress in overcoming it.

Along the way, however, my obsession with approval made something else happen. In trying to make nice, I learned to seek common ground. In keeping my mouth shut, I learned to listen. I learned enough to begin writing a book about the essential elements of authentic dialogue—an important topic in a world that is starved for it.

So my own pathology might someday, God and publishers willing, help others heal.

How often is that true? I have read of a man who rarely spoke because he was ashamed to show his bad teeth; as a result, he became an outstanding listener. God tells St. Paul, who is afflicted with an unspecified “thorn in the flesh,” that “my grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness” (2 Corinthians 12:8).

This attitude toward brokenness isn’t intuitive. We try to overcome our weaknesses, heal from our infirmities, triumph over our besetting sins. And all these efforts are good and necessary. Who could deny the value of health and spiritual progress?

And yet, in the quest for wellness, it’s easy to miss the fruit that the brokenness bears. If we turn our attention to that brokenness, we might be amazed to see the God hidden within it—and the wondrous works that God is doing there.

Then, perhaps, we can say with St. Paul, “Therefore I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities for the sake of Christ; for whenever I am weak, then I am strong” (2 Corinthians 12:10).

God's Words Upside Down

2008-01-31T09:28:00.000-05:00

In one of my college art history classes, I remember seeing a lovely medieval painting in which God was speaking to someone. You could tell it was God speaking, because the text was upside down. The positioning, according to our professor, symbolized not only God’s place “up there,” but also the difficulty that we have understanding God.

Could this symbolism help us live more comfortably with our scriptures?

Right now, I’m in a phase where nothing about the Bible makes sense. I reread passages whose meaning I’ve “understood” for 20 years—and I see something different in them. (Some of these lessons have blessed me mightily, so it’s not all bad.) Turns of phrase that once seemed drop-dead clear are now maddeningly obscure. Don’t even get me started on the outright contradictions.

And my 21^st-century mind is sorely tempted to ask, “What’s wrong with you writers? Why can’t you be clear and consistent?”

To be sure, we’re reading texts written millennia ago by multiple writers with multiple viewpoints, and that’s part of the issue. But I think there’s more to it: namely, the impossibility of explaining ultimate reality directly. No wonder God’s words are upside down: in a sense, they cannot be any other way.

I see the same struggle to express reality outside the texts of faith traditions. In Ulysses, James Joyce takes 700-odd pages—some of them nearly incomprehensible—to present a three-dimensional portrait of one man on one day. Cubist portraits translate 3D onto a flat surface by displaying each feature of the subject on its own plane; the result is a more complete presentation of the elusive reality than a standard portrait could be.

In short, reality will not be nailed down.

What does this mean for us? Maybe it means the pressure is off. We don’t have to pinpoint exactly who Jesus was, or define God in a neat way, or be “right” about details. The pursuit of truth becomes less pursuit and more exploration. Humility gets the chance to flourish in our souls. We can hold what we’ve learned lightly, in case we learn something else to turn those lessons upside down.

And without the need to be “right,” we can turn more of our attention to God, where we will find far more truth anyway—and the love we desperately need to leaven it.

Is Mary for Everyone?

2008-01-21T09:40:00.000-05:00

A monk friend of mine (Episcopalian) has been heard to say, “I don’t do Mary.” To be sure, a lot of people outside Roman Catholicism feel the same way. For me, though, a devotion to Mary has added substantial depth and color to the spiritual journey.

Perhaps a bit of background is in order. Maybe 10 years ago, I started wondering exactly what Catholics saw in Mary, so I went to the only source I knew: the Gospel of Luke. Here’s some of what I found:

In the sixth month the angel Gabriel…came to her and said, “Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you.” But she was much perplexed by his words and pondered what sort of greeting this might be. (Luke 1:26-29) Notice something about Mary’s reaction. She’s perplexed, she’s pondering, but she’s not scared out of her wits, as most people would be when confronted with an angel. This tells me that the world of angels—more generally, the world of God—is well known to her. She shows a spiritual awareness exceptional in a young teenage girl.
Then Mary said, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.” (Luke 1:38) The angel Gabriel has just turned her world upside down: she’s about to become an unwed teenage mother in a culture that could very well put her to death for it. And yet, at such tremendous personal risk, she yields herself to the Divine will.
But Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart. (Luke 2:19; see also v. 51) A apt description of a contemplative spirit, yes?

So in these first two chapters, I found a portrait of a reflective, spiritually precocious young woman that deeply moved me. This was someone I could model myself after.

It was also someone I wanted to talk with. And so I have.

I don’t think that’s unusual. A good friend and fellow parishioner is profoundly skeptical of the mystical side of Christianity; he doesn’t believe in a literal Resurrection, let alone literal miracles, etc. And yet, in a time of deep personal crisis, he suddenly found himself saying the Hail Mary.

There is something very deep, very ancient, to which we connect when we connect with Mary. Perhaps it’s the simple yet timeless comfort of a mother—an especially strong pull for those of us who didn’t have perfect childhoods. Maybe it’s the deep sense of interrelatedness that seems to spring naturally from the feminine. Maybe it’s the wisdom of the archetypal wise woman. I couldn’t tell you.

The strange thing is, whenever I use Marian prayers or simply contemplate Mary, I always find myself moving on eventually to God. The Catholics know this experience well: they take Mary’s direction at the Cana wedding—do whatever he tells you (John 2:5)—as a universal sign that she always points to Christ.

None of this means I subscribe to all the various church doctrines about Mary. But I don’t think such a dogmatic belief is necessary. If that is indeed the case, then devotion to Mary can fit comfortably in many faith traditions. For me, at least, its value is inestimable. Maybe the same is true for you too.

Explaining the Unexplainable

2008-01-17T10:03:00.000-05:00

How do you explain faith to people who have no specific faith?

It’s anything but easy. The language of the faith traditions is utterly foreign to these folks. Many of them are cynical by nature. They find more reasonable explanations in the world of science, the everyday, or the closed loop of human society (often with good reason). It doesn’t help that aggressive evangelists have made faith talk synonymous with the ol’ hard sell—and alienated many people into an outright refusal to consider faith at all.

This question certainly daunted Henri Nouwen, the Dutch priest, psychologist, and contemplative. In fact, he wrote a brilliant book (Life of the Beloved) to answer it; unfortunately, for his secular friends, it didn’t work.

And yet, God has given us this unutterably rich experience of life, and we want to share it so others can taste of its richness as well. But how can we do so in their language?

One answer came from a close friend who is deeply spiritual and just as deeply alienated from any specific faith tradition. As we discussed matters of faith one day, she explained her view of the Divine: “Just look around us. This all doesn’t just happen.”

In that spirit, maybe the following might help skeptics take one step closer to the Divine. Consider that, in a world without God:

· The universe makes sense. The earth does not.

· Function makes sense. Beauty does not.

· Cooperation makes sense. Love does not.

And yet the earth thrives. Beauty abounds. Love persists. Life, to quote Jurassic Park, finds a way. How is that possible when all things should naturally tend toward entropy and decay?

What else doesn’t make sense without God? I'd love to hear your thoughts.

What Is Truth? And Should We Care?

2008-01-11T09:24:00.000-05:00

Truth is one of those words, like humility and virtue, that has fallen by the wayside. To the extent you hear any talk about truth these days, it tends to fall into one of two lines of thought:

1. Everything is relative. In our gloriously diverse, post-Christian society, who are we to judge others’ opinions of reality? Can we really say there’s a right or wrong? If not, doesn’t that make talk of “truth” obsolete? There’s so much to be said in favor of this approach: it can lead to tolerance, listening, mutual respect, and authentic dialogue.

And yet the problem with “there’s no right or wrong” is that ultimately it’s, um, well, wrong.

Consider the myriad of sincere, intelligent Christians in ages past who believed that the Bible condoned slavery, or anti-Semitism, or the mistreatment of women. The consensus in today’s Christendom (let alone the secular world) would call these interpretations wrong. That opens the door for an unsettling doubt: are there beliefs today that we take for granted but future generations will see as clearly wrong?

And if the answer is yes, wouldn’t that make the pursuit of truth—whatever that is—worthwhile?

2. I have the truth. We’ve all seen how much danger lies in claims to exclusive truth. If we have the truth, why engage in dialogue with those who disagree? Why not, rather, do anything we can to convince them of our belief? This so often devolves into many of the conflicts that plague our world today, from debased dialogue and insensitivity to outright violence.

But is there another way to think about truth?

I think there is, and perhaps the clearest exposition is in the Gospel of John. On the face of it, the gospel’s pages include both lines of thought we just explored. In the relativist corner, Pontius Pilate looks Jesus in the eye during his trial and dismissively asks, “What is truth?” (John 18:38). For the absolutist view, look at Jesus’ own saying: “If you follow my word, you are truly my disciples, and you shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free” (John 8:31-32).

Now look more closely. I wonder whether, in both stories, the gospel writer is trying to make a point. Pilate asks the question “What is truth?” and receives no answer—because he’s looking at it. Jesus speaks of the truth, not as a set of assertions, but as his word and indeed (John 14:6) as himself.

In both cases, we are presented with truth as a person.

Here’s the rub. People take a lifetime to get to know. People have myriad facets, sometimes paradoxical. If truth is like this too, the pursuit of truth becomes so much more than a quest for the right viewpoint or the correct proposition. Rather, it involves both an appreciation for the unfathomable complexity of truth and an unrelenting curiosity to seek it—no matter how inconvenient it may be.

In this view, truth is not to be mastered, but to be treated with reverence. We pursue it not with the goal of learning The Truth, but with the humility of knowing we can’t. We become like the blind men with the elephant: each grasping a small slice of the truth, yet needing one another to appreciate it more deeply.

A pursuit of truth that leads to humility, reverence, and interdependence of neighbors? Just imagine the good fruit that could bear.

"There Is Something Afoot in the Universe"

2007-12-27T09:50:00.000-05:00

Every now and then, I run across an insight that takes my breath away. It happened again this Advent season. In an eloquent editorial, Father Andrew Greeley offered a quote (from Pierre Teilhard de Chardin) that puts the heart of the Christmas message in the language of mystery it deserves:

“There is something afoot in the universe, something that looks like gestation and birth.”

This is not just about a baby in a manger. It is, rather, a cosmic reality that makes our lives pregnant with meaning and hope. The Utterly Unknowable becomes not only knowable, but personal. In the process, he makes the ultimate effort to know us…by becoming one of us.

It is a story that can change lives.

I pray that this Christmas season—and the new year to come—bring you even more of the Unknowable in your midst. Blessings and peace.

Getting Ready for the Second Coming

2007-11-21T09:54:00.001-05:00

Recently I suggested a different perspective on “Christ will come again”: maybe, just maybe, this statement does not so much affirm an actual future event as express a longing for (and faith in) restoration. The whole discussion reminded me of a quandary that plagued me during my fundamentalist days: the gospels seem to indicate that we should “get ready” for the Second Coming—but how?

A recent trip through Matthew 24-25 surprised me with a straightforward answer. In this passage, Jesus presents four parables that deal with “getting ready.” Here’s what struck me:

The servant left in charge of the master’s households (Matthew 24:45-51). If the servant gives “the other slaves their allowance of food at the proper time,” he is blessed; if he beats the servants and “eats with drunkards,” he is punished. The moral: treat other people with justice and respect.
The wise and foolish maidens (25:1-12). Five of the maidens run out of oil for their lamps, so they cannot meet the bridegroom when he returns at night. The other five have prepared and are (here’s that word again) ready for the bridegroom. I may be reading too much into this, but I believe it expresses the need to cultivate and feed the interior life—to “keep the flame alive,” as it were.
The parable of the talents (25:14-30). The master leaves three servants with money. Two of them invest the money and earn back double what they invested; the master commends them. One, saying that the master is a “harsh man” and being afraid of his wrath, buried it in the ground—to keep it “safe”—and was rebuked. The moral here involves stewardship: manage wisely your gifts and talents, and use them to bear fruit.
The sheep and the goats (25:31-46). At the Second Coming, the king separates people as one would separate sheep and goats. The “sheep” go to eternal life; the “goats” go to hell. What separates them? How they treated the sick, the hungry, the naked, and those in prison.

So, in summary, how does one “get ready” for the Second Coming? By practicing justice, acting as wise stewards of God’s gifts, fostering the life of the Spirit within us, and serving the very least among us. Or as the prophet Micah puts it (Micah 6:8), “What does the Lord require of you, but to do justice, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God?”

In other words, we get ready for the return of Christ by doing what we’re called to do every day of our lives.

This is why I think—whether you believe in a literal Second Coming or not—that we need not pay a great deal of attention to it directly. Our job is simply to do what God calls us to do, day in and day out. By fulfilling God’s will, we make ourselves ready for God’s coming, regardless of what that means.

Living in the Mystic Now

2007-11-13T09:37:00.000-05:00

Mysticism confuses people. When they hear the word, they often think of wild visions or ecstatic trances or whirling dervishes. And sometimes that comes with the territory, or so mystic writers (like St. Teresa of Avila) testify.

I’m experiencing something different.

Lately, I have felt driven not into ecstasy, but deep into real, everyday life. Just by paying attention to what’s happening around me, I’ve learned some essential lessons. For instance, as I’ve dealt with the people who cross my path every day, I’ve run up against my capacity to hurt and be hurt. I’ve seen that I’m just as fallible and occasionally noble as anyone else: no more, no less. I’ve noted how God weaves himself sublimely, almost invisibly, through the day.

None of this is earth-shattering, of course, and much of it seems pathetically obvious. But maybe that is a key practice of mysticism: to draw simple yet life-changing lessons from the reality around us.

Many spiritual traditions look at it that way. Zen calls its practitioners to be present to the moment. Spiritual writer Eckhart Tolle exhorts us to “be here now.”

I believe that quiet, constant attention, that “being here now,” works its magic in us. Not only do we learn about reality, we start to align our lives around it. When we see what is, we see our own feelings and prejudices for what they are—and can reach beyond them to what is beyond us. Our compassion for others expands. Most miraculously, we begin to sense the presence of the Divine like a constant hum throughout the day.

The beauty of Christianity, I think, lies right there: in the constant presence of a loving God permeating this everyday life, working with the messes we often make—and the good we sometimes do—to weave the human cosmos together in ways far beyond our imagining. This God, I think, is our hope that, as we live purposefully in the here and now, our lives take purpose well beyond.

Where Vocation Lives

2007-11-01T09:10:00.000-04:00

We were spending a week with my aging parents in Florida, and our 10-year-old was bored and restless. Try as she might, she could not figure out what she wanted to do. There weren’t many choices: go to the pool, read, or…what?

So I asked her to try something that’s worked for me. She quieted her mind, focused inward, and tried to listen for anything that bubbled to the surface. After a minute or so, she said, “I think I want to play with pipe cleaners.”

So, much to the bemusement of my parents, we went out and bought pipe cleaners. And she was happy and engaged for the rest of our stay.

I wonder if vocation is like that.

Saturday’s religion section includes a story of a woman who was on track to become an attorney. When her mother took ill, however, she came back to our region to care for her—and found a part-time job as a youth minister. “It was then,” she wrote, “that I realized working with teens and sharing my faith has always been my passion.”

Note: has always been my passion.

I suspect vocation is like that. The calling lives in us all along; our challenge is to discover it—to sort through the many facets of ourselves and find the one thing that strikes right to the heart of who we are.

Not that the path to this discovery is entirely introspective. Nowadays, we get our kids involved in all manner of activities. The purpose is not (I hope!) to push them into a particular activity, or teach them to become overachievers; we’re simply giving them the chance to see what really ignites them.

In other words, we’re helping them find their vocation.

That trial and error is important (in moderation). More important, however, is what we do during the trial and error: we pay attention to our souls. We ask ourselves: What happens when I do x? Do I sense a peace, a purpose, when I do y? What passion sits at the base of my being?

Simple attention drew our daughter to the one thing that would fulfill her during that vacation. Simple attention can help us find our own vocation in life, then pursue it for what it is: the will of God for us.

Second Thoughts on the Second Coming

2007-10-29T09:44:00.000-04:00

“Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again.”

We Episcopalians often say this splendid confession of faith during the liturgy of the Eucharist. But what are we saying, really, when we affirm that “Christ will come again”?

And if it’s not the traditional answer, could it be something just as deep and compelling?

As a former fundamentalist, I have always assumed the affirmation meant what it said: that Jesus would return from heaven at the end of time and usher in the Last Judgment. There are ample scriptural references to this event: whole chapters (Matthew 24), even whole books (Revelation), are devoted to this topic.

Or are they?

A closer reading causes me to wonder. From all appearances, the New Testament writers fully expected the return of Christ within their lifetimes. St. Paul writes, for example, that “the appointed time has grown very short…. For the form of this world is passing away” (1 Corinthians 7:29, 31b). The writer of Hebrews exhorts readers to meet together regularly, “and all the more as you see the Day drawing near” (Hebrews 10:25).

One small problem: it didn’t happen.

Then you look at the apocalyptic passages in the gospels and realize they could be talking about any era. “You will hear wars and rumors of wars”: happens in every age. “There will be famines and earthquakes in various places”: same thing. In fact, these could be referring to the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple in the first century. Given that Revelation is written to “the seven churches that are in Asia,” might not that book also be referring to first-century events?

Now, none of this necessarily means that there won’t be a final return of Jesus and an “end of the age.” Still, when I read scriptural affirmations of such a return—especially when coupled with harrowing accounts of the end times—I hear something distinctly different: a deep, almost unutterable yearning for restoration and healing after a cataclysm. In that sense, the passage echoes the most moving passages from the Old Testament prophets, in which they bewail the destruction and captivity of Israel—then bring the good news of a future return.

In a post-9/11 world, don’t we need this message more than ever? For us in the modern era, “Christ will come again” becomes a stirring message of hope in the restorative love of a God who, all evidence to the contrary, has not abandoned us—and never will.

Yes, “Christ will come again.” Count on it.

Spiritual but Not Religious?

2007-10-05T09:14:00.000-04:00

You hear this from a lot of people these days. Many of them, I suspect, mean they have an appreciation, even a reverence, for the things of the spirit, but they find themselves repelled by the trappings of institutional faith. (Given the history of institutional faith, who can blame them?)

In many cases, as our parish’s interim rector said in his sermon this past Sunday, this hunger for spirit expresses itself in a most eclectic way. The small shrine at our dog’s favorite kennel includes all manner of spiritual objects, including statues of Buddha and the Virgin Mary nearly side by side. “Spiritual but not religious” people might place Emerson in with Krishna in with St. Francis of Assisi and Zoroaster in one religious stew.

Is this necessarily a bad thing? I don’t think so. Truth is hardly restricted to one faith tradition. On the whole, at least from what I’ve read and seen, I think Eastern religions have gone far deeper than Christianity in matters of meditation and mysticism. On the other hand, there’s a depth of meaning in the Incarnation—God “lived and died as one of us,” so surely he knows our failings—that I believe is unique among faith traditions.

Here’s the one thing that worries me about “spiritual but not religious”: I suspect that, without a single established core to one’s spirituality, it becomes tempting to adopt those elements of faith that offer comfort but not challenge. In that guise, non-religious spirituality fails to do what spirituality at its highest level does: make us grow toward the Divine—and toward one another.

An example from the tradition I know best: Christianity, like the other Abrahamic faith traditions, calls its followers to live out their faith in flesh-and-blood communities, in this case the church. When you participate in a church with other people, however, some of them are bound to rub you the wrong way. The solution, according to modern society, is to leave. The solution, according to the Christian faith, is to stay—and even learn to love (though not necessarily like) those people. Why? Because it forces us outside ourselves, leavens our perspective with those of others, and fosters our growth in love.

In the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer, we ask God to “deliver us from the presumption of coming to this Table [the Eucharist] for solace only, and not for strength; for pardon only, and not for renewal.” This, I suspect, is what happens when we commit ourselves to a spiritual tradition: we enjoy the comforts even as we take up the challenges to which God calls us. Following that path is an adventure like no other.

Who Is God That We Should Submit?

2007-08-08T09:58:00.000-04:00

I am God, and there is no other. By myself I have sworn…: “To me every knee shall bow, every tongue shall swear.” (Isaiah 45:22-23)

On the face of it, this passage seems exceptionally self-serving: it makes God sound like an autocratic medieval king. But there’s at least one good reason to “bow the knee” that has nothing to do with accumulation of glory.

To understand this, start with a definition of God that is disarming in its simplicity: God is love (1 John 4:8). It’s easy to gloss over those three little words, but their effect on our understanding of God can be life-changing. The image of God as the big judge in the sky fades; in its place, we are left with God as the ground of self-giving, a wellspring of extravagant love bestowed upon the universe.

If that’s the case, what are we doing when we “bow the knee” to God? Not just yielding our will to a larger will, but imitating that self-giving love. By doing so on a daily basis, we become more and more like Love himself—and from there it is an easy step to give of ourselves to others.

Perhaps this new perspective could make an impact far beyond us as well. If our primary view of God ceases to be the big judge in the sky, perhaps we stop seeking to judge and drawing dogmatic distinctions. If we relate to God as the ground of self-giving, perhaps we focus more on our own self-giving. If, as in traditional Christian thought, we see Jesus as God fully identifying with the human race, perhaps we too seek to identify with and understand the other. That might lead to more compassion and more peace.

Can God be reduced to three little words? Of course not. From what I’ve seen in the scriptures and my own life, God is so infinitely complex—and so impenetrably mysterious—that no words can capture the divine essence. Still, God is love, I suspect, gives us a glimpse into that very essence. And if we place that glimpse at the core of our understanding of God, we just might bear more of the fruit that the world so desperately needs.

The Four Seasons and How to Tolerate Them

2007-08-03T09:39:00.000-04:00

A few years ago, I found myself complaining about the weather all too frequently. I decided I needed to restrict my kvetching to just one season. So I chose my least favorite: summer.

Now I may even have to repent of that.

In a recent posting on his weekly blog, Br. Bede Thomas Mudge, the prior of Holy Cross Monastery, discussed the need to accept the seasons for what they are—and the energy that comes from doing simply that. The idea is to let go of the complaining and the steeling oneself against (in my case) the unremitting heat and humidity and the unpleasant person it makes me.

And unpleasant is the word for it. My concentration dwindles to zero, often making prayer a joke. My irritability goes through the roof. My lethargy leaves me not caring whether those work projects get done by the due date. Et cetera.

So if I simply accept summer—and my reaction to it—what happens?

Suddenly my perspective changes. Maybe it’s a good thing to go through times like this. Every year, like clockwork (or maybe thermometerwork), I get to see the unpleasant side of me, which breeds humility. Even more, I get to embrace the irritability and the lethargy and the et cetera, not as good things, but simply as part of who I am. It gives me a clearer vision of myself—and what is humility if not that?

Of course, this experience is hardly unique—as anyone familiar with St. Paul can attest. To keep me from being too elated, a thorn was given me in the flesh, a messenger of Satan to torment me…. Three times I appealed to the Lord about this, that it would leave me, but he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” (2 Corinthians 12:7-9)

For me at least, it’s one thing to read about these experiences; it’s quite another to discover them at work in my own life—and to start recognizing them for the blessings they are.

P.S. None of this stops me from running the air conditioner when the temp hits 90. Got to keep that irritability from getting out of hand.

The Siren Song of "I Need It Now"

2007-07-18T09:27:00.000-04:00

Since committing myself to Holy Cross’s Rule for Associates, I’ve tried to live more in balance: less time at work, more space for quiet, more routine ensconced in prayer. So much fruit has come from this—and some of it is most visible during those times when, Rule or no Rule, work and other commitments still get out of hand.

The last two weeks, for instance—which included a gigantic work project on ridiculous deadlines—have reminded me just what it feels like to live out of balance. The frenetic pace robs me of my ability to pray, concentrate, or reflect deeply. I have neither the time nor the energy to step back and gain perspective. I suspect this is why people call you for information you’ve already provided in an e-mail, or they repeat back something to you that they think you said, but you really didn’t: they’re moving so fast that they haven’t been able to pay attention.

I can’t live this way for more than a couple of weeks. The pace is insane. It is also, however, strangely seductive. To pull it off, I have to restrict myself to a certain level of input, sealing off perspectives that might intrude on my own sphere. As long as I stay in that zone, I’m OK…or so I think. It makes life easier. It gives at least the illusion of control in a culture that drowns us in information and false urgency.

This isn’t necessarily bad in the short run. Sometimes it’s all you can do to cope with what’s at hand. But when this becomes a long-term strategy for dealing with the world, it closes us off to the essentials: to God, to the deep workings of the universe, to one another, to plight of those who are poor, to listening. It keeps us from the abundant life that God holds out to us to savor and engage.

I wonder if this is why we so often have epiphanies during a crisis or catastrophe. In those moments, life breaks through the illusion of control and forces us to waken to something larger. It may not be that “this catastrophe happened for a reason”: maybe it just happened, and for better or worse, it now presents an opportunity to see beyond our limited sphere.

It’s an opportunity worth seizing, within crisis or without. The life beyond modern culture’s frantic pace—especially life with the Divine Presence—is rich beyond measure. May we embrace it with both arms.

Three Words to Promote Healing

2007-07-14T14:59:00.000-04:00

No, not those three words. To be sure, I love you goes a long way toward building solid relationships and healing broken ones. But three other words might help the healing process as well.

I don’t know.

Something in our DNA compels us toward knowledge. Perhaps it’s the thirst for understanding: where would science be today without it? Maybe, less beneficially, it’s the desire for control. Or the drive to hold on to something concrete amid constant change: such a drive, I suspect, has contributed mightily to the rise of fundamentalism.

One tiny problem: certainty eludes us. The cosmos isn’t built for it. Look at the mind-boggling uncertainty at the subatomic level; you can’t even tell where a particle is with any certainty. On the human level, we have studied the psyche for thousands of years—and yet there is still so much about our inner life that is mysterious.

This is all the more true of God. Even the Bible speaks of a God who changes course and sometimes seems to act in a contradictory manner. In our everyday lives, God stuns us just when we think we’ve got him—wait, her?—figured out.

If we could embrace such uncertainty—if we could hold our ideas about God and the world lightly—we would be more at peace with the nature of things. But in so many ways, we insist on certainty. That, in turn, means that we clash with others who cling to their certainty. We cannot afford to listen and dialogue because our certainty might be threatened.

Conversely, the more we embrace I don’t know as our fundamental orientation, the more we open to the thoughts and insights of others—even others with whom we disagree. That enables us to move into dialogue, into respect for other people and their own experiences of God, into appreciation for those experiences and what they can teach us.

In a world where so many people and cultures clash with one another over their conflicting “certainties,” the simple admission of I don’t know could be the dialogical equivalent of laying down one’s arms—the first step to peace and to healing.

Does God Intervene?

2007-05-16T09:26:00.000-04:00

The reality of unanswered prayers is a huge problem. Think of all the people who prayed for deliverance from the Holocaust, all the people who prayed for peace and safety in the midst of war, all the people who prayed for healing—and whose prayers were not answered.... I do not and cannot believe that God is an interventionist.

—Marcus Borg, The Heart of Christianity

Recently I’ve run across a couple of deep religious thinkers who express the same reservations. And they are unquestionably on to something. The normal responses to such thinking—like “God always answers prayer, but sometimes the answer is no”—are hopelessly glib and inadequate in the face of the Holocaust or 9/11. In these and many other cases, God seems exasperatingly silent.

So is Borg right, then? Not so fast. I see some real problems with a non-interventionist God as well:

What do you do with those instances where, from all appearances, someone has prayed and actually received a concrete response? You could chalk up the biblical examples to a spiritual dramatization of actual events. But what about modern-day healings? Not all of them can be attributed to natural causes, like the change in emotional state that prayer sometimes brings.
How do we explain the concept of vocation—not just to ministry, but to anything? Isn’t the act of calling someone to do something an intervention in itself?
To take it one step further, how do we explain any divine influence on the human soul? Certainly, neuroscience and psychology explain a lot. Still, I have found that by opening myself to the divine presence, I find myself thinking and doing things that I never would have imagined. I’m not saying God is doing brain surgery on us, but can we truly say that God is not involved at all?

That still doesn’t make instances of an interventionist God’s non-intervention any less horrifying or impossible to explain. It simply means both viewpoints leave way too many questions unanswered—and unanswerable.

So what do we do? I see no reason why we can’t treat this as we do so many other aspects of God: simply revere it as an ineffable mystery and go about our lives. Even Borg, despite his belief, continues to pray for a variety of reasons—one being that it’s arrogant to refuse to do something because you can’t imagine how it works. And again, in some mysterious way, the practice of prayer seems to open us to God’s presence—and that presence has an equally mysterious way of transforming us from the inside out. That alone is reason to pray all the more.

Evil and the Mystery Within Us

2007-04-18T09:48:00.000-04:00

Whenever we face a horrific event like the Virginia Tech shootings, I find myself devouring every bit of news I can find—all to answer the question that, I’m sure, plagues many people:

Why?

Specifically, what on earth brings people to do such things? And what does it say about us, the human race?

A segment on PBS’s NewsHour (“Experts Explore the Mind and Motivation of a Mass Killer”) shed some light on the perpetrators of mass shootings. They tend to be loners, shunned by their cohort, controlling, secretive. They follow a fairly predictable path of escalation, from angry writings to angry actions to threats. Some of them, like the Virginia Tech shooter, seem troubled almost from the very beginning.

What is that trouble, though? We often use the word sick to describe them. Where does mental illness end and evil begin?

Evil is not a word we should ever use lightly, especially with people. It instantly separates us from whomever we call evil—and makes compassion for them very difficult indeed. It is a very small step from using the word for certain groups and doing violence to them.

And yet, if you live in the world for any length of time, you see too much evidence of evil to deny its existence. It’s most obvious, I think, in its institutional form: when governments massacre their own people (as in Darfur), or when rebel groups force children to join their cause.

Even with institutions, though, it’s not always easy to draw the line between truly evil, unjust, and simply stupid. (For stupid, thinks Starbucks’ attempt to charge for water near Ground Zero in the aftermath of 9/11.) In individuals, the line between illness and evil is similarly hard to draw.

And that brings me back to the utter mystery within us. Even with the mind-boggling strides in psychology, neuroscience, and other fields—and they are wonderful indeed—there is still so much about the human race, about even our very selves, that is beyond our understanding.

So how do we respond? Maybe like this: With humility, because we don’t know all the answers. With compassion, because I cannot imagine the pain that the shooters have suffered, let alone that of the victims’ loved ones. And, maybe, with awe at the One who knows our very depths—and still has compassion on us.

The Worst Verse in the Bible

2007-04-12T10:10:00.001-04:00

Several posts ago, I ruminated about the Bible’s offensive passages, and what (if anything) we can draw from them. The question came to mind again while I was driving today, and I started reflecting on the scriptures’ most horrifying verse:

Happy shall he be who takes your little ones and dashes them against the rock! (Psalm 137:9)

What on earth do we do with this—especially in a culture where we go to great lengths to protect children?

First, a little context. This verse comes at the end of a psalm that, in heartrending fashion, expresses the utter desolation of ancient Israel in exile—far from the land that, for them, was so closely tied to the presence of God. The verse simply lashes out in the most hurtful way possible, the way we can easily do when in despair.

Though extreme for the psalms, it is hardly unique. Look at the book as a whole, and you see a drop-dead honest expression of the vast range of human emotion. The psalms are raw, they’re unvarnished, they pull no punches.

As such, they present a challenge to us. Can we allow ourselves to feel so honestly? Do we actually believe that God will embrace us if we admit to such horrifying feelings?

Maybe the psalms—and especially this verse—testify that God does, in fact, embrace us, with all our baggage. Which makes God a safe place in which to feel even the ugliest emotions and face even the most unlovable parts of ourselves. If we have such a place, we are freed to reflect on all of it—and do the work of healing.

If we can draw insights like this from one extreme verse, what else can the Bible’s offensive passages teach us?

Pronouns

2007-03-15T10:08:00.001-04:00

Are you still in flux with using pronouns for God? I thought I had it figured out to my satisfaction, but then something happened.

Like many folks of my persuasion, I’ve been substituting God for he wherever possible, while avoiding clunky constructions like God sits on God’s holy throne. For me, this approach still works in many instances.

Lately, though, it’s lost some of its luster, because it takes me away from the personal. There is something profoundly, unutterably personal about the divine presence—at least I perceive it that way—and I need to express it. So I tried something hardly new, but still controversial.

I threw in a few shes.

The effect was unexpected. The feminine pronoun suddenly opened me to ways of thinking about God that I hadn’t known existed. There’s something mind-expanding about “She shall judge between the nations, and impose terms on many peoples,” or “She comes to rule the earth.”

Praying these passages gives me a sense that God does not transcend gender so much as God encompasses gender—both genders—in the same way God encompasses, and is within, everything. I can also see, once more, the power of language to shape our thinking.

As my wise sister-in-law says, “Words mean things.” May we always be attentive to their transformative power.

Another Reason Not to Fear Death

2007-03-09T09:48:00.000-05:00

Maybe death isn’t as big a deal as we think. Part of believing that, of course, hinges on believing in the afterlife.

But maybe part of it doesn’t.

Think of it this way. God calls each of us to a life of service—of working with God to make a better world. You respond to that call where you are, serving with the gifts and influence you have. In doing so, you add your efforts to the millions of others who are responding to the same call.

Of course, as one person, you can only do so much. When you realize this limitation, you can easily see that the world becomes a better place primarily through we, not me. To mangle the well-worn proverb, it takes a village to do just about anything.

So what happens when we die? The creation of a better world goes on. The we still exists. Many others pick up where we leave off. Certainly—certainly—our contributions matter, and we have not lived in vain.

Sort of takes the edge off death, doesn’t it?

This is not to make light of death’s profound impact on the living. Live in the world for any length of time, and you’re going to affect people deeply. We’re all so interconnected that the loss of any one of us is profoundly painful. But I wonder whether seeing ourselves as part of that larger, interconnected whole removes the sting from our own death, much as the resurrection does.

Adopting a perspective like this, of course, requires a move away from self-absorption. In our culture, making that move is a constant battle. Thankfully, we have with us the constant presence of God, tirelessly drawing us out of ourselves. If we respond, we can become more fully who God intended us to be…and join with God in re-creating the world.

Wrestling with Everything

2007-03-01T09:56:00.000-05:00

One of my more recent posts (“When the Bible Offends”) got me thinking.

Maybe the scriptures aren’t the only thing we need to wrestle with. Maybe that wrestling needs to take place with everything we encounter: every person, every experience, every thought.

Of course, no one has time or energy for all that wrestling. So maybe wrestling isn’t the right metaphor. Perhaps there’s another way to draw insight and lessons from every situation.

I (and many others) have found such attentiveness to be a fruit of the contemplative life: contemplative not in its popular connotation of thoughtful, but to describe a life that is continually open to the divine presence in the here and now. When we live in a contemplative way, we remain open to each situation—and listen carefully for what it has to bring us.

Here’s an example. Like everyone, I often find myself in dull conversations, wishing I could excuse myself. In some of those situations, however—when I’m awake enough—I take a mental step back and just observe. Why has God put me here, now? What is there in this moment that speaks to me? What can I offer to this moment?

Not that there’s a clear answer in every case. But sometimes the required attentiveness is enough to refresh my soul all by itself. And quite often, that person—whom I considered so dull—has something to say that I desperately need to hear.

Joan Chittister, in her book Called to Question, sees a blessed interconnectedness among all such moments in our lives: “Isn’t everything that happens in life simply seeding something to come—and isn’t all of it God? But if that’s true, the question is, then, Are all our thoughts new seeds of life to be pursued?”

I think this type of contemplative approach comes through constancy in prayer and meditation. As we open ourselves to God, we become open to God all around us. That, in turn, makes us anticipate—eagerly—God’s presence and voice wherever, and with whomever, we find ourselves.

What’s Missing from the Anglican Picture

2007-02-27T10:34:00.000-05:00

Like millions of others this past week, I’ve read the communiqués and missives and web postings about the latest developments in the Anglican Communion. In the process, I’ve noticed certain elements that are conspicuously absent from the war of words. See if you agree:

Care for those on all “sides.” The Primates’ communiqué proposes an entire structure to care for those in the U.S. Episcopal Church who do not agree with the consecration of a gay bishop. To the extent that they need such care, maybe this is a good thing. But there’s not a word about those who welcome GLBT (gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgendered) people in positions of authority. They are no less in need of care, especially in the face of hostility from segments of the Anglican Communion worldwide. Do the Primates assume that the U.S. church’s structure will take care of them? Or is dogma getting in the way of mercy here?
Some explanation of what this is all about. Yes, the controversy is about the role of GLBT people in the church. Clearly, millions of people have deeply held beliefs about this. But people believe things for reasons. And those reasons do not always involve power or control or homophobia or a desire to “get with the times” or the pernicious influence of worldly values. At bottom, I can’t shake the belief that it all comes down to your beliefs about the Bible. Literal truth? Inspired (but sometimes fallible) guide? A book by God or about God? I don’t think we will get anywhere unless we explore the roots of this conflict—and have that debate—in greater depth. Which brings me to:
Honest dialogue. From what I’ve read, most people on every “side” have now given up on dialogue. I see no mention of it in the communiqué, and very little to commend it elsewhere. The only person who seems to be discussing it is the Presiding Bishop, bless her heart.

This last point is particularly worrisome—and not just for the Anglican Communion. The state of honest dialogue, at least in U.S. society, is appalling. People don’t talk; they scream. And they sure as hell don’t listen. I’ve always thought one of the Anglican Communion’s great witnesses to the world has been its reflective, deliberative approach to issues, discussing them in an atmosphere of mutual respect. If we have lost the ability to talk, how on earth can we help the rest of society get its house in order?

We may never agree. But at least we can talk. All it takes is the willingness to start.

When the Bible Offends

2007-02-23T08:53:00.000-05:00

“‘Cretans are always liars, vicious brutes, lazy gluttons.’” (Titus 1:12)

Holy cow. Talk about offensive.

This verse, part of the liturgical readings for Episcopalians yesterday, certainly disrupts the sweet rhythm of worship, to say the least. And it’s not the only one. The entire Bible is dotted with verses and passages that make one cringe. Take the second half of Psalm 149 (an approval of vengeance), or Exodus 4:24 (where God tries to kill Moses for no apparent reason), or Psalm 137:9 (which I can’t even bring myself to type).

What do we do with these? Do we pray them in the liturgy? Can we draw anything from them?

Accepting them as literal truth, let alone as prescriptive truth, is clearly not an option. The other extreme—rejecting them out of hand—is certainly attractive. Perhaps, though, it’s not the best.

Take the verse from Titus, which I wrestled with this morning. In the context, the apostle Paul is advising his young disciple on selecting leaders for the church in Crete and helping church members grow spiritually. In his description of Cretans, here and in other verses, I think he’s trying to set a sociological context for the direction Titus needs to take: “Because Cretan culture is like this, and these people have grown up in the culture, here are the steps that might be most effective in helping them grow.”

The way he says it, of course, would be condemned today, and rightly so. So would his use of gross generalization. But after wrestling with the passage, I take the lesson that when fostering someone’s spiritual growth, it helps to take the whole person into context—including the sociological air they’ve breathed.

Exegetical sleight of hand? Maybe; I’m no scholar. The point, though, is that the truth of hard passages just might come forth in the wrestling. After doing so, you may still think a particular verse or passage should be expunged from the scriptures. But by wrestling with it, at least you’ve tried to wring some truth out of it.

Maybe, too, the wrestling itself hones one’s spirit and attunes it more closely to God. That in itself would make the whole exercise worthwhile.

In the World? Of the World?

2007-01-27T14:41:00.000-05:00

Be subject to one another out of reverence for Christ. (Ephesians 5:21)

This verse, from St. Paul’s letter to the Ephesians, kicks off a lengthy passage that has always made me squirm. It includes the “wives, be subject to your husbands” business that men have wielded to justify all manner of bad behavior against women. According to later parts of the passage, children must be subject to their parents, and slaves to their masters.

Part of this was yesterday’s lectionary reading. Being confronted with it during Morning Prayer, I suddenly saw an entirely new side of St. Paul.

That “new side” shows up in his admonitions to those in power. “Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her.” “Fathers, do not provoke your children to anger, but bring them up in the discipline and instruction of the Lord.” “Masters…stop threatening [your slaves], for you know that both of you have the same Master in heaven, and with him there is no partiality.”

Consider that women, children, and slaves in ancient cultures were considered property at best, if they were considered at all. Paul’s exhortations require those in power to treat those without power as human. And how radical (for that time) is the idea that God has no partiality, so that all—adults, children, slaves, masters—stand equal before him?

I believe we’re looking at an apostle caught between two worlds. He admonishes women, children, and slaves because there is some need—especially given the precarious position of the first-century church—to maintain the social order. Paul himself is a fan of stability: “Let all things be done decently and in order” (1 Corinthians 14:40). Yet he also seems to yearn for the gospel in full flower: where love reigns, where children are nurtured to their full potential, where there is no partiality. He gives voice to that gospel when he writes, “There is no longer Jew nor Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus” (Galatians 3:28).

To be sure, human history has moved on. In most places, slavery is just a bad memory; in many, women have attained equal status. We’re getting closer to that “gospel in full flower.” Yet we too face the same tension between God and culture—between “in the world” and “of the world.” Isn’t that part of the dynamic that drives the divisions in the church over homosexuality?

Jesus knew that change would come slowly, because we couldn’t take instant transformation: “I still have many things to say to you, but you cannot bear them now” (John 16:12). But we can continue to explore, to discern what belongs to “the way things are” and what represents the reign of God that should be. Indeed, we must continue to explore—for how else can we fulfill our mission to extend that reign?

The Problem with Inerrancy (and the Good News That Follows)

2007-01-27T14:39:00.000-05:00

The last post (“No Harm Will Befall You?”) illustrates what I think is a flaw in the notion that every word in the Bible is divinely inspired and true for all time. At one time or another, we all run across this scenario: we read something in the Scripture; we look at our own experience; the overwhelming evidence contradicts the Scripture. What do we do then?

What I did, in my evangelical days, was tie myself in intellectual knots. I would try to force-fit a literal reading of the passage—which, as I saw it, was the absolute truth—to the way life clearly is. I would force-fit a passage clearly intended for ancient Jewish culture onto our culture. In contrast, the notion that the verse sprang from the spiritual wellspring at the core of the writer, however divinely influenced, or was meant for that culture at that time makes more sense.

To be sure, you can go too far the other way too: flippantly dismissing all kinds of passages as incorrect, or culturally relative, or inaccurately translated, and therefore not worthy of attention. I suspect that’s why I clung to inerrancy so tightly—because I feared losing a cornerstone of my faith.

Is this true of most evangelicals? If so, there’s good news on two fronts. One, between inerrancy and flippant dismissal is a whole spectrum of frameworks in which we can take the Bible seriously, if not literally. And two, there is always the true cornerstone of our faith—the Holy Spirit—who, according to Jesus, would “guide us into all the truth” (John 16:13).

P.S. It’s been a while since I could honestly call myself an evangelical. If you are one, and you feel I’ve misrepresented you, please speak up!

No Harm Will Befall You?

2007-01-22T10:28:00.000-05:00

The fear of the Lord leads to life; and he who has it rests satisfied; he will not be visited by harm. (Proverbs 19:23)

I’m at a loss with this verse.

I discovered it on my way through Proverbs. It instantly reminded me of other, similar verses scattered throughout the Scripture—like “a thousand may fall at your side, ten thousand at your right hand; but it will not come near you” (Psalm 91:7). If you love and follow God, the verses seem to say, no harm will befall you.

And yet clearly it’s not true.

If it were, how could we explain the martyrdoms of Peter and Paul? Or the assassination of Martin Luther King? Or the Holocaust, or any of the other genocides of the past 30 years?

I’m not even sure I’d want this to be true. I’m much more comfortable with the idea that God “sends rain on the just and on the unjust” (Matthew 5:45). Plus, there’s the value of suffering with Christ and thus identifying with him—and with all humanity: “that I may know him and the power of his resurrection, and may share his sufferings, becoming like him in his death” (Philippians 3:10).

And yet Proverbs 19:23 and its like are in the Bible. So let’s wrestle with it.

At first, I thought the “no harm will befall you” passages referred to some ultimate, spiritual harm. Nothing will touch our soul. But doesn’t the death of a loved one, or reports of a genocide, touch our soul? As Joan Chittister says in Called to Question, “The way of the cross takes its toll on us.”

To repeat: I’m at a loss. Do you have any ideas? I would love to hear them. Feel free to post them here.

Love for Introverts

2007-01-09T09:49:00.000-05:00

Owe no debt to anyone except the debt that binds us to love one another. (Rom. 13:8)

Does that include a debt to be loved as well?

For those of us who have been hurt, abused, ashamed, or are simply private, being loved is a hard thing, sometimes an impossible thing. The very act of sharing the personal (a prerequisite to being loved) leaves one open to anything, from ridicule to genuine affection, both of which can be frightening. And the journey from that fear to the place where we allow ourselves to be loved—whether it requires therapy, or spiritual direction, or whatever—is arduous.

Allow me to suggest, however, that it is an important journey to make.

Here’s why. Every one of us is woven into life’s fabric. Even our smallest gestures can turn around someone’s day or, on occasion, someone’s life. Our stories can inspire, or warn, or calm the souls of others. We don’t choose this state of affairs; it simply is.

But we can choose to enter into it—and thus do good to those around us. By opening ourselves to others, we allow them not only to learn from our experiences, but to practice love themselves—to make a payment on “the debt that binds us to love one another.”

In short, we can do so much good by embracing our interconnectedness.

As with so many other things, of course, balance is a virtue here. I’m not talking about sharing everything with everyone. Our inmost self can be delicate and needs a place of quiet in which to grow.

Yet our capacity to share ourselves, in even the smallest ways, can bless and repair the world. And regardless of the path to healing that we take to allow ourselves to be loved, one thing supports our journey: the inexhaustible supply of love from the Divine Presence. That alone can give us the fuel to carry on.

"They Stopped Their Ears"

2006-12-26T09:59:00.000-05:00

But they cried out with a loud voice and stopped their ears and rushed together upon him. (Acts 8:54-57).

The story is about St. Stephen, who had just finished an eloquent defense of the Christian faith with some harsh words for his audience—and a vision of the glorified Jesus. Apparently it was too much for the crowd, and they reacted just like…

Well, just like us.

This seems to be the procedure in 21^st-century America. If you don’t like someone’s point of view, stop your ears. Express your opinion more loudly. In extreme cases, respond with violence.

It’s reprehensible. It’s no way to create a better world. And if you’re like me, you want to blame the people on the “other side” of the political or religious spectrum for this state of affairs.

I don’t think it’s just “them.”

I have several old friends who fall into the “them” camp. When I prepare to see them again, my mind dredges up every theological argument I can find to bolster my position, whatever the issue.

But why? Maybe my friends have changed, and we can talk civilly about issues that once inflamed us. Maybe the issues won’t come up. Maybe they’re just visiting because they want to see their old friends. Why can’t I just accept them as they are?

Hospitality, that bedrock Benedictine value, demands that I do. How can I receive someone as Christ if I’m expending all my energy thwarting imaginary arguments?

May God grant us the ability to keep our ears open, our voices quiet and our hearts attuned to the other—for it is through the other that God so often comes to us.

Speaking Evangelical

2006-12-22T10:54:00.000-05:00

I wonder whether one of the evangelical movement’s greatest strengths is also its greatest weakness.

A recent visit by our new bishop brought this to mind. His sermon touched on the fundamentals of faith: the need for repentance, the love of God, the importance of prayer and Bible study. He expressed himself in very simple, unadorned, forthright language.

That’s the strength. Evangelical language has a way of cutting through the clutter. There is a back-to-basics feel about it that those of us who “think too much” can probably use from time to time. And have used: when asked to sum up his towering theology in one sentence, Karl Barth is reputed to have said, “Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so.”

However…

As my sister-in-law says, “Words mean things.” Language clearly shapes our outlook. When you use simple language exclusively, it’s easy to start thinking that the whole world is simple.

Of course, it’s not. And that’s the limitation I’m seeing in evangelical language: it doesn’t seem to have the depth or complexity to address life’s gray matters and thornier issues. Like whether there’s a middle ground between biblical literalism and total disregard of the scriptures. Like how God can love everyone unconditionally and yet (seemingly) require a response before extending his mercy. Those issues call for more nuance, more subtlety, more complexity in one’s vocabulary.

Maybe that goes back to yet another simple aphorism: if your only tool is a hammer, every problem looks like a nail. Lord help us to fill out our toolbox.

If You Want Peace, Work for...

2006-12-14T09:59:00.000-05:00

“If you want peace, work for justice,” says the bumper sticker. The religion section in last Saturday’s Times Union suggested another route—and it is dangerous.

Two articles in particular delivered the message:

A column by Laurene C. O’Brien calling us not to demonize child molesters. While stressing the critical need to protect children, she writes, “If we give in to basic vengeful feelings and allow such offenders to become easy targets and modern-day lepers, we risk unleashing hatred and disgust. Such unchecked attitudes have the power to debase us all.”
A profile of Virginia Miller and her involvement in Dances of Universal Peace, a group that expresses “the unity found behind all religions” through sacred movement in song. “It is an interfaith event,” she says, “and helps us gain knowledge of other religions as well as of our own religion.”

There’s no question that peace without justice is a chimera. Yet maybe the first step toward peace isn’t justice so much as compassion. Or simple openness: if I can let down my guard, even for a minute, and honestly look at the “other side” as a human being—with, surprise, many of the same dreams and cares I have—how can compassion not creep in? And if I start feeling compassion for this person, why would I want to wage war against her?

It sounds all so lovely and sunny and beautiful, but actually it’s fraught with danger. If I let my guard down, I can get wounded, perhaps mortally. (Ask any resident of Baghdad.) If I honestly look at the “other side,” it could disrupt—even overhaul—the whole infrastructure of my belief.

Even worse, I may start to have compassion for some very unpopular people. Jesus came under heavy fire for hanging out with “tax collectors and sinners.” Urging compassion for child molesters, or suspected terrorists, or avowed racists can do the same.

Maybe the key word in that bumper sticker is work. More than anything else, opening oneself to others is a discipline that requires constant practice. And it starts with opening oneself to God, who has the power to transform us into instruments of compassion—even as he can turn our lives upside down.

But if the end is peace—not the absence of war, but true shalom—might the work be worth it?

The Forces That Move Us

2006-12-01T09:14:00.000-05:00

A woman in Baghdad just can’t leave home. Abstinence-only programs are failing. People still worship, centuries after the Age of Reason.

What’s happening here?

A story in Tuesday’s newspapers recounts the life—and ultimately, the flight—of an Iraqi journalist. She tells of getting married a year ago, having a daughter, decorating a home of her own on a suburban Baghdad street. Slowly but surely, Iraq’s pervasive violence crept closer to her neighborhood. She and her husband moved temporarily to her in-laws’ home for safety reasons. And then,

Two days later, a car bomb exploded on our street. It blew out every window in our home. A chunk of the bomber’s car landed in our garage. And still we returned to our home.

And still we returned to our home.

South Africa, according to a monk at Mariya uMama weThemba, is deeply ambivalent about the issue of sex. On the one hand, the country’s AIDS rate is the highest in the world. On the other, pregnancy for young women is often celebrated as a sign of fertility—a trait our forebears have honored for millennia.

Home. Sex. Child bearing. In our highly mobile, “reasonable” Western world, I think we underestimate just how overwhelming—how tidal—these drives are. We also forget that they’re essentially good. The pull toward home perpetuates community. The hunger for sex binds us together while keeping the species alive. Child bearing (and rearing) preserves our sense of family.

The other side of being human, of course, is that we don’t always follow those drives indiscriminately. Ideally, we channel them toward the greater good. But their sheer force means that those who try to thwart them simplistically—think abstinence-only policies—may well doom their efforts to failure.

Then there’s the hunger for God. Two centuries after the Enlightenment, you might think reason would have driven religion to extinction. And yet billions of us will not, cannot, endure life without worship.

As you may have noticed, all the aforementioned drives hover around one even more fundamental imperative: connection—to home, family, neighbor. It is the connection at the very heart of God: the whole idea of the Trinity (and, perhaps, its complement in Hinduism) speaks directly to connection, to community. And as it does, it reflects the connection that, from Genesis to Revelation to 2006, God so ardently desires with all of us.

African Time (and What It Might Mean for South Africa)

2006-11-24T14:26:00.000-05:00

South Africa struggles with its tendency to operate on “African time.” Brother Timothy at Mariya uMama weThemba describes African time this way: whatever needs to be done, “it will happen, when it happens, if it happens.” Many South Africans (business people mostly, I suspect) are trying to push their country to move away from African time so it can meet the requirements of efficiency and productivity that drive Western businesses.

That is all well and good: South Africa’s standard of living depends on it. But I also think there are lessons to be learned from African time.

The personal lessons are clear enough. After just two weeks in a culture where things take extra time and often happen imperfectly, I’ve found myself learning to accept it with an easy grace. I’m not sure I would react the same way in the U.S. I know many Americans wouldn’t: we are, by culture, an impatient people.

Right now, so are many poor South Africans. It has been 12 years since the ANC took the reins of government, and the lot of the poor has improved little, if at all. Coping with poverty takes a terrible toll on one’s psyche, so the impatience is understandable—and leaders surely need to respond.

And yet I wonder whether African time, in another way, applies to South Africa itself. One thing I have begun to appreciate while here is just how slowly social change takes place. After the exhilaration of dramatic reversals—whether the end of apartheid or the fall of the Soviet Union—comes the hard, grinding work of making life better. Maybe the sheer immensity of the task makes the slow pace of change inevitable. Even the U.S. took a couple of decades after 1776 to get its government down pat.

So what’s the import of all this? How do you convince a people that social change “happens on African time”? Is it even moral to do so? Can you do it and still hold leaders strictly accountable to improve the lot of their people with all due speed? And how important is this balancing act of managing expectations to keep an entire nation on course?

In South Africa I Heard a Voice

2006-11-24T14:25:00.000-05:00

The poor in South Africa walk everywhere. They really have no choice. Drive on any road, no matter how remote, and you’re bound to see people walking alongside it.

I believe God used that experience to impress something on my soul.

One day at Mariya uMama weThemba monastery, I went for a run down the rutted, pockmarked road that leads up the mountain. As usual, I tried to pray as I ran; as usual, I could not keep my mind on anything. The intense South African sun kept my eyes squarely on the hardscrabble road. Finally, in one of my bursts of mid-prayer-failure honesty, I just thought, “Forget it. I can’t pray. I can’t do anything, except stare at the damned road.”

And I could sense the voice of God saying to me, “It’s OK. I am in the road too. I must be, to support the feet of the poor as they walk and walk.”

I cannot escape that sense of panentheism—God in everything—as I travel through South Africa. The monastery chapel window commands a view over the veld on the big sweeping hills, and over and over I have sensed a deep closeness between that view and the God who made it. No wonder primitive humans, viewing their surroundings with awe, considered them the work of a local god.

Our worldview has grown larger, but the connection remains. Now, we see that all creation hums with the One who created it. Which makes everything alive in ways we cannot imagine.

And it makes God present in ways we cannot imagine. To desire such closeness with us that he even supports the poor as they walk—and gives hope to all of us. Love so close. This truly is a God worth knowing.

How Important Are You?

2006-11-24T14:21:00.000-05:00

You don’t have to be important to be important.

As strange as that sounds, you can see the truth of it throughout the stories of the church. Take the famous passage from Ecclesiasticus 44:

Let us now praise famous people, our ancestors in their generations. The Lord gave them great glory, his majesty from the beginning….Of others there is no memory; they died as though they had never been born; and their children after them. But these also were godly people, whose good deeds have not been forgotten.

This kind of invisibility has, paradoxically, brought sainthood to some. The life’s work of St. Monica was, as the Catholic Encyclopedia puts it, “to have literally wrestled with God for the soul of her son”—St. Augustine. While St. Willibrord, whom we celebrated November 7, helped convert the people of the Netherlands, he also paved the way for the tireless and more widespread evangelism of St. Boniface.

Clearly, for some people, a large part of the mission is simply to prepare the way for the full flowering of God’s action in a particular time and place. The contributions of others, however, are even more obscure—like yours and mine.

Which makes the words of Ecclesiasticus so profoundly comforting. Most of us are part of the teeming masses whose lives will not appear in any history book. And yet that should not stop us from living faithfully—for those faithful actions, however small they seem, might just resound through the ages.

I Have a Religious Objection to Cellphones

2006-11-24T14:19:00.001-05:00

One day, after lunch at the Calabash in Grahamstown, South Africa, we held a door open for another couple. As we did, they asked us where we were from. That chance question led to a 45-minute conversation about crime in South Africa, the current government, their children’s struggles with boarding school, their current lifestyle (he has left the 80-hour weeks behind to work part-time and live here), etc. Who knows? Maybe they needed to express a lot of that, and the conversation did them good. In any event, we learned even more about the extraordinary place that South Africa is.

If we had been on cellphones when we opened that door, we would have missed all that—and the door would have closed in their faces.

Multiply that by several hundred, and you might understand my eccentric objection. Through the habitual use of cellphones, we’re suddenly living our lives somewhere else, all the time. What’s more, it’s even difficult to pay full attention to the person on the other end of the line.

Paying attention to the here, and the now, that God has given us is a priority in many spiritual traditions. When we pay attention, we give our entire selves to the matter at hand. We might be surprised by what unfolds before us. Most important, we tune our heart to pay attention to God, wherever he might choose to encounter us. What better way to cultivate a friendship with God than to be prepared—at every moment—to hear his voice?

Accept What Is

2006-11-24T14:19:00.000-05:00

It was my first day at Mariya uMama weThemba monastery in South Africa. I had gone there, as I posted earlier, to “live with people from another country and lend a hand where asked.”

To that point, no one had asked.

My wife was using her library science skills to help catalog the monks’ library. But there seemed to be no task for me. And all those feelings of uselessness came to the surface. “What will happen if I’m not ‘productive’ today? Why can’t they find me something to do? Why is doing so important anyway?”

Perhaps it isn’t.

As it turned out, that was part of the wisdom that the day held for me. It was enough to try to recover from a growing respiratory infection, to do what I could to rest and recuperate, perhaps even to write things whose value I could never comprehend.

It was, in truth, the same old lesson that I had heard a thousand times already. And I must hear it again and again and again, because I clearly haven’t learned it yet. It is such a simple lesson: accept what is.

Accept what is.

What Vocation Looks Like, or Why Am I Writing This Blog?

2006-11-24T14:14:00.000-05:00

Way back when, in the very first post, I half-kiddingly wrote that “God told me to start a blog.”

Did he really?

I have many, many doubts about this call to write. Somehow my musings don’t seem useful (but in what sense of the word?). Sometimes I seem to be casting about for topics. Sometimes I’m not sure whether I’m “supposed” to write when I don’t “feel” the movement of the Spirit.

And yet…

Whenever I sit down to write an entry, I feel a verve running through me—an aliveness, if you will. A sense that this is precisely the right thing to do at precisely this stage of my life. I do not know where this is headed. I do not know whether a book will come out of it, or an avocation in spiritual writing, or nothing at all. I seem to have been left with nothing but the writing itself.

Perhaps this is what vocation looks like. You find out a little at a time. You feel your way in the dark. You remain faithful to what you’ve been asked to do, with no concern for results.

And who said “did he really?” in the first place? Was it not the serpent?

Why Silence?

2006-11-24T14:12:00.000-05:00

My monastery has a practice called The Great Silence. From 9:00 at night till after Eucharist the next morning, no one speaks (except when necessary).

Why?

Perhaps most obviously, silence creates a home for the spiritual life. By silencing the sounds of the everyday—both our penchant for talk and the constant noise of our culture—it allows the voice of God to come through. As we settle into silence, we quite naturally listen more attentively, tilling the soil into which God sows his word.

When silence is practiced, it usually comes with a certain “sign language” that helps monastery visitors pass the butter at the breakfast table. I’ve wondered, though, what would happen if we didn’t use any means to communicate. We might miss out on the butter—and learn to enjoy our meal without it. We might not be able to communicate something important—only to find out it’s not that important after all.

We might, in short, accept what is in front of us as gift, no more, no less. It is only one short step from there to gratitude, which opens our heart in just the way God needs in order to do his work.

A Meditation for Thanksgiving (One Day Late)

2006-11-24T09:40:00.000-05:00

This morning’s email included an eloquent Thanksgiving meditation from Rabbi Michael Lerner, editor of Tikkun magazine. (I can’t find it on the Tikkun website; if you’d like a copy, email me.) He encouraged his readers to respond with their own meditations. Having just returned from South Africa—and seen the brutal poverty that still plagues so many of its people—I found the following response recurring in my thoughts during Thanksgiving Day.

To the One Who provides all things:

“Thank you for this food” is such a throwaway phrase. Yet here, now, on this Thanksgiving, I see the why behind it. I have met people who struggle to put even a daily meal on their tables, let alone “three squares.” I have seen the places where hunger haunts those who have so long felt the haunt of oppression. The memory of them makes the feast before me an embarrassment. Yet this feast is Your gift to me, just as their memory is Your gift to me. I bless you for both: the abundance You share with me and those I love, the common humanity that binds me with the hungry ones. May my remembrance of each—and my gratitude for both—never cease.

The Newspaper Lectionary for Oct 28

2006-10-30T08:52:00.000-05:00

This isn’t exactly an approved spiritual discipline, but lately I’ve been reading the Saturday religion articles in my local newspaper as lectionary readings. As you’d expect with a lectionary, each Saturday brings three main articles, and the topics are only loosely connected—or not at all. The point is to read them prayerfully and see what bubbles to the surface.

Here’s what came out of today’s “readings”:

A column about the more difficult side of the Bible, particularly familial conflicts and God’s action therein: Abraham, Sarah and Hagar, Jacob and Esau, etc. The writer, Phyllis Trible of Wake Forest University Divinity School, notes, “As disturbing as they are, these stories disclose life in all its configurations. They give voice to struggle, hurt and fear. They permit railings at God. They also show ‘more excellent ways,’ through contrast and juxtaposition, and offer an authentic narrative by which to measure life.”
An article about a Kenyan pastor building an orphanage for children who have lost parents to AIDS. His quote: “Christianity isn’t just about going to church; it’s about living as Jesus did and demonstrating his good deeds through yourself. I’m getting up there in years and want to give my energy to people all over the world, before it runs out.”
A brief report of an online survey in which 97 percent of respondents say they speak to God—and more than 90 percent say God speaks to them.

Disconnected? Sure, somewhat. But there is a thread here. The God we worship is utterly mysterious and sometimes disturbing. His actions in the world often baffle us, as when he is present—or absent?—amid terrible conflict. Moreover, following this God requires a complete conversion of our lives: a giving over of ourselves to the service of others.

And yet—and yet—nearly everyone continues to seek connection with this God.

I suspect there are two reasons. One harks back to St. Peter’s timeless phrase: “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.” Indeed, there is no one else who encompasses the world and every creature therein.

Somehow, that encompassing brings profound comfort to the soul. And perhaps it is because we sense, more deeply than anything else, that this presence loves us, deeply, completely. Which is the other reason why we never seem to give up on union with God: because we know, without knowing, that the world is all about God, and God is love.

No Blog for Six Weeks?

2006-10-30T08:50:00.000-05:00

In blog years, it’s been an age. Six weeks between entries. Clearly, I’ve been irresponsible.

Or have I? To be sure, blogging has become an important spiritual discipline for me. Maybe, though, there are times when the lack of blogging is just as important—or more so. Maybe that time is better spent listening to the silence. And maybe that’s true for readers as well as for bloggers.

I do have an entry or two to post, and I will do so soon. In the meantime, I hope you have enjoyed the silence. Next time I go silent for a while, consider it an invitation to do the same.

The Mono Diaries

2006-09-16T11:25:00.000-04:00

About a month ago, I was diagnosed with mononucleosis. If you’ve ever had it, you know the exhaustion that pervades your days. Some days it’s hard to do anything but work and sleep. Daily naps are highly recommended. Not exactly the productivity that our culture requires—or even the active ministry that the church holds out as an example of godly living.

Therein lies the problem.

When I can’t bring myself to engage in extracurricular activities—when it’s even hard to keep my mind on prayer—I tend to feel vulnerable, useless, even slothful. The temptation is to fight it: to try exercising or forgo the naps or just do. And yet the only treatment (it’s a virus, so there is no cure) is to rest. Frequently.

For weeks.

Which creates an interesting spiritual effect. It strips away all the layers of my being—all the things from which I can derive my value—and leaves me with just me, and God. No holy feelings or inspired insights, just a naked soul looking at God, and God looking at the soul.

Maybe it’s the most basic connection we can have with the Divine. And maybe it’s the most dynamic too. In any event, it requires a sea change of thought—a repentance, if you will. “Be still and know that I am God” (Ps 46:10). At times like this, you realize how utterly countercultural “being still” is—and how rich a spiritual treasure. Perhaps it is then, in a way unlike any other, that God pours himself into the soul.

The FEAR of the Lord?

2006-08-26T13:04:00.000-04:00

What does it mean to fear God?

Many commentators tell us to read fear as reverence, but I think that’s too simple. At several times in my life, I have come face to face with situations where fear was exactly the right word.

One jumps immediately to mind. After a season where I endured intense family illness and other trials, a beloved church leader—someone whom I admired immensely—dropped dead in the prime of life. He had contributed so much to the life of the church, and by all appearances he had so much more to give. Yet there we were at his funeral, all of us in shock, and I couldn’t help but wonder, “Who is this God, anyway?”

In short, I felt fear. What would this God do next? How many more blows could I accept from his hand?

And yet, somehow, fear is not the end of the story. If it were, we would have to spend our days in neurotic appeasement of God—or simply run away from spirituality altogether. Instead, I cannot shake the thought—the reality—that God’s obvious and extravagant love ultimately trumps that fear. St. John said it himself: “Perfect love casts out fear” and, at his core, “God is love.”

This fear/love dynamic must be what the disciples experienced after Jesus’ strange discourse on “I am the bread of life.” It was so hard to hear that many followers turned away. Yet when Jesus asked his closest friends, “Will you too go away?” they answered with a semi-exasperated, semi-tender, “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.”

Yes, this fear of God is a good thing: it is a sharp reminder of who we are and who God is. But maybe I experience that fear because I am not (by any means) perfect in love. Maybe, then, the fear of God is simply a guide on our path to perfect love, much as the law was our guide to the cross. And when we perfectly rest in the love of God—maybe only after death—fear fades away.

Radical Acceptance: How Far Can We Go?

2006-08-26T11:36:00.000-04:00

The church should be a safe place for all people—a place where they feel embraced for who they are.

That sounds like a wonderful vision for the church. It is also one loaded statement, thanks to the little word all. Consider:

A few years ago, a local teenage girl was implicated as an accomplice in one of our region’s most brutal murders. The press coverage was nonstop, and she became a bête noire. Some months later, she showed up at the church we then attended. The church leadership politely asked her not to return. Should they have?
A couple in the same church went through a bitter divorce, and his inappropriate conduct played a major role. Both left the church; after a year or two, he suddenly reappeared in the back pew, obviously a broken man. Should we have welcomed him back?
If Osama bin Laden showed up in your church next Sunday, clearly wanting to be there, would you welcome him? Should you welcome him?

I suspect the answers are no, yes, and yes, respectively. But there is nothing easy about these situations.

The Bible, on this issue, seems at odds with itself. Leviticus seems to exclude some people solely on the basis of certain disabilities. Jesus clearly shared the company of prostitutes and riffraff. God is love, to be sure, yet in many passages he appears to demand a response from us before extending his mercy.

I wonder whether C. S. Lewis’s The Last Battle holds a glimpse of the answer. (I’m working from memory, so bear with me here.) As Aslan the lion (symbolizing God) leads his followers into heaven, the direction is “farther up and further in.” Some of those followers, beset by doubts and grumblings, enter heaven but stop—permanently—right inside the door, going no farther. Only those who are willing to follow Aslan end up going “farther up and further in.”

And maybe that is the message to “all” people. Come. You are welcome here—always. You will experience God’s love here—always. And this God invites you on a journey that will consume your life in joy…that will mold you into your best self. To embark on this journey, you will need to respond. The specific response is up to God. So respond when you’re ready. Until then, welcome.

Here’s the magic part. You know what happens when they respond to God—or even want to respond to God? God responds to them. That opens up the soul to a greater response, and God responds to that. It’s a wonderful spiral that takes the soul “farther up and further in.” All the church has to do is provide a safe place for that to happen...and a light but guiding hand along the way.

On the Wrong End of Exclusion

2006-08-26T11:34:00.000-04:00

A visit with an old college friend turned tense—and I had a small, fleeting glimpse into what it’s like to be excluded for who you are.

I had worried about this visit from the start. Quite simply, she did not approve of certain areas of our life (my wife’s and mine) and would prefer that we never talk about them—especially to people she’s trying to impress. This became an issue on Saturday night, when we dined with a good friend of hers. This good friend has a bevy of animals, as do we, so I started to talk about them. Meanwhile, College Friend tried desperately to stop me from mentioning our guinea pigs, who are a delight to my wife and me and a balm to our souls.

They are a part of who I am. She rejects that part. I feel anger for her rejection, shame that maybe our lives aren’t good enough, loathing for our small crappy house and these “rats” in our basement.

Is this what it’s like to be rejected for being you?

Look, I’m a straight white male with a good career, so I don’t get this very often. But it made me think about people who experience it a lot, on a far more substantial level: people routinely slighted for their color, their gender, their sexual orientation, their stand on abortion, you name it.

The prevailing culture is good enough at this. Why should the church follow suit? Shouldn’t the church be a safe place for all people—a place where they feel embraced for who they are?

I know how basic, and perhaps naïve, this sounds. But the next part isn’t so basic: how do we practice radical acceptance? It’s a thorny issue, and we’ll look at it in the next post.

Mindfulness and Guinea Pigs

2006-08-26T11:31:00.000-04:00

How can a baby guinea pig teach you about Benedictine values, like mindfulness, obedience, and balance?

I love raising guinea pigs because they provide excellent training for life. Just by living, they deepen our acceptance of sex, death, and miracles. Just by needing to be fed—every single day—they force us out of ourselves every single day. They give and receive love freely.

And yes, they teach Benedictine values. One of our sows recently had a litter that I suspect was premature. After three days, the babies stopped gaining weight, and it became clear that they needed a nutritional boost. So we started hand-feeding them with kitten milk replacer through a syringe, twice a day.

That’s trickier than it sounds. It is very easy to squirt the fluid in too fast—and send it into their respiratory instead of their digestive system. At that age, such a mistake is usually fatal. To avoid this, you feed leisurely, let them lead, and focus exclusively on what you’re doing.

In other words, you feed mindfully. You obey by letting another of God’s creatures lead you—and express the will of God for you in that moment. You feed leisurely and thereby appreciate life’s balance. It doesn’t get more Benedictine than that.

The Silent, Tectonic Movement of God

2006-08-05T10:35:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I’m awestruck by the silent, yet tectonic, way God moves in the soul.

Here’s one very small example. While extremely fruitful, the dialogue with my friend Bill, which I’ve mentioned in my last few blog entries, left me exhausted and tense. It was a familiar feeling: the recent wrangling in the Episcopal Church—and my internalizing of it over the course of the summer—had generated the same feelings. At the same time, the dearth of my writing efforts resulted in a vague malaise, as though I desperately needed exercise and hadn’t done any lately.

Not that I really knew any of this at the beginning of the week. At best, I had a vague apprehension of some of it.

And yet, without even noticing it at first, I lingered long over Morning Prayer each day this week. The Office has taken me about half again as long as it usually does. And I don’t think my neurosis about “getting it right” was the cause. Looking back, I think God was drawing me into a deeper experience of prayer, of him, to refresh my soul and get me back to writing.

Apparently it worked. Last night my ill-at-ease feeling came to a head, and I realized I needed to write. This is my third blog entry for the morning. Clearly, I needed this—but I needed the deeper prayer first, to reconnect me to the source. And the source himself led me there.

How Close IS God?

2006-08-05T10:32:00.000-04:00

Several weeks ago, I was blessed with one of those sudden, striking insights that leaves you wondering about its source. I’m also wondering exactly what it says about the presence of God.

It came during one of my long-distance drives, which I often use to engage in centering prayer. Rather, I try to engage: my focus on God quickly wanders to my work, our animals, the farms I’ve driving past—anything but God. At some point, I usually snap out of it, chide myself, and refocus on God…only to have the whole thing happen again. If you’ve ever tried centering prayer, you know the drill.

During one of the “chide sessions” on this particular drive, the thought suddenly hit me: “Why are you worried about your focus? It’s all God. It all leads back to God.”

Yow.

Well…yeah. We do believe that the Holy Spirit is always with us, that God permeates heaven and earth. Matthew Fox, commenting on the sermons of Meister Eckhardt, calls it panentheism: the idea that God is in everything. (Contrast that with pantheism, in which God is everything.) If panentheism is true, anything that crosses our mind in prayer is permeated with God’s presence; every “distraction” has the potential to lead us back to God, if we let it.

Certainly, there’s value in clearing distractions and being present to God more intentionally. But perhaps panentheism takes the pressure off us as we seek God in centering prayer. And who knows? Maybe these “distractions” can unveil a view of God we might never have found any other way.

Dialogue in the Real World

2006-08-05T09:11:00.000-04:00

I mentioned that I’ve been corresponding with an old, cherished friend from my days in Massachusetts. As it turns out, we hold conflicting views on some very basic matters of faith—he, for instance, believes the Bible is literally true, word for word; I see the matter differently. But we have always managed to maintain our “bonds of affection” while discussing things energetically, often vehemently.

Could we do it again? And if we could, would it mean anything for the church?

Over the last couple of weeks, we’ve e-mailed back and forth on the whole inerrancy issue and some associated hot buttons, like gay ordination. To be honest with you, it was rough. It was so easy to let the emotions take over, so tempting to fire back a heated response. Some of Bill’s words stung; others were just hard to read because they reflected a perspective so at odds with my own.

And yet…

I learned some things I didn’t know. When Bill reads the Bible, he takes into account things like cultural context, use of literary devices, etc.—just like me. Maybe he’s different from most “inerrantists,” but I didn’t think they did that sort of thinking. Maybe I was wrong; maybe I need to explore their perspective further.

More important, Bill never lost sight of the fact that we were both seeking truth, both worshiping the same God. The guy hangs out with a lot of people who don’t share his worldview—and they maintain “bonds of affection.” So did we: we closed this part of our discussion by agreeing that love gives us the freedom to disagree while holding us together. Next week we’ll move on to another topic.

Hear me correctly. We’re not some wonderful paragons of virtue. But, by the grace of God, we did manage to have a dialogue, learn some things, grow some more, and come out friends. If a couple of everyday schleps like us can do that, is there still hope for the church?

The Beauty of the Errant Bible

2006-07-28T09:23:00.000-04:00

In the last few weeks, an old and very dear friend got in touch with me after 20-some years apart. At one point in our lives, we pondered the mysteries of God together, and through the magic of email he has picked up the discussion once again. His last email described his belief in biblical inerrancy, and in my reply, I had the opportunity to spin out a thought that I’ve long treasured but never articulated. Here it is:

It's funny, because I've had a very different experience with the whole idea of inerrancy. Somewhere along the line (couldn't really pinpoint when), I started letting go of the idea of word-for-word, everything-literal inerrancy, and for me it opened up a depth of the Bible that I never knew. All of a sudden, God could speak in metaphor, in poetry, in stories that didn't have to be factually true but still delivered a message that was truer than any fact (if such a thing is possible). I could start exploring who wrote this letter or that book, who they were writing to, and just what they were trying to say that maybe I missed the first time round. In some strange way the words became more alive to me. At this point, I couldn't say whether most of the Bible is factually true, but then it doesn't matter to me--because it's true nonetheless.

Here's a rather innocuous example: the Magnificat. Did Mary really utter those exact words? From one standpoint, it's kind of doubtful: illiterate peasant women just don't tend to go around saying stuff like that. But...whether she did or didn't, those words do reveal something wonderful about the character of Mary herself--and say absolutely amazing things about God: the God who turns things upside down, the God the prophets knew.

People From Another Country

2006-07-04T08:46:00.000-04:00

This past weekend, while visiting my wife’s relatives, I picked up an article from the religion section of the local newspaper. The writer describes a young friend who is going to Mexico on a mission trip. What really grabbed me was her description of mission: “They are not vacationing but, rather, seeking to live with people from another country and lend a hand where asked.”

Initially this struck me because my wife and I are planning such a trip. We will stay in a South African monastery while she, an archivist, catalogs their library and helps establish their archives. Rather than have any specific goal, however, I relish the thought of simply “living with people from another country and lending a hand where asked.” When that happens, the other people set the agenda; we share, not our opinions or our ideologies or our cultural biases, but simply ourselves.

Whenever I read that one sentence from the article, I kept wanting to read it as “lend a hand where needed.” But that’s not as helpful. Needs are open to interpretation; I can decide what you need and try to provide it—and that won’t help. But when it’s “where asked,” I have to wait for you.

But does one really have to travel to be present to others like this? In a way, we are all “people from another country” to one another—people with vastly different perspectives, ideas, and values. So if each time we encounter someone, what would happen if we simply lived with them, remained present with them, and listened? Perhaps nothing would happen. Or perhaps we would be available just when they need us.

Hidden Lessons from General Convention

2006-06-22T09:26:00.000-04:00

I’m profoundly disappointed. So, it seems, is just about everyone else. And maybe that’s the single best thing to come out of the Episcopal Church’s General Convention.

After days of discussion, the convention passed Resolution B033, which calls for restraint in consecrating bishops “whose manner of life presents a challenge to the wider church.” That “wider church,” in the form of the Windsor Report, had called for an outright moratorium on the consecration of gay and lesbian bishops.

“Liberals,” like me, are disappointed that it’s a step back from full inclusion of gays and lesbians in the church. “Conservatives” complain that it leaves too much room for the church to go forward in ordaining gays and lesbians.

Do I detect the aroma of the will of God in here?

Might it be a stroke of divine brilliance to allow passage of a resolution that ticks everyone off? Might God be using that disappointment and anger to give us a jolt, force us out of our own heads, and consider new ways to be the worldwide church?

Maybe it’s just me. This morning, mulling over my own disappointment, I realized that I’ve become too attached to the results of this Convention. It’s taken over too much of my thought life, as though the entirety of human history depended on its outcome. And though I have prayed for God’s wisdom to prevail, I ended up surprised when that wisdom turned out so much different from anything I had thought.

Maybe what I’m saying, bottom line, is that I didn’t quite let God be God enough.

Please don’t get me wrong. The issues considered at General Convention are very important. They touch on things at the heart of our faith: issues of justice, of mercy, of just how you interpret Scripture, of how we can disagree and still be the church.

That last part is important, because technically, as of right now, we’re still all related to one another, church-wise. And because of that, we have to keep talking—and listening—to those we so deeply disagree with. It’s such hard work. It hurts like hell sometimes. But I really think that dialogue, and prayer, will be the only things that see us through.

Gays and the Episcopal Church

2006-06-13T11:22:00.000-04:00

Since this week’s Episcopal General Convention is deliberating the issues that have roiled its “parent” body, the Anglican Communion, I figured it was high time to read the Windsor Report. This report looks at the recent controversy over gay union and consecration—specifically, what it’s done to the worldwide church’s unity-in-diversity—and recommends a course of action for healing. I found it a mature, nuanced, thoughtful document, and maybe it provides a basis for all of us, pro- and anti-gay consecration, to go forward together.

What really grabbed my attention, however, was Paragraph 135 of the report:

We particularly request a contribution from the Episcopal Church (USA) which explains, from within the sources of authority that we as Anglicans have received in scripture, the apostolic tradition and reasoned reflection, how a person living in a same gender union may be considered eligible to lead the flock of Christ.

OK, I’m Episcopalian. I believe in the validity of Gene Robinson’s ordination. And I’m just nervy enough to think my perspective counts. So here goes:

So much of this comes down to how you read the Bible. Many believers read it literally and ahistorically: that is, every word (by and large) is not only true, but also meant to apply to all believers at all times. These are good people, and their faith is genuine. But once you dig deeper into this approach, you run into trouble—and the controversy over homosexuality is an ideal example.
In the entire Bible, there are perhaps five to seven isolated passages (or individual verses) that touch on homosexuality. Two of them—the creation story and the Sodom/Gomorrah story—can support a wide range of interpretations, not just a condemnation of homosexuality. The two condemnations in the Jewish law are clear enough; however, if we take the Jewish law literally, as applying to us, we also need to exclude people with disabilities from worship and stop wearing polyester blends. St. Paul condemns homosexuality twice, and I’ll admit that his passages give me a bit more trouble. But it’s interesting to note that he mentions the issue almost in passing.
On the other side of the scales, the Bible as a whole repeatedly speaks to the value of mercy. “I desire mercy, not sacrifice.” “Love one another as I have loved you.” For all God’s Old Testament punishments, ultimately his orientation is one of love, restoration, healing. And even those punishments tell us something here: God directs so much more of his anger and grief to injustice, ill treatment of the poor, and worship of other gods than to sex in general, let alone homosexuality.
What does this emphasis mean? To be sure, we as believers cannot tolerate certain behaviors, but right now we’re focusing on the wrong ones. Far better to speak prophetically to, say, the rising gap between rich and poor, the world’s all too frequent genocides, the abuse of children, and our obsession with celebrity and consumer culture. On the mercy side, we ought to be trying to see just how big a tent we can make our faith. Why not err on the side of acceptance, rather than exclusion?
Now let’s turn to reasoned reflection. The evils that I’ve just described have something in common: they clearly serve to dehumanize those made in God’s image. A reverence for materialism, for instance, completely neglects the rich spirituality inside all of us; as that spirituality withers, our capacity for mercy and cooperation evaporates. Child abuse and the others are obvious in their maltreatment of human beings. Now let me pose this question: how does a loving, committed, monogamous relationship between two people of the same gender inflict dehumanization? Based on the gay couples I’ve known, I just don’t see it; if anything, they elevate the humanity of each other and those around them.
To show mercy, display commitment, and elevate the humanity of those around you: aren’t those precisely the type of qualities we want in any clergy person, especially a bishop? Don’t they qualify such a person, regardless of sexual orientation, to lead the flock of Christ?

Let me make it clear: I am exactly one person, with exactly one voice. So there’s every chance I’m all wet in some part of this or another. But this is intended, not to be the final word by any means, but to contribute one small strand to the dialogue that will fashion our response to the Windsor Report. May it help to bring healing to our brothers and sisters worldwide.

Loving Those We Have Seen

2006-06-05T09:43:00.000-04:00

It’s funny how you can hear the same Scripture passage for years, and then one day it reveals a completely different insight. The readings from a few Sundays ago included this snippet from 1 John:

“If we do not love others whom we have seen, how can we claim to love God whom we have not seen?”

When I heard the verse read out loud, it suddenly struck me as backwards—and I realized that I’ve come to consider loving God as the easier of the two. God is gentle, loving, perfect: someone, in short, who’s easy to love. Taken from another angle, God is invisible, so it’s easy to make of him and his will what I want. That makes for a smoother relationship.

But it’s not love.

Maybe that’s why other people are the real proving ground of love. They’re right in our face, with all their warts and imperfections and annoying habits and offensive opinions. It takes a deliberate choice, made over and over, minute by minute, to put oneself aside and love these people.

And maybe that is easier. Because with human beings, at least we’re dealing with a semi-known quantity. So if we can learn to love them in that self-denying way, maybe it’s the first step to doing the same with the utterly ineffable God: the God whose actions in the world are infinitely more bewildering and, sometimes, disheartening. To put oneself aside for that kind of God takes practice—exactly the practice we get with one another.

Lending an Ear...to Everyone

2006-05-21T15:00:00.000-04:00

Two ordinary events occurred in my life over the past two days, and I think there’s an extraordinary connection between them.

On Friday, I was reading posts on an e-mail list of advertising creatives (it’s associated with www.commercial-archive.com) when I discovered that one of our regulars is a Gnostic priest. Knowing absolutely nothing about Gnosticism, I asked him about it, and he referred me to some posts on his blog, like egina.blogspot.com/2004/12/gnosticism-101.html. I was delighted to discover how much our faiths share: the ineffability and the immediacy of God, the need to seek God out, the importance of Jesus, etc.

Then, on Saturday, I ran into a young woman from our old (Reformed) church in the local supermarket. Her faith could be described as evangelical Christian, and it always touches me, because she experiences God so intimately and so enthusiastically. We discussed the new pastor, his passion for Bible and spiritual studies, her praying for (and receiving) direction on a new job opportunity, etc.

Now here’s the connection: If you were to put all their beliefs side by side with all of mine, we certainly wouldn’t agree on everything. On some things, we might disagree vehemently. But I find that, when I listen, it gives my own faith an opportunity to expand. There might be something in Jordan’s Gnosticism, or Beth’s evangelicalism, that sheds light on a mystery, gives me a new perspective on an old issue, or simply reveals another detail about how God works.

That means that we do ourselves an injustice when we refuse to listen. Of course, refusing to listen is our stock in trade as Americans these days. Somehow that forces us to focus narrowly on the issues that separate us—and ignore the far broader common ground that we share.

God’s way too big for any of us to understand. We need all the help we can get: from people on every side of every creed. That requires some intense listening. I hope, as this blog develops, that it becomes a place where that kind of listening can happen.

St. Dunstan and Our "Ordinary" Lives

2006-05-17T14:06:00.000-04:00

During our usual Wednesday mass at St. Paul’s in Albany, our priest delivered a homily on St. Dunstan, who served as Archbishop of Canterbury in 960. Among his many accomplishments, Dunstan apparently reformed the monastic culture of his day and engaged fully in the details of everyday life, from politics to metalworking. Why? Because all life belonged to God, not just time spent in prayer or worship or “Christian service.”

For me, this had a familiar and comforting ring. The Rule for Associates at Holy Cross Monastery, where I have made my spiritual home, includes a section on balance as a monastic value. The section begins with “Our ordinary life is our spiritual life.” Another passage refers to the fact that “all life is holy.”

Of course, it’s easy to say this. But what joy, and freedom, come in those occasional times when I can get myself to live it. There is a freedom to relax, to be present to whatever crosses my path, to accept the now as God’s gift and respond to it accordingly. At the end of the day, I can look back and see that my activities—while often insufficient for my silly standards—harmonize well with God’s.

It’s life as pull. Our culture, by contrast, drives us into life as push: we plan out everything to the second, feel compelled to accomplish more than one day can possibly hold, ignore what’s in front of us because we’re on our way to the next thing.

It does cost to get off the merry-go-round. Maybe we’re not as efficient, or we get less done. But if we don’t get off, we lose something of the richness of God. And that richness is surely worth savoring.

What If This Is It?

2006-05-15T16:53:00.000-04:00

Last month, I joined my family in attending a memorial service for my parents, both of whom died last year. More precisely, we attended memorial services: one for the public, and a more intimate one for just the family. The family service consisted of walking in the rain up a small hill to a memory garden; there my nephew placed the urn with my parents' ashes in a small hole, and we proceeded to cover it with earth.

As I stared at the urn with the dirt on top, a thought struck me with full force. This is it. No matter what we do, where we go, we all end up here.

Over the years, I've come to believe that a deep acceptance of death--our own death--is a game-changer in life. The resurrection, the reality of life beyond the grave, makes that all the more true. If our ultimate destiny is union with God, nothing can rob us of our freedom in this life. In any given situation, what's the worst that can happen? We'll die and go to God! Big deal! It allows us not to worry about status or success, but simply to hear and do the will of God, regardless of the consequences.

But this thought was different. Even if we end here--if somehow God created the cosmos so there is no resurrection--it is enough. Enough, that is, to follow God throughout this earthly life, with no thought of reward. The relationship itself, the chance to pour oneself out in doing good: these are reward enough.

Allow Me to Introduce Myself...

2006-05-08T21:18:00.000-04:00

This blog is not about me. Nonetheless, you might want to know where I’m coming from, at least from a spiritual standpoint.

At the most basic level, I am a Christian, specifically an Episcopalian. For the last 10 years I’ve read and pondered some of the deeper thinkers of the contemplative life—people like Thomas Merton, Meister Eckhart, Teresa of Avila. This interest has led me deeper into monastic and contemplative practices, like silent and centering prayer.

About a year ago, I became an “associate” of Holy Cross Monastery in West Park, New York, an Episcopal order. In essence, associates take a modified version of the Rule of Life that the monks live by, and tailor it to their life in the world. So, for instance, I’ve committed myself to daily prayer of various sorts, spiritual reading, life balance, and being present to those around me, but I still own a house, love my wife, and run a business (as I mentioned before, I write ad copy for a living). I am no priest or theologian: just a regular guy who can’t get enough of God.

While I identify myself as Christian, that by no means excludes the truths found in other faith traditions. I find myself enthralled by what I read of Hinduism and Buddhism, for instance. The fact that both Christians and Hindus essentially revere one ineffable God who appears in three persons quite amazes me.

So that’s me. In this space, we’ll very likely talk about many of these things. Come on along for the ride.