8/26/14

Finally had time to finish The Seven Storey Mountain. On the whole, I enjoyed the book. I see a lot of similarities between myself and the early Merton: the struggles with lust and pride and anger; the inner conflict between living a worldly life and the call to a contemplative one; the confusion and indecision; the convergence of seemingly random coincidences and happenstances leading one in an unforeseen direction, and the suffering of rebelling against one's very nature; etc. It was easy for me to see my own spiritual journey in his, as I think is the case for many who read it. And as I was finishing the book, one paragraph in particular, on 'active' vs. 'contemplative' orders, stood out to me:

This means, in practice, that there is only one vocation. Whether you teach or live in the cloister or nurse the sick, whether you are in religion or out of it, married or single, no matter who you are or what you are, you are called to the summit of perfection: you are called to a deep interior life perhaps even to mystical prayer, and to pass the fruits of your contemplation on to others. And if you cannot do so by words, then by example.

I think in some shape or form, we all feel this call, and much of our existential suffering is caused by either fighting against it or else being unable to answer it. One of the reasons I think monastic life appeals to me, for example, is that I have trouble answering that call living in the world. Some people have worldly vocations that, for them, satisfies this, not only enriching their own life but the lives of the people around them. But some, like myself, never seem to find that place in the world, being pulled between renouncing the call to contemplation in order to satisfy our material and social responsibilities and renouncing worldly life in order to head the call to this interior life.

Ideally, I want to find a balance between the two. But at the same time, I find so much in the world alluring and distracting that I rarely seem able to pull myself away and dwell in a spirit of contemplative solitude. I suppose it's a form of moral weakness on my part, which is why the external trappings of monasticism appeal to me—they impose upon one externally the discipline one may not be able to impose upon themselves internally. For me, monastic habits/robes are like a symbolic shield against worldly vices and distractions, reminding one of their contemplative vocation and acting a kind of psychological talisman against the temptations we're all but powerless against.

In some ways, I think that I idealize monastic life; and in reading Thomas Merton's spiritual autobiography, I'm again reminded that even though the monastic life provides a certain kind of spiritual freedom and protection on the external level, we take all of our flaws and weaknesses with us behind those 'four walls of freedom' as well as our strengths. Eventually they'll catch up to us, and that's where the real challenge lies. In that external solitude, which in turn helps to cultivate internal solitude, we're confronted with ourselves, good, bad, and everything in between. Monastic life is an aid to an ongoing internal transformation and life of contemplation, not an end in and of itself.

One of the things this book has done for me is to inspire me to learn more about Christian monasticism, and the Trappists in particular. It's not something I ever explored even though I've always been fascinated by films and books focusing on monastic life or the various orders of monks and nuns. Much like Merton, who'd come into repeated contact with these things for years before actually investigating them, I simply appreciated them from afar, in a more or less abstract way. But now, I want to learn more. I want to see and read and experience what they have to offer. I want to make a similar journey and follow the call 'to the summit of perfection' and a deep interior life of contemplation.

8/25/14 (renunciation)

Both Jesus and the Buddha encouraged their followers to renounce the world. This doesn't mean, of course, that one must literally run away from the world and go hide in a cave. It's primarily a kind of attitude, a shift in the focus of one's life. To renounce the world is to play by a different set of rules, to go against the current of selfishness and craving, and live a life that others may not understand.

To live in the world is to be fully immersed in sensuality, to live for the sake of experiences and pleasure and according to the whims of worldly opinions. To live in the world is to be moved by the eight worldly winds of gain and loss, status and disgrace, censure and praise, pleasure and pain, to be swept away by the passions of the world. To live in the world is to seek happiness and satisfaction in the conditioned, that which is impermanent, subject to change and dissolution.

The Buddha said that life is uncertain, that death may come at any moment, so we should practice heedfulness, "the path to the Deathless," and freedom from the yokes of sensuality, becoming, views, and ignorance. In the Bible, too, one can find this kind of exhortation to live a life against the current of worldly passions and concerns for the sake of a greater happiness, to live heedfully and with wisdom:

What is the source of quarrels and conflicts among you? Is not the source your pleasures that wage war in your members? You lust and do not have; so you commit murder. You are envious and cannot obtain; so you fight and quarrel. You do not have because you do not ask. You ask and do not receive, because you ask with wrong motives, so that you may spend it on your pleasures. You adulteresses, do you not know that friendship with the world is hostility toward God? Therefore whoever wishes to be a friend of the world makes himself an enemy of God. Or do you think that the Scripture speaks to no purpose: "He jealously desires the Spirit which He has made to dwell in us"? But He gives a greater grace. Therefore it says, "God is opposed to the proud, but gives grace to the humble." Submit therefore to God. Resist the devil and he will flee from you. Draw near to God and He will draw near to you. Cleanse your hands, you sinners; and purify your hearts, you double-minded. Be miserable and mourn and weep; let your laughter be turned into mourning and your joy to gloom. Humble yourselves in the presence of the Lord, and He will exalt you.

Do not speak against one another, brethren. He who speaks against a brother or judges his brother, speaks against the law and judges the law; but if you judge the law, you are not a doer of the law but a judge of it. There is only one Lawgiver and Judge, the One who is able to save and to destroy; but who are you who judge your neighbor?

Come now, you who say, "Today or tomorrow we will go to such and such a city, and spend a year there and engage in business and make a profit." Yet you do not know what your life will be like tomorrow. You are just a vapor that appears for a little while and then vanishes away. Instead, you ought to say, "If the Lord wills, we will live and also do this or that." But as it is, you boast in your arrogance; all such boasting is evil. Therefore, to one who knows the right thing to do and does not do it, to him it is sin. (James 4)

It's the craving for sensual desires that give rise to greed, hatred, and delusion, leading to quarrels and conflict. To live by the whims of these passions, one 'makes a friend of the world' and turns away from the noble life, from truth and peace and the deathless. Our actions and intentions must be cleansed, purified. We must give up some of the short-term happiness and pleasure we experience from following our passions because they lead to long-term harm and suffering; and we must do what might initially be difficult for us to do because it'll ultimately lead to our long-term welfare and happiness. We must be honest and practice right speech. And above all, we must not be heedless.

Although many have escaped into the forests, mountains, caves, and other remote places of the earth to help them renounce the world, which can be helpful, 'the world' itself goes with them. One can't escape the world simply by fleeing from civilization. Renunciation, then, is ultimately an internal turning away from our craving and desire once we begin to discern the drawback of sensual pleasures and the limitations of feeding our hunger for pleasant feelings and experiences.

Unfortunately, renunciation is often perceived as a negative word, especially in the West—a word that implies depriving oneself of something essential to living a full and happy life. But in the Buddha's dispensation, as well as in the teachings of Christianity, renunciation actually means the opposite of this—it's a word implying the relinquishment of something unessential to living a full and happy life.

One of the main reasons I find monasticism so appealing, I think, is that it's a way of life specially designed to help foster this kind of internal renunciation on the external level. Monastic life is like a spiritual training ground for those who either have trouble cultivating this spirit of renunciation while living a worldly life (like me) or who simply desire to devote themselves fully to a life of renunciation.

8/24/14 (10/7/12)

An old blog post I dug up from October of 2012 that I happened to be thinking about today.

It seems like I’ve spent the majority of this weekend at Holy Trinity Greek Orthodox Cathedral, where the 61st annual Portland Greek Festival is being held, which, if you know me, is kind of funny considering how much I used to shun churches in my younger days. But whereas I used to scoff at organized religious institutions, particularly Christian ones, I've since found myself increasingly drawn towards spiritual people and places of all kinds, often getting a feeling of expansive peace and interconnectedness whenever I come into contact with deeply spiritual people and teachings of all faiths.

Eastern Orthodox churches seem to especially draw me in, not only because of their beautiful iconography, but because of some of the symbolism underlying them as well. Some of them (like the one depicting Jesus' descent into Hades, for example) are quite philosophically complex, and I find them intriguing to contemplate, not unlike Christian koans in a way. The concept of theosis is also appealing to me, i.e., the idea of trying to emulate the life of Jesus, and genuinely putting into practice his teachings on forgiveness, generosity, renunciation, and unconditional love in order to become more god-like, to become one with the best aspects of our humanity and share a deep sense of communion with one another.

Of course, there are certainly many Christian ideas and theological aspects that I don't like and will probably never agree with; but I respect Christianity and the Christian community for what it is or potentially could be to people. It's a guiding light in times of darkness, and a source of comfort and a place of refuge in difficult ones. It's a journey towards wholeness for those who feel incomplete. It's a celebration of life and happiness in a world filled with sadness and death. It's a philosophy, a riddle, a vehicle for gnosis. And deep down, it can be characterized by one simple commandment, which Jesus gave to his Apostles at the Last Supper: love one another.

It's hard not to appreciate this commandment and the spirit it was given, or the people who sincerely endeavour to follow it. It speaks to the salvific power of love, and reflects the idea that there's something special, something divine, in our interactions with other people—an idea that's mirrored in bible passages such as, "Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love" (John 4:8) and echoed by Church Fathers like Augustine of Hippo: "Once for all, then, a short precept is given you: Love, and do what you will: whether you hold your peace, through love hold your peace; whether you cry out, through love cry out; whether you correct, through love correct; whether you spare, through love do you spare: let the root of love be within, of this root can nothing spring but what is good."

8/24/14

I decided to attend mass at St. Philip Neri today. I liked it a lot more than St. Michael, but not as much as St. George, which is an Antioch Orthodox church. The homily was thought-provoking, though. The main theme was about the importance of asking questions to make one's faith a living one, especially Jesus' question to Peter, "Who do you say that I am?" (Mt 16:15).

Much like the Buddha for Buddhists and others, Jesus is many things to many different people. I was confronted with the question myself, unsure of my answer. I know what Peter's response was, but what's mine? It's hard for me to say at this point. I don't know if I can go as far as Peter, that he's the Messiah, the son of God; but I liked what Fr. Brunick said about Jesus being an example of how to live: God, incarnated on earth, acting as a divine inspiration, living in the spirit of charity, love, and forgiveness, and encouraging his disciples to do likewise. I, for one, could use all the positive reinforcement I can in that area.

One of the things that originally attracted me to Buddhism was the way the Buddha taught all who came to him, and how the example of his enlightened activity was motivating, inspirational, and at once practical and transcendent. I see the same in Jesus; and more than anything, I want to one day radiate as much peace, joy, and goodness as each of them. I want to know and understand the intimate truth that the saints and arahants have.

8/23/14

Looking back at my superficial understanding and criticisms of other religious traditions, I realize how immature they were. I suppose I've finally reached a point where I think it's far more advantageous to focus on the similarities between religious traditions than their differences, and where I'm more receptive to those commonalities.

In trying to express this shift in my point of view to others, however, I'm running into the same kind of superficial criticisms I myself used to make about Christianity and can now see how they, and the views underlying them, are a lot like Maslow's hammer, pounding away at the whole of Christian thought and practice because, from their point of view, everything looks like a nail. Certainly they're valid when it comes to the type of 'folk Christianity' that's so prevalent among many; but Christianity itself has a solid and rich spiritual core that I'm learning to recognize and appreciate, and I think it's a shame so few are aware of it.

I'm starting to think that religious triumphalism is more a sign of spiritual immaturity and/or intellectual arrogance than anything else, and feel somewhat embarrassed about my own sectarian and triumphal attitudes.

8/22/14

Sat in on the Friday Portland Friends of the Dhamma group today. The format has changed somewhat now that Matthew is leading the group. The meditation period is about 10-15min shorter, and the focus is on investigating certain weekly themes. Tonight's theme was contentment, and Matthew offered this passage for reflection: "For one who is not content, unwholesome, unskillful qualities arise and wholesome, skillful qualities decline. For one who is content, wholesome, skillful qualities arise and unwholesome, unskillful qualities decline."

For me, contentment is something I have trouble cultivating. I'm more often than not quite discontent with things and wish them to be otherwise. My inner critic is quite loud and vocal, and I can see the truth of the Buddha's words. Lately, I've been less than content at work, and I notice that I find myself more irritable, judgmental, and liable to lash out with unskillful actions of body, speech, and mind because of it. A grumble here. A mean thought there. A sour disposition the majority of each day, and sometimes being short with both coworkers and customers.

One of the things that's helped, when I've been able to at least, is to be more aware of the amount of energy I put into those negative mental states and remind myself that it's not worth putting the energy towards thinking mean things and feeding my discontent. Doing so helps me counteract some of those unskillful qualities and even cultivate more skillful ones. I'm not always successful, though, and I wish I had more patience. My short temper and lack of patience are two of my biggest character flaws.

8/20/14

I sat in on the B- Catholics group tonight, and it wasn't an unpleasant experience.

The group, consisting of several people including myself, was rather informal, and the conversation ran in all kinds of directions, everyone jumping in whenever they had something to say. The general topic of the evening was tolerance, which was inspired by the recent events in Ferguson and the shooting-death of Michael Brown. Fr. Michael, who usually leads the group, wasn't there today, so a lady originally from Cleveland, Kathleen, headed it.

One of the things Kathleen offered at the beginning was a handout about meditation from Fr. Edward Hays. Then the discussion turned towards prayer and what forms of prayer people found inspiring. Next the discussion meandered into people's retreat experiences. And towards the end, the conversation centred on police abuses, race relations, and prejudices.

In general, they seemed to agree that the police are often in the wrong in these kinds of situations, and that people have a reason to be afraid of them (especially if they're black), some with firsthand experience of friends being killed. But their views about rioting and how people should react to systemic oppression was a bit naive and simplistic, in my opinion. They lacked the true scope of economic, social, and political forms of oppression that people of colour have had to experience for generations, and that are still present within society today, just less out in the open.

At the end, everyone stood in a circle, held hands, and said the "Our Father" while praying for those in their thoughts. It was a bit awkward, but also nice. Before I left, I said hi to Dorothy, and told Kathleen, who was worried I thought poorly of the group, that I enjoyed it and would come back again. I think I may have possibly found a parish to visit regularly. Will definitely have to attend mass soon to get a better feel for it, but I think this could be the right place for me.

It might just be the fact that I'm reading Thomas Merton's biography, but I half wonder if my strong desire to go to Oregon when I was younger, and my strong attraction to monasticism, is part of my fate or 'God's plan' for me. There are a lot of seemingly random coincidences and happenstances coalescing around my being here, especially my discovery of Our Lady of Guadalupe and my growing interest in the contemplative tradition of the Trappists, and it's hard to ignore them.

God, am I really thinking about becoming Catholic? At the very least, I find myself comparing aspects of Christianity and Buddhism and finding them less antagonistic and incompatible than I once did, expanding my understanding of the former, particularly the more contemplative and mystical aspects relating to Christian spiritual life.

In The Seven Storey Mountain, for example, Merton writes about seeing his father in the hospital near the end of his life and the suffering he experienced, a suffering characteristic of people "without faith in the presence of war, disease, pain, starvation, suffering, plague, bombardment, and death” (91), which immediately reminded of the first noble truth: "Birth is suffering, aging is suffering, sickness is suffering, death is suffering, sorrow and lamentation, pain, grief and despair are suffering; association with the loathed is suffering, dissociation from the loved is suffering, not to get what one wants is suffering — in short, suffering is the five categories of clinging objects" (SN 56.11).

Later on, when describing his month-long attempt to devote himself to St. Ignatius' Spiritual Exercises, he recollects St. Ignatius' notion of 'indifference' to "all created things in themselves": "Wherefore it is necessary that we make ourselves indifferent to all created things, in so far as it is permitted to our free will ... in such a way that, as far as we are concerned, we should not desire health rather than sickness, riches rather than poverty, honor rather than ignominy, a long life rather than a short life, and so on, desiring and choosing only these things which more efficaciously lead us to the end for which we were created" (294). Which is strikingly similar to the Buddha's teachings on the middle way between sensual indulgence and self-mortification and dispassion towards the conditioned.

Even one of the more controversial teachings of the Buddha, that of anatta or not-self, has its parallels in Christianity. Merton speaks of the inescapable anguish arising from of the "shame at the inescapable stigma of our sins" as long as there's any self-love left in us, that, "Only when all pride, all self-love has been consumed in our souls by the love of God, are we delivered from the things which is the subject of those torments" (323). And in the book In the Spirit of Happiness by the monks of New Skete, while discussing the real meaning of asceticism and some of the more 'negative' sounding passages in the New Testament like Mark 8:34-35 and John 12:24-25, they mention that:

"Dying to self" is spiritual shorthand for rooting out all manner of exaggerated self-interest, characteristics of ourselves that constrict us in narcissism and blind self-centeredness. This is the self within us that, while all too real, is what nonetheless must die, the "false self," which must give way to the new life we are called to attain. The false self embodies the very characteristics we loathe in our better moments. Were we to look at ourselves honestly, we would see how petty, thoughtless, and loveless we can be at any given moment. We might have an occasional, fleeting insight that we will never attain any real happiness unless we come to terms with what really counts in life. One doesn't have to search far to find pathetic examples of individuals who struck it rich by the standards of "the world," yet whose personal lives were utterly miserable. (86)

Both of which I think are apt descriptions of the proper use of the teachings on not-self, albeit in Christian terminology—an approach that's quite similar to the way Thanissaro Bhikkhu approaches the teachings on not-self in his short book Selves & Not-selves.

I'd say that what 'dies' during awakening in the Buddhist context is a self built on, or influenced by, ignorance and the defilements of greed, hatred, and delusion; and what's left is a mind that's liberated, unbound, freed from grasping and self-centredness, and expressive of love, compassion, sympathetic joy, and equanimity. Nibbana, then, isn't a kind of annihilation or state of nothingness as I think many mistakenly believe it to be based upon the numerous 'negative' references as to what it's not; it's the experience of the fullness of life free from the suffering that arise from clinging

Where God fits into this, I can't say for certain; but it's interesting that nibbana, the final goal of the path to liberation, which is ineffable and beyond concepts and language, is described in terms such as the deathless, the unborn, the unbecome, the unmade, the unfabricated. And the Dhamma that the Buddha teaches should be our island, our refuge, and which his teachings point towards, is none other than the laws of nature, the reality of things as they truly are, truth. If that's not an apt definition of God, I don't know what is. Submitting to God, then, is akin to aligning oneself with the Dhamma that the Buddha taught, submitting oneself to mindfulness, wisdom, and a spirit of harmlessness.

I suppose that in Christianity, I see these ideas presented from a more revelatory point of view, arising out of a peculiar Semitic (and later, Greco-Roman) culture, replete with its own religious traditions and worldviews in which they're framed. And in Buddhism, I see these ideas presented from a more philosophical and/or empirical point of view, arising out a peculiar Indic culture, replete with its own religious traditions and worldview in which they're framed. But I think both fingers are pointing towards the same proverbial moon.

8/18/14

Yesterday I went to mass at St. Michael. I don't think it's the right place for me, though. It's hard to explain why, but as soon as I walked in, I got a feeling that said, 'nope, this isn't the place for me.' I thought to myself, 'be patient and give the place a chance'; but by the end of the service, the feeling was even stronger than before. I don't know, it just felt like something was missing, something that I've felt at places like Holy Trinity and St. George (two Orthodox churches), and especially Our Lady of Guadalupe, which I can't stop thinking about. The more I reflect on what Br. Chris said to me about part of me not being ready for their monastic life retreat, the sadder I get, and the more determined I am to make myself ready.

On my way home, I passed by St. Philip Neri and decided on a whim to get off the bus and see if anybody was still around to talk to about their RCIA class. I saw a building with an open door and walked in. It seemed almost everyone had already left except for a few stragglers. One of the parishioners on their way out asked me if I needed anything, and directed me to a lady named Jeanne, who was sitting with a couple of other people at a table talking. I asked about the RCIA class (which they like to call an inquiry class now) and found out that it starts September 17th, and will probably be in the chapel in the Paulist Center building.

One of the people she was sitting with, an older lady by the name of Dorothy, offered to show me where the building was. We went outside and she pointed it out, and mentioned that she went to school in that very same building when she was younger. (I asked her if she was born in Portland. She said yes and that she still lives in the house her parents built in 1924!) Then she told me about a group she's a part of that meets there every first and third Wednesday at 7:15pm called B- Catholics, which she thought I might be interested in. She told me Fr. Michael once said something to the effect of, "You've been coming to this group for a few years now, you'd think you'd be better than a B- by now."

She was so kind and funny and welcoming—the kind of person you know lives in the spirit of their faith. I'd really like to see her again. I think I'll check out the group this Wednesday. It can't hurt.

8/16/14

Got a call from Deacon Chuck today. I wrote to him a couple of days ago inquiring about his parish's RCIA class. The class itself begins in mid-September, and I told him that I was interested. I also told him that I'd stop by St. Michael for mass tomorrow and say hi.

The first question that'd probably arise in the mind of anyone who knows me is, why? I suppose the short answer is, I'm searching for truth (although if you tried to pin me down to define what I mean by 'truth,' I probably couldn't give you a coherent answer). And in that search, I've been drawn towards Western monasticism, philosophy, and theology.

It's actually kind of strange for me to admit this to myself since I've spent a great deal of my life doing the exact opposite, rebelling against and purposefully avoiding all the above. I can't count the number of negative thoughts I've had and words I've said about Christianity, especially in my youth. And yet here I am, inquiring about RCIA classes, visiting a Trappist monastery, and reading the works of two of the most famous Thomases, Thomas Merton and Thomas Aquinas. Although I can't say that everything I've read or experienced recently has resonated with me, I also can't deny that much of it has.

I'm a little afraid of where this journey might lead me, to be honest. But at the same time, I sense that it's a journey worth making, and that I'd regret it if I didn't make the effort. It feels like I'm being driven in this direction despite myself, which makes me even more curious to find out why. Why am I all of a sudden attracted to a spiritual tradition I've spent most my life either ignoring or criticizing? Is it simply idle curiosity? Or is it something more? A spiritual calling perhaps? An intuitive sense that there's something here for me to learn, to help my spiritual self grow and mature?

Whatever the impetus, it's definitely something I'd rather keep mostly to myself for the time being. The relative strangeness of it makes me hesitant to talk about it. It's too hard to explain, for one. It's like my eyes are slowly opening and I'm seeing truth everywhere, complementing itself from different angles, and I'm suddenly and inexplicably taken with a new perspective—one I was never able to appreciate before, but which I'm now beginning to for whatever reason.

Some of this, I suppose, may be due to some small amount of spiritual maturity on my part that's allowing me to see and appreciate things I once overlooked, seeing the essences behind the appearances for what they are, and how they arise out of, or are reflections of, a common reality. But underlying that, there's a growing sense of yearning in my heart that's reaching out towards something, and I'm frightened that it's reaching out towards God, which is a concept I don't fully understand or have much faith in at the moment, yet find myself gravitating towards nonetheless. It's all rather confusing.

8/10/14

After I got home from my five days at Our Lady of Guadalupe, I sent an email to Br. Chris thanking him again for showing me around and included a copy of what I'd written so that he could have a better idea about my experience. I was sure that he'd read it, see that I took my time there seriously, and perhaps give me some advice on how to move forward. I figured maybe trying to see if I could attend a monastic life retreat some time next summer, when I'd get three months off from work.

His initial response the next day was to thank me for the email and text (which he said he'd read when he had the time) and to say that it was good having me there. About six days later, though, he sent an email basically saying that, upon further reflection, he thought I was unsettlingly distant, non-communicative, and intense, especially during our first and last meeting, but also most of my time in the guest house as well. He said it was as if I had two personalities, one that was ready for the monastic life retreat and one that wasn't (nor would ever be), and suggest that I learn more about the Catholic Church, as well as visit a parish church and attend mass in order to get more comfortable with the Church in general.

In my defense, I told him that one of the main reasons I sent him a copy of my thoughts on the retreat was that I wasn't able to articulate much the last time we spoke and I wanted him to have an idea of my experience, the things I was thinking, etc. I just didn't know what to say then, and he seemed like he was in a hurry, so I didn't want to keep him. (I'm naturally kind of shy, as well, so I don't initiate conversations much, either.) I also told him that during our first meeting on my first day, I was nervous and didn't know what to expect. When I'm in situations like that, I'm often quiet and just observe things.

As for the guest house (I can only assume Rhonda or one of the other volunteers mentioned something about my demeanor when asked), I simply told him I was trying to maintain a quiet and contemplative atmosphere, and mostly followed the lead of the guy I was staying with, who was just as quiet as I was. I didn't want to disturb anyone else's retreat, and I was trying to absorb all I could from mine.

On the one hand, it doesn't surprise me. I'm used to people thinking me rather stoic or even dour when I'm quiet like that. I guess it can be unsettling for people, especially if they don't know me. But to be honest, I find it surprising that it bothered people in a monastic setting, where I'm used to it being a strength, i.e., keeping idle chatter to a minimum, taking the experience seriously, not disturbing other people's retreat experience, always being mindful, etc. (And the Trappists are generally known for living relatively silent lives, even developing their own form of sign language to foster that, and I went in with that in mind.)

I finished by telling him that I appreciated his honesty (although some of that honesty hurt to read), and if he didn't think I was ready for the monastic life retreat, I trusted his judgment. I said it probably would've been helpful to have had more experience with the Church and to learn more about it before asking to stay at a Catholic monastery, and that I'd try to do that.

For my part, I enjoyed my time there and thought it was fruitful. I spent most of it reading and thinking and meditating, and I got to experience a different approach to solitude. And I honestly think that Br. Chris would find me up for the monastic life retreat if given the chance. Then again, maybe he's right. Maybe I need more time before taking that step.

8/4/14

I've decided to start a new blog to document my growing interest in, and exploration of, Christianity. 

The title, "submitting to the unknown," was inspired by James 4. About a month ago, I wandered into the Quiet Prayer and Meditation Lounge at PSU and sat for a while during my lunch break. I noticed a pocket New Testament on the table, so I picked it up, opened it to a random page, and decided to read wherever my finger landed, which happened to be the beginning of James 4, which I thought was surprisingly relevant to what I'd been thinking and feeling as of late—I was looking for guidance regarding the ongoing conflict inside of myself between living in the world and the pull of monastic life.

For the starting point of this blog, I've chosen my five-day stay at Our Lady of Guadalupe, since that's when I feel this journey truly began:

Thursday morning, I awoke to a bright, blue sky and a dull headache nesting behind my right eye, excited and at the same time somewhat anxious about my five-day guest house retreat at Our Lady of Guadalupe Trappist Abbey. I'd written to Brother Chris about a month prior during one especially 'dark night' asking about their monastic life retreat, as well as shorter guest house stays, and had received an encouraging reply suggesting that I schedule a guest house stay and go from there.

I've been drawn towards monastic life for what seems like most of my life (I don't remember it myself, but my mom told me once that when I was very young, she asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up and I told her a recluse). But most of my experience up to that point had been with Theravadin Buddhist monasticism, visiting various Thai Buddhist monasteries across the country. However, due to the influence of various films and books and conversations with others over the past few years, I'd found myself growing increasingly more curious about Christian monasticism, particularly that of the Cistercians of the Strict Observance, or as they're more commonly known, Trappists.

I think the first thing that drew me towards the Trappists was their distinctive habits, white tunics with contrasting black scapulars. I know it may sound silly, but something about them is just so aesthetically pleasing and inspiring to me. The second thing that indirectly attracted me to them was Thomas Merton's The Wisdom of the Desert, which I found had a lot in common with the wisdom of many of the Thai Forest ajahns, whose ascetic lifestyle in many ways mirrors that of the early Christian monks and nuns who lived contemplative lives in the deserts of Egypt, Syria, and Palestine. And later on, what further deepened that interest is their contemplative approach to prayer, most notably what they call 'centering prayer.'

When I first wrote to Br. Chris, I'm not sure what I really wanted or expected, but I was at least conscious of the vague, reoccurring dissatisfaction with worldly life that's haunted me most of my life as well as the perpetual desire to connect with spiritual people and a deeper, more profound level of reality I often feel spurring me on. Although I'm admittedly skeptical of the existence of something more, something transcendent and beyond intellectual understanding, deep down I want there to be, and I seem to be predisposed to searching for it within the quiet depths of my own soul, whether it be in the meditation halls of Buddhist temples or the guest house of a Trappist abbey.

Arriving at the abbey, however, my mind was overflowing with doubts and worries, and I began to second guess my decision to come. For one, I was completely unfamiliar with Catholicism, and Christianity in general. I started to worry that I'd offend someone and/or make a fool out of myself due to my lack of familiarity and general ignorance of proper etiquette. And as open-minded as I know some within the Catholic Church can be, it can't be denied that there's also a very rigid orthodoxy, and I sensed the potential for conflict, both internal and external.

There are aspects and dogmas of Christianity I'm not sure I could ever fully accept, assuming, of course, I found myself pursuing that spiritual path; and even my belief in God — personal, pantheistic, or otherwise — is shaky. I value the idea of God, although I'm not sure how much faith in God I truly have, if any. I think Jesus was a revolutionary spiritual teacher, but I have a difficult time understanding him as God and our relation to him. And yet there I was, about to spend five days at a Catholic monastery, led here by a myriad of conflicting circumstances and desires I didn't fully understand.

But despite my many misgivings, the abbey was quite inviting and peaceful. Instead of having to give any sort of account of myself or my beliefs, I was immediately given the opportunity to let the peaceful, serene atmosphere of Our Lady of Guadalupe at once become a part of my retreat experience.

After a short tour of the guest house area from a kind volunteer named Rhonda, I settled into my room, which was small yet comfortable enough, and was further reassured by a small, four-page pamphlet encouraging me (and all retreatants generally) to "enter into quietude," listen with ears and heart, and allow my "'inner self' to surface"—to be "revitalized in my spiritual life," free from the anxiety and demands that often go hand-in-hand with ordinary, everyday life in our modern society. I took a few moments to sit in the rocking chair and allow what I'd just read to sink in and really begin my retreat.

Maybe thirty minutes or so later, I walked over to the church for Vespers. The church, like the rest of the abbey I'd seen so far, was simple and inviting, yet also inspiring a kind of reverence. The high ceiling and skylights gave it a bright, spacious feeling, and its simplicity was humble, practical, and in my mind, just right to put one into a contemplative mood.

After the service was over, which mainly consisted of a mixture of hymns, prayers, and scriptural readings as the monks alternated between standing, sitting, and bowing, I briefly met with Br. Chris, who introduced himself, asked if I had everything I needed, and suggested that we meet again the next day at 9:30am to talk about my stay, the monastic life retreat, and likely whatever else came up.

Right after Vespers was supper (lunch is called dinner), which I ate in the guest dining area with another guy who was also there on retreat. The meal, which was simple, vegetarian, and quite good, was eaten in silence, although talking is permitted during supper. Two more ladies on retreat walked in as I was finishing; but they took their meal into another room to eat, while I took a cup of coffee and made my way out to explore the grounds, meandering around one of the man-made ponds behind the guest houses, full of frogs and some fish and frequented by all sorts of local wildlife.

Once my coffee was finished, I headed back and once again entered the church for the final service of the day, Compline. I tried to "enter into quietude" and truly listen, being mindful of the hymns and my reasons for being there, but I found it rather difficult as my mind's internal dialogue was unwilling to settle down and observe the same silence as my body. It wasn't an entirely unpleasant or unfruitful experience, though; and as I was exiting the chapel with a somewhat reverent attitude on my way back to my guest house to retire for the night, I ran into two deer leisurely wandering the grounds, grazing on the ample foliage, thus ending my first night of my first stay at a Trappist monastery.

However, sleep didn't come easily for me, even though I felt tired, and most of the night I tossed and turned and dreamt of things I quickly forgot upon waking. The air was stuffy and humid and I couldn't get comfortable. Then, just before 1am, I noticed flashes of light outside. At first, I was unsure of what it was; but as I went to the window I realized that it was lightening, so I got dressed, stepped outside, and watched through the trees as flash after flash arced across the sky, listening to the deep, low rumble of the thunder as it grew louder and louder the closer the storm drew to the abbey. Finally, it was upon us, and the rain began to fall. It was wonderful. I'd seen relatively few storms like that since leaving Michigan over ten years ago. I went back to bed and tried my best to let the sounds of the storm lull me back to sleep.

Vigils, the first service of the day, began promptly at 4:15am. I had a rather vivid dream just before my alarm went off at 3:55am that my phone, which I use as an alarm clock, froze during the night and that I woke up late, slightly panicked and disappointed at the realization that I'd missed Friday's Vigils. Everything about the dream felt so real, especially the feeling of disappointment; and it was with both a sense of confusion and relief that I awoke for real when my alarm went off.

Although the rain had stopped by then, flashes of lightning could still be seen in the distance and through the skylights of the church. Like Vespers and Compline the night before, Vigils was a mixture of hymns, prayers, and readings. I enjoyed the reading on prayer near the end from St. Alphonsus Liguori, but was curious about something that came before to the effect of 'God loves those who fear Him.' Why fear, I wonder?

The morning air was left damp and chilly from the storm, and I wished that I hadn't accidentally left my hoodie in Annie's car. The church itself was quite chilly for Lauds and Community Mass, the latter of which was a bit different from the masses I've attended at Orthodox churches. Less ceremony, but no less solemnity or celebration. I did feel a bit awkward at times, though, being the only non-Catholic there (everyone but me took communion); and some of the internal conflicts I was worried about the day before started to surface, such as my difficulty in understanding the concept of the Trinity (three distinct persons being a single divine entity), Jesus being the son of God (being wholly man) and God (being wholly divine) at the same time, and the ritual consumption of Jesus/God.

As much as I appreciated the service, I found myself doubting that I could ever believe in all the things that essentially make one Catholic. I could, of course, see and appreciate those concepts in a metaphorical sense, i.e., how the act of eating the sacramental bread and drinking the sacramental wine was a way of remembering and honouring Jesus as a spiritual teacher and the things he taught, as well as the importance of love and forgiveness (forgiving ourselves and others for our misdeeds, and allowing ourselves to be forgiven in return), and symbolically eating and drinking the body and blood of Christ, the essence of life and salvation, connecting one to God, to nature, and to one another. But to see and understand these things literally seemed a bit beyond what I was capable of.

After breakfast, I met with Br. Chris by the pond and we talked for a little over an hour. He asked me a bit about my past, and told me a bit about his, growing up in California, working in forestry, and becoming a monk. I learned he was continuing his education at Mt. Angel to eventually become a priest. We discussed literature, and he recommended Rumi, Dostoyevsky's Idiot, and Stranger in a Strange Land. And when talking about Christianity, he more or less said that it's ultimately all about Jesus and what he embodies—love and forgiveness. These two things are the essence of what Jesus taught, and hence what Christianity itself is really about, which is something I can appreciate. He also suggested that I go for a hike and meditate with the novitiates after Vespers.

Afterwards, the pessimist in me was hoping that I didn't make too big of a fool of myself and lamenting the fact that I'd actually said 'shit' at one point during the conversation. But I really enjoyed our talk, and we agreed to meet again on Saturday so that he could take me on a tour of the monastery. I spent the rest of my time before Day Hour strolling around, taking some pictures and making friends with a particularly brave and seemingly curious frog who, unlike his fellows, didn't chirp and swim away as soon as I walked by, allowing me to get relatively close and even coming closer himself.

Day Hour was a short service, followed by dinner, which this time included tuna salad and what looked like some kind of chowder. Even here, vegetarian really means pescatarian, but there was still plenty for me to eat. And with all the free time I had left, I contemplated my future.

Earlier, Br. Chris had asked if I'd thought about going back to school, and I told him the cost made me hesitant and that the things I was interested in — literature, philosophy, political science, etc. — weren't very practical things to get degrees in. But what I'm doing now isn't very fulfilling, and it hardly pays well; and being in a monastic setting, with the peace, simplicity, and wholesomeness of monastic life at the forefront of my consciousness, my longtime desire to ordain became ever more present. But that's a big commitment, and would mean equally big sacrifices that'd be difficult to bear. I felt torn between these two choices, these two lives—one of the world and one apart from it. I longed for the joys and pleasures of both, even though I knew one day I'd have to make a choice. My heart was light and heavy at the same time.

I decided to take Br. Chris' advice to go hiking and clear my head, thinking that I'd take the easy route to the Hilltop Shrine, following major forest roads all the way. Instead, I ended up getting lost after taking a trail I thought would lead me straight there, then getting turned around after a couple of forks, having to backtrack a couple of times when whatever trail I was on became too overgrown and full of spider webs and poison oak for my taste. I was worried that I'd miss Vespers, but I eventually made it to the shrine and found my way back with time to spare. I'm glad I went. The shrine was quite nice, and reminded me of similar ones I saw on the trails at Abhayagiri.

I sat alone in their Zen-styled meditation hall, Bethany House, for about fifteen minutes or so before Vespers. It was almost like being back at Dharma Rain. Br. Chris told me that one of the previous abbots, Father Bernard, really wanted a place dedicated to meditation; but many of the older monks predated Vatican II and were less than enthusiastic about the idea, and it took him three votes before everyone eventually agreed and it was finally built. After Vespers, I tried to sit and practice centering prayer with three other monks, but had a hard time staying awake and was constantly drifting off into those kind of spontaneous waking dreams that gradually seduce you into real sleep. It was only a 25 minute sit, but I guess the lack of sleep and two-hour hike really did me in.

I ate a light supper and ended the day with Compline. I think out of all the services, Compline is my favourite. It's much like the rest, with singing, praying, and readings; but they end this particular service by walking around the altar in the centre of the church, facing an image of Our Lady (Mary), and singing a hymn to her. Then the abbot blesses everyone with holy water as they exit the church for the final service of the day. I'm not sure if it's what they sing or the way they sing it that I enjoy so much, but it's a pleasant way to end each night.

Sleep came much easier this time, and before I knew it, my alarm was going off for Vigils. Vigils is always a serene experience. Every morning before dawn, you walk into the dark church at 4am, many of the monks already there, sitting or standing in prayer and meditation. Then the service starts, with its particular set of hymns and prayers and readings; and even though I'm always tired, I find it an uplifting experience, much like morning chanting at Theravada monasteries.

Listening to and reflecting on some of the hymns or passages that were being recited, however, depressed me. One, detailing the history of Israel and how the people of Israel suffered under oppression in Canaan, reminded me of the current conflict in Gaza and how Israel is now the oppressor. It saddened me to think of this, and of all the pain and suffering there is in the world; and I found myself wondering whether it's the world that corrupts our good intentions or our 'good intentions' that corrupt the world. It brought to mind Dostoyevsky's novel, Demons, and how the real demons that possess people are the ideas and isms that obsess our thoughts, colour our perceptions, and blind us to all else. What can drive out such demons when we cling to them with all our might?

With these thoughts and others in mind, I sat again for another 25 minutes before Lauds and Community Mass. At the sound of the church bell, we made our way to church for the next service; and once again, I found myself pondering the Eucharist, the consecrated Host (bread and wine) of Christ, and what it represents—still unable to full appreciate its 'mysteriousness,' but at least appreciative of the sense of community and unconditional love it's meant to foster and celebrate, transforming offenses made and received into forgiveness, and uniting the many into a collective whole through a sacred bond that transcends all our differences. To me, at least, it's a spiritual experience that speaks directly to our nature as social creatures.

I napped after breakfast and felt better for it. The lack of sleep Thursday night and the early morning service was catching up to me. I awoke before the alarm I'd set, and spent some time reading by the pond before Day Hour. I saw some of the monks taking care of the grounds and got to thinking about the other things the monks do, e.g., forestry, book binding, making fruitcake, etc.

One of the biggest differences between Christian and Theravadin monasticism that I've noticed is the role of work. Theravada monks and nuns are mendicants and depend almost exclusively upon the generosity of the laity. They're prevented by their rules from working for money (they're not allowed to even handle money), and are only allowed to eat what's offered to them by the laity each day. They do 'work' by writing, taking care of the monastery grounds, building and maintenance projects, etc.; but work in and of itself isn't a part of their vocation proper. Christian monks and nuns in the Benedictine traditions, however, must labour to support themselves. They can't depend entirely upon donations. It's an explicit part of their vocation to work. But, despite this, both seem to acknowledge the need for prayer/meditation and study to be balanced by labour of some sort.

Day Hour came and went quickly. I read some more by the pond, then met with Br. Chris again, who took me on a tour of the cloistered area of the monastery. The tour lasted about an hour and half, and one of its main purposes was to show me around so I could get a better sense of what being a Trappist monk entailed and help both he and I to decide if their month-long monastic life retreat was something that might be good for me.

The tour began in the church, and he told me about the history of the construction, details about the design, and the people who helped with it all. I really liked its symmetry, and was impressed to learn that the wood for the pews, altar, and monk benches was all local, most, if not all, coming from their land. I was then taken into the cloistered area, which is generally off limits to the public, and saw everything from their library, infirmary, and rectory to their dormitories, laundry room, and office space. The entire layout is incredibly nice and well thought out considering the construction took place in three stages. It mirrors the church in both its symmetry and simplicity. While not as austere as some of the Thai Forest monasteries I've seen, it was far from lavish and expressed a genuinely contemplative atmosphere.

He also explained that, in their tradition, working to support the monastery is an important aspect of their vocation and told me about the various things they do. The way it's set up, they have two accounts, one for the various jobs that support them financially, which is for-profit, and one for donations, which is non-profit and can be borrowed against when the former doesn't provide enough to support the monks' needs. Finally, I was given a fairly detailed tour of their book bindery, which, sadly, in the age of Kindles and iPads, isn't as busy as it once was.

At the end of the tour, Br. Chris gave me a gift, which was a hardcover copy of Benedicta Ward's English translation of The Sayings of the Desert Fathers (where Merton gathered his favourite sayings for his book, The Wisdom of the Desert) handcrafted and bound at their bindery. It was an extremely pleasant surprise. Not only because of the gesture, but also because I was eying a paperback edition of that very book in their bookstore. It couldn't have been a more fitting gift; and I took it as a sign that maybe I should give some serious thought to attending one of their monastic life retreats.

I also thought it rather humorous and intriguing that, when I returned to my room and opened the book to a random page to read an excerpt, it happened to be a story related by Abba Daniel about an inhabitant of Scetis who, out of his simple faith, thought, "The bread which we receive is not really the body of Christ, but a symbol"—the very thing I found myself thinking the past few days during mass, having trouble understanding it any other way.

As the story goes, two old men heard that he said this, and knowing of his outstanding way of life and that it was not said in malice but out of simplicity, went to see him and exhort him to change his position to one in conformity to the church, i.e., that the bread and wine is the body and blood of Christ. The man replied that, “As long as I have not been persuaded by the thing itself, I shall not be fully convinced.” So the two old men suggested they pray about this mystery throughout the whole week in the hope that God would reveal it to them.

At the end of the week, all three went to church together on Sunday, and as the priest placed the bread on the table, a child appeared to the three men alone. When the priest went to break the bread, an angel appeared with a sword and poured the child's blood into the chalice. When the priest cut the bread into pieces, the angel cut the child into pieces. And when they went up to receive the sacraments, the man alone received a morsel of bloody flesh and was afraid, crying out that he believed it was truly the body and blood of Christ, upon which the flesh immediately became bread. Then the two men said to the third, "God knows human nature and that man cannot eat raw flesh and that is why he has changed his body into bread and his blood into wine, for those who receive it in faith."

Suffice it to say that the story wasn't enough to fully convince me, and I imagine that as long as I haven't been 'persuaded by the thing itself,' I too, shall not be fully convinced.

The rest of the night was much like the one before: Vespers, meditation, supper, and finally Compline. Off and on, I imagined what it'd be like to live with the monks for a month and participate in each service, and I felt preemptively sorry for anyone that'd have to hear me mangle hymn after hymn because I'm so tone deaf. I don't think there's a rule against not being able to carry a tune, but that might change after they hear me try to sing.

Sunday, Vigils was longer than usual, and included a reading from Thomas Merton's The Living Bread, which focused on the mystery of the Eucharist and how it, and Christ's Church, are one mystery, not two. It seems I can't escape this theme.

Lauds was also longer, and on Sundays, starts forty-five minutes later as well. Afterwards, I ate breakfast and found a copy of Merton's Living Bread to read before the start of mass. One thing that I found interesting was his explanation of the importance of ritual sacrifice as a "response to a deep religious sense of the sacred, the 'holy,'" and that the "higher and purer the religion, the deeper is the meaning of the sacrificial act."

He also speaks of us rising higher in the 'religious scale' (implying a type of historical, as well as individual, progressive spiritual maturity, I suppose); and as an example, he compares the animal sacrifices in the Old Testament, which were rebuked by the prophet Isaias, with the "development of an idea of interior sacrifice in which man offers himself instead of offering victims" underlying the spirit of the Eucharist, the sacrifice of the ideal man, Jesus, who's also, paradoxically, God—an "infinite propitiation for all offenses that have ever been committed against God [or divine moral law]."

And in his autobiography, The Seven Storey Mountain, which I'd started reading a couple of weeks before, Merton writes of the importance of our mutual dependence on one another for our salvation, reinforcing the need for this spiritual, sacrificial union with God and each other in the form of the Mystical Body of Christ, quoting this passage: "You are the body of Christ and members of one another... And the eye cannot say to the hand: I need not your help; nor again the head to the feet, I have no need of you.... And if one member suffer anything, all the members suffer with it; and if one member glory, all the others rejoice with it." For him and many others, this supernatural union is the only thing that has the potential to unite all of humanity together in a truly universal and salvific way.

Despite my own skepticism, all of this at least helped to impart to me the deep significance given by people of this faith to the act of taking communion; and as I sat through mass, I tried to keep that in mind and perceive it from their perspective—that the bread and wine they were accepting was God; and that God is love, so that they were all uniting in love with God and one another. As for myself, being non-Christian, I had to settle for my own communion of cookies and coffee when it was over.

Later, I headed down to the pond to do some reading and think about why I was there. On one level, I'm drawn towards the monastic way of life in general. It appeals to me for some reason; it always has. I tend to feel at home in places like this. On another level, I sometimes get this sense of a possible fulfillment to the spiritual search I think many of us are called to make to fill an otherwise unfulfillable hole in our hearts, and I'm naturally drawn towards religious people and places in the process, both for guidance and for inspiration. It's a deep, intuitive feeling of something more underlying life, a reality that transcends our temporal, subjective experience. At the same time, I fear that this feeling is only a mirage, a delusion, a psychological distraction, leaving me bewildered and lost in a proverbial desert of uncertainty.

During Day Hour, they opened the tabernacle, revealing the Eucharist. I sat and stared at it for a long time, even after the service was over and most everyone else had left and were eating dinner. Part of it was just enjoying the moment; but I suppose part of me was also hoping for some sort of sign or vision or something. (It was quiet and serene, but nothing I'd call miraculous happened.) At Vespers, they did a special ceremony where one of the ordained monks censed the Host from the tabernacle and took it out to bless everyone before closing it back up. At Compline, I felt sad knowing tomorrow was going to be my last day here.

I awoke Monday morning with the faint memory of some strange dream. I attended Vigils, which included a reading from St. John Vianney on how prayer stretches the small heart of a small (finite) creature all the way to God (the infinite), and then sat with Br. Paul in the meditation hall for about an hour as the sun rose. After mass, Br. Chris came by, asked if I had a good stay, and told me to think about attending the monastic life retreat, which I think is something I eventually want to do.

As I finish writing this on my last day, I don't know what kind of lasting effect this time (or any future time) at Our Lady of Guadalupe will have on me, if any. I don't know if I'll ever find God or become Catholic or both and one day enter a Trappist monastery. Conversely, I don't know if it'll strengthen my conviction in my Buddhist practice, or throw me altogether into even deeper uncertainty.

Living a spiritual life can be difficult, especially for those with faith in something that's vague and undefined. Often, there's no guiding star, no clear map, no obvious road signs pointing the way. How do you reach a destination if you're not even sure where you're going, let alone the way there? Is it God I'm searching for? Is it some kind of enlightenment? Both? Neither? Sometimes I think it'd be so much easier to just 'stay put' and live a thoroughly worldly life and simply forget about such things; but as much as I try, my restless heart continues to push me onwards in spite of myself.