10/26/14

People seem surprised when they find out I've been spending a lot of time at a Catholic church lately, and I can't blame them. It's definitely not something people expect of me, nor something I ever expected from myself. Explaining why, though, is difficult.

The easiest way I can describe it is that I've felt like there's been something missing in my life for as long as I can remember, something grand yet subtle and elusive at the same time, and going to church is part of my ongoing journey of finding that thing.

Ever since childhood, my heart has ached with a deep sadness and loneliness that isn't easy to put into words, like some kind of existential emptiness at the core of my very being that I've never been able to fill. It's this feeling that, long ago, motivated me to start exploring philosophy and spirituality; and it was especially palpable today as I was sitting in the pews of St. Philip before mass.

As I was sitting there observing this feeling and contemplating it, however, I was also watching everyone as they arrived, and I realized that they were there, worshiping the divine, by gathering together as a community, to support one another, to forgive one another, and to love one another (or at least try to in their own imperfect ways). It was a touching and comforting realization.

Basically, I realized that I wasn't alone in this search. There were others looking for the same thing, as well. And whereas my Buddhist practice helps me look for it inside of myself, my budding Christian practice is helping me look for it outside of myself, in the people and experiences around me. Today's Gospel reading and Fr. Charlie's homily both drove that point home further.

The reading, Mt 22:34-40, was the famous passage where Jesus is asked by one of the religious authorities of his day which commandment is the greatest, and Jesus answers: "You shall love the Lord, your God, with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind. This is the greatest and the first commandment. The second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself. The whole law and the prophets depend on these two commandments."

Fr. Charlie began his homily with a story adapted from a popular folktale about an old man (rather than a farmer) and two travellers:

A traveler came upon an old farmer hoeing in his field beside the road. Eager to rest his feet, the wanderer hailed the countryman, who seemed happy enough to straighten his back and talk for a moment.

"What sort of people live in the next town?" asked the stranger.

"What were the people like where you've come from?" replied the farmer, answering the question with another question.

"They were a bad lot. Troublemakers all, and lazy too. The most selfish people in the world, and not a one of them to be trusted. I'm happy to be leaving the scoundrels."

"Is that so?" replied the old farmer. "Well, I'm afraid that you'll find the same sort in the next town. Disappointed, the traveler trudged on his way, and the farmer returned to his work.

Some time later another stranger, coming from the same direction, hailed the farmer, and they stopped to talk.

"What sort of people live in the next town?" he asked.

"What were the people like where you've come from?" replied the farmer once again.

"They were the best people in the world. Hard working, honest, and friendly. I'm sorry to be leaving them."

"Fear not," said the farmer. "You'll find the same sort in the next town."

The moral was that we tend to view people as we are, through our own lenses. Similarly, the way we treat others is often reflected in the way we treat ourselves. So to truly love others, we have to first learn to love ourselves. Only then can we reflect that love onto others. (It's somewhat similar to the underlying theme of Ud 5.1, I think.)

In other words, a fruitful spiritual practice isn't wholly contemplative, nor is it wholly active, it's a mixture of both. There's the contemplative aspect, characterized by the commandment, "You shall love the Lord, your God, with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind" and learning to love ourselves as God loves us; and then there's its expression, which is characterized by the second, "You shall love your neighbor as yourself."

True love of self overflows into love for others, a vast, compassionate love, not a restrictive and possessive one. Or something like that.

As I said, it's hard to put into words, but whether it's going to mass or the B- group or the inquiry class, I feel at home at St. Philip. I feel less lonely, less sad, and more loved. Part of it is the people, I'm sure; but a lot of it is internal, a sense of strength and refuge inside of myself that I'm gradually getting in touch with thanks to my experiences here.

10/22/14

Yesterday, I grabbed a fortune cookie on my way out from work that said, "Be thankful for the experience you encounter tomorrow." Even though I don't put much stock in that kind of thing, I spent most of the day looking out for said experience just for fun (and just in case).

I definitely don't think it was referring to my experience at work, which was dreadful, and the only thing thankful about it was when it was over. I suppose it could have been one of those learning experiences, where you learn a lot about yourself and the nature of suffering through experience, but the only thing I got from it was frustration.

Coincidentally, though, today is the new moon, one of the quarterly uposatha days observed in Theravada Buddhism. The uposatha, according to the Buddha, is "the cleansing of the defiled mind through the proper technique" (AN 3.70); and the traditional way of observing the uposatha for lay-followers is to observe the eight precepts for the day and spend as much time as possible meditating, emulating the monastic way of life and/or temporarily increasing one's practice of renunciation.

Admittedly, I don't observe the uposatha that often these days. But this morning I got a message from someone on the PFoD e-group who, needing a little more support and structure in their daily life to stay mindful, invited anyone who felt similarly inclined to practice with the eight precepts on the quarter moon days until the end of the year, and I felt inspired to start again.

Today was also the third inquiry class at St. Philip, and it was a somewhat unexpected and rewarding experience. The topic was stories of faith, and we were encouraged by Fr. Bill to tell our own stories of why we were there at the inquiry class. When my turn came up, I wasn't sure what to say, but I said that it basically started with my search for something deeper in life. In that search, I spent a lot of time practicing Buddhism, and recently got serious about what the Catholic tradition has to offer after my visit to Our Lady of Guadalupe.

It was interesting to hear everyone's stories and questions. Thinking about my own spiritual journey, I was surprised at how natural and comfortable the direction it's taken has felt, and I found myself wondering if it wasn't the 'holy spirit' guiding me. I mean, to think that I'm attending RCIA classes after so many years of nonbelief and being critical of the Catholic Church...

At one point, I was asked if I felt any conflict between the practice of Buddhism and Christianity, and I explained that I found them entirely compatible. Buddhist detachment isn't so different from the Christian 'dying to self.' The Buddhist teachings on loving-kindness and compassion aren't much different from Jesus' teachings on the same. The idea that we can wake up to our inherent nature through the cessation of the defilements of greed, hatred, and delusion isn't unlike the idea in 2 Peter that we "may come to share in the divine nature, after escaping from the corruption that is in the world because of evil desire." Etc.

To me, God is like the pure Mind of Zen, the substance of all phenomena, out of which all experience unfolds. And awakening is simply Mind recognizing itself, divine nature partaking of divine nature. Jesus, then, is like a buddha or bodhisattva, that very same Mind pointing us towards itself. I think this is especially true if one considers texts like the Gospel of Thomas.

And when the discussion turned towards talking to God and how/why everyone did that, I confessed that I often found myself talking to God even when I was atheist, despite not having a clear picture of who or what God was. I still don't, but I think I'm open enough now to my experience of what I feel to be God immanent in myself and the world around me that it's taken the form of what Christians typically call a 'personal relationship.'

It was slightly difficult for me to articulate a lot of this in any coherent way, though, since I'm still working it all out myself. There's a feeling tone involved in my experience, something visceral, as well as an intuitive synthesis of it all; but I'm not sure I have the vocabulary to put it all into words yet, if ever.

But telling my story and listening to those of others, I realized that I've always had an intuitive sense of something more underlying reality, and I'm drawn towards things that help me connect to that as well as help me feel the joy and peace that arises from that connection, whether it's connecting with other spiritual people, meditating, listening to music inspired by Sufi poetry, gazing at the night sky, or whatever.

Coming back to why I was there, I think the people have a lot to do with it. The kindness of Dorothy. The wisdom and humour of Fr. Michael. The openness and genuineness of Barbara. All these people and more pull me back in every week, happily, just like the community of PFoD does. But there's something more, too. Something I can't quite put my finger on. I just feel like I need to be here right now, and I certainly can't deny how much I'm getting out of my experience at St. Philip thus far.

So, in the end, it was kind of a self-fulfilling prophecy. Because of that fortune cookie, I paid a little bit more attention throughout the day. And in doing so, I was able to more fully appreciate the experience of the spiritual things in my life and the happiness they give me.

10/19/14

Today, thanks to the generosity of two acquaintances, Paddy and Colin, I went to the Pacific Hermitage Pah Bah ceremony in White Salmon, WA.

Pah bah means 'forest cloth' in Thai; and the festival comes out of the ancient tradition of leaving cloth in the forest for monks to find for them to make their robes after the end of the three-month rains retreat. It's a time for the lay-community to 'draw close' and offer the monastic community gifts of cloth and other supplies they'll need for the coming year as they rely totally on the generosity of the lay-community.

This year's event was rather special in that both Ajahn Amaro and Ajahn Pasanno were there. Both were students of Ajahn Chah, and both were at one time co-abbots of Abhayagiri until Ajahn Amaro was asked to take over Amaravati in England. It was a very auspicious reunion, and I'm glad that I had the opportunity to be there.

The day began with the afternoon meal, which was first offered to the monks, and then shared by everyone. Next was some traditional paritta (blessing) chanting followed by the actual alms giving and a Dhamma talk, which was split up. Ajahn Pasanno gave a short talk first, followed by Ajahn Amaro. The place was decorated in traditional Thai style, with saffron-coloured towel gibbons strategically placed all over as if in a forest.

One of the overarching themes was anumodana, which means 'rejoicing together' in goodness and generosity and/or offering encouragement. Gathering together and giving our time and support to one another produces a field of merit or goodness that brings happiness to everyone, those who give as well as those who receive.

Just as charity plays a big role in Christianity, the Buddha placed a lot of importance on dana or generosity as well. Generosity arises out of wholesome mental states, and gives rise to numerous benefits on its own. In addition, generosity is considered a requisite for spiritual development. I've always found it interesting that the Buddha begins most of his discourses on the gradual training with teachings on generosity.

After the ceremony, a group of us drove the short distance to the hermitage for a tour. The main building, a small house, has a kitchen, an office area, and a shrine where the monks gather for chanting and meals. Then there's a guest house, for the abbot or visiting monks, and a couple of small dwellings for the monks to sleep and meditate.

I felt bad that I missed mass in order to go to the Pah Bah, but I'm glad I went. It was a beautiful event. And in many ways, it felt kind of the same.

10/18/14

I went to my first Saturday service at St. Philip today, which I thought I'd check out since I won't be able to make it tomorrow. Fr. Bill was officiating this time. Fr. Bill is the youngest of the three priests at St. Philip, and his role is to help reach out to young adults and get them interested in the Catholic Church. He seems like a nice guy, but to be honest, I prefer the approach of the older priests, especially Fr. Michael.

I suppose part of it is because I'm already an old man at heart (my nickname isn't Jiji, Japanese for 'old man,' for nothing), but I feel like I connect more with Fr. Michael. We're on a similar wavelength, and I get the sense that his spiritual life is both practical and contemplative. His secret, which isn't much of a secret since he mentioned it during the last B- meeting, is a combination of his experience with AA and his willingness to incorporate other spiritual practices with Christian contemplativism.

I guess what attracts me to the Church, and to the people in it, probably isn't the same as what attracts most younger adults. It's not that younger people aren't altogether interested in the more contemplative side of Christian spirituality, but my level of interest in that and Christian monasticism seems rather unique among people my age. What's drawn me to the Church is its mysticism and the spirit of contemplation and renunciation underlying it, the willingness to give up rather than acquire.

But it got me thinking about what kept me away for so long, and the first thing that came to mind is the Catholic Church's stance on women ordination, birth control, same-sex relationships, etc. Most young adults in my generation are decidedly against any kind of discrimination. Things like the refusal of the Catholic Church (among others) to even consider women priests (gender discrimination) and its opposition to same-sex relationships (discrimination based on sexual orientation) immediately put off many young adults, and rightly so in my opinion.

Bridging that gap is difficult. Because of the way it's structured, the institution of the Catholic Church takes a long time to change, even when prompted by the pope. Old habits die hard, and old prejudices and traditions remain long after they should, becoming obstacles to growth and relevancy. Reaching out to young adults and getting them interested is a good start, but I think it's going to take a lot more to keep them involved.

10/17/14

Both Ajahn Amaro and Ajahn Pasanno were at Portland Friends of the Dhamma tonight leading the Friday meditation and Dhamma talk. It was Ajahn Amaro's first visit to PFoD's new centre, and my second time seeing him.

The first time I saw Ajahn Amaro was about eight years ago on Magha Puja, the day tradition holds that 1,250 arahants spontaneously gathered at Veruvana Temple, Rajgarh city. It was a pretty amazing experience, and I still remember it fondly. This time around, the circumstances were less unexpected, but they were no less meaningful.

After tea and some casual discussion, we all requested the refuges and precepts, and Ajahn Pasanno gave a short talk before meditation about the precepts and what we're taking refuge in: the Buddha, who personifies the qualities of awareness, wisdom, compassion, and purity; the Dhamma, which is the nature of truth, the nature of reality; and the Sangha, the realization of that nature, and the arising of those qualities within us.

My meditation was better than I expected from not having done much since the retreat at the end of September, and the talk helped. Instead of taking refuge in my daydreams or complaining mind, I attempted to take refuge in awareness. Whatever came up, I tried not to grasp it and get carried away by it, but simply stay grounded in the present moment. Afterwards, Ajahn Amaro gave the Dhamma talk, which mainly focused on the nature of things as they are, using the five subjects of frequent reflection as a foundation.

A few of the things that stood out to me during the night were: the precepts seem restrictive, but they're meant to free the heart; we take refuge in things that are insecure, courting disappointment; all things are nature, Dhamma, and wisdom or enlightenment is waking up to that nature—you don't gain anything, you simply realize what's already there; if you don't own anything (through non-clinging and the cessation of self-identification, not in a conventional sense), then you have nothing to lose or to cause you suffering.

Both Ajahn Amaro and Ajahn Pasanno are inspiring teachers, and it was wonderful having them here tonight. I'm so fortunate to be here, now, in this place and have the opportunity to be near so many wise spiritual teachers in this tradition.

10/16/14

Yesterday's B- group was in many ways a continuation of the last meeting, with many of the same topics being revisited: evangelism, the Eucharist, etc. Fr. Michael started off by giving everyone a handout of one of Richard Rohr's daily meditations titled "The Gate of Heaven is Everywhere: The Infinite in the Finite," which I rather liked:

Francis of Assisi knew that if you can accept that the finite manifests the infinite, and that the physical is the doorway to the spiritual (which is the foundational principle we call "incarnation"), then all you need is right here and right now—in this world. This is the way to that! Heaven includes earth. Time opens you up to the timeless, space opens you up to spacelessness, if you only recognize them as the clear doorways that they are.

There are not sacred and profane things, places, and moments. There are only sacred and desecrated things, places, and moments—and it is we alone who desecrate them by our blindness and lack of reverence. It is one sacred universe, and we are all a part of it. The Christ Mystery refuses to be vague or abstract, and it is always concrete and specific. When we stay with these daily apparitions, we see that everything is a revelation of the divine—from rocks to rocket ships. Our only blindness is our own lack of fascination, humility, curiosity, awe. The only thing needed is a willingness to surrender to the naked now which God always inhabits, where the incarnation is always taking place and always mysterious, where God in every moment is perfectly hidden and at the same time perfectly revealed. Hold that paradox together. Those who have eyes to see can allow both to be true.

He then offered some of his thoughts about the Eucharist and its meaning. For example, he repeated something he said last time about the Eucharist not simply being a prize to be handed out, but the food we eat to be healed, i.e., it's ultimately a rite of reconciliation. He also gave some background to the Eucharist, saying that the Last Supper took place on Passover, a Jewish holiday where bread was blessed, broken, and shared in commemoration and remembrance of going from slavery to freedom. But to celebrate the 'new covenant' between God and humanity, Jesus told his disciples to do this in remembrance of him, the 'passover' of his death and resurrection, the connection of the finite and the infinite.

Fr. Michael stressed the importance of remembrance for the Jewish people, which for them was dynamic, about making the past present. It brought to mind the importance of mindfulness in Buddhism. Sati, the Pali word that's often translated as mindfulness, basically means to keep something in mind. Mindfulness is arguably the cornerstone of the Buddhist path of practice, the noble eightfold path.

This led into a discussion about the celebration of mass, which Fr. Michael said was something to be participated in, not just watched. He said that over time, the mass got so loaded with things that it became more something to be watched than a communal activity, which is one of the reasons they changed things during Vatican II. Ideally, communion should be 'stunningly simple,' a celebration of the mysteries of life and the wonder and awe all around us, where the finite and infinite consociate. The Eucharist, then, is both the source and summit of the Christian spiritual practice, and is akin to an awakening experience, removing our blindness to "the naked now that God always inhabits."

I still find it rather difficult to believe that God literally becomes manifest, in the flesh, in bread and wine. But thinking about it in this way — that there's a divine nature in everything, and that the physical is the doorway to the spiritual — I find it easier to understand: we all have a divine nature within us; and through the mystery of the Eucharist, the finite manifesting the infinite, our divine nature becomes one (reunites?) with the divine nature underlying all things. Communion as a contemplative act.

From that perspective, the idea that God became human in order to show us how to unite with that divine nature doesn't seem so crazy to me. What Rohr says, at any rate, about the finite manifesting the infinite, the physical being the doorway to the spiritual, time opening you up to the timeless, space opening you up to spacelessness, etc. reminds me of the Buddha's words to Rohitassa in AN 4.45:

I tell you, friend, that it is not possible by traveling to know or see or reach a far end of the cosmos [a metaphor for the five aggregates, the six sense spheres, and/or the internal world of fabricated experience] where one does not take birth, age, die, pass away, or reappear [i.e., attain the deathless]. But at the same time, I tell you that there is no making an end of suffering & stress without reaching the end of the cosmos. Yet it is just within this fathom-long body, with its perception & intellect, that I declare that there is the cosmos, the origination of the cosmos, the cessation of the cosmos, and the path of practice leading to the cessation of the cosmos.

The conversation then shifted towards the need for synthesis between the teaching side and pastoral side of the church. Fr. Michael mentioned the recent interview of a cardinal who, when asked about the current synod, said that he thought the teaching and pastoral sides of the church are moving closer together. He also touched upon the idea of graduality that's emerged.

Graduality is basically an extension of the idea that conversion (coming closer to God, realizing the divine nature) is an ongoing process, that the spiritual life is also a spiritual journey. In that sense, graduality refers to the practical side of the spiritual life, the 'how to' if you will. There's a similar idea in Buddhism, that of "a gradual training, a gradual performance, a gradual practice, with a penetration to gnosis only after a long stretch" (Ud 5.5). From the Christian standpoint, the divine is everywhere; and our participation in the Eucharist helps us to become more awake, more aware of that divine indwelling.

I find it rather similar to the Mahayanin idea of buddha-nature, in fact. Buddha-nature, like the divine indwelling of God within us, isn't something we create or gain through our development of moral conduct and contemplation, it's something we wake up to that's always there in the present moment, "where God in every moment is perfectly hidden and at the same time perfectly revealed." Buddhism achieves this, in part, by stressing the non-selfness of conditioned phenomena (i.e., the aggregates), while Christianity does so through the similar idea of 'dying to self' (e.g., see In the Spirit of Happiness, The Monks of New Skete, p. 86).

The more I explore Christianity, the more I'm coming to see that, although there's a deeply devotional aspect to it, there's an equally deep and rich contemplative side to it as well. And it's the latter I'm principally drawn towards. I read this in Merton's The Sign of Jonas today and found it exceptionally relevant:

[Quoting from a letter he received from Dom Porion]: "Most people find their balance in doing, in creating something, mere contemplative life requires a special grace—and a special fidelity. It requires a ripeness too, a maturity of soul which is not often to be met (with)in converts. ... But to contemplate in the first meaning of the word; to look directly at God and keep quiet—calm and purity being at once the condition and consequence of the vision—this indeed seems to me the true life, the life everlasting we are made for. The modern world seems to fly from that ideal: but I am convinced that mankind in the end will find again the way of contemplation—nature and surnature, in their deepest, leading to this divine joy." (176)

10/12/14

Even before I got seriously interested in Christianity, I occasionally liked going to church on Sunday, usually to a Catholic or Orthodox church whenever the mood struck. I liked the atmosphere and the ritual. But I really enjoy going now and go almost every week. I feel like I'm getting more out of it, too.

There are probably a lot of reasons why, but I think a big part of that is because I'm becoming more involved with the community, which is something new for me. Whenever I had the urge to go before, I always resisted getting too close, getting too involved with the community, because I never quite felt like I belonged. But I don't feel that way anymore. I feel like everyone belongs, including me. And during mass, Fr. Michael gave the homily based on today's reading from Matthew, the parable of the wedding feast, that really brought that home.

In the parable, Jesus compares the kingdom of heaven to a king who gives a wedding feast for his son. The kingdom of heaven, like in Isaiah 25:6-10, is likened to rich abundance. But none of the invited guests come when sent for, and some even kill the servants sent by the king to invite them. The king, in a rage, sends out his soldiers to punish those who murdered his servants.

The king then says, "The feast is ready, but those who were invited were not worthy to come. Go out, therefore, into the main roads and invite to the feast whomever you find." Everyone they find, good and bad alike, are brought, illustrating the universality of the invitation to share in this rich abundance. But one of the people they bring isn't wearing a wedding garment, and the king, seeing this, asks why. The person is reduced to silence and doesn't answer, so the king has them bound and thrown outside into the darkness, where "there will be wailing and grinding of teeth."

Fr. Michael took the opportunity to focus on the invitation in his homily, how everyone the servants encountered on the road was invited. Although one of the guests gets thrown out for not wearing a wedding garment, which might represent Matthew's Jewish audience who rejected Jesus' message and/or those who lack good deeds (curiously this part doesn't appear in Luke's version), Fr. Michael half-jokingly mused that maybe part of the parable was missing—that he always pictures Jesus going outside and talking to the man to find out why. Maybe he just felt unworthy.

He said that a lot of people who don't come to church might not do so because they feel unworthy or unwelcome, and it's really up to the community to invite them in, to reach out and welcome them as they are into the community and share with them everything the community has to offer. Jesus' message was a universal and deeply social one; and it's in our interactions with one another that we're able to see the divine nature reflected in one another and can actually carry out that message of love, forgiveness, and reconciliation.

It's that personal invitation which makes all the difference. Fr. Michael brought up the invitation John receives from Jesus to 'come and see,' which he said is the kind of invitation we need to offer others as well. Non-threatening and with no strings attached, just an invitation to 'come and see,' much like how the Buddha invited those to come and see (ehipassiko) the Dhamma for themselves. What he said reminded me of the first time I went to St. Philip Neri and how kind and welcoming Dorothy was. It was mainly because of her that I came back.

In essence, it's all about the people. We're not being called to simply invite people into a particular building, although that may be part of it. We're being called to invite people into our hearts, into our spiritual community, and to follow Jesus' commandment to love one another, being forgiving rather than judgmental, kind rather than hardhearted.

Before the service, I spoke to Fr. Michael and he said that he wished he had a better homily, but I thought it was quite good. At least it did for me what I think he hoped it would for everyone there, to make them feel welcome at St. Philip, and to inspire them to go out and connect with other people in the same way.

10/11/14

I've become rather cynical as of late when it comes to politics and religion.

I see, for example, the problems that we're facing as a society, problems that stem in large part from the way our society is currently structured, and I instinctively want to fix them. But the solutions that I see are rejected by most as being too radical, utopian etc., and I can't seem to convince anyone to see things any differently, as if the status quo hasn't been consistently creating the conditions for systemic inequality and catastrophic global climate change for centuries. Whatever I do or say, I feel like Sisyphus, rolling a boulder up a hill just to watch it roll back down again.

The majority of people seem to be politically apathetic; and the majority of those who aren't seem to be satisfied with lesser evilism. And don't get me started on the sectarian triumphalism of political parties that, in my opinion, sell a lot of snake oil to the faithful, but fail to do much of anything that's truly efficacious and for the good of all, dividing people more than uniting them in common cause. And much like in the realm of political parties, I think the sectarian triumphalism of religious institutions is guilty of the same when it comes to spirituality.

Individually, there are a lot of good people and groups out there doing a lot of good things in the world; but collectively, on the macro level, I don't see quite the same—I see conflict, division, and shortsightedness where it really counts. It's especially apparent to me after spending time at a monastery; when I come back to the 'worldly life,' the ways we live, the things we think are important, etc., seem so crazy in contrast. It's like as a society, we're ill; but we don't think we're ill, and we childishly fight against most of the things that can potentially make us healthier. The sanest and happiest people I know seem to be the ones who have renounced the world.

I don't know. I think I'm at least understanding the inner motives of hermits.

10/9/14 (a new found appreciation)

I was looking through some old posts of mine today, and came across this one from just over four years ago, dated 10/7/10, when I really started to develop my appreciation for Christianity:

Admittedly, I've been fairly critical of Christianity as an institution for most of my life, not to mention certain scriptural passages that are, in my eyes, less than divine. And yet, I find myself coming to appreciate Christianity, and Orthodox Christianity in particular, as an extension of the ancient Greek mystery religions mixed with a bit of Eastern mysticism; although much of its 'mystery' seems to have been lost on many of its adherents.

My appreciation began after reading an interview with Archimandrite Dionysios, and discovering that Gregory Palamas is said to have constantly prayed: "Enlighten my darkness." It also struck me how Hesychastic prayer bears a superficial resemblance with Buddhist meditation, e.g., specific body postures, deliberate breathing patterns, acquiring an inner stillness, sense restraint, etc. It was years ago, however, and my appreciation quickly faded; but it was recently rekindled by my reading of Plato's Republic, as well as other of his dialogues, and a conversation I had at a local Greek Orthodox church.

While I practice Buddhism and am interested in things like philosophy and religion in general, I'm a very skeptical and secular person by nature. I have a hard time seeing into what some call 'the realm of the divine' — i.e., Plato's realm of forms, Spinoza's absolute substance, Buddhism's unconditioned reality — and I regularly doubt that such a realm even exists, but my recent readings of Plato have at least piqued my interest in trying. And talking with my kind guide at Holy Trinity last weekend during the annual Greek festival got me thinking about Christianity in a whole new way.

Seeking to explore this subject more, I decided to ask Simon, my long-time kalyana-mitta (admirable friend) from newbuddhist.com, to explain to me his views regarding the "excellence of the synthesis of the messages and practices" of Buddhism and Christianity. After receiving a brief message saying that it may take a day or two for him to condense his views for me, I was delighted to find this reply later in the day:

Despite what I said about taking time to reply, I reflected on this over my latte and toast in the autumn sun while in town and have put together a preliminary outline for your consideration. As you have been speaking to Orthodox Christians, you might like to consider the Christos Pantocrator with what I say about creative sunyatta.

I would add (because these first lines are written after the rest) that a fundamental principle, on which all rests, is that 'revelation' does not stop, either with the Buddha's death or with that of Saint Paul, but that we can inform our understanding across the ages.

First of all, I must stress that I do not imagine that I have a complete or, even, a completely coherent account. The fact is that I see humanity as progressing towards a more perfect understanding and we, you and I at this time and in this place, are within the process, the work in progress (see Note below). A synthesis will require the total transformation of all the elements, resulting in something new and, probably, very alien to our present thinking. This, for me, is the meaning of Jesus' saying about the grain of wheat that must fall to the ground and 'die' before it can grow. My personal image is that of the caterpillar, the pupa and the butterfly. Just as the individual ego resists the apparent death of awakening, so bodies of belief like faiths and religions resist their own 'transmogrification'.

This leads me to my second point, which is that I expect to find contradictions because those are the places where the most reflection is needed and where the energy of that meditative reflection is transformative. Do you know the poetry of George Herbert? One of his poems, which is now sung as a hymn, The Elixir

TEACH me, my God and King,
In all things Thee to see

The last two stanzas talk about "the famous stone/That turneth all to gold", the Philosophers' Stone of the alchemists taken as a metaphor for the Christ-inspired mind:

A servant with this clause
Makes drudgery divine :
Who sweeps a room as for Thy laws,
Makes that and th' action fine.

This is the famous stone
That turneth all to gold ;
For that which God doth touch and own
Cannot for less be told.

It is at the points of resistance that transformation occurs. Here, the poet Rilke and his attitude to praise for "the secateur and the rose" helped form my view.

Both you and I, I seem to remember, find inspiration in the Gospel of Thomas, which sometimes makes it hard to dialogue with those Christians who reject it as authentic or inspired, nevertheless, there are still enough hints in the canonical New Testament to point us to areas of the Way that Jesus taught that have tended to be overlooked or ignored in practice, and the same goes for the Buddhist sutras. These gaps are, to some extent, filled when both are brought together.

Here are some examples:

Jesus says that we are "deny our selves". This occurs in both the canonical and the Thomas gospels, although Thomas is closer to an 'Eastern' approach, an abandonment of ahamkara (the word McGregor Ross uses in his Thomas translations), of atman. The classical explanation is one of self-denial, of disciplining the senses but stops short of a denial of 'self'. I would argue that the Buddhist notion of the aggregates empowers the Christian's self denying practices, making it mindful of the deceit of the world that is often the subject of scripture. Here, as in other examples, Buddhist texts reveal a model of 'how' and Christian texts reveal outcome, particularly if we take the Teilhard view of the Cosmic Christ and the Omega Point. The thorny question of 'soul' must, in the end, be up to each one of us to decide for ourselves, if possible from our own experiences arising from practice or enlightenment.

Of course, there are challenges. By and large, Christians do not accept the notion of anatta as traditionally described and Buddhists object to a teleology or purposefulness other than personal. We have to go deeper.

Deeper brings us to sunyatta and kenosis and the mystery of creative emptiness. Much argument is wasted on whether or not there is a 'Creator', conceived along quasi-human lines. As I see it, Jesus reveals that there is compassion and caring which is behind and subtends all that is, from which all arises and into which all falls back, and that this parent-like caring is personal as well as ineffable. It is, if you like, the Buddha-nature (or indwelling Christ) of the universe.

Arising from the depths of mystery, a further example of creative interaction between Buddhism and Christianity is in the realm of social and politico-economic action. Buddhism, for too long, has tended towards a solipsistic approach, focusing on individual Awakening and ignoring political action. It is salutary to notice that Buddhists like Thich Nhat Hanh or Joanna Macy, along with His Holiness the Dalai Lama, coming to the Western tradition, have brought in an emphasis on 'good works', an area where Christians have been active for many centuries. Whereas there are excellent schools, hospitals and other 'guardian' institutions which were founded by and continue to be run by Christian groups across the ages, catering for all faiths and none, delivering services at the point of need, similar Buddhist institutions are few and far between - indeed, I can only think of hospices or animal sanctuaries. The abolition of slavery, too, is a further example.

From these few examples, you may be able to see why and how I developed, for myself, a 'hermeneutic', a way of reading scriptures and of seeing the world which rejects exclusivity of truth to any one theory or body of faith in favour of another: each brings something to the party. Often, however, I need to sit for a while with a contradiction or a 'knot' before I can penetrate the symbolism because I truly believe that we perceive shadows, as Plato taught in his Cave Myth, and it is up to us to spend the effort needed to understand what casts the shadows, the Reality behind apparent phenomena. In this, I recognise that I am in the mainstream of neither Buddhism, which can be seen as denying an ultimate Reality, and Christianity which ignores dependent origination.

This is already rather long but I hope it gives you some idea of how it all connects for me.

Note:
Years ago I came across a talk given at the World Council of Churches by an IT specialist priest who likened the unfolding universe to a computer program. Such a program, they said, who need to be answering a question and the question is there, in one of the creation stories in Genesis (1:26): "Let us create in our own image". Thus we are part of the (to us) long process by which Compassionate Creativity is achieving that goal. And why? The next (older) story gives us the clue: (2:18) "It is not good to be alone." Inherent in these texts are also the notions of relationship and interbeing.

A lot of what Simon wrote reminded me of what the amiable gentleman at the church said, especially regarding the notions of relationship and interbeing. For example, he said that in talking to me, he saw God. Not that I was God, but that there's something special, something divine, in our interactions with other people. This brought to mind one of the images of hell mentioned by the deacon in one of the church tours earlier in the day — that of being utterly alone — and I couldn't help but be reminded of the Buddha's words to his cousin, Ananda, in SN 45.2:

Admirable friendship, admirable companionship, admirable camaraderie is actually the whole of the holy life.

I also found it interesting that Simon mentioned the allegory of the cave from Plato's Republic since it's one of the things that helped motivate me to explore this subject in the first place. (I even wrote a blog post recently comparing what's in the Republic to many of the things the Buddha is recorded as saying in the Pali Canon.)

I'm not planning on converting to Christianity anytime soon; still, I do feel like I'm deepening my own practice and understanding of Buddhism simply by allowing myself to be open to these, for lack of a better word, mysteries. This is not only due to the works of Plato and my recent conversation at Holy Trinity, but to people like David Cooper (God is a Verb), Thomas Merton (Mystics and Zen Masters) and Simon who continually seek to find harmony between spiritual disciplines. Perhaps in time I'll go back to my old, critical ways, but for now, I'm enjoying this newfound appreciation of what devoted people of all religious disciplines have to offer.

It's interesting to see where I was then compared to now. I think I did revert to my critical ways for a time; but I've since come back around with a new appreciation, along with some new experiences, and I'm looking forward to seeing where this journey will take me next.

10/9/14

During yesterday's inquiry class, I was reminded of the way my friend sees God in his interactions with people via Barbara's comment that God tends to constantly throw us together so that we have to interact and share with one another. Then today, I read something in Thomas Merton's The Sign of Jonas that brought that to mind and for me really highlighted the deeply social nature of Christian spirituality:

Christ recognizes Himself when the souls that possess His likeness in them by charity, recognize one another by some actual expression of His love in one another, and begin to praise Him and thank Him and move one another to greater love, in His joy. (150)

I found it a wonderful expression of this same idea, i.e., of seeing God in our interactions with other people. I think this is important, maybe even the most important aspect of Christianity. I've been trying to see God throughout the day in my interactions with others. Unfortunately, I think my interactions with people have been so negative from my side that any potential sign of God is being buried in darkness.

I wish I knew how to be more patient and loving. I seem to get so easily irritated and caught up in my own negative moods that it overwhelms all the goodness in my heart and makes it hard for me to be receptive to all the goodness that's around me. I want so much to be a better person and to be a source of joy to those around me rather than a thorn in their side—to be able to truly love others as much as I love myself.

10/8/14

The topic of today's inquiry class was pretty interesting: our image of God and what influences that image. Barbara began by asking us to think of some of the names of God we know. She then asked us to think of some attributes that we want God to have and to think of examples in our life where we might see that.

I had a hard time thinking of things besides the typical ones of love and compassion, which were some of the first things mentioned by others. One thing that I thought about was the present moment and the feelings of joy and happiness that I sometimes get when surrounded by solitude and quiet. When those feelings arise, the presentness of everything overwhelms me. But then I thought of the emptiness and loneliness I sometimes feel as well, which I suppose could reflect the absence of God. Or maybe both are God, the latter emptying myself of 'self' so that I can then be filled with the former.

The idea was basically to see how we all see God from different perspectives and how different experiences colour that perception. Using the Old Testament as an example, she pointed out how tribal life was tumultuous, and how God often takes on an angry or vengeful persona based upon the experiences of the ancient Israelites. They were trying to describe their experience of God in that context, and we have to take that into consideration.

It's something to think about, in my opinion. I think we tend to put God in a box, however we conceive the idea, and that picture is influenced by our experiences and biases, how we were raised, the things we've read, the ups and downs in our lives, etc. But the subject transcends whatever box we try to place it in. Our point of view is limited; but at the same time, we want to express how God appears to us in our lives.

Some of the ways she talked about God reminded me a bit of nibbana in the sense that God is something which is always there, and the more we allow our preconceived notions to fall away, the more we experience God. To me, it's similar to the idea that nibbana, the unconditioned, is always there, the experience of it simply being obscured by our clinging to views (think Nagarjuna) and our defilements of greed, hatred, and delusion.

As for myself, from past experiences with conservative Christians and a few unpleasant Bible passages, I've had a rather negative view of God as a fictional, angry, petty old man for a long, long time. But after things like talking to my Orthodox friend about the way he sees God in his interactions with people and reading things like In the Spirit of Happiness and parts of the Philokalia, I started to form a completely different picture.

I'm still not sure if there's a God, but I feel more drawn towards the idea than I ever have before. And the picture I have is growing bigger and more complex, yet simpler. My perspective is evolving. Sometimes I think about my interactions with people and I occasionally see them the same way my friend does. (Barbara said something similar about God constantly throwing us together.) Sometimes, in quiet and solitude, I think I feel what a lot of the mystics and contemplatives talk about. And I liked Barbara's definition of God as what draws us towards virtue.

Near the beginning of the class, they gave out copies of the New American translation of the Bible; at the end, Barbara gave us some homework: to ask ourselves every night, Where did I see God today? For me, I think it'll be an exercise in seeing goodness around me. "God doesn't work against himself." Look for the goodness.

10/5/14

I've been reading Thomas Merton's The Sign of Jonas recently, which is making me nostalgic for my time at Our Lady of Guadalupe. The simplicity. The contemplative atmosphere. The experience of the Liturgy of the Hours. I miss all of it and hope to visit again soon.

Mass today was nice, and I finally got to meet Fr. Bill; but I was a bit distracted and didn't fully appreciate it. I accidentally deleted some data from a friend's computer while taking care of her cat these past two weeks, and today was the day she returned.

One thing that I did take away from the homily, however, is how important right action (i.e., actions in line with Dhamma/God) is. Some people, I think, tend to see the social justice side of Christianity as something beyond or outside of the spiritual messages contained within the Bible; but it's really not, in my opinion. Quite a few seem to be more than willing to criticize priests who they feel are too liberal and/or too focused on things like social justice. But the teachings in the Bible continually stress things like justice, love in action, moral uprightness, generosity, and our duty towards others in need, i.e., many are about how we treat one another. For example, one of this week's readings:

Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things. Whatever you have learned or received or heard from me, or seen in me—put it into practice. And the God of peace will be with you. (Phil 4:6-9)

"Put these things into practice." And to me, that echoes one of the implicit messages from the parable of the wicked tenants who failed in their duties. Or Jesus more explicitly, "If you want to be perfect, go, sell your possessions and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me" (Matt 19:21).

For me, these teachings seem to be as rooted in, and applicable to, the here-and-now as they do the hereafter. So when priests relate many of these exhortations and parables to the recognition and support of social issues like a living wage, universal healthcare, immigrant rights and immigration reform, domestic violence, care of the poor and sick, etc., I think they're 'putting these things into practice' as much as they are when they're stressing the internal aspects of the spiritual life. Or as Fr. Charlie put it in his homily, we can't be passive in the face of injustice. It's an inspiring and proactive message that I think exemplifies the spirit of Jesus' commandment to his disciples: "[L]ove one another. As I have loved you, so you also should love one another. This is how all will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another" (John 13:34-35).

Unfortunately, while trying to take all of that in and be fully present during the service, I was also fretting about whether I could recover the data I accidentally deleted from my friend's computer despite St. Paul's advice, and panicking about having to confess my epic fuckup right after mass after I got a message that she'd just got back from her trip. (Although she was understanding and not as upset as I feared she'd be, I still felt like the worst person in the world.)

As I write this, I'm still waiting for the recovery program to scan for the lost files, and I'm hoping and praying they'll be recoverable. But whether or not they are, I certainly learned a fairly painful and embarrassing lesson about the importance of mindfulness...

10/1/14

The topic for today's B- Catholics group was supposed to be the Eucharist, but it shifted somewhat due to a question raised by Dorothy about an article she read dealing with the lack of youth participation at Sunday mass. Part of Fr. Michael's response was that you can't force them to come; they have to want to be there. The question is, how can you connect with people and help them grow in their spiritual life?

At this point, Fr. Michael spoke about his attendance of an interfaith service at Augustana Lutheran Church yesterday. The event was to support Francisco Aguirre, who's taken sanctuary at Augustana after ICE agents arrived at his home on September 19th threatening to deport him. Fr. Michael went, in part, because of his passion for social justice. But he left contemplating the genuine hospitality and sense of community that he felt there, even among so many different people from equally as many spiritual traditions, something that the Paulist Fathers also seek to offer through contemporary culture and media.

It got me thinking about why I was there at the meeting, and why I've been attending mass and the inquiry class, as well. The most obvious answer is that I really like to be around spiritual people and places, I always have. And lately, the more I visit, the more I feel like I'm being nourished spiritually, socially, etc., and that it's a good place for me right now in my spiritual journey despite my years of avoiding Christianity like the plague. The few people I've already met seem to truly embody the welcoming spirit that Fr. Michael spoke of; and I also appreciate the parish's focus on social justice.

Social justice is something that's also important to me, including immigrant rights and immigration reform. I have a friend who's in a similar situation. Because my friend, his wife, and their first daughter initially came to this country 'illegally,' and his first lawyer screwed him over by putting the wrong country of origin on his paperwork because it's easier to immigrate from certain Latin American countries than others, he was ultimately denied citizenship despite the fact that he's been living, working, and paying taxes in the US for over 24 years, is an asset to his present employer, has no criminal record, has two children under 18 who are legal US citizens, and has been going through the immigration process since 2005. Now their future is in limbo.

As I was thinking about all of this, Fr. Michael said something that I thought was interesting. While talking about some of the reasons people may not come to mass, he mentioned that people often have the idea that communion is some kind of prize that you get for being good, that if you do x, y, and z you get communion as a reward. If you're not perfect, well, never mind. But he said that's not the right way of looking at it at all. Communion isn't simply a reward for being perfect or following all the rules; it's more like spiritual food for the soul that nourishes us and helps us heal our inner brokenness.

I found myself thinking of the story of Jesus and the adulterer — where he says, "Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her" (John 8:7) — and how Jesus seems to have spent a lot of time with the poor and what many would consider the more unsavoury elements of society, wondering whether it might be because they weren't self-righteous and didn't deny their sins, weaknesses, and brokenness.

To paraphrase something Fr. Michael said, it's OK to be imperfect and to share those imperfections with one another. Communion isn't a reward for the perfect; it's for all of us who are imperfect to commune with one another (and God), and to be nourished spiritually. Just like in AA, acceptance of the problem/our brokenness is the first step towards healing. I got the same sense reading a passage from Thomas Merton's The Sign of Jonas, where he writes of his own imperfections:

It seems to me the most absurd thing in the world to be upset because I am weak and distracted and blind and constantly make mistakes! What else do I expect! Does God love me any less because I can't make myself a saint by my own power and in my own way? He loves me more because I am so clumsy and helpless without Him—and underneath what I am He sees me as I will one day be by His pure gift and that pleases Him—and therefore it pleases me and I attend to His great love which is my joy. (102-3)

This type of communion is subtle and difficult to put into words, however. I don't think it's meant to be a robotic, ritualistic obligation, but a genuine celebration of love, forgiveness, and reconciliation. It's an uplifting experience if we're receptive to it. Maybe many don't come to Sunday mass because they think they're not worthy. Maybe they're missing the spiritual maturity to understand its deeper meaning. Or maybe it's not being presented or received in the same spirit that it was first celebrated, when Jesus told his disciples to, "Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another" (John 13:34-35).

From the Buddhist point of view, one of the big dangers of clinging to rites and rituals in and of themselves is that we eventually sterilize those things of all honesty and efficacy. We tend to fall into the spiritual trap of thinking that just going through the motions is enough, i.e., doing things that may be outwardly correct but not necessarily with the right intentions. And I think that's true in this case, as well.

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.