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.
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