Today marks the 100th birthday of Thomas Merton, monk, activist, and writer. Reading Merton was one of the primary catalysts for my journey into Catholicism and Christianity in general, and I must give him a lot of the credit for helping me see the richness of Christian contemplativism.
My first experience with Merton was his short anthology, The Wisdom of the Desert, which I found had a lot in common with the wisdom of many of the Thai Forest teachers, 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. More than anything else, reading this book planted the seeds of my 'double belonging' (Buddhist and Christian), although it took close to six years for those seeds to bear fruit from their initial planting.
I started attending mass at a nearby Orthodox church more, drawn towards both the beauty of the church itself and the rituals performed within, and I was becoming more receptive to what wisdom Christianity had to offer; but the soil was still too barren. It'd take a few more years of spending time with people like Romanos, and reading things like In The Spirit of Happiness by the monks of New Skete and Merton's autobiography, The Seven Storey Mountain, for the soil of my heart to be fertile enough in spiritual understanding for those long-planted seeds to begin sprouting and eventually bloom into my present journey to know God—which I like to define as that which draws us towards virtue, the foundation and summit of consciousness, and the ground of being manifest in existence.
Merton's works brought me into contact with the Trappists and the deep, contemplative aspects of the Church combined with a spirit of social justice fuelled by his seemingly boundless compassion; and they continue to speak to me and help me on my spiritual journey, giving me guidance and encouragement when I need it. If it wasn't for Merton, I might not have ever discovered Our Lady of Guadalupe or St. Philip Neri, or the contemplative side of the Church that appeals to me so, which often goes unnoticed by many. Seeing that side of the Church, and being pointed towards books like The Cloud of Unknowing and The Way of the Pilgrim, made me curious about it, about how it could help me 'awaken' to the presence of God and "share in the divine nature"(2 Peter 1:4).
That he died while in Thailand at an inter-faith conference is also meaningful, I think. For me, he's become a saint of sorts—the patron saint of double belonging who's helping to illuminate the universal core of truth underlying most of the world's religions and bridge the superficial divides that separate us from one another.
Today I also had breakfast with Romanos, who's agreed to be my sponsor. I'm happy that he's able and willing, not only because he's been such an important part of this journey, but because of the insights he provides, as well. Few see and speak of the Church the way he does, and I've found his guidance these last four years invaluable. Whenever I talk to him, I always learn something new; and the way he talks about it, I always feel inspired.
On the way home from breakfast, for example, we got to talking about the Nicene Creed. As he was taking me through the Greek, he noted that poieten, the word often translated as 'maker,' is more literally rendered as 'poet.' I found that beautiful.
Saturday, January 31, 2015
Thursday, January 29, 2015
1/29/15
For Advent, I decided to start reading the New Testament all the way through. I haven't gotten that far yet (I'm up to Mt 18), but it's an interesting read with all the footnotes (I'm reading the revised New American Bible), and I'm finding a lot of it quite surprising.
The New Testament begins with Matthew. Matthew (or whomever the author) seems to be writing for a predominantly Jewish audience. The nativity at the beginning of Matthew's Gospel, for instance, is clearly trying to establish Jesus as an authority, with a fanciful genealogy and prophecy fulfillments. It's like he's saying, "Hey everyone, he's legit. Really, he is!" John the Baptist seems to play a similar role of validating Jesus.
All of this is important, I suppose, in connecting Jesus with OT prophecies concerning the coming Jewish messiah, to get the people of Matthew's day on board with the program so to speak. What's more important to me than the ancestry and bona fides of Jesus, however, is his soteriological message, which is more subtle than what people expected (for those with 'little dust in their eyes,' as Brahma Sahampati would say).
The Sermon of the Mount is a perfect example of this. Many were waiting for a warrior king in the line of David who'd lead them out of oppression through strength and might and military genius. But here we have the 'messiah' preaching the importance of right action and harmlessness, especially forgiveness and righteous (skillful) deeds, rather than shouting battle cries. Much of it reminds me of ideas and teachings found in the Pali Canon (hence my whole double-belonging thing).
One parallel is the way Jesus points towards the importance of our intentions, teaching that anger itself is as much of a sin as acts of anger: "You have heard that it was said to your ancestors, 'You shall not kill; and whoever kills will be liable to judgment.' But I say to you, whoever is angry with his brother will be liable to judgment" (Mt 5:21-22). Similarly with thoughts of lust: "You have heard that it was said, 'You shall not commit adultery.' But I say to you, everyone who looks at a woman with lust has already committed adultery with her in his heart" (Mt 5:27-29).
Jesus on honesty is also similar to the Buddha. Jesus says your speech should always be truthful so that there's no need for oaths, to, "Let your 'Yes' mean 'Yes,' and your 'No' mean 'No.' Anything more is from the evil one" (Mt 5:33-37); the Buddha says, "For the person who transgresses in one thing, I tell you, there is no evil deed that is not to be done. Which one thing? This: telling a deliberate lie" (Iti 25). Truthfulness, it would seem, is an integral part of the holy life.
Jesus admonishes his followers not to act righteously for attention and praise, but quietly, out of love and humility (i.e., right intention). And I see a striking resemblance between Jesus' words on loving one's enemies and the simile of the saw in MN 21, both teachings stressing the importance of harmlessness, patience, and endurance.
When Jesus talks about 'treasure in heaven,' I interpret it as referring to the treasure of skillful deeds done out of a heart well-developed in loving-kindness, compassion, sympathetic joy, and equanimity, the four sublime attitudes (brahma-vihara, literally 'divine abodes'):
And when Jesus says, "Stop judging, that you may not be judged. For as you judge, so will you be judged, and the measure with which you measure will be measured out to you" (Mt 7:1-2), I can't help but to be reminded of the Buddha's fifth subject for frequent reflection, "I am the owner of my actions, heir to my actions, born of my actions, related through my actions, and have my actions as my arbitrator. Whatever I do, for good or for evil, to that will I fall heir" (AN 5.57).
Comparing Mt 7:15-23 to AN 4.192, both Jesus and the Buddha seem to agree that you'll know a good disciple/teacher from a bad one by their deeds. And they both stress the positive aspects of renunciation and a focus on practice/spiritual life, suggesting that these are the foundations to living a life that goes against the current of worldly passions for the sake of a greater happiness, of living heedfully and with wisdom, Jesus in places like Mt 7:24-29 and Mt 16:24-27, and the Buddha in places like AN 4.184 and AN 9.41. It's not surprising, then, that Jesus' early disciples were a lot like the Buddha's monastics, wandering mendicants who even gave up filial obligations (e.g., Mt 8:18-22 vs. Sn 1.3 or DN 2).
Another passage on intention and action, while simply put, has deep implications, and is reminiscent of the beginning of the Dhammapada. In an admonishment to the Pharisees after they accuse him of demonic consortion, Jesus says:
Likewise, the first two verses of the Dhammapada make a similar point, I think:
One passage that especially stands out to me in Matthew regarding the importance of intention is where Jesus says to his disciples:
I found this rather surprising since I'd always assumed that Jesus had a rather rigid approach to Mosaic laws, i.e., "Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets. I have come not to abolish but to fulfill" (Mt 5:17). But time and again, Jesus is seen doing something that seems contrary to the law even though he says he's come to fulfill it. Here's Jesus rebuking the Pharisees and their rigid approach to living a spiritual life, saying that it's really all about our intentions, not necessarily following the letter of the law. There's Jesus forgiving someone for their sins, and challenging those without sin to cast the first stone at the accused (John 8:1-11), etc.
What this says to me is that his version of fulfilling the law is very different from what many assume, and it's worth trying to read the Bible in order to get a better picture of what Jesus was trying to teach us. And we should respect that message wherever we find it.
The New Testament begins with Matthew. Matthew (or whomever the author) seems to be writing for a predominantly Jewish audience. The nativity at the beginning of Matthew's Gospel, for instance, is clearly trying to establish Jesus as an authority, with a fanciful genealogy and prophecy fulfillments. It's like he's saying, "Hey everyone, he's legit. Really, he is!" John the Baptist seems to play a similar role of validating Jesus.
All of this is important, I suppose, in connecting Jesus with OT prophecies concerning the coming Jewish messiah, to get the people of Matthew's day on board with the program so to speak. What's more important to me than the ancestry and bona fides of Jesus, however, is his soteriological message, which is more subtle than what people expected (for those with 'little dust in their eyes,' as Brahma Sahampati would say).
The Sermon of the Mount is a perfect example of this. Many were waiting for a warrior king in the line of David who'd lead them out of oppression through strength and might and military genius. But here we have the 'messiah' preaching the importance of right action and harmlessness, especially forgiveness and righteous (skillful) deeds, rather than shouting battle cries. Much of it reminds me of ideas and teachings found in the Pali Canon (hence my whole double-belonging thing).
One parallel is the way Jesus points towards the importance of our intentions, teaching that anger itself is as much of a sin as acts of anger: "You have heard that it was said to your ancestors, 'You shall not kill; and whoever kills will be liable to judgment.' But I say to you, whoever is angry with his brother will be liable to judgment" (Mt 5:21-22). Similarly with thoughts of lust: "You have heard that it was said, 'You shall not commit adultery.' But I say to you, everyone who looks at a woman with lust has already committed adultery with her in his heart" (Mt 5:27-29).
Jesus on honesty is also similar to the Buddha. Jesus says your speech should always be truthful so that there's no need for oaths, to, "Let your 'Yes' mean 'Yes,' and your 'No' mean 'No.' Anything more is from the evil one" (Mt 5:33-37); the Buddha says, "For the person who transgresses in one thing, I tell you, there is no evil deed that is not to be done. Which one thing? This: telling a deliberate lie" (Iti 25). Truthfulness, it would seem, is an integral part of the holy life.
Jesus admonishes his followers not to act righteously for attention and praise, but quietly, out of love and humility (i.e., right intention). And I see a striking resemblance between Jesus' words on loving one's enemies and the simile of the saw in MN 21, both teachings stressing the importance of harmlessness, patience, and endurance.
When Jesus talks about 'treasure in heaven,' I interpret it as referring to the treasure of skillful deeds done out of a heart well-developed in loving-kindness, compassion, sympathetic joy, and equanimity, the four sublime attitudes (brahma-vihara, literally 'divine abodes'):
Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and decay destroy, and thieves break in and steal. But store up treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor decay destroys, nor thieves break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there also will your heart be. (Mt 6:19-21)
And when Jesus says, "Stop judging, that you may not be judged. For as you judge, so will you be judged, and the measure with which you measure will be measured out to you" (Mt 7:1-2), I can't help but to be reminded of the Buddha's fifth subject for frequent reflection, "I am the owner of my actions, heir to my actions, born of my actions, related through my actions, and have my actions as my arbitrator. Whatever I do, for good or for evil, to that will I fall heir" (AN 5.57).
Comparing Mt 7:15-23 to AN 4.192, both Jesus and the Buddha seem to agree that you'll know a good disciple/teacher from a bad one by their deeds. And they both stress the positive aspects of renunciation and a focus on practice/spiritual life, suggesting that these are the foundations to living a life that goes against the current of worldly passions for the sake of a greater happiness, of living heedfully and with wisdom, Jesus in places like Mt 7:24-29 and Mt 16:24-27, and the Buddha in places like AN 4.184 and AN 9.41. It's not surprising, then, that Jesus' early disciples were a lot like the Buddha's monastics, wandering mendicants who even gave up filial obligations (e.g., Mt 8:18-22 vs. Sn 1.3 or DN 2).
Another passage on intention and action, while simply put, has deep implications, and is reminiscent of the beginning of the Dhammapada. In an admonishment to the Pharisees after they accuse him of demonic consortion, Jesus says:
Either declare the tree good and its fruit is good, or declare the tree rotten and its fruit is rotten, for a tree is known by its fruit. You brood of vipers, how can you say good things when you are evil? For from the fullness of the heart the mouth speaks. A good person brings forth good out of a store of goodness, but an evil person brings forth evil out of a store of evil. I tell you, on the day of judgment people will render an account for every careless word they speak. By your words you will be acquitted, and by your words you will be condemned. (Mt 12:33-37)
Likewise, the first two verses of the Dhammapada make a similar point, I think:
Mind precedes all mental states. Mind is their chief; they are all mind-wrought. If with an impure mind a person speaks or acts suffering follows him like the wheel that follows the foot of the ox.
Mind precedes all mental states. Mind is their chief; they are all mind-wrought. If with a pure mind a person speaks or acts happiness follows him like his never-departing shadow. (Dhp 1-2)
One passage that especially stands out to me in Matthew regarding the importance of intention is where Jesus says to his disciples:
Don't you see that whatever enters the mouth goes into the stomach and then out of the body? But the things that come out of a person's mouth come from the heart, and these defile them. For out of the heart come evil thoughts—murder, adultery, sexual immorality, theft, false testimony, slander. These are what defile a person; but eating with unwashed hands does not defile them. (Mt 15: 17-20)
I found this rather surprising since I'd always assumed that Jesus had a rather rigid approach to Mosaic laws, i.e., "Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets. I have come not to abolish but to fulfill" (Mt 5:17). But time and again, Jesus is seen doing something that seems contrary to the law even though he says he's come to fulfill it. Here's Jesus rebuking the Pharisees and their rigid approach to living a spiritual life, saying that it's really all about our intentions, not necessarily following the letter of the law. There's Jesus forgiving someone for their sins, and challenging those without sin to cast the first stone at the accused (John 8:1-11), etc.
What this says to me is that his version of fulfilling the law is very different from what many assume, and it's worth trying to read the Bible in order to get a better picture of what Jesus was trying to teach us. And we should respect that message wherever we find it.
Wednesday, January 28, 2015
1/28/15
Tonight's topic in my RCIA class was the sacraments, although we spent most of the hour talking about other things, like sponsors and the like. We're at the point now where they're asking us to think about finding a sponsor, their role being to start coming with us to some of the classes and hear what's being said so that we can discuss it with them later on (if they agree, disagree, or have their own input on what's being taught), as well as to participate in the rites of initiation leading up to, and on, Holy Saturday.
Most of the people I'd want to ask are the ones who can't really fill that role, like Fr. Michael and Barbara, who's on the pastoral council and in charge of the RCIA class. Besides them, the first person that came to mind is my kalyana-mitta, Romanos, who's Orthodox. I asked if it was OK to ask him, and they said it was fine if he's willing. It's kind of a long shot, but I hope he says yes because he's been a big part of this journey. But if not, I asked Barbara if she could recommend someone who might be on a similar spiritual wavelength.
When we finally got to the sacraments, we mostly discussed baptism. I thought the way they talked about it and what it's traditionally believed to cleanse, especially original sin, was interesting. In simple terms, original sin is viewed as humanity's ignorance of God/Dhamma, the idea of not needing God/Dhamma in our lives. And baptism is an initiation into having God/Dhamma in our lives, of consciously turning towards God/Dhamma as a refuge.
To be honest, I always thought the idea of original sin was a little strange, but seeing it from this perspective, it makes sense. And personally, I don't think the water itself washes away our sins (unskillful actions and ignorance) so much as our desire or intention to turn towards what's good and true and away from our inner defilements of greed, aversion, and delusion conditioned by ignorance/original sin.
The way I see it, we're each in certain places and receptive to certain things due to a myriad of causes and conditions that we can't possibly fathom, so why pretend that we have all the answers and discount where others find themselves in life? I discovered Buddhism and it changed my life. And after practicing it for over ten years, I've reached a point where I can now appreciate Christianity and find the same wisdom there, with each complementing my spiritual journey and understanding. The trappings may be different, but for me, the underlying call/message is the same.
Most of the people I'd want to ask are the ones who can't really fill that role, like Fr. Michael and Barbara, who's on the pastoral council and in charge of the RCIA class. Besides them, the first person that came to mind is my kalyana-mitta, Romanos, who's Orthodox. I asked if it was OK to ask him, and they said it was fine if he's willing. It's kind of a long shot, but I hope he says yes because he's been a big part of this journey. But if not, I asked Barbara if she could recommend someone who might be on a similar spiritual wavelength.
When we finally got to the sacraments, we mostly discussed baptism. I thought the way they talked about it and what it's traditionally believed to cleanse, especially original sin, was interesting. In simple terms, original sin is viewed as humanity's ignorance of God/Dhamma, the idea of not needing God/Dhamma in our lives. And baptism is an initiation into having God/Dhamma in our lives, of consciously turning towards God/Dhamma as a refuge.
To be honest, I always thought the idea of original sin was a little strange, but seeing it from this perspective, it makes sense. And personally, I don't think the water itself washes away our sins (unskillful actions and ignorance) so much as our desire or intention to turn towards what's good and true and away from our inner defilements of greed, aversion, and delusion conditioned by ignorance/original sin.
The way I see it, we're each in certain places and receptive to certain things due to a myriad of causes and conditions that we can't possibly fathom, so why pretend that we have all the answers and discount where others find themselves in life? I discovered Buddhism and it changed my life. And after practicing it for over ten years, I've reached a point where I can now appreciate Christianity and find the same wisdom there, with each complementing my spiritual journey and understanding. The trappings may be different, but for me, the underlying call/message is the same.
Monday, January 26, 2015
1/26/15
Today I started work with the intention of being more positive and trying to transform my relationship with those around me, and I failed with the very first customer. I was running behind setting up my station and trying to at least finish taking all the temps before I opened at 7am when someone snuck around to an open gate and placed an order. Instead of being kind and understanding, instead of treating them as Jesus or a buddha (here I'm thinking of the story of Asanga and the wounded dog), I instantly got angry and my negative attitude coloured the majority of the rest of my day.
It was disheartening to say the least. It was also enlightening, though, in the sense that I clearly saw just how much I didn't like my job. It's monotonous, low-paying, and terribly unfulfilling, and the main reasons I've stuck around are: convenience (ideal working hours and no weekends); fear (of not being able to find another job/pay my bills), difficulty finding something better; low self-esteem (lack of confidence and no college degree); and love (liking my coworkers and not wanting to abandon them).
People keep asking me what I want to do, and all I can think of are people like Thomas Merton and Ajahn Sudanto. My heart is in religious life. It's the only kind of vocation or career that I can think of that calls to me and I think would truly fulfill me. The only exception is maybe writing, especially writing about my spiritual experiences, e.g., visiting monasteries, going on retreats, developments in my own understanding, etc. But my writing isn't that good, and I'd need a fair bit of schooling before it'd be anywhere near the level needed to make a living on, and that's assuming I could actually find a way to make a living doing that in such a tough market.
It's the same dilemma I've had for years, I suppose. I'm not happy and I feel like I'm stuck, but I think I've finally come to terms with the fact that I'm not likely to transform myself or my work by staying where I'm at, making bagels and coffee at a college food court. I'm just not. At some point, I'm going to have to make a vocational change. I don't know precisely what, but I know that I can't keep doing this and expect to be anything but unhappy.
It was disheartening to say the least. It was also enlightening, though, in the sense that I clearly saw just how much I didn't like my job. It's monotonous, low-paying, and terribly unfulfilling, and the main reasons I've stuck around are: convenience (ideal working hours and no weekends); fear (of not being able to find another job/pay my bills), difficulty finding something better; low self-esteem (lack of confidence and no college degree); and love (liking my coworkers and not wanting to abandon them).
People keep asking me what I want to do, and all I can think of are people like Thomas Merton and Ajahn Sudanto. My heart is in religious life. It's the only kind of vocation or career that I can think of that calls to me and I think would truly fulfill me. The only exception is maybe writing, especially writing about my spiritual experiences, e.g., visiting monasteries, going on retreats, developments in my own understanding, etc. But my writing isn't that good, and I'd need a fair bit of schooling before it'd be anywhere near the level needed to make a living on, and that's assuming I could actually find a way to make a living doing that in such a tough market.
It's the same dilemma I've had for years, I suppose. I'm not happy and I feel like I'm stuck, but I think I've finally come to terms with the fact that I'm not likely to transform myself or my work by staying where I'm at, making bagels and coffee at a college food court. I'm just not. At some point, I'm going to have to make a vocational change. I don't know precisely what, but I know that I can't keep doing this and expect to be anything but unhappy.
Saturday, January 24, 2015
1/24/15
In many ways, I feel as if I'm making a lot of progress in my journey into the unknown that calls to me with promises of knowledge and fulfillment. I'm spending a lot more time engaging in spiritual pursuits, making time for a number of groups and classes, and trying to make more of an effort to truly live a spiritual life and transform myself. I know such personal metamorphosis is possible. I know people who have, or are at least in the process of doing so. I'd say Fr. Michael is one example. Many of the Buddhist monks I know are, too.
Today, for instance, I attended a workshop by Fr. Bob Cary on 'work as an act of faith,' which I thought would be helpful since I really struggle with being happy doing what I do for a living. One of the first things I realized during the workshop is that I tend to treat my faith/spiritual practice, my work life, and my personal/home life as separate spheres when I should really see them in a more unified way. As Fr. Bob put it, to live a 'holy' life, one has to live 'wholly.' My life, on the other hand, is basically fragmented, with a separate self or identity for each sphere, and my spiritual life/self is more often than not MIA at work and at home.
Fr. Bob covered a lot of stuff in those two hours, but one of the more interesting things he talked about was the prominence of labour in the Bible. The very first image of God we encounter is a creative worker/labourer who starts out with chaos and goes to work creating order. Fast-forward to the New Testament, Jesus is a carpenter, and most of his disciples are fishermen who were 'called by God' while working. And the vast majority of parables are about workers and/or acts of work. The disciples themselves probably worked as much as they preached, if not more so since they probably did most of their preaching during the Sabbath. How else could they have such large crowds to preach to? In essence, the Bible is a spiritual book of and for workers.
Going back to the beginning of Genesis for a moment, where we see God as a kind of divine proletariat, creating order out of chaos and evaluating whether or not their work is good each day, it's curious that God rests. Why would God need to rest? It doesn't make much sense. But I think it does make sense if we see these stories as talking about us. God creates according to their will. We, too, create according to our will. Our ability to produce things, especially our means of subsistence, is one of the things that sets us apart from other animals. We're created in God's image, and God rests. We, too, need to rest to enjoy the fruits of our labour and the company of one another.
And we can see the call of Simon in Luke as a call of vocation, of work transformed. When Jesus tells Simon to, "Put out into deep water and lower your nets for a catch," it's as if he's saying, "Give your work deeper meaning." And the huge catch Simon nets, leading to his discipleship as a 'fisher of people,' can be seen as a change in his working life. It's a call for all of us to cast deeper, to find our own call in our working life. What in our work engages us? What holds our hearts? Fr. Bob went through some lists of criteria to look for in our own jobs and lives in order to help determine if we're where we're supposed to be.
Something that I realized is, my call is avocational and relational. My work has basically none of the criteria for a call, or even something that's good for me. But my job helps me with my spiritual life and relationship, giving me the time to attend all of my groups and classes, attend mass on Sundays, spend time with Annie, etc. It's what I want at the moment. It's OK for now, but I'll eventually need to look for something else, something more, so that my call and vocation are more complementary.
But I'm still having trouble fully committing myself to my spiritual practices, and more often than not find myself getting caught up in sensual pleasures and listening to all the little voices that tell me each day, "It's OK, you can start taking things seriously tomorrow. Just enjoy yourself today." I think part of that's natural and something many of us find ourselves struggling with; but I think part of it could also be fear of where following my call might lead me—into consecrated religious life. And that's something I'm not sure I'm ready for yet.
Today, for instance, I attended a workshop by Fr. Bob Cary on 'work as an act of faith,' which I thought would be helpful since I really struggle with being happy doing what I do for a living. One of the first things I realized during the workshop is that I tend to treat my faith/spiritual practice, my work life, and my personal/home life as separate spheres when I should really see them in a more unified way. As Fr. Bob put it, to live a 'holy' life, one has to live 'wholly.' My life, on the other hand, is basically fragmented, with a separate self or identity for each sphere, and my spiritual life/self is more often than not MIA at work and at home.
Fr. Bob covered a lot of stuff in those two hours, but one of the more interesting things he talked about was the prominence of labour in the Bible. The very first image of God we encounter is a creative worker/labourer who starts out with chaos and goes to work creating order. Fast-forward to the New Testament, Jesus is a carpenter, and most of his disciples are fishermen who were 'called by God' while working. And the vast majority of parables are about workers and/or acts of work. The disciples themselves probably worked as much as they preached, if not more so since they probably did most of their preaching during the Sabbath. How else could they have such large crowds to preach to? In essence, the Bible is a spiritual book of and for workers.
Going back to the beginning of Genesis for a moment, where we see God as a kind of divine proletariat, creating order out of chaos and evaluating whether or not their work is good each day, it's curious that God rests. Why would God need to rest? It doesn't make much sense. But I think it does make sense if we see these stories as talking about us. God creates according to their will. We, too, create according to our will. Our ability to produce things, especially our means of subsistence, is one of the things that sets us apart from other animals. We're created in God's image, and God rests. We, too, need to rest to enjoy the fruits of our labour and the company of one another.
And we can see the call of Simon in Luke as a call of vocation, of work transformed. When Jesus tells Simon to, "Put out into deep water and lower your nets for a catch," it's as if he's saying, "Give your work deeper meaning." And the huge catch Simon nets, leading to his discipleship as a 'fisher of people,' can be seen as a change in his working life. It's a call for all of us to cast deeper, to find our own call in our working life. What in our work engages us? What holds our hearts? Fr. Bob went through some lists of criteria to look for in our own jobs and lives in order to help determine if we're where we're supposed to be.
Something that I realized is, my call is avocational and relational. My work has basically none of the criteria for a call, or even something that's good for me. But my job helps me with my spiritual life and relationship, giving me the time to attend all of my groups and classes, attend mass on Sundays, spend time with Annie, etc. It's what I want at the moment. It's OK for now, but I'll eventually need to look for something else, something more, so that my call and vocation are more complementary.
But I'm still having trouble fully committing myself to my spiritual practices, and more often than not find myself getting caught up in sensual pleasures and listening to all the little voices that tell me each day, "It's OK, you can start taking things seriously tomorrow. Just enjoy yourself today." I think part of that's natural and something many of us find ourselves struggling with; but I think part of it could also be fear of where following my call might lead me—into consecrated religious life. And that's something I'm not sure I'm ready for yet.
Tuesday, January 20, 2015
1/20/15
Last night, I was thinking about Sunday's Rite of Acceptance and how there's a good chance I'll be baptized and confirmed in just over two months if I continue with the RCIA program at St. Philip. It's pretty exciting, and I'm really happy to be a part of this community. But I was also thinking about my Buddhist practice and how important it is to me, as well as the somewhat unique way I view certain Catholic doctrines in this light, when I stumbled upon this great article in the National Catholic Reporter:
It was like it was written just for me, and I thought it explained me perfectly, or at least where I'm at spiritually. I've been struggling to articulate my spiritual point of view for a long time; but I definitely think I fall under what Paul Knitter calls 'double belonging,' although I started out with Buddhism and then discovered Catholicism rather than vice versa. I completely agree, for example, that people "can be genuinely nourished by more than one religious tradition," and these two together have really helped me deepen my spiritual life. Certain doctrinal and linguistic issues aside, I find they go hand-in-hand, complementing each other well in rather surprising ways.
I also agree that, in many areas, "Christianity is long on content but short on method and technique," and that Buddhism can help provide Christianity with practices and techniques "by which [Christians] can enter more experientially into the content of what they believe."
One example is the passage where Jesus says to His disciples in explanation: "Do you not realize that everything that enters the mouth passes into the stomach and is expelled into the latrine? But the things that come out of the mouth come from the heart, and they defile. For from the heart come evil thoughts, murder, adultery, unchastity, theft, false witness, blasphemy. These are what defile a person, but to eat with unwashed hands does not defile" (Mt 15: 17-20). A beautiful teaching. But how can one work to purify their heart? Through prayer, sure. But also through practicing mindfulness and following the Buddha's advice to his son, Rahula, in MN 61.
But one of the most salient points in the whole article, I think, is found in Knitter's response to the question, "What are the needs among Christian believers that you think Buddhism is addressing," to which he answers:
That's a really big part of it for me. Reading about the lives and works of Christian contemplatives, from the early Desert Fathers and Mothers and mystics like St. John of the Cross to more contemporary figures like Thomas Merton, Bede Griffiths, and Thomas Keating, it's clear to me that inner silence and solitude seems to be an integral part in doing just that. And one of the things that Buddhism really excels at is the cultivation of this kind of inner silence through meditation and the practice of sense restraint.
Where I have the most trouble, though, is when trying to articulate the way I think about God, the absolute, ultimate reality, or whatever you want to call it, which is something that's intuitive and deeply personal, yet also rather vague, making it difficult to put into words how I conceive of it and experience it in my life. And while not perfect, I definitely like the comparison he makes between Thich Nhat Hanh's use of the term 'interbeing' and the New Testament definition of God found in John, "God is love," bringing to mind something I wrote back in 2011:
Ultimately, however, everything we say about God or ultimate reality falls short, because we're trying to put into words something that lies beyond all conceptualizations and conditions. Words are like the proverbial finger pointing towards the moon, they point the way but they're not the moon itself. "These expressions are our attempt to put into words what is the mystery of God," and in doing so, "we're using symbols, we're using metaphors, we're using analogies."
Honestly, I could go on and on about it. Suffice it to say that I was extremely impressed (and even somewhat surprised) by the article; and I'm happy and relieved that I'm not the only one who approaches Catholicism this way. In fact, I think I might have to check out his book one day soon. It sounds like it'd be helpful for me as I continue my journey into the Church, both in terms of giving me some direction and in terms of giving me a vocabulary that can help me talk about my spiritual practice with others.
Paul F. Knitter, author of Without Buddha I Could Not Be a Christian, is Paul Tillich Professor of Theology, World Religions and Culture at Union Theological Seminary in New York City. He is a leading advocate of globally responsible interreligious dialogue and author of more than 10 books on the subject. In this, his newest book, he writes very personally, sharing his struggles with his Christian faith while relating how his study of Buddhism -- and his own Zen practice -- has helped him through this struggle.
NCR readers familiar with Buddhism or other Eastern practices and religions will find this book both refreshing and rewarding. It is unusual for a Catholic theologian to write as personally as Knitter has done in this book. I spoke with him recently about his Catholic faith and the Buddhist thought and practice that have entered into his thinking and life as he has worked in the field of interreligious dialogue.
Fox: Do you consider yourself to be a Christian?
Knitter: Oh, I definitely do. I was born a Catholic in Chicago, grew up and entered the seminary. I consider myself to be a Christian, especially in its Roman Catholic form.
Would you say that you’re a Buddhist Catholic or a Catholic Buddhist?
Definitely the noun is Catholic or Christian; the adjective is Buddhist. My primary identity is Christian.
As a Catholic theologian, what is your relationship officially with the church?
I think I’m a pretty reputable member of the Catholic Theological Society of America. I’m a practicing Catholic. My relationship with the church is, as far as I can judge, good.
To be straightforward and honest, I have received some general admonitions from Pope Benedict when he was Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger. In a book on dealing with other religions, he mentioned me as one of the people who represent a tendency that could easily slip into relativism. I’m working in an area that is quite controversial, namely how Christianity can understand itself in the light of other religions.
In your book you speak of “double belonging.” Just what does that mean?
Double belonging is being talked about more and more now, both in the theological academy and in the area of Christian spirituality. I think it’s the term that is used when more and more people are finding that they can be genuinely nourished by more than one religious tradition, by more than their home tradition or their native tradition.
How widespread is double belonging?
I wouldn’t say it is for general consumption, but in areas of Europe and North America, I think that the number of people who are serious about practicing their faith are finding that some degree of double belonging is becoming more and more a part of their lives.
Why such a broad interest today in Buddhism among Christians?
There’s no one answer. In the book, I quote a friend of mine, Fr. Michael O’Halloran, who is formerly a Carthusian monk and now a priest here in the New York archdiocese. He is also a Zen teacher. Michael once told me that Christianity is long on content but short on method and technique. So I think Buddhism is providing Christians with practices, with techniques, by which they can enter more experientially into the content of what they believe.
What are the needs among Christian believers that you think Buddhism is addressing?
I hope I’m not generalizing here too much, but I think a lot of it has to do with the dissatisfaction that many of us Christians feel with a God who is all out there, a God who is totally other than I, the God who stands outside of me and confronts me. I think we’re searching for ways of realizing the mystery of the divine of God in a way in which it is more a part of our very selves.
I think Christians are searching more for a way of experiencing and understanding God in a unitive way, or what I say in the book is a “non-dual way,” where God becomes a reality that is certainly different than I am, but is part of my very being.
Buddhism does not affirm the existence of God. It has been described as an “atheistic” religion. How can it have significance for a theistic religion like Christianity?
We’ve got to be really careful with how we use the term “atheistic.” Clearly Buddhism does not affirm the existence of a personal God, but I think the better term would be “non-theistic” rather than “atheistic.” It’s not denying God, but if I may put it this way, the Buddha and so much of Buddhism is much more concerned with experiencing ultimate reality rather than defining and naming it.
When you ask a Buddha, “What is it that you are part of when you are enlightened, or when you experience nirvana?” one of the terms or images that are used is sunyata, which means emptiness. That’s not a very good translation but it’s the word they use to identify that ultimate reality is not an entity, a being, but rather it is what they call the interconnectedness of everything. Or as the Vietnamese monk Thich Nhat Hanh uses the term for ultimate reality, “interbeing.”
Buddhism has helped me to rediscover, to deepen what it means when, in the New Testament -- maybe it’s the only definition of God that we find in the New Testament -- when it says that “God is love.”
I think what Buddhism means by “interbeing” helps me appropriate what in our Christian terminology we mean when we say divine reality is love, and then that sets the stage for me -- and I think for many Christians -- for reappropriating one of our central symbols for God, spirit.
So for me now when I say the word God, what I image, what I feel, thanks to Buddhism, is the interconnecting spirit -- this ever-present spirit, this ever-present, interconnecting energy that is not a person, but is very personal, that this is the mystery that surrounds me, that contains me, and which I am in contact with in the Eucharist, in liturgies, and especially in meditation.
Buddha was enlightened; Jesus was divine. That’s a big difference, isn’t it?
Yes. It’s a big difference. When one looks at, first of all, the language that we Christians use to talk about the mystery of Jesus the Christ, perhaps the two primary words that we use -- or doctrines that we attest to -- are Jesus is Son of God and Jesus is Savior. Now those two terms, Son of God, Savior, are beliefs. These expressions are our attempt to put into words what is the mystery of God.
All of our words are our efforts to try to say in words what can never be fully said in words. In other words, we’re using symbols, we’re using metaphors, we’re using analogies. This goes straight back to St. Thomas Aquinas and to my teacher, Karl Rahner. All of our language is symbolic.
So when the Catholics say that Jesus came to save us, we are not saying just that?
We’re saying something that is very true, something that tries to express what we have experienced, but we can never capture the full reality of it in those words. Again, to use the Buddhist image that is often used, our words are like fingers pointing to the moon -- not the moon itself. Words can never be fully identified with the reality that they are indicating.
You write that Catholics need an eighth sacrament. Explain that.
This has been perhaps one of the key elements that I and many others have learned from Buddhism: the importance of silence. It is in some form of meditation we recognize that the mystery of God is something that cannot be appropriated simply by thought.
This fits into our Catholic sacramental theology. We say that every sacrament contains matter and form. So the matter in the sacrament of silence is our breath, being aware of our breath, being one with our breath, doing nothing else but breathing.
A number of times in the book, you quote Thich Nhat Hanh, the Vietnamese monk. You write, echoing Nhat Hanh, that in order to make peace, we have to be peace. Reversing Pope Paul VI’s statement, you state that if we want justice, we have to seek peace. Is that right?
My wife and I spent much of the ’80s and the ’90s working in El Salvador for peace during the war. So we have been activists throughout our lives -- peace activists, social activists. But when I look back at that activism I am aware of how so often our actions were filled with a certain verbal violence.
We had to resist, we had to confront the evil structures. And there are evil structures, but something was missing for me. What was missing was captured in an experience I had back in 1986 or ’87 when I did a Zen retreat with Roshi Bernie Glassman.
I said to him during this retreat that we were going down to El Salvador to try to do something to stop the terrible death squads. He said: “Right, you have to stop the death squads, but you also have to meditate because you will never stop the death squads until you realize your oneness with them.”
That is the experience that Buddhism calls us to, this deep, personal experience of our interconnectedness with all beings, even those whom we have to oppose as oppressors, as perpetrators of evil. We are one with them. This is what Thich Nhat Hanh means when he says that we have to be peace within ourselves. We have to overcome our egos and realize our connectedness with all beings.
You’ve written, “For Buddhists, selfishness is not so much sinful as it is stupid.” Explain.
This is an aspect, I think, that is especially appreciated, or needed, by many Christians. For Buddhism, and I would want to say for Catholicism as well, our fundamental nature is good. Our fundamental nature is the Buddha nature, namely we are part of the interconnected whole, called to be aware of it, and to act out of compassion.
But our problem is that we are not aware of this. Because we’re not aware of this, because we think we are separate individuals rather than part of the interconnected whole, we think we have to protect ourselves. We think we have to gain things in order to establish our identity and, therefore, we act selfishly. We’re acting selfishly, not because we are fallen, not because we are evil in our natures, but because we are ignorant.
You’ve written that in the future, Christians will be mystics or they will not be anything at all. What do you mean?
That is a loose quotation from my teacher, Karl Rahner. What he was getting at is this: There are so many challenges and so many difficulties that we face that unless our identities are based on our own personal experience of God, as part of them, of Christ, as their very being, they are not going to be able to find the strength and the stamina and the wisdom to hang in there.
You’ve written that Buddhism has helped you peer into the mystery beyond death. What about death and life afterwards?
That was perhaps, for me, the most helpful, but maybe the most controversial part of my book. Buddhism tells us that here in this life our true identity, our true happiness, is to move beyond our individuality. I think that resonates with the word, “Unless a grain of wheat genuinely falls into the ground and dies, it will not bear fruit.” Buddhism has led me to look more deeply into what that passage means or what Jesus means when he said, “You will not find yourself unless you lose yourself.”
This has brought me to recognize something that for me seems to be more satisfying, namely that the life that awaits me after I die is going to be an existence that is going to be beyond my individual existence as Paul Knitter. I will live on, but I will not live on probably as Paul Knitter. In other words, our life in the future life after death is a form of existence that is beyond individuality. That doesn’t mean we’re annihilated; that doesn’t mean we don’t exist, but we will exist in a totally transformed, trans-individual existence.
It was like it was written just for me, and I thought it explained me perfectly, or at least where I'm at spiritually. I've been struggling to articulate my spiritual point of view for a long time; but I definitely think I fall under what Paul Knitter calls 'double belonging,' although I started out with Buddhism and then discovered Catholicism rather than vice versa. I completely agree, for example, that people "can be genuinely nourished by more than one religious tradition," and these two together have really helped me deepen my spiritual life. Certain doctrinal and linguistic issues aside, I find they go hand-in-hand, complementing each other well in rather surprising ways.
I also agree that, in many areas, "Christianity is long on content but short on method and technique," and that Buddhism can help provide Christianity with practices and techniques "by which [Christians] can enter more experientially into the content of what they believe."
One example is the passage where Jesus says to His disciples in explanation: "Do you not realize that everything that enters the mouth passes into the stomach and is expelled into the latrine? But the things that come out of the mouth come from the heart, and they defile. For from the heart come evil thoughts, murder, adultery, unchastity, theft, false witness, blasphemy. These are what defile a person, but to eat with unwashed hands does not defile" (Mt 15: 17-20). A beautiful teaching. But how can one work to purify their heart? Through prayer, sure. But also through practicing mindfulness and following the Buddha's advice to his son, Rahula, in MN 61.
But one of the most salient points in the whole article, I think, is found in Knitter's response to the question, "What are the needs among Christian believers that you think Buddhism is addressing," to which he answers:
I hope I'm not generalizing here too much, but I think a lot of it has to do with the dissatisfaction that many of us Christians feel with a God who is all out there, a God who is totally other than I, the God who stands outside of me and confronts me. I think we're searching for ways of realizing the mystery of the divine of God in a way in which it is more a part of our very selves.
I think Christians are searching more for a way of experiencing and understanding God in a unitive way, or what I say in the book is a "non-dual way," where God becomes a reality that is certainly different than I am, but is part of my very being.
That's a really big part of it for me. Reading about the lives and works of Christian contemplatives, from the early Desert Fathers and Mothers and mystics like St. John of the Cross to more contemporary figures like Thomas Merton, Bede Griffiths, and Thomas Keating, it's clear to me that inner silence and solitude seems to be an integral part in doing just that. And one of the things that Buddhism really excels at is the cultivation of this kind of inner silence through meditation and the practice of sense restraint.
Where I have the most trouble, though, is when trying to articulate the way I think about God, the absolute, ultimate reality, or whatever you want to call it, which is something that's intuitive and deeply personal, yet also rather vague, making it difficult to put into words how I conceive of it and experience it in my life. And while not perfect, I definitely like the comparison he makes between Thich Nhat Hanh's use of the term 'interbeing' and the New Testament definition of God found in John, "God is love," bringing to mind something I wrote back in 2011:
Over the past few months or so, I've developed a growing appreciation for Christianity. Among the similarities I've already found between Buddhism and Christianity, another possibility is their seeming agreement on the salvific power of love.
In Richard Gombrich's new book, What the Buddha Thought, for example, he mentions that, while the idea of loving-kindness (metta) being salvific is often neglected in Theravada (i.e., the general consensus traditional being that the four brahma-viharas or divine abodes themselves only lead to rebirth in the Brahma realms, not nibbana), there are texts in the Pali Canon extolling kindness and how it can lead to enlightenment. One is the Metta Sutta (found at Khp 9 and Snp 1.8), which begins with extolling kindness towards the world, and climaxes with this passage:
Towards the whole world one should develop loving thoughts boundless: upwards, downwards, sideways, without restriction, enmity or rivalry. Standing, walking, sitting or lying, one should be as alert as possible and keep one's mind on this. They call this divine living in the world. Not taking up ideas, virtuous with perfect insight, by controlling greed for sensual pleasure one does not return to lie in the womb. (Gombrich's translation)
He notes that, "This conclusion to the poem surely corroborates that the whole poem is about how one may become enlightened. Moreover, it is natural to interpret 'not returning to lie in the womb' as meaning that one will have escaped altogether from the cycle of rebirth, which is to say that one will have attained nirvana" (87). Of course, he's careful to point out that the poem doesn't state kindness alone will produce salvific results, and that it mentions other qualities of great importance (e.g., insight and self-control), but then he brings up Dhp 368:
The monk who dwells in kindness, with faith in the Buddha's teachings, may attain the peaceful state, the blissful cessation of conditioning. (Gombrich's translation)
Gombrich concludes this passage is "saying that kindness is salvific, and it is surely no coincidence that the term for nirvana, 'the peaceful state', is the same as the one used at the opening of the Metta Sutta" (87).
So while I'm not sure if love alone can lead to nibbana [the experience of ultimate reality], I'm more inclined to agree with Gombrich that it can be salvific in the proper context. It's one of the ten perfections, after all, which are not only the skillful qualities one develops as one follows the path to nibbana, but the basis of the path to full Buddhahood as well. And this, I think, accords well with passages in the Bible such as, "Whoever is without love does not know God, for God is love. (1 John 4:8).
Ultimately, however, everything we say about God or ultimate reality falls short, because we're trying to put into words something that lies beyond all conceptualizations and conditions. Words are like the proverbial finger pointing towards the moon, they point the way but they're not the moon itself. "These expressions are our attempt to put into words what is the mystery of God," and in doing so, "we're using symbols, we're using metaphors, we're using analogies."
Honestly, I could go on and on about it. Suffice it to say that I was extremely impressed (and even somewhat surprised) by the article; and I'm happy and relieved that I'm not the only one who approaches Catholicism this way. In fact, I think I might have to check out his book one day soon. It sounds like it'd be helpful for me as I continue my journey into the Church, both in terms of giving me some direction and in terms of giving me a vocabulary that can help me talk about my spiritual practice with others.
Sunday, January 18, 2015
1/18/15
Today, John, Kathleen, Chris, and myself were officially welcomed into the community through the Rite of Acceptance and Welcoming, further deepening our commitment and relationship with the Church: John and I as catechumens seeking baptism and confirmation, Kathleen as a candidate seeking confirmation, and Chris as, well, I don't know what since he's already Catholic.
After the homily, which focused on being receptive to the call of God in our daily lives, we were all called up to the front step of the altar along with four volunteers to act as sponsors, and introduced to the community. We were asked two questions: What do you ask of God's Church?, to which we answered faith. And, What does faith offer you?, to which everyone answered eternal life (except me, I answered union with God).
Then Fr. Michael asked all those present if they were ready to welcome us and help us along our journey. After what sounded like a unanimous 'yes,' there was a short prayer and Fr. Michael made the sign of the cross over each of our foreheads, then had the volunteers sign our eyes, ears, lips, shoulders, heart, hands, and feet, encouraging us to open our minds to the presence of God, to see God in those around us, to hear God's call and answer, to fill our hearts with love for others, to bear the gentle yoke of Christ, to do good deeds, and travel a righteous path. All reminiscent of St. Teresa's prayer:
I'll admit that, being shy and not terribly fond of being the centre of attention, it was a little scary standing in front of so many people; but the welcome was warm and I really appreciated the meaning behind the rite. For me, an important part of being a spiritual person is trying to be kind, compassionate, loving, and skillful in all my actions, which, of course, is something I struggle to do. More often than not, anger and selfishness are behind the steering wheel, and I find such forms of external encouragement and support to be more Christ-like invaluable. The Buddha called such spiritual support admirable friendship (kalyana-mittata), and said that it was the whole of the holy life.
Something else worth noting is that one of the first persons to congratulate me after mass happened to be Rob Nosse, my state representative in the Oregon House of Representatives. I don't know Rob well, only meeting him a couple of times before at St. Philip; but I voted for him in the last election and was pleasantly surprised when I discovered that he was a parishioner at St. Philip a few weeks ago. I'm definitely happy to have someone like him as my representative, and it was an added bonus to an already memorable occasion.
After mass, we all went next door to Carvlin Hall for the monthly French toast breakfast, as well as a rather informal RCIA class. We discussed the rite and other related topics, but nothing stands out to me now. I think I was still too immersed in the fact that I actually took this relatively momentous step to really take everything in; all I wanted to do was go around hugging everyone for being so kind to me, especially Barbara and Dorothy from the B- group, who came out just for us.
Out of everyone, though, I think I owe Dorothy the most for starting me off on this journey five months ago, being in her own way for me the 'eyes with which God looks compassion on this world, the feet with which God walks to do good, and the hands with which God blesses all the world.' It was her kindness that initially brought me in and made me feel welcome at St. Philip.
After the homily, which focused on being receptive to the call of God in our daily lives, we were all called up to the front step of the altar along with four volunteers to act as sponsors, and introduced to the community. We were asked two questions: What do you ask of God's Church?, to which we answered faith. And, What does faith offer you?, to which everyone answered eternal life (except me, I answered union with God).
Then Fr. Michael asked all those present if they were ready to welcome us and help us along our journey. After what sounded like a unanimous 'yes,' there was a short prayer and Fr. Michael made the sign of the cross over each of our foreheads, then had the volunteers sign our eyes, ears, lips, shoulders, heart, hands, and feet, encouraging us to open our minds to the presence of God, to see God in those around us, to hear God's call and answer, to fill our hearts with love for others, to bear the gentle yoke of Christ, to do good deeds, and travel a righteous path. All reminiscent of St. Teresa's prayer:
Christ has no body now but yours,
No hands, no feet on earth but yours,
Yours are the eyes with which he looks compassion on this world.
Yours are the feet with which he walks to do good.
Yours are the hands with which he blesses all the world.
Yours are the hands, yours are the feet, yours are the eyes, you are his body.
Christ has no body now but yours,
No hands, no feet on earth but yours.
Yours are the eyes with which he looks compassion on this world.
Christ has no body now on earth but yours.
I'll admit that, being shy and not terribly fond of being the centre of attention, it was a little scary standing in front of so many people; but the welcome was warm and I really appreciated the meaning behind the rite. For me, an important part of being a spiritual person is trying to be kind, compassionate, loving, and skillful in all my actions, which, of course, is something I struggle to do. More often than not, anger and selfishness are behind the steering wheel, and I find such forms of external encouragement and support to be more Christ-like invaluable. The Buddha called such spiritual support admirable friendship (kalyana-mittata), and said that it was the whole of the holy life.
Something else worth noting is that one of the first persons to congratulate me after mass happened to be Rob Nosse, my state representative in the Oregon House of Representatives. I don't know Rob well, only meeting him a couple of times before at St. Philip; but I voted for him in the last election and was pleasantly surprised when I discovered that he was a parishioner at St. Philip a few weeks ago. I'm definitely happy to have someone like him as my representative, and it was an added bonus to an already memorable occasion.
After mass, we all went next door to Carvlin Hall for the monthly French toast breakfast, as well as a rather informal RCIA class. We discussed the rite and other related topics, but nothing stands out to me now. I think I was still too immersed in the fact that I actually took this relatively momentous step to really take everything in; all I wanted to do was go around hugging everyone for being so kind to me, especially Barbara and Dorothy from the B- group, who came out just for us.
Out of everyone, though, I think I owe Dorothy the most for starting me off on this journey five months ago, being in her own way for me the 'eyes with which God looks compassion on this world, the feet with which God walks to do good, and the hands with which God blesses all the world.' It was her kindness that initially brought me in and made me feel welcome at St. Philip.
Saturday, January 17, 2015
1/17/15
On newbuddhist.com today, a university student doing some research for an essay regarding contemporary Buddhism asked, Why does Buddhism appeal to you? My answer to such questions changes depending on the day, with certain aspects taking the forefront in my mind, and today was no different. Since recently starting Richard Dawkins' The Selfish Gene, some of the things mentioned in the introduction and foreword have given me a new appreciation for what the Buddha taught from an evolutionary standpoint.
According to people like Dawkins, for example, there are two kinds of units in natural selection, the gene (as replicator) and the organism (as vehicle). And while the vehicle may be more or less altruistic, doing things out of compassion, generosity, love, etc., the genes are decidedly 'selfish.' In this context, deceit is arguably fundamental in animal communication, therefore, as Robert Trivers points out, "there must be strong selection to spot deception and this ought, in turn, to select for a degree of self-deception, rendering some facts and motives unconscious so as not to betray - by the subtle signs of self-knowledge - the deception being practiced" (The Selfish Gene, xx).
Here we see that some of our motivations, influenced by a subtle form of selfishness (original sin?), lay hidden within us. This is akin to the Buddhist teaching that many of our actions are conditioned/coloured by greed, aversion, and delusion (i.e., selfishness and self-deception); and one of the Buddha's insights was that we can master these mental processes of conditionality in such a way as to 'go against the stream' of craving (tahna, which here can be seen as the influence of genetic selfishness on human psychology) and ultimately transcend craving altogether. As Dawkins puts it, "Our brains have evolved to the point where we are capable of rebelling against our selfish genes" (xiv); and the Buddha was one of the greatest revolutionaries in this regard.
So looking at it from the perspective of evolutionary biology, I'd say that it's the contemplative aspects of Buddhism that appeal to me the most. Although other religious traditions have their own forms of robust contemplativism, Buddhism has a very thorough and explicit form that I think cuts straight to the heart of the human condition. By practicing things like mindfulness meditation and constantly observing our actions via MN 61, we begin to remove this evolutionary veil of ignorance or avijja ('not knowing'), allowing us to see within the hidden depths of our psyche so that we can begin to condition changes in our behaviour and perception that lead to fuller awareness, self-knowledge and control, and liberation via transcendence of our genetic programming.
Today, Buddhism comes in all shapes and sizes, arising out of a peculiar Indic culture, replete with its own religious traditions and worldview, and further shaped by the diverse cultures in which it's taken root, giving rise to numerous schools and approaches. Much of it may appear to be outdated and superstitious to the scientifically minded; but I think the underlying goal, as well as the various practices and insights that characterize 'Buddhism,' have a lot to offer us in terms of understanding and transforming ourselves.
According to people like Dawkins, for example, there are two kinds of units in natural selection, the gene (as replicator) and the organism (as vehicle). And while the vehicle may be more or less altruistic, doing things out of compassion, generosity, love, etc., the genes are decidedly 'selfish.' In this context, deceit is arguably fundamental in animal communication, therefore, as Robert Trivers points out, "there must be strong selection to spot deception and this ought, in turn, to select for a degree of self-deception, rendering some facts and motives unconscious so as not to betray - by the subtle signs of self-knowledge - the deception being practiced" (The Selfish Gene, xx).
Here we see that some of our motivations, influenced by a subtle form of selfishness (original sin?), lay hidden within us. This is akin to the Buddhist teaching that many of our actions are conditioned/coloured by greed, aversion, and delusion (i.e., selfishness and self-deception); and one of the Buddha's insights was that we can master these mental processes of conditionality in such a way as to 'go against the stream' of craving (tahna, which here can be seen as the influence of genetic selfishness on human psychology) and ultimately transcend craving altogether. As Dawkins puts it, "Our brains have evolved to the point where we are capable of rebelling against our selfish genes" (xiv); and the Buddha was one of the greatest revolutionaries in this regard.
So looking at it from the perspective of evolutionary biology, I'd say that it's the contemplative aspects of Buddhism that appeal to me the most. Although other religious traditions have their own forms of robust contemplativism, Buddhism has a very thorough and explicit form that I think cuts straight to the heart of the human condition. By practicing things like mindfulness meditation and constantly observing our actions via MN 61, we begin to remove this evolutionary veil of ignorance or avijja ('not knowing'), allowing us to see within the hidden depths of our psyche so that we can begin to condition changes in our behaviour and perception that lead to fuller awareness, self-knowledge and control, and liberation via transcendence of our genetic programming.
Today, Buddhism comes in all shapes and sizes, arising out of a peculiar Indic culture, replete with its own religious traditions and worldview, and further shaped by the diverse cultures in which it's taken root, giving rise to numerous schools and approaches. Much of it may appear to be outdated and superstitious to the scientifically minded; but I think the underlying goal, as well as the various practices and insights that characterize 'Buddhism,' have a lot to offer us in terms of understanding and transforming ourselves.
Thursday, January 15, 2015
1/15/15
It figures that I'd catch a cold in the middle of one of the busiest months I've had in a long time. I started feeling bad yesterday at work, and by the time the RCIA class began, I had a sore throat, an achy body, and a terrible headache. I was thoroughly miserable, but I didn't want to miss the class since one of the topics was the upcoming Rite of Acceptance. As an added bonus, I got to see Barbara and Fr. Michael, who have both been MIA for a while. Barbara has been recovering from a recent car accident, and Fr. Michael just returned from a trip to visit his father in California.
There doesn't seem to be too much to the Rite itself. After the homily this Sunday, we'll each be called up, asked a couple of questions, and then have our senses signed (i.e., have the sign of the cross made over our foreheads and other areas, the symbolism being to open our senses to the presence of God everywhere). One of the group is already Catholic and doesn't have to go through any of this, but will probably still participate since he's part of the group, maybe just by standing on the steps with us as we go through it. Two of us aren't baptized, and will be called up together and asked one set of questions. The other person is baptized, but not Catholic, so she'll be called up and asked a slightly different set of questions. I guess technically, only two of us are going through the Rite of Acceptance and one the Rite of Welcoming, but it's basically the same thing.
They also had us fill out a form with our full names and addresses, as well as the names of our parents. So formal and official. For some reason, that part bothered me. I don't know why. Maybe it's just my general dislike of bureaucracy and that something so personal and ephemeral nevertheless has a paper trail.
It's a relatively big step in that we're declaring our intentions to take the next step in our journey into Catholicism in front of the whole church. We're saying that we accept the community (and their faith) and want to be a part of it; and they're saying that they accept us and would like us to be a part of their community, too. When you think about it, it's a rather intimate thing when done in sincerity, and I know that for my own part I'm definitely sincere. Do I have my doubts? Sure. I'm constantly second-guessing myself and asking whether I'm ready and if this is really something I want to do. But I truly like this community, and I've found so much inspiration in both this community and spiritual tradition that I want to deepen my commitment, as well as involvement.
Even so, I don't feel as if I'm just jumping from one faith to another. Rather, I'm simply expanding my faith and deepening my practice. Looking back, I've always had a pluralist approach to spirituality, so being a part of, and practicing within, two different spiritual traditions isn't something new to me. In fact, it comes rather naturally, and I find that I'm getting good at noticing the commonalities at the core of most religions. They may use different terminology, but the essence is, in many respects, still the same. It's not difficult so much as it takes a lot of time, and you have to learn to see beyond the boundaries imposed by language and culture.
These days, I consider myself both Buddhist and Catholic at heart. I suppose that may be confusing to many, and if I were to mention it, I imagine most would likely insist that I be one or the other, that it's impossible to be both. I know I was confused when I first read about people like Fr. Robert Kennedy and Fr. Kevin Hunt. But in thinking of myself as both a Buddhist and a Catholic, it's more because of my identification with the practices and the goal of being more awakened/Christ-like than it is any specific set of beliefs. To use one famous simile, I see the teachings of each pointing towards the same ineffable moon.
The other day, for example, I was reading the New Testament and came across the passage where Jesus says to His disciples in explanation: "Do you not realize that everything that enters the mouth passes into the stomach and is expelled into the latrine? But the things that come out of the mouth come from the heart, and they defile. For from the heart come evil thoughts, murder, adultery, unchastity, theft, false witness, blasphemy. These are what defile a person, but to eat with unwashed hands does not defile" (Mt 15: 17-20). I knew then that I was in good spiritual hands.
There doesn't seem to be too much to the Rite itself. After the homily this Sunday, we'll each be called up, asked a couple of questions, and then have our senses signed (i.e., have the sign of the cross made over our foreheads and other areas, the symbolism being to open our senses to the presence of God everywhere). One of the group is already Catholic and doesn't have to go through any of this, but will probably still participate since he's part of the group, maybe just by standing on the steps with us as we go through it. Two of us aren't baptized, and will be called up together and asked one set of questions. The other person is baptized, but not Catholic, so she'll be called up and asked a slightly different set of questions. I guess technically, only two of us are going through the Rite of Acceptance and one the Rite of Welcoming, but it's basically the same thing.
They also had us fill out a form with our full names and addresses, as well as the names of our parents. So formal and official. For some reason, that part bothered me. I don't know why. Maybe it's just my general dislike of bureaucracy and that something so personal and ephemeral nevertheless has a paper trail.
It's a relatively big step in that we're declaring our intentions to take the next step in our journey into Catholicism in front of the whole church. We're saying that we accept the community (and their faith) and want to be a part of it; and they're saying that they accept us and would like us to be a part of their community, too. When you think about it, it's a rather intimate thing when done in sincerity, and I know that for my own part I'm definitely sincere. Do I have my doubts? Sure. I'm constantly second-guessing myself and asking whether I'm ready and if this is really something I want to do. But I truly like this community, and I've found so much inspiration in both this community and spiritual tradition that I want to deepen my commitment, as well as involvement.
Even so, I don't feel as if I'm just jumping from one faith to another. Rather, I'm simply expanding my faith and deepening my practice. Looking back, I've always had a pluralist approach to spirituality, so being a part of, and practicing within, two different spiritual traditions isn't something new to me. In fact, it comes rather naturally, and I find that I'm getting good at noticing the commonalities at the core of most religions. They may use different terminology, but the essence is, in many respects, still the same. It's not difficult so much as it takes a lot of time, and you have to learn to see beyond the boundaries imposed by language and culture.
These days, I consider myself both Buddhist and Catholic at heart. I suppose that may be confusing to many, and if I were to mention it, I imagine most would likely insist that I be one or the other, that it's impossible to be both. I know I was confused when I first read about people like Fr. Robert Kennedy and Fr. Kevin Hunt. But in thinking of myself as both a Buddhist and a Catholic, it's more because of my identification with the practices and the goal of being more awakened/Christ-like than it is any specific set of beliefs. To use one famous simile, I see the teachings of each pointing towards the same ineffable moon.
The other day, for example, I was reading the New Testament and came across the passage where Jesus says to His disciples in explanation: "Do you not realize that everything that enters the mouth passes into the stomach and is expelled into the latrine? But the things that come out of the mouth come from the heart, and they defile. For from the heart come evil thoughts, murder, adultery, unchastity, theft, false witness, blasphemy. These are what defile a person, but to eat with unwashed hands does not defile" (Mt 15: 17-20). I knew then that I was in good spiritual hands.
Sunday, January 11, 2015
1/11/15
This past month has been extremely busy for me with the holidays and all, not to mention a new work schedule and a number of groups and classes I'm participating in. There's a new six-week program at PFoD on Mondays for those interested in learning more about living by the five precepts and 'drawing close' to the monastic Sangha. There's the alternating B- and RCIA groups on Wednesdays at St. Philip. There's the Friday night meditation and discussion at PFoD. And of course, Sunday mass and RCIA meetings every other Sunday.
It's tiring, but I'm glad to be getting back into my normal routine after the holidays. I especially missed the Wednesday group meetings and Sunday masses at St. Philip. For me, St. Philip is a very special place. It's quickly become one of my spiritual homes, and I feel lucky to have found it. I spent Christmas with my family in Michigan, the first time in close to a decade; and while I was there, I decided to attend mass at a couple of local churches, but none of them really inspired me the way St. Philip does.
In many ways, Catholic churches are all the same. You can walk into almost any and know what to expect, the services being quite similar and formulaic. But the experience of each is less so; and comparing my experiences at St. Louise de Marillac, St. Mark, and St. Clement while in Michigan to those at St. Philip is like comparing apples to oranges. It's hard to put into words something that's so intangible, but the things I feel at St. Philip are more often than not absent at other churches. At other places, it feels like I'm just going through the motions, whereas at St. Philip, I feel like I'm truly in a house of God.
I'm not exactly sure why that is, but I think a big part of it has to do with the people and clergy who make up the heart of the parish. There's a sense of openness and inclusiveness that makes me feel welcome there, which in turn helps open my heart to what I call the presence of God, something I haven't precisely defined yet. Although I think some of that is inspired by the aesthetics of the church and ritual of the services, even beautiful cathedrals and ceremonies can feel empty of God and the spirit of communion that, ideally, unites each individual in a unique yet shared spiritual experience of love and oneness.
Today in particular brought all of this home with Fr. Charlie's homily, which began with Fr. Charlie calling Gandhi one of the most Christ-like persons of the 20th century, and recalling how Gandhi would rather stay in the humble homes of untouchables rather than that of the upper-castes, along with his famous words that went something to the effect of, "I do not want to be reborn. But if I have to be reborn, I should be born an untouchable, so that I may share their sorrows, sufferings, and the affronts levelled at them, in order that I may endeavour to liberate myself and them from that miserable condition."
Gandhi, of course, wasn't perfect. But the point of the story was his actions of being with the people, all the people and not just the affluent. Much like how Pope Francis encouraged priests in one address to be "shepherds with the smell of sheep," and how Jesus ate with tax-collectors and sinners (i.e, the unsavoury and 'untouchable' people of his time). Be with your people. Identify with them. Don't place yourself above them. That was the message, which complemented last week's homily about gratitude being a gift to God that's expressed in our reaching out to others with openness and humility.
Since discovering St. Philip, I'm happy to split my time between there and PFoD. I feel that each enriches my spiritual life in different but complementary ways, even if it's not always easy for me to articulate to others how. That said, I'm a little nervous, as well as excited, about next Sunday's mass because they're celebrating the Rite of Acceptance for the four of us in the RCIA class. It's kind of a big step in that I'd no longer be considered an inquirer but a catechumen. I think I'm ready, though, and I'm looking forward to it.
It's tiring, but I'm glad to be getting back into my normal routine after the holidays. I especially missed the Wednesday group meetings and Sunday masses at St. Philip. For me, St. Philip is a very special place. It's quickly become one of my spiritual homes, and I feel lucky to have found it. I spent Christmas with my family in Michigan, the first time in close to a decade; and while I was there, I decided to attend mass at a couple of local churches, but none of them really inspired me the way St. Philip does.
In many ways, Catholic churches are all the same. You can walk into almost any and know what to expect, the services being quite similar and formulaic. But the experience of each is less so; and comparing my experiences at St. Louise de Marillac, St. Mark, and St. Clement while in Michigan to those at St. Philip is like comparing apples to oranges. It's hard to put into words something that's so intangible, but the things I feel at St. Philip are more often than not absent at other churches. At other places, it feels like I'm just going through the motions, whereas at St. Philip, I feel like I'm truly in a house of God.
I'm not exactly sure why that is, but I think a big part of it has to do with the people and clergy who make up the heart of the parish. There's a sense of openness and inclusiveness that makes me feel welcome there, which in turn helps open my heart to what I call the presence of God, something I haven't precisely defined yet. Although I think some of that is inspired by the aesthetics of the church and ritual of the services, even beautiful cathedrals and ceremonies can feel empty of God and the spirit of communion that, ideally, unites each individual in a unique yet shared spiritual experience of love and oneness.
Today in particular brought all of this home with Fr. Charlie's homily, which began with Fr. Charlie calling Gandhi one of the most Christ-like persons of the 20th century, and recalling how Gandhi would rather stay in the humble homes of untouchables rather than that of the upper-castes, along with his famous words that went something to the effect of, "I do not want to be reborn. But if I have to be reborn, I should be born an untouchable, so that I may share their sorrows, sufferings, and the affronts levelled at them, in order that I may endeavour to liberate myself and them from that miserable condition."
Gandhi, of course, wasn't perfect. But the point of the story was his actions of being with the people, all the people and not just the affluent. Much like how Pope Francis encouraged priests in one address to be "shepherds with the smell of sheep," and how Jesus ate with tax-collectors and sinners (i.e, the unsavoury and 'untouchable' people of his time). Be with your people. Identify with them. Don't place yourself above them. That was the message, which complemented last week's homily about gratitude being a gift to God that's expressed in our reaching out to others with openness and humility.
Since discovering St. Philip, I'm happy to split my time between there and PFoD. I feel that each enriches my spiritual life in different but complementary ways, even if it's not always easy for me to articulate to others how. That said, I'm a little nervous, as well as excited, about next Sunday's mass because they're celebrating the Rite of Acceptance for the four of us in the RCIA class. It's kind of a big step in that I'd no longer be considered an inquirer but a catechumen. I think I'm ready, though, and I'm looking forward to it.
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