3/28/15

During our last Spiritual Formations group meeting, Fr. Bill asked us to come up with our own apologetic, taking a question and then answering it using some of the things we learned about Fr. Hecker's apologetic method. It was a difficult exercise for me. One reason is that I'm still relatively new to all this, so I don't really know that much about Catholicism's answers to many questions (and some that I do, I don't always agree with). Another reason is that I've been shying away from things like apologetics lately and focusing more on my own unique personal experiences and approach to spirituality.

That being said, one question that came up was, Why I am I joining the Catholic Church? It's a question that's been on my mind for a while now, so I tried to give an answer, although I suppose what I came up with is really more of a testimony than an apologetic. I began with a basic observation, using Fr. Hecker's approach of starting with the needs of people rather than first principles and going from there: For as long as I can remember, I've felt like there's something missing in my life, a void or level of dukkha (deep sense of dissatisfaction) that's hard to articulate but ever-present.

At first, I thought it was mostly due to external factors — as if I were surrounded by conditions that prevented me from being truly happy — so I tried to find the things in life that I thought would make me happy. Material possessions. Relationships. Indulging in sensory experience. The usual. At one point, drugs and alcohol were some of the things I turned to. At the beginning, I did it for the new and pleasant sensations they produced. Then it was to just feel normal. Eventually I was doing it to make my problems and/or myself dissolve away. It was an easy short-term fix, but it wasn't a very good long-term solution. Instead of feeling better, I felt even emptier, and I started to realize that I was hurting myself and those around. So I started looking for other ways to deal with the dukkha in my life.

I think most people feel like there's something missing inside, they just deal with it differently. Some throw themselves entirely into their work or family life, others have creative hobbies like painting, writing, photography, etc. Some people like to game, others like to read and go out to movies. Some turn to drugs and alcohol and/or a busy social life. And a lot of these things can help to give us a great deal of happiness and a sense of fulfillment. God knows I've tried quite a few over the years myself. But it never seemed enough, I was never truly satisfied. I always had to have more or else I started to slip back into that void inside of me. Deep down, I was really unhappy.

I suppose part of the problem was that my life lacked meaning, so all the things I was doing was only giving me a superficial sort of happiness that could be easily dispelled. Looking back, that may be why I kept flirting with religion off and on, trying to figure out all the big questions in life, looking for something more solid to hold onto. I explored a wide variety of religions and philosophies in my 20s and early 30s, picking and choosing bits and pieces from each that I found useful. I'd read religious texts, occasionally go to mass at Catholic and Orthodox churches, watch religion-themed movies, and talk to spiritual people of all faiths. I found the contemplative aspects of Buddhism especially interesting and started meditating and spending a lot of time at Buddhist temples.

One of the things I really like about Buddhism is how it directs us to really look within for the answers. I started to get the idea that nothing 'outside' could ever truly satisfy me, that the answers had to lie within. And as radical as it seemed, the whole idea of renunciation and meditation really appealed to me. I'd never encountered anything quite like it in the West until I stumbled onto the teachings of the early Christian Desert Fathers and the writings of contemporary mystics like Thomas Merton, which is when I started to see that Christianity had its own contemplative tradition and wanted to learn more about it. I was particularly attracted to the Trappists and their way of life, which led me to eventually schedule a five day retreat at Our Lady of Guadalupe, a Trappist monastery in Carlton, OR.

At the abbey, being immersed in such a spiritual place, I got the sense of a possible fulfillment to this spiritual search arising out of a deep, intuitive feeling of something more underlying life, a reality that transcends our temporal, subjective experience yet intimately connected with it. And I got the sense that, in order to grow spiritually, I had to be in communion with that reality, with God, nirvana, or whatever you want to call it. It was the same at Buddhist monasteries too, but there was something about the newness of this experience that reinvigorated my spiritual life, which had plateaued. There was a devotional aspect involved that I found meaningful, as well.

That experience helped open me up to an inner peace that I had trouble finding in the world. And a lot of the alienation that I felt, at least on a more abstract level, melted away into a feeling of oneness and community with all of humanity, especially reflecting on the meaning and symbolism of the Eucharist. When I came back, I took Br. Chris' advice and started searching for a local parish to learn more about Catholicism and to build on my experiences at Our Lady. By chance, I stumbled upon St. Philip Neri and began attending Sunday mass and their Wednesday night discussion group.

For me, the idea of communion — intimate exchange and sharing — is an important one, informing both my spirituality and my politics and social involvement. Part of the void I feel is a pervading sense of alienation that I think we, as a species, all share to some degree. It manifests as loneliness, insecurity, separation. We're alienated from ourselves, from each other, and from the natural world we live in. We separate ourselves through psychological barriers, socio-economic barriers, and even physical barriers. We're conditioned by culture, religion, and politics to conform more than to commune, our society reflecting the material conditions that support it rather than the 'idea of the good' written upon our hearts.

And while I think it's important to try and liberate society from its suffering and alienation by changing the material conditions that support it, I also think there's a spiritual dimension that needs to be addressed. Religion to me isn't just a spiritual painkiller; it's part of the cure. I see spirit and matter as two sides of the same coin, two sheaves of reed leaning against one another. And in the mystery of the Eucharist, I saw those two things coming together in the sense of community and unconditional love it's meant to foster and celebrate, uniting the many into a collective whole through a sacred bond that transcends all our differences. To me, at least, it's a spiritual experience that speaks directly to our nature as social creatures. I was drawn into it, even if I didn't fully understand it.

In Thomas Merton's biography, The Seven Storey Mountain, he writes of the importance of our mutual dependence on one another for our salvation, reinforcing the need for this spiritual union with God and each other in the form of the mystical body of Christ, quoting this passage: "You are the body of Christ and members of one another... And the eye cannot say to the hand: I need not your help; nor again the head to the feet, I have no need of you.... And if one member suffer anything, all the members suffer with it [reminds me of the IWW motto]; and if one member glory all the others rejoice with it."

For him and many others, this supernatural union is the only thing that has the potential to unite all of humanity together in a truly universal and salvific way. And the more time I spent observing it and thinking about it, the more I thought I was beginning to understand, to see what he was pointing towards. It's a kind of collective consciousness, a realization, of something transcendent, something that every culture and religion has tried to articulate through myths and symbols. It's something that unites us when we strive towards it and participate in it, whether through the Eucharist or prayer or meditative absorption or serving others out of love.

This became even more apparent once I started reading the Gospels, which gave me more of an insight into who Jesus was and what he taught. He was a revolutionary spiritual teacher who, like the Buddha, challenged his contemporaries and their pharisaic approach to religion. He was a wise, compassionate philosopher who, like Socrates, was more committed to truth than even his own life. I'd even go so far as to say that he's the divine human expression of God, the union of 'very God' with 'very man'—Jesus of Nazareth, the historical person, embodying the cosmic Christ, the universal unfolding of 'the word' (logos) through time and space, "the confluence of divinity and physicality, spirit and matter." He's a living koan, a paradox.

I see the Church as the living experience of this universal, mystical reality. By that I mean the Church to me is 'the people of God'—those who draw close to God/Dhamma, who have an intuitive sense of the absolute and strive to realize it. They're connected by this unifying bond of communion, with each other and the reality underlying the phenomenal world they're a part of. It's not something intellectual or dogmatic, but a lived experience of God/Dhamma. Things like the institutional churches (Catholic, Orthodox, Protestant, etc.), with all their doctrines, hierarchies, etc., are historical representations and expressions of this, i.e., forms and structures conforming to, and pointing towards, this universal reality in various degrees, some closer to the mark than others.

I used to think that this void, this feeling of emptiness, was a curse, that there was something wrong with me. But now I see it differently. I see it as part of the human condition, a psychological yearning for spiritual wholeness and truth. (And by spiritual, I don't necessarily mean religious). There's nothing wrong with feeling a void and wanting to fill it, or feeling a sense of dis-ease or unhappiness that you want to transform into happiness. Especially if what you're filling that void with has the potential to lead to an unconditional form of happiness within that doesn't leave you searching for something more 'out there' to consume. And if someone doesn't see things the same way as me, that's ok. They don't have to. At the end of the day, I can only be responsible for myself.

I don't think Catholicism is the only path to God or even necessarily the best. I think there are many paths, and the truth shines forth in each of them. As God says through Jeremiah, "I will place my law within them, and write it upon their hearts" (Jer 31:33). I see it in the ancient philosophers. I see it in Buddhism. I see it in Sufism. I see it in the goodness of people without any faith to speak of. But the church I stumbled into (St. Philip) and the spirituality that I discovered both there and at Our Lady has had a profound effect on me. I see the truth reflected in Jesus' words and deeds, in what they're pointing towards. It may not be the right path for everyone, but I think it's the right one for me.

3/24/15

One of things I'm still not accustomed to is prayer. I've been having a hard time fitting it into my practice. I've been thinking about it off and on for the past few days, though, and it dawned on me that prayer is in many ways a mindfulness practice.

For many, I think, prayer is simply saying something to God that they think God wants to hear, or else asking something of God they desire. But perhaps the real purpose of prayer is to remind one to reflect on God at all times throughout the day.

In Buddhism, one is encouraged to be mindful at all times, and there are many objects of meditation that one can choose to focus on in order to strengthen one's mindfulness and gain inspiration, motivation, or even wisdom from, e.g., mindfulness of breathing, mindfulness of the body, mindfulness of death, recollection of the devas, recollection of the Buddha, the Dhamma, and the Sangha, etc. And I view prayer as mindfulness of God, bringing my mind back to God whenever I notice it's slipped off and/or immersed in unskillful states of mind. God, in a sense, has become my new meditation, my new object of focus.

To help with that, I've decided to try and come up with some prayers of my own that I can easily memorize and use as daily mantras to help bring my awareness back to God, internally and externally, and cultivate positive intentions throughout the day. So far, all I have is this morning prayer:

Blessed is God, the sustainer, who gives form, substance, and life to all things. May you bless this day for all beings, great and small, throughout the whole of creation. And as I live this day, I pray that I find the strength, compassion, and humility to love my neighbour as myself, with all my heart, soul, and mind, so that I may live the spirit of the law and do to others whatever I would have them do to me. Amen.

For some reason, I'm having trouble coming up with a meal prayer/blessing; but I found this Jewish meal blessing that I really like and might use instead: "Blessed are You, Lord our God, king of the universe, through whose word everything comes into being" (Barukh atah Adonai Eloheinu, Melekh ha'olam, shehakol nih'ye bidvaro). It'd be cool if I could memorize the Hebrew, too.

I've also been using the prayer, "Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me," along with my mindfulness of breathing practice, much like they do in the hesychastic traditions of the Orthodox Church. In A History of God, Karen Armstrong, summarizing Evangrius Pontus' approach, describes hesychasm as a more apophatic form prayer, a sort of Christian yoga, meant to still the mind, eventually resulting in "a sense of the unity of all things, a freedom from distraction and multiplicity, and the loss of ego" (221).

I'm still having trouble making it a consistent part of my daily routine, though. It's so easy to put off or forget. I'm pretty lazy and undisciplined that way, which is one of the reasons the structure of monastic life appeals to me. It's something I definitely have to work on.

3/22/15

I had a meeting with Barbara yesterday at 2pm. I met her in her office and we ended up talking for about two and half hours. She wanted to talk to me one-on-one to make sure I wasn't feeling pressured to join the Church, to see if I had any questions, and to get a sense of where I'm at in my spiritual journey. We talked about a lot of things, from my time at Our Lady of Guadalupe to my experiences at St. Philip and my relationship with God.

I was honest about everything, and even though I'm still not sure about a lot of things, I think she saw that I was sincere and really entering into this because of a deep calling. Not deep as in fathomless and overpowering, mind you, but deep as in always subtly there, guiding me even when I'm unaware of its presence. I told her that I liked St. Philip and felt at home here, like I'd found the right people/place at the right time. We also talked a lot about the Church and its politics and different methods of prayer and devotion. She even asked her husband James to come in and show me the scapular (a double-sided, devotional necklace originally inspired by monastic habits) that he wears.

One of the things that I thought was interesting was that both her and James mentioned Fiddler on the Roof, which makes me want to watch it soon. One of the reasons I really like Barbara, besides the fact that she's smart, has a great sense of humour, and a warm personality, is that she reminds me a lot of my grandmother. And one of my grandmother's favourite movies was Fiddler on the Roof. I remember looking at the video tape countless times, but I don't remember ever watching it. I think I'll have to do that one day next week.

Today was the last of the three scrutinies. It was the same as the previous two, with all of us being called up to the altar, blessed with prayer, and exorcised of intentions contrary to God/Dhamma. Before that, Fr. Michael gave a nice homily about the arc of time, our evolving relationship with God, and the importance of having our actions reflect the teaching in the Gospels, witnessing through actions and not just words. After mass, they had a screening of Romero, a film about Oscar Romero, a bishop who was assassinated in El Salvador for speaking out against the economic inequality and political violence suffered by the El Salvadorian people.

It's an inspiring story. Romero was a rather bookish conservative priest, and many of the more leftist priests and revolutionaries in El Salvador disliked him for it. But after seeing the violence and oppression first hand, his conscience wouldn't let him ignore it, and he began to speak out, in his homilies and weekly radio broadcasts, where he'd read off the names of those who were tortured, murdered, and disappeared by the military government, as well as revolutionary groups. His focus wasn't sectarian; his focus was all the victims of violence and injustice.

The film reminded me of how my own spirituality has influenced my interest in politics and leaning towards social justice issues; and it reminded me of the things I've always admired about the Church and all people who truly live their faith. It's easy to be cynical when it comes to religion, seeing the violence, inequality, and repression in the world, as well as the corruption and hypocrisy in religious institutions, and thinking it's all just a lot of hot air. But every once in a while, a Romero appears to help inspire and motivate us. His words were the words of truth. His actions were those of love. And his life was one that mirrored the words of Jesus read during today's mass:

The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified. Amen, amen, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains just a grain of wheat; but if it dies, it produces much fruit. Whoever loves his life loses it, and whoever hates his life in this world will preserve it for eternal life. Whoever serves me must follow me, and where I am, there also will my servant be. The Father will honor whoever serves me. (John 12:23-26)

Or in Romero's own words, spoken during his last homily just before he was assassinated on March 24, 1980:

Many do not understand; they think Christianity should not be involved in such things. But, to the contrary, you have just heard in Christ’s gospel that one must not love oneself so much as to avoid getting involved in the risks of life that history demands of us, and that those who try to fend off the danger will lose their lives, while those who out of love for Christ give themselves to the service of others, will live, live like the grain of wheat that dies, but only apparently. If it did not die, it would remain alone. The harvest comes about only because it dies, allowing itself to be sacrificed in the earth and destroyed. Only by undoing itself does it produce the harvest.

There are Romeros in every faith, and even among people with no outwardly religious faith at all, because God's laws are written upon our hearts. One doesn't need to be religious to love or to serve others. One doesn't need to be religious to cultivate skillful intentions and act for the common good rather than for themselves. The purpose of religion is to help us do that, to remind us to look within and not forget what God has written onto our hearts, to give us role models like Romero, MLK Jr., Malcolm X, etc.

I have to admit, though, that watching that film made me feel a little ashamed at my own lack of conviction and faith. I have a hard enough time parting with clothes I hardly wear and books I never read, let alone my life. I hope that one day, I'll have the same amount of conviction in love and compassion as people like Romero, people who are willing to speak the truth and fight for peace and justice, even at the cost of their own lives. It takes a level of bravery and faith that I don't think I have but that I aspire to.

3/21/15

Friday night, I went to Matthew's sitting and discussion group for the first time in a long time. They were in the middle of exploring MN 2, which elucidates several methods of mental training devised to eliminate the defilements obstructing the realization of awakening. And as it happened, a few students from Jesuit High School were there, most likely as a part of a comparative religions course.

It felt good to meditate. I haven't sat and meditated in weeks, maybe more. It was also a bit challenging as the focus happened to be the three characteristics, i.e., impermanence, suffering, and not-self. Theravada Buddhism sees nothing in the world as fixed, static. All is in flux. One could even say all is flux. The only 'permanent' is nibbana, which is permanent precisely because it's unborn, unmade, unconditioned, etc., meaning it lies outside of space and time and is free from conditionality, from change and flux.

This is one of the more difficult areas to reconcile Buddhism and Christianity, although it's not entirely impossible. Suffering arises when we cling on a deep, psychological level to that which is inconstant, when we base our happiness on things that have the nature to change. But when we constantly examine our sensory experience, we can begin to cultivate a sense of dispassion that cuts through our clinging and opens us to something transcendent.

Although the dominant belief in Theravada is that there's no soul or self to be found, and the Dhamma and experience of nibbana are talked about in impersonal terms, neither is said to be impermanent, and each contains aspects and functions commonly attributed to God. Moreover, other traditions do have teachings about our buddha-nature (tathagatagarbha) or true self, which is a positive expression of emptiness. While paradoxical, it's not unlike the way Erigena approached the paradoxical nature of God:

Erigena used the dialectical method of Denys in his own discussion of God, who could only be explained by a paradox that reminded us of the limitations of our human understanding. Both the positive and the negative approaches to God were valid. God was incomprehensible: even the angels do not know or understand his essential nature but it was acceptable to make a positive statement, such as "God is wise," because when we refer it to God we know that we are not using the word "wise" in the usual way. We remind ourselves of this by going on to make a negative statement, saying "God is not wise." The paradox forces us to move on to Denys's third way of talking about God, when we conclude: "God is more than wise." This was what the Greeks called an apophatic statement because we do not understand what "more than wise" can possibly mean. Again, this was not simply a verbal trick but a discipline that by juxtaposing two mutually exclusive statements helps us to cultivate a sense of the mystery that our word "God" represents, since it can never be confined to a merely human concept.

When he applied this method to the statement "God exists," Erigena arrived, as usual, at the synthesis: "God is more than existence." God does not exist like the things he has created and is not just another being existing alongside them, as Denys had pointed out. Again, this was an incomprehensible statement, because, Erigena comments, "what that is which is more than 'being' it does not reveal. For it says that God is not one of the things that are, but that he is more than the things that are, but what that 'is' is, it in no way defines." In fact, God is "Nothing." Erigena knew that this sounded shocking and he warned his reader not to be afraid. His method was devised to remind us that God is not an object; he does not possess "being" in any sense that we can comprehend. God is "He who is more than being" (aliquo modo superesse). His mode of existence is as different from ours as our being is from an animal's and an animal's from a rock. But if God is "Nothing" he is also "Everything": because this "super-existence" means that God alone has true being, he is the essence of everything that partakes of this. Every one of his creatures, therefore, is a theophany, a sign of God's presence. Erigena's Celtic piety—encapsulated in St Patrick's famous prayer: "God be in my head and in my understanding"—led him to emphasize the immanence of God. (A History of God, 198-99)

I find the similarities between the two ideas interesting, and I suspect that mystics as a group tend to share a common point of view and experience of the transcendent that's often overlooked because of the divergent terms and concepts these ideas and experiences are filtered through. I don't think that all religions are one, but I'm starting to think that all religious truths are, or at least they're pointing towards the same proverbial moon.

3/20/15

I've been thinking a lot lately. Some of it has to do with stuff like work, my family, my relationship, etc. But mostly I've been thinking about my spiritual journey. Lent's more than half over now, and Holy Saturday is just around the corner, along with my baptism and confirmation into the Church. And perhaps it's being influenced by the scrutinies, but I feel the need to continually reflect on this journey and to be honest about it, about my hopes, my fears, my successes, and my failures. What am I doing? What am I doing it for? What do I believe? Is God real? The thoughts keep bubbling up.

I was thinking a lot about God today, for instance. I'm about halfway through A History of God, where Armstrong covers the theological developments in Islam that arose in large part due to thinkers and mystics like al-Ghazzali. It has me reviewing my own ideas about God, about what that word really means to me. I had a vision while reading it, for example, of God in the form of a large, dark, multicoloured ovoid that represented the entire universe, all of existence, beingness itself.

It was alive, conscious, but not exactly in the sense we are. In the heart of this vast living presence, I pictured us, as we are born and die and live our lives, instinctively trying to reach out and understand this vast and seemingly incomprehensible allness. And this allness was trying to reach in, to us. But the gulf between us was daunting. This presence was so vast, so eternally present, yet so subtle, rippling through the seemingly emptiness of space where particles and antiparticles leap in and out of existence, that we had difficulty seeing its totality, let alone understanding anything of it.

That's how my imagination saw God at that moment, at any rate. God is still vague to me. There's no doubt that I feel an intuitive sense of something more underlying reality, some level of being that, for lack of a better word, is transcendent; and I'm drawn towards it even as I doubt it and understand nothing of it. It calls to me, but I only half listen.

I think that's why I'm so partial to mysticism. I'm skeptical God is something that can ever be fully proven or disproven, let alone understood, solely through the disciplines of science, logic, and reason. God is hidden in plain sight, within the turbulence of subatomic space-time and the furthest reaches of the cosmos. God is the allness of the all, and even more than that. God is so great, a materialist and a theist can both look at the same universe and be filled with equal awe. God is the big bang, a cosmic thought taking shape that we can see and study on one level, and experience on another. Or, as Armstrong characterizes al-Ghazzali's conception of God described in The Niche for Lamps:

Instead of being an external, objectified Being whose existence can be proved rationally, God is an all-enveloping reality and the ultimate existence which cannot be perceived as we perceive the beings that depend upon it and partake of its necessary existence: we have to cultivate a special mode of seeing. (190)

Because of that, we primarily tend to conceive of God and talk about God in two ways, anthropomorphically and symbolically, both of which have their usefulness. But it's the latter that I think is the most useful. Through symbolism and imagination, combined with spiritual disciplines like meditation and sense restraint, we can develop this special mode of seeing and experiencing God, which is why the realized mystic is a person of unshakable faith. They've caught a glimpse of this transcendent reality, the truth of which can be pointed towards with myths and symbols, but not contained by them.

Is God personal? Impersonal? I'm not sure. I'd like to think aspects of both are true, but I'd be hard pressed to say how or why. The whole idea is a bit beyond me. So what about Jesus? Who is he to me? A revolutionary spiritual teacher who, like the Buddha, challenged his contemporaries and their pharisaic approach to religion? A wise, compassionate philosopher who, like Socrates, was more committed to truth than even his own life? Definitely. I'd even go so far as to say that he's the divine human expression of God, the union of 'very God' with 'very man.' It's something I heard at Wednesday night's B- group that I rather liked.

He represents deified humanity, theosis. With his words and actions he points towards the presence of God within us and around us. Jesus says that the kingdom of God is among us (Luke 17:20-21); but unless we're "born from above," born of water and spirit, we can't see it (John 3:1-15). And I don't take that to mean simply pouring some water on our heads is going to magically open our eyes to this reality, but I take it symbolically to mean that we have to take a more contemplative approach to our experience of the world if we truly want to 'see' God.

Much of this may simply be wishful thinking and the result of an overactive imagination on my part, but it's hard to deny the strong pull within me towards the idea of God. Even when I have difficulty seeing God, or I'm convinced that God is merely an abstract idea or subjective, psychological experience with no objective reality, I still find myself drawn towards this idea. I'm compelled to explore it, to look within and without and hopefully one day find God and have the experience of God transform me, like it did the transfigured Jesus or the Buddhist arahants and Christian mystics throughout the centuries.

Part of the reason I want to join the Church is to be a part of that mystical tradition and its path of direct perception and religious experience. It's the search for God that calls me, and the people of God, like St. Francis of Assisi and Gregory Palamas, who inspire me by their example. And even if my conception of God is off the mark, it's just a finger pointing to the moon, not the moon itself. It doesn't matter to me whether that proverbial moon is an existing reality 'out there' or a subjective psychological state within, because whatever it is, I believe 'seeing it' is a life-changing experience.

3/18/15

I read this article today via Crux, which was posted by someone from my church:

The Catholic Church “acts unjustly” toward gay and lesbian Catholics, who are “held to different standards than other Catholics,” a situation “harming” the Church — and one that must change.

That was the message delivered Friday at the Los Angeles Religious Education Congress by Arthur Fitzmaurice, an advocate for making the Church more welcoming for gay and lesbian Catholics.

His talk, delivered to 800 catechists and religious educators during an official Church event, comes during renewed clashes between Catholics who hold the line on the Church’s teaching on issues of sexuality, and those who support same-sex marriage and other gay rights.

Fitzmaurice, resource director of the Catholic Association for Lesbian and Gay Ministry, said he, like many gay Catholics, has turned at various points in his life to Church writings for guidance, including the Catechism of the Catholic Church.

The paragraph on homosexuality — which describes it as “intrinsically disordered” while also demanding respect for gays and lesbians — is placed in a section of the catechism paragraphs condemning “pornography, prostitution, and rape,” he said.

“To keep this abusive language in the Catechism and other Church writings is, in itself, gravely evil,” he said.

Even as the Supreme Court is on the verge of ruling on same-sex marriage, and Pope Francis has signaled a more welcoming attitude toward gays and lesbians, some Catholic bishops have launched initiatives meant to strengthen “Catholic identity.”

But some Catholics are pushing back. The Archdiocese of Cincinnati, for example, is revising its contract with Catholic school teachers after a campaign from local Catholics upset at the “morality clause” inserted into the new contract.

In San Francisco, Archbishop Salvatore Cordileone is facing pushback from teachers there over a similar clause. About three-quarters of the archdiocese’s teachers signed a petition asking him to reconsider, and there have been protests by students and parishioners. As a result, Cordileone is reconsidering the language.

Catholic bishops in Nebraska held a “Day of Fasting and Prayer for Marriage” earlier this month in protest of a federal judge’s ruling deeming that state’s same-sex marriage ban unconstitutional.

Fitzmaurice condemned the contracts and other practices, saying “our Church leaders should be models of love,” he said.

He referenced recent high-profile firings of gay Church employees — such as a church musician in Chicago and a vice principal in Seattle — and said those episodes “reinforce the false message that being born LGBTQ is shameful.”

He said he’s even heard of priests not wanting to offer sacraments to some gay Catholics.

“Denying us the sacraments communicates the sentiment that we are beyond God’s abilities and unreachable by God’s love and grace,” he said. “This is dangerous and poor theology.”

Hosted by the Archdiocese of Los Angeles, the four-day event at the Anaheim Convention Center provides workshops and resources for catechists and others involved in Catholic education. Fitzmaurice told Crux that this is his second year presenting on LGBT topics, but that the convention has hosted sessions discussing similar issues since the mid-2000s.

One participant in the gay and lesbian workshop told the crowd that he is drawn to being a catechist because he wants “to change the mindset” of Catholics who are opposed to homosexuality.

“You cannot be gay in a Mexican family, because they will say so much stuff to you that hurts you,” Anthony Marquez, a high school senior, told participants. “But what hurt me most was my confirmation teacher who told me it was a disease. I want to be a catechist so badly because I want to change that mindset. It’s not a disease. We can be good Catholics, even if we’re gay.”

Several audience members spoke about experiences with gay relatives that helped them change their minds on the issue, though some said they still struggle reconciling Church and biblical teachings with their own experiences.

But not everybody present seemed on board.

During a question-and-answer period, one woman challenged Fitzmaurice on whether or not he thought sacramental marriage should be offered to gays and lesbians. Fitzmaurice declined to give an answer, stating only that he’s heard a wide variety of opinions from gays and lesbians with whom he’s worked.

Kristi Balleweg, a teacher at the Catholic Chaminade College Prep in West Hills, Calif., said she attended the workshop for ideas on how to talk to her students about the issue, because many of them are puzzled by the Church’s teaching.

“Because of the generation that they’ve been raised in, they don’t agree with the Catholic Church’s teachings,” she said. “They are much more accepting and appreciative of everyone, and they don’t think that we should put people in molds or boxes, and label them.”

Fitzmaurice cited a number of studies showing high rates of homelessness, depression, and sexual abuse among LGBT youth, and said Catholic parents have a special obligation to help prevent this.

“The Church cannot continue to turn our backs on these kids,” he said. “Tell your LGBT child he or she can have a happy future.”

I couldn't agree more. It's unjust and it needs to change so that the Church as an institution, as well as society as a whole, stops alienating and discriminating against people for reasons based on outdated understandings of human sexuality.

Love transcends gender, and I think our conception of marriage should evolve to reflect that. Jesus said, "Amen, I say to you, whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven," (Mt 18:18), and I think that it's about time we loose same-sex marriage on earth and heaven.

If we don't, we're not just hurting the LGBTQ community, we're hurting ourselves. As Nelson Mandela wrote in his 1995 autobiography, Long Walk to Freedom:

A man who takes away another man's freedom is a prisoner of hatred, he is locked behind the bars of prejudice and narrow-mindedness. I am not truly free if I am taking away someone else's freedom, just as surely as I am not free when my freedom is taken from me. The oppressed and the oppressor alike are robbed of their humanity.

And I think that the same applies to the allowance of women's ordination, as well.

3/17/15

During Lent, I've been going to a small discussion group led by Barbara. We usually go through the up-coming readings for Sunday and discuss what they mean. Most of the time, the discussions travel in all sorts of interesting directions, and I find the stories everyone tells as absorbing as the verses themselves.

One of the stories I heard today was about someone's experience at a fitness centre for women. One of the other people who goes there to work out is transgender; and the person was telling us about how she was having trouble seeing this person as a woman because she was in the process of transitioning but still very masculine looking. She didn't have an issue with it; she just found it difficult to do. She said she was praying about how to do that while working out, and that day, the transgendered lady thanked everyone for making her feel so accepted and comfortable there. She'd had trouble being accepted almost everywhere else, and she was really thankful to find a place where she felt welcomed. That really helped her see the woman that was inside and the cross she had to bear being transgendered.

It was a nice story. And what was better was that pretty much everyone in the room spoke approvingly/in support of the transgendered woman and the LGBT community in general. I also liked the way that Barbara talked about the readings, especially what she said about the progression of Judeo-Christian spirituality. In essence, people have a tendency to grasp at the letter rather than the spirit of the law, and we're constantly struggling with this.

The spirit of the Ten Words (a.k.a, the Ten Commandments) was supplanted by rigid adherence to the hundreds of laws that were built on top of them. Later, during a period of exile, God says through Jeremiah that a new covenant will be made, that the law will be written upon our hearts (our conscience and intuitive sense of the divine) so that no one will "have need to teach their friends and relatives how to know the LORD" (Jer 31:33-34). And even then, God's people seem to have lost their way. It's so easy for us (original sin?) to retreat into our own little worlds and habits and listen to the voices of greed, aversion, and delusion rather than the voices of love, compassion, sympathetic joy, and equanimity.

This is where Jesus enters the picture, the word (logos) of God in the flesh, who points the way to God, to the very heart of the law itself, which is simply "love the Lord, your God, with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind," and "love your neighbour as yourself" (Mt 22:37-40). But even today, we're still struggling with our own Pharisees (e.g., in the form of conservative priests and bishops who cling to their worldly power and pages of canon law) and our own idols, whether in the form of money or our own egoism.

Reading the Gospels and spending time talking about them with people like Barbara, I'm more impressed than ever with Jesus as a prophet and spiritual teacher. His teachings were radical, challenging the religious legalism of his day with the simple yet powerful message of love, and I know in my heart that it's right.

3/15/15

Today is the fourth Sunday of Lent, also known as Laetare Sunday, named for the first words of the beginning of the Latin Mass, "Laetare Jerusalem" (Rejoice Jerusalem). It marks the midpoint of Lent, and is generally considered a day of celebration. Today was also the second scrutiny for those of us in the RCIA program. Like last week, we were called up to the front, Barbara and Fr. Bill (who was presiding) offered prayers, we were blessed by the community, and then exorcised of evil spirits. I saw the latter as mostly symbolic, as an urging to turn away from sinful/unskillful thoughts and states of mind conditioned by greed, aversion, and delusion and towards what's wholesome and inspired out of love.

Afterwards, being the third Sunday of the month, we had our monthly French toast breakfast, as well as our RCIA class. James taught the class today, basing much of it from a book written by Cardinal Avery Dulles called Models of the Church. The basic idea was for us to think about what 'the Church' means to each of us and then explore that further. James went through some of the models and their characteristics — institution, mystical communion/community, sacrament, herald, and servant — and it was interesting to see how each of our ideas and definitions of 'the Church' varied, being dominated by one model or the other, while still containing elements of each. Out of all of them, I found that mystical communion/community was closest to my idea of the Church, with servant being the next.

I tend to view the Church as the living experience of a universal, mystical reality. By that I mean the Church to me is 'the people of God'—those who draw close to God/Dhamma, who have an intuitive sense of the absolute and strive to realize it. They're connected by this unifying bond of communion, with each other and the reality underlying the phenomenal world they're a part of. It's not something intellectual or dogmatic, but a lived experience of God/Dhamma. Things like the institutional churches (Catholic, Orthodox, Protestant, etc.), with all their doctrines, hierarchies, etc., are historical representations and expressions of this, i.e., forms and structures conforming to, and pointing towards, this universal reality in various degrees. And part of the mission of that Church is to reform the world and help transform it into the kingdom of heaven on earth, which, for me, is where things like social justice and my communistic politics come in.

This is, of course, an idealized model or picture, and I'm fully aware of the history of the Church as an institution, which is one of the reasons I shy away from the institutional model (politically as well as spiritually). It's not that I think the order and structure that institutions can provide are wholly bad, per se. But I do think that the rigid dogmatism that can arise within these kinds of institutions is a serious danger to true spiritual growth, and it can't be denied that these socio-religious institutions have served the interests of demons like greed and imperialism equally as well, if not more so.

The true Church to me, however, is one that asks us to empty ourselves of ourselves in order that we may be open to something transcendent. It's a Church that's pan-humanistic and characterized by things like love, forgiveness, and service. It's a Church that admonishes us not to judge others while exhorting us to do to others whatever we would have them do to us. It's a Church that asks us to deny our false selves, our egoism and self-centredness, in order to open our hearts and minds to one another, as well as to an awakening within to the new life we're called to attain. Writing it out, it all sounds kind of New-Agey and ridiculous, but I think deep down these ideas resonate within us all. The more we resist this call, the more we suffer; and paradoxically, the more we submit, the freer we become.

3/11/15

I felt like a spectacular failure today.

There was a lady at the bus stop this morning who seemed a bit off. Even though it was chilly and drizzling, she was wearing a light summer dress; and as she walked up, she seemed to be inspecting everyone's clothing. It was early, and I was tired and annoyed, so I just ignored her; but after she got onto the bus, she began pacing back and forth, staring intently at everyone, particularly at what they were wearing.

She struck me as OCD, and I didn't think too much about it until someone sitting next to me said that she looked like she was on drugs or maybe like she'd been drugged. She got off at the last stop downtown with everyone still left on the bus, myself included. I started walking to work, thinking about it and debating whether or not I should do something. "She was dressed a little strangely considering the weather, and she did seem rather confused..." I was afraid to say anything, though, and I didn't want to be late to work, so I kept walking. But then I stopped and decided to go back and ask if she was alright and needed any help, feeling ashamed at my fear and selfishness.

When I got to the corner where I'd last seen her, however, she was already gone. I felt a heaviness in my heart. I failed to help someone who may have needed it. I knew what the right thing to do was and I didn't do. During Lent, even. And after just hearing about the parable of the good Samaritan. I've been trying to take the teachings of Jesus to heart, to put them into practice and be a better person; and yet here I was, one of those who "passed by on the opposite side."

When I got to work, it was all I could think about. My heart was pained, and I chastised myself for not at least saying something, being like so many others in the world who are too self-absorbed to really practice what they preach. As I was working, I offered a prayer, asking for forgiveness (because I couldn't forgive myself) for not helping someone who was potentially in need and for someone to help her if she was indeed in need of it. It was all I could think to do.

Later, on the way to RCIA with Romanos, he asked me how my day was and I told him about what'd happened. He said it was a missed opportunity, but also that sometimes we may not be able to help at the moment; and in some cases, God may not want us to do anything; God may just want to open our awareness to those in need. If it was a missed opportunity, on the other hand, he said all we can really do is ask for forgiveness and for God to send them an angel — anyone who can help them, divine or otherwise — and then let it go.

That was somewhat reassuring, and I felt better after talking about it. There's something liberating about confessing a wrong-doing, which funny enough happened to be one of the topics of tonight's class. My conscience holds onto every unskillful thing I do, like a hot coal that burns me every time I think about it. And by confessing it, with sincerity and remorse, I'm able to more easily let it go, as well as get the advice of someone I consider wise, much like how the Buddha often advises in places like MN 61:

Having done a bodily action [same with verbal and mental actions], you should reflect on it: 'This bodily action I have done — did it lead to self-affliction, to the affliction of others, or to both? Was it an unskillful bodily action, with painful consequences, painful results?' If, on reflection, you know that it led to self-affliction, to the affliction of others, or to both; it was an unskillful bodily action with painful consequences, painful results, then you should confess it, reveal it, lay it open to the Teacher or to a knowledgeable companion in the holy life. Having confessed it... you should exercise restraint in the future. But if on reflection you know that it did not lead to affliction... it was a skillful bodily action with pleasant consequences, pleasant results, then you should stay mentally refreshed & joyful, training day & night in skillful mental qualities.

People often think that it's simply about feeling guilty and unworthy, but I don't think that's true. I think confession is more about you admitting your failings to yourself, without justifications or judgments of others, because it's through being honest that we're able to truly grow emotionally, spiritually, etc. When we're open to being wrong, to making mistakes, to new ideas, etc., we gain knowledge, real knowledge. We learn more from our mistakes than we do from anything else. I've heard that's why hospitals often ask potential brain surgeons questions like "Have you ever made a mistake?" and "If so, what would you do differently next time?" to determine who'd make a good surgeon and who wouldn't.

It's the same in Buddhism, as well. The Pali term hiri, for example, which is often translated as shame or conscience, refers to a sense of shame over unskillful actions that arises out of self-respect; and these feelings of guilt and remorse are actually guardians and quite skillful when properly approached. We don't use them to beat ourselves up with; we use them to grow, to become better.

Looking back at it, she could have just been a little crazy and there might not have been much I could have done to help her besides call the police, which, to be honest, isn't at the top of my list of ways to 'help' people. Maybe approaching her would have even made her angry, more manic. But if it was a missed opportunity, then I at least hope the memory of my failure will motivate me to not make the same mistake next time.

3/8/15

For the last few days, I've been plagued by a lot of doubts and fears. About what I believe. About what I'm searching for. About where I fit in... Some days I think I have everything figured out, and others I feel like the rug's been pulled out from under my feet. It's often said that the Catholic Church is a large umbrella, yet I often wonder if it's large enough for me to fit under.

I see in Catholicism a living faith of myths, mysteries, symbols, and sacraments trying to articulate truths that defy the boundaries of human language and reason; and I'm drawn towards those myths, mysteries, symbols, and sacraments. But my faith isn't like most, and I worry that it's too fragile, too discordant to be accepted.

Today, I was full of uncertainty as I waited for Romanos to pick me up for mass. Entering the church, I saw a lot of familiar faces and felt more at ease. Once the service started and we got closer to the first scrutiny, however, I began to worry, wondering if I was doing the right thing, scared to face the idea that maybe I was lying to myself and entering into this before I was ready, or worse, that I was putting my hopes and faith into an institution that I don't fully support. Thoughts of the Church's stance on things like gay marriage, women ordination, and married priests flashed through my mind, as did various scandals and the rather conservative, authoritarian structure of the Church itself. Before I knew it, though, we were being called up to the altar by Fr. Charlie.

Fr. Charlie, who was celebrating his 45th anniversary of ordination, began by asking everyone to bow their heads and pray for an inner spirit of repentance, true clarity of their sins, and God's Grace to face and overcome their temptations. Then he asked the assembly to stand and raise their hands in blessing as both he and Barbara took turns offering prayers on our behalf: that we review our lives and acknowledge our sins, that hold the word of God in our hearts and search its meaning more fully each day, that we sincerely reject everything that's displeasing and contrary to Christ, that the Holy Spirit will help us overcome our weaknesses and become true temples of holiness, and that our daily example will help bring others to Christ.

Afterwards, Fr. Charlie gave an exorcism prayer based on the day's Gospel reading, John 2:13-25, the cleansing of the temple:

All merciful God,
through your Son,
you reveal your love and mercy to those
who ask for these gifts.
Look favorably on these elect and candidate
who are now turning to you.

Open the doors to their hearts
so that they can choose to become
Temples of the Holy Spirit.
Protect them in every danger,
that they may serve you faithfully in peace and joy.

Lord Jesus,
you are the Word to everlasting life.
Over-turn for these Elect the tables in their hearts
that support the temptations of sin.

Help them avoid the lures of the marketplace
so they can hear your call to be
witnesses of your Words.

In the power of your name,
which we now call upon in faith,
stand by them and heal them.

Touch their hearts with the power of the Holy Spirit,
that they may come to salvation
through you who live and reign for ever and ever.

Something about that experience put me at ease. Romanos joked that his real role as my sponsor was to hold me in case I tried to run away; and at the end of mass, I felt light, peaceful, and was reminded once again what attracted me to St. Philip in the first place—the faith of its people.

Most of the things that had me worried are aspects of the Church as a human institution, and those things change. But the real Church, the one that people place their true faith in, is of a different sort. Like the Dhamma, it's timeless. It's universal. It's what lies within the hearts of those who live their lives with conviction in what's skillful and a mind suffused with compassion and loving-kindness. It's the path that leads to theosis, awakening, union with God. And it's that Church that I'm putting my hope and faith into.

Lent is all about 'cleansing the temple.' Not the Temple in Jerusalem, but the temple within, where St. Paul tells us "the Spirit of God dwells" (1 Cor 3:16). I'm still in the process of cleansing my own temple, figuring out what 'God' means to me, how God fits into my life, and how to reach out into the silent darkness and touch the absolute, like a wave touching the sea from which it's born before returning to its fathomless depths.

But I suspect it's a journey that'll take more than 40 days; it'll be a life-long journey of seeking and transformation. And I hope that I'll have the wisdom, patience, and guidance to see this "gradual process by which a person is renewed and unified so completely with God that he becomes by grace what God is by nature" through to the end ("Theosis: Partaking of the Divine Nature").

3/7/15

Not much time to write these days, not that I really feel like writing anyway. Things have been kind of rough lately, internally as well as externally. Had an argument with Annie today and ended up walking to Lone Fir cemetery to be alone and think.

Staring at a grave and contemplating the long-decayed corpse that was once in it, I started thinking about life and death and whether I truly believe in things like God or life after death. I'm not sure I do, at least not the way they're generally understood. As much as I sometimes want to, deep down I'm skeptical, and I feel conflicted about moving forward with RCIA.

Reading the Gospels, I'm more impressed than ever with Jesus as a prophet and spiritual teacher. And I still desire to know God, to reach out into the silent darkness and touch the absolute, like a wave touching the sea from which it's born before returning to its fathomless depths. But in my day-to-day life, I struggle to see the hand of God in the world. I see it in the good works of people, but I also see a lot of unnecessary suffering.

When someone blesses the food they eat, I see the hands of the multitude of labourers who produced it and made it available to us rather than the hand of God. The farmers. The drivers. The grocery store clerks. And what of all the people who go hungry? What of the children who die of starvation? How is it that someone like me is worthy to have enough food while an innocent child goes without?

Is God simply the inspiration of a community to come together and support the less fortunate among us? Is God merely the compassion and generosity in our hearts? If God's hands are our hands, what need do we have of God? Or is God more than just that? And if so, why is God so hard for us to see?

3/2/15

I've been so busy this past couple of weeks that I haven't had much time to write about anything. Things are going OK for the most part. RCIA is going well. Barbara and Romanos seem to have hit it off, which is good. We're going to be doing the first of the three 'scrutinies' next Sunday. They're a combination of blessing, examination, and exorcism from what I understand. One of the things I like about all these rituals is the rich symbolism underlying them. Dogmas are kind of like mandalas in a way, i.e., representations of truths that are more easily grasped by the imagination than logic.

I gave what I had of my testimony Thursday night. I can't remember precisely how it went. I was pretty nervous and it all just came tumbling out. It diverged quite a bit from what I'd written out, as well as what I'd said to Rose before that. But I recall that I started with the fact that I wasn't raised with any sort of religious faith, mentioned that I was inspired by talking to Romanos, reading books like In the Spirit of Happiness, and my visit to Our Lady of Guadalupe, and ended with how I saw the love of God manifested in the relationships we have with one another.

The latter was something I heard from Romanos the first time we met at Holy Trinity ("when I see you, I see God"), and was further reinforced by my reading of the Gospels and something Fr. Charlie said during Wednesday night's RCIA class to the effect of, "Having a relationship with Jesus means having a relationship with others; if it's just you and Jesus, you're doing it wrong." To know Jesus is to know others. To love Jesus is to love others. To serve Jesus is to serve others. And in that sense, the Church to me is everyone who experiences God through their interactions with one another.

It's a lot easier said than done, though. I think one of the reasons we often struggle to really follow in Jesus' footsteps is the fear of rejection, of being judged and condemned as unworthy. We feel as alienated by the opinions of others (or our perceptions of what others think of us) as we are our own self-centredness. Focusing on our own comfort and happiness, we push away the world as much as we feel the world pushing us away; and when that happens, we find ourselves unable to turn towards the love and peace that I think we all intuitively seek in our spiritual lives.

Selfishness is like a cocoon that we build around our hearts, creating our own little self-contained worlds that exclude everyone else. But unlike the caterpillar that transforms into a beautiful butterfly, it's a reverse kind of metamorphosis, one in which the person who emerges is, spiritually speaking, an even more larval version of themselves. No one knows that better than me.

Christianity isn't just about being social or unselfish, however. That's only part of it. I think there's a contemplative aspect involved, as well. Today I learned that many of the early Christian mystics who were influenced by Platonism used the word theoria to describe a method of contemplation on the paradoxical nature of God that transcends thinking and conceptualization, halting the mind's activities and opening it up to an ecstatic union with God (History of God, pp. 118-27). It's not unlike the use of koans in Zen, which are used in a somewhat similar way.

Unfortunately, I'm not terribly good at either aspect at the moment, but I'm working on it.