The first thing I noticed was the large San Damiano cross hanging above the altar. The Gospel reading was Mark 11:11-26, where Jesus curses the fig tree, overturns the money changers' tables, and talks about faith and prayer. The homily was on faith and purifying the temple, but not the Temple of Jerusalem, the temple of our body, where the spirit of God dwells (1 Cor 6:19-20). We need to make room in our temple for God by rejecting the things like greed that pollute our temple and keep God out.
As I was leaving, someone turned and wished me a good day, and for some reason that small act of kindness really touched me.
We arrived at the campsite mid-afternoon, which is along the South Santiam River. It's a beautiful site. After setting up our tents, we headed down to drink a few beers by the river. There's nothing quite as relaxing as the sound of running water. As I sat there watching the water cascade over and between the rocks that dot the river, with the sun hanging low in the sky, soon to be out of sight, I thought how the initial chaos is really full of patterns, order.
Water rushing and splashing and crashing in a chaotic, frothy stream—it seems so random, so disorderly and without rhyme or reason. But as I kept watching, I thought of how it couldn't flow any other way, the molecules of water bumping into each other and into those of the rocks that gravity compels them to flow past, each action conditioning the next until all these tiny, individual interactions produce the impossibly complex, ordered symphony of a turbulent river. An apt metaphor for life.
Another thought that occurred to me was about communion, the act of taking consecrated bread and wine into yourself. It's become such an important part of my life. I still don't know that I believe the bread and wine turns into the literal flesh and blood of God/Jesus, but the idea of taking something into yourself, into your very being, that's been touched by God is a powerful one. I find that it opens up something inside of me that, for some reason, I keep closed off, like a bumping, spiritual molecule in the turbulent river of my life that I'm convinced has a purpose even though it may not look like it.
I felt incredibly content, with no regrets or cares in the world. I thought:
If only we could always feel so free, so at peace. It's easier to believe in God and the goodness of the world after a few drinks or whenever I'm to the point of losing my 'self,' especially when surrounded by nature and/or listening to some amazing music. Everything wraps together and weaves itself into a trans-sensual tapestry of thoughts, feelings, sounds, tastes, and emotions , opening a door in my heart to the divine dwelling among us. I wish I could share this feeling with others, like a bodhisattva. God is love. Love is the law. As above, so below. Trite truisms, perhaps, but no less profound...
I've been reading Omer Englebert's biography of St. Francis, so I decided to go to St. Francis of Assisi for the 7pm contemplative mass when I got home since I missed the morning mass at St. Philip, especially with it being the Solemnity of the Most Holy Trinity and all. It's amazing how similar he was to many of the Thai Forest masters I've read about. The simplicity and austerity of his life was incredible, and reading about it inspires me and has me thinking a lot about entering the monastic life. To be so free, so at peace. And even the difficulties of such a life can bear so much fruit...
The mass was kind of odd, yet intimate and moving. The church is old and mostly wood, including the tree-stump altar, simple but not unpleasantly so. Much of the homily was inspired by a book on ecology written by a Catholic (can't remember the title), part of which talks about the relational nature of the Trinity. We were encouraged to discuss the idea afterwards. Before communion, our small group all held hands during the "Our Father," and remained standing in front of the sanctuary as the priest handed each one of us communion. It was a nice way to end a long weekend.
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