7/10/15

On June 24th, I got the call that I'd been dreading for years—the call that my mom was dying. She'd had a lot of health problems, and there'd been a number of close calls over the last couple of years ranging from illnesses to open heart surgery. Each time I thought, "This might be it. This might be the time I lose her." Looking back, I suppose one of the few graces of having a family member with a history of serious health problems is that it can help prepare you for the inevitable. At least it doesn't hit you out of the blue; you have the time and impetus to imagine the possibility, to emotionally prepare, to build up the reserve of strength needed to face one of the most painful experiences of your life, that of losing someone you love, without being completely overwhelmed.

Even still, I wasn't really prepared; I wasn't really ready for the fear, anger, and sadness that was looming over me, and my family, like a gigantic tidal wave about the crash down and all but obliterate my fragile being, sweeping away everything in its path—all of my hope, joy, and faith in the future. As I sat there in the airport Wednesday night, in the midst of struggling to deal with the reality of my mom's situation, I remember being struck by the nonchalantness and even callousness with which we often treat death and dying in our culture. It's as if, in our fear of death, we do everything in our power to deny it, hide it, romanticize it, or joke about it, anything to take away the power of its sting. But while these things may help us cope with its existence and inevitability, they rarely do much to prepare us for the reality and actual experience of watching a loved one die, of holding their hand as they spend the last few hours of their life gasping for breath.

I suppose that death can be beautiful or heroic depending on the circumstances; but in my experience, death is painful, torturous, heart-wrenching, full of monitors, needles, moans, tears, and parades of names and faces who do their best to be compassionate and supportive when they're not too stressed from being overworked, underpaid, and/or trying to push your loved one out as quickly as possible in order to free up a bed for the next customer/patient. For anyone who's spent enough time in them to notice, hospitals are revolving doors of the sick and dying, although they could (and should) be more. Money should have nothing to do with caring for the sick, the elderly, and the dying. Money shouldn't dictate the level and quality of care, or the concern with which they're administered. And yet it does. Reflecting on everything my mom had been through and endured, not the mention the mountains of red tape, bills, and collection notices, I was saddened by how we've cheapened life, how we've made life more about making money (mostly for someone else), or else worrying about not having enough, than actually living. All those wasted years...

Suffice it to say that I was lost, heartbroken. My faith in something greater than myself was tested and destroyed before being raised up again like Lazarus. I had nothing to hold onto. All my prayers had seemingly gone unanswered. Any purpose to life I once believed in seemed all but imaginary. Only the pain and sadness I felt were real. I watched Aliens on the flight; and with every bump of turbulence, I thought that at least my pain would end if I were to die. Midway through, they called for a doctor. Someone was having a medical emergency. I'm not sure how serious it was, but after we landed a lady was helped off by EMTs before the rest of us could exit, and I hoped that she'd be OK.

Tracey, one of my closest and dearest friends, picked me up from the airport and took me to my parent's house. I thought it'd be better to go up with my dad, although now I kind of wish I'd just gone straight to the hospital to spend as much time with my mom as possible. As I sat there, waiting for my dad to drive us up to the hospital to see her, trying to let it sink in that we were possibly just a breath or two away from losing her, I felt sick, shaky, alone, wanting to cry and scream at the same time and hating myself for not coming sooner. I felt empty of everything except this sickening fear and guilt. I think I was still in shock, and I imagine that what I felt in that moment was similar to what someone who's just experienced a natural disaster might feel—half confusion and half terror. It was all a blur, and the next thing I knew, I was at the hospital, winding my way down corridors and past room after room while trying to mentally prepare myself for the worst.

No words can adequately describe the sheer emptiness I felt, nor the pain, grief, and despair that came bubbling out of that ineffable darkness. The sadness and tears came in waves that threatened to drown me. I was buffeted by anguish, and it felt as if some sort of cosmic sinkhole had opened up beneath me, swallowing every ounce of goodness and stability from my world. By then, she was barely conscious/cognizant, but still seemingly in a lot of pain, moaning and what almost sounded like crying at times. I think part of her knew what was happening. When they came in to tell us they recommended putting her in hospice, it felt like everything was spinning. I couldn't think straight. I couldn't talk. I couldn't do anything but hold her hand, afraid to let go, as if she'd drift away the moment I did.

They said that everything was starting to shut down — her kidney, her heart, her respiratory system — and that there wasn't much more they could do. Once my dad signed the papers, they put her on a steady drip of pain medication to help keep her comfortable. I think it was hydromorphone, also known as Dilaudid; and after they started her on it, she slept heavily, which seemed to us better than the alternative. But at the same time, I was afraid, afraid that she'd never wake up again, afraid that I'd never be able to tell her one more time how much I loved her or hear her tell me the same.

My dad and sister were equally as devastated, as was my aunt Debbie. As we all sat there, taking turns holding her hand and talking to her, we were each overwhelmed by grief. A part of me wanted to die with her. Every time I tried to talk to Annie on the phone to let her know what was happening, I broke down into tears. Words would turn into sobs. Trying to find both privacy and decent cell reception, I passed by the gift shop where only a year ago we'd gotten something for my mom when she was in for her heart surgery, and the memory was like a dagger in my heart, letting my sadness bleed out in uncontrollable spurts over the phone. Annie got a flight that night and flew in the next morning.

Tara and I spent the night at the hospital. Neither one of us wanted to leave her side. Orlando, a friend of Tara's from school, came up to visit for a while. The next day, my mom's eyes were open, though she wasn't blinking, and her breathing had become more laboured and shallow. They said, in so many words, that it was only a matter of time, hours or maybe days, but definitely soon. People came and went — her cousin Cindi, her childhood friend Carol, some of Tara's friends who had known her — but what I remember most is sitting by her side and holding her hand, telling her that I loved her and that she wasn't alone. I remember crying a lot. It was like I was stuck in a bad dream I couldn't wake up from. My dad said some really touching, heartfelt things and I wished that she could hear them. At the same time, I was angry at him for not telling me sooner how serious things were. Maybe he didn't want me to worry, or maybe he didn't fully realize it himself, but neither thought comforted me or assuaged my feelings of anger and guilt.

By this time, Annie had arrived, alternating between being a silent watcher, a fellow griever, and an angel of mercy and comfort. She took time with each of us, and seemed to always say or do the right things, having the compassion of a bodhisattva and the patience of a saint, enduring her own grief and the burden of ours with a strength I still marvel at. Her presence was my only refuge, the only thing that kept me sane. That night, June 27th, my mom passed away sometime after midnight with Annie, Tara, and I by her side, her hand in mine.

I can't remember who called him, either me or Tara, but we let our dad know, who'd left only an hour before to let the dog out and get some rest. He came and said his goodbyes, signed some papers, and had the chaplain on duty come to say a prayer. I wasn't enthused about the idea of some random person who didn't know us saying generic things and quoting cliche scriptural passages at such an intimate and emotional time, but I figured if it'd make my dad feel better, what's the harm? Afterwards, my dad, who was close to inconsolable, went out to talk to the chaplain alone and, while expressing his grief, also managed to share his theories about aliens seeding life on Earth and possibly being what we believe to be angels/God with him. That poor man. We left the hospital around 3am, and headed home in the somber darkness and mournful rain.

For the next few days, almost every waking moment was consumed by worry and all the funeral arrangements. All I felt like doing was crawling into a hole and crying, but bureaucracy demanded otherwise. And the whole time, I had trouble believing that she was really gone. Her presence permeated the house, and I kept half-expecting to see her sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee. It killed me every time I reminded myself... Making all the arrangements was a surreal, as well as painful, experience; and in between all the phone calls and running around, I was trying to think of something to say at her memorial, but the words refused to come. In some ways, I don't think I wanted to make it final. I eventually settled on Rudy Funeral Home in part because it doubles as a small nautical museum. My mom loved lighthouses, and I love weird things, so it seemed like the right choice. In addition, Kathy was really nice and helpful.

We decided to have my mom cremated. It was her wish, which worked out well since it was also the only thing we could really afford to do. It's extremely expensive to bury someone once you factor in the cost of preparing the body, caskets, burial plots, and all the other related fees and expenses. Cards. Flowers. Food. You also need like a hundred copies of the death certificate (usually $15 each, although you get a discount after the first couple) because everyone will want one. Annie helped out with the planning and cost more than I expected, and I don't think I could have done any of it without her. Looking back, she was like a heavenly messenger, guiding us all through the darkest days of our lives with perfect love, compassion, and patience.

The memorial service itself, which we scheduled for July 1st (inadvertently falling on the full moon), turned out really nice. A lot of people showed up, many that I didn't even expect. Tracey helped pick out the main flower arrangements and paid for them, a pair of garden-variety flowers, one with 'mom' and one with 'beloved wife' on the ribbons, which were lovely. Annie's parents sent roses that were equally as lovely, and a few others sent arrangements as well, including the video game club Tara was the president of at Macomb Community College. We chose a picture of my mom from 1975 to display next to the urn. It was one of her favourites. She was young and beautiful and I know that that's how she'd like people to remember her. Like my dad said, it was more about celebrating her life than memorializing her passing.

It was a solemn occasion, but the day wasn't without humour. My dad's sisters mistook my friend Chris, who can't speak well due to a stroke, for me, and told him they were sorry for his loss while I was standing nearby. I just smiled, declining to correct the error, happy for the temporary respite from the obligatory stream of condolences. Kathy got a semi-retired Catholic priest, Fr. Dennis Nowinski, to lead the service. He was nice and soft-spoken, with a good sense of humour. The service was a lot like daily mass, with prayers, a couple of scriptural readings, and a short homily. The only thing missing was communion. It was a little awkward, though, since most of the people there weren't Catholic or even necessarily religious; but I think he did a good job nonetheless.

My dad, Tara, and I, along with my mom's cousin Cindi, Mrs. Sylvester, one of Tara's teachers from middle school, and Barbara, a long-time friend of my mom's, all got up to say something about her. My dad went first, and was surprisingly eloquent, if a bit long-winded. Next up was Cindi. Between the two, they said everything I'd planned on saying, although I did my best to follow them without being too repetitive. I talked about how my mom was our rock, an extraordinary source of comfort and strength who was always there for us, whether we needed advice or a shoulder to cry on or someone to bail us out of jail (definitely not one of my finer moments). I talked about how the Finnish word sisu (a stubborn kind of courage, strength, and resilience that characterizes the spirit of the Finnish people) summed her up perfectly, how her life was an example of sisu, and how she did her best to instill that quality in all of us. And I talked about how, now that she's gone, it's our turn to follow her example and be rocks for one another as much as possible, regardless of whatever else life decides to throw at us.

It's been almost two weeks now since she passed away, yet I still don't feel like I've had the time or space to let it all sink in, to really grieve or whatever it is that you're supposed to do. Instead, I feel numb, empty, and it kind of scares me. Then again, I've often had trouble expressing my emotions. Everything tends to get bottled up inside, like a pressure cooker, until it eventually explodes in a violent eruption of tears and anguish and self-loathing. It's the way I've always been. Thankfully, some of it came out at the hospital. But the moment she died, it became all about my dad, my sister, and the funeral. Once that was over, though, I was left feeling hollow.

I'm trying to go on with life as usual, taking things one day at a time, but it's not quite working. I can go through all the motions OK, but everything feels different, less real or fun or important. I'm just kind of sad all the time and doing my best to distract myself from the emotional void that's growing inside of me. On top of all that, the world seems even crazier and more absurd to me than before; and the people I find myself increasingly relating to the most are the religious hermits who turn their backs on the world because the world has turned its back on itself. The only thing that's helped to fill the void, the only thing that's helped to heal the hurt and pierce the numbness, has been the love and support of others.

6/21/15

This weekend was quite a spiritual one for me. On Friday, for instance, I decided to go to St. Philip for the noon mass, which Fr. Michael happened to be celebrating. I ran into Karen, and we sat next to each other. The gospel reading was Mt 6:19-23:

"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.

"The lamp of the body is the eye. If your eye is sound, your whole body will be filled with light; but if your eye is bad, your whole body will be in darkness. And if the light in you is darkness, how great will the darkness be.

It was a reminder for me of Jesus' true message, which I believe is ultimately one of compassion, contemplation, and renunciation. The first passage is a reminder that worldly things are ephemeral, transient, subject to change and dissolution, not worth clinging to. Instead, Jesus points us towards another kind of treasure, a heavenly (i.e., non-worldly) treasure, much like the Buddha: "Indeed, the path that leads to worldly gain is one and the Path that leads to Nibbana is another" (Dhp 75).

The second, as Fr. Michael pointed out in his homily, isn't referring to our physical eyes so much as the 'eye of wisdom' that cuts through the darkness of ignorance and, in the words of Bhikkhu Nanamoli, "sees directly into the true nature of existence ordinarily hidden from us by our greed, aversion and delusion" ("The Discourse on Right View: The Sammaditthi Sutta and its Commentary").

After mass, I stuck around and hung out with Karen and Fr. Michael for an hour or two, just talking and enjoying the beautiful weather. Karen offered to give me a ride home, and we ended up having lunch together. We talked a lot about our approach to spirituality and our affection for Buddhism as well as Catholicism. I also discovered we share significant others who are atheist/non-religious yet supportive of our spirituality.

Later in the evening, I went to PFoD for the Pacific Hermitage monks' monthly visit. Ajahn Sudanto talked and answered a lot of questions during the informal tea gathering, and Ajahn Karunadhammo gave the Dhamma talk after meditation.

One of the topics was kamma, literally 'action.' People often have a lot of misconceptions about the concept due to the way it's been popularized; but Ajahn Sudanto stressed that it refers to the element of intention that colours/influences our experience of the present, and that it's pointing towards how we react to circumstances rather than to the existence of the circumstances themselves.

Another topic was the importance of mindfulness in seeing our craving and how it agitates the mind and gives rise to suffering, which in turn helps us eventually let go of our craving and attachments, freeing the mind and opening us up to an extraordinary peace.

The theme of the Dhamma talk was what the Buddha called the three 'divine messengers,' aging, illness, and death. In relating a personal story about visiting his elderly and ailing mother, Ajahn Karunadhammo talked about how these things reminded him of why he ordained and how Buddhism is about confronting our mortality with sober wisdom, helping us to live and die as skillfully as possible.

I went to mass twice on Saturday (the 8:00am daily mass and the 4:00pm vigil), as well as Sunday morning. Fr. Michael gave an interesting homily that focused on the cushion Jesus rested his head on in the boat rather than the miracle of calming the wind and sea. (I love his perspective on things.). In the day's gospel reading from Mark, Jesus sleeps with his head on a cushion in the midst of a violent storm, and he rebukes his disciples for their fear and agitation. Fr. Michael suggested that we be cushions for one another, a place of comfort and rest, while I saw in Jesus a reflection of the inner calm we should try to cultivate in confronting the turbulence of the world, which reminded me of Knitter's words, "People who are peace will surely make peace" (185).

Even with all of that wisdom and encouragement, though, I find myself becoming more and more overwhelmed by the reality of my mom's illness. She's starting to do worse and I'm afraid that I might lose her. Last night, the mere thought of it sent me into a panic. I know that death is a natural part of life, but the thought of losing her is too much for me to bear, and neither prayers nor meditation are helping at the moment.

Like Peter was for the Church, my mom is the rock on which our family is built; and I feel like once she's no longer with us, everything will fall to pieces. Right now, all I can think to do is pray for the strength to be a cushion for my family.

6/18/15

I took Dorothy to the B- meeting yesterday. Fr. Michael is back from LA, where his father's in hospice. He's had to come back to take care of some of his own needs, like overdue eye appointments/shots, as well as pastoral duties while Fr. Charlie's away. I know how difficult that must be for him. Being so far away from my family, I often feel what I imagine to be a similar conflict whenever my mom's in the hospital and I'm not there by her side.

Fr. Michael said that he didn't feel like he did a good job of leading the group, that he was 'off' because of traveling and the stuff with his dad, but I thought the exact opposite. I especially liked the topic, which was based in large part on Paul Knitter's book, Without Buddha I Could not be a Christian. (Apparently, I got a couple of people interested in reading it.) The initial topic was the problem of evil, although someone also brought up the Trinity. Fr. Michael approached both through the lens of non-duality.

I spent a lot of the time jotting down my own thoughts to the questions and ideas being raised. Part of that was me trying to collect my thoughts in case I decided to join in, which I didn't although I wish I had. (I guess I'm still not quite over being the shy, quiet one just yet.) I was a little worried that people wouldn't like the book or get where Knitter's coming from since few have any experience with Buddhism, but that fear was largely unfounded.

In explaining Knitter's approach to the problem of evil, Fr. Michael touched on how the Buddhist idea of ignorance being the root of what we call evil (actions arising out of greed, aversion, and delusion), rather than some malevolent entity or unchangeable nature, can help one cultivate love and compassion for those who do evil things (love the sinner, hate the sin as they say). Like Stoicism, Buddhism takes the position that we largely do harmful things out of ignorance, out of not seeing things clearly. Those who pollute the environment, for example, generally do so because they think that profiting from the exploitation and defilement of natural resources is good while turning a blind eye to the harm it causes. It's really an act of selfishness conditioned by ignorance.

In the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus tells us to love our enemies that we may be children of God, "for he makes his sun rise on the bad and the good, and causes rain to fall on the just and the unjust" (Mt 5:43-5). We shouldn't make distinctions with our love (non-duality); but how can we love someone who's evil? One way is by realizing that they're not necessarily evil; they're simply someone who's acting out of ignorance and a mind defiled by greed, aversion, and delusion. At the same time, it makes us responsible for our actions (rather than blaming God or the devil for our evil deeds and misfortune), and encourages us by suggesting that each one of us can 'wake up' and be 'born again.'

Hating evil may feel right, but if you hate, that hate harms you as much as it causes you to harm others. Moreover, hate hardens the heart and makes reconciliation all but impossible; and how can we work to make the kingdom of God a reality when our hearts are clouded by hatred and ill-will? Are we not a part of God's plan? Does God not work through us? These were some of the thoughts that crossed my mind, at any rate.

As for the Trinity, that concept really gives a lot of people a hard time, especially if you approach it from a logical standpoint. But I think Knitter and others are on the right track when they say that the Trinity is a symbol pointing towards the relational nature of God, reflecting on the spiritual level the relational/social nature of humanity.

For me, God isn't the 'God of the gaps,' of the things we can't explain or fully understand, but the 'God of relationships.' Like Knitter, I see God as the interconnectedness and love that's present all around and within us. And the Trinity is merely a finger pointing to the moon, something to help us awaken to the face of God hidden in plain sight.

But back to the problem of evil. What kind of solution does this approach offer? It offers a contemplative one, I think, one in which we begin with a simple premise: if we strive to do good, refrain from evil, and purify our minds, the rest will take care of itself. In other words, we have to begin by addressing our own intentions and actions, by transforming our ignorance into wisdom so that when we act, we act less out of ignorance and more out of wisdom, less out of greed, aversion, and delusion and more out of charity, compassion, and loving-kindness. Or as Knitter might say, we must be peace in order to effectively make peace, addressing our suffering and suffering of the world at the same time.

In essence, we must learn to let go of our craving, to deny ourselves, take up our cross, and follow Jesus' example. As Knitter puts it, "We have to be 'free of attachment' if we are to be truly able to 'create a better world' according to its needs and not our own." Elaborating on this, he continues a couple of paragraphs down:

Yes, structures will have to be changed. But they will be changed, naturally and necessarily, by people with changed hearts. Yes, justice will have to be realized. But it will be realized, because Enlightened beings, peace-filled beings, will naturally share and address the needs of those who have been exploited. True contemplation will automatically become action. People who are peace will surely make peace. If you spend enough time "just sitting there," you will stand up and do. So again, the priority, perhaps the only real requirement, for making peace in the world is to be peace in the heart. (185)

Because of the excitement surrounding Pope Francis' encyclical on the environment, the issue of climate change was brought up a number of times. The ignorance of those who deny climate change and/or the science suggesting human activity is one of the main contributing factors was used as an example in the discussion about evil. And when talk turned towards sustainability as one answer to climate change, I was again reminded of the importance of compassion and wisdom: to be more sustainable requires a conscious decision on our own part in conjunction with systematic, socio-economic changes, changes made, naturally and necessarily, by people with changed hearts. It's all interconnected.

At one point, someone asked if anybody knew the origins of the phrase "Grace builds on nature" and what it meant. Nobody knew the exact origin offhand, but I liked one interpretation to the effect of, we can tap into what's already there. Just as I have trouble believing in a God who must be feared, I have a hard time with the idea of God giving or withholding 'grace.' Instead, I view what we call grace as the natural result/combination of right view, right intention, and right action, as our ability to be open and aware and 'see' what we need or what we might otherwise overlook. It's the Connecting Spirit unfolding throughout history, the Spirit of God blossoming within our lives.

From a dualistic perspective, perhaps, there seems to be good and evil, grace seems to be given and withheld; but from a non-dual point of view, God is present everywhere, and that presence is obscured only by our ignorance. When we remove the veil of ignorance, we see and experience that presence, that unconditional love and beingness, permeating our lives. And in that way, we can become like Christ and help build the kingdom of God.

6/17/15

Today begins my three month seasonal layoff. I worked last summer; but this time around, I decided to take the layoff and go to Michigan to visit my family for a month. It's mainly to be with my mom for her birthday in July. I'm hoping she'll be out of the hospital by then, although they've been having trouble getting her kidney to work right, so who knows. Either way, it'll be nice to spend some time with her.

Now that I'm not working, I have a lot of free time, which means a lot of time to think. This morning, for example, I was thinking about Last Sunday's mass, and in particular, a prayer of Cardinal Newman's that Fr. Bill had us partially recite during his homily:

God has created me to do Him some definite service. He has committed some work to me which He has not committed to another. I have my mission. I may never know it in this life, but I shall be told it in the next. I am a link in a chain, a bond of connection between persons. He has not created me for naught. I shall do good; I shall do His work. I shall be an angel of peace, a preacher of truth in my own place, while not intending it if I do but keep His commandments. Therefore, I will trust Him, whatever I am, I can never be thrown away.

I wish I knew what my calling in this life was. I feel like if I knew, I'd be more at peace, like a great weight would be lifted off of me. But that's kind of a selfish wish, isn't it? I want my life to have meaning, to be fulfilling. I want to devote myself to something in order to feel like my life has some worth, that I haven't been created for naught. I want to trade the suffering of not having a goal for the suffering of not yet achieving my goal.

It's a relatively wholesome desire in the grand scheme of things, I suppose. But still, it all revolves around 'me,' about what 'I' want and about what would make 'me' happy, which tells me that I've yet to truly understand the conditions of discipleship...

Contemplating all of this, I wandered over to St. Michael the Archangel for the noon mass. The readings for the day were about generosity and right intention. One should give for the sake of giving, for being able to give is a greater gift and blessing than to receive; and more important than the size of the gift is the spirit/intention in which it's given. What God (or InterBeing a la Knitter) shares with us, we should joyfully share with others out of love and compassion—we should give selflessly, without strings or expectations of reward:

[T]ake care not to perform righteous deeds in order that people may see them; otherwise, you will have no recompense from your heavenly Father. When you give alms, do not blow a trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets to win the praise of others. Amen, I say to you, they have received their reward. But when you give alms, do not let your left hand know what your right is doing, so that your almsgiving may be secret. And your Father who sees in secret will repay you. (Mt 6:1-4)

In hoarding what we have, aren't we closing our hearts to those around us who are in need? What's more, aren't we admitting through our actions that we don't believe there are fruits and results of good and bad actions (a rejection of dependent co-arising and part of wrong view in Buddhism)? Rather than give, we cling. Rather than seeking God or awakening, we make our own material comfort the central care of our lives.

Like in Cardinal Newman's prayer, we're links in a chain, bonds of connection, which I think hints at the non-dual nature of reality. Ultimately, there's no real separation between 'us' and 'them,' no difference between samsara and nirvana, or in the words of Paul, "There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free person, there is not male and female; for you are all one in Christ Jesus" (Gal 3:28).

Something else that stood out to me today was that, during the responsorial Psalm, I just couldn't bring myself to repeat "Blessed the man who fears the Lord," so I quietly sang "Blessed the man who loves the Lord" instead. I realized that such language doesn't reflect my understanding of God; and I simply can't believe in a God who must be feared. God is love, and I feel that our language about God should reflect that.

6/8/15

I went to my first Latin mass Saturday at St. Stephen. I had some spare time and decided to see what it was like. In some ways, I liked it. Because almost the whole thing was in Latin, it felt new and exciting, and I particularly enjoyed the singing of the Cantores in Ecclesia choir. It was quite beautiful, and reminded me of some of the singing I've heard at Holy Trinity. It definitely had a different feel from what I'm used to. But not knowing any Latin, I found it hard to keep up, even with the missal; and because of that, I felt more like a spectator than a participant. I'd certainly go again, although I prefer celebrating mass in a language I can understand.

Sunday, I went to St. Philip. Whereas Fr. Bliven's homily at St. Stephen stressed the reality of the Eucharist being the literal body and blood of Christ (which makes sense being the Feast of Corpus Christi and all), referencing 1 Corinthians 11, Fr. Charlie's homily stressed the underlying social dynamic of the Eucharist—how mass isn't just about connecting with God through Jesus, but about connecting with God and each other through Jesus. He noted that the word companion comes from the Latin words cum and panis, literally 'with bread,' referring to someone you eat with, someone you share a table with. It points to an intimate connection; and in the Eucharist, which is itself a remembrance and reenactment of the Last Supper, our companionship brings Christ into our midst, "For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them" (Mt 18:20).

Fr. Charlie pointed out that, even though we may all be in the same room together, some of us may be there alone, isolated within; and he encouraged us to really open our hearts to one another. We're not just there to be in communion with God, because God is in each and every one of us. It's not unlike what Romanos wrote recently in response the things I wrote about my feelings of alienation at work a couple weeks ago:

No matter how mundane the transaction, whether it's taking orders in a subway sandwich shop or cafeteria, or trying to help a customer through a technical problem or even selling them another product, we can still be the human face of the Gospel, of Jesus Christ, to the other person; and without them knowing it, they can be the human face of Christ to us. We can do this, and in most cases probably should, without giving religion or spirituality a thought. If we believe in the incarnation of God, in us, and as us, then how can we speak of any encounter as 'mechanical, fake, empty'?

Deep down, I know there's some truth to that, especially when he says:

If one cannot find peace in serving Christ in His common humanity under the disguise of our neighbor, our customer, our boss, our brother or sister, our friend, or the one who we know hates or despises us without cause, then the peace we experience in environments we can control, is what really is ‘mechanical, fake, empty’ and will not last. Should we be so unfortunate as to have everything go our way and be able to seek the God within by rejecting the God without, we may be blind to it, but it will be obvious to others that we’re just playing a game. Some play the ‘game of Church.’ Others play the ‘game of Boddhisatva.’ Some play the ‘game of Thrones.’ In the end, unless you win Christ by surrendering to Him in whatever way He comes to you, games won’t save you though they comfort for a moment. There is no game. It’s all for real, because Christ is all, and in all.

But still, for me that's easier said than done. After so many monotonous interactions, I tend to feel empty and emotionally drained. And worse, when someone's being rude and/or verbally abusive to me, I automatically get defensive, angry. I don't feel like I deserve to be treated that way, which makes me feel even angrier and more powerless because I'm expected to take it all or else risk getting in trouble, possibly even lose my job. I wish I could be more like St. Francis and welcome such interactions, either as penance or an opportunity to follow Jesus' teachings, to really practice what I believe to be right and true. And yet I struggle with even the mildest of unpleasantries.

It reminds of what Fr. Michael said in one of his homilies about the need for us to address the suffering underlying our sin, because I do feel in my heart that my anger towards others is a sin, and I desperately want to uproot that anger out of my spiritual soil. That's one of the things that initially drew me to Buddhism, in fact—the possibility of transcending greed, aversion, and delusion. But to love unconditionally seems like the hardest thing in the world to do; and I wish I had the faith and courage of St. Francis to give up everything and to give everything of myself so that I, too, could learn to live with such boundless love and compassion for all beings.

6/1/15

I went camping this weekend with a few friends, and I think getting away from everything for a few days was exactly what I needed. I took off Friday, and went to the 9am mass at Ascension before heading out to Fernview Campground. I was originally going to go to St. Philip, but I always forget their Friday mass is at noon, so I decided to check out Ascension instead.

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.

5/25/15

I was looking at my notebook and reflecting on the past week. Not much has happened, but at the same time, it feels like a lot has happened, most of it in my head I suppose. For example, at work the other day, I was thinking about why it makes me so unhappy. One of the reasons is the nature of customer service-related jobs and the way they coerce you into endless fake relationships.

Reading Without Buddha I Could not be a Christian, I'm really seeing how God (InterBeing) comes through, or is expressed in, our relationships with one another, bringing to mind the psychological interpretation of the Trinity offered by the likes of Augustine, Aquinas, etc. Jesus' commandment to love our neighbour is a commandment to enter into a relationship with others. But for these relationships to be genuine, loving, fruitful, they must be natural.

In contrast, I'm expected on a daily basis to enter into relationships that are mechanical, fake, empty, in order to facilitate transactions for profit. Real relationships are fulfilling; fake ones are anything but. In many ways, they're dehumanizing; and after the first dozen or so, I find myself closing off, becoming a robot, "Hello. What would you like? Would you like anything else? That will be $_____. Thank you. Here's your change." Of course there are those few regulars who you do have real interactions with beyond the exchange of goods and services, and I live for those interactions. They're what keep me sane. But the majority of them are so forced, so rushed and unpleasant, so empty of life that it's hard not to walk out a shell empty of life yourself.

It's not an exaggeration to say that a big part of why I love going to church every chance I get is to recharge and reclaim my humanity by entering into a relationship with the community through fellowship and with God through the Eucharist. I've tried finding that at work, too, but I've found those kinds of mechanical relationships to be barren soil.

Something else I got to thinking about is the ways we tend to share our beliefs and practices with one another. Watching an episode of Sons of Anarchy, I realized why I find those things difficult to talk about and share directly even though we're called to share the 'good news' with others at the end of every mass.

SoA is about a motorcycle gang; and thinking about the concept of 'brotherhood,' I thought about our need for companionship and camaraderie. We look for people we trust, places we feel safe. In social groups like gangs, clubs, fraternities, etc., you're surrounded by people who have been initiated in some way into the group. Because of that, they're people you, at least ideally, feel you can trust, who you share something with and feel safe around.

In the show, there's a room where only members can enter, where all club business is discussed and club decisions made. Everyone in that room has been 'initiated' and is on the same page. Outside that room, certain things can't be shared with outsiders, either because they simply wouldn't understand or because it could hurt the club, but they still share their beliefs through what they wear, what they do, etc.

In the same way, the church for me is that room. Of course, anyone can walk through those doors, and that's OK. But I'd have trouble inviting someone I know who's uninterested in, or even hostile to, religion to come with me, just as I'd have trouble talking to someone uninterested in, or even hostile to, religion about religion directly. That doesn't mean I don't share anything at all, though; I just try to do it in more subtle ways. With people critical of Christianity and Jesus, for example, I might try to stress the subversive and egalitarian things Jesus said and did in order to help them see beyond their prejudices.

And at church, even though I'd like to share my experience with others, it's an intimate, personal experience. For me, it's a safe space in which I can enter into a relationship with God in the mystery of the Eucharist. It's not something I can explain to others; and when I'm there I really just want to be open to the moment, not worrying about being judged by someone who might not understand.