3/25/17

Last weekend, a more or less traditional priest unknowingly gave a homily that essentially argues for the primacy of conscience over institutional church dogmas when taken to its logical conclusion. In the gospel reading for that day (John 4:5-42), the priest notes that Jesus ignores Jewish socio-religious customs by talking to a Samaritan woman alone at a well while waiting for his disciples to return. Jewish men weren't supposed to talk to women who aren't their spouse or close relative in seclusion. He also transgressed long-standing socio-religious custom by interacting with a Samaritan, who were shunned by Jews and vice versa. According to one commentary, Samaritan women in particular were seen as ritually unclean in the eyes of religious leaders, so the act of asking for a drink of water from one was particularly transgressive.

But none of this stops Jesus from acknowledging her as a person and showing her kindness, as well as giving her an esoteric teaching on material vs. spiritual thirst. For him, there's no distinction between man and woman, Jew and Samaritan; there are simply two people interacting, and it's only this personal relationship that truly matters, a relationship some from a philosophical POV call "the 'unity of I and Thou.'" And in following Jesus' example in this gospel, I think it's perfectly acceptable for, and even the duty of, Christians to transgress socio-religious customs whenever they're hateful, backwards, small-minded, discriminatory, and/or oppressive, like those barring women from the priesthood or ideas about the sinfulness of same-sex relationships.

2/19/17

Today, I was reminded once again just how bad I am at keeping in touch with people. I found out that my friend and godfather, Romanos, passed away back in October. October! I'd even been thinking about him recently, thinking about how I hadn't seen much from him on Facebook or his blogs for a long time. So when Barbara mentioned his passing, I was shocked.

I met Romanos back in 2010 at Holy Trinity Greek Orthodox Church, where he was volunteering during their annual Greek festival. We spent a lot of time talking that day, and we eventually became friends, talking (and sometimes arguing) about religion, philosophy, politics, you name it. He was a unique person to say the least, and I never quite figured him out; but he was genuinely kind and smart and caring. He loved to talk, but he was also a good listener when he needed to be.

What I appreciated the most about him, though, was his approach to spirituality. It was contemplative and loving and it really spoke to me. I really enjoyed our discussions. Because of him, I started to see something good in everyone. Our long talks gave me plenty to think about, and he truly got my spirituality. He gave me a couple of books that really piqued my interest in contemplative Christianity, an interest that eventually led me to spend a week at a nearby Trappist monastery. And from there, I soon discovered the wonderful community at St. Philip Neri.

With his help, I'd found my own spiritual home, a warm, welcoming community with a strong interest in social justice and a contemplative foundation. And when I decided to be formally initiated into the community, I asked Romanos to be my sponsor and godfather even though he was Orthodox and the community I was joining was Catholic. But labels never really mattered to Romanos, and he followed his heart regardless of what people thought about his religious and political views or the company he kept.

He was my friend even though he disagreed with my politics. He was my friend when I called myself a Buddhist. He was my friend when I called myself a Catholic Buddhist. And he remained my friend when I simply saw myself as a contemplative socialist of various stripes, deeply ecumenical and outspoken on progressive social issues.

We'd often go months without speaking, and during that time, I was going through a lot of changes. New job. New place. New relationship. I guess I was just too wrapped up in my own world to notice the Facebook post his son made about his passing. I regret not being at the funeral to say goodbye, but I'm consoled by the fact that I knew such a strange and wonderful character at all.

Everlasting be your memory, my brother, who are worthy of blessedness and eternal memory.

1/21/17

I'm currently reading Gareth Stedman Jones' book, Karl Marx: Greatness and Illusion, which Rebecca got me for Christmas, and one section has me wondering why more Christians, and Catholics in particular, aren't communists in the proper sense of the word and vice versa. That's not to say I think one must (or even necessarily should) be the other; only that I find them to be immensely compatible on a fundamental level.

For example, in contrast to Feuerbach's criticism of Christianity as a philosophical roadblock to the emergence of a modern, communal society characterized by spiritual and political freedom — the 'unity of I and Thou' — the universality of 'the church as one body' (via 1 Cor 12:12-13) most certainly contains within it the communal essence of the human species as Feuerbach envisions it.

Our tendency towards abstraction aside, rather than simply seeing the state of religion as "the particular union of each individual with an external being," as Stedman Jones summarizes Feuerbach's critique of Christianity (p. 127), this theological concept explicitly conceives of each individual as an integral part of the same communal, unifying body within the universality that is personified by Christ. Moreover, Christ himself makes concern for the needs of others the entry fee into the kingdom of heaven (Mt 25:31-46).

So, rather than usurping the primordial species-unity of 'I and Thou,' as Feuerbach suggests, Christ actually embodies that unity. All are one in Christ, and Christ is one with all (Gal 3:28). Next to loving God, loving our neighbour as ourselves is the greatest commandment (Mt 22:34-40). And the relational nature of God in the form of the trinity itself reflects the interdependent nature of humanity, the aspect of individuals as communal species-beings.

While this revolutionary facet of Christianity has been suppressed by ruling elites, both spiritual and political, throughout most of its history, its existence is clearly evinced by the early apostles themselves: "There was no needy person among them, for those who owned property or houses would sell them, bring the proceeds of the sale, and put them at the feet of the apostles, and they were distributed to each according to need" (Acts 4:34-35).

In addition, for Marx and Feuerbach, God is a mystification of our species-essence, an abstraction, an inversion of subject and object; and therefore our religious inclinations are in reality just a fetishization of this alienated aspect of our species-being that we've objectified and turned into something alien from ourselves. But the revolutionary story of Jesus effectively undoes this inversion of subject and object.

Jesus is God manifest in human form; and in this sense, represents a demystification of our species-essence and a reunification of our spiritual and political consciousness. Jesus not only bridges the gap between the transcendent and the concrete, but the rift between humanity and itself created by our tendency to, in the words of Feuerbach, "posit the essence of nature outside nature, the essence of humanity outside humanity, the essence of thought outside the act of thinking."

I think that both Feuerbach and Marx were correct in their criticism of idealist philosophies that begin with "the 'I' or 'self' in isolation," as well as of the role that Christianity played in the rise of individualism and egotistical withdrawal from communal life within modern society. But I think they make a mistake by neglecting the revolutionary spirit embedded within the New Testament.

12/3/16

I started reading Etienne Gilson's God and Philosophy today and realized how a lot of philosophy goes over my head. Does God exist? What is God? What is existence? What is the nature of being? These are just some of the many questions that the philosopher seeks to answer. But what can I really say about God or existence or the nature of being? I have a hard enough time grasping my own existence let alone that of God or the nature of reality itself. There's nothing I can say that will be of any help to anyone. I could never do the subject justice. But then there's Jesus.

Whenever I find myself stuck on an intellectual problem, I turn back to the story of Jesus, because I really like Jesus. I can relate to Jesus and feel like I understand him. Jesus is a child of God, as we all are in a way; and as the divine archetype, he embodies everything that we share with God. The thing I like most about Jesus, though, is that his message is simple and he teaches it by example: Love God with all your heart, soul, and mind; and love your neighbor as yourself (Mk 12:30-31). As St. Paul says, "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); and Jesus, out of love, helps all who come to him and ask.

It's not their asking that's important, it's his acting out of love. Jesus makes no distinction in who he helps, even those who were considered unclean and sinful. If they ask, he helps. But he also gets angry at greed, corruption, and the empty and often haughty words of hypocrites, because he saw with piercing clarity that it's the quality of one's heart and intentions that make them clean or unclean, pious or truly sinful. A person who acts out of kindness and love, even if they transgress this law or that, is clean. And one who is truly sorrowful and repentant for a wrongdoing they've committed is infinitely holier than one who refrains from outward acts of sin and harmfulness but has a heart full of anger, hatred, malice, or greed. When criticized for his followers' lack of ritual hand washing before eating, he says to his followers, "Are even you still without understanding? Do you not realize that everything that enters the mouth passes into the stomach and is expelled into the latrine? But the things that come out of the mouth come from the heart, and they defile" (Mt 15:16-18). Hence he forgives the adulterer and heals the untouchables and eats with those who have unsavory occupations in the eyes of the religious authorities of his day, and he drives the money changers out of the temple with a whip.

The story of Jesus is ultimately the story of how to be closer to God. It's a story in which one person's life shines forth like a light in the darkness and cuts through the Gordian Knot of intellectual paradoxes and religious dogmas to get at the heart of the matter: the best way to get closer to God is through relationships. God is one but is paradoxically expressed as a trinity, three 'persons,' because I think it reflects the relational nature of existence. We relate to God by relating to one another. We love God by loving one another. And we serve God by serving one another. In the gospels, John says that "God is love" (John 4:8), so in a way we can say love is our first principle, and that loving one another is the only philosophical system we really need. Of course, that's easier said than done. It's easier to do in the abstract, but not so easy face to face in a seemingly chaotic and cruel world, where one class or group of people always seems to oppress another. Where things like poverty, illness, addiction, and abuse make some people difficult to love, let alone help or even be around.

Even Jesus faced criticism, abuse, and ultimately even death on the cross following this path; and that reflects our own challenges in choosing to follow his example. It's not always an easy path to follow. But I think Jesus would agree with the sentiment behind Marx's famous line, "The philosophers have only interpreted the world, in various ways. The point, however, is to change it" (Theses on Feuerbach).

4/10/16

Last night's bonfire reconciliation service was one of the most moving experiences of my life. Gathered around the fire pit in the dying light of the setting sun, we placed a lit candle around the fire one by one, either in silence or while sharing what was on our hearts and minds, confessing our faults and failing as well as our desires to be better people. Many were moved to tears, their own hearts pierced by the pain and hope of others as much as by the love and support each of us offered in return.

When it was my turn to place my candle around the fire, I shared with everyone that I'm going through a difficult time, that I've been depressed and lost and so self-absorbed in my own pain that I've neglected those closest to me. And I shared my hope that I can start to pick up the pieces and heal myself somehow and be more considerate, loving, and kind to the people around me, especially those who I'm unintentionally hurting with my self-destructive behaviour.

There's a line from Leonard Cohen's "Anthem" that Fr. Michael likes to use: "There is a crack in everything / That's how the light gets in." He said that those cracks are where we're broken, and yet, it's those very same cracks that can make the world a brighter place if we work on them. And in the darkness of that night, the world felt just a little bit brighter.

3/15/16

I went to my first reconciliation service today, which wasn't quite what I'd expected. I find many religious rituals interesting, and see in them a social dynamic that I think explains their continued popularity and relevance in an increasingly secularized world. Take the sacrament of reconciliation, for example. Despite how most people view it, the sacrament itself isn't meant to appease some vengeful deity (especially if one believes that God is love and mercy). Rather, it's meant to help us heal ourselves and our relationships with one another. And how do we do that? We start by admitting the mistakes we've made and the areas where we fall short and endeavour to do better. It's not meant to be some kind of magical sin-sponge that sucks up all the selfish and lustful and harmful and deluded things we've done, but an honest reflection of who we are and who we want to be. And the expectation of this particular sacrament is that we're willing to do something about it, that we're willing to try to make amends and live a more compassionate and skillful life, which in turn we do by following the example of spiritual teachers like Jesus, who make a point to illustrate our interdependent nature. This idea might be a little out there, but I think the act of confession, while having a more religious connotation, is a universal compulsion among most human beings given our social nature. Fr. Michael once said something to the effect that, we sin because we suffer. And that got me thinking that perhaps the root of sin is this suffering, and in particular, the suffering that arises from holding onto what we can't admit to. Expose this root, and it withers away. And to confess, to freely share this difficult thing, this source of anger or shame or whatever it causes us to feel, is to expose the root, which thrives in darkness, into the light of awareness, freeing us from its hold and the shame we feel. In this way, then, the act of confession, of saying out loud what we often can't even bear to think, is salvific. But rather than being saved from the fires of hell, we're saved from the fires of our own shame and self-loathing.

3/1/16

Sunday, Annie and I went hiking at Smith Rock on a weekend getaway for our twelve year anniversary. Smith Rock is a beautiful cathedral of peaks and cliffs in the midst of central Oregon's desert plains. As it happened, the first reading at church that morning was the passage from Exodus where Moses goes up the mountain and hears the voice of God. Many ancient peoples from around the world held mountains to be sacred places, and standing upon the summit of Smith Rock, I could easily understand why. In that quiet and solitude, surveying the natural beauty of the landscape surrounding me as far as the eye could see, I felt at once both insignificant and the centre of the universe. And in that moment, I felt so overwhelmingly thankful for everyone and everything in my life and wanted to share that feeling with everyone I knew. But the feeling faded once I was back home and separated from the conditions that gave rise to it; and the question that I now find myself faced with is, How can I cultivate that same kind of feeling in my day-to-day life?