11/4/18

I'm a big fan of Thomas Merton's writing, and I think this quote from Faith and Violence is as relevant now as it was when he wrote it in 1968:

The real moral issue of violence in the twentieth century is obscured by archaic and mythical presuppositions. We tend to judge violence in the terms of the individual, the messy, the physically disturbing, the personally frightening. The violence we want to see restrained is the violence of the hood waiting for us in the subway or the elevator. That is reasonable, but it tends to influence us too much. It makes us think that the problem of violence is limited to this very small scale, and it makes us unable to appreciate the far greater problem of the more abstract, more global, more organized presence of violence on a massive and corporate pattern. Violence today is white-collar violence, the systematically organized bureaucratic and technological destruction of man.

The theology of violence must not lose sight of the real problem, which is not the individual with a revolver but death and even genocide as big business. But this big business of death is all the more innocent and effective because it involves a long chain to individuals, each of whom can feel himself absolved from responsibility, and each of whom can perhaps salve his conscience by contributing with a more meticulous efficiency to his part in the massive operation.

[...] Modern technological mass murder is not directly visible, like individual murder. It is abstract, corporate, businesslike, cool, free of guilt-feelings and therefore a thousand times more deadly and effective than the eruption of violence out of individual hate. It is this polite, massively organized white-collar murder machine that threatens the world with destruction, not the violence of a few desperate teen-agers in a slum. But our antiquated theology myopically focused on individual violence alone fails to see this.It shudders at the phantasm of muggings and killings where a mess is made on our own doorstep, but blesses and canonizes the antiseptic violence of corporately organized murder because it is respectable, efficient, clean, and above all profitable.

In contrast, he points towards a theology of love that must seek to deal with evil and injustice without compromising with them, and which "will have to take note of the ambiguous realities of politics, without embracing the specious myth of a 'realism' that merely justifies force in the service of established power." And more importantly, "Theology does not exist merely to appease the already too untroubled conscience of the powerful and the established. A theology of love may also conceivably turn out to be a theology of revolution. In any case, it is a theology of resistance, a refusal of the evil that reduces a brother to homicidal desperation."

9/11/18

I feel as if I'm lost within myself,
 and I'm lost without you.
I feel adrift in the sea of my own life,
 sailing aimlessly with no stars to guide me back
home.
Your heart feels so far away,
 and I'm searching the world for it,
  because its love is what gives mine
form.
Without it,
 I don't truly exist,
  like a nameless phantom or a distant memory in danger of being
forgotten.
Only you see me.
And if you turn away,
 I'm afraid I'll cease to exist.
Cast forever into the endless darkness,
 far from the light of your face.

9/9/18

I haven't written much in a while, mostly because I feel as if I've lost my voice. Part of it has to do with my personal life, my job, my relationship, and everything in between. I feel so busy these days, like I'm being stretched thin. At work, especially, I've been feeling overworked and underpaid for months. It seems like we're always constantly shorthanded and doing extra work, and I'm physically and mentally exhausted at the end of each day. And working every other weekend, I don't have the opportunity to go to church as often as I'd like. It's like my spiritual life has taken a backseat to everything else.

Speaking of church, another issue has been the unfolding sex scandals and cover-ups plaguing the Catholic Church, as well as the continued marginalization of women and progressive, young voices, and the entrenched clericalism that's frankly put me off of the whole thing. It's hard walking into a church wondering if the person saying mass is a good one, and worrying that if I give money, it's going to help support people doing bad things and covering it up or lobbying against laws making it easy for victims of predators to sue. I don't really trust any priest, and when your faith revolves around the Eucharist, it's a hard thing to get past. And if that wasn't enough, I'm confronted by Catholics wrapping their bigotry, disdain, and even hatred of others behind words like love, and it's just too much. I know some wonderful Catholics, but the institution itself seems rotten to the core.

As a result, I've been going to Catholic churches less and less, and visiting Lutheran churches more and more. At first, I was just out of curiosity and convenience. I wondered what their services were like, and there was one just a few blocks from my girlfriend's parents' house, so I visited and was surprised how similar it was to Catholic ones. Then I decided to check out one near my place, Central Lutheran, with a female pastor who I'd first met while volunteering at Pride a couple of years ago. The people are nice, the church is deeply involved in social justice work, and the pastor, Amanda Zentz-Alo, is really inspiring. She was one of the 21 clergy members arrested at an ICE protest in August (none of them Catholic). She also spoke out against the treatment of immigrant families at a rally I attended in June on behalf of the Interfaith Movement for Immigrant Justice.

I wish more members of the clergy were willing to do things like this and to lead their faith communities to take a stand with them. When I read about the things Jesus did and say, I'm often disappointed by those who represent him because it all seems so far removed from his example. But when I see people who don't just say some nice, safe words in their place of worship on Sunday but go out to other places, like the Keep Families Together rally, and say things that need to be said, and go to protests and put themselves in the middle of the struggle against oppression and injustice, I start to believe in the things Jesus did and said.

I really enjoyed going to Central Lutheran Church today. It was one of the best services I've ever been to. I wish every place in life was filled with the same spirit.

8/26/18

Visited Central Lutheran Church today (an active participant in the Interfaith Movement for Immigrant Justice), and they used the immigrant apostle's creed, which I really liked and thought I'd share:

I believe in Almighty God, who guided the people in exile and in exodus, the God of Joseph in Egypt and Daniel in Babylon, the God of foreigners and immigrants.

I believe in Jesus Christ, a displaced Galilean, who was born away from his people and his home, who fled his country with his parents when his life was in danger. When he returned to his own country he suffered under the oppression of Pontius Pilate, the servant of a foreign power. Jesus was persecuted, beaten, tortured, and unjustly condemned to death. But on the third day Jesus rose from the dead, not as a scorned foreigner but to offer us citizenship in God's kingdom.

I believe in the Holy Spirit, the eternal immigrant from God’s kingdom among us, who speaks all languages, lives in all countries, and reunites all races.

I believe that the Church is the secure home for foreigners and for all believers. I believe that the communion of saints begins when we embrace all God’s people in all their diversity.

I believe in forgiveness, which makes us all equal before God, and in reconciliation, which heals our brokenness. I believe that in the Resurrection God will unite us as one people in which all are distinct and all are alike at the same time. I believe in life eternal, in which no one will be foreigner but all will be citizens of the kingdom where God reigns forever and ever.

Amen.

It expresses the idea that we're all one people, and that we should tear down all of the superficial barriers separating us and causing us to harm one another out of fear, exploitation, and ignorance.

3/30/18

Today is Good Friday, the day that traditionally commemorates the death of Jesus. What does Jesus' death mean to people today, over 2,000 years later? We're told it means salvation, new life, peace. To be honest, it's a bit hard for me to understand what that supposedly means on a deep, theological level. But Jesus' death on the cross can also act as a template for our own lives. Jesus had a mission, to seek and to save what was lost (Luke 19:10). And when Jesus went out, he went out to teach, to heal, to feed, and to share God's love by loving others, which in itself is a radical thing. But his faith, his love, and his compassionate action were threatening to many, from those among the elite to even some among the common people. And they all eventually tried in their own way, whether out of fear, ignorance, misunderstanding, ill will, or attachment to tradition, to take away these treasures he possessed. But try as they may, he wouldn't give them up, even under the threat of death. He held tight to his faith, his love, and his compassion for all of humanity, all the way down to the least among us, and he willingly suffered death on the cross rather than lose them to fear, hatred, selfishness, and inaction. In essence, his life wasn't just about himself, it was ultimately about his relationship to others, to the whole world, and to God. His life was an example to us, a mandala, a living tapestry meant to inspire and hearten us. His life was like a lamp shining forth the bright light of hope into the future in order to guide us and help us not lose our way to the kingdom of heaven, that joyful world we wish to one day see, born out of love in action.

2/9/18

I don't want to jinx it, but I may have found a job at Providence Portland Medical Center as a cleaning attendant. My first day would be Feb. 26th if all goes well with the background check and drug screening process.

The hours aren't ideal, and I'd have to work more weekends than not; but I'd have a job paying a bit more than my last one. It's not a glamorous job, though, and it won't be easy. I'll be cleaning hospital rooms, common areas, and ORs. I'll be dealing with sick people and in regular contact with every bodily fluid imaginable on a daily basis. It's a little intimidating, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worried about on-the-job injuries and illnesses. But at the same time, I'd be doing something essential at a place designed to help people in need. And if I can approach it in the right way, it could help me to deepen my own personal spiritual practice.

If I do this job selfishly, only for myself and the money I'd get each payday, I'll most certainly suffer. It's hard work. It's dirty work. It's dangerous work at times. It's work that many might look down upon. And little about it will likely be enjoyable in and of itself. But if somehow I can find a way to do it with those I'm serving in mind, the people who come because they're sick or dying or visiting loved ones who are, and not allow my heart to be hardened by the work itself or the suffering around me, then the rewards I'll receive will be priceless.

We all share a common bond, a common nature, as humans; and in some ways, I think we've lost that connection to one another somewhere along the way. We get so wrapped up in our own lives and narratives that we lose the ability to love others as ourselves. It seems like a wonderful ideal, this selfless, reconciling love, but I don't think most of us actually think it's possible. But what if it is? What if all the great spiritual teachers throughout history are right?

To be able to develop an honest and healthy sense of humility, to intimately realize that nobody is beneath me, and to have the opportunity to serve those in need, are both things I desire greatly. I’m inspired by stories like that of the life of Francis of Assisi, who overcame his fear and self-centredness through acts of humility and charity in his own spiritual journey, caring for lepers and the poor out of love and compassion and being able to see in them the presence of God so easily obscured by their outward circumstances and our own spiritual blindness.

While I'm certainly no Francis of Assisi, I see in the story of his life an example of a path to inner peace and theosis, that experience of real and transformative union with divine nature that I think is open to all.

11/4/17

The idea of monastic life has always fascinated me, and I've often considered becoming a monk myself. Most people have trouble understanding why, but I realize that it's simply because many aren't called to such a life. What is a monk, anyway? To paraphrase Thomas Merton from The Silent Life, a monk is someone who's been called by something inside of themselves — whether you want to call that inner voice intuition, wisdom, or the holy spirit — to relinquish the cares, desires, and ambitions of everyday life and devote themselves to the search for truth. In one sense or another, they withdraw from 'the world' and give themselves over to a life of contemplation. Instead of looking outwardly for meaning and happiness, they turn to look within. Instead of taking refuge in material things or the ephemeral enjoyment found in the pursuit of worldly pleasures, they seek a deeper level of fulfillment based on an intangible yet infinitely more stable foundation—that which some call God, Dhamma, or Ground of Being. Their labour is ultimately a spiritual labour. Their vocation is one in which they seek to empty themselves of self in order to, paradoxically, become more full. To the average person, this kind of ascetic, self-denying lifestyle may sound crazy, even dangerous. But to the person called to such a life, it appears as an oasis in the desert. And I have to admit that I find myself increasingly drawn towards those still, deep, cooling, love-filled waters of the silent life.