Both Ajahn Amaro and Ajahn Pasanno were at Portland Friends of the Dhamma tonight leading the Friday meditation and Dhamma talk. It was Ajahn Amaro's first visit to PFoD's new centre, and my second time seeing him.
The first time I saw Ajahn Amaro was about eight years ago on Magha Puja, the day tradition holds that 1,250 arahants spontaneously gathered at Veruvana Temple, Rajgarh city. It was a pretty amazing experience, and I still remember it fondly. This time around, the circumstances were less unexpected, but they were no less meaningful.
After tea and some casual discussion, we all requested the refuges and precepts, and Ajahn Pasanno gave a short talk before meditation about the precepts and what we're taking refuge in: the Buddha, who personifies the qualities of awareness, wisdom, compassion, and purity; the Dhamma, which is the nature of truth, the nature of reality; and the Sangha, the realization of that nature, and the arising of those qualities within us.
My meditation was better than I expected from not having done much since the retreat at the end of September, and the talk helped. Instead of taking refuge in my daydreams or complaining mind, I attempted to take refuge in awareness. Whatever came up, I tried not to grasp it and get carried away by it, but simply stay grounded in the present moment. Afterwards, Ajahn Amaro gave the Dhamma talk, which mainly focused on the nature of things as they are, using the five subjects of frequent reflection as a foundation.
A few of the things that stood out to me during the night were: the precepts seem restrictive, but they're meant to free the heart; we take refuge in things that are insecure, courting disappointment; all things are nature, Dhamma, and wisdom or enlightenment is waking up to that nature—you don't gain anything, you simply realize what's already there; if you don't own anything (through non-clinging and the cessation of self-identification, not in a conventional sense), then you have nothing to lose or to cause you suffering.
Both Ajahn Amaro and Ajahn Pasanno are inspiring teachers, and it was wonderful having them here tonight. I'm so fortunate to be here, now, in this place and have the opportunity to be near so many wise spiritual teachers in this tradition.
Friday, October 17, 2014
Thursday, October 16, 2014
10/16/14
Yesterday's B- group was in many ways a continuation of the last meeting, with many of the same topics being revisited: evangelism, the Eucharist, etc. Fr. Michael started off by giving everyone a handout of one of Richard Rohr's daily meditations titled "The Gate of Heaven is Everywhere: The Infinite in the Finite," which I rather liked:
He then offered some of his thoughts about the Eucharist and its meaning. For example, he repeated something he said last time about the Eucharist not simply being a prize to be handed out, but the food we eat to be healed, i.e., it's ultimately a rite of reconciliation. He also gave some background to the Eucharist, saying that the Last Supper took place on Passover, a Jewish holiday where bread was blessed, broken, and shared in commemoration and remembrance of going from slavery to freedom. But to celebrate the 'new covenant' between God and humanity, Jesus told his disciples to do this in remembrance of him, the 'passover' of his death and resurrection, the connection of the finite and the infinite.
Fr. Michael stressed the importance of remembrance for the Jewish people, which for them was dynamic, about making the past present. It brought to mind the importance of mindfulness in Buddhism. Sati, the Pali word that's often translated as mindfulness, basically means to keep something in mind. Mindfulness is arguably the cornerstone of the Buddhist path of practice, the noble eightfold path.
This led into a discussion about the celebration of mass, which Fr. Michael said was something to be participated in, not just watched. He said that over time, the mass got so loaded with things that it became more something to be watched than a communal activity, which is one of the reasons they changed things during Vatican II. Ideally, communion should be 'stunningly simple,' a celebration of the mysteries of life and the wonder and awe all around us, where the finite and infinite consociate. The Eucharist, then, is both the source and summit of the Christian spiritual practice, and is akin to an awakening experience, removing our blindness to "the naked now that God always inhabits."
I still find it rather difficult to believe that God literally becomes manifest, in the flesh, in bread and wine. But thinking about it in this way — that there's a divine nature in everything, and that the physical is the doorway to the spiritual — I find it easier to understand: we all have a divine nature within us; and through the mystery of the Eucharist, the finite manifesting the infinite, our divine nature becomes one (reunites?) with the divine nature underlying all things. Communion as a contemplative act.
From that perspective, the idea that God became human in order to show us how to unite with that divine nature doesn't seem so crazy to me. What Rohr says, at any rate, about the finite manifesting the infinite, the physical being the doorway to the spiritual, time opening you up to the timeless, space opening you up to spacelessness, etc. reminds me of the Buddha's words to Rohitassa in AN 4.45:
The conversation then shifted towards the need for synthesis between the teaching side and pastoral side of the church. Fr. Michael mentioned the recent interview of a cardinal who, when asked about the current synod, said that he thought the teaching and pastoral sides of the church are moving closer together. He also touched upon the idea of graduality that's emerged.
Graduality is basically an extension of the idea that conversion (coming closer to God, realizing the divine nature) is an ongoing process, that the spiritual life is also a spiritual journey. In that sense, graduality refers to the practical side of the spiritual life, the 'how to' if you will. There's a similar idea in Buddhism, that of "a gradual training, a gradual performance, a gradual practice, with a penetration to gnosis only after a long stretch" (Ud 5.5). From the Christian standpoint, the divine is everywhere; and our participation in the Eucharist helps us to become more awake, more aware of that divine indwelling.
I find it rather similar to the Mahayanin idea of buddha-nature, in fact. Buddha-nature, like the divine indwelling of God within us, isn't something we create or gain through our development of moral conduct and contemplation, it's something we wake up to that's always there in the present moment, "where God in every moment is perfectly hidden and at the same time perfectly revealed." Buddhism achieves this, in part, by stressing the non-selfness of conditioned phenomena (i.e., the aggregates), while Christianity does so through the similar idea of 'dying to self' (e.g., see In the Spirit of Happiness, The Monks of New Skete, p. 86).
The more I explore Christianity, the more I'm coming to see that, although there's a deeply devotional aspect to it, there's an equally deep and rich contemplative side to it as well. And it's the latter I'm principally drawn towards. I read this in Merton's The Sign of Jonas today and found it exceptionally relevant:
Francis of Assisi knew that if you can accept that the finite manifests the infinite, and that the physical is the doorway to the spiritual (which is the foundational principle we call "incarnation"), then all you need is right here and right now—in this world. This is the way to that! Heaven includes earth. Time opens you up to the timeless, space opens you up to spacelessness, if you only recognize them as the clear doorways that they are.
There are not sacred and profane things, places, and moments. There are only sacred and desecrated things, places, and moments—and it is we alone who desecrate them by our blindness and lack of reverence. It is one sacred universe, and we are all a part of it. The Christ Mystery refuses to be vague or abstract, and it is always concrete and specific. When we stay with these daily apparitions, we see that everything is a revelation of the divine—from rocks to rocket ships. Our only blindness is our own lack of fascination, humility, curiosity, awe. The only thing needed is a willingness to surrender to the naked now which God always inhabits, where the incarnation is always taking place and always mysterious, where God in every moment is perfectly hidden and at the same time perfectly revealed. Hold that paradox together. Those who have eyes to see can allow both to be true.
He then offered some of his thoughts about the Eucharist and its meaning. For example, he repeated something he said last time about the Eucharist not simply being a prize to be handed out, but the food we eat to be healed, i.e., it's ultimately a rite of reconciliation. He also gave some background to the Eucharist, saying that the Last Supper took place on Passover, a Jewish holiday where bread was blessed, broken, and shared in commemoration and remembrance of going from slavery to freedom. But to celebrate the 'new covenant' between God and humanity, Jesus told his disciples to do this in remembrance of him, the 'passover' of his death and resurrection, the connection of the finite and the infinite.
Fr. Michael stressed the importance of remembrance for the Jewish people, which for them was dynamic, about making the past present. It brought to mind the importance of mindfulness in Buddhism. Sati, the Pali word that's often translated as mindfulness, basically means to keep something in mind. Mindfulness is arguably the cornerstone of the Buddhist path of practice, the noble eightfold path.
This led into a discussion about the celebration of mass, which Fr. Michael said was something to be participated in, not just watched. He said that over time, the mass got so loaded with things that it became more something to be watched than a communal activity, which is one of the reasons they changed things during Vatican II. Ideally, communion should be 'stunningly simple,' a celebration of the mysteries of life and the wonder and awe all around us, where the finite and infinite consociate. The Eucharist, then, is both the source and summit of the Christian spiritual practice, and is akin to an awakening experience, removing our blindness to "the naked now that God always inhabits."
I still find it rather difficult to believe that God literally becomes manifest, in the flesh, in bread and wine. But thinking about it in this way — that there's a divine nature in everything, and that the physical is the doorway to the spiritual — I find it easier to understand: we all have a divine nature within us; and through the mystery of the Eucharist, the finite manifesting the infinite, our divine nature becomes one (reunites?) with the divine nature underlying all things. Communion as a contemplative act.
From that perspective, the idea that God became human in order to show us how to unite with that divine nature doesn't seem so crazy to me. What Rohr says, at any rate, about the finite manifesting the infinite, the physical being the doorway to the spiritual, time opening you up to the timeless, space opening you up to spacelessness, etc. reminds me of the Buddha's words to Rohitassa in AN 4.45:
I tell you, friend, that it is not possible by traveling to know or see or reach a far end of the cosmos [a metaphor for the five aggregates, the six sense spheres, and/or the internal world of fabricated experience] where one does not take birth, age, die, pass away, or reappear [i.e., attain the deathless]. But at the same time, I tell you that there is no making an end of suffering & stress without reaching the end of the cosmos. Yet it is just within this fathom-long body, with its perception & intellect, that I declare that there is the cosmos, the origination of the cosmos, the cessation of the cosmos, and the path of practice leading to the cessation of the cosmos.
The conversation then shifted towards the need for synthesis between the teaching side and pastoral side of the church. Fr. Michael mentioned the recent interview of a cardinal who, when asked about the current synod, said that he thought the teaching and pastoral sides of the church are moving closer together. He also touched upon the idea of graduality that's emerged.
Graduality is basically an extension of the idea that conversion (coming closer to God, realizing the divine nature) is an ongoing process, that the spiritual life is also a spiritual journey. In that sense, graduality refers to the practical side of the spiritual life, the 'how to' if you will. There's a similar idea in Buddhism, that of "a gradual training, a gradual performance, a gradual practice, with a penetration to gnosis only after a long stretch" (Ud 5.5). From the Christian standpoint, the divine is everywhere; and our participation in the Eucharist helps us to become more awake, more aware of that divine indwelling.
I find it rather similar to the Mahayanin idea of buddha-nature, in fact. Buddha-nature, like the divine indwelling of God within us, isn't something we create or gain through our development of moral conduct and contemplation, it's something we wake up to that's always there in the present moment, "where God in every moment is perfectly hidden and at the same time perfectly revealed." Buddhism achieves this, in part, by stressing the non-selfness of conditioned phenomena (i.e., the aggregates), while Christianity does so through the similar idea of 'dying to self' (e.g., see In the Spirit of Happiness, The Monks of New Skete, p. 86).
The more I explore Christianity, the more I'm coming to see that, although there's a deeply devotional aspect to it, there's an equally deep and rich contemplative side to it as well. And it's the latter I'm principally drawn towards. I read this in Merton's The Sign of Jonas today and found it exceptionally relevant:
[Quoting from a letter he received from Dom Porion]: "Most people find their balance in doing, in creating something, mere contemplative life requires a special grace—and a special fidelity. It requires a ripeness too, a maturity of soul which is not often to be met (with)in converts. ... But to contemplate in the first meaning of the word; to look directly at God and keep quiet—calm and purity being at once the condition and consequence of the vision—this indeed seems to me the true life, the life everlasting we are made for. The modern world seems to fly from that ideal: but I am convinced that mankind in the end will find again the way of contemplation—nature and surnature, in their deepest, leading to this divine joy." (176)
Sunday, October 12, 2014
10/12/14
Even before I got seriously interested in Christianity, I occasionally liked going to church on Sunday, usually to a Catholic or Orthodox church whenever the mood struck. I liked the atmosphere and the ritual. But I really enjoy going now and go almost every week. I feel like I'm getting more out of it, too.
There are probably a lot of reasons why, but I think a big part of that is because I'm becoming more involved with the community, which is something new for me. Whenever I had the urge to go before, I always resisted getting too close, getting too involved with the community, because I never quite felt like I belonged. But I don't feel that way anymore. I feel like everyone belongs, including me. And during mass, Fr. Michael gave the homily based on today's reading from Matthew, the parable of the wedding feast, that really brought that home.
In the parable, Jesus compares the kingdom of heaven to a king who gives a wedding feast for his son. The kingdom of heaven, like in Isaiah 25:6-10, is likened to rich abundance. But none of the invited guests come when sent for, and some even kill the servants sent by the king to invite them. The king, in a rage, sends out his soldiers to punish those who murdered his servants.
The king then says, "The feast is ready, but those who were invited were not worthy to come. Go out, therefore, into the main roads and invite to the feast whomever you find." Everyone they find, good and bad alike, are brought, illustrating the universality of the invitation to share in this rich abundance. But one of the people they bring isn't wearing a wedding garment, and the king, seeing this, asks why. The person is reduced to silence and doesn't answer, so the king has them bound and thrown outside into the darkness, where "there will be wailing and grinding of teeth."
Fr. Michael took the opportunity to focus on the invitation in his homily, how everyone the servants encountered on the road was invited. Although one of the guests gets thrown out for not wearing a wedding garment, which might represent Matthew's Jewish audience who rejected Jesus' message and/or those who lack good deeds (curiously this part doesn't appear in Luke's version), Fr. Michael half-jokingly mused that maybe part of the parable was missing—that he always pictures Jesus going outside and talking to the man to find out why. Maybe he just felt unworthy.
He said that a lot of people who don't come to church might not do so because they feel unworthy or unwelcome, and it's really up to the community to invite them in, to reach out and welcome them as they are into the community and share with them everything the community has to offer. Jesus' message was a universal and deeply social one; and it's in our interactions with one another that we're able to see the divine nature reflected in one another and can actually carry out that message of love, forgiveness, and reconciliation.
It's that personal invitation which makes all the difference. Fr. Michael brought up the invitation John receives from Jesus to 'come and see,' which he said is the kind of invitation we need to offer others as well. Non-threatening and with no strings attached, just an invitation to 'come and see,' much like how the Buddha invited those to come and see (ehipassiko) the Dhamma for themselves. What he said reminded me of the first time I went to St. Philip Neri and how kind and welcoming Dorothy was. It was mainly because of her that I came back.
In essence, it's all about the people. We're not being called to simply invite people into a particular building, although that may be part of it. We're being called to invite people into our hearts, into our spiritual community, and to follow Jesus' commandment to love one another, being forgiving rather than judgmental, kind rather than hardhearted.
Before the service, I spoke to Fr. Michael and he said that he wished he had a better homily, but I thought it was quite good. At least it did for me what I think he hoped it would for everyone there, to make them feel welcome at St. Philip, and to inspire them to go out and connect with other people in the same way.
There are probably a lot of reasons why, but I think a big part of that is because I'm becoming more involved with the community, which is something new for me. Whenever I had the urge to go before, I always resisted getting too close, getting too involved with the community, because I never quite felt like I belonged. But I don't feel that way anymore. I feel like everyone belongs, including me. And during mass, Fr. Michael gave the homily based on today's reading from Matthew, the parable of the wedding feast, that really brought that home.
In the parable, Jesus compares the kingdom of heaven to a king who gives a wedding feast for his son. The kingdom of heaven, like in Isaiah 25:6-10, is likened to rich abundance. But none of the invited guests come when sent for, and some even kill the servants sent by the king to invite them. The king, in a rage, sends out his soldiers to punish those who murdered his servants.
The king then says, "The feast is ready, but those who were invited were not worthy to come. Go out, therefore, into the main roads and invite to the feast whomever you find." Everyone they find, good and bad alike, are brought, illustrating the universality of the invitation to share in this rich abundance. But one of the people they bring isn't wearing a wedding garment, and the king, seeing this, asks why. The person is reduced to silence and doesn't answer, so the king has them bound and thrown outside into the darkness, where "there will be wailing and grinding of teeth."
Fr. Michael took the opportunity to focus on the invitation in his homily, how everyone the servants encountered on the road was invited. Although one of the guests gets thrown out for not wearing a wedding garment, which might represent Matthew's Jewish audience who rejected Jesus' message and/or those who lack good deeds (curiously this part doesn't appear in Luke's version), Fr. Michael half-jokingly mused that maybe part of the parable was missing—that he always pictures Jesus going outside and talking to the man to find out why. Maybe he just felt unworthy.
He said that a lot of people who don't come to church might not do so because they feel unworthy or unwelcome, and it's really up to the community to invite them in, to reach out and welcome them as they are into the community and share with them everything the community has to offer. Jesus' message was a universal and deeply social one; and it's in our interactions with one another that we're able to see the divine nature reflected in one another and can actually carry out that message of love, forgiveness, and reconciliation.
It's that personal invitation which makes all the difference. Fr. Michael brought up the invitation John receives from Jesus to 'come and see,' which he said is the kind of invitation we need to offer others as well. Non-threatening and with no strings attached, just an invitation to 'come and see,' much like how the Buddha invited those to come and see (ehipassiko) the Dhamma for themselves. What he said reminded me of the first time I went to St. Philip Neri and how kind and welcoming Dorothy was. It was mainly because of her that I came back.
In essence, it's all about the people. We're not being called to simply invite people into a particular building, although that may be part of it. We're being called to invite people into our hearts, into our spiritual community, and to follow Jesus' commandment to love one another, being forgiving rather than judgmental, kind rather than hardhearted.
Before the service, I spoke to Fr. Michael and he said that he wished he had a better homily, but I thought it was quite good. At least it did for me what I think he hoped it would for everyone there, to make them feel welcome at St. Philip, and to inspire them to go out and connect with other people in the same way.
Saturday, October 11, 2014
10/11/14
I've become rather cynical as of late when it comes to politics and religion.
I see, for example, the problems that we're facing as a society, problems that stem in large part from the way our society is currently structured, and I instinctively want to fix them. But the solutions that I see are rejected by most as being too radical, utopian etc., and I can't seem to convince anyone to see things any differently, as if the status quo hasn't been consistently creating the conditions for systemic inequality and catastrophic global climate change for centuries. Whatever I do or say, I feel like Sisyphus, rolling a boulder up a hill just to watch it roll back down again.
The majority of people seem to be politically apathetic; and the majority of those who aren't seem to be satisfied with lesser evilism. And don't get me started on the sectarian triumphalism of political parties that, in my opinion, sell a lot of snake oil to the faithful, but fail to do much of anything that's truly efficacious and for the good of all, dividing people more than uniting them in common cause. And much like in the realm of political parties, I think the sectarian triumphalism of religious institutions is guilty of the same when it comes to spirituality.
Individually, there are a lot of good people and groups out there doing a lot of good things in the world; but collectively, on the macro level, I don't see quite the same—I see conflict, division, and shortsightedness where it really counts. It's especially apparent to me after spending time at a monastery; when I come back to the 'worldly life,' the ways we live, the things we think are important, etc., seem so crazy in contrast. It's like as a society, we're ill; but we don't think we're ill, and we childishly fight against most of the things that can potentially make us healthier. The sanest and happiest people I know seem to be the ones who have renounced the world.
I don't know. I think I'm at least understanding the inner motives of hermits.
I see, for example, the problems that we're facing as a society, problems that stem in large part from the way our society is currently structured, and I instinctively want to fix them. But the solutions that I see are rejected by most as being too radical, utopian etc., and I can't seem to convince anyone to see things any differently, as if the status quo hasn't been consistently creating the conditions for systemic inequality and catastrophic global climate change for centuries. Whatever I do or say, I feel like Sisyphus, rolling a boulder up a hill just to watch it roll back down again.
The majority of people seem to be politically apathetic; and the majority of those who aren't seem to be satisfied with lesser evilism. And don't get me started on the sectarian triumphalism of political parties that, in my opinion, sell a lot of snake oil to the faithful, but fail to do much of anything that's truly efficacious and for the good of all, dividing people more than uniting them in common cause. And much like in the realm of political parties, I think the sectarian triumphalism of religious institutions is guilty of the same when it comes to spirituality.
Individually, there are a lot of good people and groups out there doing a lot of good things in the world; but collectively, on the macro level, I don't see quite the same—I see conflict, division, and shortsightedness where it really counts. It's especially apparent to me after spending time at a monastery; when I come back to the 'worldly life,' the ways we live, the things we think are important, etc., seem so crazy in contrast. It's like as a society, we're ill; but we don't think we're ill, and we childishly fight against most of the things that can potentially make us healthier. The sanest and happiest people I know seem to be the ones who have renounced the world.
I don't know. I think I'm at least understanding the inner motives of hermits.
Thursday, October 9, 2014
10/9/14 (a new found appreciation)
I was looking through some old posts of mine today, and came across this one from just over four years ago, dated 10/7/10, when I really started to develop my appreciation for Christianity:
It's interesting to see where I was then compared to now. I think I did revert to my critical ways for a time; but I've since come back around with a new appreciation, along with some new experiences, and I'm looking forward to seeing where this journey will take me next.
Admittedly, I've been fairly critical of Christianity as an institution for most of my life, not to mention certain scriptural passages that are, in my eyes, less than divine. And yet, I find myself coming to appreciate Christianity, and Orthodox Christianity in particular, as an extension of the ancient Greek mystery religions mixed with a bit of Eastern mysticism; although much of its 'mystery' seems to have been lost on many of its adherents.
My appreciation began after reading an interview with Archimandrite Dionysios, and discovering that Gregory Palamas is said to have constantly prayed: "Enlighten my darkness." It also struck me how Hesychastic prayer bears a superficial resemblance with Buddhist meditation, e.g., specific body postures, deliberate breathing patterns, acquiring an inner stillness, sense restraint, etc. It was years ago, however, and my appreciation quickly faded; but it was recently rekindled by my reading of Plato's Republic, as well as other of his dialogues, and a conversation I had at a local Greek Orthodox church.
While I practice Buddhism and am interested in things like philosophy and religion in general, I'm a very skeptical and secular person by nature. I have a hard time seeing into what some call 'the realm of the divine' — i.e., Plato's realm of forms, Spinoza's absolute substance, Buddhism's unconditioned reality — and I regularly doubt that such a realm even exists, but my recent readings of Plato have at least piqued my interest in trying. And talking with my kind guide at Holy Trinity last weekend during the annual Greek festival got me thinking about Christianity in a whole new way.
Seeking to explore this subject more, I decided to ask Simon, my long-time kalyana-mitta (admirable friend) from newbuddhist.com, to explain to me his views regarding the "excellence of the synthesis of the messages and practices" of Buddhism and Christianity. After receiving a brief message saying that it may take a day or two for him to condense his views for me, I was delighted to find this reply later in the day:
Despite what I said about taking time to reply, I reflected on this over my latte and toast in the autumn sun while in town and have put together a preliminary outline for your consideration. As you have been speaking to Orthodox Christians, you might like to consider the Christos Pantocrator with what I say about creative sunyatta.
I would add (because these first lines are written after the rest) that a fundamental principle, on which all rests, is that 'revelation' does not stop, either with the Buddha's death or with that of Saint Paul, but that we can inform our understanding across the ages.
First of all, I must stress that I do not imagine that I have a complete or, even, a completely coherent account. The fact is that I see humanity as progressing towards a more perfect understanding and we, you and I at this time and in this place, are within the process, the work in progress (see Note below). A synthesis will require the total transformation of all the elements, resulting in something new and, probably, very alien to our present thinking. This, for me, is the meaning of Jesus' saying about the grain of wheat that must fall to the ground and 'die' before it can grow. My personal image is that of the caterpillar, the pupa and the butterfly. Just as the individual ego resists the apparent death of awakening, so bodies of belief like faiths and religions resist their own 'transmogrification'.
This leads me to my second point, which is that I expect to find contradictions because those are the places where the most reflection is needed and where the energy of that meditative reflection is transformative. Do you know the poetry of George Herbert? One of his poems, which is now sung as a hymn, The Elixir
TEACH me, my God and King,
In all things Thee to see
The last two stanzas talk about "the famous stone/That turneth all to gold", the Philosophers' Stone of the alchemists taken as a metaphor for the Christ-inspired mind:
A servant with this clause
Makes drudgery divine :
Who sweeps a room as for Thy laws,
Makes that and th' action fine.
This is the famous stone
That turneth all to gold ;
For that which God doth touch and own
Cannot for less be told.
It is at the points of resistance that transformation occurs. Here, the poet Rilke and his attitude to praise for "the secateur and the rose" helped form my view.
Both you and I, I seem to remember, find inspiration in the Gospel of Thomas, which sometimes makes it hard to dialogue with those Christians who reject it as authentic or inspired, nevertheless, there are still enough hints in the canonical New Testament to point us to areas of the Way that Jesus taught that have tended to be overlooked or ignored in practice, and the same goes for the Buddhist sutras. These gaps are, to some extent, filled when both are brought together.
Here are some examples:
Jesus says that we are "deny our selves". This occurs in both the canonical and the Thomas gospels, although Thomas is closer to an 'Eastern' approach, an abandonment of ahamkara (the word McGregor Ross uses in his Thomas translations), of atman. The classical explanation is one of self-denial, of disciplining the senses but stops short of a denial of 'self'. I would argue that the Buddhist notion of the aggregates empowers the Christian's self denying practices, making it mindful of the deceit of the world that is often the subject of scripture. Here, as in other examples, Buddhist texts reveal a model of 'how' and Christian texts reveal outcome, particularly if we take the Teilhard view of the Cosmic Christ and the Omega Point. The thorny question of 'soul' must, in the end, be up to each one of us to decide for ourselves, if possible from our own experiences arising from practice or enlightenment.
Of course, there are challenges. By and large, Christians do not accept the notion of anatta as traditionally described and Buddhists object to a teleology or purposefulness other than personal. We have to go deeper.
Deeper brings us to sunyatta and kenosis and the mystery of creative emptiness. Much argument is wasted on whether or not there is a 'Creator', conceived along quasi-human lines. As I see it, Jesus reveals that there is compassion and caring which is behind and subtends all that is, from which all arises and into which all falls back, and that this parent-like caring is personal as well as ineffable. It is, if you like, the Buddha-nature (or indwelling Christ) of the universe.
Arising from the depths of mystery, a further example of creative interaction between Buddhism and Christianity is in the realm of social and politico-economic action. Buddhism, for too long, has tended towards a solipsistic approach, focusing on individual Awakening and ignoring political action. It is salutary to notice that Buddhists like Thich Nhat Hanh or Joanna Macy, along with His Holiness the Dalai Lama, coming to the Western tradition, have brought in an emphasis on 'good works', an area where Christians have been active for many centuries. Whereas there are excellent schools, hospitals and other 'guardian' institutions which were founded by and continue to be run by Christian groups across the ages, catering for all faiths and none, delivering services at the point of need, similar Buddhist institutions are few and far between - indeed, I can only think of hospices or animal sanctuaries. The abolition of slavery, too, is a further example.
From these few examples, you may be able to see why and how I developed, for myself, a 'hermeneutic', a way of reading scriptures and of seeing the world which rejects exclusivity of truth to any one theory or body of faith in favour of another: each brings something to the party. Often, however, I need to sit for a while with a contradiction or a 'knot' before I can penetrate the symbolism because I truly believe that we perceive shadows, as Plato taught in his Cave Myth, and it is up to us to spend the effort needed to understand what casts the shadows, the Reality behind apparent phenomena. In this, I recognise that I am in the mainstream of neither Buddhism, which can be seen as denying an ultimate Reality, and Christianity which ignores dependent origination.
This is already rather long but I hope it gives you some idea of how it all connects for me.
Note:
Years ago I came across a talk given at the World Council of Churches by an IT specialist priest who likened the unfolding universe to a computer program. Such a program, they said, who need to be answering a question and the question is there, in one of the creation stories in Genesis (1:26): "Let us create in our own image". Thus we are part of the (to us) long process by which Compassionate Creativity is achieving that goal. And why? The next (older) story gives us the clue: (2:18) "It is not good to be alone." Inherent in these texts are also the notions of relationship and interbeing.
A lot of what Simon wrote reminded me of what the amiable gentleman at the church said, especially regarding the notions of relationship and interbeing. For example, he said that in talking to me, he saw God. Not that I was God, but that there's something special, something divine, in our interactions with other people. This brought to mind one of the images of hell mentioned by the deacon in one of the church tours earlier in the day — that of being utterly alone — and I couldn't help but be reminded of the Buddha's words to his cousin, Ananda, in SN 45.2:
Admirable friendship, admirable companionship, admirable camaraderie is actually the whole of the holy life.
I also found it interesting that Simon mentioned the allegory of the cave from Plato's Republic since it's one of the things that helped motivate me to explore this subject in the first place. (I even wrote a blog post recently comparing what's in the Republic to many of the things the Buddha is recorded as saying in the Pali Canon.)
I'm not planning on converting to Christianity anytime soon; still, I do feel like I'm deepening my own practice and understanding of Buddhism simply by allowing myself to be open to these, for lack of a better word, mysteries. This is not only due to the works of Plato and my recent conversation at Holy Trinity, but to people like David Cooper (God is a Verb), Thomas Merton (Mystics and Zen Masters) and Simon who continually seek to find harmony between spiritual disciplines. Perhaps in time I'll go back to my old, critical ways, but for now, I'm enjoying this newfound appreciation of what devoted people of all religious disciplines have to offer.
It's interesting to see where I was then compared to now. I think I did revert to my critical ways for a time; but I've since come back around with a new appreciation, along with some new experiences, and I'm looking forward to seeing where this journey will take me next.
10/9/14
During yesterday's inquiry class, I was reminded of the way my friend sees God in his interactions with people via Barbara's comment that God tends to constantly throw us together so that we have to interact and share with one another. Then today, I read something in Thomas Merton's The Sign of Jonas that brought that to mind and for me really highlighted the deeply social nature of Christian spirituality:
I found it a wonderful expression of this same idea, i.e., of seeing God in our interactions with other people. I think this is important, maybe even the most important aspect of Christianity. I've been trying to see God throughout the day in my interactions with others. Unfortunately, I think my interactions with people have been so negative from my side that any potential sign of God is being buried in darkness.
I wish I knew how to be more patient and loving. I seem to get so easily irritated and caught up in my own negative moods that it overwhelms all the goodness in my heart and makes it hard for me to be receptive to all the goodness that's around me. I want so much to be a better person and to be a source of joy to those around me rather than a thorn in their side—to be able to truly love others as much as I love myself.
Christ recognizes Himself when the souls that possess His likeness in them by charity, recognize one another by some actual expression of His love in one another, and begin to praise Him and thank Him and move one another to greater love, in His joy. (150)
I found it a wonderful expression of this same idea, i.e., of seeing God in our interactions with other people. I think this is important, maybe even the most important aspect of Christianity. I've been trying to see God throughout the day in my interactions with others. Unfortunately, I think my interactions with people have been so negative from my side that any potential sign of God is being buried in darkness.
I wish I knew how to be more patient and loving. I seem to get so easily irritated and caught up in my own negative moods that it overwhelms all the goodness in my heart and makes it hard for me to be receptive to all the goodness that's around me. I want so much to be a better person and to be a source of joy to those around me rather than a thorn in their side—to be able to truly love others as much as I love myself.
Wednesday, October 8, 2014
10/8/14
The topic of today's inquiry class was pretty interesting: our image of God and what influences that image. Barbara began by asking us to think of some of the names of God we know. She then asked us to think of some attributes that we want God to have and to think of examples in our life where we might see that.
I had a hard time thinking of things besides the typical ones of love and compassion, which were some of the first things mentioned by others. One thing that I thought about was the present moment and the feelings of joy and happiness that I sometimes get when surrounded by solitude and quiet. When those feelings arise, the presentness of everything overwhelms me. But then I thought of the emptiness and loneliness I sometimes feel as well, which I suppose could reflect the absence of God. Or maybe both are God, the latter emptying myself of 'self' so that I can then be filled with the former.
The idea was basically to see how we all see God from different perspectives and how different experiences colour that perception. Using the Old Testament as an example, she pointed out how tribal life was tumultuous, and how God often takes on an angry or vengeful persona based upon the experiences of the ancient Israelites. They were trying to describe their experience of God in that context, and we have to take that into consideration.
It's something to think about, in my opinion. I think we tend to put God in a box, however we conceive the idea, and that picture is influenced by our experiences and biases, how we were raised, the things we've read, the ups and downs in our lives, etc. But the subject transcends whatever box we try to place it in. Our point of view is limited; but at the same time, we want to express how God appears to us in our lives.
Some of the ways she talked about God reminded me a bit of nibbana in the sense that God is something which is always there, and the more we allow our preconceived notions to fall away, the more we experience God. To me, it's similar to the idea that nibbana, the unconditioned, is always there, the experience of it simply being obscured by our clinging to views (think Nagarjuna) and our defilements of greed, hatred, and delusion.
As for myself, from past experiences with conservative Christians and a few unpleasant Bible passages, I've had a rather negative view of God as a fictional, angry, petty old man for a long, long time. But after things like talking to my Orthodox friend about the way he sees God in his interactions with people and reading things like In the Spirit of Happiness and parts of the Philokalia, I started to form a completely different picture.
I'm still not sure if there's a God, but I feel more drawn towards the idea than I ever have before. And the picture I have is growing bigger and more complex, yet simpler. My perspective is evolving. Sometimes I think about my interactions with people and I occasionally see them the same way my friend does. (Barbara said something similar about God constantly throwing us together.) Sometimes, in quiet and solitude, I think I feel what a lot of the mystics and contemplatives talk about. And I liked Barbara's definition of God as what draws us towards virtue.
Near the beginning of the class, they gave out copies of the New American translation of the Bible; at the end, Barbara gave us some homework: to ask ourselves every night, Where did I see God today? For me, I think it'll be an exercise in seeing goodness around me. "God doesn't work against himself." Look for the goodness.
I had a hard time thinking of things besides the typical ones of love and compassion, which were some of the first things mentioned by others. One thing that I thought about was the present moment and the feelings of joy and happiness that I sometimes get when surrounded by solitude and quiet. When those feelings arise, the presentness of everything overwhelms me. But then I thought of the emptiness and loneliness I sometimes feel as well, which I suppose could reflect the absence of God. Or maybe both are God, the latter emptying myself of 'self' so that I can then be filled with the former.
The idea was basically to see how we all see God from different perspectives and how different experiences colour that perception. Using the Old Testament as an example, she pointed out how tribal life was tumultuous, and how God often takes on an angry or vengeful persona based upon the experiences of the ancient Israelites. They were trying to describe their experience of God in that context, and we have to take that into consideration.
It's something to think about, in my opinion. I think we tend to put God in a box, however we conceive the idea, and that picture is influenced by our experiences and biases, how we were raised, the things we've read, the ups and downs in our lives, etc. But the subject transcends whatever box we try to place it in. Our point of view is limited; but at the same time, we want to express how God appears to us in our lives.
Some of the ways she talked about God reminded me a bit of nibbana in the sense that God is something which is always there, and the more we allow our preconceived notions to fall away, the more we experience God. To me, it's similar to the idea that nibbana, the unconditioned, is always there, the experience of it simply being obscured by our clinging to views (think Nagarjuna) and our defilements of greed, hatred, and delusion.
As for myself, from past experiences with conservative Christians and a few unpleasant Bible passages, I've had a rather negative view of God as a fictional, angry, petty old man for a long, long time. But after things like talking to my Orthodox friend about the way he sees God in his interactions with people and reading things like In the Spirit of Happiness and parts of the Philokalia, I started to form a completely different picture.
I'm still not sure if there's a God, but I feel more drawn towards the idea than I ever have before. And the picture I have is growing bigger and more complex, yet simpler. My perspective is evolving. Sometimes I think about my interactions with people and I occasionally see them the same way my friend does. (Barbara said something similar about God constantly throwing us together.) Sometimes, in quiet and solitude, I think I feel what a lot of the mystics and contemplatives talk about. And I liked Barbara's definition of God as what draws us towards virtue.
Near the beginning of the class, they gave out copies of the New American translation of the Bible; at the end, Barbara gave us some homework: to ask ourselves every night, Where did I see God today? For me, I think it'll be an exercise in seeing goodness around me. "God doesn't work against himself." Look for the goodness.
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