Thanksgiving. It can be hard for many to appreciate the mindset of gratitude or thanksgiving when they're confronted by the history of the holiday itself. The mythologized celebration at Plymouth in 1621, for instance, belies the tragic fate of the indigenous peoples of the Americas that unfolded under colonialism, Manifest Destiny, the 19th century policy of native population removal, and countless broken treaties. And Lincoln's creation of a national day of "Thanksgiving and Praise to our beneficent Father who dwelleth in the Heavens" in 1863 was set within the bloody context of what many consider to be the deadliest war in American history, containing within it the hope of some future peace and harmony.
Today, it seems like it's more about food, football, and a prelude to the consumeristic orgy of Black Friday than a recollection of all the things that we're grateful for, mythologized or not. At least that's how it seems to me. But the idea of gratitude itself is something I've grown to appreciate. My life hasn't always been the best, and I haven't always been the best person; but there are numerous people and things I find myself grateful for if I reflect on it, yet I find that I rarely seem to have the time or mindfulness to cultivate that sense of gratitude and appreciation. It's not really a priority in our culture, and it's an easy thing for us to overlook. I'm reminded of the Buddha's words in AN 2.118: "These two people are hard to find in the world. Which two? The one who is first to do a kindness, and the one who is grateful and thankful for a kindness done."
The world can be a harsh and lonely place sometimes, and there are so many people I'm thankful for, too many to list. I just feel terribly grateful at this moment for the many acts and words of kindness given to me over the years. I'm especially grateful for the people who have helped me expand my knowledge over the years, so that I'm not only aware of the somber history that my high school textbooks completely glossed over but my own agency in fighting to change things and right past wrongs. And I'm also grateful for the many people who have entered my life and made it one worth living, including those who sent me such kind messages today.
Thursday, November 28, 2019
Sunday, September 22, 2019
9/22/19
My first time back at church in what seems like ages, and this was today's reading (because of course it was):
I've always liked that last line. It's simple, direct, and hits you pretty hard when you really let it sink in. If you serve wealth, you don't serve God and everything that word represents (think principles rather than persons). And it seems to me the world is such that we're all but forced to serve the latter whether we want to or not. We spend most of our time during most of our days serving the whims of capital/wealth, using our labour to create the wealth that we, in turn, receive only a small portion of in order to live. Our entire economic system revolves around this process, the creation of profit being the summum bonum of capitalism.
It's not even really out of greed that we do so but logical necessity. The system compels us to do so, just as a master compels their servant, under threat of punishment, violence, and privation. If money isn't constantly turned into more money, the system stalls and people lose their means of survival. And this system influences our ethics and behaviour, how we treat one another within this competitive arena, by setting the stage for our relations on the most fundamental level, that of the means by which we materially reproduce society.
It also seems clear to me that, if we want to serve God, which to me represents love, charity, compassion, and a more just and equal world (i.e., the kingdom of God in which "some are last who will be first, and some are first who will be last"), then we have to find a way to create a world with less exploitation and competition, less greed and consumerism, a world characterized by the sharing of wealth and opportunity and by cooperation. And to achieve that, we need a new socio-economic system, a new ground of being for our material lives that can in turn nurture our hearts and minds.
Religion isn't something we necessarily need to achieve this. But religion, if it's to be of any use to anyone but the rich and powerful, should be inspiring and radical. It should compel us to be better, to break our shackles and the shackles of those around us. It should compel us to turn away from the things that deaden our spirits and lead us to turn a blind eye towards the suffering of others. And above all, it should be something that stokes the spiritual fires of our heart and fans the flames of love, charity, compassion, and justice.
That's why I enjoy visiting communities like Central Lutheran Church. Communities that truly seek to serve something other than wealth. Communities that speak out against our harmful treatment of the environment and of other people. Communities that acknowledge oppression and seek to educate the oppressors and liberate the oppressed. Communities that care about one another and seek to make a difference in a world far too subservient to the whims of wealth. They inspire me to have hope when things feel hopeless.
Today, for example, their confessional prayer at the beginning invoked our treatment of the environment and the looming ecological crisis and extinctions that has resulted from our greed, negligence, and mismanagement. They used a Native American version of the Lord's Prayer written by Hattie Corbett Enos, a member of the Nez Perce. At the suggestion of nonwhite members of the community, the pastor added her own translational twist to the reading from Genesis, changing words like light and dark, which reflect linguistic racial biases equating light/white with good and dark/black with bad, to make them feel more comfortable and help dissociate dark/black from things that are considered to be bad or evil. And they talked lovingly about members who were sick and dying, as well as those who were moving away.
It felt good just to be there. To be around people who make caring, inclusion, and the doing of good deeds a special part of their lives. People who notice when you're not doing ok even when you say that you're fine. People who want to learn and grow and be better. It felt good because those kinds of people often seem few and far between. Because the world sometimes feels so horrible and unilluminated.
When things seem lost in the murkiest of shadows, it's always nice to find a spark to help rekindle that inner fire.
Then Jesus said to the disciples, ‘There was a rich man who had a manager, and charges were brought to him that this man was squandering his property. So he summoned him and said to him, “What is this that I hear about you? Give me an account of your management, because you cannot be my manager any longer.” Then the manager said to himself, “What will I do, now that my master is taking the position away from me? I am not strong enough to dig, and I am ashamed to beg. I have decided what to do so that, when I am dismissed as manager, people may welcome me into their homes.” So, summoning his master’s debtors one by one, he asked the first, “How much do you owe my master?” He answered, “A hundred jugs of olive oil.” He said to him, “Take your bill, sit down quickly, and make it fifty.” Then he asked another, “And how much do you owe?” He replied, “A hundred containers of wheat.” He said to him, “Take your bill and make it eighty.” And his master commended the dishonest manager because he had acted shrewdly; for the children of this age are more shrewd in dealing with their own generation than are the children of light. And I tell you, make friends for yourselves by means of dishonest wealth so that when it is gone, they may welcome you into the eternal homes.
‘Whoever is faithful in a very little is faithful also in much; and whoever is dishonest in a very little is dishonest also in much. If then you have not been faithful with the dishonest wealth, who will entrust to you the true riches? And if you have not been faithful with what belongs to another, who will give you what is your own? No slave can serve two masters; for a slave will either hate the one and love the other, or be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve God and wealth.’ (Luke 16: 1-13).
I've always liked that last line. It's simple, direct, and hits you pretty hard when you really let it sink in. If you serve wealth, you don't serve God and everything that word represents (think principles rather than persons). And it seems to me the world is such that we're all but forced to serve the latter whether we want to or not. We spend most of our time during most of our days serving the whims of capital/wealth, using our labour to create the wealth that we, in turn, receive only a small portion of in order to live. Our entire economic system revolves around this process, the creation of profit being the summum bonum of capitalism.
It's not even really out of greed that we do so but logical necessity. The system compels us to do so, just as a master compels their servant, under threat of punishment, violence, and privation. If money isn't constantly turned into more money, the system stalls and people lose their means of survival. And this system influences our ethics and behaviour, how we treat one another within this competitive arena, by setting the stage for our relations on the most fundamental level, that of the means by which we materially reproduce society.
It also seems clear to me that, if we want to serve God, which to me represents love, charity, compassion, and a more just and equal world (i.e., the kingdom of God in which "some are last who will be first, and some are first who will be last"), then we have to find a way to create a world with less exploitation and competition, less greed and consumerism, a world characterized by the sharing of wealth and opportunity and by cooperation. And to achieve that, we need a new socio-economic system, a new ground of being for our material lives that can in turn nurture our hearts and minds.
Religion isn't something we necessarily need to achieve this. But religion, if it's to be of any use to anyone but the rich and powerful, should be inspiring and radical. It should compel us to be better, to break our shackles and the shackles of those around us. It should compel us to turn away from the things that deaden our spirits and lead us to turn a blind eye towards the suffering of others. And above all, it should be something that stokes the spiritual fires of our heart and fans the flames of love, charity, compassion, and justice.
That's why I enjoy visiting communities like Central Lutheran Church. Communities that truly seek to serve something other than wealth. Communities that speak out against our harmful treatment of the environment and of other people. Communities that acknowledge oppression and seek to educate the oppressors and liberate the oppressed. Communities that care about one another and seek to make a difference in a world far too subservient to the whims of wealth. They inspire me to have hope when things feel hopeless.
Today, for example, their confessional prayer at the beginning invoked our treatment of the environment and the looming ecological crisis and extinctions that has resulted from our greed, negligence, and mismanagement. They used a Native American version of the Lord's Prayer written by Hattie Corbett Enos, a member of the Nez Perce. At the suggestion of nonwhite members of the community, the pastor added her own translational twist to the reading from Genesis, changing words like light and dark, which reflect linguistic racial biases equating light/white with good and dark/black with bad, to make them feel more comfortable and help dissociate dark/black from things that are considered to be bad or evil. And they talked lovingly about members who were sick and dying, as well as those who were moving away.
It felt good just to be there. To be around people who make caring, inclusion, and the doing of good deeds a special part of their lives. People who notice when you're not doing ok even when you say that you're fine. People who want to learn and grow and be better. It felt good because those kinds of people often seem few and far between. Because the world sometimes feels so horrible and unilluminated.
When things seem lost in the murkiest of shadows, it's always nice to find a spark to help rekindle that inner fire.
Thursday, September 12, 2019
9/12/19
I'm searching for something.
Something inside of myself solid yet ephemeral.
Something beyond this world yet imminent within every nook and cranny.
A contradiction.
An impossibility that I believe in my heart to be true.
Something deep in the heart of all phenomena that contains within it the seed of all there
is.
Love. Life. Magic.Happiness.
Something with substance underlying the seemingly chaotic waves of change and inconstancy that rule our lives.
A refuge within the storm of conditionality.
A safe haven. A true moment. Meaning. Awakening. God.
The names we give may fall short; but it sings to me all the same.
Something inside of myself solid yet ephemeral.
Something beyond this world yet imminent within every nook and cranny.
A contradiction.
An impossibility that I believe in my heart to be true.
Something deep in the heart of all phenomena that contains within it the seed of all there
is.
Love. Life. Magic.Happiness.
Something with substance underlying the seemingly chaotic waves of change and inconstancy that rule our lives.
A refuge within the storm of conditionality.
A safe haven. A true moment. Meaning. Awakening. God.
The names we give may fall short; but it sings to me all the same.
Tuesday, July 30, 2019
7/30/19
On the topic of religion and politics, I feel like I'm a bit of an odd duck in that my interest in philosophy and religion is what initially got me interested in leftist politics, and my contact with Catholicism in particular has reaffirmed my belief in, and energized my support of, anti-capitalist movements and politics. I don't know many who have had the same experience. And I feel even more like an odd duck since most of the leftists I've known have been dogmatic atheists, while most of the religious people I've known, especially Christians, have been politically very conservative. I often feel like an outsider on both ends of the spectrum.
For most of my young adult life, however, I was completely apolitical. Politics was like the Juggernaut, an entity that I couldn't move, but which had the power to move the whole of society. It was just so big and out of my control. Decisions were made by people who were groomed to make them, while I was a nobody. I didn't think I had a voice, because in the grand scheme of things, I didn't think I mattered. I wasn't rich. I wasn't college educated. I wasn't from an important family. I wasn't in the ruling class. I just did my best to get through the day and find something fun to do with my friends after work. My philosophy of life was very limited and pragmatic and bordering on the hedonistic, with a focus on survival and pleasure, not caring if the world around me burned.
My interest in philosophy and religion really began when I realized how unhappy I was, which was admittedly a selfish motivation to find relief from the suffering I was experiencing at the time. I wanted to be happier. I wanted to be a better person than I was. Sleepwalking through life and self-medicating just wasn't cutting it, and I decided to try something different. That journey led me to learning about things like meditation and philosophies of living a good life. Enter Buddhism and Stoicism. Buddhism plus Marcus Aurelius are what I mostly credit for my eventual political awakening, because I really did feel like I woke up to the existence of the greater world around me through them.
Buddhism helped open me up to politics primarily through my work with compassion, mindfulness, and the concept of interdependence. Developing compassion — one of the four divine abodes along with loving-kindness, sympathetic joy, and equanimity — helped me by breaking down the barrier between self and other so that I became more and more aware of, and receptive to, the suffering of others, which in turn gave rise to a growing desire to help ease that suffering. It seems like common sense, something we should all just know instinctively, and I thought I was already compassionate and whatnot. But my practice of Buddhism really showed me how disconnected from the world I truly was. Mindfulness helped me to better see my intentions and how they influence my actions and what I expect to come from them. (We lie a lot to ourselves about our motives.) That kind of constant self-reflection was also important for giving me the space to grow and open my mind to new things rather than always think and act on autopilot. And interconnectedness helped me to see the web of interconnectivity we're all a part of and how my actions affect those around me, which did a lot to counteract the hyper individualism I absorbed through American culture that I think prevents many of us from fully realizing our social nature as a species, and encourages self over others, competition over cooperation, profit over need, and the like.
This was all on a more individual and internal level, however, which is where Marcus Aurelius comes in. Aurelius was big on self-discipline and not focusing on the forces in life we have no control over. But he was also big on duty, and I was particularly inspired by his view of the duty of a citizen to be civically engaged, our duty to others within the society in which we live, a duty I had previously ignored. And I connected that to my individual Buddhist practice, which manifested as a conscious effort to do what I could to help address the suffering of others and make the world a better place through my actions. Interestingly enough, the Pali word Dhamma, often defined as the laws of nature or the way of right living, can also mean duty. I saw that I had a voice; I was simply failing to use it. That I had a duty to myself and to others I was shirking. And by using my voice collectively with others, I realized that I could be better heard and make more of a difference than if I were to simply stand alone. And all of this eventually led me to figure out where I stood politically, so that I could be more civically engaged, which quickly led me to discovering Eugene Debs and socialism and the religious/political mantra of, "From each according to their ability, to each according to need." That search also introduced me to the many Christian socialists and things like liberation theology, which I admittedly ignored at first due to the religious underpinnings of their socialist politics.
But years later, through my interest in monasticism and contemplation and my flirtation with Christian socialists, I began to explore Christianity in a less antagonistic way, which led me to discover Thomas Merton and his mixture of contemplative monasticism and social justice, the inclusiveness of Jesus' message in the gospels, and seeing in his words and actions a radical politics of compassion that ultimately challenges politics and systems of purity (which includes things like ideological purity, orthodoxy, etc.). Here, I'm particularly indebted to Marcus Borg's Meeting Jesus Again for the First Time and Paul Knitter's Without Jesus I could not be Christian, both of which had a big impact on me.
I mean, reading the gospel accounts, Jesus was a pretty radical figure. He was essentially a pre-industrial communist, preaching unconditional love, equality, and care for all, particularly the 'least among us,' the poor, the sick, and the oppressed (Mt 25:31-46), which is the spiritual heart of liberation theology and its "preferential option for the poor." He condemned greed and hypocrisy (Mt 23), standing up the religious ruling class and monied elites of his time, going so far as flipping tables and driving the latter from the temple with shouts and whips (John 2:13–16). He was a feminist-like ally, ministering to women in ways that were forbidden for men (John 4:4-42), and refusing to judge women by the harsh, patriarchal laws of his time (John 8:1-11). He associated with those whom his society feared, shunned, and looked down upon out of ignorance and prejudice, from those considered unclean to outcasts and sinners (Mark 1: 40-45, Mark 2:13-17), which many found scandalous. He lived counter to almost every expectation and social norm of his time and invited others to follow his lead. He stripped down all the religious bureaucracy and legalism of his day, teaching that God's law is fulfilled in keeping one simple precept, 'love your neighbour as yourself' (Gal 5:13-14). He chose all of his closest disciples from amongst the working class (fishermen), those looked down upon for their occupations (tax collector), women, and revolutionary zealots rather than the class of religious elites. And his mission, inherited from his heavenly father and voiced by his mother, Mary, included throwing down the rulers from their thrones, uplifting the lowly, and sending the rich away empty (Luke 1:46-55).
And in that story, I found something inspiring as well as unifying. All are one with the universal Christ, and Christ is one with all (Gal 3:28), which is radically egalitarian. Next to loving God, loving our neighbour as ourselves is the greatest commandment (Mt 22:34-40), which is radically compassionate. 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. Pope Francis himself once said something in an interview that I think perfectly summarizes why I'm drawn to both Christianity and communism, and why I see in Jesus a revolutionary of the people:
And that resonates with me because I believe that kind of equality and freedom requires both a political (external) and spiritual (internal) foundation, a radical material and mental shift in our understanding of, and approach to, the way society is structured because both matter and spirit are intertwined. In a similar vein, Pope Francis has also said that the gospel requires Christians to reject an economy that exploits, that:
And if that's true, then I think it most certainly requires them to reject capitalism, because the god of capitalism is the profit motive, Mammon in the abstracted-flesh. As critics of capitalism such as Marx point out, capitalism thrives on the exploitation of labour and resources, and its internal logic is characterized by contradictions that sow the seeds for things like inequality, poverty, unequal social relations between capital and labour, massive capital accumulation into smaller and smaller hands, and the drive for accumulation for accumulation's sake. It conditions people to be slaves to money, and fosters the metastasizing of a consumeristic culture and a thing-oriented society rather than a people-oriented society with an overall focus on production for profit rather than human need. And my reading of the gospel concurs with that critique from a spiritual point of view, seeing in Jesus a radical and transformative figure who valued people above all.
All of that said, the negative contributions of religion shouldn't be ignored or understated. Religious ideas and institutions have been the basis for an incredible amount of intolerance, oppression, and violence. One can rightly criticize much about religion in general, especially in its institutionalized forms, from how it's turned many away from rationality and promoted bigotry, individualism, and conservatism to how it oppresses certain marginalized groups within society; and I'd agree with all of those criticisms. But much of that comes from the church (or equivalents) as an institution of privilege and power, and one can see the same effects in other institutions, even Marxist ones. (There are as many sects of Marxism as there are Christianity, and many of them are just as concerned with orthodoxy and intolerant of what they consider heretical or heterodox as any dogmatic Christian denomination.) So this isn't something limited to religion alone. A religious institution is just one of many social institutions of power that can, and often do, run on a politics of purity and utilize various divisions (class, cultural, economic, ethnic, religious, etc.) to maintain power for those at the top, which in the west has historically been wealthy, white, male elites. And the logic of any institution is first and foremost to preserve itself, regardless of the form it takes.
Ultimately, though, I see religious language and stories as symbols pointing us towards something deeper, to a moral knowledge that I feel is rather intuitive, and to a unitive and even psychologically-healing experience that pierces the illusion of our dualistic way of thinking, the illusion of separation between subject and object, between the non-spiritual and the spiritual, between matter (body) and spirit (mind). I know that many people grasp these symbols and stories too tightly, or else hold them in the wrong way, so that they turn to bite them like the proverbial snake, creating fanatics and fundamentalists; and I share the concerns of others about those kinds of people, and about those forcing others to agree with them. But that doesn't mean there isn't something of value here, that they haven't helped our progress as much as they've served to hinder it. Historically speaking, the religious and philosophical seekers of the time were often its best scientists. And science itself is just as easily capable of destroying whole cities as religion if held inappropriately.
In essence, religion is something that's not only helped me to be a better version of myself, but it's a huge part of what got me interested in politics, and leftist politics at that because I think they best reflect the material means by which a world characterized by peace, love, and equality can be realized. And I've found that a lot of my fellow religious seekers are of a like mind, particularly those drawn towards mysticism. I'd even go so far as to say that, after studying and practicing in multiple spiritual traditions, I've come to the conclusion a truly spiritual person with a mature understanding of what lies at the heart of all religious traditions will necessarily be empathetic, inclusive, and ultimately, intersectional in their politics, but more importantly in their actions regardless of what their politics are. I think this can be seen from the lives of people like Giro Seno'o, Dorothy Day, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Thomas Merton, Oscar Romero, Malcolm X, Thich Nhat Hanh, Gustavo Gutierrez, MLK Jr., Rachel Held Evans, and countless others. As Franciscan friar and author Richard Rohr puts it:
And in my case, I am naturally drawn towards realizing a loving global community, with no needy person among us, all living "from each according to their ability, to each according to need."
For most of my young adult life, however, I was completely apolitical. Politics was like the Juggernaut, an entity that I couldn't move, but which had the power to move the whole of society. It was just so big and out of my control. Decisions were made by people who were groomed to make them, while I was a nobody. I didn't think I had a voice, because in the grand scheme of things, I didn't think I mattered. I wasn't rich. I wasn't college educated. I wasn't from an important family. I wasn't in the ruling class. I just did my best to get through the day and find something fun to do with my friends after work. My philosophy of life was very limited and pragmatic and bordering on the hedonistic, with a focus on survival and pleasure, not caring if the world around me burned.
My interest in philosophy and religion really began when I realized how unhappy I was, which was admittedly a selfish motivation to find relief from the suffering I was experiencing at the time. I wanted to be happier. I wanted to be a better person than I was. Sleepwalking through life and self-medicating just wasn't cutting it, and I decided to try something different. That journey led me to learning about things like meditation and philosophies of living a good life. Enter Buddhism and Stoicism. Buddhism plus Marcus Aurelius are what I mostly credit for my eventual political awakening, because I really did feel like I woke up to the existence of the greater world around me through them.
Buddhism helped open me up to politics primarily through my work with compassion, mindfulness, and the concept of interdependence. Developing compassion — one of the four divine abodes along with loving-kindness, sympathetic joy, and equanimity — helped me by breaking down the barrier between self and other so that I became more and more aware of, and receptive to, the suffering of others, which in turn gave rise to a growing desire to help ease that suffering. It seems like common sense, something we should all just know instinctively, and I thought I was already compassionate and whatnot. But my practice of Buddhism really showed me how disconnected from the world I truly was. Mindfulness helped me to better see my intentions and how they influence my actions and what I expect to come from them. (We lie a lot to ourselves about our motives.) That kind of constant self-reflection was also important for giving me the space to grow and open my mind to new things rather than always think and act on autopilot. And interconnectedness helped me to see the web of interconnectivity we're all a part of and how my actions affect those around me, which did a lot to counteract the hyper individualism I absorbed through American culture that I think prevents many of us from fully realizing our social nature as a species, and encourages self over others, competition over cooperation, profit over need, and the like.
This was all on a more individual and internal level, however, which is where Marcus Aurelius comes in. Aurelius was big on self-discipline and not focusing on the forces in life we have no control over. But he was also big on duty, and I was particularly inspired by his view of the duty of a citizen to be civically engaged, our duty to others within the society in which we live, a duty I had previously ignored. And I connected that to my individual Buddhist practice, which manifested as a conscious effort to do what I could to help address the suffering of others and make the world a better place through my actions. Interestingly enough, the Pali word Dhamma, often defined as the laws of nature or the way of right living, can also mean duty. I saw that I had a voice; I was simply failing to use it. That I had a duty to myself and to others I was shirking. And by using my voice collectively with others, I realized that I could be better heard and make more of a difference than if I were to simply stand alone. And all of this eventually led me to figure out where I stood politically, so that I could be more civically engaged, which quickly led me to discovering Eugene Debs and socialism and the religious/political mantra of, "From each according to their ability, to each according to need." That search also introduced me to the many Christian socialists and things like liberation theology, which I admittedly ignored at first due to the religious underpinnings of their socialist politics.
But years later, through my interest in monasticism and contemplation and my flirtation with Christian socialists, I began to explore Christianity in a less antagonistic way, which led me to discover Thomas Merton and his mixture of contemplative monasticism and social justice, the inclusiveness of Jesus' message in the gospels, and seeing in his words and actions a radical politics of compassion that ultimately challenges politics and systems of purity (which includes things like ideological purity, orthodoxy, etc.). Here, I'm particularly indebted to Marcus Borg's Meeting Jesus Again for the First Time and Paul Knitter's Without Jesus I could not be Christian, both of which had a big impact on me.
I mean, reading the gospel accounts, Jesus was a pretty radical figure. He was essentially a pre-industrial communist, preaching unconditional love, equality, and care for all, particularly the 'least among us,' the poor, the sick, and the oppressed (Mt 25:31-46), which is the spiritual heart of liberation theology and its "preferential option for the poor." He condemned greed and hypocrisy (Mt 23), standing up the religious ruling class and monied elites of his time, going so far as flipping tables and driving the latter from the temple with shouts and whips (John 2:13–16). He was a feminist-like ally, ministering to women in ways that were forbidden for men (John 4:4-42), and refusing to judge women by the harsh, patriarchal laws of his time (John 8:1-11). He associated with those whom his society feared, shunned, and looked down upon out of ignorance and prejudice, from those considered unclean to outcasts and sinners (Mark 1: 40-45, Mark 2:13-17), which many found scandalous. He lived counter to almost every expectation and social norm of his time and invited others to follow his lead. He stripped down all the religious bureaucracy and legalism of his day, teaching that God's law is fulfilled in keeping one simple precept, 'love your neighbour as yourself' (Gal 5:13-14). He chose all of his closest disciples from amongst the working class (fishermen), those looked down upon for their occupations (tax collector), women, and revolutionary zealots rather than the class of religious elites. And his mission, inherited from his heavenly father and voiced by his mother, Mary, included throwing down the rulers from their thrones, uplifting the lowly, and sending the rich away empty (Luke 1:46-55).
And in that story, I found something inspiring as well as unifying. All are one with the universal Christ, and Christ is one with all (Gal 3:28), which is radically egalitarian. Next to loving God, loving our neighbour as ourselves is the greatest commandment (Mt 22:34-40), which is radically compassionate. 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. Pope Francis himself once said something in an interview that I think perfectly summarizes why I'm drawn to both Christianity and communism, and why I see in Jesus a revolutionary of the people:
It has been said many times and my response has always been that, if anything, it is the communists who think like Christians. Christ spoke of a society where the poor, the weak and the marginalized have the right to decide. Not demagogues, not Barabbas, but the people, the poor, whether they have faith in a transcendent God or not. It is they who must help to achieve equality and freedom.
And that resonates with me because I believe that kind of equality and freedom requires both a political (external) and spiritual (internal) foundation, a radical material and mental shift in our understanding of, and approach to, the way society is structured because both matter and spirit are intertwined. In a similar vein, Pope Francis has also said that the gospel requires Christians to reject an economy that exploits, that:
The worship of the ancient golden calf has returned in a new and ruthless guise in the idolatry of money and the dictatorship of an impersonal economy lacking a truly human purpose. The worldwide crisis affecting finance and the economy lays bare their imbalances and, above all, their lack of real concern for human beings.
And if that's true, then I think it most certainly requires them to reject capitalism, because the god of capitalism is the profit motive, Mammon in the abstracted-flesh. As critics of capitalism such as Marx point out, capitalism thrives on the exploitation of labour and resources, and its internal logic is characterized by contradictions that sow the seeds for things like inequality, poverty, unequal social relations between capital and labour, massive capital accumulation into smaller and smaller hands, and the drive for accumulation for accumulation's sake. It conditions people to be slaves to money, and fosters the metastasizing of a consumeristic culture and a thing-oriented society rather than a people-oriented society with an overall focus on production for profit rather than human need. And my reading of the gospel concurs with that critique from a spiritual point of view, seeing in Jesus a radical and transformative figure who valued people above all.
All of that said, the negative contributions of religion shouldn't be ignored or understated. Religious ideas and institutions have been the basis for an incredible amount of intolerance, oppression, and violence. One can rightly criticize much about religion in general, especially in its institutionalized forms, from how it's turned many away from rationality and promoted bigotry, individualism, and conservatism to how it oppresses certain marginalized groups within society; and I'd agree with all of those criticisms. But much of that comes from the church (or equivalents) as an institution of privilege and power, and one can see the same effects in other institutions, even Marxist ones. (There are as many sects of Marxism as there are Christianity, and many of them are just as concerned with orthodoxy and intolerant of what they consider heretical or heterodox as any dogmatic Christian denomination.) So this isn't something limited to religion alone. A religious institution is just one of many social institutions of power that can, and often do, run on a politics of purity and utilize various divisions (class, cultural, economic, ethnic, religious, etc.) to maintain power for those at the top, which in the west has historically been wealthy, white, male elites. And the logic of any institution is first and foremost to preserve itself, regardless of the form it takes.
Ultimately, though, I see religious language and stories as symbols pointing us towards something deeper, to a moral knowledge that I feel is rather intuitive, and to a unitive and even psychologically-healing experience that pierces the illusion of our dualistic way of thinking, the illusion of separation between subject and object, between the non-spiritual and the spiritual, between matter (body) and spirit (mind). I know that many people grasp these symbols and stories too tightly, or else hold them in the wrong way, so that they turn to bite them like the proverbial snake, creating fanatics and fundamentalists; and I share the concerns of others about those kinds of people, and about those forcing others to agree with them. But that doesn't mean there isn't something of value here, that they haven't helped our progress as much as they've served to hinder it. Historically speaking, the religious and philosophical seekers of the time were often its best scientists. And science itself is just as easily capable of destroying whole cities as religion if held inappropriately.
In essence, religion is something that's not only helped me to be a better version of myself, but it's a huge part of what got me interested in politics, and leftist politics at that because I think they best reflect the material means by which a world characterized by peace, love, and equality can be realized. And I've found that a lot of my fellow religious seekers are of a like mind, particularly those drawn towards mysticism. I'd even go so far as to say that, after studying and practicing in multiple spiritual traditions, I've come to the conclusion a truly spiritual person with a mature understanding of what lies at the heart of all religious traditions will necessarily be empathetic, inclusive, and ultimately, intersectional in their politics, but more importantly in their actions regardless of what their politics are. I think this can be seen from the lives of people like Giro Seno'o, Dorothy Day, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Thomas Merton, Oscar Romero, Malcolm X, Thich Nhat Hanh, Gustavo Gutierrez, MLK Jr., Rachel Held Evans, and countless others. As Franciscan friar and author Richard Rohr puts it:
If we are going to have truly prophetic people who go beyond the categories of liberal and conservative, we have to teach them some way to integrate their needed activism with a truly contemplative mind and heart. I'm convinced that once you learn how to look out at life from the contemplative eyes of the True Self, your politics and economics are going to change on their own. I don't need to teach you what your politics should or shouldn't be. Once you see things contemplatively, you'll begin to seek the bias from the bottom instead of the top, you'll be free to embrace your shadow, and you can live at peace with those who are different. From a contemplative stance, you'll know what action is yours to do—and what is not yours to do—almost naturally.
And in my case, I am naturally drawn towards realizing a loving global community, with no needy person among us, all living "from each according to their ability, to each according to need."
Wednesday, May 1, 2019
5/1/19 (jianyu)
What follows is a short story I wrote to express the conflict I feel inside between worldly and monastic life. It's meant to give an overview of both the good and bad within me, from a difficult childhood and anger issues to a deep and sincere appreciation of monasticism.
Jianyu was a ball of rage. Weeks of pent up frustration had been brewing in the deep, dark recesses of his heart or whatever repressed feelings go, like an emotional pressure cooker. For some reason, everything bottled itself up inside of him until it became unbearable, boiling over into a fit of anger or tears, or else he'd lapse into an insufferable sullenness. He could never seem to escape the external pressures of his own life. Work. Family. Relationships. The expectations of society. They seemed omnipresent. And the internal pressures, well, they weren't so easy to shake off, either. More often than not, they'd eat at him from the inside for long periods of time, until he was at the point where he was so consumed by them that he felt like all that was left of him was an exposed nerve pained by every word, every touch. Nothing ever seemed to go right for him, like he had died and gone to a hell where you were subtly tortured in the mundanest of ways.
He had to face the fact that he was completely miserable, and it seemed like everything around him was to blame. Or was it really his fault? Everyone else around him seemed to make due. Why was it so hard for him? Perhaps because of some failing on his part? Karma from a past life coming to bite him in the ass? He wasn't sure, and right now, he didn't really care. All he knew was that some asshole had put gum in the dials of his lock at work, "A great start to what promised to be a great day," he thought.
All his life, Jianyu had been picked on. By his classmates. By his stepfather. By coworkers. It was always something. Too short. Too poor. Too weird. Too nerdy. Too unfashionable. Too much someone else's kid. Too quiet. Too unsociable. Too scary (satanist, goth phase). Too hard working. Too godknowswhat. Everyone seemed to find something to punish him for. "Maybe I am in my own personal hell," he mused.
He was often angry and defensive as a result of this, but he was also empathetic, generous, and thoughtful. He wanted so desperately to be a good person, and tried to develop patience for other people. Unfortunately, he had acquired his stepfather's short temper, and found it difficult to shake off the years of conditioning. He was used to yelling and violence, and was intimately familiar with the feeling of fear. And he realized that years of being afraid of his stepfather's outbursts fed his anger and impatience. The things that had made his stepfather angry in turn made him angry, because they would trigger so much of the suffering he experienced as a child, and it was like he was mad at the people and situations that sparked his stepfather's fury. The last thing he ever wanted was to be like his stepfather, and it pained him that he was.
At the moment, he was on the verge of both fury and despondency. One of Jianyu's other less attractive traits was his tendency towards self-pity. Standing there, looking at the lock, which he was able to clean without as much trouble as he worried he might, he felt sorry for himself as he brooded, fantasizing about all the terrible things he'd love to do to the person who desecrated his personal space. "Motherfucker," he half yelled, half whined. "Why does this shit always happen to me?" Jianyu tried to calm himself down, focusing on his breathing. His anger and dejection brought a host of familiar thoughts to the surface of his mind, chief among them his lament at the backwardness of the world, which seemed so full of competitiveness and violence for such a social species, and the conflict inside of him between his desire to live a worldly life and the desire to become a monk. Why did he have to work so hard at dead-end jobs just to survive? Why do most people seem more concerned about getting ahead than helping others be successful? Why was the world so seemingly soulless and thing-oriented? He was having what you might call a dark afternoon of the soul.
He was getting old. He just turned 40. He didn't have a very fulfilling career, and it didn't pay all that well, either. He didn't have any worldly goals or passions, and no real direction to go in. He liked to work, but it was hard to find a decent job these days without a college degree (especially a rewarding one that paid well). He liked learning, but he was hesitant to put himself into tens of thousands of dollars of debt pursuing an education designed to make him more marketable rather than a better person. The world seemed so contradictory; and you either have to be a participant or a renunciate. There was no middle ground as far as he could see. You were expected to study what you needed to get a job, then work until you're old and grey, life being more of a soul-sucking experience than an enriching one. His heart yearned for something more, but the world crushed those dreams with an invisible hand; and religious monasticism seemed more and more the only escape, something his mind turned to again and again.
Deep down, he knew that he was a good person. At least he tried to be. But it was a struggle, and he knew that he could be better, happier. "We have such potential as a species, but as a society we tend to value all the wrong things," he mumbled. It was like his very beingness was torn. Torn between wanting to be a part of the world and wanting to renounce it, devoting himself instead to a contemplative life. He appreciated aspects of everyday life, but they were just not satisfying in a way that was difficult for him to explain. Kind of like the things he found pleasure in also seemed fleeting and trivial compared to a truth more profound and immutable, a truth that he intuitively felt existed. And yet he wondered. Maybe he just wanted there to be something more because he'd looked into the abyss and was afraid, afraid that life was ultimately an endless cycle of grasping at shadows to fill a primordial void that couldn't psychologically or physiologically be filled—a gaping emptiness that consumed all and out of which nothing escaped. Maybe what we see is all we get. The thought depressed him further. All he really knew was that he was tired of feeling lost and fragmented and like he was running out of time, and it was time to start his shift.
Jianyu worked as a housekeeper at a busy Catholic hospital. He was optimistic about it at the beginning. He'd just been laid off from his last job and was scrambling to find something when his girlfriend suggested he should apply where she worked. He did and got a call fairly quickly for an interview and was hired that day. The hours weren't ideal, and he had to work more weekends than not; but it was a job that paid a bit more than his previous one. Plus, it was for a nonprofit, spiritually-based healthcare provider, which greatly appealed to him. He knew going in that it wasn't a glamorous job, and that it wouldn't be easy—he'd be cleaning hospital rooms and common areas and dealing with sick people and in regular contact with every bodily fluid imaginable on a daily basis. He was understandably a little intimidated by it all. But at the same time, he'd be doing something essential at a place designed to help people in need; and he thought that maybe, if he could approach it in the right way, it could help him to deepen his own personal spiritual practice. With naive hope, he thought to himself before his first day, "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."
In his heart, he truly believed that all people share a common bond, a common nature, as humans. But he also believed that, in some shape or form, we'd lost that connection to one another somewhere along the way. Inspired by this idea, his hopes about starting a new job, and a biography of St. Francis of Assisi he'd been reading, he wrote in his journal: "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, 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." And that union was the one, true goal in his heart.
Unfortunately, his new job wouldn't prove to be the means of achieving it quite like he'd hoped. Despite being a nonprofit, it was run like any other business, and Jianyu found himself chronically overworked, underpaid, and full of stress. They were consistently short-handed, and he was often doubled up and covering for other people, which made it difficult for him to give the patients whose rooms he cleaned the time and attention he wished he could offer. Housekeepers were expected to be in and out of a room in 8 minutes, hurrying through their patient rooms so they could strip and clean as many discharged rooms as possible. It was a race against the clock, which put a lot of pressure on everyone to be efficient rather than caring and comforting. Even so, Jianyu still found time on occasion to spend a little extra time with those who he felt needed it, sometimes spending his breaks talking with someone or just taking a little extra time in their room, listening to their story as he cleaned. He greatly enjoyed these conversations, and always felt a sense of joy when he could make someone feel even slightly better. A smile here, a laugh there. Sometimes a thank you for his work. These were the little things that kept his spirits up and kept him going throughout his hectic days. He genuinely wanted to be of service, as little use as he often felt.
Jianyu thought back, through forgotten memories and a stream of monotonous, unfulfilling days, to the last time he truly felt happy, content, at peace with the world around him. His mind instinctively wandered into the walls of Our Lady of Guadalupe, a Trappist monastery in the wooded hills of rural Oregon about thirty miles southwest of Portland. He initially went because he was curious about what Christian monasticism was like and how it differed from the Theravadan Buddhist monasteries he was predominantly familiar with after starting Thomas Merton's autobiography, The Seven Storey Mountain. He wrote not thinking he'd be welcome, not being Catholic at the time, but was surprised by an open invitation to visit for five days or so, an experience that would serve as the catalyst for a quite unexpected spiritual journey.
All of his monastic experiences in the past had given him a favourable impression. After the initial shock of going from the busyness of worldly life to the relative quiet of the monastic day, free from the distractions of entertainment and the internet, he'd settle into the rhythm of the monastery and his own mind, and the peace such surroundings offered. But this experience in particular planted a seed in his heart that grew into something more than he was prepared for, something that pushed him further into a tradition he previously had no interest in, and into the life of someone he didn't know he needed until that moment. It was this experience that led him to truly appreciate and understand the teachings and example of Jesus, seeing his life as a mandala, a living tapestry meant to inspire and hearten those who could see him for what he was, 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. And that journey, he realized, began inside, began with a conversion, began with connecting to that little point Meister Eckhart spoke of "wherein the soul turns back on itself and finds itself, and knows itself to be a creature," sprouting forth like a new life born from the old. And that journey is what drew him to the monastery and to the mystics who often haunted their halls.
He knew that it wasn't because these places and people were magic in and of themselves, only that they helped nurture the 'fallen grain of wheat' so that it could grow and "produce much fruit." Part of us has to die for us to find our true self, our spiritual self hidden beneath the clutter of our mundane, busybody thoughts and evolutionary drives, that spark of consciousness which Thomas Merton said "experiences something of the fulness of intelligence, freedom and spirituality that are actualized within ourselves" when we're "plainly conscious of the real meaning of our own existence." And for Jianyu, much of the world around him seemed like so much 'rocky ground,' where any spiritual seeds that were planted lacked the roots to sustain themselves and were easily swept away by the cares and concerns of everyday, modern life.
There was a simplicity and wholeness to modern life that was missing, a moral connection that was lost or broken somehow. He couldn't quite articulate it himself, but he'd found the idea first expressed in The Idiot, where one of Dostoyevsky's characters, Lebedev, goes on a long tirade about the lack of a 'binding idea' left in his day and age versus the twelfth century, when things may have been material worse but people more spiritually rich. The character isn't a particularly good or even reliable one, but he expressed this idea in a way that caught Jianyu by surprise, seeing in it something deep and profound and utterly true. Today, prosperity and wealth may indeed be greater than in the past, the frequencies of famine may indeed be lessened, and the speed of travel and communication may indeed be immensely accelerated; but to what end? What do we do with it all? Do we feed the poor? Do we clothe the naked? Do we love others as ourselves and voluntarily repent of our misdeeds, seeking one another's forgiveness? Or was Lebedev right that we're all just "stewed to mush?"
The moment he entered the grounds of Our Lady of Guadalupe, however, thoughts of that sort immediately fell away. There wasn't anything missing or broken. Quite the opposite, in fact. What he noticed more than anything was the sheer abundance of what was mostly missing from the world and what he so desperately craved. He noticed the peace. The calm. The way nature was incorporated into the design of the chapel and meditation hall. And most of all, the glow of the monks' faces. They had a moderate amount of wealth and prosperity from the sale of logging rights to the state; they had plenty of food to eat and to share with guests such as himself; and they even had cars and email; but they weren't lacking that 'binding idea.' Rather, that 'binding idea' permeated everything there, including the daily schedule the monks so religiously followed. It was built into the very heart of the monastery, what gave it life.
Thinking back on all of this, he realized he was mostly angry because he was suffering. And not simply from the more obvious reasons, because of his misfortunes, material circumstances, or surroundings, which, in the grand scheme of things, were all superficial, fleeting, and unimportant. No, he was suffering because of the shallowness of his own spiritual life. The rocky ground that he saw in the world mirrored the rocky ground in his own heart; and the monastery was none other than an outside reflection of that 'little point' inside of him he had so much trouble reaching, like an oasis in the midst of a vast desert, the innermost temple of the holy spirit, where God dwells and in which we dwell in God to 'become one spirit.' And to reach the latter, he knew that he must first enter the former, to plant himself in fertile soil so that he could eventually 'produce much fruit.' He knew in that moment what he had to do, what he'd been putting off for too many years—he had to follow his heart and follow Christ: into the desert, into the garden of Gethsemane, onto the cross, and ultimately, into the still, deep, cooling, love-filled waters of the silent life.
Jianyu was a ball of rage. Weeks of pent up frustration had been brewing in the deep, dark recesses of his heart or whatever repressed feelings go, like an emotional pressure cooker. For some reason, everything bottled itself up inside of him until it became unbearable, boiling over into a fit of anger or tears, or else he'd lapse into an insufferable sullenness. He could never seem to escape the external pressures of his own life. Work. Family. Relationships. The expectations of society. They seemed omnipresent. And the internal pressures, well, they weren't so easy to shake off, either. More often than not, they'd eat at him from the inside for long periods of time, until he was at the point where he was so consumed by them that he felt like all that was left of him was an exposed nerve pained by every word, every touch. Nothing ever seemed to go right for him, like he had died and gone to a hell where you were subtly tortured in the mundanest of ways.
He had to face the fact that he was completely miserable, and it seemed like everything around him was to blame. Or was it really his fault? Everyone else around him seemed to make due. Why was it so hard for him? Perhaps because of some failing on his part? Karma from a past life coming to bite him in the ass? He wasn't sure, and right now, he didn't really care. All he knew was that some asshole had put gum in the dials of his lock at work, "A great start to what promised to be a great day," he thought.
All his life, Jianyu had been picked on. By his classmates. By his stepfather. By coworkers. It was always something. Too short. Too poor. Too weird. Too nerdy. Too unfashionable. Too much someone else's kid. Too quiet. Too unsociable. Too scary (satanist, goth phase). Too hard working. Too godknowswhat. Everyone seemed to find something to punish him for. "Maybe I am in my own personal hell," he mused.
He was often angry and defensive as a result of this, but he was also empathetic, generous, and thoughtful. He wanted so desperately to be a good person, and tried to develop patience for other people. Unfortunately, he had acquired his stepfather's short temper, and found it difficult to shake off the years of conditioning. He was used to yelling and violence, and was intimately familiar with the feeling of fear. And he realized that years of being afraid of his stepfather's outbursts fed his anger and impatience. The things that had made his stepfather angry in turn made him angry, because they would trigger so much of the suffering he experienced as a child, and it was like he was mad at the people and situations that sparked his stepfather's fury. The last thing he ever wanted was to be like his stepfather, and it pained him that he was.
At the moment, he was on the verge of both fury and despondency. One of Jianyu's other less attractive traits was his tendency towards self-pity. Standing there, looking at the lock, which he was able to clean without as much trouble as he worried he might, he felt sorry for himself as he brooded, fantasizing about all the terrible things he'd love to do to the person who desecrated his personal space. "Motherfucker," he half yelled, half whined. "Why does this shit always happen to me?" Jianyu tried to calm himself down, focusing on his breathing. His anger and dejection brought a host of familiar thoughts to the surface of his mind, chief among them his lament at the backwardness of the world, which seemed so full of competitiveness and violence for such a social species, and the conflict inside of him between his desire to live a worldly life and the desire to become a monk. Why did he have to work so hard at dead-end jobs just to survive? Why do most people seem more concerned about getting ahead than helping others be successful? Why was the world so seemingly soulless and thing-oriented? He was having what you might call a dark afternoon of the soul.
He was getting old. He just turned 40. He didn't have a very fulfilling career, and it didn't pay all that well, either. He didn't have any worldly goals or passions, and no real direction to go in. He liked to work, but it was hard to find a decent job these days without a college degree (especially a rewarding one that paid well). He liked learning, but he was hesitant to put himself into tens of thousands of dollars of debt pursuing an education designed to make him more marketable rather than a better person. The world seemed so contradictory; and you either have to be a participant or a renunciate. There was no middle ground as far as he could see. You were expected to study what you needed to get a job, then work until you're old and grey, life being more of a soul-sucking experience than an enriching one. His heart yearned for something more, but the world crushed those dreams with an invisible hand; and religious monasticism seemed more and more the only escape, something his mind turned to again and again.
Deep down, he knew that he was a good person. At least he tried to be. But it was a struggle, and he knew that he could be better, happier. "We have such potential as a species, but as a society we tend to value all the wrong things," he mumbled. It was like his very beingness was torn. Torn between wanting to be a part of the world and wanting to renounce it, devoting himself instead to a contemplative life. He appreciated aspects of everyday life, but they were just not satisfying in a way that was difficult for him to explain. Kind of like the things he found pleasure in also seemed fleeting and trivial compared to a truth more profound and immutable, a truth that he intuitively felt existed. And yet he wondered. Maybe he just wanted there to be something more because he'd looked into the abyss and was afraid, afraid that life was ultimately an endless cycle of grasping at shadows to fill a primordial void that couldn't psychologically or physiologically be filled—a gaping emptiness that consumed all and out of which nothing escaped. Maybe what we see is all we get. The thought depressed him further. All he really knew was that he was tired of feeling lost and fragmented and like he was running out of time, and it was time to start his shift.
Jianyu worked as a housekeeper at a busy Catholic hospital. He was optimistic about it at the beginning. He'd just been laid off from his last job and was scrambling to find something when his girlfriend suggested he should apply where she worked. He did and got a call fairly quickly for an interview and was hired that day. The hours weren't ideal, and he had to work more weekends than not; but it was a job that paid a bit more than his previous one. Plus, it was for a nonprofit, spiritually-based healthcare provider, which greatly appealed to him. He knew going in that it wasn't a glamorous job, and that it wouldn't be easy—he'd be cleaning hospital rooms and common areas and dealing with sick people and in regular contact with every bodily fluid imaginable on a daily basis. He was understandably a little intimidated by it all. But at the same time, he'd be doing something essential at a place designed to help people in need; and he thought that maybe, if he could approach it in the right way, it could help him to deepen his own personal spiritual practice. With naive hope, he thought to himself before his first day, "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."
In his heart, he truly believed that all people share a common bond, a common nature, as humans. But he also believed that, in some shape or form, we'd lost that connection to one another somewhere along the way. Inspired by this idea, his hopes about starting a new job, and a biography of St. Francis of Assisi he'd been reading, he wrote in his journal: "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, 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." And that union was the one, true goal in his heart.
Unfortunately, his new job wouldn't prove to be the means of achieving it quite like he'd hoped. Despite being a nonprofit, it was run like any other business, and Jianyu found himself chronically overworked, underpaid, and full of stress. They were consistently short-handed, and he was often doubled up and covering for other people, which made it difficult for him to give the patients whose rooms he cleaned the time and attention he wished he could offer. Housekeepers were expected to be in and out of a room in 8 minutes, hurrying through their patient rooms so they could strip and clean as many discharged rooms as possible. It was a race against the clock, which put a lot of pressure on everyone to be efficient rather than caring and comforting. Even so, Jianyu still found time on occasion to spend a little extra time with those who he felt needed it, sometimes spending his breaks talking with someone or just taking a little extra time in their room, listening to their story as he cleaned. He greatly enjoyed these conversations, and always felt a sense of joy when he could make someone feel even slightly better. A smile here, a laugh there. Sometimes a thank you for his work. These were the little things that kept his spirits up and kept him going throughout his hectic days. He genuinely wanted to be of service, as little use as he often felt.
Jianyu thought back, through forgotten memories and a stream of monotonous, unfulfilling days, to the last time he truly felt happy, content, at peace with the world around him. His mind instinctively wandered into the walls of Our Lady of Guadalupe, a Trappist monastery in the wooded hills of rural Oregon about thirty miles southwest of Portland. He initially went because he was curious about what Christian monasticism was like and how it differed from the Theravadan Buddhist monasteries he was predominantly familiar with after starting Thomas Merton's autobiography, The Seven Storey Mountain. He wrote not thinking he'd be welcome, not being Catholic at the time, but was surprised by an open invitation to visit for five days or so, an experience that would serve as the catalyst for a quite unexpected spiritual journey.
All of his monastic experiences in the past had given him a favourable impression. After the initial shock of going from the busyness of worldly life to the relative quiet of the monastic day, free from the distractions of entertainment and the internet, he'd settle into the rhythm of the monastery and his own mind, and the peace such surroundings offered. But this experience in particular planted a seed in his heart that grew into something more than he was prepared for, something that pushed him further into a tradition he previously had no interest in, and into the life of someone he didn't know he needed until that moment. It was this experience that led him to truly appreciate and understand the teachings and example of Jesus, seeing his life as a mandala, a living tapestry meant to inspire and hearten those who could see him for what he was, 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. And that journey, he realized, began inside, began with a conversion, began with connecting to that little point Meister Eckhart spoke of "wherein the soul turns back on itself and finds itself, and knows itself to be a creature," sprouting forth like a new life born from the old. And that journey is what drew him to the monastery and to the mystics who often haunted their halls.
He knew that it wasn't because these places and people were magic in and of themselves, only that they helped nurture the 'fallen grain of wheat' so that it could grow and "produce much fruit." Part of us has to die for us to find our true self, our spiritual self hidden beneath the clutter of our mundane, busybody thoughts and evolutionary drives, that spark of consciousness which Thomas Merton said "experiences something of the fulness of intelligence, freedom and spirituality that are actualized within ourselves" when we're "plainly conscious of the real meaning of our own existence." And for Jianyu, much of the world around him seemed like so much 'rocky ground,' where any spiritual seeds that were planted lacked the roots to sustain themselves and were easily swept away by the cares and concerns of everyday, modern life.
There was a simplicity and wholeness to modern life that was missing, a moral connection that was lost or broken somehow. He couldn't quite articulate it himself, but he'd found the idea first expressed in The Idiot, where one of Dostoyevsky's characters, Lebedev, goes on a long tirade about the lack of a 'binding idea' left in his day and age versus the twelfth century, when things may have been material worse but people more spiritually rich. The character isn't a particularly good or even reliable one, but he expressed this idea in a way that caught Jianyu by surprise, seeing in it something deep and profound and utterly true. Today, prosperity and wealth may indeed be greater than in the past, the frequencies of famine may indeed be lessened, and the speed of travel and communication may indeed be immensely accelerated; but to what end? What do we do with it all? Do we feed the poor? Do we clothe the naked? Do we love others as ourselves and voluntarily repent of our misdeeds, seeking one another's forgiveness? Or was Lebedev right that we're all just "stewed to mush?"
The moment he entered the grounds of Our Lady of Guadalupe, however, thoughts of that sort immediately fell away. There wasn't anything missing or broken. Quite the opposite, in fact. What he noticed more than anything was the sheer abundance of what was mostly missing from the world and what he so desperately craved. He noticed the peace. The calm. The way nature was incorporated into the design of the chapel and meditation hall. And most of all, the glow of the monks' faces. They had a moderate amount of wealth and prosperity from the sale of logging rights to the state; they had plenty of food to eat and to share with guests such as himself; and they even had cars and email; but they weren't lacking that 'binding idea.' Rather, that 'binding idea' permeated everything there, including the daily schedule the monks so religiously followed. It was built into the very heart of the monastery, what gave it life.
Thinking back on all of this, he realized he was mostly angry because he was suffering. And not simply from the more obvious reasons, because of his misfortunes, material circumstances, or surroundings, which, in the grand scheme of things, were all superficial, fleeting, and unimportant. No, he was suffering because of the shallowness of his own spiritual life. The rocky ground that he saw in the world mirrored the rocky ground in his own heart; and the monastery was none other than an outside reflection of that 'little point' inside of him he had so much trouble reaching, like an oasis in the midst of a vast desert, the innermost temple of the holy spirit, where God dwells and in which we dwell in God to 'become one spirit.' And to reach the latter, he knew that he must first enter the former, to plant himself in fertile soil so that he could eventually 'produce much fruit.' He knew in that moment what he had to do, what he'd been putting off for too many years—he had to follow his heart and follow Christ: into the desert, into the garden of Gethsemane, onto the cross, and ultimately, into the still, deep, cooling, love-filled waters of the silent life.
Monday, January 7, 2019
1/7/19
One of the things I like about Central Lutheran Church is how self-aware they are as a community, how inclusive they are, and how much care they have for everyone, especially marginalized groups, whether it's Palestinians in Gaza or the homeless we see and meet everyday on the street. I found this prayer of confession and forgiveness from yesterday, for example, particularly honest and meaningful:
Sometimes I mean so well, but fall so short. Sometimes I do what's right, and sometimes I do nothing because it's easier. But compassion is what helps me break down the barrier between self and other so that I'm more and more aware of, and receptive to, the suffering of others. Compassion is what helps give rise to a desire to help ease that suffering. Compassion is what I must remember to constantly develop and return to. What this prayer means to me is that, confronting the evils and suffering in life is a duty that we all share with one another, and it's up to us to continually strive to actualize our cooperative and compassionate nature and make our world truly the best possible.
Just and righteous ruler, we bring you our good intentions and our poor follow-through. We want to live in the light, yet we continue to dwell content in the shadows, where less seems to be demanded of us. We desire to break down barriers and stand in solidarity with all of your people, but sometimes we fear the loss of privilege and comfort. We pray for peace and yet tolerate whatever violence seems to offer us protection. Forgive our duplicity and restore us to single-minded devotion to your compassionate will, through Christ. Amen.
Sometimes I mean so well, but fall so short. Sometimes I do what's right, and sometimes I do nothing because it's easier. But compassion is what helps me break down the barrier between self and other so that I'm more and more aware of, and receptive to, the suffering of others. Compassion is what helps give rise to a desire to help ease that suffering. Compassion is what I must remember to constantly develop and return to. What this prayer means to me is that, confronting the evils and suffering in life is a duty that we all share with one another, and it's up to us to continually strive to actualize our cooperative and compassionate nature and make our world truly the best possible.
Thursday, November 22, 2018
11/22/18
On the way to work this morning, I was asked by three different people if I had any money. The first started to tell me they'd just gotten out of jail, but I was in a hurry to catch the max and all I had was a $20 bill, so I said, "Sorry, can't help" and rushed off. The second was at the max stop, asking if I had any change or a cigarette. Again, I said no, sorry, and he started a conversation with another man waiting for the max. The third was also at the same stop. He came up and said, "Hi, Happy Thanksgiving." I returned the hello, and he proceeded to tell me a story about having cancer and how chemo was making him shit himself and asked me for money for a room. I looked at him, and so many things raced through my head, everything from being annoyed at constantly being asked for money on my way to work at 5:30 in the morning to thoughts of compassion for people who have such impoverished and difficult lives. Even if he just wanted money for drugs or alcohol, living on the streets is hard. Nevertheless, part of me thought, "I work hard for the little I have. Hell, I'm on my way to work on a holiday right now! Screw these people!" But another thought, "Do I really want to live in a world where nobody trusts anybody else or is willing to help another person because they don't care or just think everyone is up to no good?" And then I recalled something I'd read the day before, a homily from the late Theophane Boyd in Sundays at the Magic Monastery: Homilies from the Trappists of St. Benedict's Monastery about 'staying awake' to the preciousness of every person and to when God, in the form of the injured person on the side of the road in the parable of the Good Samaritan, shows up in our lives. Maybe it was that, or the fact that I work in the Providence cancer treatment centre, but I gave the third man all the money I had knowing that he could very easily be bullshiting me, but also knowing that if I refused a third time, I was turning my back on my own goodness and asleep to/closing myself off from others. He looked surprised at what I'd handed him, then thanked me, saying that he could see I was hesitant and questioning his story, but that he appreciated how I didn't judge him. And that last part surprised me. Because at that moment, I'd made a decision not to judge him, and he saw that. And for a brief moment, my guard was let down and I saw a glimpse of what Boyd was trying to convey about letting 'him' in and how easy it is to not see others, let alone love them as ourselves. But how many times do I simply say no? How many times do I just keep on walking right past the injured person on the side of the road? How many people a day do I say no to, or get short with, or say 'that's not my problem' to? Far too many.
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