Warning: this is a weird post. I don't really believe what I'm writing, but the truth is, it's quite often the story I'm living. So while I'd like to tell you it's a witty tongue-in-cheek indictment of popular culture, I'm painfully aware of how often my actions suggest I believe this stuff more that I want to. All right, you've been warned. Gloves are off. Welcome to my mixed up world.
Mindfulness is all the rage these days. It seems everywhere you turn you'll hear about it.
I've tried being mindful, and I admit there are perks. But I think we need to stop being so hard on mindlessness, it has its benefits too. Being mostly unaware and not paying attention to what's going on around you can really pay off. Besides, it's just too much work to be mindful. How can anything good require that much practice or dedication?
And maybe I'm the only one who feels this way, but....
I like being distracted.
I like not being present.
The past and the future can be such pleasant escapes from the terrible present moment.
Maybe I don't want to be here, in this moment okay? Maybe this moment sucks compared to what happened two weeks ago when I was on vacation, or next week when I bite into a juicy steak. Is it really so bad if I escape the boredom of everyday life by checking out, and playing a mindless game on my cell phone instead?
Now some of you might be taking me for a fool - but think about this - when you try to be fully present what happens? Exactly, you find your mind wandering off to someplace else. Maybe it's because this moment really isn't so grand after all? Why don't we just give our minds what they want: permission to wander wherever they see fit rather than always trying to bring our attention back to stupid things like breathing and body sensations and the eternal "now".
Instead of getting so caught up in the gifts of the present, let's think just for a moment about all the bounty that comes with being mindless.
So here are the gifts of not being present. With a little fanfare I now present to you: "the gifts of mindlessness".
1. Being mindless allows me to consume more. Have you ever tried eating slowly and paying attention to your food? Yikes, I can only eat half of what I normally stuff down my gut. How am I supposed to make it to dessert if I'm too full from the entree because I was too busy savouring the bites in my mouth? As Lenin once said, "quantity has a quality all it's own". Or, as the glorious chefs at Hungry Man TV dinners claim, "it's good to be full". I appreciate that some prefer small bits that are savoured, but let's not forget how pleasant and powerful gluttony can feel. If I was just eating to survive, or even just for the pleasure of the food itself, I can see how mindfulness would be helpful. But I'm a North American, and lots of my choices are expressions of my power and privilege. I eat and I waste to prove to myself and others just how rich and powerful I am. Gluttony is an affirmation of my superiority and dominance over the poor and disenfranchised. If I want to drive a Hummer to show everyone that excessive burning of fossil fuels is my privilege, than so be it. Someday when you have access to more credit than is good for you, you can choose to be wasteful too. Remember what our world leaders said when the economies crashed in 2008? Go shopping. Consume. Spend money. We have a culture based on consumption and waste. If we start paying attention and valuing what we have, bad things are going to happen. It's just not patriotic to think too much about this kind of thing. And all this talk of paying attention is a big barrier to my thoughtless exploitation of the world's resources and people.
2. Mindlessness gives us the ability to multitask. If I have to be fully present with this moment, I can't be checking my phone, watching tv, eating, and parenting all at the same time. Look, I'm sure present moment awareness is amazing, but who can tolerate its inefficiency? Meditation and retreats are a beautiful luxury for hipsters and artsies, but the rest of us don't have time for that! If I'm not doing at least two things at once, there's going to need to be at least two of me in the world to squeeze all my productivity into one 24hr day. Has anybody thought through the economic implications of being single focused?. And how could I possibly consume the media content I enjoy if I'm only doing one thing at a time? Right now as I write this, I have five tabs open on my browser. One tab is playing music from YouTube (I'm really digging Billy Joel's classical music) Two tabs are still open from some shopping I'm doing in between sentences. One tab has my email open. And of course my cell phone will likely go off soon with calls from patients. I am a lean mean multitasking machine because Lord Steve Jobs has created such a wonderful tool. Think of all the limits on production and consumption we would place on ourselves if we stopped doing so many things at once. I don't want to do less. The world needs more of me and I of it. And multitasking is the venue to make that happen. So what if it raises my blood pressure? Isn't being hyper-vigilant worth it?
3. But of all the greatness of mindlessness, the benefit I favour most is the ability it gives me to check-out. If I don't want to be here, I'm really good at being somewhere else. The other day I was watching a YouTube video and one of those ads came on - you know, the one's they don't allow you to skip. It was about orphans in Africa. Truly upsetting, the kind of images that stick in your head and pop back up when you're trying to sleep. But sweet mindlessness came to my rescue. Rather than getting sucked into that super downer ad, I just went somewhere else in my head. Normally I could just check who's endorsed me this week on LinkedIn, but my phone wasn't on the couch and getting up was going to be too much effort. Last week mindlessness let me go on a charity walk to raise money for homeless people without even thinking about homelessness, or noticing the homeless people we probably passed on the walk. Instead I got to tell people about the swanky beach we visited recently.
But I don't just want to check out from boredom, I have bigger things to avoid. So here's my problem with being mindful. It's just too painful. If I'm going to really pay attention to the world around me, I'm going notice that our civilization is a bit of a train wreck. I live in the comfortable part of the world so it's not nearly as messy as the reality some people would have to be present with. But my inner world isn't necessarily a walk on the beach either. If you've read this blog, you might get a sense of how gross and selfish I can be in my heart and mind. Who wants to be present with that? Let's just move along and not spend too much time naval gazing to notice all the dark bits of me that hide out or are unobserved.
And the sadness I feel from listening to people's suffering all day long? No thanks. I'm not going to stick around with that any more than I have to. Give me the sweet distractions of being preoccupied with the super important things like trying to figure out whether the Packers should draft a linebacker or a tight end in the draft next month. There's a reason why people immerse themselves in the awesome worlds of Angry Birds, Bejewelled, Tetris, Minesweeper, and the like - because nobody wants to think about the heavy shit of reality after working all day and being a parent. If I want to feel something, I'll let Netflix take care of it thank you very much. They let me pick what I'm going to feel or not feel. And if I'm going to be disturbed by something like House of Cards (so dark, yet so enticing), Netflix allows me to keep it all in the land of make belief where it's not real. I can even turn it off or switch to something drole if it starts to feel a little too much.
Mindfulness, you're a nice hobby. I'll keep you in my back pocket with Yoga and prayer for when things get tough and I need a tool to help me get through.
Mindlessness, you're still my go-to gal. We make a great team in living the life everyone tells me I'm supposed to live. You keep me multitasking and distracted in a world of pain and chaos. You help me be the kind of producer and consumer that keeps the economy ticking along. Besides, after all these years together, how could I leave you now? A mindless life is so normal, so comfortable, so familiar. Yeah there are big problems in world, but why would I think I'm so important that I should try to do anything about them? There are lots of other more talented people who can take care of it. Me, I'll just keep my nose down, my iPod on, and multiple tabs open on my browser. It's easier that way. Don't fight it. Just go with the sweet mindless flow.
Friday, March 4, 2016
Thursday, February 25, 2016
Mercy toward the unmerciful
I have a neighbor I've shown mercy on several occasions over the past 3 years. Actually, I should say "we", because it's a family effort.
Her forms of brokenness don't take very long to discover when you talk to her. I could give you the labels, but I think it's enough to tell you she has some long standing problems that have caused some destruction in her life and others.
So very often the compassion we feel toward her makes it easy to extend mercy, even when she destroyed some of property of ours. Other neighbours have been equally or even more kind toward her, being generous toward her and expecting nothing in return.
But I find mercy a much bigger struggle when I see this neighbour who has received mercy from lots of us on the street, turn around and fail to be merciful, fail to even be kind to the rest of the neighbourhood. She's the very first to call the police when someone does something she doesn't like. She picks fights. She goes looking for trouble with the very people who have been kind to her.
She's the kind of person that makes Calvinism start to have a kind of resonance with me. Jonathan Edwards' "sinners in the hand of an angry God" has some appeal to me when I'm trying to wrap my head around people's failure to respond to grace and mercy. At some point I want mercy to stop and people to get what I think they deserve. At some point I think people have had their share of mercy and don't seem to be getting it, so maybe a little hellfire and brimstone will get the message through their thick skulls.
It makes me think of that story in Matthew 18, sometimes titled "the unmerciful servant":
I kind of like this little story - I bristle at the unmerciful servant - I have the same feeling of anger for my unmerciful neighbour...and I take a little hope in the idea that God will stop being mister nice guy and bring out the hammer on people like this.
But there's just one little problem.
My neighbour isn't the only one who fails to show mercy even after being shown mercy herself. Sometimes even people who blog and write many words about mercy end up being shamefully unmerciful in their daily life! I've been given all this inspiration about mercy, and have come to appreciate the experience of it in my own life...but just like her, I so often fail to extend it to others.
It turns out that the major difference between my neighbour and I, is that her unmerciful behaviour is more visible. That is, because she's openly causing problems in the neighbourhood, her lack of mercy is on display for us all to see. I, on the other hand, am a much more subtle and diplomatic fellow. I keep my failed mercy well covered under the veneer of civility. Sometimes my lack of mercy is only in my heart, hidden from the world.
Which is why the last bit of this Matthew passage stings me a little. Jesus says I have to forgive from my heart - he knows me well enough to apprehend my polished outward appearances and remind me that I'm not off the hook because I'm covert about my lack of mercy. My heart must actually forgive and be merciful - not because she deserves it, but because I've been given it.
Her offences against the neighborhood are so small compared to depth and breadth of forgiveness and mercy that God has shown me. So when I think about it, I don't actually want God to get frustrated and implement a statute of limitations on mercy...because I will no doubt run out chances, if I haven't already.
Her forms of brokenness don't take very long to discover when you talk to her. I could give you the labels, but I think it's enough to tell you she has some long standing problems that have caused some destruction in her life and others.
So very often the compassion we feel toward her makes it easy to extend mercy, even when she destroyed some of property of ours. Other neighbours have been equally or even more kind toward her, being generous toward her and expecting nothing in return.
But I find mercy a much bigger struggle when I see this neighbour who has received mercy from lots of us on the street, turn around and fail to be merciful, fail to even be kind to the rest of the neighbourhood. She's the very first to call the police when someone does something she doesn't like. She picks fights. She goes looking for trouble with the very people who have been kind to her.
She's the kind of person that makes Calvinism start to have a kind of resonance with me. Jonathan Edwards' "sinners in the hand of an angry God" has some appeal to me when I'm trying to wrap my head around people's failure to respond to grace and mercy. At some point I want mercy to stop and people to get what I think they deserve. At some point I think people have had their share of mercy and don't seem to be getting it, so maybe a little hellfire and brimstone will get the message through their thick skulls.
It makes me think of that story in Matthew 18, sometimes titled "the unmerciful servant":
23 “Therefore, the kingdom of heaven is like a king who wanted to settle accounts with his servants. 24 As he began the settlement, a man who owed him ten thousand bags of gold[h] was brought to him. 25 Since he was not able to pay, the master ordered that he and his wife and his children and all that he had be sold to repay the debt.
26 “At this the servant fell on his knees before him. ‘Be patient with me,’ he begged, ‘and I will pay back everything.’ 27 The servant’s master took pity on him, canceled the debt and let him go.
28 “But when that servant went out, he found one of his fellow servants who owed him a hundred silver coins.[i] He grabbed him and began to choke him. ‘Pay back what you owe me!’ he demanded.
29 “His fellow servant fell to his knees and begged him, ‘Be patient with me, and I will pay it back.’
30 “But he refused. Instead, he went off and had the man thrown into prison until he could pay the debt. 31 When the other servants saw what had happened, they were outraged and went and told their master everything that had happened.
32 “Then the master called the servant in. ‘You wicked servant,’ he said, ‘I canceled all that debt of yours because you begged me to. 33 Shouldn’t you have had mercy on your fellow servant just as I had on you?’ 34 In anger his master handed him over to the jailers to be tortured, until he should pay back all he owed.
35 “This is how my heavenly Father will treat each of you unless you forgive your brother or sister from your heart.”
I kind of like this little story - I bristle at the unmerciful servant - I have the same feeling of anger for my unmerciful neighbour...and I take a little hope in the idea that God will stop being mister nice guy and bring out the hammer on people like this.
But there's just one little problem.
My neighbour isn't the only one who fails to show mercy even after being shown mercy herself. Sometimes even people who blog and write many words about mercy end up being shamefully unmerciful in their daily life! I've been given all this inspiration about mercy, and have come to appreciate the experience of it in my own life...but just like her, I so often fail to extend it to others.
It turns out that the major difference between my neighbour and I, is that her unmerciful behaviour is more visible. That is, because she's openly causing problems in the neighbourhood, her lack of mercy is on display for us all to see. I, on the other hand, am a much more subtle and diplomatic fellow. I keep my failed mercy well covered under the veneer of civility. Sometimes my lack of mercy is only in my heart, hidden from the world.
Which is why the last bit of this Matthew passage stings me a little. Jesus says I have to forgive from my heart - he knows me well enough to apprehend my polished outward appearances and remind me that I'm not off the hook because I'm covert about my lack of mercy. My heart must actually forgive and be merciful - not because she deserves it, but because I've been given it.
Her offences against the neighborhood are so small compared to depth and breadth of forgiveness and mercy that God has shown me. So when I think about it, I don't actually want God to get frustrated and implement a statute of limitations on mercy...because I will no doubt run out chances, if I haven't already.
I don't know exactly how to reconcile Jesus' words at the end of the passage with the rest of his words about the endless and boundless quality of his love. I know that literal interpretation of parables is a little problematic.
But what I learn about myself is that my attraction to the God of judgement, anger, punishment, and people getting what they deserve is always at its highest when I'm feeling self righteous. And my attraction to this kind of iron-fisted deity seems to evaporate pretty quickly when I'm seeing myself more humbly (realistically).
Maybe there is a point at which God can no longer tolerate people being unmerciful because they are too destructive, too harmful to others. But I pray that I am not there yet. I hope that my heart never becomes so hardened that I fail to recognize the much bigger mercies I've received. I sense the need to constantly fight my self-righteous tendencies. I sense that I am swimming against the tide of culture telling me that I get what I deserve. Because I don't deserve any of the really important things in life - they are all gifts. And so I'm beginning to see how mercy and gratitude are interrelated. Perhaps to be a people of mercy, we must also cultivate gratitude, and allow ourselves to be reminded of our own cancelled debts, and the mysterious depth of mercy we have been given.
Wednesday, January 27, 2016
Mercy and Humiliation
God, out of his infinite mercy, made himself equal to us in the incarnation by identifying with the human condition.
God makes us equal to him by transforming us into
his own unconditional love.
-Fr. Thomas Keating
Somehow I knew I wasn't done with blogging about mercy. It's following me around apparently.
Keating seems to be suggesting that one way in which God expresses mercy is by making himself equal with us. I suspect some will read that and consider it blasphemy. The idea of God lowering herself to the status of created humans is understandably insulting, and is likely one reason why other religions and sects have rejected this Christian doctrine. But if you think about it, the incarnation is sort of a blasphemous idea if we try to wrap our heads around the idea of Jesus being fully human and fully divine. Even if we consider it a part of our orthodox Christian faith, I think it's still an idea that we resist.
But if we can tolerate the perceived blasphemy of a God who becomes equal with his own creation, there is perhaps a deeper understanding of mercy to be found. If one way God expresses mercy is by becoming equal with us, perhaps we too must express mercy by becoming equal with others. Maybe one of the biggest barriers we face in extending true mercy (not condescending "help" or pity), is that elevation of our selves above others. Maybe we can distinguish mercy from pity, in recognizing that in mercy we become equals rather than superiors who are nobly refraining from executing our version of justice.
I think I was stumbling around with this idea earlier in blog posts when I was bringing out Father Greg Boyle's idea of embracing kinship. In kinship we are reminding ourselves that not only do we belong to each other, but that we are equals in the human family.
So mercy requires us to humble ourselves. It requires a certain "humiliation" of our egos if you will.
Developing this concept, Fr. Keating says:
"The most productive effort is to accept the endless humiliations of the false self. The spiritual journey is not a career, but a succession of “diminutions of self,” as Teilhard de Chardin put it. This has nothing to do with the neurosis of a low self-image. It is simply the fact that we are completely dependent on the love of God. We are always in the arms of the beloved, whatever we may feel or think." (Contemplative Outreach, December 2015)
It seems to me that unlike God we don't become equals, we actually just learn to recognize that we already are equals with the rest of humanity. After our false and elevated selves have been broken down, we recognize ourselves as being just like everyone else - completely dependent on the love of God.
So today I'm confronted with this profound mystery that God, and the people I look down on, and the people I think are better than me, are all in some respect equal to me through our shared humanity. I'm not suggesting the equality means we are all identical or even the same. I recognize that God maintains a superiority over me in some certain aspects because she is also divine. And just because I'm equal in my dependence on God's love doesn't mean I'm the exact same as ISIS or Desmond Tutu. But in so far as I am equal to all of these, I become more capable of mercy.
As a person in a helping role this seems rather crucial to me. Professional health care can easily take on a dynamic of the helper being elevated and/or looking down on those seeking help. But as we tap into the flow of mercy we are changed into people who care for others out of equality rather than responding to weakness from a place of superiority.
God, help us all to see who we really are. Give us the courage to consent to having our false selves stripped away so we can recognize our equality with you and all humanity. Help us to receive your mercy and be changed by it so that we can extend mercy to others.
Somehow I knew I wasn't done with blogging about mercy. It's following me around apparently.
Keating seems to be suggesting that one way in which God expresses mercy is by making himself equal with us. I suspect some will read that and consider it blasphemy. The idea of God lowering herself to the status of created humans is understandably insulting, and is likely one reason why other religions and sects have rejected this Christian doctrine. But if you think about it, the incarnation is sort of a blasphemous idea if we try to wrap our heads around the idea of Jesus being fully human and fully divine. Even if we consider it a part of our orthodox Christian faith, I think it's still an idea that we resist.
But if we can tolerate the perceived blasphemy of a God who becomes equal with his own creation, there is perhaps a deeper understanding of mercy to be found. If one way God expresses mercy is by becoming equal with us, perhaps we too must express mercy by becoming equal with others. Maybe one of the biggest barriers we face in extending true mercy (not condescending "help" or pity), is that elevation of our selves above others. Maybe we can distinguish mercy from pity, in recognizing that in mercy we become equals rather than superiors who are nobly refraining from executing our version of justice.
I think I was stumbling around with this idea earlier in blog posts when I was bringing out Father Greg Boyle's idea of embracing kinship. In kinship we are reminding ourselves that not only do we belong to each other, but that we are equals in the human family.
So mercy requires us to humble ourselves. It requires a certain "humiliation" of our egos if you will.
Developing this concept, Fr. Keating says:
"The most productive effort is to accept the endless humiliations of the false self. The spiritual journey is not a career, but a succession of “diminutions of self,” as Teilhard de Chardin put it. This has nothing to do with the neurosis of a low self-image. It is simply the fact that we are completely dependent on the love of God. We are always in the arms of the beloved, whatever we may feel or think." (Contemplative Outreach, December 2015)
It seems to me that unlike God we don't become equals, we actually just learn to recognize that we already are equals with the rest of humanity. After our false and elevated selves have been broken down, we recognize ourselves as being just like everyone else - completely dependent on the love of God.
So today I'm confronted with this profound mystery that God, and the people I look down on, and the people I think are better than me, are all in some respect equal to me through our shared humanity. I'm not suggesting the equality means we are all identical or even the same. I recognize that God maintains a superiority over me in some certain aspects because she is also divine. And just because I'm equal in my dependence on God's love doesn't mean I'm the exact same as ISIS or Desmond Tutu. But in so far as I am equal to all of these, I become more capable of mercy.
As a person in a helping role this seems rather crucial to me. Professional health care can easily take on a dynamic of the helper being elevated and/or looking down on those seeking help. But as we tap into the flow of mercy we are changed into people who care for others out of equality rather than responding to weakness from a place of superiority.
God, help us all to see who we really are. Give us the courage to consent to having our false selves stripped away so we can recognize our equality with you and all humanity. Help us to receive your mercy and be changed by it so that we can extend mercy to others.
Tuesday, January 19, 2016
Clinging to fragile things
Life is fragile.
This is both its tragedy and beauty at the same time.
Life seems like a hibiscus flower to me. Unfolding with astonishing beauty for only a day or two before it withers. It's delicate features so easy damaged by a harsh touch or damaging winds. And it happens so quickly that we can easily miss it - preoccupied as we so often are by unimportant things. But the fact that it is so quickly passing is also what makes it so precious. That it lives only briefly, is part of what makes it so beautiful to begin with. The cold and dismal landscape outside as I write this, makes me appreciate all the more the fleeting exquisiteness of June.
Months back I wrote about my obsession with pictures - with my foolhardy attempts to capture the past and keep it from...well, passing. Since then I've been trying to use photos instead as something to help me reorient myself to the present moment. Rather than yearn for what's passed when I look at them, I remind myself of what's still here in this moment.
That 5 year-old with the electric smile, whose picture is on my desktop reminding me of a happy time at San Diego's famed sunset cliffs. Now she's closer to 6, a lover of school, 3 inches taller, and a little more sassy. But her love, her joy, her laughter are still with me tonight. I can revel in them anytime I choose. Pictures have become something that point me towards revelling in the present moment.
It's so easy when we are confronted with the fragility of life to want to grasp hold, to cling to things so tightly because we fear losing them. That same 5-year old has a tendency to pick up flowers that have fallen and want to bring them home with her. Often in the process of clinging to her treasure she accidentally ruins them. Her attempt to protect and preserve by holding it tight in her hands, leads to crushed and wilted flowers. It's understandable - I cling to things in my own life - and in my attempts to preserve what is beautiful or precious I end up I clinging too tight just like her.
What strikes me now and again is my human tendency to want to cling to, and even worship the created things of this world instead of the Creator. I want to save the short-lived splendour of a flower, which is of course impossible. But that splendour points to something deeper, something eternal and omnipresent. I cannot keep the flower. I cannot preserve my precious and innocent 5 year-old. (Attempts to keep her a permanent 5 year-old would no doubt destroy her) But beauty and joy are experiences that point to the presence of the divine. And God, woven into the fabric of the universe, is not something I need to grasp or cling to, because God is always there. The same God that brings joy and delight through flowers or the blessing of a daughter, is always around me.
If God is love, than whenever I experience love, I also experience God.
There is no need then to grasp onto love from a particular person or in a particular experience, because love can be found wherever and whenever we have "eyes" for it.
Life is fragile and passing, but love is eternal. While the finite and temporal qualities of human existence are both tragic and beautiful, they are only passing reflections of the more eternal and omnipresent qualities of the divine. I want to cling less to God's reflection, and delight more in God herself. Maybe this is the "eternal" life Jesus offer us - that we can experience the eternal reality now if we connect with the presence of God in all the various forms it takes in our lives.
I've been looking for ways to preserve my photos to protect them from the passage of time and decay. And while this is a perfectly fine thing to do, what I realize is that attempts to preserve temporary things is no substitute for regularly bringing my heart and mind back to the eternal life I can encounter in the present moment.
May we all have eyes and ears and hearts that experience God's presence in the forms of love, joy, mercy, grace, beauty....and all the other ways we can experience him.
This is both its tragedy and beauty at the same time.
Life seems like a hibiscus flower to me. Unfolding with astonishing beauty for only a day or two before it withers. It's delicate features so easy damaged by a harsh touch or damaging winds. And it happens so quickly that we can easily miss it - preoccupied as we so often are by unimportant things. But the fact that it is so quickly passing is also what makes it so precious. That it lives only briefly, is part of what makes it so beautiful to begin with. The cold and dismal landscape outside as I write this, makes me appreciate all the more the fleeting exquisiteness of June.
Months back I wrote about my obsession with pictures - with my foolhardy attempts to capture the past and keep it from...well, passing. Since then I've been trying to use photos instead as something to help me reorient myself to the present moment. Rather than yearn for what's passed when I look at them, I remind myself of what's still here in this moment.
That 5 year-old with the electric smile, whose picture is on my desktop reminding me of a happy time at San Diego's famed sunset cliffs. Now she's closer to 6, a lover of school, 3 inches taller, and a little more sassy. But her love, her joy, her laughter are still with me tonight. I can revel in them anytime I choose. Pictures have become something that point me towards revelling in the present moment.
It's so easy when we are confronted with the fragility of life to want to grasp hold, to cling to things so tightly because we fear losing them. That same 5-year old has a tendency to pick up flowers that have fallen and want to bring them home with her. Often in the process of clinging to her treasure she accidentally ruins them. Her attempt to protect and preserve by holding it tight in her hands, leads to crushed and wilted flowers. It's understandable - I cling to things in my own life - and in my attempts to preserve what is beautiful or precious I end up I clinging too tight just like her.
What strikes me now and again is my human tendency to want to cling to, and even worship the created things of this world instead of the Creator. I want to save the short-lived splendour of a flower, which is of course impossible. But that splendour points to something deeper, something eternal and omnipresent. I cannot keep the flower. I cannot preserve my precious and innocent 5 year-old. (Attempts to keep her a permanent 5 year-old would no doubt destroy her) But beauty and joy are experiences that point to the presence of the divine. And God, woven into the fabric of the universe, is not something I need to grasp or cling to, because God is always there. The same God that brings joy and delight through flowers or the blessing of a daughter, is always around me.
If God is love, than whenever I experience love, I also experience God.
There is no need then to grasp onto love from a particular person or in a particular experience, because love can be found wherever and whenever we have "eyes" for it.
Life is fragile and passing, but love is eternal. While the finite and temporal qualities of human existence are both tragic and beautiful, they are only passing reflections of the more eternal and omnipresent qualities of the divine. I want to cling less to God's reflection, and delight more in God herself. Maybe this is the "eternal" life Jesus offer us - that we can experience the eternal reality now if we connect with the presence of God in all the various forms it takes in our lives.
I've been looking for ways to preserve my photos to protect them from the passage of time and decay. And while this is a perfectly fine thing to do, what I realize is that attempts to preserve temporary things is no substitute for regularly bringing my heart and mind back to the eternal life I can encounter in the present moment.
May we all have eyes and ears and hearts that experience God's presence in the forms of love, joy, mercy, grace, beauty....and all the other ways we can experience him.
Tuesday, January 12, 2016
First World Problems
Over Christmas I was grumbling to myself about not having enough space in my fridge for all the food we had. As I honed my Tetris skills trying to find places for all of it to go and still be able to shut the door without food falling out, I realized I needed a much bigger fridge. Ironically, I have also complained at times that the fridge is too big - we are prone to losing things in it and finding them months later having evolved into life forms too awful to talk about.
Sometimes it's helpful to say these things out loud, so you can hear how ridiculous you're being.
"my fridge is too big" or "I have too much food".
Try saying these things out loud while watching a news report about people fleeing their country and living in refugee camps.
When I'm actually paying attention to the absurdity of my complaints, I'm convicted by how ungrateful I am and how entitled I seem about my life.
Sometimes we use the label "first-world problems" to describe the kinds of ridiculous things many of us get upset about.
Rohinton Mistry, in his astounding tale of life and suffering in India entitled, A Fine Balance, captures it well in this little dialogue:
“I've done lots of jobs. Right now, I'm a hair collector."
"That's good", said Ishvar tentatively. "What do you have to do as a hair-collector?"
"Collect hair."
"And there is money in that?"
"Oh very big business. There is a great demand for hair in foreign countries."
"What do they do with it? Asked Om skeptical."
"Many different things. Mostly they wear it. Sometimes they paint it in different colors - red, yellow, brown, blue. Foreign women enjoy wearing other people's hair. Men also, especially if they are bald.
In foreign countries they fear baldness. They are so rich in foreign countries, they can afford to fear all kinds of silly things.”
Fearing baldness - a "first-world problem" indeed.
It's rare that a line I read in a book sticks with me for years, but that idea about us being so rich we can afford to fear silly things has stayed with me, perhaps one could even say haunted me.
So let me continue to own this (although I know I'm not alone): at times I complain about things of insignificance and even believe I am truly suffering over them.
I close my eyes to the images in the news, and block out my memories of what I saw in the developing world so that I can ignore the kinds of suffering that go on for two-thirds of the world's inhabitants. To be perfectly honest, sometimes I don't really want perspective on my problems - I'd rather complain and feel justified in doing it. I don't think many of us want to perceive ourselves as privileged or even unfairly blessed.
But as I recognize my kinship with all of humanity I'm forced to consider the fact that I might be like Cinderella's older step-sisters - complaining about my dress to wear to the ball while someone else in my family is doing hard labour.
A friend of mine forbids her kids to use the phrase "I'm starving" because she feels it disrespects the suffering of people who are actually starving around the world. It's probably the least we can do.
But here's the other side of the coin with "first world problems"....
...sometimes they do represent true suffering, and we are foolish to quickly dismiss them merely because they do not appear to have the gravity of physical deprivation that much of the world suffers. I would even argue that when we ignore those true instances of suffering by labeling them as insignificant first world problems, we do a harm not only to ourselves, but to those in developing countries.
Is baldness truly a form of suffering? Obviously not. But it's not just about hair is it? Many people fear baldness because they fear being isolated, rejected, even being unloveable. Our vanity in wealthy nations is so often a product of deeper fears: symbolic, rather than literal dangers. As Mistry points out in this passage, wealth means we can afford to be afraid of silly things.
However, our wealth also creates some of the conditions that make us vulnerable to these symbolic fears in the first place.
We fear abandonment and isolation based on loss of sex appeal because social bonds are weak in countries like ours where individualism has become a dominant ideology. Where families and tribes are no longer the chief organizing principle of social arrangements, connection is now based on the ability to attract social bonds, rather than on the basis of birth into a particular group.
I have no interest in defending my absurd complaints about having too much food in my house. But my contradictory complaints (fridge too small and too big) are a symptom of bigger problems - problems that shouldn't be ignored but rather magnified and addressed. And when we minimize the cultural sickness of living in North American society, we overlook the brokenness of our cultures and remain wounded in ways that I think actually perpetuates our mistreatment of the developing world. If we constantly de-legitimize the problems of loneliness, consumerism, individualism, and lives controlled by technology, because they don't seem as devastating as human-trafficking or lack of access to clean water, we run the risk of missing how wealth and overabundance create their own forms of suffering and brokenness.
I appreciate that we must be careful not to enter into pity for ourselves and equate our suffering with many of those in the developing world. The truth is, suffering cannot be compared. But to write off the problems associated with over-abundance entirely because they're not devastating to human life in the same ways, is also a problem. I think it's a mistake to focus exclusively on the starvation of some in our human family, while ignoring the spiritual illness of our own gluttony.
I do think it's high time we looked carefully at how our overabundance is shaping us and harming us. Not so that we can ignore the problems of those in poverty or make ourselves feel less guilty about our participation in their repression, but so that we can pursue our own healing and restoration for the good of the world. Sometimes we have to fix what's broken in ourselves before we can offer help to others. But before we can fix it, we have to acknowledge that the values and systems we participate in that cause such inequality, are also harming ourselves.
Sometimes it's helpful to say these things out loud, so you can hear how ridiculous you're being.
"my fridge is too big" or "I have too much food".
Try saying these things out loud while watching a news report about people fleeing their country and living in refugee camps.
When I'm actually paying attention to the absurdity of my complaints, I'm convicted by how ungrateful I am and how entitled I seem about my life.
Sometimes we use the label "first-world problems" to describe the kinds of ridiculous things many of us get upset about.
Rohinton Mistry, in his astounding tale of life and suffering in India entitled, A Fine Balance, captures it well in this little dialogue:
“I've done lots of jobs. Right now, I'm a hair collector."
"That's good", said Ishvar tentatively. "What do you have to do as a hair-collector?"
"Collect hair."
"And there is money in that?"
"Oh very big business. There is a great demand for hair in foreign countries."
"What do they do with it? Asked Om skeptical."
"Many different things. Mostly they wear it. Sometimes they paint it in different colors - red, yellow, brown, blue. Foreign women enjoy wearing other people's hair. Men also, especially if they are bald.
In foreign countries they fear baldness. They are so rich in foreign countries, they can afford to fear all kinds of silly things.”
Fearing baldness - a "first-world problem" indeed.
It's rare that a line I read in a book sticks with me for years, but that idea about us being so rich we can afford to fear silly things has stayed with me, perhaps one could even say haunted me.
So let me continue to own this (although I know I'm not alone): at times I complain about things of insignificance and even believe I am truly suffering over them.
I close my eyes to the images in the news, and block out my memories of what I saw in the developing world so that I can ignore the kinds of suffering that go on for two-thirds of the world's inhabitants. To be perfectly honest, sometimes I don't really want perspective on my problems - I'd rather complain and feel justified in doing it. I don't think many of us want to perceive ourselves as privileged or even unfairly blessed.
But as I recognize my kinship with all of humanity I'm forced to consider the fact that I might be like Cinderella's older step-sisters - complaining about my dress to wear to the ball while someone else in my family is doing hard labour.
A friend of mine forbids her kids to use the phrase "I'm starving" because she feels it disrespects the suffering of people who are actually starving around the world. It's probably the least we can do.
But here's the other side of the coin with "first world problems"....
...sometimes they do represent true suffering, and we are foolish to quickly dismiss them merely because they do not appear to have the gravity of physical deprivation that much of the world suffers. I would even argue that when we ignore those true instances of suffering by labeling them as insignificant first world problems, we do a harm not only to ourselves, but to those in developing countries.
Is baldness truly a form of suffering? Obviously not. But it's not just about hair is it? Many people fear baldness because they fear being isolated, rejected, even being unloveable. Our vanity in wealthy nations is so often a product of deeper fears: symbolic, rather than literal dangers. As Mistry points out in this passage, wealth means we can afford to be afraid of silly things.
However, our wealth also creates some of the conditions that make us vulnerable to these symbolic fears in the first place.
We fear abandonment and isolation based on loss of sex appeal because social bonds are weak in countries like ours where individualism has become a dominant ideology. Where families and tribes are no longer the chief organizing principle of social arrangements, connection is now based on the ability to attract social bonds, rather than on the basis of birth into a particular group.
I have no interest in defending my absurd complaints about having too much food in my house. But my contradictory complaints (fridge too small and too big) are a symptom of bigger problems - problems that shouldn't be ignored but rather magnified and addressed. And when we minimize the cultural sickness of living in North American society, we overlook the brokenness of our cultures and remain wounded in ways that I think actually perpetuates our mistreatment of the developing world. If we constantly de-legitimize the problems of loneliness, consumerism, individualism, and lives controlled by technology, because they don't seem as devastating as human-trafficking or lack of access to clean water, we run the risk of missing how wealth and overabundance create their own forms of suffering and brokenness.
I appreciate that we must be careful not to enter into pity for ourselves and equate our suffering with many of those in the developing world. The truth is, suffering cannot be compared. But to write off the problems associated with over-abundance entirely because they're not devastating to human life in the same ways, is also a problem. I think it's a mistake to focus exclusively on the starvation of some in our human family, while ignoring the spiritual illness of our own gluttony.
I do think it's high time we looked carefully at how our overabundance is shaping us and harming us. Not so that we can ignore the problems of those in poverty or make ourselves feel less guilty about our participation in their repression, but so that we can pursue our own healing and restoration for the good of the world. Sometimes we have to fix what's broken in ourselves before we can offer help to others. But before we can fix it, we have to acknowledge that the values and systems we participate in that cause such inequality, are also harming ourselves.
Thursday, December 17, 2015
Daily Christmas Pageants
Is there anything more hilarious than a child's Christmas pageant?
The nose picking, the mistakes, the forgotten lines, the improvised props, the enthusiastic children singing off-key at the top of their lungs while having no self-consciousness, the desperate adults trying to stage manage a heard of cats, the children with the dear-in-headlights...
Years ago I went to a church that had a live donkey in their pageant....which was fine, until the orchestra and choirs started in with their anthem, at which point it seems having a trained handler to manage the understandably terrified donkey would have been a wiser decision. I'm sure if I polled my readers you would have equally amusing recollections of well intended but epic failures at these kinds of events.
And who can forget that scene from the movie Love Actually, where the pageant includes children dressed up in lobster costumes arriving at the manger. Which at first seems a bizarre historical inaccuracy, but at second glance reminds us that all of creation would likely have come to this event given the chance.
But beyond their sheer entertainment value - and there is plenty of that no doubt - why do we drag our children into these things?
I think it might have to do with the fact that deep down we know that there is a need for each of us to participate in this story of Christmas. That it's not enough just to read about it, or contemplate it from afar. Really good stories need to be lived.
There's the story of the headstrong child who wanders off to pursue what seems will make them happy, only to find themselves returning to their family having learned the hard way. It may be one of Jesus' great stories he tells, but for most of us at some point we live out this story in our lives.
There's the story of the parent who wants so desperately to protect their child who seems to wander and make bad decisions and can only wait for the day when they return to us, when we too will run to meet them and return them to the family. Many have lived this story too.
And what about all of the stories the scriptures give us of redemption, of being lost and found, of having suffering transformed into something beautiful and good?...These are the kinds of stories we all want to live deep at the core of our being.
As I watched my own children this week in their roles as sheep at a manager scene, this struck me: When we participate in pageants that recreate the Christmas story we are celebrating by putting ourselves, especially our children inside the central story of how God relates to humankind.
God relates to us by becoming one of us.
Sometimes in our familiarity with the story we lose sight of how revolutionary this idea about God joining us really is. In the ancient world gods were distant authorities who needed to be appeased. Even ancient stories about gods taking on human form were never about a god doing so because they loved their creation. This idea that the Jewish god Yahweh decides to come be one of us as the highest expression of love marks a monumental turn in the history of human beings.
So how do we enter into this story - beyond the humorous yet heartwarming low-budget theatrical recreations of the gospel accounts of Christ's birth?
What if metaphorically speaking we viewed our lives as a kind of Christmas pageant - a daily recreation of this story in which we participate and show others the mystery of the incarnation?
How would our days look different if we lived as people whose lives and world are filled with God all around us? A god who is present and loving, not distant or angry?
You probably even have a jack-ass (donkey?) or two hanging around your scene! Although I suspect you are short an orchestra or any applause even when you forget your lines. But remember this: we are not here to impress the world with our excellence in recreating an historical event. Rather we recreate this story because it is the one in which light breaks through darkness. We recreate this story daily because it brings such joy to the world.
P.S. There is no room in this story for complaining about what Starbucks does or does not put on their coffee cups. The light of the world shines so bright that nobody would even notice what their coffee cups look like. Neither does this story care about whether or not it's competing with Santa Claus outside city hall's light display. It's such a revolution of love it has no need to cling to its own interests or preferences. And it certainly doesn't have any time for jamming down other people's throats the "real reason for the season" because it's too busy recreating in daily practical ways the beautiful mystery of incarnation.
The nose picking, the mistakes, the forgotten lines, the improvised props, the enthusiastic children singing off-key at the top of their lungs while having no self-consciousness, the desperate adults trying to stage manage a heard of cats, the children with the dear-in-headlights...
Years ago I went to a church that had a live donkey in their pageant....which was fine, until the orchestra and choirs started in with their anthem, at which point it seems having a trained handler to manage the understandably terrified donkey would have been a wiser decision. I'm sure if I polled my readers you would have equally amusing recollections of well intended but epic failures at these kinds of events.
And who can forget that scene from the movie Love Actually, where the pageant includes children dressed up in lobster costumes arriving at the manger. Which at first seems a bizarre historical inaccuracy, but at second glance reminds us that all of creation would likely have come to this event given the chance.
But beyond their sheer entertainment value - and there is plenty of that no doubt - why do we drag our children into these things?
I think it might have to do with the fact that deep down we know that there is a need for each of us to participate in this story of Christmas. That it's not enough just to read about it, or contemplate it from afar. Really good stories need to be lived.
There's the story of the headstrong child who wanders off to pursue what seems will make them happy, only to find themselves returning to their family having learned the hard way. It may be one of Jesus' great stories he tells, but for most of us at some point we live out this story in our lives.
There's the story of the parent who wants so desperately to protect their child who seems to wander and make bad decisions and can only wait for the day when they return to us, when we too will run to meet them and return them to the family. Many have lived this story too.
And what about all of the stories the scriptures give us of redemption, of being lost and found, of having suffering transformed into something beautiful and good?...These are the kinds of stories we all want to live deep at the core of our being.
As I watched my own children this week in their roles as sheep at a manager scene, this struck me: When we participate in pageants that recreate the Christmas story we are celebrating by putting ourselves, especially our children inside the central story of how God relates to humankind.
God relates to us by becoming one of us.
Sometimes in our familiarity with the story we lose sight of how revolutionary this idea about God joining us really is. In the ancient world gods were distant authorities who needed to be appeased. Even ancient stories about gods taking on human form were never about a god doing so because they loved their creation. This idea that the Jewish god Yahweh decides to come be one of us as the highest expression of love marks a monumental turn in the history of human beings.
So how do we enter into this story - beyond the humorous yet heartwarming low-budget theatrical recreations of the gospel accounts of Christ's birth?
What if metaphorically speaking we viewed our lives as a kind of Christmas pageant - a daily recreation of this story in which we participate and show others the mystery of the incarnation?
How would our days look different if we lived as people whose lives and world are filled with God all around us? A god who is present and loving, not distant or angry?
You probably even have a jack-ass (donkey?) or two hanging around your scene! Although I suspect you are short an orchestra or any applause even when you forget your lines. But remember this: we are not here to impress the world with our excellence in recreating an historical event. Rather we recreate this story because it is the one in which light breaks through darkness. We recreate this story daily because it brings such joy to the world.
P.S. There is no room in this story for complaining about what Starbucks does or does not put on their coffee cups. The light of the world shines so bright that nobody would even notice what their coffee cups look like. Neither does this story care about whether or not it's competing with Santa Claus outside city hall's light display. It's such a revolution of love it has no need to cling to its own interests or preferences. And it certainly doesn't have any time for jamming down other people's throats the "real reason for the season" because it's too busy recreating in daily practical ways the beautiful mystery of incarnation.
Wednesday, December 9, 2015
Mercy Part 6- God uses Mercy to save the world
“For some time, I have been saying that Muslim immigration into the United States should be stopped until we can properly vet them or until the war with Islam is over. Donald J. Trump has been criticized by some for saying something similar.”
- Franklin Graham, December 8, on his Facebook page
I think I only have one thing left to say about mercy - although I suspect I have started on a lifelong journey with coming to know and live mercy.
A rabbi I heard recently said something like this:
"If you think about life as a journey, even a small change in the direction you're headed can make an enormous difference over a great distance. Changing your heading by 2 degrees might not seem big in a day or a week, but over a lifetime, brings you to an entirely different destination."
Indeed, it is the small changes, accumulating over time that make an enormous difference in where we end up. I might be tempted to think of mercy in the big and dramatic terms like: how should we in western world respond to the recent terrorist attacks? And while these are good questions to wrestle with, those aren't things I have much control over. On the other hand the seemingly smaller day to day interactions I have with my wife, my kids, my friends, my neighbours, and the people in the community I worship in - these are all opportunities to be tapping into the flow of mercy and practicing in my own life, towards myself and others. How would life be different if I engaged in even one deliberate act of mercy every day for the rest of my life?
How might the world be different if mercy was a practice more of us engaged in on a regular basis?
So in a week when the world is trying to make sense of terrorist attacks, and Franklin Graham (yes, the son of Billy) is one-upping Donald Trump in vitriolic rhetoric about Muslims, here's my audacious suggestion to you all:
I think mercy is one of the things God is using to save the world.
Since mercy is an expression or form of love, I dare to believe that mercy is a force so revolutionary it can and will be the way God rescues and restores shalom in the world.
The violence we see in Syria, Iraq, Paris, and San Bernardino is only a mirror to the violence that lives in all of us and between all of us. Maybe I'm not the only one that cringes to hear Jesus say that if we have lusted or been angry then in our hearts we are the same as adulterers and murderers. I'll admit it, when I read Franklin Graham writing like a commentator for Fox News, anger, not mercy is my first response. But these words of Jesus about me being just like a murderer are also an opportunity for hope. For if mercy can change us, murders and adulterers that we are, it can certainly change others. We all know names like Mandela, Martin Luther King, Mother Teresa, Ghandi, Desmond Tutu and the like because they are our most renown examples of public mercy. But there is an entire world tapping into the flow of mercy. Partners in marriage who have been wounded by each other. Parents who have lost children to senseless accidents forgiving the perpetrators. Communities opening their doors to refugees and sharing their resources in spite of their fears.
God give us the strength to engage in the practices of mercy in small ways on a daily basis. Help us to join You in using mercy and love to change our stories, and to change the course of human history.
- Franklin Graham, December 8, on his Facebook page
I think I only have one thing left to say about mercy - although I suspect I have started on a lifelong journey with coming to know and live mercy.
A rabbi I heard recently said something like this:
"If you think about life as a journey, even a small change in the direction you're headed can make an enormous difference over a great distance. Changing your heading by 2 degrees might not seem big in a day or a week, but over a lifetime, brings you to an entirely different destination."
Indeed, it is the small changes, accumulating over time that make an enormous difference in where we end up. I might be tempted to think of mercy in the big and dramatic terms like: how should we in western world respond to the recent terrorist attacks? And while these are good questions to wrestle with, those aren't things I have much control over. On the other hand the seemingly smaller day to day interactions I have with my wife, my kids, my friends, my neighbours, and the people in the community I worship in - these are all opportunities to be tapping into the flow of mercy and practicing in my own life, towards myself and others. How would life be different if I engaged in even one deliberate act of mercy every day for the rest of my life?
How might the world be different if mercy was a practice more of us engaged in on a regular basis?
So in a week when the world is trying to make sense of terrorist attacks, and Franklin Graham (yes, the son of Billy) is one-upping Donald Trump in vitriolic rhetoric about Muslims, here's my audacious suggestion to you all:
I think mercy is one of the things God is using to save the world.
Since mercy is an expression or form of love, I dare to believe that mercy is a force so revolutionary it can and will be the way God rescues and restores shalom in the world.
The violence we see in Syria, Iraq, Paris, and San Bernardino is only a mirror to the violence that lives in all of us and between all of us. Maybe I'm not the only one that cringes to hear Jesus say that if we have lusted or been angry then in our hearts we are the same as adulterers and murderers. I'll admit it, when I read Franklin Graham writing like a commentator for Fox News, anger, not mercy is my first response. But these words of Jesus about me being just like a murderer are also an opportunity for hope. For if mercy can change us, murders and adulterers that we are, it can certainly change others. We all know names like Mandela, Martin Luther King, Mother Teresa, Ghandi, Desmond Tutu and the like because they are our most renown examples of public mercy. But there is an entire world tapping into the flow of mercy. Partners in marriage who have been wounded by each other. Parents who have lost children to senseless accidents forgiving the perpetrators. Communities opening their doors to refugees and sharing their resources in spite of their fears.
God give us the strength to engage in the practices of mercy in small ways on a daily basis. Help us to join You in using mercy and love to change our stories, and to change the course of human history.
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