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Mystery not mastery

Wednesday, September 23rd, 2009

I would love to close this book with something more substantial than empty faith, unattached love, and hopeless hope. I would love to be able to make practical suggestions about how to identify and claim the transformative qualities of the dark night in your own life. I yearn to offer something that would make the hard times easier and bring a definite sense of meaning to the unavoidable sufferings of life….But the nature of the dark night does not permit that.

Gerald May, The Dark Night of the Soul: A Psychiatrist Explores… (2004), p. 194.

What the hell kind of self help book is this?

An honest one. In fact, it isn’t a self help book at all.

I hope to flesh this out later.

N.B. The word play “mystery” vs. “mastery” comes from May’s book Will and Spirit.

See John 1.5 NEB ”Light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not mastered it.” Darkness has neither subdued nor even understood light. Dark night is light so bright, it appears dark to the human soul/spirit.

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Active and passive moves in prayer

Tuesday, September 15th, 2009

If you find these reflections useful to you, that’s my goal. I’d love to hear from you. Thank you for stopping by.

Loss of pastoral care and counseling centers and training programs

I first encountered Gerald May through his book Will and Spirit: A Contemplative Psychology, (1982). At the time I was a full-time resident at the Virginia Institute of Pastoral Care (VIPCare), one of pastoral care and counseling’s premier institutions. We didn’t know then, but only one resident would come after me. Economics would slowly squeeze the educational program, until today it is a faint shadow of what it was.

Although almost nobody noticed, we lost one of the most valuable assets in the field, and not only at VIPCare. Across the nation pastoral counseling centers themselves are going out of business, and training and certification has been handed off to the university and the state.

Pastoral counseling uniquely focuses on the personhood of the counselor and her spiritual and professional formation. Secular training programs, modeled on the university, train the intellect and barely nod at the person, whose own largely unexamined unconscious and spirit will drive her counseling practice.

Active and passive praying

Anyway. Back to G. May and his writing. Gerald May’s The Dark Night of the Soul is deceptively simple. (G. May, of course, is distinct from Rollo May, also an outstanding psychologist and author.)

He gives an overview of the lives and writings of Teresa of Avila and John of the Cross, 16th century religious geniuses. John also is Spain’s national poet.

I’ve never had much success reading either of these people.

May defines “meditation” as primarily all the exercises and forms of prayer that we do, whereas “contemplation” is God’s sheer gift. All we can do with regard to the latter is “to welcome it with open arms.” These definitions vary with different writers. The definitions I’m more familiar with are:

  • meditation, the first stage of praying, active, characterized by use of methods, images, thought.
  • contemplation, a usually more “advanced” stage of praying, passive (receptive, welcoming with open arms), open, imageless, thoughtless.

I”m sorry to use the word “advanced” because it brings in all kinds of unwanted associations. But I can’t think of a better term.

May says prayer is active and passive. The two intermingle. You go back and forth from beginning to “advanced” phases. (There is no such thing as “advanced”; in prayer we’re all beginners.)

I like the image of God and soul as dance partners. (The “soul” is the deepest part of yourself, where you are most truly you, where God also is.) In active praying the human partner’s movement is more in view; in passive, God’s movement is. But both are interactive in both.

The human activity in the “passive” phase, however, is being receptive, welcoming with open arms. This is what Buddhists and others call “mindfulness,” a relaxed state of loving attentiveness to all that is.

(continued)

 Your feedback will be especially valuable to me. I hope you find these explorations of use in your daily walk with God.

 

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What does it mean to “be in Christ”?

Thursday, June 25th, 2009

bonhoeffer

Left: Bonhoeffer

As I read A Testament to Freedom, Essential Writings of Bonhoeffer, I think I’ll wrestle with what I read here. I’ve completed the introductory life, and am struck again as I was when reading Bethge’s biography of the congruence of Dietrich’s life. He seemed to see clearly and earlier than many in the run up to the Nazi era that Christ called him to die. In the warlock’s cauldron of Nazi Germany,  his life was unified in the love of Christ.

What possible connection to such a life could there be with an ordinary life like mine? If he could have, Dietrich would have lived an ordinary life in the love of Christ; martyrdom was nothing he aspired to, the cult of personality he cosidered anathema.

I’ve read the selections from his dissertations. They’ll take several reads before I can grasp what he’s saying. In “The Communion of Saints” his 1930 dissertation he sees the church in Christ, not a socio-political entity, as the community of those who are in Christ, who live for Christ and for others in the world. I don’t think his views coincide with the emphasis on personal salvation that characterizes my primary faith tradition, Southern Baptists.

 (I no longer consider myself Baptist or Christian—the latter indicating the traditions and attachments to faith in the past two millennia; I aspire to be a “Christ-follower” for lack of a better term. I suppose the biblical name would simply be “in Christ.”)

“Act and Being” his 1931 dissertation requires more than one read. In the intro I highlighted this:

 “God’s Word becomes God’s revelation for us only in community.” (p. 65)

This is true. The word “solidarity” has become more common since the Polish labor union Solidarity successfully opposed the Communist regime. Most in the US, however, still pursue the individualistic capitalistic golden idol, and see no problem with individuals controlling vast wealth, while millions go without work, health care, food, shelter, personal safety, not to speak of the opportunity for self-realization that the middle class and well to do think of as a human right.

I also decided to jump around in the book, to avoid getting swamped in the super difficult sections like “Act and Being.” Therefore, I read

  • “The Church is Dead” and
  • “Learning to Die.”

But not all the dead are blessed; rather “those which die in the Lord,” those who learned how to die in time, who kept faith, who clung to Jesus up to the last hour, whether amidst the sufferings of the first martyrs, or in the martyrdom of a silent loneliness. (p. 267).

Back to the question of Dietrich’s relevance to ordinary life. I don’t think we live in ordinary times. Since Sept 11, 2001, the nation has been preoccupied with national security. Under Bush Cheney we violated some of our most cherished principles: at Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo, we imprison nameless people without trial indefinitely. We torture. In the emerging democracies of Eastern Europe the CIA (just like the Communists) set up a gulag where human rights were extinct. 

Now with the economic downturn, millions around the world have no work. The prosperity which cushioned many from the inequities of globalization has evaporated. Huge banks which oppose welfare for individuals accept tens, hundreds of billions of dollars from a government which simply prints more when needed. Some scientists wonder if we’re headed for another mass extinction event.

We view our circumstances as normal, whereas in World War II we realized we were in crisis. The church for the most part today has gone silent on all these  and many other issues, in relation to which being “in Christ” ought to bring about a beloved community where Christ is incarnate today through the metanoia and newness of life, not merely of the individual, but of the whole as one body in Christ.

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Les Mis finished!

Thursday, March 19th, 2009

victor_hugo

Left: Victor Hugo

I just finished Les Miserables, 1260 pages in the Modern Library translation by Charles Wilbour.  If anyone has read the new translation published by the Vintage Classics, please comment.  I’d like to compare translations, because I’ve read that Wilbour’s was hurried.

I confess, after the death of Javert, I felt less motivated to read the remaining 100 pages.  So I speed read them.

You got to give me credit: I read all four chapters on the sewers of Paris.  Hugo, the patriot, wrote that the waste of the French was the best waste in the world.  I’m certainly glad to know that!

My guess is, however, that the sewers of Paris symbolize all the people discarded by society as waste, and other things as well.

The final 100 pages also reveal Hugo’s genius level insight into human nature (like the 1100 pages before them). Jean Valjean could not be free until he reconciled his own self-image as a convict with the reality of his saintly life.  Rejection by his son-in-law Marius paralleled his own self-rejection.

I recall a young Korean woman whom we met in Texas.  She had been rescued from a tormented life by a loving G.I. who married her and brought her to the States.  But she couldn’t accept his love or a happy life, because the scars of her suffering remained unhealed within.

Just as Javert could not accept Valjean’s transformation, Valjean himself could not— until he found acceptance in the hearts and the eyes of those he loved.

The incarnation means, I think, that God does many things through human beings.  When we accept people who feel unacceptable then they begin to feel accepted.  And by the way so do we.

More as I have the chance to reflect.

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The Moth and the Flame, a parable

Sunday, March 15th, 2009

 The following is from Les Miserables (Project Gutenburg) St. Denis, Bk 7, “Slang.” Hugo defends recording slang, which he calls the language of misery. Then, as is typical, after several pages I forced myself to read, I found this:

Thoughtful minds make but little use of the phrase: the fortunate and the unfortunate. In this world, evidently the vestibule of another, there are no fortunate.

The real human division is this: the luminous and the shady. To diminish the number of the shady, to augment the number of the luminous,—that is the object. That is why we cry: Education! science! To teach reading, means to light the fire; every syllable spelled out sparkles.

However, he who says light does not, necessarily, say joy. People suffer in the light; excess burns. The flame is the enemy of the wing. To burn without ceasing to fly,—therein lies the marvel of genius.

When you shall have learned to know, and to love, you will still suffer. The day is born in tears. The luminous weep, if only over those in darkness.

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Stations of the Cross

Thursday, August 21st, 2008

Growing up Southern Baptist in El Paso, Texas, in the 1950s and -60s, my father converted from Catholicism, I was imbrued with dislike, suspicion, even hatred of all things Catholic. In seminary taking a class on the classics of Christian devotion, I discovered that the ancient churches of Rome and Byzantium held vast riches of devotion and spiritual formation next to which Baptists had few.

There was Pilgrim’s Progress, of course. Grace Abounding to the Chief of Sinners. That I didn’t find until grad school. Streams in the Desert, My Utmost for His Highest. Other than that, flat modern stuff from the denomination.

The Imitation of Christ, published by Moody Press, despite its publisher, was too medieval and sacramental for me. Now I can’t get enough of it.

Then, in seminary I took Classics of Christian Devotion with Glenn Hinson. Hinson has been hounded by fundamentalists as a heretic. May we have many, many more heretics. He wrote among many others a book called Seekers After A Mature Faith, which surveyed resources on spirituality. In the course I accepted the assignment of presenting Augustine’s Confessions.

The pastorate is not especially conducive to spiritual growth or depth. So now in exile, I’m playing catch up, reading, learning, praying.

Today, I think for the first time, I prayed the Stations of the Cross. I was perched on a stool in the kitchen, Celtic Daily Prayer, pp. 251-264, opened on the stove top, a cup of coffee in hand, beside a sink full of dishes to be washed.

I’m not much for devotion that lingers with masochistic delight over the torture Christ endured. I didn’t see Mel Gibson’s The Passion. That’s not based on the Gospels. An Aramaic original doesn’t exist. To create one is to claim more for the product than is merited, in my opinion.

As I read aloud the sections, I tried to slow down, let the reality sink in as much as possible. I broke up as I read:

Lord, you were stripped of the robes  You wore,
but You were the same—it didn’t change You.

I waited a moment until I could read more.

Crucifixion is so alien to us; we can’t fathom that kind of death. So celebrities pose in mockery. A chocolatier creates the crucifixion chocolate for Easter. We get our daughters fine gold crosses on gold chains.

I recall on my Emmaus Walk, they asked me to drive a nail into a cross. I couldn’t do it, I wouldn’t do it. I was the last. Several men huddled around, explaining, encouraging. Finally, I caved to the social pressure. But I’ve always regretted that. For me.

The cross is unimaginable.

Think of the PTSD someone would experience who actually saw a human being nailed to a board, hanged, left to die a lingering death from exposure, suffocation.

What good does it do, to meditate on atrocity? What good does it do?

(more…)

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Deenabandhu, Friend of the Poor

Thursday, July 10th, 2008

It’s freaky (at least some people will think so) to make friends with the dead. You could say that’s what I’ve been doing over the past few months, reading up on Charlie Andrews (1871-1940), friend of Gandhi, British missionary and consultant at large on problems of race and labor relations in India, Africa, the South Pacific, and South America.

He has so much to teach us.

Missionary with an Unusual Vision

His father belonged to a Christian cult characterized by speaking in tongues and keen anticipation of the Second Coming of Christ, but Charlie studied at Cambridge with some of the best biblical scholars of the age. Knowing the critical study of scripture, he chose to go into the Anglican ministry.

But even early on, phrases in the creed about the damnation of the lost troubled him deeply.

He went to India, where he taught at St. Stephen’s College. He had a deeply caring nature, and found himself welcome in corridors of British power as well as the hearts of Indian colleagues and the lowliest of Untouchables. He pressed the college to elect an Indian president, rather than an English one.

He became an early ally and lifelong friend of Mohandas Gandhi, spending time in his South African ashram. Charlie wrote several books introducing Gandhi to the West.

Facing the Problem of Racism

The issue of race prejudice troubled him deeply, whether in India, Africa or the United States. He found himself identifying strongly with the Indian people, eventually leaving his mission appointment, a decision he explained like this:

It was the inner moral beauty of India, which I was seeking to know at first hand. I could see it and almost grasp it. Sometimes I could instinctively recognize it in human faces I met. But at Delhi [seat of government and of St. Stephen's College, where Andrews taught] I could never fully comprehend it. There I was in constant revolt against the narrowness of government control of education: I was also in revolt against much that has rightly been called “foreign mission work.” For I had no wish to be “foreign” any longer; rather, I longed to be bound up with the life of India in every respect. If I were to find Christ truly in India as the Son of man, then I must live and move among the people of India as one of themselves, and not as an alien and a foreigner.

C.F. Andrews, What I Owe to Christ (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1932), p. 241.

Ministry of the Written Word

During the 1930s Charlie continued to be a negotiator, teacher and writer while living in England and in India at Santiniketan “Abode of Peace” the ashram of his friend the poet Rabindranath Tagore (who won the 1913 Nobel Prize for Literature for his poem Gitanjali). Among many other books, articles and pamphletts, Charlie wrote an account of his faith What I Owe to Christ, an exposition of John 13-17 entitled Christ in the Silence, of the Lord’s Prayer Christ and Prayer, and of The Sermon on the Mount.

He came to believe, as Tagore said, that the West had sold its ideals (to give just one example) in the scramble for Africa in the mid to late 1800s, and in the continuing war-lust and greed of the Great War and its aftermath (the buildup to World War II). He struggled against giving allegiance to the tribal god of parts of the Old Testament and instead gave his life to the universal Christ, who taught, “Love your enemies.”

I wonder what Charlie would think about the world situation today. Surely he would rejoice with India, as it stretches and grows, but I think he would worry that it may adopt Western practices of hurry and greed and lose its soul. He would without a doubt condemn the war in Iraq.

He Being Dead yet Speaketh

Jesus said, “[God] is the God not of the dead, but the living.” Henri Nouwen in his book Our Greatest Gift writes that at death our spirit is released from the local limits of the physical body, and is free to commune with those who love us. I’ve found this profoundly true with family members. I find it also true of those I read, like Charlie Andrews, whose life of love for friends, whole nations, and the world, continues to speak today.

 

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To George with much love from Charlie July 9, 1933

Sunday, July 6th, 2008

The used book bug’s bit me. It’s such fun to find classic books, and get them at a bargain.

Sandy, who opened the package containing the book Christ in the Silence, called out, “Hon, this book is signed.” I checked it out eagerly. I compared the signature Charlie to the known signatures of letters in the archive at mkgandhi.org, and it appears to be a match.

The dedication reads, “To George with much love from Charlie, July 9, 1933.” The impress visible in the lower right corner reads “Chapel Cottage, Iden Green, Benenden, Kent.”

I fall in love with an author. I discover somebody I like and for awhile there’s nothing, nobody else in the world for me but them. At the moment it’s C.F. Andrews. I want to get in his skin and understand what empowered this somewhat neurotic Victorian clergyman to become a labor negotiator and spokesman for the Indian people, wherever they were in the world.

So I purchased What I Owe to Christ, 1932, the external story, and Christ in the Silence, 1933, the internal account of his spiritual life, one through Amazon Marketplace and one through eBay. I’d hoped the latter might give me a glimpse into the synthesis of Christianity and Hinduism that he achieved. Though he is cordial toward Hinduism, he writes as an orthodox Christian in these works.

Christ in the Silence is an extended meditation on the Farewell chapters of the gospel of John. It’s almost as if you get there through Charlie Andrews’ pen.

I know there’s a lot of sappy theology in my head. But, if God wanted to send me a PostIt that read “I love you” I can think of few things he could do that would mean more than putting a signed work of C.F. Andrews on the spiritual life in my hands.

I confess I gobbled it up in two days. Now I’m reading a page or paragraph at a time.

BTW, if you know anything about the persons and places mentioned above, drop me a line, will you? Thanks.

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CFA Christ’s Faithful Apostle

Saturday, June 21st, 2008

I noticed C.F. Andrews, the Anglican missionary, friend of Gandhi, in the film about the great Indian leader. What struck me was his ability to get past the racism of his day and recognize in Gandhi the extraordinary leader he was, even before his world-wide fame began.

There’s a striking scene in the film where Andrews is preaching in South Africa, and several people walk out, but one woman listens with shining eyes to his defense of satyagraha, soul force, civil disobedience.

I’ve now read two biographies The Ordeal of Love by Hugh Tinker (1979) and Charles Freer Andrews by Benarsidas Chaturvedi and Marjorie Sikes (1950).

I’ve hunted down a couple of Andrews’ own works, but I’m going to take a break and finish Anglo-Saxon Spirituality before reading them.

(It’s a severe discipline to finish a book, which is not unlike a death to me.)

What strikes me most about Andrews is how contemporary he is. He was truly multicultural, almost becoming Hindu, certainly becoming Indian. He identified a key issue of his day as racism. So long as the church remained the White Church, its future in India was limited. He likened treatment of blacks in America to the untouchables in India.

Another striking thing was his concern about economics and labor. Without portfolio except his own personality and experience, he became a labor negotiator for Indian people throughout the world.

Through prolific writing he interpreted Gandhi and Christ to the world.

He commanded the respect of Indian nationals as few British, perhaps no other British person, did. This was in no small measure because of his pastoral concern. No one was beneath his compassion. He often emptied his pockets for the beggar in the streets, and lived with few possessions.

Today missionaries are often dismissed as imperialistic. No one who gets to know Andrews will ever be able to make that statement again, without holding him up as an exception.

The Indian friends had two nicknames for him. One is Deenabandhu, friend of the poor. The other, based on his initials CFA, is Christ’s Faithful Apostle.

He’s worth using Interlibrary loan if your local library doesn’t have a biography. I recommend the earlier one Charles Freer Andrews. It’s much more personal and readable, though it may not be quite as willing to expose his few weaknesses.

If you know him, or get to know him, I’d love to hear from you about him.

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Jesus in I and Thou

Friday, April 25th, 2008

I’ve found four references to Jesus of Nazareth in I and Thou:

  • Jesus and love (not a feeling): his response to a demon-possessed man, to the beloved disciple; his bold risk “nailed his life long to the cross of the world…to love man” (pp. p. 66-67).
  • The craving for redemption grows until “assuaged by one who teaches men to escape the wheel of rebirth, or by one who saves the souls enslaved by the powers into the freedom of the children of God” (p. 104)
  • In the company of Socrates and Goethe is Jesus’ I-saying, the I of the unconditional relation in which a man calls his You “Father.” (p. 116)
  • The gospel of John is the Gospel of pure relationship. “The father and son being consubstantial-we may say, God and man being consubstantial, are actually and forever Two, the two partners of the primal relationship.” (pp. 132-133)

Bare Essentials

Kyrios Christos!

If I strip Christianity bare, what’s left is the cry of the martyrs: Jesus is Lord. Close at hand is the history and experience to which the Hebrew scriptures and the New Testament writings bear witness. But at the irreducible core is my experience of the Risen Christ:

You ask me how I know he lives-
He lives within my heart.

My spirituality for the past 20 years has centered on loss:

  • loss of the mainstream Southern Baptist identity in which I was reared
  • loss of the local church in a crucible of racism and parochialism
  • a pastoral counseling residency which I would describe as a shamanic initiatory rite of being “cut up, cooked, and eaten”: loss of self, an internity of which my teaching colleagues were unaware

Anabaptists

Not surprising, then, in the years since to find myself drawn to the Anabaptists of 16th century Europe, slaughtered by the tens of thousands for their simple insistence on adult baptism, symbolizing soul competency and liberty.

My church history course labeled these forebears as the radical reformation, and moved immediately to the English Baptists of the 17th century.

But I’ve been drawn to these men and women who carried lists of scriptures in their boots and bore witness to the living flame of God’s love in their lives and deaths.

The Jesus whom they worshipped as Son of Man, Son of God, Savior, and the exemplary human Jesus of I and Thou are light years apart.

Spirit, which Buber conceived of as existing in between I and You, person and person, human being and God, is light years removed from the Holy Spirit of the New Testament.

How do I reconcile these two very different viewpoints?

Where does Jesus fit in

No need to. Buber wrote as a Jew, and as a Jew viewed Jesus in purely human terms, although his conception of Jesus is quite lofty. Jesus is one of humanity’s great religious founders of culture like the Buddha, one of history’s great philosophers like Socrates and Goethe.

Jesus also boldly risked loving humanity itself, and is an exemplar of the I-You relationship with God as of Father and son. There is not a hint of the Trinity. Spirit is not person, but the in between of an actual I-You relation.

The Jesus of the New Testament is not merely human, however exemplary he might be; he is God made flesh. You can’t work him into Buber’s ideas in some nifty fashion. But, as God-become-human he enters the human condition and relates to human beings as one among us.

However you fit the Logos and the man from Nazareth and the Risen Christ with Buber’s eternal You, Jesus is able to sympathize with our weaknesses from inside our skin.

That changes everything.

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