Thursday, October 8, 2020

The Cost of Awakening

 


Currently, I’m taking an online course for continuing education through the Center for Action and Contemplation taught by the Rev. Dr. Cynthia Bourgeault.  I highly recommend their website, which has some wonderful resources.  Recently, Dr. Bourgeault spoke about the cost of spiritual awakening, quoting another great living wisdom teacher, Brother David Stendl-Rast.  Her teaching touches on something that many of us are experiencing at different levels.

 

First, she notes that spiritual awakening does have a cost!  We might think that being spiritually awake is all about being able to stop and smell the flowers; it is all rainbows and unicorns!  But truly being awake to our senses and consciously present to reality requires vulnerability.  As Brother David says,

 

. . . you can’t touch without being touched, and as you awaken to touch, the pain of the world touches your heart and you carry it, and you have to be willing, and much more than willing – ready – in your nervous system to bear the river of pain, the collective pain body that is our planetary existence.  And to bear it lightly, joyously, and sacramentally. 

 

Then Dr. Bourgeault comments,

 

It costs something.  You have to be strong and clear inside to do it, because if you bear it with drama, everything’s going to fry.  You’re going to go tense and physically contract and you’re not going to help a bit.

 

So, clarity, strength, equanimity, balance.  All these beautiful human skills that lie beyond the egoic level.  To the degree that you are willing to sacrifice your personal pleasures and your personal dramas and your personal stories to instill and stabilize those qualities, then you join the great evolutionary flow. 

 

Cultivating these qualities that allow the river of pain to flow through us, rather than drowning us,  enables us to be present to suffering without being defined by it.  We remain loose, flexible, adaptive, capable of responding in ways that are helpful and that promote the spiritual evolution of our species.   But we have to know our limits, our capacities.  This requires honesty and humility.  Otherwise, we become overwhelmed and we shut down – or worse, we react in ways that increase suffering. 

 

I can’t stress enough the importance of the integration of our own inner work and the work of repairing the world.  Presiding Bishop Michael Curry speaks about it as the way of love.  We must learn, as William Blake said, “to bear the beams of love.” 

 

This is the urgent call of our time: to learn to bear the beams of love.  Jesus is our model and our guide.  But following his way requires discipline.  There is a cost to spiritual awakening.  That is why St. John of the Cross wrote,

 

God has to work in the soul in secret and in darkness because if we fully knew what was happening, and what Mystery, transformation, God and Grace will eventually ask of us, we would either try to take charge or stop the whole process.

This is faith: to trust God’s slow work in us, to be willing to be transfigured by love, and in giving ourselves away in love become capable of receiving everything.  Beloved, be gentle with yourselves.  Trust God’s slow work in you, and pace yourself accordingly.  Don’t take on what is not yours or that for which you are not yet ready.  And be prepared to be surprised by what you are able to embrace at the appointed time.  God is with you!

Tuesday, October 6, 2020

Loving Through The Pain


Beloved, it has been a week!

 

In our national politics, we’ve gone from a major story about the President’s taxes, to a “presidential debate” that defies description, to the President and the First Lady being diagnosed with COVID-19 after hosting a series of super-spreader events at the White House and on the campaign trail that also infected a number of the President’s advisors, the chairwoman of the Republican National Committee, and at least three U.S. Senators.  We don’t know yet how many other people may have been infected or precisely when the President knew he was infected, and there are conflicting reports about his current health status.  All this in a week when racist nationalism and assaults on the integrity of our electoral system reached new heights.  The great American project of creating a just and egalitarian multi-ethnic democracy hangs in the balance.  Violence is in the air.  

 

In the midst of this chaos, we are all dealing with our own concerns about the pandemic and the related recession.  Some of you are still grieving lost loved ones.  Some of you are still on furlough and anxious to know if the federal government will provide another round of economic assistance.  All of us are struggling with the effects of varying degrees of long-term isolation due to sheltering in place; worried about aging parents and home-schooled kids and our own loneliness; discouraged by our nation’s failure to collectively address this public health crisis.  California is on fire.  It just seems to go on and on. 

 

And then there are the “everyday” challenges of illness, medical tests, divorce, custody battles, employment discrimination, eviction fears, worries about money.  We don’t have to look far to find all of these things.   They are right here in our beloved community of St. James.  Sometimes, it seems like we can’t bear to handle one more thing. 

 

I want you to know that I see you.  I see how tired you are.  I see how your heart is breaking.  My heart is breaking too.  I see your beautiful and even courageous care for others, even as you are carrying your own secret pain.  I see how well and deeply you love, and truly, it sometimes takes my breath away. 

  

I know you are not perfect; neither am I, as you well know by now.  But I trust that we are all striving to be the best versions of ourselves.  Perhaps you have found yourself harboring . . . uncharitable thoughts this week.  Perhaps you have not loved your neighbor as yourself, much less your enemies.  Or perhaps, you have, and that is the problem.  Sometimes, loving people as much as we love ourselves is a low bar.  

 

Often, we can find ourselves trapped in self-images that bear little relation to the divine image in which we are created.  Martin Laird tells the story of a women he knew, an extremely talented dancer, plagued by self-doubt and driven by a relentless perfectionism.  She was trapped in a video loop of herself as worthless, and could never do enough to fast forward past it.  

  

Most of that video was about pain.  When she was a little girl, her mother walked into her bedroom one day and found her looking in the mirror.  “I hope you don’t think you’re beautiful,” she said.  Later, as a teenager, after winning a prestigious scholarship to study ballet, her mother said, “Why would they give you that?  Everybody knows you’ve got two left feet.”  Martin Laird observes, “This video was the cage that kept her running in tight circles.”[1]  If we want to be free to love, we have to become free of the story we’ve learned to tell ourselves about ourselves; free from being defined by our pain.

 

Her story is a story about violence: how it works in sometimes subtle ways, eating at one’s soul one cut at a time; cruel words whispered in secret, a contemptuous look, simply being ignored.  Such violence works its way through our nervous system, shapes our consciousness, and ramifies through or social relations.  It corrupts hearts, families, and whole societies.  It can be hard to love our neighbors, much less our enemies, because we do not love ourselves.  How much easier it is, how much more familiar sometimes, to lash out at others or turn in against ourselves.   

 

We have to find another way to deal with our personal and collective pain.  This story about Martin Laird’s ballerina friend reminded me of a story I once heard Methodist theologian Tex Sample tell about himself.  When Tex was a teenager, he went from being 5’5’’ tall to being 6’2’’ tall in about 5 minutes.  He was the scrawniest, gangliest thing you ever saw.  And, of course, his glands went crazy.  He had terrible acne.  He could hardly bear to show his face at school and his classmates were not kind.  

 

But every night, before he went to sleep, his mama would come into his room and sit on the edge of the bed.  She’s stroke his forehead and say, “Tex, you are the purdiest boy I’ve ever seen.  You are so purdy, I can hardly stand it.”  Telling that story 40 years later, Tex realized that his mother saw him as God saw him.  And in the light of such love his pain was transfigured.  No matter what the culture or his peers tried to tell him, he was able to receive his identity from a source much deeper and more true.   

 

Jesus understood the everyday violence that suffused his own culture and made it difficult to love.  He was very much aware of the structural violence of poverty, patriarchy, and imperialism in first century Palestine.  He was intimately familiar with both state-sponsored violence and revolutionary counter-violence.  He hung out with Roman soldiers and Jewish rebels.  He saw how people suffered violence and was bold enough to say that the kingdom of God suffers violence too.[2]  God is with those trapped by videos of the pain they have suffered; and, I daresay, the pain they have caused.  God is with you and me in our pain.  Jesus offered a practice of God’s love that transfigures human pain so that God’s kingdom could be a violence-free zone.

 

The parable of the wicked tenants is a parable about everyday violence.[3]  It is about the pain of oppressed people exploding in a violent uprising against the injustice and greed of their oppressor.  It is a common story.  We’ve seen it play out over and over again in history.  About the time Jesus was born, there was a similar uprising in Galilee against Roman oppression.  Jewish rebels would rebel against the Romans again about 40 years after Jesus died.  In both cases, the uprisings were brutally repressed by the Roman empire.  

 

So, there is nothing surprising about the response of the chief priests and elders when Jesus asked them what would happen to these tenants.  As part of the Jewish aristocracy, many of them were no doubt absentee landlords like the one described in the parable.  They knew how to deal with unruly tenants.  They knew how this story would end.  And they were right.   

 

But they were also wrong.  They thought that the tenants were getting what they deserved, that violence against them was justified – even divinely ordained.  Jesus just shook his head and said, “Have you never read in the scriptures: ‘the stone that the builders rejected has become the chief cornerstone; this was the Lord’s doing, and it is amazing in our eyes?’  Therefore, I tell you, the kingdom of God will be taken away from you and given to a people that produces the fruits of the kingdom.” [4]

 

The chief priests and elders are right about the cycle of violence.  What they fail to understand is that God has nothing to do with it.  The stone that the builders of civilization rejected is nonviolence.  Can you imagine a civilization built on love as the cornerstone rather than violent coercion?  Now that is amazing to our eyes!

 

This is a teaching that leaves us all a little bit uncomfortable.  Jesus rejected calls for law and order masking the everyday violence of an oppressive state, but he also rejected violent resistance.  Jesus stood in solidarity with the victims of injustice, marching with them at the head of a protest into Jerusalem, occupying the Temple, and calling the authorities to account for turning a house of prayer into a den of robbers exploiting the poor.  Jesus took a knee while the guardians of law and order wrapped themselves in the flag and demanded to know just who he thought he was.[5]  Then he told them this parable: I am the cornerstone of a new community based on revolutionary love.    

 

Violence is in the air.  In our pain, it is hard to know how to respond.  What do we do with all this pain?  We can’t absorb it – that just keeps us locked in the self-image of victimization, running circles in our cage.  We can’t reflect it – that just keeps the cycle of violence going.  We must transfigure pain through love.  Only then can we resist evil without mirroring it.  

 

St. John of the Cross said, “It seems to the soul that the entire universe is sea of love in which it is engulfed, for conscious of the living point or center of love within itself, it is unable to catch sight of the boundaries of this love.”[6]  Jesus invites us to become conscious of this center and live from it.  This is what gave him the courage to love.  Deeper than our pain and our fear, there is a kingdom within us and around us.  It is here that we must learn to make our home.  When we do, we will know how to love ourselves, and our neighbors, and our enemies.  

 

Beloved, I know it has been a week.  I know it is hard to love when we hurt so much.  Share your pain with God.  Let God love you up.  And then let God continue to love through you.  You are not alone.  God is with you. 



[1] Martin Laird, Into the Silent Land: A Guide to the Christian Practice of Contemplation (Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 2006), p. 20-22.

[2] Matthew 11:12.

[3] Matthew 21:33-46.  This is the second of three parables Jesus’ tells the authorities who question him.

[4] Matthew 21:42, quoting Psalm 118:22-23.

[5] Matthew 21:1-23.

[6] Quoted in Laird, p. 17.