Repairer of the Breach?

This week I am still thinking about the House of Abraham and the almost impossible breach of these traditions as physically manifest in the conflict in Jerusalem.  I thought it was fitting that the scripture in the Lectionary picked up where my sister left off last week, in Isaiah 58.

Isaiah 58: 9f

If you remove the yoke from among you,

the pointing of the finger, the speaking of evil,

if you offer your food to the hungry

and satisfy the needs of the afflicted,

then your light shall rise in the darkness

and your gloom be like the noonday. 

.

.

.

Your ancient ruins shall be rebuilt;

you shall raise up the foundations of many generations;

you shall be called the repairer of the breach,

the restorer of streets to live in. 

Nowhere in the world do the foundations of so many generations contain so much shared, and so much conflicted, meaning and history than in Jerusalem, and there is nowhere that is so much in need of a repairer of the breach and restorer of the streets to LIVE in, not die in.  The city, in all our traditions, is a place of holy ground and a physical location close to the divine presence.  Yet it is a place where the buildings of one generation arise on the ruins of another, and supplant, sometimes by war or rebellion, one sense of the holy with an opposing tradition.  It is a place where the physical presence of the holy has become a stumbling occasion for even the members of the same tradition, who can't decide who is worthy to maintain a particular site and so allow it to deteriorate while arguing about jurisdiction. 

Perhaps those foundations we need to raise up are not the buildings themselves, however holy they are to our traditions, but those foundations that were destroyed by our original human breaches?  I believe this prescription we are called to fulfill can repair the breach back even so far as Cain with Abel, Isaac and Ishmael, the sons of Jacob, even to Peter and Paul, the 1st century Jews with the early Christians, and the misunderstandings of Islam with Judaism and Christianity.  And what is called of us?  Simply to stop repressing, stop maligning, stop pointing fingers, cease from speaking evil, treat each other with compassion and empathy, and look out for others and their needs even as I look out for my own.  It appears that to address these issues of deep theological and historical divide, all I have is a simplistic solution not much different that the "golden rule."  But, isn't that EXACTLY what it takes? 

We can not heal by agreeing.  As one of the lecturers I heard at Chautauqua last week [Ori Soltes; Georgetown U] reminded us multiple times that "None of us was there."  We have nothing other than our deepest held convictions to convince us of the "rightness" of our point of view, but we each have deepest held convictions that are different from each other.  None of us was there -- there are no objective, conclusive proofs to convince anyone who does not already believe that we are right.  We have generations of coerced and forced conversions to demonstrate the folly of insisting on "rightness" in the absence of conviction.  So if we cannot, with reason, hope to ever agree, how can we heal but through respect, empathy and even love for the other despite our not being able to see eye to eye? 

Having true empathy for another involves being able to step aside from my own perspective and convictions and feel what the Other feels from their own perspective.  It sounds dangerous and is dangerous.  I cannot, I believe, feel from the other's perspective and come back to myself unchanged.  But, that danger may be the thing I have to face in order to be a "repairer of the breach."  In the Buddhist tradition, a person who achieves enlightenment completely merges with the ultimate reality, losing identity as a separate entity in the ultimate reality which is non-self and perfect unity.  But,  a person can delay ultimate enlightenment and become a Bodhisattva, a person who is near enlightenment (or, some say, has already obtained it) but who delays ultimate sublimation into non-self to help other sentient beings realize their own enlightenment. 

I believe a similar type of empathy, a culture of Abrahamic Bodhisattvas, is needed, even required, from us in healing the relations between our three traditions (and our several political entities that are tied up in the problem).  It is possible to enter into the world of the other and yet retain my own identity; and without doing this how can I hope to know what is the truth, to avoid speaking evil or being thoughtlessly insulting, and to understand and attempt to meet the other's needs? I can't insist that anyone else enter into my world, and if I wait to enter theirs until I see that they are ready to commit to the same path, when will any healing ever get started?  If I believe it is right, I have to get started whether or not there is any to come with me, and whether or not I see any chance of success. 

I want to be a healer of the breach.  I want streets restored where we ALL can live in peace and mutual understanding.  I want us all to see and celebrate the common foundations of our most deeply held beliefs, even though they have diverged.  There is so much pain today, and so much more destined for tomorrow unless we act now to counter it.  I believe this passage gives us the only prescription with any hope to cure the disease. 

Honor in the House of Abraham?

So, the big question of the day in America seems to be, is there room in our hearts for an Islamic Cultural Center near Ground Zero?

On September 11, 2001, I sat in a Washington DC office just 2 blocks from the Nation's Capitol watching the news.  A plane had just flown into one of the World Trade Center towers in NYC and none of us knew what to think.  Surely this was some tragic accident of technology, mechanical failure, a horrible navigational mistake -- at very worst, the work of a lone extremist!  We struggled to go on with our usual routines while keeping one eye and both ears on the TV in the conference room.  One colleague left for a meeting across town, another returned to his office.  The secretary went to answer the phone.  I sat alone in the conference room watching the TV as a second plane flew into the camera's view and crashed into the second tower.  In the several seconds before the newscaster even knew what the world had seen happening on the video feed projected behind her head, my brain registered that this was no accident or isolated event.  We were at war.  Nothing would ever be the same.  I screamed for our secretary and we sat watching in stunned silence.  The news hit her in a way it could not touch the rest of our office.  She is Muslim.  As the first words of "Islamic terrorists" and "Jihad" began floating across the airwaves, she began to realize the profound changes that she and her family, her faith community, and her entire way of life would undergo.  Her first thoughts were for her children, attending Islamic school in the middle of the city, and for her family.  The rest of us worried about the process of being evacuated (The Pentagon had been hit and it was thought a 4th plane was headed for either the Capitol or the White House), the uncertainty of getting home (I walked for hours before finding a way out of the city), or about staying in contact with friends and family (cell phones were the only, and very sporadic, means of communicating).  She worried about when the retaliation would start -- would her children and husband make it home without harm, even alive?  Was she safe on the street?  When would the backlash start?  Would there be riots?  Would they ever be safe or feel accepted in this community again?  We assured her that her fears were groundless -- that this is America, after all!  Americans wouldn't turn on our own over something as senseless as this, would we?  Unfortunately, she was more prescient than we.

I did not understand at the time what a gift it was to experience Sept 11 with a devout American Muslim about whom I care deeply.  I had the privilege of experiencing from the first what so many have yet to realize, and some stubbornly refuse to realize:  this attack on America was in even greater part an attack on American Muslims, an attack on our co-existence and on the hard earned interfaith respect and collaboration that had been blossoming all across the US and across the globe.  But, although our hearts in the office went out to our Muslim friend, the hearts of so many of the American people began to turn away...

As bad as it was in 2001, the attacks on American Muslims and on Muslims of goodwill across the world seem to have gotten only worse.  Don't you feel a terrible urgency that something must be done?  I do.  I an convinced we must rescue the situation before we lose, catastrophically, all possibility of coexistence.

Some things are being done; more are needed.  Here in New York, The Chautauqua Institution designated the week of August 9-14, 2010 for the study and discussion of "Sacred Spaces," and I was extremely fortunate to attend.  The Department of Religion focused their several lectures on "Sacred Spaces: Jerusalem" with lecturers from Muslim, Jewish and Christian perspectives who eloquently argued for learning to respect and share this space that is sacred to all three of our family of traditions.  In addition to the Ground Zero dilemma, the powder-keg of today's Jerusalem threatening to erupt into violence between Palestinian and Jew confirm these topics of shared space, shared history, and mutual respect as some of the most important discussions of our time.  Our very survival as a species, even as a planet, could easily depend on our learning to understand and ability to respect and honor the Other in a shared search, but very individual approach, to the divine.

With the comments of Chautauqua's speakers still echoing in my mind, I listened this morning as my sister preached at her church, using as her text Isaiah 58: 9-10 (NIV quoted below) --
        ⁹ Then you will call, and the LORD will answer;
       you will cry for help, and he will say: Here am I.
       "If you do away with the yoke of oppression,
       with the pointing finger and malicious talk,
        ¹⁰ and if you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry
       and satisfy the needs of the oppressed,
       then your light will rise in the darkness,
       and your night will become like the noonday.
She spoke of a God who will bring us only as far as we are willing to go, but who wants us to commit everything that we have and are to "glowing in the dark," being a light to the nations.  That's actually a concept all three Abrahamic traditions share, especially as concerns Jerusalem as a tangible model of holiness and a "city on a hill" that shows its light to all nations.

I do not know how to promote true interfaith dialog and cooperation among our three sister faiths.  The Chautauqua lecturers were profoundly moving and are doing tremendous things, yet still too few and too far between.  Those who participated were inspired and grateful.  Yet still, it sometimes seems the only ones anxious to participate in interfaith dialog and collaboration are those who believe that one path is as good as another, that all paths lead to the same divine, that each faith is equally valid.  Their participation doesn't bring to the table the considerable factions, most probably majorities, in each Abrahamic faith who do believe in the exclusivity or at least preeminence of their own tradition.  What hope is there of engaging the necessary critical mass in interfaith conversations when the barriers seem so high?  I think my sister's text of Isaiah gives an important prescription:  First "do away with the yoke of oppression, with the pointing finger and malicious talk."

I am guilty of letting the yoke of oppression go unchallenged.  I am guilty of seeing and not deflecting the pointing finger, of hearing and not correcting malicious talk and slander.  How many times have I heard the charge that there are no moderate Islamic voices?  ("If there were, why did they not speak out against the terrorism?") And yet I sit by as the American Society for Muslim Advancement and Imam Feisal Abdul Rauf, who have been passionately active in interfaith dialog and promoting peace and understanding since well before the 2001 attacks, are slandered in the current press as celebrating the triumphalism of extremist Islamists.  I hear the Qur'an misquoted or taken out of context to incite hatred and loathing.  I hear Sharia law twisted and presented as entirely backward and brutal.  In as much as I do not check it out for myself and I accept these exaggerations, these deliberate lies, I am guilty.  When I do know the truth and I don't speak up, I am guilty.  Whenever I stay silent and allow suspicion and rumor to rule the day, I am guilty.  Whenever I do not actively seek the truth, I am guilty.  I sit in my own self-righteousness and demand that the Other sacrifice for the sake of my convictions and sensitivities, instead of seeking to meet the Other more than halfway for the sake of our joint humanity.  I am guilty.

It may be that we can never agree on our faiths, perhaps never truly worship or pray together, but we can be, we must be, scrupulously honest in our our dealings and entirely just in our judgments.  Anything else is, for all three of our Abrahamic traditions, a travesty of our own beliefs and our shared beliefs.  We have this much in common, to commit ourselves to do justice and to love mercy.   Can we get to know each other as friends and siblings?  Can we perhaps ask of ourselves, in the pursuit of compromise, to give 60% and seek only 40% in return (understanding in our human frailty that this is how strict reciprocity generally feels)?  Might this be enough; to learn to love despite our differences for the sake of our similarities?  If our boundaries and our shared spaces were defended by mutual honor,  respect and affection instead of defensiveness and aggression, could we wage peace as actively as we now wage war?

Perhaps, as Isaiah implies, we will need to give even more.  What would it mean to spend myself on behalf of the hungry -- to seek to satisfy not my own needs, but the needs of the oppressed, the Other?   I can control only one tiny bit of the necessary currency, my own self.  I can't ask it of anyone else, and I can't know what contribution my bit of currency could ultimately make, but I can begin to ask myself what I am willing to sacrifice for peace.  Are you with me?

Which Way God? (Outside us or In?)

Looking at all the scriptures for the past few weeks in the Lectionary, particularly the old testament lessons, I notice how so much has been about whether God is angry and will punish, or will He stay his hand and be patient with His disobedient followers.  But, it's written, and I have always read it, as directed toward an external God that decides independently of his children how to reward or punish their actions.  An independent actor on the stage of life.

This distant God out there somewhere does not any longer represent my concept or experience of God.  In fact,  everything that I personally know of faith and spirituality involves a God that we are part of, that is in us, who works through us, out of whom we are created and to whom we return.  If this is true God, is there another way to read the message of these passages?  [Or at least, a better way to read these Old Testament stories (and some of the New Testament ones as well) with a modern spiritual sensibility?]

In Matthew 16:19, Jesus says to his disciples, "I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven; whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven."  Might he be saying that our actions and our decisions are the actions of God in this world?  We ask God to "let your anger depart from us." "Will you not give us life again?" "Show us your mercy and grant us your salvation."  Are we directing this cry outwards? Or perhaps inwards to ourselves and to our fellow believers?  We hold the keys to God's wrath and God's mercy in our own hands, attitudes, actions.  Such a reading would turn impotent railing against God or pleading with God into something more like giving ourselves a "good talking to" about getting our minds, hearts and actions in line with what we profess to believe and value.  Instead of groveling and pleading in our unworthiness, almost bribing God with our flattery, might it instead be the case that we are struggling between our true selves -- our best nature and our connection to the eternal light and love -- and the ways we continually disappoint and embarrass ourselves as we come short of that best self in all our illusions and blindness. 

This same type of thinking gives a different turn to the gospel lessons of the last few weeks as well--in  particular, the teaching about prayer and asking in persistence: knocking, seeking, searching.  Who are we asking and being demanding of except, again, our true selves?  So, it's not some God out there who will supply, but we receive out of our own persistence in demanding of ourselves all that we can bring to light of our true selves, getting beyond the illusions that hold us back, insisting of life fully lived.  If we want it, it is there but at the price of asking, seeking, searching, knocking, and persisting.

--Not a complete thought today, but what's been tumbling around in my mind this week.  Responsibility for being God, incarnated in me -- in you.  Something to think about...

Words to Live By?

Throughout the ages people have promoted simple phrases as suggested words to live by:  "What would Jesus do?"  "Do unto others as you would have others do unto you."  "Love your neighbor as you love yourself."  "Practice random kindness and senseless acts of beauty."  Even "walk softly and carry a big stick."  This week, I've been wondering whether there is a phrase I might offer to sum up my philosophy of life.  I think it would have to be, "It's not all about you!"

From a baby's first drawn breath, the oneness of child and mother gives way to an awareness of self, individuality, personal needs and wants, and the separateness those create from other beings.  At first, the world truly does revolve around me.   But very soon the child becomes aware of others and, at least in the normal course of events, begins to learn the basics of empathy and love.  Later still is the almost universal quest for meaning or purpose in this life.  But we inevitably find that the more we concentrate on me -- my needs and desires, my meaning, my legacy, my future, my fate -- the more elusive happiness, love and meaning become.

I think this is because we all need to learn the fundamental truth that it -- whatever is truly important and ultimately meaningful in life -- is primarily not about me.  It may be partially about me.  I'm there and a part of it all, something essential in the whole scheme of things, but I am only a part of a much larger whole.  I suggest that our search for meaning in life is only met when we finally learn that we are a part seeking the whole, and begin to seek and serve that sacred communion that only all things together can complete.  Thus, what might seem to be in my immediate self interest -- be it riches, physical well-being, achievement, recognition, accomplishment -- will not ultimately satisfy if it does not lead further toward communion and the realization of our collective interest -- the achievement of peace, justice and mercy (God's kingdom) on earth.  I am impressed by the message of community developed and lived by the late Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel after his and his family's tragic encounters with the Nazis in Germany.  He speaks of the stillness "full of demands, awaiting a soul to breathe in the mystery that all things exhale in their craving for communion.  Out of the world comes the behest to instill into the air a rapturous song for God." [As I interpret it anyway, that is that the song for God, the thirst for God, the spirit of God, is the collective essence of all things craving together for communion.]  In today's gospel (Luke 11:1-13) it is "our father," "give us our daily bread," "forgive us from evil"... I believe this prayer at the most fundamental level asks us to own that God is communal, that none can know God in any meaningful way without intimate involvement with the rest of us, the whole of creation. 

Philosophers and psychologists have long argued about whether there is really such a thing as altruism.  Many argue that every action is ultimately an action of self-interest, even if only the need to feel good about one's self by performing what others consider to be selfless deeds.  But, if one truly believes that it is false to assume separateness and true that we are incontrovertibly connected to and part of all others, then there is no need for the concept of altruism.  To act for the benefit of others is to act ultimately, if not immediately, in my own interest, regardless of the impact of the action on my illusion of "separate self."  Certainly, from what I've seen of life, those who share this perspective seem to find more joy and meaning in this life than those who seek to attain their own immediate ends.  Today's gospel assures us that God wants to give us good gifts, and all we need to do is ask.  But, there's a subtle shift in the nature of gift at the end of the passage.  First, it talks about our asking for a fish or an egg, about how the Father gives good gifts just like we give good gifts to our children who ask.  But then it says, "How much more will the Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him."  Not, how much more with the Father grant our request, our wants, even our needs -- but the Father will give us the Holy Spirit.  The good gift -- the only gift that Jesus appears to be saying matters, the ultimate good gift -- is the Holy Spirit, the one that is "God in us," that is "the mystery all things exhale in their craving for communion."

I am constantly challenged [aren't we all?] with questions about how I should act, what I should do with my time and resources, how I should feel about slights and actions taken against me, how I should react to a sometimes cruel fate, as well as how I should react to life's great blessings and my good fortune.  These questions are where, to me, the "it's not all about you" phrase is the most practical. When I am hurt or angry, should I strike back?  If I am deciding about how to use my money, or spend my time ... where "the rubber meets the road."  Jesus, who is our incarnate example of God, the "I am," "emptied himself" and lived as a servant to others.  I know that I won't be satisfied very long with my behavior unless I constantly remind myself that "it" -- what matters, and therefore how I should behave,  use my energies, respond to the world -- "is not all about me."

Doing the Right Thing -- At the Wrong Time

Ever been absolutely sure you were doing the right thing, but had it all backfire in your face? There are days when it seems, as some people say, that you just can't win for losing. I'm sure that's how Martha felt when she gave the dinner party for Jesus that was the subject of today's Gospel (Luke 10:38-40).

In all honesty, I was mad enough to spit at the sermon today in my little church. The Decon gave the same old "Be a Mary, not a Martha" message that I choked on when I was a baby in Sunday School. "Martha was a multi-tasker: too worried, too concerned with everything being perfect. Mary gave her whole attention to Jesus. We need a few Marthas around to keep everything going, but it's better to be a Mary." I kid you not, he actually said that! He wanted us to believe that we need Marthas -- detail oriented, multi-tasking, harried types -- because they get things done and make everything run smoothly; but it's better to be a Mary of an attentive and passionate one-track mind!

WTF??? Since when does God create some people as indispensable and yet "not as good as"? [Oh, yeah. Men have believed that about women for millennia, haven't they? ... I'm still not buying it!]

Martha's dilemma gets short shrift in this story by most preachers. I can't help but think that it's no accident that one of the scriptures for today (ok, an alternate reading, but the one we happened to use) is the story of the Lord visiting Abraham at the oaks of Mamre (Genesis 18). This is one of the few times in the Old Testament where one of the fathers or mothers of the faith encounters a physical presence of "the Lord" in the form of a man. So there is really a direct parallel between Abraham and Martha each receiving the Lord as an honored guest at their own home. Here Abraham hosts and elaborate feast for the three men who visited them, running around washing their feet, having Sarah bake fresh bread, having a young calf slaughtered and cooked, serving them himself and standing by while they ate -- hovering over his guests with as much concern and attention to detail and as many special treats as his establishment could offer. This was no quick refreshment for some travelers on the road, it was quite an elaborate banquet. And the reward was beyond his greatest imagination. Surely God had approved and rewarded his most anxious attention to every detail and all his (and Sarah's) running around and making everything "just perfect" for the visitors.

The absolute primacy of hospitality was still very much alive in Martha's day -- she knew it was her sacred duty to offer a guest in her house her very best; the more honored the guest, the more she was required to pull out all the stops. How could she not have felt that she was doing exactly what her God required in inviting Jesus into her home and treating him with great honor and ceremony? Why was it such a great and glorious thing when Abraham acted exactly the same way, but derided as overly anxious multi-tasking when Martha did it? She just can't win for losing!

Somehow I just find it very hard to imagine the Angel(s) of the Lord reacting positively if Abraham and Sarah had sat down unceremoniously in the sand with them by the side of the road, maybe passed around a canteen if they had one handy, and begged them for the latest gossip. And yet, that does appear to be the kind of treatment Jesus expects, and calls "the better part," at the hands of Martha and Mary. (Where was Lazarus in all this, anyway? Why wasn't he helping?) If Jesus wasn't just being insensitive and petty (and I am not the only one who things he sounds insensitive -- see my friend Louie's comments here), then what could he possibly have been trying to say?

I don't want to dismiss his admonishment too quickly. What if he really had a point to make; something new to teach? If so, then what is it? If the rules of hospitality hadn't changed between Abraham's time and Jesus's time, and I don't believe they did significantly, then what else might have changed? Could Jesus be pointing to something as profound as a new relationship between "the Lord" and the believer?

The Epistle for today (Colossians :15-28) is probably not a coincidence here either, in trying to understand this story. In it, the writer emphasizes a new relationship between God and believers because of Jesus, the Christ -- that thorough him God has reconciled all things to himself, and that to each on is offered "Christ in you, the hope of glory." The relationship between Abraham and the three men who visit him is very formal. They are treated as honored guests, but also as strangers. Sarah stays in the tent while Abraham serves them and stands (on ceremony) while they eat. All very correct, but not at all intimate. Martha would probably love to copy Abraham's success and, perhaps, receive a like blessing from God. But, maybe Jesus is actually saying; "Martha, that's already been DONE. There's no reason to stand on ceremony with me. Just plop whatever's on hand in the oven and come sit with me and talk. We're family!" Might Jesus want to be no stranger, no honored but distant and formal guest? My guess is that he is claiming a role as their intimate -- OUR intimate brother (or sister, farther, mother, friend), welcomed into the home as closest family -- the Christ in Jesus the same as the Christ in Martha, and the Christ in Mary, or in me.

But I still really hope that when he when he said, "Martha, Martha..." (with a smile in his voice?) he was at the same time taking the table cloth, dishes and silverware out of her hands and starting to set the table while he shooed Mary into the kitchen to help Martha finish up the prep! At least, that's what I think our elder brother, even if is he is "the firstborn of all creation," would do...

How will I know?

Years ago Whitney Houston sang a catchy tune that posed the question, "How will I know if he really loves me?"  Today, in both the Lectionary's regular and optional scriptures and as I listened to two  sermons in another marathon church session, I found the modified jingle, "How will I know if I really love God?" playing in my head -- a unifying theme.

It's not that the scriptures or the preachers asked that question exactly.  In fact, both preachers seemed to be more concerned with showing that you do, rather than wondering if you do.  For the brief Episcopalian homliy, it is just a matter of expanding my view of who is my neighbor -- help out wherever you encounter a need.  In my sister's church, the big issue today seemed to be desire to know God.  Not being bound by the Lectionary, I think it was largely coincidental that this preacher based his sermon on Matthew 22:36-37, which parallels the Luke 10 story in today's reading; "Which is the great commandment?" [I was surprised that he did not extend the reading or his sermon to verse 39; "And the second is like unto it..."  But, more about that later.]  He spoke for nearly an hour about each of us being the "bride of Christ" and being being "adulterers" when we put anything else before our love of God;  about how easily we slip from fervent ardor for God to preoccupation with "the good life," our comfort, things, accomplishments...  They were good words, all, but still left me wondering "Who/what is Christ, that I could be his bride?  What does it mean to await his coming when I don't believe in a literal, end-times rapture? When and how do I make the choice that puts me inside or outside God's Kingdom, and where/what is God's kingdom anyway?"  

The collect and the reading from Colossians both express the hope that we might know and understand the things we ought to do and have the grace and power to do them.  Amos says Israel is going to be measured against a plumb line and the consequences for not "measuring up" will be dire -- but Deuteronomy says that "the commandment we are commanded today is NOT too hard for you, nor is it to far away. ... no, the word is very near to you; it is in your mouth and in your heart..." Jesus said to the lawyer (paraphrasing from Luke 10), "You know the answer, you can recite it back to me easily.  Just do this and you will live."  But still, "love God and love your neighbor" -- I think I get the love your neighbor part, but I'm not even really sure about that.  And I still wonder what loving God truly means, when I don't even know for sure what God really is, or if I believe in "him."  Could it really be something so simple, so natural that is is already written in my mind and heart?

Thanks to a serious Southern Baptist upbringing, a great deal of the Bible [KJV, of course -- the version God penned by His Own Hand] quotes itself to me whenever prompted by a snippet from one of the familiar passages.  So, I couldn't help but hear Matthew 22:39-40 in my head when the preacher read Matthew 22:37-38.  In the KJV, it says that "the second is like unto it [the first]."  As I sat and questioned my questions, I thought about what Jesus meant by "like unto."  Could he be saying that "the second is another way to look at the first--a different way to say the same thing"?  What if that were true?

I don't think I can properly attribute this philosophy,**  but one theory of the spirit of the universe has that originally "God -- all the light/spirit of the universe" was one, together, unified.  Then, in an eternal game of loving and losing and finding again, God in creation shattered into uncountable shards of light that each became bound deep within the living things in the universe; past, present and future.  The purpose of each life, then, is to liberate that piece of light/ultimate-God to rejoin with all the others into the eternal entity that never truly is created or destroyed; unchanging and yet transformed again and again through love.  In as much as a life succeeds in liberating the light within, it takes part in "heaven," "God's kingdom," "true spirit."  But if the life keeps the light hidden and bound, and especially if it binds others too, until it and they are ultimately reincorporated into the cosmos through death and rebirth, then that particular life is "cast off into outer darkness," since nothing of it remains as a path or contribution to reuniting with the only true eternal.  

I realize that's a bit of a departure from what one could call an orthodox Christian faith, but at the same time, we do profess that it is "Christ in us, the hope of glory (Colossians 1:27)."  And Jesus said, "whatever you did for one of the least of these, you did for me (Matthew 25:40)."  And what if he really did mean that loving our neighbor as we love ourselves is another way to view the commandment about loving God -- God in us, God in them?  We are the "bride of Christ" but we are also "Christ in you."  The Christian theology about marriage is that two become one.  Is loving God the same as seeking to be one with the bit of God that is in each and every separate life?  To truly see us as not separate but as part of each other and pieces of a whole?  Are we -- our best, true selves -- but part of the eternal whole, waiting to be liberated and seeking out the corresponding part of God in every Other? 

Is this, then, loving God: to look for and love that God that is in each and every life, in every one of us -- ourselves included? 


** I came upon this basic idea on the Integral Life website, and would like to attribute it to Ken Wilber, but possibly also to Father Thomas Keating or to Marc Gafni.  I think I've heard each one of them mention something along these lines, and it's quite possible that they are all quoting yet another source.

Good News?

Yesterday's sermon, drawing from the gospel lesson of sending out the 70, exhorted everyone to evangelism and emphasized how it's everyone's job to go out and share Jesus Christ. Yet sitting in my pew, I could not discover a spark of interest in myself for listening to the preacher, let alone for doing as he said! About halfway through the sermon I realized how bored and disgruntled I was, and I began to ask myself what just wasn't connecting for me today. After all, evangelism is about sharing evangel -- good news. What's not to like?

Where was the good news today? It seemed that the preacher just didn't seem to have much invested in it. I understand that not every message is equally inspired, for a lot of reasons. But there is a real difference between listening to someone who is learning new things every day, gaining new insights or struggling with still unanswered questions, versus listening to someone who appears to be simply rehashing old territory. [Formula for a sermon devoid of evangel: rehash an old truism, link it to today's scripture, throw in a couple of anecdotes from your favorite "stories and quotations for preachers" resource, and deliver it in your sleep.] Nevertheless, there is one big advantage to uninspiring homilies. Seeming entirely predictable, they free the mind to explore tangents with no worries about missing something. And so, I did:

I am certainly someone who is possessed of good news -- great news, as a matter of fact. As I sat there, I asked myself what news do I have that I really am anxious to share? Also, what news do I know that makes the most difference in how I view and treat myself and others? That good news is perhaps best illustrated in the dialog I have with my cat Hairy every morning while he sits on my chest and gazes unblinkingly into my eyes, purring his undying devotion. He is telling me, in his own way, what I also tell him:

You and I were born together in a burst of unimaginable life-energy, from the dying throws of a distant star. We traveled, you and I--and countless others with us--over eons, throughout the universe, hand in hand in a vast cloud of energetic stardust. We have witnessed together, in this great cosmic theater, the births and deaths of galaxies, stars, and planets, and we had a front row seat to witness the beginnings of life itself. The stuff of which we are made, the very molecules of our two selves, have been at times part of the same body, and at times vastly separated--even separate species, as we are now. And we have been part and parcel of much, much more; animate and inanimate, endlessly recycled and reused and reborn. Even if our defining molecules--in some extreme nuclear cataclysm--break down or fuse into something new, our energy remains and we are but transformed. Our life energies too, my little one, have been merged and melded and separated out again, never created or destroyed. We are as old as the sky and as new as a baby's first breath, always and never the same. We are uniquely, separately ourselves, and we are unimaginably, inextricably entangled. We gaze in each others eyes and see other, see self, and see the universe -- not "in a grain of sand," but in a look of love.

God is that love. I get bogged down and sidelined by trying to understand different doctrines, various religions, conflicting moralities, and all the ways we find to distinguish our "in group" from all others... But, the essence is that (from Christian scripture, but not exclusive to Christian theology by any means!) “God is love, and he who abides in love abides in God, and God abides in him” (1 John 4:16). "Beloved, let us love one another, for love is from God, and whoever loves has been born of God and knows God" (1 John 4:7). "That they all may be one; as you, Father, are in me, and I in you, that they also may be one in us: that the world may believe that you have sent me" (John 17:21). "You shall not take vengeance, nor bear any grudge against the children of your people, but you shall love your neighbor as yourself: I am the Lord" (Leviticus 19:18). "For all the law is fulfilled in one word, even in this: 'You shall love your neighbor as yourself.'"(Galatians 5:14).

When I look at others knowing that we are not, in essence, separate, but part of each other, then I am not hampered by the slow progress of an elderly man walking ahead of me; I am waiting for myself, and I claim my dignity and value as one worth waiting for. I am not annoyed by a young mother unable to quiet her too inquisitive toddler in church; I am the nervous mother, I am the overawed toddler bursting with energy and curiosity. I am "AnnBarbie" -- separate, willful, with my own needs and wants and ideas. But, I also see that it is an illusion to believe that I am only AnnBarbie. I am so much more, WE are so much more...

To strip away the illusion of separate self -- this is truly good news!