Psalm 42:1 – 4 (NIV)
1 As the deer pants for streams of water,
so my soul pants for you, my God.
2 My soul thirsts for God, for the living God.
When can I go and meet with God?
3 My tears have been my food
day and night,
while people say to me all day long,
“Where is your God?”
4 These things I remember
as I pour out my soul:
how I used to go to the house of God
under the protection of the Mighty One[d]
with shouts of joy and praise
among the festive throng.
Where I now live in Northwest Arkansas, deer are everywhere, frequently roadside both day and night, and often visiting near our house. The locals say they are always moving between bodies of water, finding the fresh water in streams and creeks, as well as traversing familiar trails between the two lakes that are about a mile apart, one east and one west of our home. The deer are never far from that which is most needful for their existence.
This, says the prayer, is what the human soul is like. No matter what happens in life on the exterior level, no matter what arises, the tragedies, the confusions, life's setbacks, the dreams that will never come true . . through it all, there is a part of every human person that is thirsty only for the Source of life. Our soul's thirst for God is the inner fuel that keeps you and me moving and seeking, the interior spark that will not settle, will not stop yearning, even when that yearning leads us to explore that which will not satisfy. Most of life, including the desire for more, the yearning for affirmation, the striving for success, and any addictive behavior (we're ALL addicted to something, and most of us, to many things!!) . . . all of it is a result of this soul's unquenchability, the soul's restlessness that only finds its rest in God.
So the various shapes life takes, even those grossly misdirected steps, are merely expressions of a soul-thirst that is looking to be quenched. You and I and all humans were created, not only with this soul-longing for God, but for union with God which is part of our created DNA. We yearn for oneness, for wholeness, and this yearning drives us. Life's journey is mostly about our search, our relentless seeking -- even when we don't realize we are seeking this wholeness -- for this union.
An ancient teaching parable paints a helpful image for our frequently misguided seeking. The story is about a teacher who had lost his keys and was in the grass on his hands and knees looking for them. As his students passed by one at a time, each would ask him, "What are you doing?" His reply was always the same: "I've lost my keys and I'm trying to find them." So one at a time, the passers-by joined him on hands and knees, combing through the grass looking for the lost keys.
Finally in frustration, one of the students gathered the courage to ask the teacher, "Are you sure you lost your keys here in the grass?"
The teacher replied, "Oh no. I lost my keys in the house."
"Then why are we looking for the keys in the grass?"
"Because," replied the teacher, "there is no light in the house, so I thought it best to look here where there is light."
Fr Thomas Keating, when he tells the story, reminds us that this is the human condition: We have lost the keys to happiness and fulfillment, and we spend a lifetime trying to find them in the wrong places.
After a reading from Psalm 42, one of my Benedictine prayer books offers a prayer that God would "inspire us to yearn for you always, like the deer for running streams." And I have a minor objection: deer don't need to be "inspired" to find fresh sources of water. It's native to them, and essential for their survival.
You and I, too, don't have to be prompted nor be inspired to yearn for God. We were created with that yearning in our souls, knit thoroughly within our spiritual DNA. Longing for God and for wholeness fuels our daily seeking, even when we don't know we are seeking. We are merely asked, 1.) to become more aware of our seeking, and 2.) to grow up in our recognition of that which does not quench the soul's thirst.
Tomorrow I'll post my own prayer based on these 4 verses of Psalm 42.
Showing posts with label soul. Show all posts
Showing posts with label soul. Show all posts
Monday, May 14, 2018
Tuesday, April 3, 2018
Velocity's Pull on the Spiritual Life
I have circled around the word velocity recently as a descriptor of my spiritual state. Velocity describes the reality of a life which gets ramped up slowly, subtly, without my noticing. As life's velocity increases, insidiously calling for more -- more time, energy, attention -- daily existence begins to feel out of sync, careening wildly from moment to moment. Velocity keeps its foot pressed to the gas pedal.
I remember a phone conversation with a mentor decades ago, the man who was most responsible for my vocational path, who influenced my choice of seminary, who was an early role model in so many ways. Separated by miles, I asked him over the phone how he was doing. I still remember his answer these decades later: "I'm lurching from crisis to crisis."
I knew then, as I know now, that "lurching from crisis to crisis" is no way to live life deeply, though I knew from experience exactly what he was suggesting. I've lurched from crisis to crisis aplenty in my own life -- often wearing the lurch as a badge of honor -- and I suspect you recognize lurching as a part of your own experience, too. Especially in the West, lurching is assumed to be the norm, not an aberration. In fact, if pressed, many of us would insist we don't have a choice, believing pedal to the metal is "just the way life is for me."
Like riding a super-train, I can live at such velocity that I observe the landscape through which I travel as a blur, as here-one-second, gone-the-next. I become a traveler speeding through the terrain as swiftly as possible.
That kind of velocity also means I lose touch with people. Connections get frayed. I don't have time for conversation. Actually, I don't have time or patience for anyone or anything not traveling at the same velocity at which I am traveling.
Family members don't respond to texts quickly enough to suit me.
Being put on hold by someone at the mega-corporation and listening to elevator music for an hour feels like an insult to my self-importance.
Deadlines I had not anticipated feel like an affront, a personal insult: "Don't they know how busy I am?"
Emails go unanswered for days.
Excessive velocity has all sorts of ripple effects on me.
About 20 years ago, I read Henri Nouwen's words: "Without silence and solitude it is impossible to live a spiritual life."
You can frame Nouwen's statement -- which has proven accurate, at least in my own experience -- in any number of ways.
**Without time to be still, life will be a blur.
**If you don't make space to ask, "Who am I?" and "What am I doing?", the oughts, musts, and shoulds will consume you.
**Without silence and solitude, life will be an endlessly repetitive cycle of lurching from crisis to crisis.
**If you don't pause to sit still regularly, you can never truly know the "you" who lives inside your skin.
**If some external thing, some external person, or some external norm determines your velocity, you will miss the one life that is hidden inside you.
** If your existence is all strategy, time-line, and accomplishment, you'll never connect with people in a life-giving way. People will be your accessories or they will get in your way.
I walked over an acre of land yesterday in about two hours. For several months I've been on the speeding train, so over dirt and rock I walked slowly. I had no agenda but to set foot on as much of the soil as possible. I wasn't trying to accomplish anything. I felt no compulsion to hurry. I merely wanted to walk, to notice, to listen. The late Gerald May called it "the power of slowing."
Several things stood out to me. I'll mention one.
The birds (Cardinals, Eastern Bluebirds, among others), the plant-life (60 foot oaks, irises, hostas, rose bushes, and pine trees coming up volunteer), the clouds, breeze, and drizzling rain . . . all did not care one bit about my velocity, about how busy I have been . . . not one care that my tax return needs to be tended to, that I have phone calls to make, appointments to keep, details about life that require some strategic maneuvering on my part.
Schedules and plans and "lurching from crisis to crisis" don't mean a thing to the created world . . . the created world which, after all, has a wisdom all its own. Only I, as the human in that setting, had felt the compulsion to travel faster than a human is made to travel.
Whether my velocity allows me to participate in this other, more inviting world or not, creation goes on singing, breezing, drizzling, foraging.
At question, at least for me: "In which world is my deepest, hidden self most invited to participate?"
I remember a phone conversation with a mentor decades ago, the man who was most responsible for my vocational path, who influenced my choice of seminary, who was an early role model in so many ways. Separated by miles, I asked him over the phone how he was doing. I still remember his answer these decades later: "I'm lurching from crisis to crisis."
I knew then, as I know now, that "lurching from crisis to crisis" is no way to live life deeply, though I knew from experience exactly what he was suggesting. I've lurched from crisis to crisis aplenty in my own life -- often wearing the lurch as a badge of honor -- and I suspect you recognize lurching as a part of your own experience, too. Especially in the West, lurching is assumed to be the norm, not an aberration. In fact, if pressed, many of us would insist we don't have a choice, believing pedal to the metal is "just the way life is for me."
Like riding a super-train, I can live at such velocity that I observe the landscape through which I travel as a blur, as here-one-second, gone-the-next. I become a traveler speeding through the terrain as swiftly as possible.
That kind of velocity also means I lose touch with people. Connections get frayed. I don't have time for conversation. Actually, I don't have time or patience for anyone or anything not traveling at the same velocity at which I am traveling.
Family members don't respond to texts quickly enough to suit me.
Being put on hold by someone at the mega-corporation and listening to elevator music for an hour feels like an insult to my self-importance.
Deadlines I had not anticipated feel like an affront, a personal insult: "Don't they know how busy I am?"
Emails go unanswered for days.
Excessive velocity has all sorts of ripple effects on me.
About 20 years ago, I read Henri Nouwen's words: "Without silence and solitude it is impossible to live a spiritual life."
You can frame Nouwen's statement -- which has proven accurate, at least in my own experience -- in any number of ways.
**Without time to be still, life will be a blur.
**If you don't make space to ask, "Who am I?" and "What am I doing?", the oughts, musts, and shoulds will consume you.
**Without silence and solitude, life will be an endlessly repetitive cycle of lurching from crisis to crisis.
**If you don't pause to sit still regularly, you can never truly know the "you" who lives inside your skin.
**If some external thing, some external person, or some external norm determines your velocity, you will miss the one life that is hidden inside you.
** If your existence is all strategy, time-line, and accomplishment, you'll never connect with people in a life-giving way. People will be your accessories or they will get in your way.
I walked over an acre of land yesterday in about two hours. For several months I've been on the speeding train, so over dirt and rock I walked slowly. I had no agenda but to set foot on as much of the soil as possible. I wasn't trying to accomplish anything. I felt no compulsion to hurry. I merely wanted to walk, to notice, to listen. The late Gerald May called it "the power of slowing."
Several things stood out to me. I'll mention one.
The birds (Cardinals, Eastern Bluebirds, among others), the plant-life (60 foot oaks, irises, hostas, rose bushes, and pine trees coming up volunteer), the clouds, breeze, and drizzling rain . . . all did not care one bit about my velocity, about how busy I have been . . . not one care that my tax return needs to be tended to, that I have phone calls to make, appointments to keep, details about life that require some strategic maneuvering on my part.
Schedules and plans and "lurching from crisis to crisis" don't mean a thing to the created world . . . the created world which, after all, has a wisdom all its own. Only I, as the human in that setting, had felt the compulsion to travel faster than a human is made to travel.
Whether my velocity allows me to participate in this other, more inviting world or not, creation goes on singing, breezing, drizzling, foraging.
At question, at least for me: "In which world is my deepest, hidden self most invited to participate?"
Monday, January 23, 2012
For the Sake of Your Soul
Robert Bly is one of my favorite contemporary poets. He writes from the deep place of soul and soul-consciousness. Several of his poems are among my favorites. Over the last couple of months I have regularly read his poem (which I may post later), "When William Stafford Died." It is about the power of affection and passion, and the willingness to live the life one has been given. It challenges me to live the only life that is authentically mine to live.
Then this evening I heard this Bly poem read, and in the few hours since have read it myself another 10 - 12 times. Try it on for yourself.
One Source of Bad Information
by Robert Bly
There’s a boy in you about three
Years old who hasn’t learned a thing for thirty
Thousand years. Sometimes it’s a girl.
This child had to make up its mind
How to save you from death. He said things like:
“Stay home. Avoid elevators. Eat only elk.”
You live with this child but you don’t know it.
You are in the office, yes, but live with this boy
At night. He’s uninformed, but he does want
To save your life. And he has. Because of this boy
You survived a lot. He’s got six big ideas.
Five don’t work. Right now he’s repeating them to you.
[Robert Bly, Eating the Honey of Words: New and Selected Poems.]
Then this evening I heard this Bly poem read, and in the few hours since have read it myself another 10 - 12 times. Try it on for yourself.
One Source of Bad Information
by Robert Bly
There’s a boy in you about three
Years old who hasn’t learned a thing for thirty
Thousand years. Sometimes it’s a girl.
This child had to make up its mind
How to save you from death. He said things like:
“Stay home. Avoid elevators. Eat only elk.”
You live with this child but you don’t know it.
You are in the office, yes, but live with this boy
At night. He’s uninformed, but he does want
To save your life. And he has. Because of this boy
You survived a lot. He’s got six big ideas.
Five don’t work. Right now he’s repeating them to you.
[Robert Bly, Eating the Honey of Words: New and Selected Poems.]
Thursday, October 6, 2011
A Rilke Poem: For Being Rooted and Rising Up
I'm thinking today about the movements of growth, which both descend and ascend. In Western society, growth is conceptualized mainly as an upwardly ascending movement in which we rise to more and more lofty heights. Most of us, I believe, intuit the lie in that imagery, yet the cultural pressure to buy into this mentality of ascent is almost overwhelming.
Yet the created world knows better . . . she knows that the journey downward sinks roots deep that are necessary before the journey of ascent begins. Descent -- or a movement to the center -- is a movement of growth, too. Sinking long, sturdy roots into the soil is essential in order to grow tall.
This work of descent mostly happens underground, beneath the realm of physical sight. In unseen ways seeds germinate, roots spread and the context for growth is laid. You cannot immediately rush to the heights without this prior, more interior work.
Rainer Maria Rilke saw this as well as anyone I've ever read. In this poem there are a number of images, mostly from the natural world, that speak to this God-created reality of movement and growth. I offer it to you for consideration and reflection on growth and becoming.
How surely gravity's law,
strong as an ocean current,
takes hold of even the smallest thing
and pulls it toward the heart of the world.
Each thing --
each stone, blossom, child --
is held in place.
Only we, in our arrogance,
push out beyond what we each belong to
for some empty freedom.
If we surrendered
to earth's intelligence
we could rise up rooted, like trees.
Instead we entangle ourselves
in knots of our own making
and struggle, lonely and confused.
So, like children, we begin again
to learn from the things,
because they are in God's heart;
they have never left him.
This is what the things can teach us:
to fall,
patiently to trust our heaviness.
Even a bird has to do that
before he can fly.
[Rainer Maria Rilke, Rilke's Book of Hours: Love Poems to God (New York: Riverhead Books, 1996), 116 - 117]
Yet the created world knows better . . . she knows that the journey downward sinks roots deep that are necessary before the journey of ascent begins. Descent -- or a movement to the center -- is a movement of growth, too. Sinking long, sturdy roots into the soil is essential in order to grow tall.
This work of descent mostly happens underground, beneath the realm of physical sight. In unseen ways seeds germinate, roots spread and the context for growth is laid. You cannot immediately rush to the heights without this prior, more interior work.
Rainer Maria Rilke saw this as well as anyone I've ever read. In this poem there are a number of images, mostly from the natural world, that speak to this God-created reality of movement and growth. I offer it to you for consideration and reflection on growth and becoming.
How surely gravity's law,
strong as an ocean current,
takes hold of even the smallest thing
and pulls it toward the heart of the world.
Each thing --
each stone, blossom, child --
is held in place.
Only we, in our arrogance,
push out beyond what we each belong to
for some empty freedom.
If we surrendered
to earth's intelligence
we could rise up rooted, like trees.
Instead we entangle ourselves
in knots of our own making
and struggle, lonely and confused.
So, like children, we begin again
to learn from the things,
because they are in God's heart;
they have never left him.
This is what the things can teach us:
to fall,
patiently to trust our heaviness.
Even a bird has to do that
before he can fly.
[Rainer Maria Rilke, Rilke's Book of Hours: Love Poems to God (New York: Riverhead Books, 1996), 116 - 117]
Friday, January 28, 2011
Blank Journals and New Terrain
On the first day of a recent retreat I opened a new journal. It was a marvelous experience, breaking open the cover and leafing through the blank pages. Nothing there. Blank.
I held the blank journal open on my lap for a few moments before writing a word in it. I allowed my mind to wander before putting my pen to the page . . . this particular journal will carry me along for several months . . . over those months, what will I experience?
Where will I go?
What will be the shape of my soul by the time I get to the end of the book?
What experiences and understandings will shape me and fill those pages?
What will be my growing edges?
I admit that I didn't spend too much time trying to predict what would fill the pages. I don't have a clue. The whole idea, though, was that it felt like standing at a new threshold, standing at a doorway into the days yet to come, looking at the blankness, the possibilities.
For me it was like seeing something for the very first time, opening my eyes to the mystery of something I have not yet seen. It was a wonderful moment.
John O'Donohue, the Irish poet, philosopher and former-priest, talked about his first day in Tubingen at attend that German university. He described seeing the city for the first time and his awareness that after that initial day, he would never see the city the same way again. The streets and buildings would become familiar. And as the city became familiar to him, he would lose his capacity to notice its nuances. His awareness would be dulled.
That's something of what my moment with the empty journal felt like. It was a pause to be open to every possibility. I sensed the invitation to be more expansive. I consciously thought of being receptive to the days ahead.
My journal will not necessarily lead my journey into the days ahead, but it will give some shape to my life. It will mirror the path. It will reflect my capacity to see, to notice, to live with consciousness the life which has been gifted to me.
In and of itself, that moment with the blank journal and new terrain was significant for me.
I held the blank journal open on my lap for a few moments before writing a word in it. I allowed my mind to wander before putting my pen to the page . . . this particular journal will carry me along for several months . . . over those months, what will I experience?
Where will I go?
What will be the shape of my soul by the time I get to the end of the book?
What experiences and understandings will shape me and fill those pages?
What will be my growing edges?
I admit that I didn't spend too much time trying to predict what would fill the pages. I don't have a clue. The whole idea, though, was that it felt like standing at a new threshold, standing at a doorway into the days yet to come, looking at the blankness, the possibilities.
For me it was like seeing something for the very first time, opening my eyes to the mystery of something I have not yet seen. It was a wonderful moment.
John O'Donohue, the Irish poet, philosopher and former-priest, talked about his first day in Tubingen at attend that German university. He described seeing the city for the first time and his awareness that after that initial day, he would never see the city the same way again. The streets and buildings would become familiar. And as the city became familiar to him, he would lose his capacity to notice its nuances. His awareness would be dulled.
That's something of what my moment with the empty journal felt like. It was a pause to be open to every possibility. I sensed the invitation to be more expansive. I consciously thought of being receptive to the days ahead.
My journal will not necessarily lead my journey into the days ahead, but it will give some shape to my life. It will mirror the path. It will reflect my capacity to see, to notice, to live with consciousness the life which has been gifted to me.
In and of itself, that moment with the blank journal and new terrain was significant for me.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Looking for My Life in the Now
In 2004 I was diagnosed with a lymphoma related to my bone marrow and blood. It is a sort of hybrid disease, so I have a hard time knowing just what to call it. On the diagnosis/payment sheet my oncologist/hematologist fills out each time I visit him, he can't decide which box to check to describe my condition to the insurance folks. "What do I call you?" is his usual wrap-up question as he looks at the form that gives him 70-80 options.
In late April I started chemotherapy again. This happens every few months when the disease "eats" enough of my healthy blood cells that low blood counts diminish my energy. This is the fourth time since fall 2004 I've gone through this process. Each time in the past one particular chemotherapy has knocked down the cancerous cells and enabled the healthy cells to be replenished.
This time, however, the lymphoma resisted this chemotherapy. After six weeks of treatments, tests, and biopsies, I'm at a "start over" place. I must start a new course of treatment immediately, a more aggressive process. And this process, say my medical professionals, will likely take 4 - 5 months.
So over the past two days, since learning about this new plan for dealing with the disease, I've considered what my life is like in the midst of this time. My temptation, while in the midst of treatments, is to count the days to their end. This April and May, I scrubbed my calendar in order to give my attention fully to my body's healing. Others stepped in for me to cover my responsibilities. Early in the treatments, I picked up a virus, which necessitated staying home, away from crowds and the possibility of further infection. All the while, I was counting down the days to the end of the chemo treatments, working from home as I had energy and focus to do so. It was something like biding my time, paddling to the end of the treatments. I was treading water, waiting for June and the end of treatments.
But now I feel like I'm in a different place. Now I'm looking at 4 - 5 months. I really didn't have 6 weeks to waste, to "bide the time." Now I'm even more aware that I don't have 4 - 5 months to waste. To simply float along until I'm at the end of this process means that I lose 4 - 5 months of life that I'll never get back.
So into my prayer over the last two days I've brought this question: "How am I invited to live as I go through this process?"
"What does it mean to live my one wild and precious life, even as I have three different kinds of chemotherapy in my body, mixing with steroids and antibiotics?"
"With those drugs inside me, is it even possible to live my life? Or will I be living the life of the drugs?"
"What does 'living life' look like for me while I'm living this very real-life situation?"
I don't have answers. But I do know that I don't have 4 - 5 months to waste. I tend to think of living, really LIVING, as exploring, moving, going, doing, traveling, discovering, teaching, producing. None of those things will be possible, I'm guessing, over the next several months. So in what other ways am I invited to life, to the full life of the soul, the authentic life I've been given to live?
That is my challenge, my invitation, over these months. I'm reminded that none of us have a moment to waste.
In late April I started chemotherapy again. This happens every few months when the disease "eats" enough of my healthy blood cells that low blood counts diminish my energy. This is the fourth time since fall 2004 I've gone through this process. Each time in the past one particular chemotherapy has knocked down the cancerous cells and enabled the healthy cells to be replenished.
This time, however, the lymphoma resisted this chemotherapy. After six weeks of treatments, tests, and biopsies, I'm at a "start over" place. I must start a new course of treatment immediately, a more aggressive process. And this process, say my medical professionals, will likely take 4 - 5 months.
So over the past two days, since learning about this new plan for dealing with the disease, I've considered what my life is like in the midst of this time. My temptation, while in the midst of treatments, is to count the days to their end. This April and May, I scrubbed my calendar in order to give my attention fully to my body's healing. Others stepped in for me to cover my responsibilities. Early in the treatments, I picked up a virus, which necessitated staying home, away from crowds and the possibility of further infection. All the while, I was counting down the days to the end of the chemo treatments, working from home as I had energy and focus to do so. It was something like biding my time, paddling to the end of the treatments. I was treading water, waiting for June and the end of treatments.
But now I feel like I'm in a different place. Now I'm looking at 4 - 5 months. I really didn't have 6 weeks to waste, to "bide the time." Now I'm even more aware that I don't have 4 - 5 months to waste. To simply float along until I'm at the end of this process means that I lose 4 - 5 months of life that I'll never get back.
So into my prayer over the last two days I've brought this question: "How am I invited to live as I go through this process?"
"What does it mean to live my one wild and precious life, even as I have three different kinds of chemotherapy in my body, mixing with steroids and antibiotics?"
"With those drugs inside me, is it even possible to live my life? Or will I be living the life of the drugs?"
"What does 'living life' look like for me while I'm living this very real-life situation?"
I don't have answers. But I do know that I don't have 4 - 5 months to waste. I tend to think of living, really LIVING, as exploring, moving, going, doing, traveling, discovering, teaching, producing. None of those things will be possible, I'm guessing, over the next several months. So in what other ways am I invited to life, to the full life of the soul, the authentic life I've been given to live?
That is my challenge, my invitation, over these months. I'm reminded that none of us have a moment to waste.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
The Granite Countertop Illusion
I confess that my wife holds the remote in our family. I know, I know, my manhood is in question. That's just the way it is in our home, at least most nights.
Her hold on the remote means that the default evening television channel is HGTV. Homes, gardens, renovations, interior design, outdoor living space . . . I consider it a dangerous, dangerous station. She loves it!
A couple of weeks ago one show followed a young twenty-something couple as they tried to find and purchase their first home. The couple, new in the community, had rented a home for several months. Near the end of the show, the young man was interviewed about the house search. He said, "I don't think we can be happy until we own a home."
Those words caught my attention. I looked up over the top of my computer wondering if I had really just heard what I just heard.
I was still considering that line when the next show began a few minutes later . . . another couple looking for their first home and another line that caught my attention. This time the woman viewing the home with a real estate agent entered the kitchen, noticed the appointments in the kitchen, and said -- with a bit of an attitude -- "I just won't be satisfied unless I have granite countertops."
That was it. They moved on. I couldn't, though, leave those two comments alone. My immediate thought was, "Who told you that you had to own a home to be happy? Who says that granite countertops are keys to satisfaction." Where did that thinking, that belief system come from?
I heard those statements as cultural values that folks have adopted without considering them critically. We all hold certain belief systems because of the groups of which we are a part . . . our families, our religious communities, our neighbors, our regions, our nation . . . we are a part of various "tribes" which give us identity and whose values and norms we adopt. Most of the time we adopt those values and norms uncritically. We don't ask where they come from. We don't question them. We don't recognize that they may be in conflict with other values we hold dear.
So in a sense, we all have our "granite countertops," those things that we are convinced will make us happy and complete. We take on a system of belief and hold it tightly, often as a part of our membership in a group of belonging. Before long we are protecting the system, pledging devotion to it, and allowing that system to order life, even if it is no more than the style of kitchen countertops.
For modern North Americans, relationships, jobs, material possessions, image, status, or financial security can become a "granite countertop."
The illusion is that something else in the outer world will satisfy us and make us complete. But that lie cannot sustain our lives. When the illusion is that happiness comes from "granite countertops," we can recognize it and even laugh at it.
When relationships, job, or image become our granite countertop, we may not see quite so clearly. Yet, the spiritual path invites us to name our granite countertops, to call them the illusion that they are, and to find in God that which is substantial enough to hold up the weight of our being.
Not even granite countertops are weighty enough to bear the essence of our souls!
Her hold on the remote means that the default evening television channel is HGTV. Homes, gardens, renovations, interior design, outdoor living space . . . I consider it a dangerous, dangerous station. She loves it!
A couple of weeks ago one show followed a young twenty-something couple as they tried to find and purchase their first home. The couple, new in the community, had rented a home for several months. Near the end of the show, the young man was interviewed about the house search. He said, "I don't think we can be happy until we own a home."
Those words caught my attention. I looked up over the top of my computer wondering if I had really just heard what I just heard.
I was still considering that line when the next show began a few minutes later . . . another couple looking for their first home and another line that caught my attention. This time the woman viewing the home with a real estate agent entered the kitchen, noticed the appointments in the kitchen, and said -- with a bit of an attitude -- "I just won't be satisfied unless I have granite countertops."
That was it. They moved on. I couldn't, though, leave those two comments alone. My immediate thought was, "Who told you that you had to own a home to be happy? Who says that granite countertops are keys to satisfaction." Where did that thinking, that belief system come from?
I heard those statements as cultural values that folks have adopted without considering them critically. We all hold certain belief systems because of the groups of which we are a part . . . our families, our religious communities, our neighbors, our regions, our nation . . . we are a part of various "tribes" which give us identity and whose values and norms we adopt. Most of the time we adopt those values and norms uncritically. We don't ask where they come from. We don't question them. We don't recognize that they may be in conflict with other values we hold dear.
So in a sense, we all have our "granite countertops," those things that we are convinced will make us happy and complete. We take on a system of belief and hold it tightly, often as a part of our membership in a group of belonging. Before long we are protecting the system, pledging devotion to it, and allowing that system to order life, even if it is no more than the style of kitchen countertops.
For modern North Americans, relationships, jobs, material possessions, image, status, or financial security can become a "granite countertop."
The illusion is that something else in the outer world will satisfy us and make us complete. But that lie cannot sustain our lives. When the illusion is that happiness comes from "granite countertops," we can recognize it and even laugh at it.
When relationships, job, or image become our granite countertop, we may not see quite so clearly. Yet, the spiritual path invites us to name our granite countertops, to call them the illusion that they are, and to find in God that which is substantial enough to hold up the weight of our being.
Not even granite countertops are weighty enough to bear the essence of our souls!
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Rebirth by Antonio Machado
In our soul everything
moves guided by a mysterious hand:
ununderstandable, not speaking,
we know nothing of our own souls.
The deepest words
of the wise men teach us
the same as the whistle of the wind when it blows,
or the sound of the water when it is flowing.
(Antonio Machado, trans. by Robert Bly)
moves guided by a mysterious hand:
ununderstandable, not speaking,
we know nothing of our own souls.
The deepest words
of the wise men teach us
the same as the whistle of the wind when it blows,
or the sound of the water when it is flowing.
(Antonio Machado, trans. by Robert Bly)
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