Learn to Bear the Beams of Love

Fat Tuesday – February 25, 2020

The season of Lent suggests starkness, struggle, and difficulty. Typical Lenten images include desert and dust, pilgrimage and preparation. Words like repentance and redemption show up often. Some folks image Lent as a time for a spiritual house-cleaning.
Those images are appropriate and good, with a long history in the Church. They help us realize that we don’t appear on Easter morning to celebrate the Resurrection of Christ without some context, without making a journey toward that celebration. I affirm those understandings of Lent and their corresponding images, but I want to suggest another image for Lent.

Lent is also the time to dig deeper into the heart of God, to find ourselves immersed more completely in the mercy, compassion, and generosity that are at the center of life. This may not be a typical Lenten theme, but I believe it carries significance for us. The journey with Jesus toward Holy Week, the cross and Resurrection is a pilgrimage of love. His deep love for his Abba and for each of us animated each step toward the Passion. He embodied the love of God. His movements toward his final week were permeated in a generous and compassionate love. Mercy is who he was.

So I think about my life, our lives, as they are shaped by love. I’m drawn to one of William Blake’s poems in his “Songs of Innocence,” where he writes:

And we are put on earth a little space,
That we may learn to bear the beams of love.

Beams of love illumine our world in every place and at every moment. Creation is full of love-beams. We are surrounded by them. In a sense, the beams of love are God’s work, God’s initiative, God’s gift to the world. The human responsibility, though, is to “bear” those beams.

The dual meaning of “bearing” is important. We are here to bear the beams of love, that is, to stand up underneath them. To bear the beams of love is to receive their weight and significance into ourselves, to welcome them into our being.

But the word “bear” also has another meaning. To bear is to carry or to deliver to another. We can bear good news. We bear something when we take it to someone else.

This is our Lenten journey, both to bear the beams of love by receiving them into ourselves, and to bear the beams of love by carrying them to others in the world. It is the twofold movement of the Christian spiritual life: First, the soul’s movement inward where we are connected ever-more deeply to God and to transforming love. Then the second, outward movement to carry love into society in a way that transforms the world.

Persons throughout history have borne the beams of love. Across the generations, they have given themselves to a more intentional spiritual path, affirming both inward and outward dimensions of life with God. We are invited to join them in this holy journey.

I'll post daily reflections throughout Lent on my sister site: https://dailylent.blogspot.com/


Welcome to Lent!

Ballets, Spotlights, and God

Every day this month I'm listening to Advent texts, mostly drawn from Isaiah's vision of who God is and what God is doing in the world. Isaiah tends to be lyrical, using vivid images to illumine honestly the situation of the world and God's place at the center of history -- not only in ancient times, but today as well.

Isaiah' prophecy covers a wide swath of time, from a season when Israel was threatened by foreign powers, to the time when those foreign powers devastated the people and the land, to the days when God began to restore what had been demolished. There are a lot of moving pieces in Isaiah, and it's not easy to follow the action. Only God and God's desire for healing and justice holds together the far-reaching prophecy.

I recently attended The Nutcracker again, performed by a troupe whose artistic director had a different vision of the story than that to which I was accustomed. His approach was quite nontraditional. At times the action on stage seemed disjointed. I tried to follow the story line as part of the troupe danced on one part of the stage, while children huddled in mock-conversation in another part of the stage, while other characters were coming and going, stage right and stage left. My eyesight -- and attention -- wandered from corner to corner in the busy scene as I tried to figure out how this scene was carrying the plot forward.

Then I noticed help. A spotlight from above and behind me was following around the stage one pair of dancers. These were the leads, the principal dancers. The spotlight was telling me, "Follow this action. At this moment, these dancers are the most important thing happening on stage." I realized that the production crew was helping novices like me to understand the story, to catch the important movements that were key to the unfolding narrative, by use of a highlighter. For the rest of the ballet, I followed the spotlight.

In a sense, Isaiah provides us a spotlight by continually calling us back to God. In his day, there was plenty going on in the world that asked for the attention of Isaiah's community. Pieces were moving everywhere.

And in our day, there are all sorts of noisy voices calling out, "Look at me! Look at me!" Our attention is prone to wander . . . to chase an act of brutality here . . . a new political reality there . . . spending our days chasing Facebook posts, angry tweets, and news-feeds. The relentless pace can drive you nuts.

But like that ballet spotlight, Isaiah shines a light upon God. In our day, we would do well to take our cue from the prophet.

In effect, Isaiah says, "All the commotion in the world is trying to call your attention to it. Be alert. Don't divert your gaze. Don't do that. Pay attention to what God is doing in the world. Keep the eyes of your heart focused on God's work, God's promise, God's nature. Don't be distracted. Don't let your vision wander."

This isn't easy to do. I'm as distracted -- and distractable -- as the next person. But I want to ask different questions about life, the world, and the commotion around us.

What are God's hopes for the world? What is God's design for the world?

What is God doing in the world?

How is God at work today, even in the midst of much hatred, division, and alienation? How do I notice God's presence today in concrete ways?

How am I invited to join God in what God is doing in the world? When I follow the spotlight, how might God invite me to respond?

Learning a Different Wisdom

There must be a time of day when the man who makes plans forgets his plans, and acts as if he had no plans at all. There must be a time of day when the man who has to speak falls very silent. And his mind forms no more propositions, and he asks himself: Did they have any meaning? There must be a time when a man of prayer goes to pray as if it were the first time in his life he had ever prayed; when the man of resolutions puts his resolutions aside as if they had all been broken, and he learns a different wisdom: distinguishing the sun from the moon, the stars from the darkness, the sea from the dry land, and the night sky from the shoulder of a hill. [Thomas Merton, No Man Is an Island, p. 260.]

Black Friday . . . Small-Business Saturday . . . Cyber Monday . . . Giving Tuesday . . .

Who comes up with this stuff, anyway? Well, I think I know the answer,especially when I hear the many reports of how "successful" or "unsuccessful" these days are . . . when the impact of the days is measured in $$$ and %.

Advent arrives as a blanket warming the cold, market-driven days, urging me to "forget my plans" . . . "fall very silent" . . . "pray as if for the first time" . . . "learn a different wisdom."

Advent does not speak the language of market growth or GNP or China trade deals or even "what will I get the grandchildren for Christmas?"

The season offers a quieter, gentler invitation . . . to reevaluate and recalibrate . . . to stay rooted in that which is life- and light-giving, rather than getting carried away by the distractive pulls of the moment . . . to join a more universal design that transcends my little social gatherings and travel plans and musical specials.

Merton was not writing about Advent per se, but he might as well have been describing the season.

I am tempted, this early morning in Advent, to state my goals for the season: “forget my plans” . . . “fall very silent” . . . “pray as if for the first time” . . . “learn a different wisdom.” But I think I would regret placing my own agenda on the days, forcing this grand, unfathomable season into my own little gift box, so that by the end I could measure it - maybe in % - to see how successful or unsuccessful I was.

No, I think instead I'll just be alert what shows up . . . I'll stay open to the grace and mercy hiding in whatever is . . . I'll allow the warm blanket of Advent to cover all the coldness within me and in the world.

A More Expansive Dance

Fr Thomas Keating told an apocryphal story about an elder monk on his hands and knees, combing through the grass in front of the hut that was his living quarters. A younger monk walking by asked, "Father, what are you doing?"

"Looking for my keys," replied the elder.

The young monk immediately got down on his hands and knees and began to comb through the grass.

Other monks passed by. Each stopped to ask what was going on and each received the same answer: "We're looking for Father's keys." Before long the expansive yard was full of monks crawling through the grass, looking for lost keys.

Finally, one of the monks who had joined the search gathered the courage to ask the obvious question which no one to that point had the nerve to ask: "Father, are you sure you lost your keys out here in the grass?"

"Oh no, my son," the older monk answered. "I lost my keys in the house. But since there is no light in the house, I thought I'd look out here in the sunshine."

When Fr Keating told the story, he would summarize the imaginary scene this way: "And that is the human condition. We are all looking for the keys to happiness where happiness cannot be found."

This is the perennial challenge of the spiritual life . . . to shift our center of orbit from all the ways, places, and things to which we look for fulfillment . . . to shift our orbit to the One who is the Center of all life. The shift is so difficult because we receive almost no cultural validation for making this shift. In fact, culturally we are encouraged to chase after all sorts of other things that promise happiness, but in the end cannot hold the weight of our being.

Contrary to conventional wisdom, the center of life is not measured by your bank account . . . by the number of friends you have . . . by what others think of your work . . . by how mannerly -- or petulant -- you are . . . by the success you achieve.

For many of us, at issue is the way life itself, by its very nature, tends to sweep us up and carry us along, so that we feel carried along by a train whose destination was determined by someone else, and from which we cannot seem to get off.

In the daily run of life, it is so easy to believe that the thing right here before us is the only thing.

I remember in 1998 when my dad died . . . his death was the big thing squarely in front of me, demanding all the attention I could muster. Trying to be present for my mom, for my own children, for the funeral preparations which needed to be made, and still attend to my own grief, my orbit became very small, very focused on that which was right in front of me.

But I also had a couple of experiences that week around his funeral which said to me, "While my world has stopped at this place . . . while all I can see is this loss and the shape of life now in the aftermath . . . there are many others in the world who are completely unaffected by his death. For them, life is moving on."

It was a moment of revelation for me. My world had stopped. But the world did not stop for others. Life continued. At first, I railed inwardly about it: "My FATHER has died!! Can't you have some respect?!?! Can't you stop for a moment as I have stopped?!" When I realized what I was thinking, the lesson for me became clear: My life and existence so easily becomes the center of the entire universe, and actually I'm not the center at all.

Usually it takes the created world to remind me that life is happening always and everywhere, sustained by God, whether I am present to it or not . . . regardless of what concerns fill my life . . . no matter the deadlines I'm facing that feel as if they are pinching or the "pressing work" that calls for all my attention.

The waves of the surf will continue to roll in and out, no matter what my life is like today.

The river which slices through these mountains will continue to sing whether I am sitting there to listen or not.

These deer grazing by the roadside will go on finding their own "daily bread" whether I meet my deadline or not.

The lush green woods will lose their leaves, but then produce them again, far apart from whatever I think is important in my life.

Thomas Merton described what he called the General Dance or the Cosmic Dance . . . the dance of the world which humans often miss, as we are consumed with the far smaller dances of our own creation . . . shuffling papers . . . tinkering with websites . . . posting for "likes" on social media . . . building the life we imagine we are supposed to have . . . crippled by anxiety over political and denominational realities.

The things that mostly consume us are too small . . . they are not substantial enough to hold the weight of your being. They are dances we have learned from culture, from those who tell us what we should dance around. Most of them are completely disconnected from the Cosmic Dance.

Read Merton's words as he describes this larger dance, then spend some time meditating on them over several days.


What is serious to men is often very trivial in the sight of God. What in God might appear to us as “play” is perhaps what He Himself takes most seriously. At any rate the Lord plays and diverts Himself in the garden of His creation, and if we could let go of our own obsession with what we think is the meaning of it all, we might be able to hear His call and follow Him in His mysterious, cosmic dance. We do not have to go very far to catch echoes of that game, and of that dancing. When we are alone on a starlit night; when by chance we see the migrating birds in autumn descending on a grove of junipers to rest and eat; when we see children in a moment when they are really children; when we know love in our own hearts; or when, like the Japanese poet Basho we hear an old frog land in a quiet pond with a solitary splash – at such times the awakening, the turning inside out of all values, the “newness,” the emptiness and the purity of vision that make themselves evident, provide a glimpse of the cosmic dance.

For the world and time are the dance of the Lord in emptiness. The silence of the spheres is the music of a wedding feast. The more we persist in misunderstanding the phenomena of life, the more we analyze them out into strange finalities and complex purposes of our own, the more we involve ourselves in sadness, absurdity and despair. But it does not matter much, because no despair of ours can alter the reality of things, or stain the joy of the cosmic dance which is always there. Indeed, we are in the midst of it, and it is in the midst of us, for it beats in our very blood, whether we want it to or not.

Yet the fact remains that we are invited to forget ourselves on purpose, cast our awful solemnity to the winds and join in the general dance.

[Thomas Merton, New Seeds of Contemplation (New York: New Directions, 1961), pp. 296-297]

Traditions and Transcendence

Mark 7:1-13

The Pharisees and some of the teachers of the law who had come from Jerusalem gathered around Jesus 2 and saw some of his disciples eating food with hands that were defiled, that is, unwashed. 3 (The Pharisees and all the Jews do not eat unless they give their hands a ceremonial washing, holding to the tradition of the elders. 4 When they come from the marketplace they do not eat unless they wash. And they observe many other traditions, such as the washing of cups, pitchers and kettles.)

5 So the Pharisees and teachers of the law asked Jesus, “Why don’t your disciples live according to the tradition of the elders instead of eating their food with defiled hands?”

6 He replied, “Isaiah was right when he prophesied about you hypocrites; as it is written:

“‘These people honor me with their lips,
but their hearts are far from me.
7
They worship me in vain;
their teachings are merely human rules.’

8 You have let go of the commands of God and are holding on to human traditions.”

9 And he continued, “You have a fine way of setting aside the commands of God in order to observe your own traditions! 10 For Moses said, ‘Honor your father and mother,’ and, ‘Anyone who curses their father or mother is to be put to death.’[e] 11 But you say that if anyone declares that what might have been used to help their father or mother is Corban (that is, devoted to God)— 12 then you no longer let them do anything for their father or mother. 13 Thus you nullify the word of God by your tradition that you have handed down. And you do many things like that.”


The word "tradition" appears frequently in the Mark 7 passage.

If you are of a certain generation, think Tevye belting out "Tradition!!" in Fiddler on the Roof.

If you are of another generation, think Emmett and the construction workers singing, "Everything is awesome!!" as they blithely go about the same, endless routine, day after day assembling the pieces of the city in the Lego Movie. [Those of you who right now are rolling your eyes and dismissing this blog-post over a Lego Movie reference have missed a jewel if you've not seen it . . . smart, funny, symbolic, and with several brilliant messages, one of which plays on the song, "Everything Is Awesome!"]

Routines and practices easily become overly familiar, so deeply woven into the pattern of daily life that we no longer ask, "Why do I do this?" or "What fruit does this regimen bear in my life?" No need to ask the questions when you're convinced, "Everything is awesome!!"

Rarely do we think of a daily ritual, a religious practice, or an habitual routine as inauthentic. Mostly, they simply lose their energy over time. Sometimes we persist in the practice simply as a lucky charm, never mind that the ritual itself has become empty for us, devoid of any deeper meaning or significance.

I like the word transcendence. It suggests "beyond" . . . beyond comprehension, beyond explanation, beyond the usual, beyond ordinary experience. For several months now, I've sought to bounce things (including practices, rituals, routines, vocations) off this notion of transcendence. Assuming that God is somehow connected to all beyond us, I ask, "Does this thing . . . or practice . . . or belief . . . or connection . . . or vocation . . . have some sense of transcendence about it?" (Of course, all things are full of transcendence if we see them as so. But rarely do we have those eyes to see. As Elizabeth Barrett Browning pointedly wrote, most of us sit round the flaming bush and pluck blackberries.)

So it was, in Jesus' time, with these "traditions of the elders" and the "human traditions" to which the religious crowd was attached. It wasn't that the traditions were bad . . . and it wasn't that those who engaged in them were purposely deceitful or evil people; rather, the rituals and traditions themselves no longer held transcendent weight. They no longer pointed the persons who practiced them to The One Who is Beyond. Deeper realities were lost. The practices were no longer shaping lives, deepening connections with God, or helping the practitioners open themselves more deeply and receptively to the Spirit.

No longer did anyone ask, "Why do we do these things?" or "What is this practice trying to accomplish in my life?"

New wine was bursting the old wineskins of the traditional religious system.

Who among us has not been here, perhaps accumulating religious practices in hopes that the mere practice, rotely performed, would commend us to God?

Who among us has not clung to some method of prayer or formula for experiencing God which was effective in the past, trying to recapture some elusive emotional impulse which reminds us of God's presence?

Who among us has not piled up a storehouse of lucky charms in hopes that they will shield us from difficulty and lead us to a gilded life?

We have all been there, done that. So how do we engage in life, in practices, in rituals that deepen our connection with God? . . . that allow us to participate with God in what God is doing in the world?

What practices connect me with that which is transcendent? What routines have the gravitas to hold the weight of who I am? . . . to shape me? . . . to open me? . . . to help me see more clearly what is real (in myself and in the world)?

These are not the religious rituals that make me feel better, that confirm who I am, or that are done for the sake of a season. Rather, transformative spiritual practices connect me with something more substantial, something solid, something that can ground me or anchor me. (Hence, Meister Eckhart's phrase for God was "The Ground of Being.") Thus, they are transcendent.

How will I know if some "tradition" to which I hold is transcendent or leads me to transcendence? There are probably several ways to answer. Most simply and straightforwardly, hold your spiritual practice up to the transcendent values of love, compassion, and mercy. Do my daily routines or spiritual practices make me more compassionate? Do they open up space inside me to respond to the world with mercy rather than judgment? Do they allow love to flow through me into the world? Am I better able to forgive, include, accept, and be open to the other?

At the very least, God's project for the world starts with love, compassion, and mercy. Thus, that seems to be the place you and I can start, as well.

You're Not in Control

Luke 5:1-11

One day as Jesus was standing by the Lake of Gennesaret, the people were crowding around him and listening to the word of God. 2 He saw at the water’s edge two boats, left there by the fishermen, who were washing their nets. 3 He got into one of the boats, the one belonging to Simon, and asked him to put out a little from shore. Then he sat down and taught the people from the boat.

4 When he had finished speaking, he said to Simon, “Put out into deep water, and let down the nets for a catch.”

5 Simon answered, “Master, we’ve worked hard all night and haven’t caught anything. But because you say so, I will let down the nets.”

6 When they had done so, they caught such a large number of fish that their nets began to break. 7 So they signaled their partners in the other boat to come and help them, and they came and filled both boats so full that they began to sink.

8 When Simon Peter saw this, he fell at Jesus’ knees and said, “Go away from me, Lord; I am a sinful man!” 9 For he and all his companions were astonished at the catch of fish they had taken, 10 and so were James and John, the sons of Zebedee, Simon’s partners.

Then Jesus said to Simon, “Don’t be afraid; from now on you will fish for people.” 11 So they pulled their boats up on shore, left everything and followed him.


"Go away from me, Lord; I am a sinful man." Peter was right, of course. He was a "sinful man," in whatever way you choose to measure human sinfulness. In that sense, he was no different from me or you.

But coming as it does in this part of the narrative, I don't sense that Peter was sharing new information with Jesus about the level of his morality. Nor was Peter reminding Jesus of something he felt Jesus already knew.

Peter's objection is rooted in a much deeper sense of self and in his own theological assumptions about himself and God. His statement gives us a hint about how he sees himself, and how he perceives God working in the world.

[Foreshadowing: The way Peter believes God works in a human life is also the default system many of us carry within ourselves.]

While there are several significant angles within this story of the great catch of fish, I'm drawn to one in particular today. In the narrative, God is depicted as generous, even extravagant. After a full night of fishing in which these professional fishers caught nothing, Jesus instructed them to try again. What changed? Was there a shift in the wind? A change in the barometric pressure? What happened?

[My grandfather had a sixth-grade education, but was the best fisher I ever knew. He could barely read a book, but from a boat on the lake or with a rod and reel in hand on the shore, he could read the weather -- and thus the fish -- with uncanny accuracy. If we were sitting in his living room and said, "Let's go fishing, Granddad!" he would walk out to the porch, stand there for a couple of minutes watching the skies, feeling the air on his skin, and either say, "Okay, it's a good day for fishing," or "They're not biting today . . . we'll go another day."]

What changed that day on Gennesaret Lake? What did Jesus know that these professional fishers did not know?

"Put down your nets again," Jesus instructed, and what came up in the nets were so many fish the nets began to tear. Abundance . . . extravagance . . . taking the little and making it more than enough . . . these are familiar themes echoed throughout God's story in scripture, especially as embodied in Jesus.

But Peter is accustomed to a finite world . . . a world in which we have been taught that we get what we deserve. Thus, as "sinners," we deserve very little. To Peter, the scene doesn't add up. He had done nothing to earn or deserve this massive catch of fish. And he has not been sufficiently versed in God's generosity. So he objects. He has lived inside a pattern that has created dichotomies all his life: deserving/undeserving . . . worthy/unworthy . . . one or the other. By the tone of the narrative, Peter is not ready for Jesus to break open the worthiness pattern under which he has ordered his life.

"Go away from me," he says. I"m not ready for a shift like this. I'm accustomed to being the center of my world. When things, good things, come my way, it's because I've worked for them, earned them, shown myself worthy of them. I'm a sinful man. I will not accept unearned gifts!

[Have you ever received some good gift, something you did not deserve, or some accolade for which you felt unworthy, and then countered that good gift by engaging in some kind of self-destructive behavior? I have, and you probably have, too. It is one subconscious way we say with our lives, "I'm a sinful person! I'm not deserving!" Perhaps we pick a fight with a spouse . . . or engage in some addictive behavior . . . or intentionally create a stir at work . . . all the dynamic equivalent of Peter's pushback, "Get away from me! I am unworthy!"]

How impoverished Peter is! How impoverished we are! Ordering life as if everything depends on me -- my skill, my intellect, my ingenuity, my creativity, my work ethic -- I shut out the possibility of gift, generosity, grace. In that sense, I am not only impoverished, but stunted in my capacity to receive from God and others anything that comes apart from my own making.

We live in God's world, thankfully, in which we do NOT always get what we deserve -- either for good or for bad -- and in which we are not in charge -- despite our feverish efforts at controlling the world.

The worthiness game is a true dead-end, despite how deeply ingrained it is within us and within culture. Ultimately, it shuts you off from God and others, making life all about yourself, your efforts, your own will. There is little future in that, either for me, for you, or for the human community.

So here you go . . . here's your huge catch of fish!!

Love Loves . . . Merton's Thoughts

Before posting my own reflection on, "What does it mean to love another?" as a follow-up to the previous post, "Love loves what is . . . as it is," I want to post some of Thomas Merton's words about love and charity.

These thoughts come from the first section of Merton's, No Man Is an Island. The chapter is called, "Love Can Be Kept Only by Being Given Away." (I have retained Merton's original language, which uses masculine pronouns throughout. Merton was not only a product of his times, he was also the product of an all-male monastic community.)


There is a false and momentary happiness in self-satisfaction, but it always leads to sorrow because it narrows and deadens our spirit. True happiness is found in unselfish love, a love which increases in proportion as it is shared. There is no end to the sharing of love, and, therefore, the potential happiness of such love is without limit. Infinite sharing is the law of God's inner life. He has made the sharing of ourselves the law of our own being, so that it is in loving others that we best love ourselves. In disinterested activity we best fulfill our own capacities to act and to be.

Yet there can never be happiness in compulsion. It is not enough for love to be shared: it must be shared freely. That is to say it must be given, not merely taken.

***********

Love not only prefers the good of another to my own, but it does not even compare the two. . . . Love seeks one thing only: the good of the one loved. . . .

To love another is to will what is really good for him. Such love must be based on truth. A love that sees no distinction between good and evil, but loves blindly merely for the sake of loving, is hatred, rather than love. To love blindly is to love selfishly, because the goal of such love is not the real advantage of the beloved but only the exercise of love in our own souls. . . .

Charity is neither weak nor blind. It is essentially prudent, just, temperate, and strong. Unless all the other virtues blend together in charity, our love is not genuine. No one who really wants to love another will consent to love him falsely. If we are going to love others at all, we must make up our minds to love them well. Otherwise our love is a delusion. . . .

One who really loves another is not merely moved by the desire to see him contented and healthy and prosperous in this world. Love cannot be satisfied with anything so incomplete. If I am to love my brother, I must somehow enter deep into the mystery of God's love for him. . . . The truth I must love in my brother is God Himself, living in him.

************

In order to love others with perfect charity I must be true to them, to myself, and to God.

The true interests of a person are at once perfectly his own and common to the whole Kingdom of God. That is because these interests are all centered in God's designs for his soul. The destiny of each one of us is intended, by the Lord, to enter into the destiny of His entire Kingdom. . . .

If we love one another truly, our love will be graced with a clear-sighted prudence which sees and respects the designs of God upon each separate soul. Our love for one another must be rooted in a deep devotion to Divine Providence, a devotion that abandons our own limited plans into the hands of God and seeks only to enter into the invisible work that builds His Kingdom.

The Kingdoms of This World

Luke 4:1-13

Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit, returned from the Jordan and was led by the Spirit in the wilderness, 2 where for forty days he was tempted by the devil. He ate nothing at all during those days, and when they were over, he was famished. 3 The devil said to him, “If you are the Son of God, command this stone to become a loaf of bread.” 4 Jesus answered him, “It is written, ‘One does not live by bread alone.’”

5 Then the devil led him up and showed him in an instant all the kingdoms of the world. 6 And the devil said to him, “To you I will give their glory and all this authority; for it has been given over to me, and I give it to anyone I please. 7 If you, then, will worship me, it will all be yours.” 8 Jesus answered him, “It is written,

‘Worship the Lord your God,
and serve only him.’”

9 Then the devil took him to Jerusalem, and placed him on the pinnacle of the temple, saying to him, “If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down from here, 10 for it is written,

‘He will command his angels concerning you,
to protect you,’

11 and

‘On their hands they will bear you up,
so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.’”

12 Jesus answered him, “It is said, ‘Do not put the Lord your God to the test.’” 13 When the devil had finished every test, he departed from him until an opportune time.



I most often read this temptation and testing story from the perspective of Matthew's Gospel. Recently, in moving through Luke's Gospel, I heard the story differently, with a nuance which had not caught my eye previously.

Specifically, I paid attention to vv. 5-8 more intentionally than simply giving the text a cursory reading. Perhaps I was influenced by the current state of affairs in the world. Whatever the reason, I felt a nudge to linger and consider those verses more deeply.

First, in the entire sequence Jesus is "led by the Holy Spirit" (4:1), which comes on the back-end of Jesus' baptism.

21 Now when all the people were baptized, and when Jesus also had been baptized and was praying, the heaven was opened, 22 and the Holy Spirit descended upon him in bodily form like a dove. And a voice came from heaven, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” (Luke 3:21-22)

At his baptism, Jesus' identity is confirmed. He hears down to his bones that he is the Son of God, he is pleasing to the Father, and his identity cannot be shaken nor severed. In a larger context, the three testings of Luke 4 are attempts to shake Jesus' understanding of himself, to cause him to doubt his core identity. And they come after a period of fasting alone in a wilderness where there are few external resources. In other words, at a time of weakness (H.A.L.T. = hungry, angry, lonely tired) Jesus was tempted to forsake his basic identity in God.

In the second wilderness test (4:5-8), the devil led Jesus up to where Jesus could see "in an instant" all the kingdoms of the world. By seeing in an instant, Jesus had a moment of illumination and enlightenment when he saw all the way through the kingdoms of the world. He saw how they operate, what makes them tick, how they do their business. In a moment of insight, Jesus sees into them, he sees how they work, and he sees what they are built upon.

Then Luke writes, as if to confirm what Jesus has seen in this enlightened vision, about the devil's offer to Jesus: "I will give you their power and authority, for they have all been given to me and I can give them to anyone as I please. Therefore, if you worship me, they will be yours." (This is the piece of the testing scene that I had previously overlooked.)

This is astounding . . . the kingdoms of the world, according to Luke's Gospel, have been given to the devil. They belong to this adversary, this one who stands opposed to God.

For whatever you think about the literal idea of "the devil," it is worth considering the words used in the New Testament for this being or spirit.

In Greek, satanas and satan are the words for accuser or adversary. The one called satan, then, is the one who operates by accusation, whose methodology is to accuse, accuse, accuse in an adversarial way. Pointing fingers, loudly accusing, belittling, sowing seeds of doubt, stoking the flames of fear . . . this is the work of the adversary.

In Greek, the word diabolos (from which we get "diabolical") is often translated "devil" and literally means "the one who divides or separates, the one who tears apart, the one who pits people against each other." Thus, the spirit of diabolos is to separate, to compete, to create conflict, to reduce everything in life down to winners versus losers.

So Luke 4:5-8 gives us a snapshot into how the kingdoms of this world operate, belonging as they do to the spirit of accusation and division (satanas). They accuse and belittle, they attack with barbs, they diminish the humanity of the other, they toss word-bombs from their places of power onto those who have little power.

And these kingdoms operate by dividing people out of fear (diabolos). They separate "us" from "them" They create conflict. They make enemies -- because creating enemies provides the energy of fear, which mobilizes people to act in self-protective ways.

Who are the contemporary "kingdoms of this world"? [This seems like picking low-hanging fruit, doesn't it?]

You can start with anyone or any group who has some kind of power in the world . . . whoever has built any kind of kingdom and then leans into accusation and division to solidity their power . . .

** big businesses who thrive on the competition and conflict inherent in a free-market economy . . . who create subtle and not-so-subtle trends that create a sense of "need" or "want" which competes with the needs and wants of others . . . the very notion of "haves" and "have-nots" is built on this conflict.

** politicians, for whom winning the next election no matter the cost nor the loss of integrity, is the sole objective. We hardly bat an eyelash anymore at politicians who, "Accuse! Accuse!! Accuse!!!" . . . who stoke fear . . . who belittle political opponents . . . who divide and create enemies . . . who separate persons based on religion, race, sexual orientation, nationality, political stance, and so on.

** government systems certainly are kingdoms of the world, only marginally built around compassion and mercy, and increasingly self-serving.

** religious institutions often look more like "kingdoms of the world" than the "kingdom of God" . . . fraught with competition, fomenting conflict, acting in self-interest, fearful of losing power, authority, or control . . . becoming places of judgment and exclusion rather than love, forgiveness, and reconciliation. (And this is not a recent trend, but rather, is a centuries-old hardening.)

The list could go on. The point is that if you are going to be a "successful" kingdom of this world, then you have to play by the rules and according to the spirit of the one to whom these kingdoms belong.

And this is the catch for Jesus. Jesus realizes, in his "instant" of insight, that if he is given the kingdoms of this world, he must also agree to manage or control the kingdoms by the methodology of the one giving them. To bow down and worship the devil means to take on the devil's means for operating the kingdoms of this world . . . the way of accusation and conflict, the way of division and enemy-creating.

To have the kingdoms of the world, you have to play by the rules of the accuser and the divider . . . you have to play by the rules of the kingdoms of the world . . . you have to hold power as they hold power . . . you have to deal with people as pawns the way they do . . . you have to think of soldiers as expendable commodities in order to further your purposes . . . you have to win -- or at least strive for winning -- so there is competition and fighting, wars and killing . . . you have to manipulate people to do your bidding, so you speak to the basic fears and insecurities of people, encouraging ill-will toward others . . . you demonize those whose way of life or life-orientation is different from yours.

And Jesus refuses! This is a trade he will not make! He is grounded in God. His long season of fasting in the wilderness has not weakened his connection with God, but rather has confirmed it. His resolve is stronger than ever . . . he is rooted in his identity in God, which is not founded on fear and insecurity, power and control, accusation and division. He will not accomplish his life-work using the methodology of the devil, or the kingdoms of the world.

He will not accuse; rather, he will love and he will forgive, even those who kill him for his subversive approach to life.

He will not divide and separate; rather, his life is about mercy, about union (with God, self, others, the world), about reconciliation (with God and others), and about making one that which the world has torn apart.

A Check on Your Opinions

The world contains a huge amount of anxious, angry energy at present. Maybe it always has done so . . . this anxious and destructive energy likely has always existed just beneath the surface. But somehow it feels more toxic now that it had made a home in plain sight.

Colliding worldviews and divisions give us pause even to engage in conversations that once would have been considered normal and everyday. [Am I the only one with an wary eye on Thanksgiving week and the family gatherings that include emboldened, combative voices from across ideological spectrums?]

As one of my favorite sports talk-show hosts used to say, "Opinions are like noses: Everybody has one." Indeed, everybody has an opinion.

But not all opinions are created equal, and simply holding an opinion strongly or loudly or stubbornly does not make that opinion life-giving or healthy or whole-making.

In fact, maybe we would do well to hold up those phrases to the ideologies or worldviews to which we cling:

** Is it life-giving? Is it life-giving for you? Is it life-giving for others? Does it lead to fullness of life for everyone concerned? Or does it diminish life?

** Is it healthy? That is, does it come from a place of healing and reconciliation? Does it lead to health (spiritual, emotional, physical) in you and others?

** Does it make the world whole? Does it help persons become complete? Does it help you and others live in the world as people who follow in the steps of Jesus? Is it something Jesus would support or advocate for? Does it hold together divisions? Or does it create more splits and deepen chasms?

I fully realize that not everyone will want to ask questions like these of themselves. But I also realize that for those who call themselves followers of Jesus, these are basic, fundamental stances for Christian disciples.

Spiritual Life and the Social Order

The inward spiritual journey always impacts life in the outer world.

A deepening connection with God (the inner work) always makes a difference in who we are with (and how we see) God, self, others, and the world (the outer work).

The spiritual dimension of life should always impact the social order in which we live.

In fact, the spiritual life gives you and me a different way of being in the world, a way of swimming upstream against the prevailing current of the social order, without having to adopt the means by which society plays the game.

To “play the game” by the rules of society is merely a way of granting legitimacy to those rules and to the social order that created them.

“The ‘team’ with the most votes wins . . . or the side that has the strongest argument is right . . . or this election is a referendum on _________.”

The social order acts – and throughout history, always has – as if it holds all the cards, as if it is the most powerful order in the world. The prevailing social “wisdom” assumes that because it creates the rules, passes the legislation, and determines what is important and unimportant, that it must be the most powerful aspect of life, whether that social wisdom represents “the Left” or “the Right”.

On the other hand, those given to the spiritual world and the spiritual realm of life bet their lives that there is a Spiritual Presence that undergirds all of life, a Divine Source present always and everywhere to which the prevailing social order is largely oblivious. Further, underlying the spiritual life is the conviction that the real authority and power in life is this Spiritual Presence, that all social claims to power and authority are mere pretenders.

So I’m pondering what it means to be a contemplative presence in the kind of world in which we live (and in which we have always lived). What is my life about as I seek to live in the world from the Center, tethered to the Source of all things?

I recognize that for centuries, when the Church was complicit in society’s corruption, those who carried forward the way of Jesus had to do so underground, in ways and in places that were quiet, unseen, and out of the mainstream. In fact, in those centuries, the mainstream expressions of religious faith were just as corrupt as society at large, filled more with the messages of the social order than with the Gospel. So it was up to mystics, monks, and holy women to carry – and live into – a way of being in the world that was healing and regenerative, rather than divisive, hostile, and hysteric.

In the Middle Ages, Popes, Cardinals, and Bishops were a part of royal courts, in the service of monarchs, and a part of the corruption that comes with power. In those settings, the religious authorities offered widespread blessing of the very corruption that served some well, but oppressed most. In those days, it was up to mystics to speak of an authentic connection with God that ran deeper than political influence. Monasteries became places where simplicity and poverty of spirit symbolized a stance against the power structures of the day. But that kind of resistance flowed mostly underground.

In the 1930’s, the Church in Germany so totally adopted the platform of the Nazis that Christians could no longer see what was real. Persons who carried forward an authentically Gospel message – like Dietrich Bonhoeffer – had to do so through an underground Church, so totally had the mainstream Church and clergy adopted the prevailing social order.

So today, the calling of those who would be awake, who would seek a deepening connection with God that makes a difference in the world, may take an underground, almost subversive form. That is not to say contemplatives or those who lean into the spiritual dimension of life should not be active in the social order, in political systems, government, business, and so on. Always, part of the Divine invitation is to work and pray for a more just, more merciful and compassionate world (“on earth as it is in heaven”). So we do not “sit this one out.” However, we also acknowledge that trusting in elections, legislation, capitalism, and policies to change hearts is misplaced trust.

Your spiritual journey makes a difference in the world.

Your practice of prayer impacts the circumference of your realm of influence.

Your openness to a deepening connection with God creates healing space within you and around you that touches the world with wholeness and generosity.

Your soul’s tether to the Source of Life is stronger and more real than all the power, control, and legislations of the social order.

And in your intention to live from a life-giving Center, you carry on an underground tradition that no power of the world can curb.

Slow-Growing into God

Growth always comes with a cost. I'm not talking about growth as the day-in, day-out growing older that is part of being human. I'm talking about spiritual growth, emotional health, the ongoing development of the inner person.

Growth in any aspect of life always means leaving the previous season of life and stretching into something new and unknown. Maybe for that reason, a great many of us often feel stuck where we are. On the one hand, we grow comfortable and have a sense of ease and familiarity with where we are, even if that place is not particularly pleasant. Pleasant is good, and we much prefer the smooth ride to the bumpy, unpredictable journey.

Most of us, though, have to be jettisoned out of that kind of comfort in order to grow, in order to move toward the completeness for which we were created. Thrown into uncertainty or hardship, we are forced to find within ourselves the resources that have lain dormant within us, as well as calling on resources outside ourselves that we have not accessed previously. For most of us, difficulty provides a sharp-edged catalyst for growth that most of us would not undertake otherwise.

I've noticed that most all of us, no matter who we are and where we are in life, tend to think that we are fully formed right where we are in the current moment . . . that if we just tweak a few things and make some minor adjustments, we'll be the full expression of "me." Such is our conceit. Such is our illusion.

Most every discovery we make in our own growth or becoming feels like the one, missing puzzle piece. Each step we make feels like the final step over into the promised land, the final move into our long-sought-after destiny. I've met few people in life who did not think that where they were at that given moment was not their final landing place . . . which is why I've called it our "conceit" and "illusion." Every awakening feels like the ultimate awakening . . . but it is not.

In the Gospels, Jesus consistently invites us to grow up. He returns to it as a core message. Jesus does not have judgment for those who are stuck in particular places of development in the spiritual life. He knows that we can only get to the next place in life from where we are, so he doesn't belittle a person for being where they are.

He does, however, have harsh words for those who are stuck in life, but who pretend they are more advanced than anyone else. Note here that the harshest words of Jesus in the Gospels are aimed at those who, by outward appearance, are religious and flaunt their supposed "righteousness" for others to see. He has no condemnation for those who are "sinners" and who know they are "sinners" . . . only for those who pretend, by their religiosity, to be other than "sinners."

In a sense, those who are most openly religious in the Gospels don't feel the need to "grow up" or to make any kind of spiritual journey. They have arrived. They are completely all they need to be. They have all the answers, they've settled all the issues, they've worked out all the theology. Hence, they love to be seen by others as holy, applauded by the masses as righteous, honored by outsiders as having special access to the Holy.

Wisely, St. Benedict of Nursia said, "Do not wish to be called holy before you are."

But in the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus says all of the above is merely early-stage religion. Not that it is unimportant -- Jesus is careful not to abolish anything in the Law (Matt. 5:17) -- but Jesus takes it in a different direction (Matt. 5:17-44). While some might have anticipated that Jesus would rachet up the Law to a more rigorous degree, instead he takes the Law inward. He begins with the Law as a kind of Religion 101, as a place to begin basic life with God in the world. "Do this" and "Don't do that." "Here's how you need to behave," the Law says in countless codes of behavior. It is important early stage religion.

Jesus, though, doesn't not notch up the Law a degree or two. Rather, he says, go inward. You've been concerned about behavior, about morality. Now go to the source of that behavior. Go to the root of morality. Because Jesus knew that any religious system that merely offered regulations for moderating behavior could not produce lasting life-change or transformation. In Jesus' estimation, the Law regulated behavior but did almost nothing to touch the interior of a person.

So he said things like, "You have heard it said, 'Don't kill.' I'm saying to you, don't be angry and don't hate." Jesus went, not just to the behavior itself, but to the inner source of the behavior. He said the same kind of thing not just about killing, but about adultery and taking oaths.

In other words, Jesus affirms and acknowledges the importance of a religious system that advocates for civil behavior; however, he does not wish us to remain at that place forever. He builds on that stage of development. He invites us to grow, to develop, to resist being locked into a particular way of being that becomes so settled we can never move from it.

We all need Religion 101, the basic initiation into religious life. And some of us need that training longer than others. We need to be fully grounded in explicit instructions that govern our behavior in order to function as God's people in the world. But Jesus is warning against the trap of thinking Religion 101 is the fullness or extent of religious devotion. It is not. There is more.

There is always more beyond where you are . . . wherever you are. The more beyond does not negate nor diminish where you are currently. You have to be where you are in order to get to where you are going . . . just don't take any place in life as the final destination. There is always more, always something larger still in front of you. Don't build a house where you are and settle there for a lifetime. Keep traveling. Keep growing. Keep becoming. No place is the final place.

How do I know where I am? Consider where you were 5 years ago . . . or 3 years ago . . . or 1 year ago. Are you the same person now? Do you have the same beliefs? the same practices? the same image of God, yourself, and other persons or groups? If yes, then you may have built a house where you are.

In the spiritual life we are always moving into a larger world, a more expansive vision, an increasing grace. At any given time, we are living into only a small part of who God is. We never live into all of God all at once.

We slowly live more deeply into God; that is the nature of God. What we see, experience, and apprehend at any juncture is incomplete, only a part of the whole. So we keep moving, keep traveling, keep becoming. This is the nature of our life's journey, our life in God.

The Way In: A Rilke Poem

The Way In
Rainer Maria Rilke

Whoever you are: some evening take a step
out of your house, which you know so well.
Enormous space is near, your house lies where it begins,
whoever you are.
Your eyes find it hard to tear themselves
from the sloping threshold, but with your eyes
slowly, slowly, lift one black tree
up, so it stands against the sky: skinny, alone.
With that you have made the world. The world is immense
and like a word that is still growing in the silence.
In the same moment that your will grasps it,
your eyes, feeling its subtlety, will leave it. . . .

[Rainer Maria Rilke, Selected Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke, trans. by Robert Bly, p. 71.]


I have lived with this Rilke poem for the better part of a year now. It first appeared on my radar as I considered a change of work and a move to another state. Last week I read it to a group on retreat at a Benedictine monastery. It seemed to have as much resonance with persons in that body as it has had with me.

Initially, the overlay on my life was obvious. I held a job I loved for 18 years, among a people I dearly loved. As such, I lived in a comfortable "house" for all those years, a house that was cozy and somewhat predictable, with regular rhythms and a consistent way for me to exercise my gifts. I was free to explore as needed, to occasionally move beyond the fences which would predictably arise. I found myself most fully "at home" in that house.

To step out of my "house" meant distance from friends and life-companions who were my extended family . . . distance from practices that had grown to be second-nature . . . and distance from financial security as I enter the late afternoon and evening of life.

Yet, as Rilke described the house, I knew it "so well." As familiar and cozy as it was, once the door cracked open and the light from outside the house rushed through the door-ajar, I had to step through . . . for reasons I did not fully understand then, and which I still cannot adequately verbalize.

I had other, previous experiences leaving "a house I knew so well," but in those experiences I was suffocating inside the house. In order to live and offer my life in service to the world, I had to step out of those houses. Last year, though, I was not pushed out the door, nor stepping away with a sense of desperate survival. I could have rocked along, business as usual, for a good, long while.

Nonetheless, it was time to "step outside the house." In a sense, this time as at other times, I had to do it. The invitation to step outside the house, as Rilke says, is the opening into the "enormous space" nearby . . . into the wild immensity of the world.

I'm no hero, villain, or saint for stepping out of that particular house. People make life-altering decisions all the time, sometimes out of courage, sometimes out of desperation, and sometimes just to survive. And truth be told, there are still plenty of houses I live in which I've yet to step out of.

A house is a structure, a confinement, a place of dwelling. It roots us, in the sense of limiting our movement, travel, or journey. Even on an intentional journey, a spiritual journey, humans seem to want to build dwelling places in which to settle. Maybe we do that out of our fear or for the sake of security. Whatever the reason, we seem to be very good at building and living confined within houses.

If "journey" is metaphor for moving onward in life, then "house" is metaphor for staying put where we are. Rilke simply says, "step out of your house some evening, the house that is so familiar to you."

Growth, especially spiritual becoming, does not consist in making sure everything is comfortable and well-ordered, safe and secure within the confines of my current "house," but rather, stretches, reaches, explores. Spiritual becoming means always expanding, including, opening. Authentic growth never keeps us confined, never makes us smaller, but always thrusts us into the world as redeeming, reconciling presences.

But taking a step out of our houses is no simple act. Many of our houses are well-constructed and have served us well for a lifetime.

The houses in which we dwell differ for each of us.
There is the house of what you believe.
Or the house of what you hold dear.
Or the house of what you belong to.
Or the house of your deepest loyalties.
Or the house of your politics.
Or the house of your ideology.
Or the house of your religious tradition.
Or the house of your roles.
Or the house of the way your parents raised you.
Or the house of what is required at your work.
Or the house of that toxic relationship.
Or the house of your identity group (race, gender, sexual orientation, etc.).

Most of us live in many houses, and we stay in them because they are so familiar to us . . . we "know them so well." We may even say things like, "This is just who I am."

When Rilke says, "Take a step out of your house," he is not suggesting we should forsake the house, burn it down, or turn our backs on it. (Of course, there is a time to make a complete break from the house we know so well . . . but not in all cases.)

He simply says, "Step outside."
"Enormous space is near."
"The world is immense."

This is poetic wisdom: Just a simple step outside our role, our belief, or our must/should/oughts is a step into the world, into the vastness for which we were created. Most often, it is the first step that is most crucial, because without the first step there can be no successive steps. Take the first step, he says.

Last week on retreat, my friend David heard this poem for the first time. He pointed out something about the poem I had overlooked completely in months of pondering it. He noted the poem's title . . . while the main action of the poem is taking a step "out of your house," the poem is showing us "the way in."

This is how it goes. The way in, the way of living soul-fully, the way into a deepening life of significance, the way of accessing your own interior riches . . . all are accessed by taking a step out of the house you know so well!

A Case for God . . . Not the Experience of God

2 After six days Jesus took Peter, James and John with him and led them up a high mountain, where they were all alone. There he was transfigured before them. 3 His clothes became dazzling white, whiter than anyone in the world could bleach them. 4 And there appeared before them Elijah and Moses, who were talking with Jesus.

5 Peter said to Jesus, “Rabbi, it is good for us to be here. Let us put up three shelters—one for you, one for Moses and one for Elijah.” 6 (He did not know what to say, they were so frightened.)

7 Then a cloud appeared and covered them, and a voice came from the cloud: “This is my Son, whom I love. Listen to him!”

8 Suddenly, when they looked around, they no longer saw anyone with them except Jesus.

9 As they were coming down the mountain, Jesus gave them orders not to tell anyone what they had seen until the Son of Man had risen from the dead. 10 They kept the matter to themselves, discussing what “rising from the dead” meant. (Mark 9:2 - 10)


The Transfiguration story is important at several levels. It is especially challenging to those who have given themselves to an intentional journey of deepening life in God. Within a narrative full of movement (Jesus took . . . led them . . . they were coming down . . . all indicating journey and action), Peter gets struck by how "good it is for us to be here" and his desire to erect shelters, tabernacles, or booths. His suggestion that they create a memorial marker speaks to the perpetual human tendency to freeze spiritual experience in time, to codify the experience in order to remember it and perhaps to have it again at some later time.

Did you have a meaningful spiritual experience at this particular retreat center? Then go to that place again, and see if you can replicate that experience.

Did you sense God speaking to you through this book or author 10 years ago? Then read the book again, or another by the same author, and God will repeat the vision.

Did you find a particular set of spiritual practices meaningful to you as an adolescent? Then return to those practices in order to have a similar spiritual experience.

Did something significant happen to you today? Take a picture, post it to Facebook, and set it to your social media timeline. Next year on this date you'll be reminded of what happened today.

Was a particular sermon or worship experience meaningful to you? Buy the cd of the sermon and service . . . you can replay it as you drive around town, and be reminded always of the way you felt God come close in that experience.

Of course, these methods are not all bad, and I'm not suggesting there is never a place for them. All of them, however, are attempts to recreate a particular experience of God. There are so many different ways to build shelters and set up monuments to spiritual experience, just as Peter suggested on the mountain.

The real danger in the spiritual life is that the experience itself becomes a commodity, sought in and for itself. Most humans are complete addicts in this way . . . when something feels good, especially when we feel we have tapped into the numinous in a significant way, we want more of it. We want to repeat the same experience of peace . . . we want to have the same sense of generosity again . . . we want to know ourselves loved deep-down, not just for a moment, but always.

Addiction to spiritual experience is especially seductive, and because it is "spiritual," we assume it must be good. If a little is good, then more must be better, right?

Hear Thomas Merton:

The one great danger that confronts every person who takes spiritual experience seriously, is the danger of illuminism or, in Monsignor Ronald Knox's term, "enthusiasm". Here the problem is that of taking one's subjective experience so seriously that it becomes more important than truth, more important than God. Once spiritual experience becomes objectified, it turns into an idol. It becomes a "thing", a "reality" which we serve. We are not created for the service of any "thing", but for the service of God alone, Who is not and cannot be a "thing". To serve Him Who is no "object" is freedom. To live for spiritual experience is slavery, and such slavery makes the contemplative life just as secular (though in a more subtle way) as the service of any other "thing", no matter how base: money, pleasure, success. Indeed, the ruin of many potential contemplatives has been this avidity for spiritual success. (The Inner Experience, ed. by Thomas Hart, p. 139.)

The language of "idolatry" hearkens back to the Ten Commandments, which begin with the command to have only one God. To be sure, to use the language of idolatry for something which is seemingly good, like spiritual experience, seems extreme. Yet, that is the very nature of idolatry. Even good things that are not God must not be worshiped.

Let me be clear. I'm for spiritual experience.
Worship may be a spiritual experience.
Retreats may provide an experience of God.
Spiritual practices may open us to spiritual experience.

But spiritual experience is at least one degree away from God. As Merton says, the goal of the spiritual life is not experience, but God . . . to know God in a direct, unmediated way.

For this reason, the Christian mystics have proposed silence and solitude as the most basic contexts for knowing God, rather than some setting in which emotions and excitability were the driving forces. In silence and solitude, there are no words to get in the way, nothing about silence and solitude that can truly be described or prescribed, no way for the experience to be manipulated in order to get a particular experience of God. There is only God in the naked silence.

Also, this is the reason many of the great monastic traditions -- going back to the Desert Abbas and Ammas of the 4th, 5th, and 6th centuries -- gathered in places which seemed extreme, building monasteries in places that were not lush or aesthetically abundant. Deserts, rocky outcroppings, and frigid tundras have provided monastic settings which tend toward the extremes. They have been chosen most often because their fierceness lends itself to the rawness and immediacy of God, rather than to an excitable religious experience. (20 years ago, Belden Lane's book, The Solace of Fierce Landscapes: Exploring Desert and Mountain Spirituality, was a testament to this fierceness.)

Again, please do not diminish spiritual experience. Most all of us are prodded forward by spiritual experience, even the experience of God. But the goal is not more experience. The goal of life is God.

Beyond Gathering Information

A poem to ponder today . . .

Information
David Ignatow

This tree has two million and seventy-five thousand leaves.
Perhaps I missed a leaf or two but I do feel triumphant
at having persisted in counting by hand branch by branch
and marked down on paper with pencil each total.
Adding them up was a pleasure I could understand;
I did something on my own that was not dependent on others,
and to count leaves is not less meaningful than to count the stars,
as astronomers are always doing.
They want the facts to be sure they have them all.
It would help them to know whether the world is finite.
I discovered one tree that is finite.
I must try counting the hairs on my head, and you too.
We could swap information.


I haven't read much poetry by David Ignatow, but I'm imagining his tongue planted firmly in cheek . . . as if knowing the number of leaves on a tree could tell all you needed to know about the tree . . . or as if counting the stars in the sky gave you all the information you needed about galaxies and solar systems . . . as if knowing how many hairs were on your head could exhaust the richness and complexity of being you.

Does having "facts" or the right information mean an object is finite, limited, able to be thoroughly understood or defined? Even in a culture where truth is reduced to "alternative facts" I think we know better than that.


**Take a look at a tree, a real tree, outside your window or from your porch. Better yet, go sit underneath a tree.
Then make your own list of what is important about that tree.
What makes it a tree?
What sustains it?
How would you describe that particular tree to someone who had never seen a tree before?
Or how would you describe that particular tree to someone who has seen thousands of trees before?
What makes this tree the unique tree it is?


**When the night-sky is clear, spend a few minutes sitting or lying underneath it.
Are you able to count what you see?
Notice what you see . . . what nuances make certain stars stand out more than others?
You don't have to imagine or conjure up something for the stars to mean . . . just enjoy watching what is.


**Consider your own life.
In what ways are you more than the hairs on your head?
What do you consider the most important information about yourself?
Are you willing to discover something else that would supplant that particular information as "most important" about yourself?
What do you most like about yourself?
What about yourself would you most like to change?
What truth abides at the core of you and shapes your daily life?
Think of a close friend. What would he/she say abides at your core and shapes your daily life?
How many hairs are on your head?

Spirituality as Subtraction, not Addition

Decades ago my wife and I knew a man who loved to tinker with woodwork, doing some minor carpentry around his house. At some point, he decided to build an extra room onto his house. With family members helping in the project, he added the room. But one room was not enough. Soon he decided he needed another . . . then another. I don't know how many rooms he added in all, but over the years his house took up nearly every foot of his city lot. This amateur carpenter never took anything down, only adding to his existing house until it ate up his entire property.

We were guests in his house a couple of times, and when he would give us the tour of the latest project, we would walk through a room to a doorway cut in the strangest place, spilling into a misshapen hallway that led to the next room, where the same pattern would be repeated. It was the only way he could get everything to fit together. I suppose in an emergency there was only one way in and one way out, because the home seemed like an endless chain of rooms and angled hallways that had to be navigated single-file. The entire layout was connected, to be sure, but was only loosely held together by the builder's latest whim. While I'm sure the layout made sense to him, to others nothing seemed to cohere.

Because we regularly passed the house in our coming and going, my wife began calling it the "Add-on Extravaganza." It became something of a game to drive by and see what the latest project was, the next "add-on" in the extravaganza.

His way of adding on to his house was far removed from a renovation or refurbishment, in which walls are taken down, the existing arrangement of the house is altered, and the old bones of a house are given new life. In a renovation, something has to be subtracted before something else can be added. If you want more space for a kitchen, you demolish a wall and open up space into a dining or living area. In the end, you most always have to get rid of something in order to make space for something else.

In our desire for a deepening connection with God, persons who engage an intentional spiritual path often thrill to find new prayer methods, retreat experiences, spiritual books, conferences, and classes that hold the promise of another step toward awakening. I know this temptation well. The appeal of a new book or a gifted teacher can be overwhelming. It is quite easy for any of us to begin to add this teaching to that experience . . . to add this prayer practice to my bagful of spiritual disciplines . . . to add a new understanding of my own inner landscape to all the understandings of myself I've accumulated through the decades. Add add add add add. . . .

Jesus told a short, "the kingdom-of-heaven-is-like . . ." parable.

“The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field. When a man found it, he hid it again, and then in his joy went and sold all he had and bought that field." (Matt. 13:44)

It's one of my favorite parables on many levels. The field represents many things, including your life. If the field is your life, then treasure is within you. But the parable emphasizes that in order to apprehend the treasure, you much first sell what you have.

**Sell what you have in order to buy the treasure.
**Empty yourself of whatever fills your interior rooms in order to make room for the treasure.
**Spend whatever you currently have in order to receive this priceless treasure.
**Make any sacrifice necessary in order to claim the treasure.

And all this giving-up in order to receive does not happen in the context of a grinding, regretful sacrifice, as if spending and emptying were onerous tasks to undergo. The treasure is of such magnitude that the "selling" is undertaken with joy, what St. Clare of Assisi called a "laudable exchange." We exchange the small joy we have in our hands for the greater joy or the "pearl of great price" . . . the unimaginable joy -- because it cannot be imagined -- of this treasure.

There is an unmistakable "sell-buy" dynamic at work here. We cannot simply keep adding on, adding on, adding on, without at some point acknowledging that finding this treasure means there are things I have to release in order to apprehend it. I must let go of some things in my life-world in order to fully receive -- or "buy" -- some other things that bring life.

In other words, I cannot hold onto life as it is or life as I experience it now, and merely add-on components of the spiritual life if I want to become the person God created me to be. Spirituality is not an add-on extravaganza! In reality, it is more about subtraction than addition. Some things must be sold, released, emptied, and let go of, in order to make space within us for the treasure we seek.

Personal transformation is more like home renovation than an add-on extravaganza. Bit by bit, some walls are coming down, colors are changing, modes of access are becoming more spacious. There is some demolition involved, and very often the deconstruction is painful. But also, something new and beautiful is being built from the old bones of our lives.

In the life that is continually becoming, this process will take us to our final breath.

The "Who" and "What" of Wheat and Weeds: Part 2

Jesus then told them this story:

The kingdom of heaven is like what happened when a farmer scattered good seed in a field. But while everyone was sleeping, an enemy came and scattered weed seeds in the field and then left.

When the plants came up and began to ripen, the farmer’s servants could see the weeds. The servants came and asked, “Sir, didn’t you scatter good seed in your field? Where did these weeds come from?”

“An enemy did this,” he replied.

His servants then asked, “Do you want us to go out and pull up the weeds?”

"No!” he answered. “You might also pull up the wheat. Leave the weeds alone until harvest time. Then I’ll tell my workers to gather the weeds and tie them up and burn them. But I’ll have them store the wheat in my barn.”

(Matt. 13:24 - 30)


In the parable's landscape, if the field stands for my life or your life, then the wheat and weeds represent those qualities or characteristics which make up who we are, how we see ourselves, and what we do in the world. I'm calling these aspects of ourselves the "what" which lies within the field of my life or yours. We may judge some of those qualities as positive and helpful (wheat), while considering other characteristics to be negative, harmful, or unwanted (weeds).

The parable suggests we cannot presume to know what is wheat and what is weed within our interior field; therefore, Jesus encourages us to allow everything to grow in the field and leave the work of separating the two to God.

This "letting be" can be arduous work in itself. Our notion of what is right and what is wrong can be deeply ingrained within us, and to find something within the field of our lives that does not sync up with our vision of what it means to be "religious" or "spiritual" can prompt us to move heaven and earth to remove the "weeds." At the very least, finding weeds within the plot of our lives can lead to overwhelming guilt and shame.

"Let everything grow in your field," the parable teaches.

Who
There is another level at which the parable may be read, this one suggested by Jesus himself. It is social in nature. In this interpretation, the field is the world. The wheat and the weeds represent various people in the world -- the "who's" sown in the field -- some who do good and work for life . . . others who are more destructive and whose presence diminishes life. But people, scattered throughout the world, embody the images of wheat and weed.

[I would argue that no single person is completely "wheat" or completely "weed." Rather, each of us exist as some combination of wheat AND weeds, some confused mixture of the two . . . with most of us trying to maximize our wheat and trying to hide or minimize our weeds. . . . all a matter for another essay at some other time.]

Some people who are sown in the world look appealing. They appear to be doing good for others (perhaps advocating for a cause we find admirable or beneficial) or seem to be successful in their own right; however, in reality they cause fractures. They divide and separate. Appearances notwithstanding, they do not bring life and healing to the world. The parable acknowledges that we cannot presume to know, from the ways things appear, what impact this person has on the well-being of others and the planet.

On the other hand, there are some who appear to be weeds. They live on the fringes or they seem disreputable. We might think of their behavior or lifestyle as scandalous. We can see little in their lives which seems life-giving to us; yet, some of these people are wheat, according to the parable. They are subversively bringing life and wholeness to the world.

The parable admonishes us to allow everything in the field to grow without trying to rid the world of one thing or the other. I find this a remarkably difficult stance to take in current culture, given my own observation of what seems to be life-threatening and harmful. I want to judge, to presume to know who is good and who is bad, who to support and who to protest.

The ongoing, insidious temptation for religious people is the tendency to judge others. Those on an intentionally spiritual path are not exempt from this tendency to judge, and in fact may be more prone to judgment than others.

I find it easy enough to judge others according to the light I have at the moment. Further, I presume my way is THE Way, and then judge those who have chosen some other way. Of course, in such judgments, I am always the wheat and you -- if you don't agree with me -- are always the weed.

Don't be quick to judge others, the parable teaches. Don't be presumptuous enough to label either wheat or weeds in the world. Don't assume what you see is all there is. Any assemblage of people, whether the Church, the coffee group, or those gathered at the halfway house, is a strange and confusing combination of wheat and weeds. Every person in the field of the world is full of complexity and holds within themselves an awkward mixture of wheat and weeds.

Including me. And you.

The "Who" and "What" of Wheat and Weeds: Part 1

Jesus then told them this story:

The kingdom of heaven is like what happened when a farmer scattered good seed in a field. But while everyone was sleeping, an enemy came and scattered weed seeds in the field and then left.

When the plants came up and began to ripen, the farmer’s servants could see the weeds. The servants came and asked, “Sir, didn’t you scatter good seed in your field? Where did these weeds come from?”

“An enemy did this,” he replied.

His servants then asked, “Do you want us to go out and pull up the weeds?”

"No!” he answered. “You might also pull up the wheat. Leave the weeds alone until harvest time. Then I’ll tell my workers to gather the weeds and tie them up and burn them. But I’ll have them store the wheat in my barn.”

(Matt. 13:24 - 30)


For years I've heard this parable used as a text on discernment, that is, how to distinguish wheat from weeds, good from evil. With even a casual reading of the parable, however, you can see that interpretation runs counter to what the parable teaches. Rather than instruction on how to determine what is wheat and what is weed, the parable in essence says, "Don't bother with worry over what is weed and what is wheat. In many cases you won't be able to figure out one from the other. In pulling out what you think is bad, you may in fact be rooting out something life-giving. And in cultivating what is good, you may be encouraging something detrimental to wholeness. Let it be for now, and trust God to do the weeding out when the time is right."

Thus, the parable serves as a cautionary word against judgment and presuming to know how to sort out the good from the bad. After all, our notion of wheat and weed is most often personally or tribally referenced, so that our investment in what is good or bad shapes how we see. Something I see as completely wheat is seen by another person -- perhaps from a different political party, a different nationality, a different race, a different sexual orientation, a different worldview -- as weed. Only in our arrogance do we stand in our own center and claim our own view to be absolute Truth. Yet, such arrogance lives within each of us. It is the arrogance of our own presumed "knowing" that Jesus cautions against in the parable.

Let me offer you a couple of levels, beyond the background above, on which to consider the parable. I'll write about the "what" today, and then shift the field a bit to reflect on "who" in the next essay.

What
Consider the parable as a story about your own inner world. In the parable's language, your life is the field. And in the field of your life, the Farmer has scattered good seed, wheat-seed. There is treasure within you, and the capacity to do good in the world. You have gifts woven into your unique DNA, that when shared with the world bring life and light and healing. Inside you is the image of God, the God-seed if you will, that is full of life and waits to germinate, blossom, and produce fruit. Within you there is wheat.

But according to the parable, there is also weed scattered within you and me. We are each neither fully wheat nor fully weed. The field is not "either-or," but "both-and," both wheat AND weeds.

Each of us acts daily out of self-interest, an ego-centrism that is hard to weed out. Or perhaps we carry within our body some condition that limits our capacity to do what we'd like to do, and we think of that limitation as a weed.

The "what" of the parable -- at least as I'm presenting it -- are those qualities, traits, and characteristics within me or you which we want to characterize as wheat or weed. In fact, the "what" may include all the interior material that makes up my life, what it means for me to be me and you to be you.

And the teaching of the parable simply says, "None of us can accurately see what is wheat and what is weed in our own life. We may find some personal trait unpleasant . . . or we may struggle with some condition that feels debilitating . . . or we may think of some very good qualities about ourselves. . . . But we are not God, who alone sees all the way through us."

The parable cautions us against pulling too many of our interior weeds, those things -- I'm calling them "whats" -- that make up our interior world. I have learned this lesson the hard way. Once I became intentional about my connection with God years ago, I immediately wanted to get rid of the bad habits, debilitating conditions, and unpleasant feelings I felt hindered my connection to God. My language was, "I'm going to obliterate them!" as if I knew what was best for my life. Now, decades later, I am still learning that some of the experiences which seem most unpleasant to me, difficult and even paralyzing, are the ones shaping me most, deepening my connection with my own self, God, others, and the world.

I don't always resist judgment, just as I can't stop presuming to know what is best -- I'm finding this open stance to be especially difficult in the contentiousness of contemporary life, in which I want to presume to know what is wheat and what is weed -- but I am a work in progress. I recognize my limited ability to see what is true and what is false, what is wheat and what is weed, at least this morning as I write this piece.


Practical Helps

**In your prayer, ask God for the grace to give you a spirit of generosity, especially with yourself. "God, I'm asking for the grace to be generous with myself." This is a very Ignatian form of prayer which acknowledges that we do not generate this generosity (or whatever you are asking for) on our own. Rather, we receive it as a gift, as grace.

**Pray the Freedom Prayer:
"God, free me from the need to control what my life looks like."
"God, free me from my need to be perfect."
"God, free me from my impulse to judge myself."
"God, free me from my need to control my relationship with you."

**Regularly practice some form of Christian contemplative prayer, perhaps Centering Prayer or Christian Meditation. These more interior forms of prayer each have at their heart a continual letting go of thoughts, images, and mental commentaries. Practicing the prayer regularly, you will find that the "letting go" which takes place during the prayer time may be extended to ordinary life. Then, the compulsion to judge yourself or to presume that you know what is best for your life can be released in everyday life just as it is in the time of prayer.


I'll share some reflections on the "who" of wheat and weeds in the next post.

A Consideration on Planting the Mustard Seed

He told them another parable: “The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed, which someone took and planted in a field. Though it is the smallest of all seeds, yet when it grows, it is the largest of garden plants and becomes a tree, so that the birds come and perch in its branches.”

He told them still another parable: “The kingdom of heaven is like yeast that a woman took and mixed into about sixty pounds of flour until it worked all through the dough.”

Jesus spoke all these things to the crowd in parables; he did not say anything to them without using a parable. So was fulfilled what was spoken through the prophet:

“I will open my mouth in parables,
I will utter things hidden since the creation of the world.”

(Matt. 13:31 - 35, NIV)



The two short parables in today's reading, taken from Matthew 13:31 - 35, subtly depict situations of scandal. The mustard tree (or bush, depending on which commentary you read), was an undesirable plant that most persons would prefer to root out of their field or garden.

Yeast was a symbol of that which was unclean and generally unwanted. (Note that the Jewish festival celebrated "Unleavened Bread," not "leavened bread.") The presence of yeast was scandalous.

Yet, these two undesirable elements are likened in differing ways to the kingdom of heaven.

The first image has often been misrepresented in preaching and teaching. Matthew records Jesus' words, not as, "the kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed," but as, "the kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed that someone took and planted in a field." While there may be connections between the mustard seed and the kingdom of heaven (the tiny seed having influence beyond its proportionate size), at least here, Jesus connects the kingdom of heaven to the entire process of planting the mustard seed in a field.

In other words, it is not enough to hold a mustard seed in your hands and say, "this is what the kingdom of heaven is like." No, the kingdom of heaven is like holding that scandalous seed, and then throwing the seed where it does not seem to belong, where you would not want it, where the seed does not seem to fit.

As an undesirable plant, one that has a corrupting influence on its surroundings, it will take over. [I wonder if mustard trees/shrubs were the "kudzu" of the Ancient Near East. Kudzu is the invasive vine that has taken over much of the Southeastern United States over the past couple of decades. I saw a couple of acres of kudzu last weekend on a road trip through rural Arkansas, and was reminded of its corrupting, invasive nature. It had overtaken trees, telephone polls, and even houses alongside the highway.]

So the kingdom of heaven is likened to the act of putting something small and subversive where it doesn't seem to belong . . . planted into human lives . . . tossed into political systems . . . sown into social dynamics . . . dropped into vocational decisions . . . this small seed gets thrown into places it doesn't seem to belong and it begins to alter the shape of those realities in what some might consider perverse or counter ways.

The seed of this kingdom is sown in me . . . in humans . . . in the landscape of the world. The act of sowing, planting, throwing, and scattering is an unmistakable part of the kingdom of heaven, so that the scandal of the kingdom is embedded where it does not seem to fit.

When Death Comes

I wrote last week about the Dylan Thomas poem, "Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night" (you can read the poem and the post about it below). Thomas urged, according to some who know his life and work better than I, approaching death with "rage" and with a kicking-and-screaming resistance. The poem references his dying father, though Thomas may have intended to portray his own stance toward death.

Rather than adopt Thomas' words literally, I've approached the poem's encouragement to rage and resistance as an invitation to ongoing life, creativity, and exploration, even to breath's end. For myself, I hear: "Don't stop living, don't give up your exploration, don't stop becoming, even in the face of death."

I think of my dear friend Paul, a gentle soul who did not literally "rage," but who continued to explore his own unique path right to the moment when the darkness suddenly and unexpectedly consumed him. He was not a "rager" in any way, no anger in him that I could see. He was a lover, yet full of questions that could not be answered. But Paul's doubt was an honest doubt. It wasn't showy doubt, or doubt for the sake of doubt. He had honest questions about God and life. But every day he gave himself to a core practice of prayer and meditation. He faithfully kept searching, even in his questioning.

When I talked with him, he was never interested in convincing me of anything. He had no agenda in which he needed "converts" to his own intricate pattern of belief and unbelief. He simply loved in his gentle way. I always felt that Paul's spirit in the world was healing, so great was his capacity to love without condition. Up to his last day, he honestly explored what, for him, were the big questions of life. And he did so with love. When he died suddenly, he left a huge void in the world . . . a loss of his presence, his love, his questions, and his healing.

I think of another dear friend currently in hospice care. She is not literally raging while in palliative care in Houston, but she is exploring this new threshold fully. She is not passive nor idle. As her sister said to me recently, in life she taught us how to live, and now as another threshold approaches she is teaching us how to die. Even now, she is centered by a daily practice of sitting prayer and meditation. She is held, not in rage, but in ongoing exploration, in her continual creative impulse to live the one life which she has been given, and in her openness as she moves through this season of her life.

She has been my spiritual guide for decades, and has been the wise soul of the spiritual landscape in Southeast Texas, as well as within her own religious order. She has guided us in life, and now she is guiding us as she approaches a different threshold . . . not by a kicking-and-screaming rage, but by her own life centered in the heart of God.

Both of these friends have embodied in their journeys what Mary Oliver has written in her poem, "When Death Comes." For me the poem is a statement of intention about becoming, searching, questioning, and exploring right up to the end of life. Never angry or raging, Mary Oliver in the poem simply invites an explorer's heart that carries one to the final threshold.


When Death Comes

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox;

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it's over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.


[Mary Oliver, New and Selected Poems, Beacon Press]

Inside-Out

Watch out for false prophets! They dress up like sheep, but inside they are wolves who have come to attack you. You can tell what they are by what they do. No one picks grapes or figs from thornbushes. A good tree produces good fruit, and a bad tree produces bad fruit. A good tree cannot produce bad fruit, and a bad tree cannot produce good fruit. Every tree that produces bad fruit will be chopped down and burned. You can tell who the false prophets are by their deeds.
(Matthew 7:15-20, CEV)

The shell of the passage concerns false prophets. But the nut of the passage speaks a much more practical message: "You can tell what they are by what they do."

Always, life is lived from the inside-out. Insides determine outsides. The internal always seeps out to the external. Being (who you are) always shapes your doing (what you do).

Institutional religious practice has encouraged attendance at services, study of sacred Scripture, prayer as an act of devotion and intercession, and acts of charity as a response of the will to God. To be sure, there is something to be said for spiritual disciplines, the practices that train the will and shape our volition. Repeated actions become habits, and good habits may do a lot of good in the world. But good habits may also lock us into behavioral patterns from which we may never break free in order to swim in the the deeper currents of the Spirit's flow.

Rote, outward practice of religion can hinder one's full development in the Spirit as much as any other rote, outward practice. The fact that it may be a "religious practice" does not necessarily mean that it leads to wholeness and spiritual adulthood.

Most always, Jesus proposes that persons attend to the interior in order to make a positive impact on the exterior world. In this passage, he uses the image of good trees and bad trees. The point is self-evident. The fruit appearing on the tree's branches always comes as a function of the tree's inner state, that is, the health of its roots and trunk. Trees that are healthy produce good fruit. But if the roots or trunk are diseased, the fruit will not be good.

As I've said often in this space, life is lived from the inside-out. When you and I address only the exteriors of behavior and action, we may be able to will ourselves to some positive result. But good fruit, lasting change, is a function of a healthy interior. Being leads to doing . . . not the other way around.

"You can tell what they are by what they do." You can see the inside by what shows up on the outside.

In daily life, when we address some afflictive emotion, knee-jerk response, or addictive behavior that lives within us by trying to deal directly with the problem, we may be successful for awhile. Lopping off the withered branch may eliminate an unsightly part of the tree, but it may not deal with aspects of the tree that are diseased at the deeper core of roots and trunk. For example, if I deal with my anger merely by trying to overcome -- and overwhelm -- the anger, I may gain some respite from it for a time simply by force of will. But in some form, the anger most always grows back. The same holds true for most any afflictive emotion, addictive behavior, or habitual response that lives within me.

The contemplative experiences of meditation, spiritual reflection, and deep inner prayer actually begin to work on the "tree" from the inside-out. These contemplative practices don't attempt to change one's surroundings. They don't obliterate the habit or behavior by force of will. They don't concentrate energies on producing fruit. They work within a different field, the interior field in which one sees the world and from which one responds to the events of daily life. They trust that working on the interior brings about organic change in the fruit that is manifested in the world.