Here's something I wrote while on retreat last weekend...
In Byzantine icons, gold was always the first thing to be added. To layer gold over paint would warp the paint, so gold came first, and was painted over. So, when you see gold in an icon, what you are actually seeing is a gap; a hole, a lack of paint.
This, it seems to me, makes a profound theological point. The gold, which represents God's glory, shines out when there is nothing blocking it.
'One can no more find a method for knowing God than for creating God,' says Alan Watts; all we can do is make room, clear the approaches, for him to reveal himself.
Like the icons, to see God in our lives is a process of deconstruction; of making holes. One might say that we are releasing God's glory from the prison we have made for him.
So, we pray silence, simplicity. We stop trying to fill gaps, instead trying to create gaps.
In the icons, the heads of the saints are surrounded by gold; the halo. God's glory seems to radiate out of their minds. Perhaps there is a lesson here as well. Perhaps the first act of de-cluttering needs to happen within. Lao-Tse, writing before Alan Watts, before Byzantium, and even before Christ, asks:
Can you coax your mind from its wanderings,
and keep to the original oneness?
Can you cleanse your inner vision
until you see nothing but the light?
Can you step back from your own mind
and thus understand all things?
Dear Lord, the father, the ground of all being, teach me please to step back from my clutter. Pour the balm of stillness into my mind, and create holes through which you might shine. Help me to lovingly deconstruct complex things, and openly welcome what is simple. Make the whole world gold, Lord, starting with me.
Amen.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Friday, October 23, 2009
Hatred + Hatred = ?
Last night, Nick Griffin, chair of the British Nationalist Party was one of the panellists on the BBC's Question Time. The far-right party leader has been faced with accusations of racism, homophobia, holocaust-denial, Nazi-sympathising, and more.
The majority reaction to Griffin was hatred. He has since referred to himself as the most hated man in Britain, and, at this point in time, he's probably not far from the truth.
But as I watched Question Time, I found myself torn. I find the things that Griffin stands for abhorrent, and I find him as a person intensely dislikeable. But, as a leftist myself, I am disappointed with the close-mindedness of my fellow liberals.
Initially, there was uproar about Griffin's appearance. He shouldn't be allowed on TV, we were told. Then, when he finally made it onto the show, he was faced with personal abuse and pigheadedness, rather than democratic, unbiased debate. One particularly sharp audience member referred to him as Dick Griffin. Ho ho.
I have no sympathy for Griffin. But, I do believe in freedom of speech and democracy, and I do believe that the man should be allowed to air his opinions, however repulsive I find them.
What it comes down to is that when hatred is used as a tool to combat hatred, hatred still wins. Whether the good guys win, or the bad guys, it is violence that has prevailed.
This is the myth of redemptive violence. The myth tells us that the good guys will show up with bigger guns and wipe out the bad guys. The myth tells us that the road to peace is levelled with the tools of war. The myth is a piece of fiction.
There will always be bad guys. However often the good guys win, a new bad guy will arise. We will never create peace by shooting evil down, because it will persistently rise up again.
For this reason, it is no wonder that the power of God, according to the Christian gospel, is his weakness. How does Christ save the day? By dying. The victory, or at the very least a facet of the victory, lies in Jesus' decision not to take up arms. There is no Superman, no political uprising; only the weak force of love - which in its weakness is entirely undefeatable.
We all have a shadow-side; a dark, a hurt, an angry, a scared part to ourselves. Any good psychologist will tell you that when you fight your shadow, you end up hurting yourself. Instead, we lovingly give it our attention. When it bombards us with its neurosis, we politely, lovingly, and with confidence in ourselves tell it, I hear your pain, but in this case, you are wrong. I don't want to do violence to you, but nor will I heed your call to do violence onto others.
Let's listen to Nick Griffin. He is our corporate, our national, shadow-side. He is the part of us that we wish wasn't there. But he is there. To refuse to listen to scared and wounded voice of the BNP is to cut them out of our side, which will get infected and gangrenous as a result. What are you so scared of, Nick? We're not going to adopt your prejudices, but we can listen to the fear beneath them and as a country, as a world, work towards easing them.
Am I bleeding-heart liberal? Probably. But my leftism leads me to call for an end to violence; including violence towards the right.
The majority reaction to Griffin was hatred. He has since referred to himself as the most hated man in Britain, and, at this point in time, he's probably not far from the truth.
But as I watched Question Time, I found myself torn. I find the things that Griffin stands for abhorrent, and I find him as a person intensely dislikeable. But, as a leftist myself, I am disappointed with the close-mindedness of my fellow liberals.
Initially, there was uproar about Griffin's appearance. He shouldn't be allowed on TV, we were told. Then, when he finally made it onto the show, he was faced with personal abuse and pigheadedness, rather than democratic, unbiased debate. One particularly sharp audience member referred to him as Dick Griffin. Ho ho.
I have no sympathy for Griffin. But, I do believe in freedom of speech and democracy, and I do believe that the man should be allowed to air his opinions, however repulsive I find them.
What it comes down to is that when hatred is used as a tool to combat hatred, hatred still wins. Whether the good guys win, or the bad guys, it is violence that has prevailed.
This is the myth of redemptive violence. The myth tells us that the good guys will show up with bigger guns and wipe out the bad guys. The myth tells us that the road to peace is levelled with the tools of war. The myth is a piece of fiction.
There will always be bad guys. However often the good guys win, a new bad guy will arise. We will never create peace by shooting evil down, because it will persistently rise up again.
For this reason, it is no wonder that the power of God, according to the Christian gospel, is his weakness. How does Christ save the day? By dying. The victory, or at the very least a facet of the victory, lies in Jesus' decision not to take up arms. There is no Superman, no political uprising; only the weak force of love - which in its weakness is entirely undefeatable.
We all have a shadow-side; a dark, a hurt, an angry, a scared part to ourselves. Any good psychologist will tell you that when you fight your shadow, you end up hurting yourself. Instead, we lovingly give it our attention. When it bombards us with its neurosis, we politely, lovingly, and with confidence in ourselves tell it, I hear your pain, but in this case, you are wrong. I don't want to do violence to you, but nor will I heed your call to do violence onto others.
Let's listen to Nick Griffin. He is our corporate, our national, shadow-side. He is the part of us that we wish wasn't there. But he is there. To refuse to listen to scared and wounded voice of the BNP is to cut them out of our side, which will get infected and gangrenous as a result. What are you so scared of, Nick? We're not going to adopt your prejudices, but we can listen to the fear beneath them and as a country, as a world, work towards easing them.
Am I bleeding-heart liberal? Probably. But my leftism leads me to call for an end to violence; including violence towards the right.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Salvation
"If you want to find perfect love, go sell all your belongings, give
them to the poor, go where you find a master and become a slave. Can
you do this and be perfect?
"You say this is too heavy? Then do something else. Don't sell
yourself as a slave. Just sell your belongings and give them all to
the poor. Can you do it? Or do you find this too heavy a task?"
"All right, you cannot give away all your belongings. Then give half,
or a third, or a fifth. Is even this too heavy? Then give one tenth.
Can you do that? Is it still too heavy?
"How about this. Don't sell yourself as slave. Don't give a penny to
the poor. Only do this. Don't take your poor brother's coat, don't
take his bread, don't persecute him, don't eat him alive. If you don't
want to do him any good, at least do him no harm. Just leave him
alone. Is this also too heavy?"
"You say you want to be saved. But how? How can we be saved if
everything we are called to do is too heavy? We descend and descend
until there is no place further down. God is merciful, yes, but he
also has an iron rod." - St. Cosmos of Aetolia
Forgive me, Lord, for my hollow speech. Forgive me for talking like a religious man instead of living like Christ. Forgive me for being nice instead of being loving. Forgive me for being too scared, too attached, too proud, to live as you lived.
"Lord, save me, whether I like it or not; dust and ashes that I am, I love sin." - Apophthegmata Patum
them to the poor, go where you find a master and become a slave. Can
you do this and be perfect?
"You say this is too heavy? Then do something else. Don't sell
yourself as a slave. Just sell your belongings and give them all to
the poor. Can you do it? Or do you find this too heavy a task?"
"All right, you cannot give away all your belongings. Then give half,
or a third, or a fifth. Is even this too heavy? Then give one tenth.
Can you do that? Is it still too heavy?
"How about this. Don't sell yourself as slave. Don't give a penny to
the poor. Only do this. Don't take your poor brother's coat, don't
take his bread, don't persecute him, don't eat him alive. If you don't
want to do him any good, at least do him no harm. Just leave him
alone. Is this also too heavy?"
"You say you want to be saved. But how? How can we be saved if
everything we are called to do is too heavy? We descend and descend
until there is no place further down. God is merciful, yes, but he
also has an iron rod." - St. Cosmos of Aetolia
Forgive me, Lord, for my hollow speech. Forgive me for talking like a religious man instead of living like Christ. Forgive me for being nice instead of being loving. Forgive me for being too scared, too attached, too proud, to live as you lived.
"Lord, save me, whether I like it or not; dust and ashes that I am, I love sin." - Apophthegmata Patum
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Compassion
The word compassion is one that has been on my mind today. Compassion in itself is something that I've been thinking about the past few days, but it is only today that I've been able to give it a label. Compassion.
The word passion comes from the Greek word that means to suffer. To experience passion is to experience pain. It's original meaning was quite far from what we think of it as meaning today; not energy, fire, or lust, it used to refer to when life falls out of our hands, and we become victims. Someone in a hosptial bed experiences passion.
If passion is suffering, then compassion is to suffer with. Compassion means to share in someone's pain. It does not mean offering a solution or a cure, it means to let go of our own lives that we might share in the pain of the victim.
What I have been thinking about lately is compassion towards oneself. Our protestant society tells us to push ourselves; to whip ourselves when we get it wrong. How often have we said things like, 'I'm such an idiot', 'Why can't I get it together?', or 'I hate my own company'? We repress ourselves so much that we end up with eating disorders, depression, panic attacks, all the while telling other people that they should give themselves a break. Whether or not people practice it, most people would agree with the idea of compassion towards others. But what about compassion towards ourselves?
If compassion means to suffer alongside someone, to be compassionate to oneself means to share in our own burdens. What does that mean? I think it means to allow ourselves to be weak, scared and vulnerable. When negative emotions arise in us, we are surrounded by constant escape routes; 'be entertained!' the media tells us. Turn on the TV, log on to Facebook, stick your earphones in - forget your problems, find something that pleases you.
But to forget our problems means to show a stubborn lack of compassion towards ourselves. To run away from our fears, to fight our depression, to force ourselves to our feet when all we want to do is to sit and weep is to be cold to oneself. Would we treat anyone else the way we treat ourselves? Would we tell anyone else to get shut up and quit crying?
What about compassion towards ourselves?
I'm beginning to think that if one doesn't know how to be inwardly compassionate, one won't be able to show compassion to others. When we are used to running from our own suffering, the suffering of others becomes a threat to us. Rather than nurturing a culture of kindness, gentleness, and acceptance, we are nurturing a culture of escapism, mindlessness and coldness. Other people become tools to help us run from our own problems. I'll enjoy your company, so long as you are what I want you to be. If you start getting me down, I'm leaving.
I'm writing all of this not as a sermon, but as a lesson that I am learning. I have very little compassion for myself. As soon as any emotion arises in me that isn't light and fluffy, I freak out; I run away or beat myself up. I shouldn't feel this way, damn it, I'm an adult. I'm a Christian. I'm supposed to be happy. Through gritted teeth, I tell myself to pull it together, and fail to show myself any sort of compassion.
The result? I can be nice. I can sit and listen to people's problems - to a certain extent. But my guard is up. If anyone shows any sign of unsettling me, I'm out. So long, deal with your own problems, wimp. I'm used to running; whether its from your problems or my own.
But the more I run, the more I realise that all this running is getting me nowhere. I want, more than anything else, to be loving, and compassionate, and tolerant, and humble. But you can't be those things while running.
So, I'm learning. I'm trying to teach myself to stop running; to have patience, first with myself, and then with others. Most days, I find myself running. I don't want to face my weaknesses, my childishness, my anxiety. But every now and again, by the grace of God, I manage to stop running for a moment and be gentle with myself; listening to my fears for a moment before running again.
My prayer, sweet Lord, is that I will learn more and more to show compassion for myself. Maybe today I can only stop running away for 30 seconds. Then make it 45 tomorrow God. Help me to be unto myself what I search for other people to be for me. And as I learn, help that compassion to infect my whole way of being, that other people may experience it as well.
Amen.
The word passion comes from the Greek word that means to suffer. To experience passion is to experience pain. It's original meaning was quite far from what we think of it as meaning today; not energy, fire, or lust, it used to refer to when life falls out of our hands, and we become victims. Someone in a hosptial bed experiences passion.
If passion is suffering, then compassion is to suffer with. Compassion means to share in someone's pain. It does not mean offering a solution or a cure, it means to let go of our own lives that we might share in the pain of the victim.
What I have been thinking about lately is compassion towards oneself. Our protestant society tells us to push ourselves; to whip ourselves when we get it wrong. How often have we said things like, 'I'm such an idiot', 'Why can't I get it together?', or 'I hate my own company'? We repress ourselves so much that we end up with eating disorders, depression, panic attacks, all the while telling other people that they should give themselves a break. Whether or not people practice it, most people would agree with the idea of compassion towards others. But what about compassion towards ourselves?
If compassion means to suffer alongside someone, to be compassionate to oneself means to share in our own burdens. What does that mean? I think it means to allow ourselves to be weak, scared and vulnerable. When negative emotions arise in us, we are surrounded by constant escape routes; 'be entertained!' the media tells us. Turn on the TV, log on to Facebook, stick your earphones in - forget your problems, find something that pleases you.
But to forget our problems means to show a stubborn lack of compassion towards ourselves. To run away from our fears, to fight our depression, to force ourselves to our feet when all we want to do is to sit and weep is to be cold to oneself. Would we treat anyone else the way we treat ourselves? Would we tell anyone else to get shut up and quit crying?
What about compassion towards ourselves?
I'm beginning to think that if one doesn't know how to be inwardly compassionate, one won't be able to show compassion to others. When we are used to running from our own suffering, the suffering of others becomes a threat to us. Rather than nurturing a culture of kindness, gentleness, and acceptance, we are nurturing a culture of escapism, mindlessness and coldness. Other people become tools to help us run from our own problems. I'll enjoy your company, so long as you are what I want you to be. If you start getting me down, I'm leaving.
I'm writing all of this not as a sermon, but as a lesson that I am learning. I have very little compassion for myself. As soon as any emotion arises in me that isn't light and fluffy, I freak out; I run away or beat myself up. I shouldn't feel this way, damn it, I'm an adult. I'm a Christian. I'm supposed to be happy. Through gritted teeth, I tell myself to pull it together, and fail to show myself any sort of compassion.
The result? I can be nice. I can sit and listen to people's problems - to a certain extent. But my guard is up. If anyone shows any sign of unsettling me, I'm out. So long, deal with your own problems, wimp. I'm used to running; whether its from your problems or my own.
But the more I run, the more I realise that all this running is getting me nowhere. I want, more than anything else, to be loving, and compassionate, and tolerant, and humble. But you can't be those things while running.
So, I'm learning. I'm trying to teach myself to stop running; to have patience, first with myself, and then with others. Most days, I find myself running. I don't want to face my weaknesses, my childishness, my anxiety. But every now and again, by the grace of God, I manage to stop running for a moment and be gentle with myself; listening to my fears for a moment before running again.
My prayer, sweet Lord, is that I will learn more and more to show compassion for myself. Maybe today I can only stop running away for 30 seconds. Then make it 45 tomorrow God. Help me to be unto myself what I search for other people to be for me. And as I learn, help that compassion to infect my whole way of being, that other people may experience it as well.
Amen.
Friday, October 02, 2009
Three Treasures
I have three treasures,
Which I guard and keep.
The first is compassion.
The second is economy.
The third is humility.
From compassion comes courage.
From economy comes the means to be generous.
From humility comes responsible leadership.
Today, men have discarded compassion
In order to be bold.
They have abandoned economy
In order to be big spenders.
They have rejected humility
In order to be first.
This is the road to death.
- Lao Tse
Which I guard and keep.
The first is compassion.
The second is economy.
The third is humility.
From compassion comes courage.
From economy comes the means to be generous.
From humility comes responsible leadership.
Today, men have discarded compassion
In order to be bold.
They have abandoned economy
In order to be big spenders.
They have rejected humility
In order to be first.
This is the road to death.
- Lao Tse
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Hope
"Of this irreparably ruined and irrecuperable time we will never be able to take a long view and say, 'It was all worth it.' There is nothing that makes it worth it, nothing with which it can be 'compensated.' This is not the pain that pays off, but the misery of pure loss, of disaster. A child born with AIDS, whose life is short and painful, which no one can justify or compensate, which one can only try to comfort or ameliorate. The innocent victim of a crime, like a child inadvertently caught in a crossfire between warring drug lords on an inner-city street. The child, who is a special emblem of life, is a special victim of death and the sort of loss that makes theodicy an obscenity... The misery and grief descend upon us with impunity and then vanish like thieves in the night. The damage is done, the forces of destruction make their escape, and we are left without recourse, defenseless against the destruction, abandoned to wanton violence. Lazarus lies cold in his grave, and Jesus, too late, weeps. ...
Hope transpires in - or unleashes - another time, a time of rebirth, ressurection, and salvation. In this time, it does no suffice to wipe away a tear (Rev 21:4), or to avenge a death, or to make things 'even.' Instead, Levinas says, 'no tear should be lost'. We do not want to wipe away those tears but to preserve them, for they have a saving power, and they are precious beyond any price. Likewise, he says, 'no death should take place without a resurrection': it is not a question of avenging death, or putting a price on a priceless life in a wrongful death lawsuit, for example, or of counting ourselves even by exchanging death for death in war or capital punishment, say, or or of exchanging eternal life for temporal death, but a question of following death with resurrection. The exigency of suffering is not for compensation but for salvation: the exigency of ruined time is to be given a new time. What is required and demanded is a double gesture in which the subject first undergoes irreparable loss and then, without losing the loss, in a precisely non-indemnifying movement, demands repair, not as a worker demands a wage, but as death demands resurrection or rebirth. ...
Hope is not hope if you can see what you are hoping for on the horizon. We need hope when we cannot see the way out. Hope requires blindness."
- John D. Caputo
Hope transpires in - or unleashes - another time, a time of rebirth, ressurection, and salvation. In this time, it does no suffice to wipe away a tear (Rev 21:4), or to avenge a death, or to make things 'even.' Instead, Levinas says, 'no tear should be lost'. We do not want to wipe away those tears but to preserve them, for they have a saving power, and they are precious beyond any price. Likewise, he says, 'no death should take place without a resurrection': it is not a question of avenging death, or putting a price on a priceless life in a wrongful death lawsuit, for example, or of counting ourselves even by exchanging death for death in war or capital punishment, say, or or of exchanging eternal life for temporal death, but a question of following death with resurrection. The exigency of suffering is not for compensation but for salvation: the exigency of ruined time is to be given a new time. What is required and demanded is a double gesture in which the subject first undergoes irreparable loss and then, without losing the loss, in a precisely non-indemnifying movement, demands repair, not as a worker demands a wage, but as death demands resurrection or rebirth. ...
Hope is not hope if you can see what you are hoping for on the horizon. We need hope when we cannot see the way out. Hope requires blindness."
- John D. Caputo
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Simplicity Explained
"Rabbit's clever," said Pooh thoughtfully.
"Yes," said Piglet, "Rabbit's clever."
"And he has a brain."
"Yes," said Piglet, "Rabbit has a brain."
There was a long silence.
"I suppose," said Pooh, "that that's why he never understands anything."
Just at this time, filled with joy by the Holy Spirit, [Jesus] said, "I bless you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, for hiding these things from the learned and claver and revealing them to little children."
"Yes," said Piglet, "Rabbit's clever."
"And he has a brain."
"Yes," said Piglet, "Rabbit has a brain."
There was a long silence.
"I suppose," said Pooh, "that that's why he never understands anything."
Just at this time, filled with joy by the Holy Spirit, [Jesus] said, "I bless you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, for hiding these things from the learned and claver and revealing them to little children."
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