Pulling Ourselves Together

The Christian tradition has traditionally argued that an aspect of human dysfunction consists is a loss of coordination between body and soul. Our souls live in a certain alienation from our bodies, theologians have observed, and at the same time are subject to the body’s whims, wishes, and demands. “If only we could get our bodies control,” this line of thinking too often continues. “If only the body had not wondered so far from our minds and souls.”

This attention to the alienation and lack of coordination between body and soul is shared by the broader tradition of mindfulness practice, but with a key difference that is, ironically, more true to the Christian tradition at its root. For the broader tradition of mindfulness practice, body and soul are alienated because the mind has wondered off—has lost itself in other concerns, in anxieties about the future or grievances over the past. The goal of the practice, then, is to gather soul back to body, not vice versa.

As Thich Nhat Hanh observes, “In a state of dispersion, our mind is not together with our body. Our body may be here, but our mind is in the past, in the future, caught up in our anger, in our anxiety, in our projects. Mind and body are not together. So with mindful breathing we bring mind back to body. In English we call it pulling oneself together. Pulling oneself together means that you become your better self.” (Buddha Mind, Buddha Body, p. 80)

Mindfulness practice begins with an understanding of the body rooted in the greater good of the creation. There is a simple wholeness to creation that the body shares. Under this vision of reality, the mind or soul loses itself when it disconnects from a deeper relationship with this wholeness—when it separates itself from the wholeness, most often in an effort to gain some control over it. This attempt at control is not only futile, but also damaging for the soul. It leaves it isolated. It diminishes its freedom, making it subject to the forces that impinge on it. (This is the truth of the Christian tradition’s concern with the power of body over soul. The mind has traded a life-giving relationship with the wholeness of the body for a combative relationship with a body that it attempts to subdue. Too often, it loses this combat because of its unrooted, dispersed state.)

Mindfulness practice calls us to attend to our breath and to simply appreciate the intimate relationship between soul and body. And, indeed, this intimacy grows through the simple act of attention. It calls us, in other words, to remember our creation—that God breathes soul into a body lifted up from the good earth (Gen. 2). This is our wholeness—soul breathed into body—and through attention to our breath, we take small steps towards living more fully into this wholeness. Mindfulness of this wholeness helps us to integrate it into our every day way of being.

200 Sextillion Stars and You

As a priest, I have several must-reads in my life each week. I need to read, for example, the scripture passages for the week so that I can prepare my sermon. I need to read the weekly e-communique from the diocese, so that I know what’s going in the wider church—to that end, I also read the parish newsletters from the various local congregations in our region. I need to do regular spiritual reading to feed my soul. And I need to read the Tuesday Morning Quarterback column each week on ESPN.com. If you’re not familiar with the column, it probably provides the most illuminating analysis of football games and football culture on the internet, but it also provides so much more. That’s because it’s author, Gregg Easterbrook, it more than your average football columnist. He is also a senior editor of The New Republic, has written articles for Slate, The Atlantic Monthly, The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Los Angeles Times, Reuters, Wired, and Beliefnet, and he’s been a fellow at the Brookings Institution. His brother, Frank Easterbrook, is the Chief Judge of the United States Court of Appeals for the Seventh Circuit, where he was a colleague of Sonia Sotomayor.

So in his column Easterbrook also talks about the economy, popular TV shows, American Culture, and our knowledge of the universe. It was one of these last items that brought him into my sermon this week. Every year at this time, Easterbrook wants to remind his readers of the majestic scale of the universe. This year, he begins by noting that a new study reports that researchers now believe there are at least 100 billion galaxies. He continues, “This recent study led by Yale University cosmologists found there exists at least three times as many stars as previously thought. The star count is now at 200 sextillion [stars], a number that is very hard to conceptualize. That's a two followed by 23 zeros. What's a two followed by 23 zeros? The universe, thought to be 14 billion years old, has not yet existed for 200 sextillion seconds. Get this: The universe has not yet existed for a thousandth of a percent of 200 sextillion seconds. And stars are still forming -- even in our neighborhood.

Easterbrook writes a great deal about the unknowns of the universe. He speculates, with tongue in cheek, that some cosmic explosions that we witness at a distance might be great intergalactic wars that will someday come to a theater near you. But his regular discussions of the grandeur of the universe are not flights of fancy. He wants to instill in us a wonder, and awe at the vast, intricate, beautiful creation of which we are such a small, small part. (Again, remember the 200 sextillion stars.)

But he doesn’t do this to make us feel small. He goes on in his article this week: “To us, the universe seems immensely old; compared to itself, the cosmos glistens with the dew of morning. The present universe might exist hundreds of billions of years, if not forever. Creation contains at least 100 billion galaxies and far more stars than there are grains of sand. Don't let this make you feel small. Quite the contrary; it should make you feel important. Life is what grants the immensity of the universe meaning. Who can say what the purpose of the cosmic enterprise might be?”

This last question may be the most important one. What is the purpose of this cosmic enterprise?  But I want to think about the thought right before that first. “Life is what grants the immensity of the universe meaning.” How is that? How is the little blip of life that we’ve realized on this one small little planet meaningful in the midst of the 200 sextillion stars? Even if we grant that in this immensity there may be other forms of life—it’s statistically probable at this point----still, life barely registers in a cosmic perspective.

One answer is that life---or more particularly, human life—rational life, feeling life---we don’t simply exist in this vast universe, but we are able to exist in relation to the universe. We can know the universe, we can be in wonder at the universe---we can even give thanks for the universe—and that’s something. To ask if the universe, or if we have meaning---that’s a question that comes only with life. Sun, moons, stars, planets----they don’t ask about meaning. We do. In our knowing, in our loving the universe, we grant some modicum of meaning.

And that’s good, but is that it? Is that the sum total of meaning—that for a few thousand years out of 14 billion, a few billion people---and it’s interesting, isn’t it---when we talk about budget deficits, numbers like billion and trillion seem so big, but from a cosmic perspective and numbers in the sextillions, a billion is infinitesimally small. So is that the sum total of meaning of the universe---that for a little while, some people knew it existed and thought it was cool?

The story of the nativity of Jesus suggests that this is not the sum total of meaning. That there is something more. That what matters is not so much my capacity to know the universe, but rather the desire of the universe to know me—or more precisely, it’s about the desire of the one who can actually count the 200 sextillion stars, the one who can name them, who conceived and ordered each one—who created them----the story of Jesus’ birth suggests that we find meaning in the truth of that One choosing to know me—you—us---to come down to this little place to know us.

That’s a lot of the story that Luke tells at the beginning of his gospel. He begins his narrative of Jesus’ birth with the vast scope of the world---with Empires and world rulers and great decrees---he begins with the vast scope of the world, but he quickly zooms in tightly to such a small space and such small people---a small town, a tiny stable, a manger, a poor couple and a few shepherds. The effect is even more remarkable if we zoom back even farther, to the 200 sextillion stars---and then we hear the angels’ proclamation—that in the midst of this vastness and grandeur, the one who overshadows the vastness has come into its midst---he’s come right here, to this little stable as a very small one---as a baby---he’s come down to join us, to know us---to connect us to this vast cosmic grandeur in the most intimate and personal of ways.

What set me off on this series of thoughts was the intersection of Easterbrook’s article with the continual loop of O Holy Night this time of year. It may be the most beautiful Christmas Carol, and at least as of yet, I haven’t tired of it. And there’s that one line that always catches my attention:

Long lay the world in sin and error pining,

'Til He appear'd and the soul felt its worth.

We are, frankly, quite small—we negligible in the vast scope of the universe, and I don’t know that it’s obvious that we have a meaning. But the Creator of the universe seems to want to tell us that we do---that our souls have a worth equal to the grandeur of the 200 sextillion stars.

Why that’s the case? For me, that’s mystery. As Easterbrook writes, “Who can say what the purpose of the cosmic enterprise might be?” Even more, who can say why the author of this cosmic enterprise cares about us so deeply---why this stable in the middle of nowhere becomes, at least for an evening, the very center around which the 200 sextillion stars now turn? But that’s Ok with me, that I don’t know—that I can’t even begin to fathom an answer to this. For now, for me the wonder is enough---the wonder at the universe---the wonder of the life of this child in its midst---the wonder that I’m noticed, that I’m loved, that I matter on a cosmic scale. For me, for now, that’s enough.

Julian's Mary

In the Christian Calendar, we are in the season of Advent—a season that’s to prepare us for Jesus’ coming. Advent, I’ve found, is a time for Mary. Her preparation, after all, is what made a way for the rest of us.  She serves as a model for the preparations that we need to make to bear Jesus into our own lives, to bring God to our own world today.

Julian of Norwich is one of the great Marian theologians in the world.  Julian was a woman of prayer and solitude in the 14^th century—a time of plague and war, famine and injustice.  She prayed and attended to God in the midst of suffering that most of us can barely imagine—and in response to her prayer God revealed to her a series of visions of great compassion and intimacy that offered comfort and hope to this suffering.  The substance of these visions concerned Jesus---that’s why I’ve titled my someday to be written book on Julian, Julian’s Jesus: The Compassion and Intimacy of God.  But though Julian focused in her writing on Jesus, she was a woman formed by Scripture and so she could not but imagine Mary into her story.  Mary was a model for Julian’s proper response to Jesus, and so I want to spend a bit of time with Julian’s Mary.

Julian offers us three primary images of Mary in her visions, and although the third one—what I’ll call the Advent Mary—although the third Mary plays the role most proper to Mary and to us, I want to dwell on all three images this morning.  Julian’s first Mary is the Mary of the cross.  She’s the compassionate Mary.  Julian’s visions begin with a desire to develop within herself a deep compassion for Jesus in his suffering.  Julian saw herself as Jesus’ lover, and she wished nothing other than to share all of his suffering, so that she might stand in solidarity with him—or even in communion with him.  So God revealed to her the depth of Christ’s suffering on the cross, and she was overcome. During these visions, she saw Mary, as well, standing before the cross of her son—her heart broken with compassion—yet Mary didn’t turn away.  The love of her compassion for her son overcame the pain, so that she could stand with him as he died, offering her support.  Mary, thought Julian, calls us to this same compassion.

But this compassion wasn’t properly Mary’s office to Julian---for as soon as she saw Mary’s deep compassion for the suffering of the one that she loved, she saw that Jesus, in turn, from the cross, looked on Mary’s pain, on Julian’s pain, on your pain and my pain—on the pain of those suffering round the world, in Haiti and Pakistan and Indonesia---Jesus looked on all of our pain, and bore it with compassion---there on the cross in solidarity with us in our suffering---he offered himself there as a token of his love.  We are called to Mary’s compassion, but only as we find our selves supported first by the compassion of Jesus.

Julian’s second Mary is the Christmas Mary—the Mother Mary.  Julian is acutely aware that Mary, by bearing Jesus, made a way for our entrance into life from death.  So she claims that Mary is the mother of us all. Mary, whose compassion betokened her great love, through that love made a way for us into life.  But Julian’s imagination immediately leapt with the realization of Mary’s motherhood to a place that surprises many---for she realizes that more than Mary, Jesus bore us into life with his labor on the cross---that Jesus feeds us from his breast every Sunday, as we gather at the table to partake his body and blood.  Mary is mother, for Julian, but only as a token of Jesus’ motherhood, the motherhood of God whose compassion bears and nurtures us—who allows us to make new beginnings in the midst of the endings that fill our days.

So, finally, it’s the third Mary---the advent Mary that I want us to consider in Julian.  The Mary of prayer and vulnerability.  From Julian’s perspective, the source of our greatest suffering is not the manifold ways that we injure one another and our selves through our selfishness. No, the source of our greatest suffering is the alienation that we feel from God in the midst of our brokenness.  That we feel cut off from God through our shame, so that we dare not approach God or imagine that God could love us or even draw near to us.  We become people unable to bear God in the world because we are unable to bear God within ourselves, so great is our shame and darkness at the sin we bring into the world.

What we have to grasp, says Julian, is God’s familiarity towards us---that although God is a great King—to use Julian’s fourteenth century language—God would draw near to us—treat us like friends, or more than friends---that God would be intimate with us.  This is what Mary taught her.  Mary, in her humility, was willing to accept God’s intimacy---that God would make a lowly one God’s handmaiden---that the Creator of the universe would be born into the world by her, by you, by each of us.

Advent is a time to prepare ourselves, and so it is a time for prayer---the prayer that Julian teaches us is the prayer of the advent Mary---the prayer of one open to God’s intimacy—the prayer of one who does not protect themselves from that intimacy out of shame.  Julian writes that God seeks one who does not try to adorn themselves with their accomplishments or their possessions or their good deeds to prove themselves worthy of God.  Rather, God is pleased with the soul that comes naked and familiarly before God—that says, by the touch of the Spirit, “God, you are enough.”

Accepting What Is

Cyndi and I were fortunate to have tickets to a Christmas tour at the White House late this afternoon. We decided to make a real outing of it, and we made reservations for dinner at a nice restaurant after the tour. Our instructions warned us that there tends to be a line—that we might end up waiting for 20 – 25 minutes to get in. We dressed warmly because it was cold out. We were ready, we thought, though I don’t think we realized how damp the air was until we started to stand in the line. We were soon mindful of the damp and the cold as we waited our requisite 20 – 25 minutes. We were also mindful of the fact that we had only moved about 20 feet forward in that time, and the line still stretched a good 100 feet before us. Then we were mindful that the line didn’t move at all for the next 15 minutes. We started wondering when we’d get in, if we could make our reservations, or if we wanted to wait much longer in the cold. I think I’ve already mentioned that it was a damp cold. That made an impression on me.

Eventually the line started moving, and as we approached the entrance, we decided to stick it out. After a wait of only an hour and 10 minutes, we were in---or at least we were in the outside gate, and it only took us 5 more minutes to actually get in a building with some heat and some Christmas decorations.

So we began to move through the rooms. I got a picture of Cyndi with Hilary Clinton. (OK, with a portrait of Hilary.) We saw everything, but we lingered over nothing. It was all quite attractive, and at the same time all quite old. In case you wondered, the White House does not have an open floor plan. It needs remodeling, but I don’t know that a president can choose to take out a wall. There’s a limit to all power. Soon we were done and off to our restaurant. We managed the tour without throwing off our schedule, so I considered it a triumph. Yet, as I’ve thought about it this evening, I’m not so sure.

I was ambivalent about seeing the White House in the first place. I’m dubious of the power that it represents, in part, I’m sure, because I don’t have much of that kind of power. I didn’t want to fawn over my experience. When an hour in the cold was added to that, and then the possibility of a thwarted expectation—the possibility of missing the dinner that for me would be the high point of the evening—well, I can say that I saw the White House, but I didn’t really see the White House. I noticed it, but I didn’t see it. I didn’t spend much time or energy with the artistry of the decorations. I didn’t let the history of the place, the rooms penetrate my consciousness. I was on a mission. Veni, Vici, Ivi. (I came, I saw, I went.)

Thich Nhat Hahn talks about the art of accepting what is. He doesn’t mean that we’re to ignore injustice or suffering in our world. He means that we need to live our lives in the midst of the present circumstances, not fighting the circumstances, but being present to them. We need to see what of life is available within them. I struggled with that this evening.

The time in line was long, but I notice that I was able to be present in the midst of the cold wait. I didn’t have much choice. My greatest memory of the evening was the one-year old girl in front of us in line—just watching her be there smiling, looking at birds, feeling cold, and being hugged by her mother. But once in the White House, I was on a mission---to get out the other side. Circumstance had thrown me a curve ball. It had placed me in an ambivalent setting and threatened my dinner. I responded by running through the present to a future that, in the end, was a bit disappointing. (The restaurant served small portions!) I didn’t accept what was—that we were running late. I fought it and ended up missing much of a wonderful experience. Life’s too short to throw away the present, whatever it is. I want to work on accepting it.

Being Real

The four year-olds at the preschool sat mindfully with me this morning for about five minutes. Ok, they didn’t sit very mindfully. They talked, they asked questions, they told me about Rudolph, they stared at the ceiling, and they rolled on each other every now and then. But they did sit with me. I spend five minutes with them every week, and I treasure the time, even if it isn’t as mindful as I’d choose.

It’s very real. They’re very real. They are really excited to see me and tell me about Rudolph and the reindeer headband that they’re wearing. They mean it when they tell me thank you when I leave. They like the bell. They like hitting the bell and listening to it, even if they haven’t quite gotten the trick of listening quietly and distinguishing when they can’t quite hear it any longer.

They are very real, and if I’m honest, they’re pretty much like me in my attempts at mindfulness. I can sit a bit longer than they can, and I can pay attention a little more than they can. But it’s only a little. If I’m honest, I wish I were more like them in my attempts at mindfulness. I can be more quiet, but they are more thankful, more full of wonder at all the details of their lives. They are more alive to the world. They are more real. Their minds may spin, but they don’t get caught up in the spinning. They just go with it. They’re mindfully aware of it, even.

Maybe the next time I sit with them, I need to pay more attention to them instead of hoping that they pay more attention to me.

Setting us free

T.K.V. Desikachar writes of the capacity of the world to set us free in his discussion of the last four limbs of ashtanga yoga. (See The Heart of Yoga, pp. 107-123) This notion is counter-intuitive to the understanding that many have of the spiritual life, but it is actually a fundamental principle of a mindful spirituality. Desikachar's premise is that we are captive to the stimulation of our senses and to the habit of our mind to hunger after this stimulation. We can gain release from this captivity--achieve a state of pratyahara, or "withdrawal from that which nourishes our senses--if we can establish a different kind of relationship to the world, a meditative or mindful relationship. If we can learn to concentrate on one thing in the world (practice dharana) so that we can truly see it, then we can connect to that thing (practice dhyana), and perhaps reach a state of real relationship or union with it (samadhi). In this process, our senses don't go to sleep. They are often that through which we focus and connect with the subject of our mindful awareness. But they do cease to distract and dissipate us. They instead become tools of relationship and peace.

What drives this sensory transformation is the wonder of the world about us. Its capacity to transfix us, to fully occupy our mind with the rich depth and mystery of its existence, this is what we open ourselves to through a mindful, focused awareness of the world. The wonder of the world can free us from the cravings often elicited by our senses, if we would only relate to it aright.

This reminded me of Bonaventure's discussion of the contemplation of creation in his mystical treatise,  The Soul's Journey into God. In this treatise, the 13th century saint speaks of the potential to contemplate God not only through the created order, but also in it. To contemplate God through the created order is to allow the creation to point us to the creator, so that creation becomes only a byway leading us to our ultimate goal. But to contemplate God in creation is to stay with a mindful awareness of the natural world, recognizing that God's fullness is present there. God's fullness is at the heart of the mystery of the world that surrounds us. God's fullness in this sense isn't an added extra that we look for in the midst of the world around us. It's not a spiritual "Where's Waldo." Rather, we simply open ourselves to the world, allow it to occupy us with its richness, and trust that in our awareness we have been touched by God.

Creating Margin Within

I was talking with some high school kids this weekend about drug and alcohol abuse. We discussed that abuse is often an attempt to deal with stress--to create a recreational space for our minds where they can relax and stretch out a bit. We were also clear that substance abuse created as much stress as it relieved. It's a lousy solution to an over-burdened existence.

There's a lot of literature out there about dealing with stress, and the best of it talks about our need for margins. Margins, of course, as the blank spaces around the edge of the page that keeps the writing ordered and in focus. Authorities on stress suggest that we need these same blank spaces in our lives. We need some kind of buffer, some kind of reserve to draw on in at least four areas--our emotional lives, our physical lives, our financial lives, and our time. Most who write on this recognize that most of us can't maintain reserves in all four of these areas, but we get in trouble if we don't have a margin in at least one or two.

The fact is, though, for many of us it's not clear where we have room for any margin at all. Our lives are wonderfully full, but there's little or no line between wonderfully full and too full. Given our economy, the needs of family and friends, the demands of work, the cost-of-living, it's not clear how to maintain any margin at all.

Ultimately, we need to challenge this. We need to open ourselves to simplicity and ask ourselves if we really need all of the fullness that besets us? But between today and that ultimate destination, I think there's another place we can look for margin. We can look to mindfulness. We can look to the simple act of breathing. We can look to finding presence now, where we are. We can find margin in the midst of the busyness, if we just pause and look for presence.

An example. I drive a good bit every day, and that's always been a time for problem solving for me. Actually, I call it problem solving, but it's really problem-stewing. I have a tendency to simply marinate in my problems, turning them over and over in my mind, ratcheting up the stress, closing down the margin. I've realized, though, that I don't need to do that. While I drive, I can just breath. I can dedicate the time to letting go of the problems--they'll be there when I get out of the car anyway. But in the meantime, I can just breath. I can notice the clouds, the workers by the side of the road, the trees and buildings. I don't need to notice anything in particular about them. I simply notice them, and as I notice and breath, a space opens within me. I create margin. I like that. It doesn't make the stress go away, but it gives me space to cope with the stress--a space within me that no one can take away. Creating margin--it's a good activity for the day.

Barren Grace

It's barren outside today. That's not surprising. It's December. The leaves have fallen, the light is dim, and the sky is gray. What a wonderful time to discover grace!
I struggle now with December more than I used to. The disappearing light has begun to have an affect on me as I age. Yet, even in the midst of that struggle, I can find December to be a graceful time. I avoid the shopping malls. (That is one blessing of internet shopping.) I'm distracted by very little. It's barren out. Instead, I can just sit with the gray. Empty my mind and my soul as the trees have emptied themselves of their leaves.
This is the miracle of mindfulness. It's recognizing that there's presence--spirit--grace--God--that these are there for our enjoyment in the bare fact of our existence and of the existence of the world. It's barren today. That's another way to say that the earth's existence today is quite simple. It's quiet. It invites me to be quiet. "Be still and know that I am God."

Getting Started

A number of years ago, I was in a bad place. Life as a whole was fine, but one piece of my life had captured my mind, and my mind, in turn had captured me. No matter where I turned my attention, my thoughts quickly performed a mental ju-jitsu and pulled me back into the morass. Recently, introducing some elementary aged folk to the idea of mindfulness, I asked them to imagine a group of monkeys swinging through the trees. They reach out and grab a banana. "You're the banana," I told them, "and they swing around, passing you back and forth while you become more and more disoriented and desperate." A number of years ago, I was the banana, and I needed to free myself from the monkeys.

A therapist introduced me to the idea of rocking back and forth while I repeated a simple phrase to still my mind--very much like the pendulum exercise that Susan Kaiser Greenland discusses in Mindfulness for Children. I tried it, and the monkeys let go, at least for a while. Long enough for me to catch my breath. Long enough even for me to listen to God a bit. I wasn't captive to myself.

Soon after that, a student introduced me to Centering Prayer and the wonderful teaching of Thomas Keating. I learned how to still my mind for more than five minutes. Or at least every now and then I could still my mind. But even more, I learned what it meant to open myself to God--to simply be present to God. That open presence--it was a warm, sunny rock residing in my consciousness. When the monkeys got to it, they didn't disappear, but they did want to rest and relax. With that presence, even the monkeys in my mind sought for peace, at least some of the time.

Again, after a time, several friends introduced me to the teaching of Thich Nhat Hanh, and I learned that I might experience that presence throughout my day. That God's presence is as close to me as my breath. That my breath not only could slow the monkeys, but that it could open up the world for me. I could see that everything was permeated by grace.

This blog is an opportunity for me to talk about living in this presence--what I would call spiritual living. And its an opportunity for me to talk about the practice of mindfulness as a way to make space, daily and hourly, for this presence. I don't know how mindful I actually am in my living, but I know that it occupies my thoughts now, but in a peaceful and gentle way. I'd enjoy sharing that, so I will.