Shining Spirit

The beautiful words in the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer offer comfort and consolation when they remind us that at the end of life “we shall see him who is my friend and not a stranger.”  The reference, of course, is to God, but I’d like to think about an alternative idea, one that might speak to our fear of death and the end of life.

Most of us have been taught by our culture that death is a specter lurking in the shadows until it can pounce upon its prey.  Death is to be feared, regarded as an enemy to be avoided.  But what if…as the spiritual guide John O’Donohue suggested…death is a silent friend and companion from the very beginning of life?  O’Donohue used to tell people that death doesn’t just show up at the end of life, because we all have a “secret friend” who has been beside us since we appeared on the planet.  And, in fact, from the first breath of air we draw, we are launched into an inevitable process of living toward dying.  It happens to us all, even to profound philosophers like Woody Allen who is reported to have said:  “I don’t mind dying.  I just don’t want to be there when it happens.”  It happens, and we will be there.  But what if we’ve been walking all these years with a friend who has waited with us when we have gone through suffering, who has stood by while we healed from hurts, who has been faithful through our bumps and bruises…walking with us, always beside us, part of our deepest identity?

We all know there will come a time when the human body can’t continue the journey; that’s just the way our bodies are made.  The disease is too severe, the injury too profound, the body simply not strong enough to mend anymore.  And it is then that our “silent friend”, the companion who has walked all the way with us, the deepest part of our own nature, takes us by the hand.  It’s like walking with a lifelong companion, a trusted and caring friend, who has never abandoned me and won’t even now.

Name the companion what you will…God, Death, Life, Source…it’s up to you.  It’s just so good to know that, in that moment, we can link our arms, like old friends do, and simply walk on together.  The sting of death begins to disappear and in its place a song forms in our hearts.

Do you remember how this line ends?  “…surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and…”?

The last thing I ever imagined doing is writing Japanese Haiku.  I didn’t even know what it was until the other day when I stumbled upon the word and decided to explore its meaning.  So, inspired by the lovely vacation surroundings in Oregon, I took pen in hand.

Trust me.  Haiku is not easy.  But who thought this classical, ancient form of Japanese poetry would be simple?  Well, me, of course.

Haiku consists of three lines, each with a precise structure so that the final product has seventeen syllables and addresses some aspect of duality.  Impressed?  The key, according to those who really know, is the juxtaposition of opposites in a thought, like: up vs. down; beauty vs. ugliness; good vs. evil.  Things like that.  So, on the tranquil mountainside, amid all the glorious oak trees, I noticed the abundance of moss creeping up tree trunks and clinging to stately limbs.  I said to myself:  moss is a parasite and it will eventually damage the tree, so here is my duality:  good vs. bad; life vs. death.  Haiku, here I come!

Why do so many of us rush into new adventures ill prepared?  Why do Westerners, in particular, assume everything is quickly accomplished and easily done?  “It’s a snap,” we say and then set out to accomplish something for which we are poorly prepared or about which we are completely ignorant.  I’ve been known to call repairmen or plumbers to correct the mistakes I made after having attempted to repair a gadget or a widget that I knew nothing about.  The same principle applies to Haiku.

So, I resolve to be slow and diligent in my relationship with this ancient tradition.  Patience.  Study.  Practice.  More patience.  Humility.  A willingness to learn.  Acceptance of the reality that sometimes I succeed and sometimes I don’t.  These are wonderful ideas to bear in mind as one steps into the unknown.

And that same principle works pretty well, too, when applied to to the spiritual journey that so many of us pursue.

And, no, you cannot read my Haiku.

Thomas Merton was a man with a soaring mind and a deep spirit. Thought to be one of the premier spiritual masters of the 20th century, Merton lived first as a rich, spoiled kid wasting his inheritance and then, after his own awakening experience, as a vowed Trappist monk in a secluded hermitage. He was, by the accounts of his biographers, a man of extremes, but the consistent thread that ran though his life was his profound commitment to contemplation as a means of addressing social justice and human rights. It seems a paradox that contemplation might lead to social action, but the proof was in Merton’s powerful life.

He found his strength in a contemplative approach to life and faith. After intensive interviews with Merton, Michael Ford comments that contemplation for the monk was not a philosophy but a “response to a call, or, more precisely, the echo of a silent voice resonating in the inmost center of our spirit.” That’s the key. Merton didn’t create the contemplative encounter, he responded to something that was already and always present. He heard a voice and followed it.

Joseph Campbell, the well known philosopher and mythologist, used to say: Follow your bliss! That is, follow your heart’s urging, follow the deepest joy you experience, follow that which calls you from the deep center of yourself. Merton did just that; he followed the whisper that he heard in his quiet listening.

It’s dark outside right now and very quiet except for the sound of the Pacific Ocean embracing huge boulders on the beach about fifty yards away. The rhythmical rumbling of the surf repeats and repeats until it becomes the only sound definable in the black night. And in that crashing symphony, there comes a “silent voice resonating in the inmost center” of this moment. It calls and beckons. It invites and welcomes. It is both tender and terrifying. It is beyond reason and rational thought. No one creates it for it is creation itself. It speaks when we listen, and in the hearing of it, we are compelled to follow the voice.

Listen to the inmost center of your own spirit. Listen.

For the past few months I’ve been looking for a silver, single-strand, chain-linked bracelet for myself.  I figured my empty right wrist would welcome it.  But I’ve had little luck.  Most men’s bracelets I’ve seen are heavy and bulky, festooned with stones or Harley Davidson symbols, and cost far too much money.  I just want something simple and pleasing to the eye.

Well, two weeks ago, while walking along the sidewalk in Multnomah Village outside Portland, I paused for a moment at a vendor’s tent to explore the wares.  I was there, not to find a silver bracelet, but to be part of a wonderful Saturday morning parade celebrating the Village’s community life…floats, bands, marching units, the typical small town parade.  Displayed in the tent was a wide variety of silver products and so I asked the vendor about a man’s bracelet.  “No, I don’t think so,” he told me.  But as I turned to walk away, he called out “Wait a minute.  Would this work?” and held up a silver, single-strand, chain-linked bracelet.  It was love at first sight.

I’ve worn it every day and I’ve been very happy with the purchase.  But a couple of nights ago I decided to give my wrist a rest and took the bracelet off for the night.  It was a big mistake.  When I bought the bracelet, the vendor had put it around my wrist, carefully lining up the ends, holding the little silver ring on one end poised as he used his thumb and forefinger on the other hand to pull a little trigger that opened the clasp.  The two ends came together beautifully and the deal was done.

The next morning I tried to duplicate his procedure: lay bracelet on the bed, pull one end over my right wrist, hold it there with the fourth finger of my left hand, manipulate the clasp with my left thumb and forefinger, open the clasp, slide the connecting ring into the clasp…voila!  Try again.  And then try agin.  After what seemed like a hundred attempts I called my wife, Sue, and begged for help.

We put our two heads and twenty fingers together, but with no success.  My large, male fingers and her slender but arthritic fingers tried in vain for another half an hour.  Finally, we looked at each other and broke down in laughter…it was, in fact, pretty comical.  Especially when, part of the way through the ordeal, she said: “Where are my glasses?  I can’t even see this thing.”

 Maybe people with fat fingers married to people with arthritic fingers, hoping to make sense of the world through trifocals, shouldn’t even own bracelets.  But you have to laugh at yourself sometime, don’t you?

You’ve heard the old saying: “They’re as different as night and day!”  And maybe you know people like that: he likes chocolate, she likes vanilla; he prefers politics to the left, she gravitates to the right; hard rock for him, classical for her.  Day and night.

I once asked Sue, with whom I have much in common, about her favorite time of the day.  She answered: “The morning, of course.  Everything is bright and new; energy is up.  The morning is my favorite time of the day.”  And then, not surprisingly, she redirected the question to me.  “I like the dusk of the day,” I told her.  “I like the long shadows and the slowing down.  It’s rather melancholy.  The early evening, that’s my time of day.”  “Sure,” she said, looking at me like I’d gone off the track.  (I state again: we have 52 years of things in common, so this is not the confession of a problem…just an observation about how two people can be different.}

I think of this now, as dusk approaches and the pine trees are casting very long shadows over the valley below our cabin.  And I think of it because of the word “night” that has just caused me to pause on an early page in a fine book by Michael Ford about four spiritual masters:  Thomas Merton, Henri Nouwen, Anthony de Mello, and John O’Donohue.  Even taken out of context, the sentence stands on its own.  Ford writes: “The way of faith involves traveling by night.”

The spiritual masters, these four mentioned and others, have said in chorus that seekers encounter the Holy out of darkness of the soul, in dark places of life, in the night of our confusions, when all seems hopeless and lightless.  In the darkness, one meets the Other.

I have known this to be true intellectually for some time, but now I understand it a little better.  So many times in my own spiritual travels I have awakened during the early morning hours with a thought or an insight or a collection of words that demand to be written down for more exploration in the light of day.  Sermon ideas, possible solutions to problems, even new lyrics to a tune that had been running through my mind…in the night, there they are.  Maybe when dusk slips its arms around the day, I unconsciously relax my mind and become more receptive to the Mystery that has always been there but unable to break through my rigid agendas.  I just know that dusk does it for me.

Two early mornings ago…at 3:43 a.m. to be exact…I slipped out onto the front porch of the cabin into the brilliance of full moon light, into the deafening silence of the forest at night, into the wonder of a world of stunning beauty and majesty, and into the Presence of that which is always waiting in the darkness.  We had a good conversation.

I drove through the Sierra Nevada mountains the other day on the way to a holiday in northwest Oregon. Coming from the Sonoran Desert and flat Southern California, it didn’t take long for the stunning beauty of the mountains to soften the tensions of cross-country driving. Rugged cliffs, towering pines, flowery meadows…all of it swirled around me and held out arms of welcome. I savored it.

Savor. That’s an interesting word. Savor means to find delight in a particular taste or smell, or, possibly, delight in the luxurious sights of majestic landscape. I savored the miles and the moments.

Now, having arrived at the one-room cabin overlooking the Willamette Valley, I’m doing it all over again. Night is quietly settling over the valley below and the Coastal Range of mountains on the far horizon is beginning to fade into the soft haze. Large glass windows make up one wall of the cabin and through those windows I look out over a grassy, green lawn, then across the tops of grape vines planted in neat vineyard rows, then beyond the tops of tall pines, and finally into the hazy valley that is surrendering to the darkness. I’m savoring again.

I’m thinking, too, of a friend who would look at the same landscape and conclude that this same world is heading toward destruction, that ugliness reigns everywhere, and that all this, plus all that lives in it, must be saved for a better life in the future. And while I agree with part of the premise…there’s enough ugliness to go around…I am more and more persuaded that “savoring” is just as important as “saving.” Those of us who wear religious or spiritual labels understand the “saving” language in our traditions, but what we too often overlook is the pure joy, even the transformative joy, of savoring the unspeakable grandeur of creation’s gifts. I wonder if “savoring” might accomplish the same end as “saving” if we put our hearts and minds to it?

By the way, a synonym for “savor” is to relish, to smack one’s lips in pure delight.

Listen carefully. Did you hear that? It was me smacking my lips.

Wonderful ideas come at the most unexpected times, don’t they?

For instance.

I decided this morning to go cycling, something I haven’t done for a couple of months. After I gathered all the gear, pumped up the tires, tossed the bike in the back of my pickup and drove to the bike path, the Arizona sun was already reminding me that late July is not the very best time to ride. But…I was there and so I did. Cycling often provides a time and space for me to really relax and let my mind wander, and, thus, this morning my mind clicked into “meditate” gear and off it went. Before long I was thinking of two close friends, men that I’ve known for a long time and who now, both of them, would probably give anything they possessed to ride along the river with me. But they can’t. Because of serious medical issues, both men have seen their lives turned upside down. It is enough to say that neither can be as active and free as he used to be. So, I took them on a ride with me this morning…at least in my imagination.

We rode along the river remembering the fun we have had together over the years, the travels together, the meals shared, the laughter at corny jokes. And I could hear their voices as clearly as ever. I know the sound of each one’s laugh. I know their facial expressions and their unique mannerisms. I know each one, and each was there with me, even though neither could do the peddling anymore. And then I thought…

I’m going to invite them along every time I ride, and I’m going to suggest to my friends that they issue a similar invitation to their friends, too. So here it is: when you wash dishes, or sew on a button, or go hiking, or take in a movie, or climb a ladder, or fix a leaky faucet…when you do anything and everything, invite someone you know to come along with you…even though she or he may not be physically able; especially if they aren’t physically able. Invite them and let them be there in your mind. Let them stand or sit or pedal beside you and allow your mind to interact with them. There are stories to share and memories to uncover and laughs to be had still.

It was a wonderful ride this morning. We enjoyed it. Maybe somehow they know that something special happened in the morning hours of today. Even if they don’t, though, I was blessed by their presence. They gave me a gift and didn’t even know it. Perhaps, though, they did. Perhaps they felt the soft breeze and heard the hum on the tires on the pavement and giggled at another corny joke.

Maybe it’s as we get older that some of us begin to look back over life and think about meanings, special moments, and memorable friends. And then the thought comes: perhaps I should write down some of these things. Perhaps I should write a memoir, an autobiography of my experiences for the benefit of my grandchildren. And we put pen to paper, or, more likely, keyboard to word processing program.

My memoir, I confess, is approaching 50 pages and still growing. But I’m not dead yet, so I keep writing about fascinating people and favorite places. The problem, though, is that everyone I meet and every place I visit deserves top billing because they are fascinating and new favorites…how many pages will I have when the last key stroke is made? I’m thinking about this because of an obscure line in an old movie I saw recently. A shopkeeper, in the movie a florist, is reading the notes she has kept from those little cards that usually accompany a floral delivery. Apparently customers have ordered bouquets or plants by phone and the florist has made notes of their wishes and special messages. Each note expresses some very special thought or emotion. There is one seeking forgiveness, one sending love, one full of sadness, another expressing playful joy. And as the florist reads each one, perhaps remembering the person or the phone call that became the note, she says wistfully: “life on a 3×5 card”.

So, now I’m wondering what I would say about my own life if I had only a 3×5 card upon which to write. How hard would it be to condense everything into a few lines? What and who and where would become most important? I guess this is another way of asking “what’s really important in the end? What rises to the top of the list of experiences and encounters?”

What would you write on your 3×5 card?

Has anyone mentioned to you lately that we live in a world filled with lots of different opinions about lots of different things?

We do.

Strongly held opinions and beliefs at the extreme ends of the political, religious or cultural scales sometimes go around looking for somebody to disagree with, debate, or destroy. “I’m right, your’re wrong and let’s fight about it!” Now I don’t mind a thoughtful conversation, maybe even a spirited swapping of ideas, but I try hard to avoid the war zones of emotionally charged opinions or assumed facts. Too many bodies left in that field. Too many casualties limping around.

But today I heard a story that offers me a kind response to the next guy who shouts in my face and questions my integrity or good sense. I’ll tell it to you. My friend’s son, a college professor, was speaking at a prominent university on a topic that had the potential to ruffle feathers and churn up emotional juices. The topic had to do with the environment, but it could just as easily have been religion, politics, social values, or anything else that comes under the heading “Hot Button”. At the conclusion of his talk, a man rushed to the front of the room, stood directly in front of the speaker’s stand, and shouted his disdain and complete disagreement. His words were colorful, which means I won’t repeat them here; his arms were waving in the air; his face was getting redder with each breath. So the speaker let him carry on for several minutes and waited patiently until the man’s temperature lowered a few degrees. Then, when the attacker had been silent for several seconds, the speaker calmly said: “You and I disagree. I understand that. And I think you are inviting me to go to war against you. Thank you, but I decline your invitation.” Having said that, the speaker turned and walked away.

Nothing changed because of that encounter. Neither man’s firmly held convictions shifted. Even though the invitation to conflict was delivered, the bait cast, there was no war, no explosions of invectives. It just all ended there. Some people might think the speaker weak or not committed enough in his beliefs or afraid of a good verbal fistfight. I call it civility.

Has anyone mentioned to you lately that we live in a world where civility is in short supply? We do.

Civility. We need more of it.

All the major religions of the world have their creation stories, the myths that try to answer unanswerable questions: Where did we come from? How did all of this begin? Who or what is responsible for the reality that I know?

The surprising and intriguing truth is that through many of those varied creation stories, there run similar threads. And these threads hint at several conclusions, one of which is that life, not just human life, but all of it, is linked in ways we cannot grasp. There seems to be a commonality that runs deep in our beings, something that links us back to a beginning. I find that, for instance, in the lovely stories of creation in our Native American heritage, particularly in the Zuni traditions.

The earth is our Mother, the sky our Father. Our Mother gives birth to us; our Father creates light in the dark recesses, hovers over the primordial waters, sets the stars in their places, and brings to being the seed-corn that sustains life. In the legend, Sky-Father says to Earth-Mother: “Even so. Yet I will be helpful to our children” and he spreads out his hand, palm downward. Then into the wrinkles of his hand he sets the semblance of shining yellow corn-grains. “See”, he declares, “our children shall be guided by these…guided by lights. So Sky-Father created the stars.”

I find it interesting that in one of the creation stories in the Christian faith, human kind is made from the earth. A handful of earth becomes a living being. Earth-Mother again. Earth giving life. The earth, from which we come, and to which we return in sacred burial ceremonies. The earth is our life…in more ways than one. Without the earth we do not exist.

Wouldn’t it be nice if all of us could realize the beautiful truths in the metaphors of our beginning? And wouldn’t it be wise if all of us could grasp the urgency of caring for our Mother, who even now tries to sustain her offspring as she suffers through the actions of her children?

It is a crime of arrogant brutality and unthinkable stupidity to murder our Mother.