Monthly Archive for November, 2008

Faith V

There is still something, nevertheless, that strikes me as very odd about these statements by Jesus and that is the purely gratuitous nature of the exemplary acts he cites as the result of having faith. Of what conceivable purpose could moving a mountain into the sea be? And what kind of God tempts man with such power when the meek are to inherit the earth? These statements are diametrically opposed to Jesus’ main message of humility and servitude and they make me wonder why he made them at all. Would it not be just as powerful yet more in agreement with Jesus’ teachings and life to give examples of faith like bringing rain during a drought or causing crops to grow in infertile soil?

But, Jesus used the words he used. There is no profit in second guessing his motives; only in understanding him do we gain anything. The simplest way to understand is to take him literally and then qualify his statements to make them comfortable. To this end, some will, as The Ryrie Study Bible does and with what seems to be not a little unease in attributing such power to mere mortals, put limits on the conditions under which Jesus’ statements are valid. Others will take Jesus’ words just as literally but then proceed to point out the obvious absence of literal mountain-moving men and consign Jesus’ statements to the dung heap along with all notions of a faith worth more than a single mustard seed.

Indeed, we have no record of Jesus, his disciples, nor the apostles moving either mountains or trees into the sea and there is no other evidence that he was speaking literally. So what would it mean to take his words metaphorically or symbolically? A mountain and the sea can be viewed as opposites on several different levels. Aside from the physical opposites of solid/liquid and high/low, mountains symbolize constancy, stillness, firmness while the waters of the sea are chaotic, continually in flux. Mountains represent the state of full consciousness, full differentiation, the place of renunciation and highest aspirations; water symbolizes the undifferentiated, our material existence. Casting a mountain into the sea can then be viewed as merging contrary or contradictory viewpoints and no longer seeing them as separate entities; it is to transcend dualistic thinking by not seeing a mountain here and a separate sea over there but both, together. It is to not apprehend either/or but both/and.

But, of what use is the ability to transcend dualism? How does it help me in my everyday life? Lisa Alther, American author and novelist, writes: “I happen to feel that the degree of a person’s intelligence is directly reflected by the number of conflicting attitudes she can bring to bear on the same topic.” This goes right to the heart of the matter. Dualism says, “This is good and that is evil or that is good and this evil.” But when you cast the mountain into the sea, this ceases to be either good or evil and becomes both good and evil. It is seeing both sides of the coin at the same time, it is the middle way, it is embracing paradox. We think of opposites as mutually exclusive. A thing cannot possibly have two opposite characteristics at the same time; it is either right or wrong, good or evil, left or right, black or white. But the world of paradox is not a world of white or black but a world of grayscale.

Holding all sides of an argument in the mind instead of identifying with one to the exclusion of all the others inevitably produces a tension—the tension of the opposites, as Carl Jung phrased it. Edward F. Edinger discusses this tension of the opposites and describes its effect as consciousness-creating:

[I]n the process of creating consciousness we shall at first be thrown back and forth between opposing moods and attitudes. Each time the ego identifies with one side of a pair of opposites the unconscious will confront one with its contrary. Gradually, the individual becomes able to experience opposite viewpoints simultaneously. With this capacity, alchemically speaking, the Philosophers’ Stone is born, i.e., consciousness is created.

This description of the initial stages of dealing with paradox cannot but bring to mind a similar passage in Ephesians 4:13-15:

[U]ntil we all attain to the unity of the faith, and of the knowledge of the Son of God, to a mature man, to the measure of the stature which belongs to the fulness of Christ. As a result, we are no longer to be children, tossed here and there by waves, and carried about by every wind of doctrine, by the trickery of men, by craftiness in deceitful scheming; but speaking the truth in love, we are to grow up in all aspects unto Him, who is the head, even Christ …

Paul describes the mature person as one who is not tossed and carried about by ideas and opinions, first clinging to one thing then another to the exclusion of all others. Notice that he places no value judgement on the “waves” and “doctrine” as he does on the latter two; it is not only untrue or false ideas that cause us to keep the mountain and sea separate. The goal of “the unity of the faith” and “grow[ing] up in all aspects” as described by Paul is reiterated by Edinger who describes the mature individual as one “able to experience opposite viewpoints simultaneously.”

[ Parts I, II, III, IV ]

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Names I would not choose for myself

Nigel Suckling: author of “Faeries of the Celtic Lands”

Growing Old

I am beginning to think that the purpose in getting older is exactly the thing that irks me the most—seeing my father reflected back at me as I stare into the mirror or catching myself mimicking some unconscious nervous thing that my father does or hearing some too-often used cliché of his come tumbling out of my mouth. But the purpose is not to make me lament that I have turned or am turning into my father for nothing could be further from the truth. The purpose is the occasional recollection of my father in these trivial things with the hope that the remembering will extend to the painful things. The hope that when I am impatient with my daughter that I will remember my father’s impatience with me; when I am hurtful through neglect or forgetfulness that I will remember my father’s hurtfulness; when I am selfish or irrational or obstinate or mean that I will remember my father’s selfishness, irrationality, obstinateness, and meanness not with the aim of self pity or condemnation but rather to comprehend just how fallible—how human—we both are despite our immense differences. I have “reasons” for acting as I do and while, in hindsight, they may seem poor indeed they were, nonetheless, extremely compelling in the moment and may not justify but certainly explain my attitude and actions. And it is the similarity of those irrational reasons which I and my father share—reasons unknown and unknowable to all—even, sometimes, ourselves, but reasons nonetheless which exonerate us, to some extent, from the never ending blame piled on us by our progeny. My father was, just as I am, a mere mortal trying to get through each day with all the associated complications and preconceptions and limiting biases with which he attached himself to his world and is, therefore, no more worthy of resentment than I.

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Perfect Peace

I had a dream a couple weeks ago. In my dream I was trying to catch a train to  go to the airport but the train left five minutes earlier than I expected so I missed it. However, there was a very friendly porter who helped me get a cab to the airport. He also gave me a blanket. I didn’t want the blanket but he insisted; so I took it. As I held it in my arms I buried my face in the thick, soft piles and, for a moment, felt perfect peace. The rest of the world disappeared; the train I had just missed no longer mattered; I just smiled.

That got me thinking about peace—inner peace. Have I ever felt “perfect peace” just after I’ve missed one of the many trains in my life? The answer to that is a definite “no”. I’m too busy worrying about the event which is past and over which I no longer have any control. Or I’m too busy trying to fix it. Will the next train get me there in time? How will I ever make my plane?

But what about “perfect peace” on a lazy Sunday evening? Sounds easy, right? You’ve finished mowing the yard, the dogs are laying on the back patio, and you’re sitting in a lawn chair watching the sun set while drinking freshly squeezed lemon aide. Isn’t this a “perfectly peaceful” moment? Or are you really thinking about what else needs to be done to the house and the yard; what you need to do for work tomorrow; what you didn’t get done last week; how the car needs to be serviced. Before you know it, the sun has set and you missed the fireworks in the clouds.

This reminds me of when I was little and my family would watch I Love Lucy or Bonanza together. I had to go to bed right after the show and that deadline was on my mind the entire time. I’d be watching the clock instead of enjoying Lucy’s crazy antics or wondering how Hoss would get himself out of that spot of trouble he was in this week. I was so focused on not wanting that moment of togetherness to end that I totally missed the moment. I was so busy counting down the minutes until we went our separate ways that I forgot to enjoy the minutes we did have together.

We need to enjoy the peaceful moments we have for just what they are—peaceful moments. The next time you miss the train and have to wait for the next one or your next appointment is late or you get to class a few minutes early, instead of thinking about what else you need to get done today, just sit there and imagine you’re holding a thick, soft blanket. Then bury your face in the blanket and just smile.

I wrote this short essay in April, 2004. I was waiting for my iDisk to synch so I could continue working on my current piece on “Faith” and starting browsing some of my past pieces. I can still recall the feeling from that dream — it truly was a feeling of perfect peace. It was beautiful.

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