Archive for the 'quotes' Category

Your soul is eternal. Starting … now.

Does a single-ended eternity make sense? Our soul is eternal but from here on out. That’s not really eternal, is it?

Now, I’ve never heard anyone preach on where, exactly, our souls come from, but I would guess that most would say that God gives us our soul at conception or birth or sometime in there. That’s what makes us “human.” But where did God get that soul to give to us? Did he create it for me as I was being conceived or born or sometime in there?

Now, this soul of mine — as long as I’m on the “right” side of the fence and the “right” side of Jesus’ body at the Great J-Day — will live forever in God’s presence. But every single thing God has created — plants, animals, stars, galaxies, etc. — dies. Every single thing that does not die on its own will be destroyed when God creates the new heaven and new earth. So, if our souls were created for us, why will they not also be destroyed?

What if, as Eckhart says, our souls — or whatever you want to call our essential essence or being — has always and always will exist?

… whereby man may come most closely to God and wherein he may once more become like the original image as he was in God when there was yet no distinction between God and himself before God produced creatures.

Blessed are the pure in heart who leave everything to God now as they did before ever they existed.

God has no before nor after. God is neither this nor that.God is perfect simplicity. Prior to creatures, in the eternal now, I have played before the Father in his eternal stillness.

That is the real effect of original sin — separating us from God. But if I was born in sin and my soul was created when I was born then “I” have never known anything but separation from God. So, why do I have the urge to repair that separation? Why do I crave something I’ve never had and could never possibly understand?

Being born in sin means that my soul, which was and always had been with God, is now separated from God. And that’s why the Holy Spirit (as I talked about in my previous post) can work in us and remind us of what it was like being not separated from God. We can only be reminded of something we once new.

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The work of the Holy Spirit

Found a quote from The Orthodox Faith by John of Damascus on The Fire and the Rose:

The Son is image of the Father, and image of the Son is the Spirit, through whom the Christ dwelling in man gives it to him to be to the image of God.

So, we can’t become the image of God without the Holy Spirit? But I thought we were created in the image of God. There’s no becoming involved.

Genesis 1:27: So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them.

Genesis 9:6: Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed; for in the image of God has God made man.

In Mysticism: Christian and Buddhist, D.T. Suzuki writes:

Indeed, we are all apt to forget that every one of us is Buddha himself. In the Christian way of saying, this means that we are all made in the likeness of God, or in Eckhart’s words, that “God’s is-ness is my is-ness and neither more nor less.”

We already are the image of God so what does the Holy Spirit have to do? The Holy Spirit is the reminder of things we’ve forgotten because (again from Mysticism)

… the sense of opposites is dominating your consciousness. The idea of participation or empathy is an intellectual interpretation of the primary experience, while as far as the experience itself is concerned, there is no room for any sort of dichotomy. The intellect, however, obtrudes itself and breaks up the experience in order to make it amenable to intellectual treatment, which means a discrimination or bifurcation. The original feeling of identity is then lost and intellect is allowed to have its characteristic way of creaking up reality into pieces. Participation or empathy is the result of inellectualization.

. . .

It is our eating the forbidden fruit of knowledge which has resulted in our constant habit of intellectualizing. But we have never forgotten, mythologically speaking, the original abode of innocence: that is to say, even when we are given over to intellection and to the abstract way of thinking, we are always conscious, however dimly, of something left behind and not appearing on the chart of well-schematized analysis. This “something” is no other than the primary experience of reality in its suchness or is-ness …

The Holy Spirit does not enable us to become the image of God but, rather, is the constant reminder that we already are the image of God. If we allow the Holy Spirit to work in our lives, then we can realize this a-rational identity. A-rational because it does not come from our intellect. We cannot think our way into the image of God. We must experience it in a raw, unprocessed manner.

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Whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God

Ok, that’s the answer I’ve been looking for but the new question of the day is “How?????”

Been thinking lately about how in the hell I’m going to make any spiritual progress when I have very little time to be “spiritual.” You know, “Deadlines and commitments. What to leave in? What to leave out?” My 17 month old daughter is definitely a “leave in” and that doesn’t leave a whole lot of time for other stuff. (But I love it!)

Then I found the following in The Gateless Gate by Koun Yamada:

The poem that expresses the Hinayana point of view is:

Since the whole cottage has been built by assembling brushwood,
If we took it to pieces,
Nothing would remain but the field, as before.

The one which expresses the Mahayana point of view is:

Since the cottage has been built by assembling brushwood,
There is nothing but the field,
Even without taking it to pieces.

Now, what does the field mean? Again, it is nothing but the empty-infinite, our essential nature, and what does the brushwood represent? It is the objective world, which includes our body and mental activities — concepts, ideas, thinking, feeling, and so on. When we get rid of this objective world, there remains only standing up, sitting down, going to bed, walking and running, eating a meal when you are hungry, crying when sad, working when you need money. There are no concepts or ideas whatsoever attached to these. When you sit down, there is no philosophy attached. Our life in this world is made up of such actions. Is there anything more? No! And from the standpoint of sitting down or taking a walk, there is no difference at all between Buddhas and us.

And this reminded me of I Corinthians 10:31

So whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God.

“Whatever you do.” That means every single second of every single day. That’s more than saying grace before I eat — it’s eating my hamburger for the glory of God. It’s brushing my teeth for the glory of God. It’s driving to the grocery store for the glory of God. It’s doing all the mundane, mindless, mediocre, menial things for the glory of God. Because that’s what life really is. Life is what happens between the couple of high points you may experience.

So, the question has now become shorter but no less simple: “How?”

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More on experience v. theology

Thomas Merton, again, from Zen and the Birds of Appetite:

The best we can say is that in certain religions, Buddhism for instance, the philosophical or religious framework is of a kind that can more easily be discarded, because it has in itself a built-in “ejector,” so to speak, by which the meditator is at a certain point flung out from the conceptual apparatus into the Void. It is possible for a Zen Master to say nonchalantly to his disciple, “If you meet the Buddha, kill him!” But in Christian mysticism the question whether or not the mystic can get along without the human “form” (Gestalt) or the sacred Humanity of Christ is still hotly debated, with the majority opinion definitely maintaining the necessity for the Christ of faith to be present as ikon at the center of Christian contemplation. Here again, the question is confused by the failure to distinguish between the objective theology of Christian experience and the actual psychological facts of Christian mysticism in certain cases. And then one must ask, at what point do the abstract demands of theory take precedence over the psychological facts of experience? Or, to what extent does the theology of a theologian without experience claim to interpret correctly the “experienced theology” of the mystic who is perhaps not able to articulate the meaning of his experience in a satisfactory way?

Everyone espousing a particular theology needs to have a way to distinguish those who believe the same from those who don’t. For the mystic, there is a certain language that is shared which makes no sense to outsiders. For the “theologian without experience” the theology must take on a rigid belief system which must be intellectual since there is no experiential basis. This external theology then requires adherence to sacraments, creeds, and behaviors. This is precisely why mystics have been questionable, at best, and often outcasts. The two theologies have nothing in common and there is a one-way path of communication. The mystic can interpret the other theology in terms of her experiences and thereby gain from participating in the sacraments, creeds, and behaviors. But there is no such understanding going the other direction. The non-experiencing theologian cannot understand the mystic’s theology any more than he can understand a joke told in a foreign language. Therefore, he has no ruler by which to measure the mystical theology’s closeness to his own. The easiest thing to do is condemn her.

And a little later …

On the other hand, let us repeat that we must not neglect the great importance of experience in Christianity. But Christian experience always has a special modality, due to the fact that it is inseparable from the mystery of Christ and the collective life of the Church, the Body of Christ. To experience the mystery of Christ mystically or otherwise is always to transcend the merely individual psychological level and to “experience theologically with the Church” (sentire cum Ecclesia). In other words, this experience must always be in some way reducible to a theological form that can be shared by the rest of the Church or that shows that it is a sharing of what the rest of the Church experiences. There is therefore in the recording of Christian experiences a natural tendency to set them down in language and symbols that are easily accessible to other Christians. This may perhaps sometimes mean an unconscious translation of the inexpressible into familiar symbols that are always at hand ready for immediate use.

Two things for me here but the second will be the subject of its own post. First is the idea that since “experience must always be … reducible to a theological form that can be shared” then there is “a natural tendency to set them down in language and symbols that are easily accessible to other Christians.”

I agree that if you are going to share experience with everyone then it must be reduced down to something concrete that can be passed around. And this is somewhat of a problem for me because by solidifying an experience, you lose so much and gain so little because it’s impossible for someone to partake in your experience who has not had the same experience (or similar) herself. Just imagine trying to share the experience of the color red with someone who has been blind since birth.

But making it “easily accessible” is the real problem for me. If it’s easy then it’s not so precious. I’ve talked on this topic before but I’m coming to realize that this is one of the bigger “issues” I take with Evangelical and Fundamental Christianity. (I hesitate using such adjectives as I know there is a wide range of Evangelicals and Fundamentalists and what I’m saying does not apply to everyone. What I really mean to do is describe the type of Christianity/Christian I am referring to by my description. The old “if the shoe fits …” and it’s up to you to decide if I’m referring to you or not.) But back on point. “Easily accessible” requires a formula. It does not allow for differing experiences of the same thing where these experiences are not trivially reconciled. Everyone must follow the formula or risk being labeled as a heretic.

This leads to legalism and fanaticism, and lends itself extremely well to hypocrisy. As long as you appear to be following the formula, toeing the line, then you are in the right. If you deviate from the formula, it is obvious and are a prime candidate for rebuke or retaliation from those in the right. Worse still, those who only appear to be correct are the ones who most vehemently require absolute compliance from the rest of us for it somehow alleviates the self doubt they secretly harbor. It’s their shadow being projected on others.

It is in such a legalistic context that the sacred symbols of our experience of Christ become the battle grounds of theologians who cannot admit the validity of formulae different from their own. The precise meaning and interpretation of the sacraments, for example, overshadow the experience and actually insulate the Christian from the full experience of Christ. The focus is so strongly fixated on the external details that the experience itself is lost. Whether the bread and wine actually become the body and blood of Jesus or whether they represent the body and blood or whatever should be a distant second in importance to the experience itself of partaking in the death and resurrection of The Christ.

Furthermore, the “easily accessible” formula not only insulates but actually works to prevent the experience because the experiencer has outside constraints on how the experience is to be realized. What one does and how one thinks is dictated by the formula and so one is not free to experience the sacraments, for example, apart from the well-defined, specific, ritual set down by the theologians. It’s like painting by number where you are told exactly what color to use where. That’s not really painting at all. There’s no feeling in it. There’s no connection with the work. There’s no real experience of painting.

The second point is the “set them down in language and symbols” part. Merton has an excellent passage on how we use language which is germane to this point and will be posted later.

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“The Christ we seek is within us”

I tried to talk about this idea in previous posts here and here. In my recent “coincidental” book purchase of Thomas Merton’s The Hidden Ground of Love: Letters on Religious Experience and Social Concerns (yes, another quote from Merton!) he talks about the same idea in a letter to D.T. Suzuki:

The essentially Christian element in all this is the fact that it is centered in Christ. But what does that mean? Does it mean conformity to a social and conventional image of Christ? Then we become involved and alienated in another projection: a Christ who is not Christ but the symbol of a certain sector of society, a certain group, a certain class, a certain culture . . . Fatal. The Christ we seek is within us, in our inmost self, is our inmost self, and yet infinitely transcends ourselves. We have to be “found in Him” and yet be perfectly ourselves and free from the domination of any image of Him other than Himself. You see, that is the trouble with the Christian world. It is not dominated by Christ (which would be perfect freedom), it is enslaved by images and ideas of Christ that are creations and projections of men and stand in the way of God’s freedom. But Christ Himself is in us as unknown and unseen. We follow Him, we find Him (it is like the cow-catching pictures) and then He must vanish and we must go along without Him at our side. Why? Because He is even closer that that. He is ourself.

I think there’s too much emphasis on God being “out there.” We as poor sinners cannot reach way up high to touch God except through Jesus Christ. But even after we’ve done that, God is still “out there” and we are still “down here” and Christ is still “some where” acting as mediator. There’s no identification with God or Christ. Sure, we have the Holy Spirit indwelling us but no one really knows what that means today. “Christ … is within is, in our inmost self, is our inmost self.” I think the difficulty with this concept is that it changes the way we must look at others. As Jesus said, “whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.” Now, if “the least of these” is Christ, then we are in a world of trouble.

Merton goes even further than I did in my posts. He goes beyond the identification. He goes to the total consummation. After we identify with Christ, we then consume him (”This is my body …?”) and he becomes part of us. But even more than part of us. He is integrated into us so completely that we can’t tell where we end and he starts. We’ve become one — the symbolism of marriage — so that there are no longer two but only one.

The goal of every Christian is to able to recognize that integration — in ourselves and in others. The goal is to not see me and you but to see GmOeD and GyOoDu and to recognize the three-sided equality of you-me-God. If we all did that, we would not go to war. We would not let people starve. We would not pollute our bodies or the environment. Obeying God’s law would be first-nature because it would be our law. We would be totally, completely, 100% free to do whatever we wanted because our wants would be perfect wants — the wants of God. God’s will would, surely, be done on earth as it is in heaven.

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Relative nearness to God

I think it only natural that each of us thinks our own “way to God” is the best. I doubt anyone would travel a path which they felt inferior to another one available to them. But we fall into hubris when we begin thinking that “our way” is categorically the best or only way to God. Thomas Merton put it this way in a letter to Philip Griggs:

You ask about the relative nearness to God of a fervent Sadhu and a superficial Christian. The Church’s teaching on nearness to God is that he who loves God better, knows Him better, and is more perfectly obedient to His will, is closer to Him than others who may love, know and obey Him less well. Since it is to me perfectly obvious that a Sadhu might well know God better and love Him better than a lukewarm Christian, I see no problem whatever about declaring that such a one is closer to Him and is even, by that fact, closer to Christ. The distinction lies in the fact that Catholics believe that the Church does possess a clearer and more perfect exoteric doctrine and sacramental system which “objectively” ought to be more secure and reliable a means for men to come to God and save their souls. Obviously this cannot be argued and scientifically proved, I simply state it as part of our belief in the Church. But the fact remains that God is not bound to confine His gifts to the framework of these external means, and in the end we are sanctified not merely by the instrumentality of doctrines and sacraments but by the Holy Spirit. And I repeat my conviction as a Catholic that the Holy Spirit may perfectly well be more active in the heart of a Hindu monk than in my own. I am prepared to recognize this in anyone I meet who seems to be genuinely holy and I am quite often struck by what seem to me to be signs of such holiness in people who have nothing to do with the Catholic Church.

from The Hidden Ground of Love: Letters on Religious Experience and Social
emphasis mine

The “tricky” part is seeing the genuine holiness in others. It takes an openness on our part that is difficult to achieve. Especially when we are so caught up in external things — names, affiliations, titles, creeds, dogma.

For those of you who have not heard of Thomas Merton, the following is the introduction on wikipedia:

Thomas Merton (January 31, 1915 – December 10, 1968) was one of the most influential Catholic authors of the 20th century. A Trappist monk of the Abbey of Our Lady of Gethsemani, in the American state of Kentucky, Merton was an acclaimed Catholic spiritual writer, poet, author and social activist. Merton wrote over 60 books, scores of essays and reviews, and is the ongoing subject of many biographies. Merton was also a proponent of interreligious dialogue, engaging in spiritual dialogues with such icons as the Dalai Lama, Thich Nhat Hanh and D.T. Suzuki. His career was suddenly cut short at a relatively young age due to an accident when he was electrocuted stepping out of his bath.

I’ve just found some of his letters to D.T. Suzuki in the book from which I quote above and based on comments in those, I’ve ordered six books and will be ordering two more (from “local” bookstores via abebooks.com and from a real local bookstore here in KC). They are truly fantastic letters with so many wonderful ideas about Christianity. I highly recommend them to everyone.

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From the mouths of those more eloquent than I …

I think things. I write things. I take too long to write good ;-) and put it aside. Then I find that someone else has said what I want to say. And said it more eloquently than I am capable of (hopefully that will change). So, why not let those who have already spoken speak for me?

So, here’s another quote from Thomas Merton’s letter to Amiya Chakravarty in The Hidden Ground of Love: Letters on Religious Experience and Social Concerns:

It is not easy to try to say what I now I cannot say. I do really have the feeling that you have all understood and shared quite perfectly. That you have seen something that I see to be most precious — and most available too. The reality that is present to us and in us: call it Being, call it Atman, call it Pneuma … or Silence. And the simple fact that by being attentive, by learning to listen (or recovering the natural capacity to listen which cannot be learned any more than breathing), we can find ourself engulfed in such happiness that it cannot be explained: the happiness of being at one with everything in that hidden ground of Love for which there can be no explanations.

I suppose what makes me most glad is that we all recognize each other in this metaphysical space of silence and happiness, and get some sense, for a moment, that we are full of paradise without knowing it …

Aside from Merton’s appreciation for religious and spiritual thought other than his own, what strikes me about this passage is the last sentence. How many of us truly recognize each other? We meet someone and immediately we judge them based on name, appearance, the way they stand, how they talk, what their “affiliations” are. We never are just with them in the “metaphysical space of silence and happiness.” We don’t truly recognize them; we think we see them or know them but all we see are the exterior things. We don’t see how “full of paradise” they are. Hell, we don’t even see how “full of paradise” we are. We just don’t know. And the rate some of us are going — we never will.

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The rewards of writing

Thomas Merton wrote this in a letter to Amiya Chakravarty and it truly echoes my feelings:

For a writer there is surely not much that can be more rewarding than the fact of being really read and understood and appreciated. After all, the great thing in life is to share the best one has, no matter how poor it may be. The sharing gives it value. Often when I reread things I have written I find them so bad that I am irritated with myself: of course this is only vanity. But once I realize that they have meant something to someone they acquire something of the other person’s value and meaning. What you read and liked of mine I shall like better now because you have all enjoyed them: I will like them because of all of you. I will like them because they are more yours than mine.

From: The Hidden Ground of Love: Letters on Religious Experience and Social Concerns

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Merging of the heart and mind

The Great Way is not difficult
for those who have no preferences.
When love and hate are both absent
everything becomes clear and undisguised.
Make the smallest distinction, however,
and heaven and earth are set infinitely apart.
If you wish to see the truth
then hold no opinions for or against anything.
To set up what you like against what you dislike
is the disease of the mind.
When the deep meaning of things is not understood
the mind’s essential peace is disturbed to no avail.

Hsin Hsin Ming by the 3rd Zen patriarch. Translation by Richard B. Clarke

from Who Dies? by Stephen Levine, p. 69.

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I can’t get no satisfaction

Your search for “the perfect mango” or “the hottest sports car” has at its core a feeling of unsatisfactoriness. Then there comes the moment of satisfaction. The moving from not having to having that comes as you catch a glimpse of that longed-for mango. You become exhilarated. “Oh, it’s yellow. Oh, what a beautiful mango!” And the mango is in your hand and there is a moment of peace. For a split second there is no desire in the mind and the body feels very light. Peace is experienced not because of the object in our hand but because for a moment desire does not obstruct the joy and quietude of our underlying nature. What we call satisfaction is the momentary experience of the vastness which lies beneath. All of a sudden the clouds part and the sun shines through. The painfulness of desire does not exist. The mind for a moment experiences its wholeness. In that moment of nonwanting, the mind becomes like a clear pool no longer ruffled by the prevailing winds and we can see through the still water to what lies beneath. We experience a moment’s participation in the joyousness that arises as we approach our true nature.

In a split second this satisfaction disappears as other desires arise to protect what it has just acquired. To hide the mango, to plant its seed, to get as much out of it as possible. Freedom is lost in the density of yet more wanting, of yet more protection and self-interest.

—Stephen Levine, Who Dies? (Anchor Press/Doubleday, 1982), pp. 44-45. (Emphasis mine)

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