Applying the Teachings

Pema Chodron: What would you say, in a nutshell, that we should do about the confusion?

Dzigar Kontrul: Listen to the teachings, study them, and contemplate them. Then, allow the teachings to illuminate your experience, rather than trying to bring your experience in line with the teachings. It’s important first to have the teachings illuminate your experience, so you can see what’s happening clearly before you actually try to put them into practice.
—from the Shambala Sun interview, January 2006

Here Pema Chodron is asking about the universal confusion experienced by all of us regarding our true nature. It’s the confusion that causes us to constantly feel alienated and unfulfilled. It’s our habitual pattern of judging all our experiences as good, bad, or indifferent, and the accompanying suffering that unfolds as a result.

I love Dzigar Kongtrul Rinpoche’s response. He takes it for granted that we know what the teachings on liberation say and how to access them. The power in his answer is that he warns us not to use them as a yardstick to judge ourselves, which would just be an extension of our confusion. I appreciate this, because self-judgment is a major afflictive emotion for me, and I often get frustrated with spiritual practice because I judge myself unsuccessful at living out the teachings that I know can set me free.

What I hear Rinpoche saying is that we should just look at our minds, and calmly watch the patterns of experience unfolding in our minds, and see how those experiences compare to the teachings. Do the patterns in my mind confirm what the sages of old have been saying down through the centuries? When I experience moments of clarity, what are the causes and conditions that give rise to the clarity? In this simple approach to practice, we become scientists dispassionately observing our subject, watching its behavior, drawing conclusions and learning from the present moment as each moment unfolds. There is no struggle; just continuous learning.

God himself is born!

And so we see, God is not

until he is born.

And also we see

there is no end to the birth of God.

--D.H. Lawrence

The Birth of Something Different

Into this world
this demented inn,
in which there is no room
for Him at all,
Christ has come uninvited.

But because He cannot
be at home in it, because He is
out of place in it,
His place is with those
who do not belong,
who are rejected
by power because
they are regarded as weak,
those who are discredited,
who are denied
the status of person,
tortured and exterminated.

With those for whom
there is no room,
Christ is present in this world.

He is mysteriously present
in those for whom
there seems to be nothing
but the world at its worst.
--Thomas Merton

Some people professing to follow Christ have made a big deal out of people saying "Happy Holidays" this year instead of "Merry Christmas." These folks would do well to read Thomas Merton's poem and be reminded of what following Christ really entails.

What is Heaven?

I knew it would be frustrating, but nevertheless I felt a compulsion to watch Barbara Walter's television special on Heaven the other night. The draw for me, of course, was that she planned to interview His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama, exiled leader of Tibetan Buddhism.

Walters actually did a pretty good job of having a lot of different religious viewpoints represented, but I was frustrated that the messages we heard from so many of the clergy, whether Jewish, Christian or Muslim, was that our popular images of heaven ought to be taken literally. They didn't say this specifically, but it was clear that they did indeed take all the typical images of the afterlife at face value. I was disappointed that no contemplative perspectives were offered which would say, "Perhaps these images that we have inherited from previous generations who have speculated on the afterlife are far too limited to really convey the reality of what lies beyond this life?" Maybe we talk about streets of gold, or heavenly mansions, or being reunited with our loved ones, because these are the best images we can come up with using our limited human minds to describe an experience beyond words and description?

For example, many of those interviewed expressed their belief or desire to be reunited with their loved ones after death. I long for that as much as anybody, but perhaps that reunion is far vaster than what we typically imagine. What if there will be a time when we can know our loved ones far more intimately than we have ever known them here, when all of the barriers, whether physical, psychological or spiritual, will be broken down, and we can see each other the way God sees us? And better: what if we can see every other being who has ever lived at this same intimate level? What if we could experience the love of every being at a level exponentially greater than anything we've ever experienced on earth? Basically, we would experience the vast interconnectedness of all life without the barriers of "self." We would not just "see" each other in heaven, we would know all others on a level beyond anything before, so that we experience only Knowing and Being?

In Walters' interview, the Dalai Lama expressed the traditional Tibetan belief that "heaven" is actually part of the six different realms of existence, and that it is a place of peace and comfort similar to what the theistic traditions describe. However, he was careful to point out that "reaching" heaven just means we can continue our spiritual journey with fewer of the hindrances and obstacles of this realm. The point is not being someplace, but being a particular way. Again, the point is the experience of interconnection, compassion and understanding. This will of necessity require us to let go of all images, concepts and ideas that we have clung to, including our ideas of heaven.

winter solstice --
the pear tree
finally shakes its leaves

Monastic Humor

“There was a man in our [monastic] community who was always prompt, studious, generally serious, and obviously destined for a role among the hierarchy. He was a perfect target for monastic humor.

One night he arrived at his room to find life-sized statues of a male and female saint lying next to each other in his bed. On another occasion, just to add a spice of humility to his habit of promptness, some of his more thoughtful confreres unscrewed the handles on his door, so that when the bell for vespers rang, no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t get the door open.

What is the humor within the joke here? Don’t saints sleep together? Don’t we know from Pygmalion that statues have their own private lies? Aren’t we always locked in when we have important things to do elsewhere?”
—Meditations on the Monk Who Dwells in Daily Life

We want our lives to be so neat and tidy. We want everything to fit, and nothing to be ambiguous, messy and certainly not flawed. But enlightened living is not having it all together. It’s seeing that it’s all a big mess, and being able to embrace the mess with humor and with love.

Sacred Time

"In monastic life time is not measured by a clock. The day may be set out according to the parts of the Divine Office, a set of psalms and songs chosen according to the remembrance of the day--a saint, a liturgical season, a holy event...Qualities of time are also evoked by chants...We all have music that is tied to special times, and is therefore a means for celebrating the seasons of the soul. We could all learn from monks to disregard our watches and find other more imaginative, creative ways to mark time."
--Meditations on the Monk Who Dwells in Daily Life

Perhaps the most unique and fascinating alternative to our normal way of marking time that I've ever encountered is the ECOlogical calendar, which was developed by artist Chris Hardman. Reflecting the theory of All Time, the ECOlogical calendar is a colorful, poetic and extremely naturalistic tool for marking our place in the history of the universe. On the ECOlogical Calendar, years are marked since the dawn of the universe approximately 13.7 billion years ago (that will put things into perspective). Names of the months and days of the year are given poetic names that reflect the astrological, geological and ecological phenomena that are nature's holistic signposts marking the changes of the seasons. My birthday, for example, which is on Jan. 4 on the Gregorian calendar, occurs in the month Celeste and is called "Sunclosest" in the ECOlogical calendar, reflecting the ironic phenomena that though the Northern hemisphere is cold and dark this time of year, the Earth's actual proximity to the sun is relatively close (it's the tilt of the Earth that creates the seasons; in that sense, I guess the ECOlogical calendar does reflect a Northern hemisphere bias!).

At any rate, tools like the ECOlogical calendar are useful for reframing our normal way of viewing time and nature, and help correct centuries of anti-environmental sentiment that the world's religions have unfortunately reinforced. With their emphasis on the impermanence of the physical world and the afterlife, the great religions have often left believers with a sense that nature is unimportant, even fallen or corrupt. The Franciscans offer a long-standing alternative to this anti-nature attitude, emphasizing the sacredness and sacramentality of the physical world. Such a perspective will be essential if Christian practitioners hope to maintain a relevant place in this rapidly-changing environmental context, and a relevant and centered view of humanity's place in universal time.

Bells of Mindfulness

“Mundane withdrawal from the busyness of an active life can create a spirituality-without-walls, a spiritual practice that is not explicitly connected to a church or a tradition. I have never forgotten Joseph Campbell’s response when he was asked about his daily yoga practice: laps in a pool and a drink once a day. Anything is material for retreat—cleaning out a closet, giving away some books, taking a walk around the block, clearing your desk, turning off the television set, saying no to an invitation to do anything.

At the sight of nothing, the soul rejoices.”
—Meditations on the Monk Who Dwells in Daily Life

Perhaps the greatest modern saint of simple, mindful living is Thich Nhat Hanh, the Vietnamese Buddhist monk who was nominated by Martin Luther King, Jr., for the Nobel Peace Prize. Since the end of the Vietnam conflict, Thay, as he is called by his students, has written dozens of books and become the world’s ambassador for mindfulness.

Thay recommends very simple practices for waking up the present moment. One of his easiest strategies is to try to utilize normal, everyday sounds as “bells of mindfulness.” When we hear these sounds, we are encouraged to stop whatever we are doing, take a moment to smile and breath, and absorb whatever is going on around and within us. The ringing of the telephone, for example, instead of sending us scrambling to respond to yet another demand, can become our bell of awakening, and we can momentarily resist the urge to answer, collect ourselves back into the present moment, and then pick up the phone with compassion, wisdom and understanding.

There is a doorbell at my place of work that automatically rings when visitors enter the building to alert the staff that someone has arrived. It rings several dozen times a day. Thich Nhat Hanh would probably point out the reliability of this bell of mindfulness, and encourage me to use it for mini, instant retreats whenever I need to return to the present moment.

The Soul at Work

“Monastic buildings show us how an intense interior life may generate an outward form of art, craft, and the care of things. Out of a simple life has come an extraordinary heritage of books, illuminated pages, sculpture, architecture, and music. The cultivation of the inner life overflows in outward displays of beauty and richness.

Maybe it’s a mistake to think of the monastic life as a withdrawal from the active world. We might see it more as an alternative to the hyperactivity that is characteristic of modern life. Traditionally, the monk is extremely active, and on many fronts: actively engaged in nurturing the inner life, actively committed to a communal style of living, and actively producing words, images, and sounds of extraordinary meaningfulness and beauty.”
—Meditations on the Monk Who Dwells in Daily Life

It seems such a stretch for me to imagine cultivating more awareness, more soulfulness, and more meaning out of my work life. My work environment seems the antithesis of monastic thoughtfulness and care. Home life, on the other hand, seems richly soulful to me. It is here at home that I am surrounded by the symbols that give my life meaning, by relationships that nourish and recreate me, where I can nurture little rituals of mindfulness, gratitude and joy.

It’s no wonder we feel so alienated and disconnected every day, when such a wide gulf exists between work and home. Is it just me? Does everyone feel this chasm? I think many do, and it accounts for the fragmentation and unease we experience regarding our work lives.

This is a challenge we must take up. We must find intentional ways to bring soulfulness and meaning back into our vocations and our workplaces. But I hardly know where to begin. To even use this kind of language at work seems slightly embarrassing. What will others think of me? Will they think I’m some kind of religious kook? What kind of strange looks and comments would I get if I closed my door every day and hung a sign that said, “Please do not disturb; meditation in progress”? And the truth is, in my work environment, which is so crisis-oriented, I fear I could not respect my own commitment to “soul time” even if others did. I’m lucky to even have a door to close. In many workplaces you’d have to go to the bathroom to get a minute’s worth of solitude.

I don’t know the answers, for myself or others. But I do know that we need to ask this question in an intentional, deliberate, and thoughtful way. Work is killing us, when it should be cultivating great joy and meaning in our lives. Perhaps today I will start with a tiny little experiment, one I’ve tried in the past with some success, when I can remember to do it. Today I will endeavor to slow down my pace (the speed of my physical activity as well as my thoughts) a mere ten percent. Reducing the pace ten percent actually takes far greater mindfulness than reducing it by half or coming to a complete stop. What I sometimes find is that in doing so, I can increase my productivity by more than ten percent, although that’s not the point. We’re not trying to become more productive; we’re trying to become happier, more holistic human beings.

Tending the Culture of Emptiness

“Early Christian monks went out to live in the desert in order to find emptiness. Modern life is becoming so full that we need our own ways of going to the desert to be relieved of our plenty. Our heads are crammed with information, our lives busy with activities, our cities stuffed with automobiles, our imaginations bloated on pictures and images, our relationships heavy with advice, our jobs burdened with endless new skills, our homes cluttered with gadgets and conveniences. We honor productivity to such an extent that the unproductive person or day seems a failure.

Monks are experts at doing nothing and tending the culture of that emptiness.”
—Thomas Moore, Meditations on the Monk Who Dwells in Daily Life

I don’t remember when I first became enamored with monks and the monastic life. It must have been in college, because I had no personal or cultural reference point earlier than that. When I became interested in Thomas Merton and in Buddhism, I quickly sought out monks and monasteries to see for myself what that life was all about.

Perhaps what has fascinated me the most over the years about the monastics I’ve come to know is how wonderfully human they are. Like me or you in every other way. What makes them different is their deep intentional commitment to live out of that space of emptiness within, to honor silence and solitude as the ground of a healthy, spirit-filled life.

Thomas Moore is best known for his many books on caring for the soul, but this little volume, Meditations on the Monk Who Dwells in Daily Life, is without question my favorite. In it, Moore reflects on the twelve years he himself lived as a monk, and the way in which his daily life is still shaped by that experience of “doing nothing.”

My prayer today, for you and for me, is that with grace, nothing will happen.

The Pillar of Cloud

“An elder said: The monk’s cell is that furnace of Babylon in which the three children found the Son of God; but it is also the pillar of cloud, out of which God spoke to Moses.”
—Wisdom of the Desert

A wonderful little teaching here on what the contemplative life is all about. Being a contemplative is not about being morally perfect, doing good deeds, austerities of the mind and body, etc. It is about using daily life as the stage for a direct encounter with the Ultimate Reality. The monk’s cell is the fire of Babylon and it’s the pillar of cloud.

We may not be monks, but some of us are surely called to be contemplatives, and therefore we could easily transpose the words “your bedroom,” “your office,” “your car” for the words “The monk’s cell.” We, too, are to enter the pillar of cloud.

Nearly a millennium after the Desert Fathers, the anonymous author of the Cloud of Unknowing used the same imagery to describe the deepest states of meditative prayer. When we sit in quiet, compassionate acceptance of whatever arises and falls in our minds and hearts (which is the essence of meditation), we can after a while discern a vast, open ground from whence all the thoughts come and to which they return.

It’s as if you can watch your thoughts and feelings arise and fall in the mind and then, without ignoring them, direct your inner gaze just behind or beneath them. The author of the Cloud describes it as “looking over the shoulder” of the thought, feeling or idea. What you see beyond them is…nothing. This nothingness is variously describing as a dark cloud, or a deep pool, or even a blinding light. But the great mystics, who have persisted with their prayer until they are existentially immersed into that cloud, have testified that it is in fact the heart of God (another metaphor). Words can’t describe it, but the experience of entering the cloud is to transform one’s understanding of who and what we are. It is to see the whole world as the furnace of Babylon and the pillar of cloud.

The Hundred-Year Perspective

“It was said of Abbot Agatho that for three years he carried a stone in his mouth until he learned to be silent.”
—Wisdom of the Desert

There is a terrific scene in the Bernardo Bertolucci film Little Buddha in which a child asks a Tibetan lama the meaning of impermanence. “See all these people,” the lama said, “and all the people everywhere in the world today. In a hundred years, we’ll all be dead. That’s impermanence.”

For some reason I awoke in the middle of the night last evening with a vivid sense of my own mortality. This was not particularly unusual or disturbing. This happens to me from time to time, and I usually see this kind of mindfulness as a gift. I feel fortunate to be reminded that I am often focused on the wrong things.

All the people with whom we have conflict and with whom we play out our human drama, and all the sources of our stress and difficulty, are just as impermanent as we are. All the things that cause us mental suffering and anguish are fading phenomena. One hundred years from now, very little of the specifics of what we do will matter at all. That we were stuck in a traffic jam, that we had the flu this week, that we had some problem at work, none of this will matter in a hundred years. For that matter, where we worked will probably not matter in a hundred years.

But this shouldn’t be interpreted with nihilistic despair. To the contrary, there are indeed many things we do which will matter a hundred years from now. The peace and justice we create in the world, the legacy of compassion and understanding that we demonstrate toward others, will create a ripple effect that will bear fruit for centuries to come. Perhaps we could say that what we do matters less than how we do it. Or, put another way, perhaps we should view our daily activities from this hundred-year perspective, and look for those small deeds that will in fact last that long, and not worry so much about the things that will be forgotten tomorrow—or even five minutes from now.

Abbot Agatho’s practice of silence is a wonderful example. Clearly, he did speak occasionally (we have the great legacy of his simple teachings in books like Wisdom of the Desert). But by practicing silence most of the time, he learned to make his words count when he did speak, and didn’t waste his breath or time on making noise that would quickly be swallowed up in the abyss of impermanence. And here are the words that were left, still counting nearly two millennia later.

Forever Beginners

“They said of Abbot Pambo that in the very hour when he departed this life he said to the holy men who stood by him: From the time I came to this place in the desert, and built me a cell, and dwelt here, I do not remember eating bread that was not earned by the work of my own hands, nor do I remember saying anything for which I was sorry even until this hour. And thus I go to the Lord as one who has not even made a beginning in the service of God.”
—Wisdom of the Desert

What a tremendous desert koan! And I can’t begin to fathom what it means.

Perhaps Abbot Pambo is saying that renunciation and silence—essential though they may be—are incomplete without compassion and service toward others. Contemplation must be responded to with action in the world? Or looked at another way, perhaps his efforts to be self-sufficient and independent of the world of “men” reinforced his ego (false self) on some level? Perhaps receiving from others’ hands and saying things for which we are sorry are necessary parts of our spiritual growth.

But maybe this saying is a revelation of Pambo’s great humility, and his recognition that grace is a gift freely given, that we ultimately cannot accumulate enough tally marks of good works and holy words to get credit for our service to God and others. Even after a life of solitude and silence, Pambo knew he was still a complete novice in work of the spirit, as we all are. And the miracle of grace is that we are loved and embraced though we remain forever beginners on the path.

Three Marks of Understanding

“Abbot Joseph of Thebes said: There are three kinds of people who find honor in the sight of God: First, those who, when they are ill and tempted, accept all these things with thanksgiving. The second, those who do all their works clean in the sight of God, in no way merely seeking to please others. The third, those who sit in subjection to the command of a spiritual [director] and renounce all their own desires.”
—Wisdom of the Desert

It is interesting that Abbot Joseph did not put any of these spiritual paths in rank order. Gratitude, good works (compassion), and renunciation (wisdom) are all presented as equal means to living an enlightened life. Perhaps these three gifts are all separate manifestations of the same experience? All three reveal the fundamental interconnectedness of reality.

We are not separate entities, though our existential loneliness and fear reinforce the illusion that we are (they are actually a by-product of this illusory thinking—the lack of “right views” and “right understanding,” as the Buddhists would say). From the contemplative perspective, all reality interpenetrates every particular phenomenon. This is the “true self” in contemplative terms. When the false self is abandoned and the true self is revealed, the resulting experience is marked by vast gratitude, compassion and wisdom. These three marks are the signs of real understanding.

Your Life Will Teach You Everything

“A certain brother went to Abbot Moses in Scete and asked him for a good word. And the elder said to him: Go, sit in your cell, and your cell will teach you everything.”
—Wisdom of the Desert

There is a very advanced form of meditation called “choiceless awareness” which Matthew Flickstein taught me on retreat last year. Well, it’s advanced for me, anyway. I’m sure there have been many others who have plumbed the depths of the spirit and experienced things far beyond what I can imagine. But choiceless awareness is a practice that is at the far reaches of my own experience. I don’t recommend it for beginners.

In this practice, you just sit. You don’t try to use a sacred word to focus your attention. You don’t follow the breath. You don’t intentionally peer into the nature of the mental phenomena that arise in the mind. You don’t look for the “self.” You just sit there, and observe whatever comes and goes, without comment, judgment or reaction. It feels like you aren’t doing anything, which is exactly the point. There is no manipulation of the mind’s experience whatsoever (which is a radical shift from our normal perception of the world). And when the tendency to comment, judge or react subsides, there is just this vast, deep acceptance of everything, just as it is. This, to me, seems to be the nature of unconditional love that the traditions say we are to make manifest.

Now the deeper task: to keep loving like this, even when we get up from the meditation seat.

Giving Birth

“Be watchful! Be alert!”
—Mark 13:33

“One of the elders said: Pray attentively and you will soon straighten out your thoughts.”
—Wisdom of the Desert

Advent is the most intentionally contemplative time of the Christian calendar. The institutional church actually acknowledges that the Incarnation is not just an historical event of ancient times, but a living reality of the present moment. The irony, of course, is that outwardly this is the most stressful, fast-paced and consumer-oriented time of the year.

Spiritually, there is but one thing for us to do: sit and silently wait. To be attentive is to receive the present moment with love. To receive unconditionally is to love as God loves, which is to give birth to the Christ. We are in labor this very moment, if we but sit still and wait.

The Fool's Path

“One of the elders said: Either fly as far as you can from men, or else, laughing at the world and the men who are in it, make yourself a fool in many things.”
—Wisdom of the Desert

This is one of the most delightful sayings of the desert fathers. Since I have not flown from the world of men (and women), then clearly I have chosen the path of the fool. So, how am I doing at laughing at the world and making myself a fool in many things?

The concept of the holy fool runs throughout the mystical tradition of many religions. Sometimes he’s the trickster of Native American lore; sometimes he’s the bumbling but all-wise sidekick of legends (think Little John to Robin Hood; Sancho Panza to Don Quixote); sometimes he’s the Christ himself, surprising the party guests by turning water into wine.

The holy fool reveals the joy and glory of the Ultimate Reality in everyday, common things. Whenever we are surprised by grace, or break into laughter at the comedic unfolding of the human drama against the backdrop of Infinite Being, or whenever we simply take ourselves less seriously and laugh—perhaps the most vulnerable act of emotion—we let go into the mystery, surrender our need to control, and merrily rest in the present moment, for a brief moment quietly confident that the Universe is indeed laughing with us.

Grace in Strange Places

“Once some robbers came into the monastery and said to one of the elders: We have come to take away everything that is in your cell. And he said: My sons, take what you want. So they took everything they could find in the cell and started off. But they left behind a little bag that was hidden in the cell. The elder picked it up and followed after them, crying out: My sons, take this, you forgot it in the cell! Amazed at the patience of the elder, they brought everything back into his cell and did penance, saying: This one really is a man of God!”
—Wisdom of the Desert

While in Boston this weekend, I found myself in this sprawling, glittering maze of a shopping mall that connects several of the downtown hotels. Convention-goers at the hotels are spared the task of walking outdoors on the busy street by passing through the mall as they move from one hotel to the other, and are assailed by the noise, flash and smells of literally millions of beautiful consumer products and foods. Like all malls, there is a plasticity and dissonance about the place, and I found myself both repulsed by the materialistic spectacle and drawn to the wonderful things that appealed to my own tastes and pleasures.

And then, in the middle of all this, right next to Dunkin’ Donuts, was a small chapel dedicated to St. Francis of Assisi. Through the glass doors, passersby got a glimpse of the darkened, candle-lit chapel. A few solitary souls were praying there in adoration of the Eucharist.

It was a jarring scene, this oasis of peace and stillness in the midst of all the consumer celebration. After passing the chapel several times through the weekend, I finally went in myself, and knelt in the quiet darkness. Something just wasn’t right about this, and at first I thought that the chapel’s presence amounted to some kind of religious endorsement of the shopping frenzy going on outside. But the more I lingered, the more the holiness of the place moved me. This little chapel, like the little saint whose name adorned the door, was a witness to the virtues of silence, compassion and justice. What more appropriate place is there for this kind of witness than in the midst of a shopping mall? Depending on my level of guilt, the chapel was either a condemnation of my own self-absorbed consumerism, or else just a quiet reminder that while I go about my busy, affluent lifestyle, I am vastly more than the sum of all the things I have bought or produced today.

We do not have to become monks to enter the reign of heaven, though such renunciation can certainly heighten our awareness of the Divine Presence. Rather, the reign of heaven is right here among us, within our daily activities, the buying and selling and producing and consuming that is a part of our everyday world. Our call to surrender completely to the Mystery lives in dynamic tension with the materialistic temptations we encounter each day. So perhaps we need more such chapels in our shopping malls, in our homes, in our places of work, to remind us of our true self, who possesses nothing, buys nothing and consumes nothing whatsoever, because the true self dwells in a state of perpetual abundance.

The Roar of Silence

“Abbot Pastor said: Any trial whatever that comes to you can be conquered by silence.”
—Wisdom of the Desert

Silence is not passivity. This may seem like an impossible statement in a world that so recklessly values noise, activity and motion, the louder and faster the better. Silence seems like anathema. In moments of inactivity, we grow restless and immediately start looking for something else to do or something else to fill our minds. Watch how uncomfortable people get when a conversation settles into a moment of silence.

Rather than retreat from these spaces in our speech or activity, we ought to reverse our expectations and see these moments as our original state of being. What if we began to see silence and stillness as our normal condition? We could then see our ideas, our words and our actions rising up out of that wide ocean of being, playing out a little while on the tiny, fragile stage of human existence, and then returning to the space from whence they came. We would see our activity in the perspective of that open, vast pool of silence. When a problem presented itself to us, we would be less likely to react immediately (which usually means reacting based on our surface emotions, or our habitual expectations and attitudes), and more likely to just quietly wait. From that stillness, wise answers to our problems will emerge effortlessly. Action will arise spontaneously, but rather than us doing the action, the action will simply do itself. And then all things will return to that ocean of silence.

In college I had a professor who had a profound sense of presence, and when you spoke to him, he listened like a mountain. When I was done speaking, a moment of silence emerged that seemed to go on forever to me, it was so vast and deep and I nearly trembled with anxiety because this space was so foreign to me. And then he would respond to what I had said, usually with great wisdom or compassion. Even when what he said was completely ordinary, I felt as if the whole universe had heard me and affirmed me. This man had learned to live in that ocean of stillness.

Meditation teacher Matthew Flickstein told me once that when someone asks him a question, he never knows what he is going to say in reply before he says it. Sometimes, if no answer arises, he just doesn’t say anything at all.

Existential Hospitality

“A brother came and stayed with a certain solitary and when he was leaving he said: Forgive me, Father, for I have broken in upon your Rule. But the hermit replied, saying: My Rule is to receive you with hospitality and to let you go in peace.”
—Wisdom of the Desert

The hermit’s hospitality is a sacrament for the entire contemplative life. Can we welcome all people, all experiences, all thoughts—our very lives—without judgment and commentary but with hospitality, and let them go in peace? All life is a gift which we are to receive with open arms and offer back to the universe from whence it came.

"The Master allows things to happen.
She shapes events as they come.
She steps out of the way
and lets the Tao speak for itself."
--Tao Te Ching, Ch. 45

The Unknown Path

"MY LORD GOD, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think that I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road though I may know nothing about it. Therefore will I trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone."
--Thomas Merton, Thoughts in Solitude

My friend's wonderfully poetic comments last week about the nature of fear and the blessedness of the present moment made me think of this tremendous prayer from Thomas Merton, which has now so powerfully resonated with nearly three generations. It's hard to articulate exactly what appeals so much about this prayer. Perhaps it's Merton's deep vulnerability. We can identify so clearly with his lament, "I have no idea where I'm going." And yet, there is so much hope.

Not knowing is the path to real knowing.

Strangers and Friends

“Abbot Pastor was asked by a certain brother: How should I conduct myself in the place where I live? The elder replied: Be as cautious as a stranger; wherever you may be, do not desire your word to have power before you, and you will have rest.”
—Wisdom of the Desert

When we are in a strange place, we gain a kind of humility and openness. We are less confident about where we are going, and how to do things. Even among friends, when you are a guest in someone else’s house, you tend to be cautious about how to conduct yourself so as not to disturb your hosts or inconvenience them in some way. Essentially, when we are a stranger we recognize that we are not in control, and that we need the help of others.

So much suffering is rooted in my desire for control. But as my friend pointed out in an anonymous comment to the blog the other day, even when our desire is motivated by caring and concern for others, we have to love other people enough to let them be, even in their brokenness. Which is a good thing, because we’ve each received an abundance of grace in spite of our brokenness. I want to be accepted for who I am, even as I want others to love me enough to want to see me grow. What I want for myself should be what I want for others as well.

Don't Know

“Some elders once came to Abbot Anthony, and there was with them also Abbot Joseph. Wishing to test them, Abbot Anthony brought the conversation around to the Holy Scriptures. And he began from the youngest to ask them the meaning of this or that text. Each one replied as best he could, but Abbot Anthony said to them: You have not got it yet. After them all he asked Abbot Joseph: What about you? What do you say this text means? Abbot Joseph replied: I know not! Then Abbot Anthony said: Truly Abbot Joseph alone has found the way, for he replies that he knows not.”
—Wisdom of the Desert

The late Korean Zen Master Seung Sahn built his entire teaching around the concept of “Don’t Know” mind. He was in a great stream of spiritual giants who cultivated “not knowing” as a means to true knowledge.

Can we apply this openness and humility to our lives as well as the scriptures? If we don’t know, then we are open to new ways of understanding. We are open to the perspectives of others. We are open to that which does not fit into our plans. We are comfortable with paradox.

“Don’t Know” implies a degree of existential trust that is radically different from the certitude and confidence we normally seek. And in this sense, the greatest paradox emerges: “Don’t Know” is true faith.

What more should I do?

"Abbot Lot came to Abbot Joseph and said: Father, according as I am able, I keep my little rule, and my little fast, my prayer, meditation and contemplative silence; and according as I am able I strive to cleanse my heart of thoughts: now what more should I do? The elder rose up in reply and stretched out his hands to heaven, and his fingers became like ten lamps of fire. He said: Why not be totally changed into fire?"
--Wisdom of the Desert

Sometimes I sit to write this journal and nothing comes. I'm satisfied with that. I would rather dwell in silence than to try to artificially impose meaning or description to a life that is much more complex than my ideas or words can contain. The challenge is, can I accept what arises for the rest of the day, without imposing myself on the world? Can I act without doing, see without looking, speak without saying a word?

There is far more than what can be said.

The breakthrough

“A certain brother inquired of Abbot Pastor, saying: What shall I do? I lose my nerve when I am sitting alone at prayer in my cell? The elder said to him: Despise no one, condemn no one, rebuke no one, God will give you peace and your meditation will be undisturbed.”
—Wisdom of the Desert

There is abundant evidence that the desert monks were among the first Christians (that we know of) to practice a form of wordless, silent prayer or meditation. And it is refreshing to see that the same problems we encounter in the twenty-first century when we sit to meditate were the same problems encountered in the fourth century. We humans have not changed much.

The discursive mind engages in a ceaseless commentary. The racket of this commentary is startling to a meditator when he or she first begins to pay attention to the mind. Every experience inspires some judgment on the part of the mind, whether the experience is good, bad or neutral, and one comment connects to another comment creating an ever-flowing stream of judgment and assessment.

There is no inherent problem in this. The problem arises when we get swept up in the stream of judgment, and we start taking the commentary literally—or even seriously. With great practice we can start to live with the flow of thoughts (except in rare moments of graceful inner silence, the thoughts do not cease), without clinging to them or pushing them away. In other words, the great breakthrough actually happens not when we stop judging others or judging our experiences, but when we stop judging ourselves for judging.

My basket full of holes

“This man welcomes sinners and eats with them.”
—Luke 15:2

“A brother in Scete happened to commit a fault, and the elders assembled, and sent for Abbot Moses to join them. He, however, did not want to come. The priest sent him a message, saying: Come, the community of the brethren is waiting for you. So he arose and started off. And taking with him a very old basket full of holes, he filled it with sand, and carried it behind him. The elders came out to meet him, and said: What is this, Father? The elder replied: My sins are running out behind me, and I do not see them, and today I come to judge the sins of another! They, hearing this, said nothing to the brother but pardoned him.”
—Wisdom of the Desert

We modern people are so reluctant to acknowledge our sins. We are quick to judge the faults and failures of others, but even then we are not willing to make a fair assessment of our own, nor to call it “sin.” This is the arrogance and pride that comes with the rampant individualism of our day.

Jesus ate with sinners because, as Father James McKarns says, if he didn’t he would always eat alone. The truth of this should not inspire some puritanical effort to be perfect, because that’s not Christianity either. Rather, the message is that despite our brokenness—even through our brokenness—we are loved and healed and made whole anyway. And because we have received this grace, we must grant it to others when their brokenness is made plain as well.

Feast of All Souls

“Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you drink?”
—Matthew 25:37

“One of the monks, called Serapion, sold his book of the Gospels and gave the money to those who were hungry, saying: I have sold the book which told me to sell all that I had and give to the poor.”
—Wisdom of the Desert

We are lukewarm Christians, all of us. We do not take the Gospel seriously. When someone does take it seriously—Francis of Assisi, or Teresa of Calcutta, or our desert monk Serapion—we consider them a saint (and usually a bit of a nut).

But their calling is not different from ours. The only difference between us and the “saints” is the dedication of their response to the call. The Gospel clearly demands a radical shift in the transformation of our society and our hearts.

Who is really the nut here?

Feast of All Saints

“Beloved, we are God’s children now; what we shall be has not yet been revealed. We do know that when it is revealed we shall be like God, for we shall see God as God is.”
—1 John 3:2-3

All Saints has always been my favorite feast day of the Catholic calendar, since long before I actually became a Catholic. What inspires me is the idea that we are all called to become saints, and this does not mean some artificial standard of moral purity or piousness. Rather, it means to live in such a constant state of openness to the present moment that we are constantly in the process of becoming, though what exactly we are becoming “has not yet been revealed.” What we do know is that we are becoming more like God, which is to say, able to see the world from a whole and complete perspective, and to love it all unconditionally. This passage from the day’s liturgy has a wonderfully contemplative ring to it. We are coming to know God not as we thought God to be, but as God is. In the process, we are coming to know ourselves not as we thought ourselves to be, but as we truly are.

A Fish on Dry Land

“Abbot Anthony said: Just as fish die if they remain on dry land so monks, remaining away from their cells, or dwelling with men of the world, lose their determination to persevere in solitary prayer. Therefore, just as the fish should go back to the sea, so we must return to our cells, lest remaining outside we forget to watch over ourselves interiorly.”
—Wisdom of the Desert

Perhaps this is the greatest gift of the Desert Fathers to modern people: they remind us of what we have lost in the way of solitude, quiet and inner re-creation. Notice that Abbot Anthony does not claim that being in “the world” corrupts the monk morally. He is much more practical than that. Rather, the problem is that the pace of the world detracts from the monk’s time and capacity for prayer and meditation. We would all do well to regularly “return to our cells” and “watch over ourselves interiorly.”

Be Here Now

“An elder said: Just as a tree cannot bear fruit if it is often transplanted, so neither can a monk bear fruit if he frequently changes his abode.”
—Wisdom of the Desert

As someone who has lived in three cities and five different “abodes” in nine years, I can identify with this oft-transplanted tree, as well as the restless monk. I regret none of these moves, but I do sense that at some point greater fruit will be born from just growing where I’m planted.

However, the elder is not just talking about changing where we live. He’s talking about that incessant need to control our external situation, that compulsion we feel to rearrange things in an effort to “achieve” happiness. So much suffering is caused by our assumption that if we can just get this, or we can just avoid that, everything will be wonderful. Then we get this or avoid that, and it’s not exactly wonderful, so we keep looking for something else to get or avoid.

Contemplative prayer is about intentionally breaking this pattern, and deliberately practicing gratitude and acceptance for what is, rather than what we wish was. The stability of a monk’s life is a way of living out this prayer experience, of staying put and embracing the present moment. Thankfully, this embrace is available to all of us, even when it becomes necessary to rent that moving van again.

The Gift

“Abbot Anastasius had a book written on very fine parchment which was worth eighteen pence, and had in it both the Old and New Testaments in full. Once a certain brother came to visit him, and seeing the book made off with it. So that day when Abbot Anastasius went to read his book, and found that it was gone, he realized that the brother had taken it. But he did not send after him to inquire about it for fear that the brother might add perjury to theft. Well, the brother went down into the nearby city in order to sell the book. And the price he asked was sixteen pence. The buyer said: Give me the book that I may find out whether it is worth that much. With that, the buyer took the book to the holy Anastasius and said: Father, take a look at this book, please, and tell me whether you think I ought to buy it for sixteen pence. Is it worth that much? Abbot Anastasius said: Yes, it is a fine book, it is worth that much. So the buyer went back to the brother and said: Here is your money. I showed the book to Abbot Anastasius and he said it is a fine book and worth at least sixteen pence. But the brother asked: Was that all he said? Did he make any other remarks? No, said the buyer, he did not say another word. Well, said the brother, I have changed my mind and I don’t want to sell this book after all. Then he hastened to Abbot Anastasius and begged him with tears to take back his book, but the Abbot would not accept it, saying: Go in peace, brother, I make you a present of it. But the brother said: If you do not take it back I shall never have any peace. After that the brother dwelt with Abbot Anastasius for the rest of his life.”
—Wisdom of the Desert

The book was Abbot Anastasius’, but he did not possess it. When you possess nothing, what can be taken? What can be given away?

The Desert Koan

“An elder said: Here is the monk’s life-work, obedience, meditation, not judging others, not reviling, not complaining. For it is written: You who love the Lord, hate evil. So this is the monk’s life – not to walk in agreement with an unjust [person], nor to look with his eye upon evil, nor to go about being curious, and neither to examine nor to listen to the business of others. Not to be proud in his heart, nor to malign others in his thoughts. Not to fill his stomach, but in all things to behave with discretion. Behold, in all this you have the monk.”
—Wisdom of the Desert

So the essence of the monk’s life is simplicity. It is not great works of charity, not purity of heart, not piety and religious observance, not visions and rapture. It is a quiet, open, non-judgmental embrace of things as they are, without the need to achieve or control. In fact, it is letting go of the need to achieve or control anything.

The physical austerities and solitude of the desert hermits would have been far more challenging than our own everyday modern lives, but is the simplicity of heart they were seeking any less challenging (or any less necessary) for us? It is harder to discover, in fact, because we are assailed by the temptations of material success, gossip and physical excess on a daily basis.

The koan for us modern, married monks is this: how do we realize the desert experience without going to the desert? How do we nurture the simplicity of the monk’s heart, to love the world with compassion and acceptance, which is of course to love ourselves with compassion and acceptance, just as we are?

A Middle Path

“Abbot Pambo questioned Abbot Anthony saying: What ought I to do? And the elder replied: Have no confidence in your own virtuousness. Do not worry about a thing once it has been done. Control your tongue and your belly.”
—Wisdom of the Desert

There are enough gems in this tiny saying to fill a book of reflections. Abbot Anthony at first appears to be admonishing us to humility, in that we are to have no confidence in our own virtue. On the other hand, he isn’t into guilt either, as we are to forget about our deeds once they are done. As a society, we Americans are a paradox: we are the most materialistic individualists in the world—overindulged, pampered, spoiled, unable or unwilling to see perspectives beyond our own. And yet we are weighed down with a lot of guilt at the same time, and our individualism masks a deep lack of collective self-esteem. We deem ourselves fat, ugly, unlovable, not good enough. We act out in a variety of ways to make up for the many shortcomings we perceive in ourselves.

Abbot Anthony points to the middle way: we ought to know ourselves intimately, including all the cracks in our personalities, and love ourselves anyway. This kind of self-intimacy arises spontaneously through the reflection of contemplative prayer and meditation. We get to know the things that make us “tick,” and at first we are overwhelmed by all the darkness we see in our hearts once we finally start to look. But prayer is ultimately letting go of our need to control, to be perfect, to have all the answers. Wordless prayer is about learning to embrace everything that arises and passes away, just as it is. Once “a thing is done,” we let it go, returning to the present moment, waiting for whatever arises next, confident not in our virtuousness, but in the Universal Mind in which all problems and all solutions are really one.

Such mindfulness takes great practice. As Abbot Anthony advises, it would be enough just to practice mindfulness of our speech and our attitudes and habits regarding food. This would keep us busy for a lifetime.

Wisdom of the Desert

"We cannot do exactly what [the desert hermits] did. But we must be as thorough and as ruthless in our determination to break all spiritual chains, to find our true selves, to discover and develop our inalienable spiritual liberty and use it to build, on earth, the Kingdom of God. This is not the place in which to speculate what our great and mysterious vocation might involve. That is still unknown. Let is suffice for me to say that we need to learn from these men of the fourth century how to ignore prejudice, defy compulsion and strike out fearlessly into the unknown."
--Thomas Merton, Wisdom of the Desert

Merton, the great twentieth-century contemplative, was writing about his spiritual forefathers, the first Christian monastics. These were the "Desert Fathers," men who abandoned society in order to receive a more direct, sincere, authentic experience of reality. By the fourth century CE, Christianity had become the state religion. Some thoughtful people saw that the union of Christendom and the state had not achieved the Kingdom of God. In fact, such a union had the capacity to pervert and undermine the life of prayer, compassion and justice that followers of Christ were seeking to realize. So a rare few, simple men (there were surely women, too, but their names are lost to us and do not appear in the collections of their sayings), left to live alone in the desert and seek God face to face.

These were the forebears of the great monastic orders, but they lived before the rise of rich and powerful monasteries and of the carefully articulated rules of monastic life. Their only rules were survival and love. Eventually, spiritual seekers came to the Desert Fathers and sought out their teachings and words of wisdom. Thomas Merton, who in 1960 when this volume first appeared, was himself an aspiring hermit-monk, translated his favorite sayings of the Desert Fathers from the original Latin texts, and offered a brief introduction.

Merton saw in these simple men icons for our own times. And while Merton acknowledged that most of us will not become hermits (though we surely need more time in silence and solitude), the point is not to emulate the Desert Fathers' outward life. Rather, the point is to seek the same inward experience that they sought, to get beyond the conventional forms of social Christianity and to find "their own true self, in Christ."

Let Go and Enjoy

Mahatma Gandhi was asked once what he considered to be the essential teaching of Hinduism. He replied in words from a Hindu sacred book, the Isha Upanishad: "All this that we see in this great universe is permeated by God. Renounce it and enjoy it."

Now, don't run away. I think there's something quite intelligible to all of us here and I hope to make that clear! Let me paraphrase the verse Gandhi quoted. All that we see around us in this great universe is filled with and penetrated by God. Let go of it; don't hold on to it possessively and then, enjoy it, appreciate it.

More: the universe, all that is, belongs to and comes from God; God lives in it, in every part of it. It is not ours but it is definitely given to us to use and even to enjoy. We enjoy it best by not seeking to take any part of it and make it our own private possession but by seeing it for its value, beauty, usefulness and approaching it accordingly. By letting go of it, by 'renouncing' it we try to let it be what it is as it comes from the hand of God. That means that all that is has a meaning and value apart from what I think it could be for me and I should try to see this. Letting go and enjoying is a bit like what parents must do with their grown children: be willing to let them be what they are or will become and then be able to appreciate the uniqueness that follows.
--Don Talfous, OSB

The Offering

“Abraham did not doubt God’s promise in unbelief; rather, he was empowered by faith and gave glory to God and was fully convinced that what God had promised God was also able to do.”
—Romans 4:20-21

When I look back at the whole scope of my life, I see an endless river of grace. I also see that on the surface of that river I have flailed and splashed about, trying ceaselessly to control the direction and flow, trying to wrench some self-concocted version of “happiness” out of reality for myself, as if this were possible. If you’ve ever tried to swim in a strong current, you know this will simply leave you exhausted. It’s when you let go and float that you can be swept to safety.

What can I say or do? I am speechless with awe and amazement at the reality of what is. I can only give up this ridiculous offering of what I am, just as I am, offer it back to the river from whence it came, with gratitude, with adoration, with love.

Reckless Love

“Even the hairs of your head have all been counted. Do not be afraid.”
—Luke 12:7

Today is the feast of St. Callistus, one of the early popes. Most of what we know of Callistus comes from his enemies, who criticized him for what they perceived to be his excessive forgiveness toward sinners. They attacked Callistus for, among other things, admitting adulterers and fornicators to communion after they had done penance and for allowing men who had been married and divorced (sometimes multiple times) to become deacons and priests.

In an increasingly fundamentalist religious climate, perhaps Callistus is a patron for our age. He reflects Jesus’ ministry to the outcastes and those whom conventional society wants to write off as unredeemable. The miracle of the Christian message is that regardless of the mess we may have created in our lives, we are nevertheless redeemed. In fact, its sometimes through that very brokenness that our wholeness is revealed.

According to Bishop John Shelby Spong, the key message of Jesus’ teaching was to “love recklessly.” May today be a day of reckless love for us all.

the spiritual child

"While gazing at a glorious sunset or watching a silent snowfall, individuals often experience a moment beyond time, a sense of a peaceful Presence. Something vaguely familiar is experienced, which, at first, is beyond naming. Graced moments such as these are often valid experiences of God's presence. They are possible because the individual is calm, relaxed, and absorbed in beauty, therefore open to Ultimate Beauty. Children are habitually receptive and can focus completely on the present moment. They are naturally loving and trusting and have not lost their openness and sense of wonder. These inner dispositions and attitudes are also those of the spiritual child, the prerequisite for entering or participating in the [Reign] of God."
--Peggy Wilkinson, OCDS, author of Finding the Mystic Within You

The Freedom of Being

“And so I urge you: go after experience rather than knowledge…Knowledge tends to breed conceit, but love builds. Knowledge is full of labor, but love, full of rest…Yet you say: ‘Rest? What can he possibly be talking about? All I feel [in meditation practice] is toil and pain, not rest.’…My answer is simple: you find this work painful because you are not yet accustomed to it. Were you accustomed to it, and did you realize its value, you would not willingly give it up for all the material joys and rest in the world…I call it rest because your spirit does rest in a freedom from doubt and anxiety about what it must do…And so persevere in it with humility and great desire, for it is a work that begins here on earth but will go on without end into eternity.”
—Privy Counsel, Chapters 23 and 24

And so ends the anonymously written 14th century masterpiece on Christian meditation, The Book of Privy Counsel. Though a mystic, the author is always completely realistic about the challenges of the contemplative life, and so even in the end he acknowledges the pain and toil that often accompanies this work. Yet he emphasizes that this difficulty is part of the process, even a grace in itself, as we let go of our habitual tendency to want to know with the mind and we begin to really know (experience) with our hearts, or souls, or very being. This kind of knowledge is complete freedom from fear, because in this ocean of being the contemplative has seen that there is only one Life, which is the Life of us all.

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This concludes my commentary on the Book of Privy Counsel. For those of you on my mailing list, I will e-mail a Word version of the edited commentary, along with a brief introduction, in coming days. In the introduction I'll try to give a little more historical and theological background on this seminal piece of contemplative literature. If you are not on my mailing list (basically my e-mail address book; in other words, if I don't know you personally) but would like to be included, please post a comment to this blog along with your e-mail address. I'll remove your address from the blog and then include you in the next mailing.

I feel very blessed to have been led down this path, to have received the gift of these teachings, and to have the ability to share them with you. I feel wholly inadequate to do so, but I am encouraged by those of you who have read the blog and have received some blessing from it yourselves. We have no idea what miracles we may be working in the simple words we share with each other.

I never know exactly where this journal is going, so I don't know what I'll write about next. I am interested in looking at the teachings of the Desert Fathers, the earliest Christian monastics, but some other direction may emerge. Log on tomorrow if you are so inclined and we'll see what happens. Pax.

Embracing the Dark Night

“You will learn that all I have written of these two signs and their wonderful effects is true. And yet, after you have experienced one, or perhaps all of them, a day will come when they disappear, leaving you, as it were, barren; or, as it will probably seem to you then, worse than barren. Gone will be your new fervor, but gone, too, your ability to meditate as you had long done before. What then?”
—Privy Counsel Ch. 20

This is an extremely important instruction in meditation practice, but one that is not often addressed in more basic introductions. This is what St. John of the Cross called “the dark night of soul.” Once a contemplative has made some progress on the path, and has experienced some of the pleasant side effects of meditation, suddenly the benefits seem to vanish. The practice becomes stale, boring, difficult and completely devoid of any joy.

This is when most people give up, or worse, develop an outright hostility toward spiritual practice. But according to St. John, and to the anonymous author of Privy Counsel, this is a sign of great promise. It means that the spirit is purifying the heart of all need for a result, which is the ultimate prerequisite to entering the “cloud of unknowing.”

A central quality of contemplative living is, then, a simple, quiet equanimity—the gift of accepting all things as they arise and pass away, even the unpleasant, the boring, the seemingly painful. Because as long as we wait for some circumstance to make us happy, whether internal or external, we miss the real point: that genuine happiness lies in receiving the gift of what is, just as it is.

Two Signs

“I sense a question rising in your mind. Perhaps you are thinking something like this: ‘Tell me, please, is there one sign, or more, to help me test the meaning of this growing desire I feel for contemplative prayer?’…[There are two signs,] one interior and one exterior…The interior sign is that growing desire for contemplation constantly intruding in your daily devotions…The second sign is exterior and it manifests itself as a certain joyful enthusiasm welling up within you, whenever you hear or read about contemplation.”
—Privy Counsel, Ch. 18

All of this continues a kind of aside from the technique of contemplative meditation, but is nevertheless important since the author of Privy Counsel discusses at length the fact that this practice is not for everyone. So, who is it for? And here in Chapter 18 he answers with some signposts that might indicate one is opening to the practice.

The first is key, and I think happens to far more people than they realize. I encounter many people who say, “I just can’t pray anymore,” by which they mean, “I can’t pray with words anymore.” They usually don't realize that there are ways to pray that don't involve words, or even ideas and concepts. This dissatisfaction with traditional prayer is not in itself a sign of a budding contemplative, but in accompaniment with other variables like access to the teachings on contemplative prayer, someone to guide them in the practice, and life circumstances that present the opportunity for practice, it could be. The second sign is the response to discovering this silent way of knowing God. If it resonates with your deepest being, if it makes sense intuitively, if you feel its pull, then perhaps you are ripe for the practice.

In Chapter 19, the author goes on to describe how this all comes together. I have nothing to add by way of commentary. The author speaks for himself:

“Your whole personality will be transformed, you countenance will radiate an inner beauty…A thousand miles would you run to speak with another who you knew really felt it, and yet when you got there, find yourself speechless…Your words will be few, but so fruitful and full of fire that the little you say will hold a world of wisdom (though it may seem nonsense to those still unable to transcend the limits of reason). Your silence will be peaceful, your speech helpful and your prayer secret in the depths of your being. Your self-esteem will be natural…your way with others gentle, and your laughter merry…How dearly you will love to sit apart by yourself, knowing that others, not sharing your desire and attraction, would only hinder you…Thus the mounting desire for contemplation and the joyful enthusiasm that seizes you when you read or hear of it meet and become one.”

The Path is the Goal

“I make this point on purpose to refute the ignorant presumption of certain people who insist that man is the principal worker in everything, even in contemplation…But I want you to understand that in everything touching contemplation, the contrary is true. God alone is the chief worker here…In every other good work we act in partnership with God…God consents to [our activities] and assists us through secondary means: the light of Scripture, reliable counsel, and the dictates of common sense, which include the demands of one’s state, age, and circumstances of life…But in all that touches contemplation, even the loftiest human wisdom must be rejected…This, then, is the way I understand the Gospel’s words: ‘Without me you can do nothing’…Alas! I have used many words and said very little. But I wanted you to understand when to use your faculties and when not to…And since it is written, let it stand, though it is not particularly relevant to our subject.”
—Privy Counsel, Ch. 17

This chapter amounts to a lengthy aside reinforcing the mysterious message discussed in yesterday’s post: that in contemplation, we don’t actually do anything. This is difficult, and there is a risk that we take on a kind of anthropomorphic view of God, who is responsible for everything that happens, and for us to slip into a kind of dumb quietism. This is not what the author means, and is in fact a kind of heresy.

The author goes on at length emphasizing the free will of humans, and that we are co-creators with God of our everyday reality. We are “partners” with God, and we can test every decision by scripture, the advice of others we trust, and common sense, as well as taking into consideration all the many variables of our life circumstances. This kind of discursive reason is necessary for effectively functioning in the world, including the decision to take on a spiritual practice or meditation, and all the various techniques and teachings that are associated with it.

However, this is as far as our activity can go. The author advises that after that, you just sit still and let whatever happens next unfold. This is the difficult part, because we wonder why we are pursuing such a practice if we cannot influence the outcome. I think what the author is getting at here is our fundamental problem spiritually, psychologically and emotionally: our need for control, and our desire to shape an external situation (or in this case an internal situation) that will make us happy. But in fact, the root teaching is that no such situation will lead to true happiness. In the end, it is the letting go that brings liberation.

And letting go is the practice itself. As the Zen master Dogen said, “Zazen [meditation practice] is itself enlightenment!”

Waiting by the Door

“Tell me now, if Christ is the door, what should a person do once she has found it? Should she stand there waiting and not go in? Answering in your place, I say: yes, this is exactly what she should do…she must learn to be sensitive to the Spirit guiding her secretly in the depths of her heart and wait until the Spirit stirs and beckons her within…Lay hold of [contemplation], then, if you can; or rather I should say, if grace lays hold of you…For left to ourselves, we may proudly strain after contemplation, only to stumble in the end.”
—Privy Counsel, Ch. 16 (gender-inclusive text added)

This is one of the many paradoxes that lies in the background of everything the author of Privy Counsel teaches. We do all this work, but in the end, we do nothing. The work is done to us. This is why some authors distinguish between centering prayer and contemplation. One is the technique; the other is the fruit of the technique. They are not necessarily connected. We do not earn contemplative awareness, nor do we give it to ourselves. We dispose ourselves to receive it by letting go of all results and accepting everything just as it is. Like a Zen koan, the answer does not appear until we are content with no answer at all. Therein lies the mystery.

Listening for What Comes Next

“Moreover, outside of God’s special intervention, I believe it is humanly impossible for a sinner to come to peaceful repose in the spiritual experience of himself and of God until he has first exercised his imagination and reason in appreciating his own human potential, as well as the manifold works of God, and until he has learned to grieve over sin and find his joy in goodness. Believe me, whoever will not journey by this path will go astray. One must remain outside contemplation, occupied in discursive meditation, even though he would prefer to enter into the contemplative repose beyond them…Some find the door and enter within sooner than others, not because they possess a special admittance or unusual merit, but simply because the porter chooses to let them in.”
—Privy Counsel Ch. 14

Here the author emphasizes again that contemplative practice is not for everyone. It is an extremely rare calling, in fact, and though we may feel drawn to the practice, an intellectual curiosity about meditation is not the same thing as a vocation to it. There is nothing wrong with traditional forms of discursive prayer or meditation techniques which utilize reason and imagination. The author stresses that it is necessary to utilize these techniques first on the pathway to contemplation, and that some may find such techniques to be their permanent spiritual home.

If we do eventually come to an understanding of contemplative practice, a deep, quiet waiting should follow to see if such silent prayer is actually for us to pursue. This is an extremely subtle process, and a kind of meditation in itself.

In case anyone who read this thinks that I myself am an experienced contemplative, let me confess that I do not maintain a daily meditation practice. I have used meditation techniques off and on for a dozen years or so, and have been graced with a number of remarkable experiences and insights during contemplation. But I am no expert. My central spiritual practice is journaling, which is what I am doing right now, and it is one of those discursive methods of imagination and reason that the author of Privy Counsel describes as a part of the path.

Lately I have been drawn to a more informal type of contemplative practice as I go about my daily life. While driving my car, or eating, or conversing with friends and family, I feel drawn to slow down internally (even though on the outside I may be very active). From a still point inside, I endeavor to just watch the flow of things as they occur, even the activity of my own mind, without identifying with it, clinging to the experience or pushing it away. This is contemplative practice in its most basic form, as I understand it, and I have a sense that for now, it is sufficient. When a different approach is needed, I believe that it will become evident, and a new path will open.

Perhaps it is the same for everyone else. The key component to contemplative living is just listening to the present moment, to see what should come next.

An Ecclesiastical Aside

Church politics is of great interest to me, but I have never intended to use this blog as a place for commenting on ecclesiastical matters, and I promise I will not make it a habit to do so. Nevertheless, a lot of my readers are Catholic friends and family, and I think there are some interesting things going on right now that deserve their attention. First of all, Pope Benedict XVI's first Synod of Bishops begins in Rome this week. The topic is the future of the Eucharist. What is remarkable in this is that a number of issues critical to progressive Catholics are on the table, including a discussion of optional celibacy for the priesthood (in other words, married priests). There will also be a contingent of representatives from other Christian denominations participating in the discussions. These are hopeful signs, but none perhaps more hopeful than the cordial meeting between the Pope and Catholic theologian-in-exile Hans Kung, who is a patron saint of church reform. Let's send good vibes to the Pope and this Synod that the sensus fidelum might be heard.

The Cross of Self

“Yet do not misunderstand my words. I did not say that you must desire to un-be, for that is madness and blasphemy against God. I said that you must desire to lose the knowledge and experience of the self. This is essential…It is possible, of course, that God may intervene at times and fill you with a transient experience of himself. Yet outside these moments this naked awareness of your blind being will continually weigh you down and be as a barrier...just as in the beginning of this work the various details of your being were like a barrier to the direct awareness of yourself…See how necessary it is to bear this painful burden, this cross of self?”
—Privy Counsel Ch. 13

This issue of the self is one of the most difficult aspects of contemplative practice. Intellectually, we rebel at the notion that “self” is a problem because we cling to this concept so desperately. And even once we’ve made peace with the idea of losing the self intellectually, in practice it remains the last and greatest barrier to real contemplation.

It is also difficult because our understanding of human psychology has advanced to the point that we share a general consensus that a healthy sense of “self” is fundamental to personal well-being, and that not being able to perceive or honor appropriate boundaries with others can lead to a variety of emotional problems. Likewise, we imagine that if we lost the “self” we would cease to have emotions or even a personality. All of these misperceptions are rooted in a lack of understanding about the real nature of the contemplative experience.

Everyone has had a contemplative experience, whether they realize it or not, and the author comments on this when he mentions those transient times when we are filled with an experience of “God’s self.” It is not necessary to use theological language to identify these moments. We have these moments when we look up at the stars at night and are filled with a sense of awe at the majesty of the universe, or when we see the ocean and are struck speechless at its beauty, or we look into the eyes of our child and are overwhelmed by the enormous mystery of unconditional love.

In those moments, we do not cease to be, but we are lifted beyond the normal boundaries of our “self” and experience an interconnectedness that is far beyond it. Our self remains intact, but we are given a brief glimpse into the infinite ocean of being from which the self (and all other “selves”) emerge. This is the contemplative experience, and we know it well. Meditation or centering prayer practice is meant to nurture a deeper sensitivity to that reality beyond the self (which nevertheless contains the self), so that we live in greater, ongoing awareness of it.

This and More Than This

“But now I want you to understand that although in the beginning I told you to forget everything save the blind awareness of your naked being, I intended all along to lead you eventually to the point where you would forget even this, so as to experience only the being of God.”
—Privy Counsel Chapter 12

In the Buddhist tradition, a distinction is made between meditation practice for concentration (shamatha) and for insight (vypashana). The idea is that the untrained mind is a bit too wild and unsettled for wisdom to emerge immediately in a new meditation practice. The mind must gain focus. And so the meditator begins by focusing on the breath, and returning to the breath over and over again when distractions arise, until the mind becomes laser-like and bright in its focus. The breath becomes ever more subtle as the process goes on.

Eventually, the mind is settled enough that the meditator can begin to peer into the nature of the thoughts and feelings that arise in the mind. This is insight practice, and here we study each mental object by looking carefully to see its impermanence, the unsatisfying results of clinging to it or pushing it away, and by looking for the separate “self” that creates it (and we don’t really find one). Thus, we gain greater liberation over the landscape of our minds.

The Christian mystics use slightly different language for this process, but the steps are nearly the same. In the Cloud of Unknowing, the author recommended that the beginning contemplative practice with a “sacred word” to calm and focus the mind. In Privy Counsel, he does not mention the word at all, but instructs us to focus on a naked awareness of our own being (which is a kind of insight meditation). But now he tells us that this has all just been preparation for the next step, which is the raw, unmediated experience of the being of God.

In this final experience, the self is “forgotten” as the contemplative is completely submerged into the infinity of Being itself. The author likens this to the experience of lovers. “The lover will utterly and complete despoil himself of everything, even his very self, because of the one he loves…He desires always and forever to remain unclothed in full and final self-forgetting.”

We want to know more about this experience and to describe it, but it cannot be described in words. It can only be experienced. I've already said too much about it by way of commentary. I'll end with this: those who have been there say that it is a kind of pure awareness of the present moment, just as it is, but that the experience of this takes us beyond this and connects us to that which is more than this. And in that vibrant life between this and more than this is the whole universe.

Jumping In

“But since God in his goodness stirs and touches different people in different ways (some through secondary causes and others directly), who dares to say that he may not be touching you and others like you through the instrumentality of this book. I do not deserve to be his servant, yet in his mysterious designs, he may work through me if he so wishes, for he is free to do as he likes. But I suppose after all that you will not really understand all this until your own contemplative experience confirms it.”
—Privy Counsel Ch. 11

Wonderful humility here on the part of the anonymous author, and his humility teaches a great lesson. One of the greatest miracles is how the Divine works through all of us. When we speak to one another, we hear the voice of God. When we look at each other, we see God’s face. When we touch each other, we touch the body of Christ, the body of the Universe.

And it matters not one bit how broken we are individually. I take great hope in the conviction that the saints are not really all that different from me in depths of their hearts (not more morally pure or pious, for example), but rather in their courage to let go and become an instrument of grace and love in whatever humble way they can. Which means all that is necessary for me is to likewise let go.

This letting go is what the author means when he says we don’t understand any of this esoteric language until our own contemplative experience confirms it. Standing on the edge of the pool looking at the water is not swimming. You have to jump in.

Fruits of Contemplation

“[I]n declaring the dignity of the contemplative work above all others, we must first distinguish the fruits of [a person’s] ultimate perfection. These fruits are the virtues which ought to abound in every [person]…you will discover that all the virtues are clearly and completely contained in contemplation itself…It is the cloud of unknowing, the secret love planted deep in an undivided heart…It is what leads you to silence beyond thought and words..[I]t is what teaches you to forsake and repudiate your very self according to the Gospel’s demands.”
—Privy Counsel Ch. 11

This is the “by their fruits you will know them” wisdom. I suppose it is possible that a person could develop high levels of concentration (a byproduct of meditation), and still be unchanged on an emotional and spiritual level. But to genuinely make progress as a meditator leads inevitably to a metanoia of the spirit. Peering deeply into the inner depths of our being, we eventually begin to see the whole universe unfold there in the quiet darkness of our heart. We gaze directly at the face of God. It is not possible to come face to face with the Ultimate Reality contained within ourselves without being transformed on a fundamental level. And the deepest breakthrough is when we allow the “wall” that separates the “self” from that Reality to finally fall.

Fingers Pointing at the Moon

"Believe me, if a contemplative had the tongue and the language to express what he experiences, all the scholars in Christendom would be struck dumb before his wisdom. Yes, for by comparison the entire compendium of human knolwedge would appear as sheer ignorance. Do not be surprised, then, if my awkward, human tongues fails to explain its value adequately...Whatever we may say of it is not it, but only about it."
--Privy Counsel Ch. 11

A thoughtful comment offered in reply to Wednesday's post pointed out the parallels between Buddhist meditation and the form of contemplative Christian prayer described by the author of Privy Counsel. The techniques are indeed nearly the same, but sometimes a slightly different vocabulary is used, reflecting the different theological/philosophical traditions that underpin each method.

My own experience is probably not unlike that of many others who have discovered the contemplative tradition within Christianity. Ironically, I explored Buddhist meditation first, and only later found this rich mystical practice in my "original" path of Christianity. My interest in Thomas Merton led me not only into a more serious look at Buddhism, but also introduced me to modern Christian writers like Basil Pennington and Thomas Keating, who revived the ancient spiritual disciplines of the Desert Fathers, the anonymous author of The Cloud of Unknowing and the Book of Privy Counsel, and all the others who later entered that stream like Meister Eckhart, St. John of the Cross, Julian of Norwich and St. Teresa of Avila.

If the mainline Protestant and Catholic churches paid more attention to this mystical path in their own religion, it would probably be unnecessary for so many young seekers to abandon the church in favor of Buddhist, Hindu and other non-Christian paths. But I don't think it's a bad thing that so many of us have, because I have certainly been nourished and grown exponentially as a result of my ongoing practice and work with Buddhist teachers, and their perspective gives me an even richer understanding of contemplative Christian practice.

The methodologies of Buddhist and Christian contemplation are indeed nearly the same. Where they differ is mostly in the language used to describe what is happening. But even here, both traditions acknowledge that really there is only one experience, and that the language differences are relative and not absolute. As the author of Privy Counsel is saying in Chapter 11, language is by definition dualistic and cannot convey the actual experience of union/non-duality. As the Buddhists say, all of this technique, all of this teaching, all of this talk is simply a "finger pointing at the moon." The point is to see the moon itself, which takes you to a wordless experience beyond seeing, beyond me, beyond the moon.

The "Sleep" of Awareness

“It is not without reason that I liken this work to sleep. For in sleep the natural faculties cease from their work and the whole body takes its full rest, nourishing and renewing itself. Similarly, in this spiritual sleep, those restless spiritual faculties, Imagination and Reason, are securely bound and utterly emptied. Happy the spirit, then, for it is freed to sleep soundly and rest quietly in loving contemplation of God…while the whole inner [person] is wonderfully nourished and renewed.”
—Privy Counsel Ch. 9

Two comments on this passage. First, the author notes the actual physical benefits of contemplative practice, for which he had a limited vocabulary in the 13th century, but which are now firmly established by modern science. Secondly, his comment on the faculties of imagination and reason emphasize again both a fundamental part of the practice of contemplative prayer and also an outcome of the process.

The mind of a meditator is not blank. It is full of all the things minds are usually full of. The difference, however, is that the meditator sees the thoughts and feelings for what they are, an impermanent part of the whole flow of the universe. This may happen first through progressive technique. The contemplative may begin practice by simply ignoring thoughts and feelings as they arise, returning again and again to the breath, a mantra, or another object of awareness that grounds her in the present moment. Later, she may from that place of centeredness peer into the thoughts and feelings and note their impermanent, empty nature, seeing that they rise and fall away like all other phenomena and therefore are not to be clung to or pushed away. Finally, she may arrive at a place of choiceless awareness in which there is no effort to ignore these “faculties,” no noting or comment of the mind at all. They just simply come and go through the vast mind of the contemplative, and like all things are lovingly embraced and then surrendered back into the ocean of awareness.

The Contemplative Threat

"Keep your human objections to yourselves, you half-hearted folk! Here is a person so touched by grace that he can forsake himself in honest and unreserved self-forgetfulness. Do not tell me that by any rational appraisal he is tempting God. You say this only because you dare not do so yourselves. No, be content with your own calling to the active life; it will bring you to salvation. But leave these others alone. What they do is beyond the comprehension of your reason, so do not be shocked or surprised by their word and deeds."
--Privy Counsel Ch. 8

Way back at the beginning of the Cloud of Unknowing, the author distinguishes between the active life and the contemplative life. The majority of people, he says, will be called to the active life: a lifestyle of ethical conduct, discursive prayer and conformity to religious and social expectations. This is the lifestyle championed by the institutional church, and there is no harm or inadequacy in this calling. However, a certain number of faithful will be called to the contemplative life, which is what the author spends the rest of Cloud and all of Privy Counsel describing: a lifestyle of deep silence, wordless meditation, spiritual knowing through "unknowing" and a sense of vast peace and infinite love.

Unfortunately, the contemplative tradition has always been misunderstood and often persecuted by the institutional church. I think there are many reasons for this, primarily that the contemplative breaks into an inner space that is marked no longer by conformity and submission, but to freedom and understanding. This freedom, while appealing and mysterious to anyone who spends time in the presence of a real contemplative person, can also be threatening to those in power, and confounding to those who are not prepared to follow that path themselves.

Hopefully, through the work of groups like Contemplative Outreach, an appreciation for the mystical traditions of the faith is now being nurtured within the institutional church, but we have a long way to go. In the long-run, Christianity will continue to lose its relevance to the modern world unless the contemplative spirit can be revived and brought to the center of Christian faith and practice.