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.