Category Archives: spirituality

Ash Wednesday

Posted on February 22, 2012 | Leave a comment

Tonight’s Ash Wednesday Mass at Holy Family was very nice. I prefer evening masses in general, but since today is the first of the forty days of Lent–our time of fasting, penance, and reflection–a quiet February evening seems perfect. I think we all can all be thankful that the harsher, more dour practices that over-emphasized our sinful nature are in the past. It is proper that we reflect on our human nature that leaves us susceptible to sin, those actions and thoughts that distance us from God. However, I don’t believe we are called by the Church, and certainly not by God, to become so absorbed in our sinfulness that we miss the whole point of not only Lent but our Christian faith in general; namely, that Christ took our sins upon himself when he ascended the cross. The cross calls us back to God; Christ’s arms stretched upon the cross are those of the Father welcoming His prodigal children. Lent is a time set aside for us to reorient ourselves back to Him who loves us beyond our understanding.

Earlier today I was listening to a podcast on St. Isaac of Syria, also known as St. Isaac of Ninevah. The central point I took away from this 7th-century desert father was that God, above all other things, loves each one of us, individually and collectively. He also says that to call God “just,” in the sense that God administers justice–rewards and punishments–comes dangerously close to blasphemy. God, St. Isaac points out, acts only out of love because He is Love. Just as one cannot avenge oneself, God does not seek vengeance on his own creation. And just as a loving parent doesn’t seek vengeance upon his or her wayward children, so God does not damn us for our sins. This, as St. Isaac explains, is that God that Jesus showed us.

Lent, then, is a time in which we take an open and honest look at ourselves in order to both understand and acknowledge those things we think, say, and do that keep us from God’s loving embrace. As our understanding and acceptance grows, so too should our resolve to turn aside from those things and thereby grow closer to Him. As St. Isaac puts it, “It is a spiritual gift from God for a man to perceive his sins.”

And we also take comfort in knowing that our Father will come running out with open arms to welcome us into His embrace.

Pearls from Saint Isaac of Syria

Catholic Under the Hood: Saint Isaac of Syria

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9-11 & Forgiveness

Posted on September 11, 2011 | Leave a comment

Sometimes the Catholic Church gets it right. In the Catholic lectionary for today, the tenth anniversary of the attacks of September 11th, 2001, the Old Testament and Gospel readings speak specifically to forgiveness. As Christians, we are called to forgive regardless of the transgression against us. So simple to say; so hard to do.

The events of September 11, 2001 need no explanation. On the anniversary of that awful day, the nation, and certainly a good portion of the world, recalls the events that took the lives of nearly 3000 people, directly affected those of thousands, and touched hundreds of millions more. It’s appropriate that today should be a time for remembrance and, for those within a faith tradition, prayer. [As I’ve written in another post, I hope, too, that today we take time to also remember those whose lives were affected by the events subsequent to 9-11.]

In our reflections over the loss & suffering that will forever be synonymous with 9-11, it is easy, and normal, to feel anger. There was and is no justification for murder; no amount of rationalization can wipe blood from a murderer’s hands. We feel anger precisely because of the wrong-ness of acts like this. While anger is understandable, our response to even righteous anger can become a trap. Our collective & individual wrath can lead us into errors as deep as the actions from which our outrage arises. And this is where forgiveness comes in.

I recall very well how quickly the shock and horror of September 11th turned first into anger and then to calls for vengeance. But I also recall many alternative voices that spoke to the need for, at the least, restraint. That these voices for collective self-control were drowned out by what became a shameful frenzy of blame and demands for paybacks in no way diminishes their wisdom. Indeed, the amount of pain, suffering, and death inflicted as a result of 9-11 proves that the path of violence can never surpass the power of forgiveness.

Of course, forgiveness is not simply a Christian virtue; it is part of all the great faith traditions. Jew, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, Ba’hai, Jain, Shinto–all have forgiveness at the center of belief. To be religious is to be called to forgiveness; to be spiritual is to live a life that embraces forgiveness. [Even those outside of a faith tradition or who cannot see the spiritual dimension of forgiveness have to acknowledge its practicality; forgiveness breaks the cycle of violence.]

Spirituality, whether within or outside of religion, requires work. Forgiveness as a spiritual virtue does not come easy, even for the spiritually-minded. It is all-too-human to want to limit our forgiveness to those whom we decide are worthy of it. Forgiveness & compassion go together, but what about people who inspire little or no compassion in us, such as the men who perpetrated the 9-11 attacks? To even mention the idea of forgiveness in this context is to invite the wrath of one’s fellow citizens.

The spiritual work of forgiveness is made all more problematic by our instant-gratification and violence-obsessed culture. We are conditioned to respond to emotion by acting upon it without reflection or restraint; and if that emotion is anger, then violence is at least a reasonable response. To respond to a horrific event like 9-11 by embracing the grief and sorrow in prayer or meditation, to contemplate such things within the space of one’s soul, is the antithesis of how society tells us we should respond. Yet, this is precisely what humans are called to do. Mahatma Gandhi reminded us that “an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.” If humanity is to ever rise above its baser instincts and desires, if it is ever to realize a peaceful and just world, it must embrace its higher, spiritual nature.

Spirituality requires work, and forgiveness does not come easy. Yet, as spiritual beings, and as religious individuals, we cannot not forgive. Speaking as a Christian and a Catholic, there is no alternative. Nowhere does Christ teach that we should forgive those who have harmed us, even our enemies, only up to a point. Forgiveness, to a Christian, must be unequivocal, unconditional, and complete.

In today’s Gospel lesson (Mt 18:21-35), Christ responds to Peter’s question on how much should one forgive by saying “seventy times seven.” He then illustrates this with the parable of a servant who, after being forgiven of his debt by the king, refuses to forgive his own debtor. God’s compassion calls us to compassion; His forgiveness of us calls us to forgive one another. This is the logical extension of what Christ tells us is the greatest commandant after loving God: loving one’s neighbor as one’s self (Mt 22:39). And lest we split hairs over who is one’s neighbor, we are told to “love your enemies, do good to those who hate you” (Lk 6:27). By refusing to forgive, we reject Christ himself.

I could go on and write about the emotional, psychological, and social benefits of forgiveness, but this is not the place for that. Suffice to say that, as with anything, hard work pays off, and the hard work of forgiveness has both personal and collective benefits. My point is that the practical reasons flow from the spiritual act; forgiveness freely given is truly its own reward. Whatever we gain from forgiving our enemies, from forgiving those who cause us harm, we gain from right action. As Christians, as people of faith, as spiritual beings, we are called to righteousness. Amen.

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More thoughts on Spirituality

Posted on July 22, 2011 | Leave a comment

Last night I wrote a short piece as part of my summer psych course in which I wondered how a person who does not come from a position of social & economic privilege achieves the stage of development that Abraham Maslow termed “self-actualization.” I re-posted that piece here, in case anyone’s interested; what gave rise to my questioning was that so many of the narratives about people who have achieved self-actualization–or grace, or enlightenment, or transcendence, or whatever term one chooses–are about people who have come from some degree of privilege already. It seems that many of these people have the time, the resources, or at least the education to start them along their paths. There’s nothing wrong with this, and it takes nothing away from the achievements of these individuals (many of whom we rightly consider saints). However, do those who start from a different place follow similar paths, or do they reach self-actualization/grace/enlightenment/transcendence differently?

What we need are multiple narratives, multiple examples of women & men from different classes, ethnicities, faith traditions, economic circumstances–from all the complex elements of the modern social fabric–to reach a richer understanding of not only how individuals have lived their lives in ways that helped them achieve a deep understanding of the world, but also why they set out on and stayed with their journeys.

Within my own Catholic tradition, we have many such stories of people who have been called “saints.” These stories are treasures, and there are many, many examples of people from modest or even desperate circumstances who have achieved grace. Unfortunately, so many stories have become hagiographies in the worst sense of the word, elevating the individual to super-human status. We see them as somehow not quite human, not quite like us. We too often focus on their achievements and not the processes whereby they achieved. We fail to learn what they have to teach us–either by example or by their own words–about how they went about the process of living life rightly.

There is something of a spiritual revival going on. In 2004, Time Magazine reported that some 15 million Americans meditate; undoubtedly that’s increased. Also, by some accounts, an equal number practice yoga (though I imagine a significant portion of those pay less attention to the spiritual aspects than the physical). What is changing is not so much that people are more or less religious, it’s that religion is relevant to them only to the extent that it encourages, teaches, & supports spiritual development. For good or ill, if a faith tradition doesn’t deliver, people will look elsewhere.

The implications, I think, are huge. What will happen if 25 or 30% of Americans seriously practice a spiritual discipline? What will happen if 75-100 million Americans come to see others as their sisters & brothers and not simply objects to be ignored or exploited? What will happen when the desire to consume & possess is replaced by compassion? I can’t think of any spiritual tradition that doesn’t have, at it’s core, the awareness of the inter-connectedness of all things, the centrality of love in the universe, and the importance of living compassionately. It staggers the mind to think of such a “velvet revolution.”

It ultimately matters little, I feel, what path a person follows to achieve a state of self-actualization/grace/enlightenment/transcendence. In fact, I’m not sure that we need to be overly concerned with the achievement but rather the journey. That said, I think that all the great faith traditions, including Catholicism, have to become better teachers than administrators. We have many examples, and we have rich wisdom to draw upon. It’s our collective responsibility to both practice, learn, and share with others. Truly, the stakes are very high.

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Self-Actualization and privilege

Posted on July 21, 2011 | Leave a comment

[The following was a posting for a psychology course I'm taking this summer.]

From the time I was first exposed to Maslow years ago, I’ve always held his theory of self-actualization being the goal of human development close, both professionally and personally. At the least, it acknowledges what so many people intuit, that life has more to do with meaning than existence. But even more, the goal of self-actualization (using his term) is both practical and achievable for individuals rather than something only available to ascetics living in mountain caves.

But what I find myself wondering about is the processes by which an individual can strive for self-actualization. I well understand that his hierarchy of needs is a description and not a prescription, that a person moves up & down the pyramid many times in her or his life. Drawing on my own experiences, particularly having come into adulthood through a working-class background, I wonder how an individual for whom the lower strata of physiological and safety needs are still salient can move further towards self-actualization. Maslow’s theory seems to imply that one must move up the pyramid sequentially, but is this in fact always the case? Yes, we can easily imagine that a person who is thirsty, hungry, in need of shelter, under threat, etc. can’t be expected to keep his or her mind on achieving transendence. But we all have the image of the above-mentioned ascetic for whom physiological & safety needs are no longer a concern; we assume that that person has overcome & surpassed their influence through some process to the point where even food, water, and air are minor factors in their lives. How does a person transcend those in the real world?

I’ve been reading two books lately: Paramahansa Yogananda’s Autobiography of a Yogi and Dorothy Day, by Robert Coles. Both of these saints’ extraordinary lives are inspiring, but I’m also aware that both begin their lives with their physiological, safety, and belonging needs largely met. In fact, it seems to me that the majority of narratives of the lives of those who achieve some degree of stabilized transcendent state are those of people who begin from a place of privilege. Taking nothing away from the struggles of their personal journeys, their early lives permitted them a degree of freedom to pursue self-actualization (again, to use Maslow’s term) that many others don’t have.

My interest here is largely practical. What examples do we have of individuals whose lives are more precarious, who grow up without many material & intellectual resources, but who still achieve the degree of self-actualization/transcendence/enlightenment of those who start from more privileged positions? Is it possible to overcome the power of those lower needs without having to first secure them? And given those examples, what generalizations can be made about the process by which a person transcends privation & want without first working to gain those material resources with which others begin? If this can be articulated, then it seems more likely that self-actualization can be shown as a realistic goal to all and not just the few.

[Just a final note: I firmly believe that there are many examples of people who transcend want to achieve profound states of consciousness. One has only to visit places where basic needs are in short supply to see these people. What I’ve had difficulty finding are the narratives and studies, at least to the extent to which we find those of individuals from more privileged backgrounds.]

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Thoughts about Justice

Posted on July 14, 2011 | Leave a comment

I have been reading Paramhansa Yogananda’s Autobiography of a Yogi and have found many of his observations not only about Christ but wholly consistent, at least to my meagre understandings, with orthodox Christian teaching. This morning I read the following:

“The omnipotence of spiritual law was referred to by Christ on the occasion of his triumphant entry into Jerusalem. As the disciples and the multitude shouted for joy, and cried, ‘Peace in heaven, and glory in the highest,’ certain Pharisees complained of the undignified spectacle. ‘Master,’ they protested, ‘rebuke thy disciples.’

‘I tell you,’ Jesus replied, ‘that, if these should hold their peace, the stones would immediately cry out.’ (Lk 19:37-40)
In this reprimand to the Pharisees, Christ was pointing out that divine justice is no figurative abstraction, and that a man of peace, thoug his tongue be torn from its roots, will yet find his speech and his defense in the bedrock of creation, the universal order itself.

‘Think you,’ Jesus was saying, ‘to silence men of peace? As well may you hope to throttle the voice of God, hose very stones sing His glory and His omnipresence. Will you demand that men not celebrate in honor of the peace in heaven, but should only gather together in multitudes to should for war on earth? The make your preparations, O Pharisees, to overtopple the foundations of the world; for it is not gentle men alone, but stones or earth, and water and fire and air that will rise up against you, to bear witness of His ordered harmony.” (280)

Like so many other people of faith, and many who lack faith but nevertheless feel the pull of transcendence in their lives, I so often feel anger, despair, and frustration over how people brutalize one-another, individually & collectively. When individuals or small groups wield excessive power (particularly economic power within our society) seemingly without a moral compass, or with a perverted and distorted one, the feelings of righteous indignation become almost overwhelming. Confronting power & the powerful is exhausting, physically & emotionally, and in many cases carries very real worldly consequences.

What Yogananda, a Hindu, reminds us Christians of is the certitude that their is such a thing as transcendent justice. We live in a thickened reality in which the will, purpose, and meaning of God (“the Creator,” “the Divine,” “the Universe”–whatever term one is comfortable with) is seen only “through a glass darkly,” if at all. Yet our ability to perceive is not a requirement for its existence. Above all things there is order in the universe–even the secularists acknowledge this. Is it such a stretch to believe that there is not a moral order as well? Christ said,

“’Amen, I say to you, what you did not do for one of these least ones, you did not do for me” (Mt 25:45-46).

For Christians, Christ is synonymous with God; within most of the great spiritual traditions, God is all. It follows that injustices directed towards others, especially those “least ones” who have little or no recourse in the face of power & the powerful, is an affront against God. In our fallen state, we brush this aside too easily. What could be worse than an offense against the order of the Universe?

My challenges, especially since returning from Iraq, have been trying to understand my role in confronting injustice, and how to avoid the self-righteous, ego-driven desire to see others punished.

I see two problems inherent in challenging the powerful in their abuse of the vulnerable. The first is the belief that only I (or we) can affect change. This smacks of either a selfish desire to save others, or an equally selfish feeling that that one owns the righteousness that belongs to God. Such is the zealot. The other side of the coin is an extreme passivity, trusting that “it’s in God’s hands,” that one person is useless in such struggles. In all honesty, I’ve felt both ways at different points in time. It strikes me, though, that an individual can be an agent for good (or The Good), if she or he does so through prayerful reflection. The challenge is to so attune one’s inner life as to hear the voice of the Infinite (even though it usually comes in whispers) within. Easily said; not so easily done! The first step, though, is taken through humility, that the struggle for righteousness & justice is a struggle larger than any one person, or even any specific act.

The desire for punishment seems to be a very human (& hence very flawed) part of our being. The most dramatic–and ugly–recent example is that of the trial of Casey Anthony in the death of her daughter, Caylee. The mother’s culpability in the case was called into doubt, and a jury of twelve felt that the evidence was not enough to convict her. Having served on two juries–one for a murder, the second for a rape–I know how difficult these judgements can be (both trials resulted in convictions; sitting in judgement over a fellow human being is not a pleasant experience). The tragedy of this little girl’s death and the events surrounding of it has been offset by the cries for vigilante justice directed towards Anthony. We agree, in a civil society, to set aside preconceptions & prejudices and let a system of justice decide whether a person is guilty or not guilty. Whether or not Anthony is, in truth, guilty of her daughter’s death rests now upon her soul; our (admittedly flawed) justice system exonerated her. The pitchforks and torches were sitting in wait until the verdict was read, and they came out dramatically thereafter. If we accept a system of justice, then we are bound to it. If that system is transcendent in nature, then we are even more tightly bound to it than any human imitation.

I catch myself frequently longing to see certain individuals suffer some sort of divine retribution. Those whose decisions cause massive human suffering, misery, & death should not, I feel, escape punishment. But once we accept that true Justice belongs to a transcendent power, we are bound to it, even if does not seem swift or sure, and even when it takes a form we don’t like. Paul advises as much in his letter to the Christians in Rome:

“Do not repay anyone evil for evil; be concerned for what is noble in the sight of all. If possible, on your part, live at peace with all. Beloved, do not look for revenge but leave room for the wrath; for it is written, ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.’ Rather, ‘if your enemy is hungry, feed him; if he is thirsty, give him something to drink; for by so doing you will heap burning coals upon his head.’ Do not be conquered by evil but conquer evil with good.”

It is human for us to seek vengeance when we feel that righteousness has been betrayed, but that is not justice. Rather, it is the ego, that self-oriented part of our being, that wants our conception of justice rather than justice-writ-large. We are called, as people of faith, to turn away from the ego, to give those feelings of vengeance over to God, trusting that He/She/It will administer the justice as is best for all–the wrongdoers as well as the victims. In fact, we are called upon to deal with those who sin greatly with the same compassion as those who sin in small ways, turning aside our human desires, embracing instead those of God. It’s not easy; at times it’s very difficult keeping His Will in mind. Yet, it is what we accept when we agree to follow Him.

Lord, whose timeless love knows no partiality, and who mourns even as you chastise; teach us to be courageous in the face of injustice, and strengthen in us the spark of your divine love so that we may truly conquer evil with good. Amen.

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My Prayer on July 4th

Posted on July 4, 2011 | Leave a comment

Dear Lord, bless America on this, its birthday:

Bless the men and women who have served in uniform to defend her, especially those who were required to fight in wars, whether just or unjust;

Bless the women and men who have struggled to prevent war, especially those who have stood against the will of their government and the majority of their fellow-citizens;

Bless the families who have lost loved ones, especially those who grieve in face of violent, unnecessary, and unjust loss;

Bless the men and women who have worked to restore the lives of those affected by conflict, disaster, and personal trauma, especially those who have labored in the aftermath of our country’s actions or inactions;

Bless the women and men who serve our communities, especially those who are willing to sacrifice their lives or reputations for the common good;

Bless the men and women who give of their own free time to help others, especially those who have little free time to begin with;

Bless the women and men who go to work every day to provide decent lives for their families, especially those whose work is undervalued, underpaid, or threatened;

Bless the men and women who give generously to those who have less, especially those who sacrifice from their ordinary incomes rather from their surplus wealth;

Bless the women & men who are unemployed, especially those who have become discouraged and no longer look for work;

Bless the men and women who teach in our schools, especially those who feel overworked, demoralized, or attacked;

Bless the men and women of all religions who work to realize your will on earth, especially those who speak your word with fearless and prophetic voices;

Bless those women and men without religion or faith who nevertheless strive to bring about a just and moral world, especially those who work hand-in-hand with people of faith;

Bless our children, who are the hope of our future.

In the words of St Francis, Lord, make America an instrument of your peace;

Where there is hatred, let America and Americans sow love;

Where there is injury, pardon;

Where there is doubt, faith;

Where there is despair, hope;

Where there is darkness, light;

Where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master, Grant that America and Americans may not seek…

To be consoled as to console;

To be understood as to understand;

To be loved as to love.

For, as you have taught us…

It is in giving that we will receive,

It is in pardoning that we will be pardoned,

And it is by dying to the ways of pride, selfishness, and injustice that we will be reborn to the promise that is “America.”

Amen.

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“At the center of non-violence stands the principal of love.”

Posted on June 14, 2011 | Leave a comment

“At the center of non-violence stands the principal of love.” Martin Luther King, Jr.

Continuing my reflections on quotes related to conscience and peace, I wanted to explore Martin Luther King’s observation that non-violence, true non-violence, is founded upon love. I started writing on this a couple weeks ago, but found that the simplicity of the statement made my words appear unnecessary. A couple of starts produced nothing satisfying; I pretty much decided that King’s words should stand on their own and move on to another quote. Love & non-violence are so closely tied together that any commentary thereupon seems, at best, superfluous.

Today, however, I found myself coming back to these words from a different direction. One of the books I’m currently reading (I generally have four or five going at the same time) is The Dark Night of the Soul: A Psychiatrist Explores the Connection Between Darkness and Spiritual Growth, by Gerald G. May, MD. May’s book explores the spiritual relationship between St. Teresa of Ávila and St. John of the Cross, both sixteenth century Carmelites, reformers, writers, mystics, and subsequently Doctors of The Church. Teresa was, as May explains, John’s mentor & confidant, his “spiritual mother,” nourishing him with her images and visions of the spiritual life (32). Taken together, their visionary understanding of humanity’s unity with God forms the basis of a Christian spirituality that sounds much the same as those of Hindu, Buddhist, Zoroastrian, Sikh, and other faith traditions. Teresa writes that while in prayer God told her to “Seek yourself in Me, and in yourself seek Me” (43; from her poem “Buscando a Dios,” “Seeking God”). This itself seems to me a logical extension of Christ’s words,

“And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate to be with you always, the Spirit of truth, which the world cannot accept, because it neither sees nor knows it. But you know it, because it remains with you, and will be in you. I will not leave you orphans” (Jn 14: 16-18)

…keeping in mind that, as Catholics, the Spirit is one aspect of the Trinity that is God. God has His home in us, and we in him: “God in me, and I in God” (45).

May goes on to discuss Teresa’s & John’s belief that the spiritual journey on which we find ourselves is not truly a journey of discovery but one of becoming conscious of that which already exists: our unity with God. This might make for another posting in the future, but I want to bring this back to King’s connection of non-violence & love. As I read May’s writing, I couldn’t help but recall one of my favorite lines from the New Testament: “We have come to know and to believe in the love God has for us. God is love, and whoever remains in love remains in God and God in him” (1Jn: 16: NAB). Love itself is an aspect of God, so by our very nature we have, at the core of our being, both the Divine and its aspect, Love. This is the same Love that gave rise to and that animates all of creation, the Love that is the active, creative nature of God.

As in so many things spiritual, however, we grasp only the shadow of Divine Love, though we bandy the word “love” about rather freely. When a person is truly and deeply in love (Anne & I celebrated our 31st anniversary last week, so I’ve been thinking a lot lately about being deeply in love), he or she begins to know what Love truly is, although it is akin to the scent of a rose hinting at the reality of the flower: “For now we see through a glass, darkly”(1 Cor: 12: I like this, the King James version, better). The love that we feel for another, for humanity, for all of creation is the image of and a pathway to the Love that is God that sits at the center of our being. Love is a divine gravity that moves us towards God.

This brings me to the subject of non-violence. As above, love & non-violence go hand-in-hand. Love (capital L) is of God, the Divine, The Source, The Eternal Essence. God The Creator, who is Love, is within His/Her/Its creation (we can also say in love with His/Her/Its creation). Even in our human state, we understand that loving something created of oneself–a child being the best example–precludes even the notion of violence. Christ teaches this in the seventh chapter of Matthew: “Which one of you would hand his son a stone when he asks for a loaf of bread, or a snake when he asks for a fish?” (v 9-10). How much more does the Love that is God negate all forms of violence against any of His (/Her/Its) creation? It appears that violence is by its nature an act against God. Violence is blasphemy.

So if God is Love, and God-Love dwells in us, then we are called to non-violence just as we are called to be conscious of God’s home in us. That humanity has become, in many people’s eyes, synonymous with violence speaks more to our inability to perceive the Divine within, our “fallen state,” than in the reality of our nature. It is, in fact, human nature to be nonviolent, not the other way around.

Teresa, John, and countless & uncounted saints & mystics–Christian & non-Christian alike–came to know that seeking God within oneself is neither easy nor comfortable; it follows that embracing non-violence, which is embracing Love, is also a challenge like no other that we face in this lifetime. Non-violence, like Love, is an active principle. Neither lie still awaiting our embrace. Cesar Chavez said that “Non-violence is not inaction. It is not discussion. It is not for the timid or weak… Non-violence is hard work.” Just as lovers continually express their love for one-another, we must continually express the  non-violence that lies within us.

As Christians–and as Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, etc., even secularists–we are called to a prophetic role in the world. We are called to be a continual reminder that violence is always a sign of failure, that violence is against our nature, that violence ultimately begets more violence. We are called to be, in the words of another saint, instruments of peace.

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Why I stay home on Memorial Day

Posted on May 30, 2011 | 1 Comment

For the majority of Americans, Memorial Day marks the beginning of summer. It has become our national summer solstice, the bonfires and welcoming of the summer sun being replaced with picnics, barbecues, family get-togethers, and so on.

Some Americans, however, recall that Memorial Day is the day that has been set aside to remember the men and women who died in America’s wars. It is marked by the placing of flags on the graves of those who served and wreaths at the national cemeteries to honor the fallen.

I used to be one of the latter. I participated in the marches to cemeteries, listened to the speeches in honor of our American dead, held back tears at the playing of taps, and generally tried to contribute my feelings to the secular prayer of remembrance. As a veteran (and up until a few years ago, a member of the reserve forces), I felt it to be a particularly important act of solidarity with my brothers & sisters in arms who not only “answered their country’s call” but “gave the last full measure of devotion.” For me the truths that underlay the cliches were tangible. I always seemed to feel the lives that had been cut short by the sudden violence of war, lives that were every bit as full and complex as mine. These were people with whom I shared a bond, and that bond required my remembrance & honoring of their lives on this day.

Then I went to Iraq.

If anything, my time overseas has deepened the emotions that Memorial Day has always inspired in me. As I have always made plain, my experience of war was far, far less than that of many. I never pulled the trigger of my weapon while aiming at another person, nor do I believe that anyone ever had me specifically in his sights. I experienced the death and destruction of war from one degree of separation; the IED explosions, rifle fire, RPGs, rockets, and mortars were always just beyond my bubble. I cannot even say that I ever felt really consciously afraid while I was “there” (though my psychologist has helped me to understand that, unconsciously, I felt fear for almost an entire year). The proximity was enough, though, to change how I experience Memorial Day. The bond that I felt for so long has moved beyond the concept of “honoring the dead” to “grieving for those we lost.”

I’m going to indulge in generalization and say that I don’t believe any normal person goes off to war intending to die. He or she may fear, perhaps even anticipate, the worst, but I doubt that it is anything other than unusual for a soldier* to feel that his or her death is inevitable and inescapable. Our will to live is strong, and even being surrounded by death doesn’t necessarily manifest a death wish. Even the soldier’s fatalism–”If it’s your time, it’s your time”–implies that life is always the preferable option.

But war is and has always been about death. No matter how much it’s glamorized, no matter how much we paint it over with ideas like “duty” and honor,” war is about death. The death of others and the possibility of our own. And death in war is not clean. The human body was not built for absorbing steel-jacketed bullets, red-hot shrapnel, concussion waves, intense & immediate heat, and all the other means that people have devised to tear apart other human beings. As so many warriors have remarked over the centuries, there is no honor or glory in battlefield death. Those are terms the living use to deal with the horror of war.

This is why I’ve chosen to stay home on Memorial Day since 2006. I feel that solidarity with the dead even more for having been close to the dead. The dead have faces for me now, faces of the men & women with whom I served for twenty years. All the speeches and flags and parades and bugle calls cannot hide those faces from me. I feel grief far too deeply, and I feel it far too personally to share with a crowd of others.

Perhaps it’s alright in a larger sense to honor the fallen. I will certainly never presume to take away the sincere sentiments of those who remember the dead, even those whom we only know through a name on a brass grave plaque and a small American flag. For me, though, no speech, no flag, no parade, no playing of “Taps” can hide the horror that is war. No collective memorializing can, for me, mask the individual deaths of the men & women who never wanted to die. Hundreds of thousands. Millions. The grief from the loss of all these individual lives combines into the heat of a bonfire that overwhelms me, heat that holds me in thrall while threatening to consume me. I am left looking at the brutal, awful, distillation of, in Joseph Conrad’s words, “The Horror! The Horror!

I cannot participate in Memorial Day because the substance of its meaning is too much for me. When I think of the dead on this day (and as I write this I find myself thinking especially of four soldiers who died on a hot August night in 2005 about five klicks from where I stood), I find myself wishing that we as a nation could honor our brothers and sisters, our husbands and wives, our sons and daughters by dedicating ourselves to the goal of never having another person sacrifice his or her life in war–any war.

In the meantime, perhaps Memorial Day should be about forgiveness.

* I’m using soldier in the generic to refer to any person in the military sent to war–soldier, sailor, marine, airman; it is not intended to slight the member of any service.

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At the center of nonviolence…

Posted on May 23, 2011 | Leave a comment

“At the center of non-violence stands the principal of love.” Martin Luther King, Jr.
Continuing my reflections on quotes related to conscience and peace, I wanted to explore Martin Luther King’s observation that non-violence, true non-violence, is founded upon love. I started writing on this a couple weeks ago, but found that the simplicity of the statement made my words appear unnecessary. A couple of starts produced nothing satisfying; I pretty much decided that King’s words should stand on their own and move on to another quote. Love & non-violence are so closely tied together that any commentary thereupon seems, at best, superfluous.
Today, however, I found myself coming back to these words from a different direction. One of the books I’m currently reading (I generally have four or five going at the same time) is The Dark Night of Soul: A Psychiatrist Explores the Connection Between Darkness and Spiritual Growth, by Gerald G. May, MD. May’s book explores the spiritual relationship between St. Teresa of Ávila and St. John of the Cross, both sixteenth century Carmelites, reformers, writers, mystics, and subsequently Doctors of The Church. Teresa was, as May explains, John’s mentor & confidant, his “spiritual mother, nourishing him with her images and visions of the spiritual life” (32). Taken together, their visionary understanding of humanity’s unity with God forms the basis of a Christian spirituality that sounds much the same as those of Hindu, Buddhist, Zoroastrian, Sikh, and other faith traditions. Teresa writes that while in prayer God told her to “Seek yourself in Me, and in yourself seek Me” (43; from her poem “Buscando a Dios,” “Seeking God”). This itself seems to me a logical extension of Christ’s words,

“And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate to be with you always, the Spirit of truth, which the world cannot accept, because it neither sees nor knows it. But you know it, because it remains with you, and will be in you. I will not leave you orphans” (Jn 14: 16-18),

keeping in mind that, as Catholics, the Spirit is one aspect of the Trinity that is God. God has His home in us, and we in him: “God in me, and I in God” (45).
May goes on to discuss Teresa’s & John’s belief that the spiritual journey on which we find ourselves is not truly a journey of discovery but one of becoming conscious of that which already exists: our unity with God. This might make for another posting in the future, but I want to bring this back to King’s connection of non-violence & love. As I read May’s writing, I couldn’t help but recall one of my favorite lines from the New Testament: “We have come to know and to believe in the love God has for us. God is love, and whoever remains in love remains in God and God in him” (1Jn: 16: NAB). Love itself is an aspect of God, so by our very nature we have, at the core of our being, both the Divine and its aspect, Love. This is the same Love that gave rise to and that animates all of creation, the Love that is the active, creative nature of God.
As in so many things spiritual, however, we grasp only the shadow of Divine Love, though we bandy the word “love” about rather freely. When a person is truly and deeply in love (Anne & I celebrated our 31st anniversary this week, so I’ve been thinking a lot lately about being deeply in love), he or she begins to know what Love truly is, although it is akin to the scent of a rose hinting at the reality of the flower: “For now we see through a glass, darkly”(1 Cor: 12: I like this, the King James version, better). The love that we feel for another, for humanity, for all of creation is the image of and a pathway to the Love that is God that sit at the center of our being. Love is a divine gravity that moves us towards God.
This brings me to the subject of non-violence. As above, love & non-violence go hand-in-hand. Love (capital L) is of God, the Divine, The Source, The Eternal Essence. God The Creator, who is Love, is within His/Her/Its creation (we can also say in love with His/Her/Its creation). Even in our human state, we understand that loving something created of oneself–a child being the best example–precludes even the notion of violence. Christ teaches this in the seventh chapter of Matthew: “Which one of you would hand his son a stone when he asks for a loaf of bread, or a snake when he asks for a fish?” (v 9-10). How much more does the Love that is God negate all forms of violence against any of His (/Her/Its) creation? It appears that violence is by its nature an act against God. Violence is blasphemy.
So if God is Love, and God-Love dwells in us, then we are called to non-violence just as we are called to be conscious of God’s home in us. That humanity has become, in many people’s eyes, synonymous with violence speaks more to our inability to perceive the Divine within, our “fallen state,” than in the reality of our nature. It is, in fact, human nature to be nonviolent, not the other way around.
Teresa, John, and countless & uncounted saints & mystics–Christian & non-Christian alike–came to know that seeking God within oneself is neither easy nor comfortable; it follows that embracing non-violence, which is embracing Love, is also a challenge like no other that we face in this lifetime. Non-violence, like Love, is an active principle. Neither lie still awaiting our embrace. Cesar Chavez said that “Non-violence is not inaction. It is not discussion. It is not for the timid or weak… Non-violence is hard work.” Just as lovers continually express their love for one-another, we must continually express the non-violence that lies within us.
As Christians–and as Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, etc., even secularists–we are called to a prophetic role in the world. We are called to be a continual reminder that violence is always a sign of failure, that violence is against our nature, that violence ultimately begets more violence. We are called to be, in the words of another saint, instruments of peace.

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Matters of conscience and peace: The White Rose

Posted on May 21, 2011 | 1 Comment

A short while ago I was re-posting an article on my Facebook page and needed to look up a quote by Philip Berrigan (or it may have been his brother, Fr. Daniel: I haven’t been able to sort it out). When asked about how a Christian should respond to Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld, and the rest of the gang that led us into the unnecessary war in Iraq, he replied, “We should pray for them, and resist them.” I had come across this quote several years ago as I was struggling to come to grips with the anger and bitterness that I felt after coming home from Iraq. It helped. It continues to help.

I wanted to get the quote right, though, so I did a quick Google search. I found Berrigan’s quote on the website of my old friends at Catholic Peace Fellowship; it was part of a list they had complied of quotes concerning issues of conscience & peace. Naturally, I had to read through them all. The words of these men & women who have been champions of peace and justice–one of the few worthwhile & righteous endeavors that humans can undertake–managed to get past the checkpoints that keep my emotions under control. I found myself, after a minute or so, beginning to tear up. Prior to 2004, this wouldn’t have surprised me; I’ve always been one of those people who wore his emotions on his sleeve (an awkward thing for a young man in our society). After Iraq, though, my emotions have been kept under heavy guard, and it’s a rare occurrence to have them appear without warning.

Because the list is somewhat long, and because each quote inspires its own set of feelings & ideas, I’m going to treat them over a serious of entries. This will be an exercise in finding the wisdom that has the ability to move me. And perhaps help to clarify in my own mind, and for others who may be interested, what are those beliefs & concepts that comprise the foundation upon which I have built (or rebuilt over the past five years) my identity.

The White Rose
“We must attack evil where it is strongest, and it is strongest in the power of Hitler… We will not be silent. We are your bad conscience. The White Rose will not leave you in peace.” Excerpt from a leaflet by Hans and Sophie Scholl, devout young German Christians executed by the Nazi party in 1943.

The White Rose

Hans & Sophie Scholl and Christoph Probst

Although I’ve been touched by the actions of many people who refused to stand by and let evil have its way, Hans & Sophie Scholl and the other members of The White Rose have a special place in my heart. [Click here for a short summary of their story, or here for the Wikipedia article.] I grew up in the shadow of WWII; like most Americans, I believed that the Germans were either willingly complicit with the Nazi regime or passive dupes who went along with Hitler out of a misguided sense of patriotism & nationalism. When I first learned of the young men & women who made up The White Rose, I had to re-think my prejudices. Learning more about the internal dissent in fascist Germany (and Italy, for that matter) over the years has challenged me to look differently at dissent in our own society.

Both Hans & Sophie Scholl had joined the Hitler Youth in the general enthusiasm the Nazi regime cultivated before it went to war. They, however, began to see those in power for what they were by witnessing the horrors that were being visited upon others and the Germans themselves. They went from good, patriotic young people to dissidents considered so dangerous that the full force of the Gestapo was brought to bear against them. They willingly sacrificed themselves in the belief that when ordinary people are confronted by the reality of what is being done to others in their name, they will rise up against the leaders who spew hatred and revel in suffering to justify their power.

While America is certainly not Nazi Germany, I think most of us would agree that it is far from perfect. In recent years (since Reagan at least), I’ve seen a slow but steady erosion of the institutional protections American citizens have relied upon to hold back the worst excesses of centralized power and corporate capitalist rapaciousness. Moreover, I’ve watched the skillful polarization of the citizenry to the point where large swaths of the American people vote against their own self-interests (much less basic human compassion) in electing power-hungry demagogues and militarists to offices low & high.

I’ve also seen–first hand–the way dissent is handled in this country. While we haven’t brought out guillotines (yet), anyone who raises legitimate questions about the motives of this party or that, of politician A or media pundit B, is silenced either by the denial of access to the media or subjected to the vicious ad hominem attacks. And if someone questions our elected government’s selling and maintenance of the most recent wars, he or she can count on being the object of government surveillance (in this I have first-hand experience).

We’ve already moved quite a way down the road toward becoming a society that is free in name only. We need more men and women, particularly young men and women like those who made up The White Rose who will stand & speak truth to power. We need more people who will shake off the chains of nationalism, superficial patriotism, jingoistic partisanship, and passive participation in the oppression of others. We need modern-day prophets who can show us clearly the truth of what we are doing to others and to ourselves. We need men & women with the courage to face down the far more subtle but no less dangerous viciousness that has become the norm in America’s so-called marketplace of ideas (i.e. “We’re going to sell you our ideas about what you should believe & do.”). We need our own 21st century version of The White Rose. Perhaps then we will be able to continue the task of living up to the ideals upon which this country was founded.

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