In 1953, Arthur C. Clarke wrote a terrific science-fiction short story called, "The Nine Billion Names of God" (http://downlode.org/EText/nine_billion_names_of_god.html). The premise was simple and brilliant: an American computer company sells a large, fast computer to a Tibetan monastery. The monks buy the machine to more quickly complete what they believe to be humanity's purpose: to print out all the possible names of God, pegged at about nine billion. Not to spoil the plot, but the monks succeed, abruptly ending the story and ....
One of the purposes of this blog is to explore the language of experience that might fairly and broadly be called spiritual. Of all the possible spiritual questions and topics, none may be more fundamental, at least to this Westerner's sensibility, than that of God. The funny thing is that we think and pretend we know what we're saying when we use that three-letter word. As kids in America, many of us thought that God meant that Bearded White Guy in the Sky, a benevolent or punishing being not unlike Santa Claus. As adults? Jesus. Higher Power. Ultimate Reality. Love. Creator. Wakan Tanka (Lakota). Alpha & Omega. I Am Who Am. Pure Being. The Source. Etc.
Are we talking reality or fantasy here? An experience of what is or what we want to be true? Perception or projection? In the 18th, 19th and 20th centuries increasing numbers of thoughtful people began to find the concept and experience of God marginally important or, for some, patently absurd. Advances in scientific, historical and scriptural studies have, for many, gutted out the easy, comforting beliefs and spiritualities we learned at home or at religious instruction classes. While some variations of the traditional religions flourish, millions live their lives happily without much formal religious expression, particularly when it comes to community experiences like church, synagogue, mosque, etc. Numerous scandals and their subsequent cover-ups in many religious institutions have become all too frequent and added to the exodus of practicing believers.
Filling the vacuum have been many instances of what some folk mean when they say, "I'm spiritual, but not religious." With roots in Emerson and the Transcendentalists, an appreciation of world religions and the New Thought movement, many people find a self-driven and personally validated spiritual practice to be a very important part of their lives. Millions of Twelve Step practitioners adopt a Big Tent conception of Higher Power that lets individuals choose what's meaningful to them in the spiritual arena. Still others meditate or do yoga and buy millions of spiritually themed books to nourish themselves.
Over the next few entries, I want to explore what it could mean to name God and what it could mean to keep silence, what it means to pray and meditate, and how people of our time might find some common ground to talk to each other about our most interior experiences.
Meantime, treat yourself to Arthur Clarke's story..... and stay open.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Travel Gifts
Late last night, my wife and I arrived back from a week in Barbados. We came back to a temperature probably seventy degrees different from what we left in that beautiful Carribean island nation. It was hard to leave, but it's also good to be home. We're unpacking, doing laundry, enjoying a fire in the fireplace and getting geared up for a return to work with the good energy of vacation.
Winter vacations in a warm place seem to me to be a particular luxury. I can handle the next several weeks of deep winter because every day last week I walked into water where I didn't shiver at all. I snorkled five days in a row right off our apartment's beach in Carlisle Bay. Ten minutes out in that bay is an eighty foot French freighter that sank in twenty-five feet of water in 1918. The Berwyn is now an artificial reef, home to hundreds of fish so tame that they barely move as you glide among them. My first day a big green turtle startled me swimming deliberately only a few feet below. Snorkeling like that is a real in-the-moment meditation, helping me concentrate on breathing deeply and evenly, and noticing the smallest change with interest and gratitude.
We saw several parts of the island from wild seacoasts to deep, jungle-like forests. But undoubtedly the real beauty of the island were its people. The beach we stayed on is a mile long, and local people moving on it from early morning to dark outnumbered the visitors by about 20 to 1. They walked, ran, vigorously exercised and just visited with each other bobbing in the warm, clear water. Fishermen, sailors, restaurant workers, boat repairmen, etc. were like a tapestry of life and humanity. Some were very friendly, others probably like ourselves just tolerating the influx of vacationers in our part of the world in summer. Most fun, of course, were the children who had that great kid spirit whether coming home from school or goofing around with each other on the beach. We felt privileged to share that beautiful part of the world with them.
One young man we met stands out in my recalling several memorable people whose paths crossed with ours. We stopped for a bite to eat in a little strip mall in a tourist section. Helping out at this one Greek restaurant was a young man of about 20 or so. He described himself as a designer and entrepeneur. His vision was to form a collective of young artists and musicians, interacting with both local citizens and visitors from abroad interested in the sort of cutting edge art scene found in places like London and New York. I have no doubt he'll realize his vision.
Travel in our own lands or abroad allows me to appreciate and learn from people who broaden and deepen my picture of the world and its inhabitants. "All my relations!" say many Native American peoples as they begin or end prayers or ceremonies. When I travel, I see how true that affirmation is. And I'm grateful.
Winter vacations in a warm place seem to me to be a particular luxury. I can handle the next several weeks of deep winter because every day last week I walked into water where I didn't shiver at all. I snorkled five days in a row right off our apartment's beach in Carlisle Bay. Ten minutes out in that bay is an eighty foot French freighter that sank in twenty-five feet of water in 1918. The Berwyn is now an artificial reef, home to hundreds of fish so tame that they barely move as you glide among them. My first day a big green turtle startled me swimming deliberately only a few feet below. Snorkeling like that is a real in-the-moment meditation, helping me concentrate on breathing deeply and evenly, and noticing the smallest change with interest and gratitude.
We saw several parts of the island from wild seacoasts to deep, jungle-like forests. But undoubtedly the real beauty of the island were its people. The beach we stayed on is a mile long, and local people moving on it from early morning to dark outnumbered the visitors by about 20 to 1. They walked, ran, vigorously exercised and just visited with each other bobbing in the warm, clear water. Fishermen, sailors, restaurant workers, boat repairmen, etc. were like a tapestry of life and humanity. Some were very friendly, others probably like ourselves just tolerating the influx of vacationers in our part of the world in summer. Most fun, of course, were the children who had that great kid spirit whether coming home from school or goofing around with each other on the beach. We felt privileged to share that beautiful part of the world with them.
One young man we met stands out in my recalling several memorable people whose paths crossed with ours. We stopped for a bite to eat in a little strip mall in a tourist section. Helping out at this one Greek restaurant was a young man of about 20 or so. He described himself as a designer and entrepeneur. His vision was to form a collective of young artists and musicians, interacting with both local citizens and visitors from abroad interested in the sort of cutting edge art scene found in places like London and New York. I have no doubt he'll realize his vision.
Travel in our own lands or abroad allows me to appreciate and learn from people who broaden and deepen my picture of the world and its inhabitants. "All my relations!" say many Native American peoples as they begin or end prayers or ceremonies. When I travel, I see how true that affirmation is. And I'm grateful.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Words and Blood
As I write this, that fleeting thing known as the National Conversation has focused on this question: can angry or demeaning words contribute to violent incidents like the recent killings in Arizona? The killer was apparently deeply ill psychologically. Could the effects of verbal insult, condescending words and mean characterization typifying a lot of political talk nowadays somehow have fuelled this young man's terrible actions? At the very least, I think, they didn't help.
Words matter. As a long-ago undergraduate English major, I came to love words and deeply respect their power. Experiencing a great actor's use of words that move me to my soul or listening to the lyrics of a song that take me away are just a couple of examples. Some of my biggest regrets in life are about times I tried to be clever or sarcastic and only found that my words misfired or truly hurt someone about whom I cared. "Restraint of pen and tongue," says one twelve step program, is a great mantra for living humanely and moderately.
The word "sarcasm" has its literal origin in the phrase, "to tear flesh." Sarcasm can be very funny, of course, but also be verbal violence. Imagine yourself on the receiving end of the most clever put-down you've ever spoken. Does it feel respectful? I can abhor your ideas about something, and still see you as a fellow human being, worthy of my respect for no greater reason.
If I see you as a son or daughter of Creator or Life, and keep that thought paramount, it's hard to treat you like an enemy in words or actions. When I erase that thought by some form of verbal abuse, it's not such a long step to someone else treating that life as expendable. Disturbed people, in my experience, are often acutely aware of currents in the culture; and some of them amplify the more negative currents with tragic consequences.
Words count. Their highest uses in scriptures, poetry, songs and expressions of love and warm regard bespeak a presence, a truth so great that using them for put down or self-righteous judgment just seems shabby as well as potentially volatile. We're better than the way we use words sometimes. Minding that is important.
Words matter. As a long-ago undergraduate English major, I came to love words and deeply respect their power. Experiencing a great actor's use of words that move me to my soul or listening to the lyrics of a song that take me away are just a couple of examples. Some of my biggest regrets in life are about times I tried to be clever or sarcastic and only found that my words misfired or truly hurt someone about whom I cared. "Restraint of pen and tongue," says one twelve step program, is a great mantra for living humanely and moderately.
The word "sarcasm" has its literal origin in the phrase, "to tear flesh." Sarcasm can be very funny, of course, but also be verbal violence. Imagine yourself on the receiving end of the most clever put-down you've ever spoken. Does it feel respectful? I can abhor your ideas about something, and still see you as a fellow human being, worthy of my respect for no greater reason.
If I see you as a son or daughter of Creator or Life, and keep that thought paramount, it's hard to treat you like an enemy in words or actions. When I erase that thought by some form of verbal abuse, it's not such a long step to someone else treating that life as expendable. Disturbed people, in my experience, are often acutely aware of currents in the culture; and some of them amplify the more negative currents with tragic consequences.
Words count. Their highest uses in scriptures, poetry, songs and expressions of love and warm regard bespeak a presence, a truth so great that using them for put down or self-righteous judgment just seems shabby as well as potentially volatile. We're better than the way we use words sometimes. Minding that is important.
Death and the Common Cold
For the past week I've been low-level battling an upper respiratory infection of some species or other. My doctor is usually very cautious about this sort of thing, but he prescribed a 10-day course of antibiotics. I stayed in all last weekend to try to kick the illness, reading and watching some very good and some very bad television. Mel Brooks got my thumbs up for his great film, "The Producers."
But mostly I felt lousy all week, sitting, lying down or working. Working? I'm afraid I'm susceptible to the pokes of the Spirit of Macho urging me to slog on, no matter what. There was a recent television commercial for a cold remedy that featured NFL quarterback Drew Bledsoe, last year's Super Bowl hero. I think the slogan ran, "There are no sick days in the NFL!" Damn you, Drew Bledsoe!
Seriously, my coping with this sickness led to some dark thoughts and moments of feeling badly, indeed. Upon awakening, for instance, intimations of mortality, the realization that there will one day be an illness that will be the final one, took brief hold several times.
When I'm sick, I'm vulnerable and I feel helpless, the opposite of the power and control illusion that's usually operative in most of our lives. The reality is that death is the truth, at some point, for each of us. The odd and graceful thing about that is that embracing that truth can be incredibly liberating and enlivening. Robert Lifton once said that accepting my mortality, my certain death sooner or later, enhances my life qualitatively. Each day becomes precious, more poignantly rich and interesting.
I like that last thought, a great deal. I can endorse its truth at least when I'm not prostrated by a pesky infection. I'm off to have the vegetarian equivalent of chicken soup. Don't ask. It involves tofu and vegetable broth.
But mostly I felt lousy all week, sitting, lying down or working. Working? I'm afraid I'm susceptible to the pokes of the Spirit of Macho urging me to slog on, no matter what. There was a recent television commercial for a cold remedy that featured NFL quarterback Drew Bledsoe, last year's Super Bowl hero. I think the slogan ran, "There are no sick days in the NFL!" Damn you, Drew Bledsoe!
Seriously, my coping with this sickness led to some dark thoughts and moments of feeling badly, indeed. Upon awakening, for instance, intimations of mortality, the realization that there will one day be an illness that will be the final one, took brief hold several times.
When I'm sick, I'm vulnerable and I feel helpless, the opposite of the power and control illusion that's usually operative in most of our lives. The reality is that death is the truth, at some point, for each of us. The odd and graceful thing about that is that embracing that truth can be incredibly liberating and enlivening. Robert Lifton once said that accepting my mortality, my certain death sooner or later, enhances my life qualitatively. Each day becomes precious, more poignantly rich and interesting.
I like that last thought, a great deal. I can endorse its truth at least when I'm not prostrated by a pesky infection. I'm off to have the vegetarian equivalent of chicken soup. Don't ask. It involves tofu and vegetable broth.
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