Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid. –John 14:27
Imagine our physical, mental, and emotional experience each day as three roller coasters next to each other at an amusement park. Depending where you are on the ride, you are expectant, exhilarated, or sick to your stomach.
Your spiritual life, when it is active, is like being on an observation deck above the rise and fall of the track and cars. You can see everything—notice the people waiting, screaming, and holding on tight, but it does not change your peace. As you sit, relaxed in a lounge chair sipping a coffee, you notice what is happening, and you trust that the ride will continue.
Even if the ride stops precariously on the edge of a sharp decline, you know that everything will work out because you have seen the pattern of the cars following the track before.
When you incorporate spiritual practice into daily living, it gives you a perspective on what is happening to you. Instead of getting caught up in the drama, you choose to be calm and confident regardless.
When you get sick, you believe you will get well and you rest as you heal. You feel the doubt, fear, and panic when trouble happens, but you let go of the negative energy quickly because you realize the spinning thoughts and the stressful emotions will pass.
You have known times when you felt peace, even though life was out of control. These are the moments when you listened to your spirit. Your spirit knows that you will feel peace again, even through the slow rises and terrifying falls.
Sitting on the observation deck, even as you ride three coasters at once, is the practice of living the graceful life.
I am at peace with God. My conflict is with Man.
–Charlie Chaplin
When do you feel calm even though everything around you is spinning out of control?
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
15. Feast
When portions were served to them from Joseph's table, Benjamin's portion was five times as much as anyone else's. So they feasted and drank freely with him.
–Genesis 43:34
Like a good meal, faith takes thought and preparation, but ultimately it is meant to be enjoyed. Faith is how you feast on the fullness of what it means to be a human being. It is how you fill your soul with the energy you need to live like eating at a richly filled table.
A lack of faith can lead to a spiritual hunger so debilitating it can feel like starvation. Starving for faith can be as harmful as starving for food because finding ways to feed your soul is a far greater mystery than visiting the kitchen.
Viewing a feast in this way, the Last Supper takes on a whole different meaning. Guests around this table were feasting on the body and blood of Christ, in communion with him because they needed more than bread and wine.
The French derivation of the word "companion" is "with bread." It is in this light that the extinction of the family dinner table and the proliferation of "fast food" are most tragic. It is the love of Christ that the disciples most needed, and it is love from others, simple companionship, that so many of us need today; and yet it is missing.
Like Jesus and his disciples, a spiritual feast begins with food and a conversation. If the way to a person's heart is through their stomach, a good meal and good conversation may be the most spiritual experience we can have.
If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.
–Ernest Hemingway
Where are the places where you feast on more than bread and wine?
–Genesis 43:34
Like a good meal, faith takes thought and preparation, but ultimately it is meant to be enjoyed. Faith is how you feast on the fullness of what it means to be a human being. It is how you fill your soul with the energy you need to live like eating at a richly filled table.
A lack of faith can lead to a spiritual hunger so debilitating it can feel like starvation. Starving for faith can be as harmful as starving for food because finding ways to feed your soul is a far greater mystery than visiting the kitchen.
Viewing a feast in this way, the Last Supper takes on a whole different meaning. Guests around this table were feasting on the body and blood of Christ, in communion with him because they needed more than bread and wine.
The French derivation of the word "companion" is "with bread." It is in this light that the extinction of the family dinner table and the proliferation of "fast food" are most tragic. It is the love of Christ that the disciples most needed, and it is love from others, simple companionship, that so many of us need today; and yet it is missing.
Like Jesus and his disciples, a spiritual feast begins with food and a conversation. If the way to a person's heart is through their stomach, a good meal and good conversation may be the most spiritual experience we can have.
If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.
–Ernest Hemingway
Where are the places where you feast on more than bread and wine?
Saturday, October 25, 2008
14. Laugh
Abraham fell facedown; he laughed and said to himself, "Will a son be born to a man a hundred years old? Will Sarah bear a child at the age of ninety?’
–Genesis 17: 17
Why do we laugh?
Sociologists have pondered this question for some time, but there has been no definitive scientific "use" determined for this outward manifestation of inner joy.
Scientists have, however, linked the tendency to laugh and smile to longevity. In fact, the smile is such a powerful force, that when the 44 muscles on the "facial palet" are configured just right, we feel better. Social scientists tell us that, merely by moving the face into "laugh position" or "smiling," even if we do not feel like it, we can jumpstart chemical reactions in the brain that actually make us feel happy or help us to climb out of a funk. Moreover, when we are nervous or feel anxious, we naturally smile, a primal survival response designed to help us connect with another person, thereby defusing a stressful situation.
So, the next time you are in a stressful situation, look at the faces of your colleagues, children, spouse, and notice the smile reflex. Your mother was not right when she said "wipe that grin off your face, I'm trying to talk to you about something serious!" Our smile is how we reach out.
Laughter and smiling are ways to invite others to join with you and connect. Laughter is something you can do equally well with total strangers or intimate friends. It is a non verbal universal language for "you and I both think this is funny, therefore we must share a bond."
Having laughed with someone, you can’t ignore them, assume the worst about them, or hurt them on purpose. Maybe laughter, after all, is the essence of how we survive as a species; at least on Monday mornings.
Sadness is the root of all humor.
–Mark Twain
What makes you laugh?
–Genesis 17: 17
Why do we laugh?
Sociologists have pondered this question for some time, but there has been no definitive scientific "use" determined for this outward manifestation of inner joy.
Scientists have, however, linked the tendency to laugh and smile to longevity. In fact, the smile is such a powerful force, that when the 44 muscles on the "facial palet" are configured just right, we feel better. Social scientists tell us that, merely by moving the face into "laugh position" or "smiling," even if we do not feel like it, we can jumpstart chemical reactions in the brain that actually make us feel happy or help us to climb out of a funk. Moreover, when we are nervous or feel anxious, we naturally smile, a primal survival response designed to help us connect with another person, thereby defusing a stressful situation.
So, the next time you are in a stressful situation, look at the faces of your colleagues, children, spouse, and notice the smile reflex. Your mother was not right when she said "wipe that grin off your face, I'm trying to talk to you about something serious!" Our smile is how we reach out.
Laughter and smiling are ways to invite others to join with you and connect. Laughter is something you can do equally well with total strangers or intimate friends. It is a non verbal universal language for "you and I both think this is funny, therefore we must share a bond."
Having laughed with someone, you can’t ignore them, assume the worst about them, or hurt them on purpose. Maybe laughter, after all, is the essence of how we survive as a species; at least on Monday mornings.
Sadness is the root of all humor.
–Mark Twain
What makes you laugh?
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
13. Play
They rose early the next day, and offered burnt offerings and brought sacrifices of well-being; and the people sat down to eat and drink, and rose up to revel. –Exodus 32:6
I would do well to aspire to the simple, genuine purposelessness so readily exhibited by children building sandcastles on the beach. Why do they do it? The "work" they put into their creation is soon washed away, as if it never existed. There must be some intrinsic value to the play itself.
As an adult, I have lost the ability to do something simply because it is fun to do. In fact, there are strong sanctions in the adult world, formal and informal, against engaging in an activity simply for the sake of pleasure. When does this happen? Where, on my to-do lists, is there a space for "play," or is the very nature of a to-do list about extrinsic value of a reward offered by a boss, a spouse, or a client?
In some settings, it is only the quantifiable that is valued. The prevailing cultural norm of many adult institutions is built around what can be counted or defined as effective. How would you measure pleasure? The argument could be made that people who like their work are motivated by the pleasure resulting from a job well done, but there may be a higher pleasure-plane accessible to you through engaging in behavior that is an end in itself vs. a means to an end: call it the sandcastle principle.
Maybe, as an adult, you have experienced a sort of indoctrination into a culture of watching others play: a concert, an organized professional sports, even your own children on the stage or the field. The pleasure you experience in this vicarious act of witnessing may fall short of the experience which is accessible only when you follow the sandcastle principle.
Work consists of whatever a body is obliged to do; play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do.
–Mark Twain
What are the spaces in life that we reserve for the pure and cleansing experience of purposelessness?
I would do well to aspire to the simple, genuine purposelessness so readily exhibited by children building sandcastles on the beach. Why do they do it? The "work" they put into their creation is soon washed away, as if it never existed. There must be some intrinsic value to the play itself.
As an adult, I have lost the ability to do something simply because it is fun to do. In fact, there are strong sanctions in the adult world, formal and informal, against engaging in an activity simply for the sake of pleasure. When does this happen? Where, on my to-do lists, is there a space for "play," or is the very nature of a to-do list about extrinsic value of a reward offered by a boss, a spouse, or a client?
In some settings, it is only the quantifiable that is valued. The prevailing cultural norm of many adult institutions is built around what can be counted or defined as effective. How would you measure pleasure? The argument could be made that people who like their work are motivated by the pleasure resulting from a job well done, but there may be a higher pleasure-plane accessible to you through engaging in behavior that is an end in itself vs. a means to an end: call it the sandcastle principle.
Maybe, as an adult, you have experienced a sort of indoctrination into a culture of watching others play: a concert, an organized professional sports, even your own children on the stage or the field. The pleasure you experience in this vicarious act of witnessing may fall short of the experience which is accessible only when you follow the sandcastle principle.
Work consists of whatever a body is obliged to do; play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do.
–Mark Twain
What are the spaces in life that we reserve for the pure and cleansing experience of purposelessness?
Saturday, October 18, 2008
12. Music
Why did you flee secretly and deceive me and not tell me? I would have sent you away with mirth and songs, with tambourine and lyre. –Genesis 31:27
When I was a little boy, I recall walking in on my father in the midst of conducting his own private orchestra. He was wearing a pair of headphones the size of cabbages and waiving around a pretzel rod as if it were a baton. I wondered, as I watched, how someone could get so lost in a piece of music, a thing you could not see or touch.
It was only after watching my father over the course of several such performances that it occurred to me that he was, in fact, seeing and feeling the music, though I had yet to figure out how he was perceiving these sounds as sights and tactile sensations. As he listened, all else disappeared and time evaporated. I wondered if he'd attended a special school to learn how to conduct so well or how to experience music in this way.
For me, music was something to be listened to and an "ear only" experience. For my father, music was something to be watched and it transported him to other places. As I listened through the years, I learned to start with the titles of the given pieces to give me a hint of what the composer had in mind. These titles often provided an initial image, but sometimes were more confusing than no title at all. It was about the time my parents took me to see Fantasia by Walt Disney that the scales fell from my eyes and a whole world I never knew existed was opened to me.
Fantasia was just the object lesson I needed to jumpstart my sense of the visual aspect of music. In this world, talking about the color of music made perfect sense, and music became a method of prayer or a way of seeing some deeper part of myself that was inaccessible during the day when other sounds, less pleasing to my ear interfered with such inner vision.
After silence, that which comes the closest to expressing the inexpressible is music.
–Aldous Huxley
Where in your "noisy" life have you made an intentional space to "hear the music"?
When I was a little boy, I recall walking in on my father in the midst of conducting his own private orchestra. He was wearing a pair of headphones the size of cabbages and waiving around a pretzel rod as if it were a baton. I wondered, as I watched, how someone could get so lost in a piece of music, a thing you could not see or touch.
It was only after watching my father over the course of several such performances that it occurred to me that he was, in fact, seeing and feeling the music, though I had yet to figure out how he was perceiving these sounds as sights and tactile sensations. As he listened, all else disappeared and time evaporated. I wondered if he'd attended a special school to learn how to conduct so well or how to experience music in this way.
For me, music was something to be listened to and an "ear only" experience. For my father, music was something to be watched and it transported him to other places. As I listened through the years, I learned to start with the titles of the given pieces to give me a hint of what the composer had in mind. These titles often provided an initial image, but sometimes were more confusing than no title at all. It was about the time my parents took me to see Fantasia by Walt Disney that the scales fell from my eyes and a whole world I never knew existed was opened to me.
Fantasia was just the object lesson I needed to jumpstart my sense of the visual aspect of music. In this world, talking about the color of music made perfect sense, and music became a method of prayer or a way of seeing some deeper part of myself that was inaccessible during the day when other sounds, less pleasing to my ear interfered with such inner vision.
After silence, that which comes the closest to expressing the inexpressible is music.
–Aldous Huxley
Where in your "noisy" life have you made an intentional space to "hear the music"?
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
11. Silence
I am not at ease, nor am I quiet; I have no rest, but trouble comes. –Job 3:26
Pure silence can be quite earsplitting. In our crowed world, I am not sure many of us will ever get to experience absolute silence ever again.
Walking through a deep forest shortly after a heavy snow, it is possible to lose yourself in the absence of sound. With three senses disabled, there is less to distract you. Given the reduction in stimuli, what fills the balance? Is it the Holy Spirit; and before I know it, I am communing… am in communion… with nature.
It is so difficult to find such silence in places other than nature. Can you find it in a shopping mall, a classroom, or a restaurant? And yet you experience communion in places other than a snowy wood. Maybe the capacity to commune has more to do with finding a silence within myself.
A mentor of mine once observed that the word "silent" and the word "listen" are comprised of the same letters. "In order to do the one," he said, "…you must first learn to do the other, and to listen, you must be intentional about it." There are very few times when real life will yield to the possibilities of silence, or where the absence of anything, sound included, is valued.
The value of being able to conjure inner silence, however, is inestimable. It takes the place of the deep snowy wood at those times when going into the wild is not possible. Finding the silence inside requires effort we’re not used to extending, for in committing to such an undertaking, I commit to leaving, even temporarily, worlds in which I have grown comfortable, worlds that have rewarded my tolerance of the cacophony associated with it all, worlds where I am leaving something, everything, on a quest for an absence, rather than a presence.
See how nature- trees, flowers, grass- grows in silence; see the start, the moon, and the sun, how they move in silence. We need silence to be able to touch souls.
–Mother Teresa of Calcutta
How kind of daily effort can you devote to finding or creating the silence to hear what is most important to you?
Pure silence can be quite earsplitting. In our crowed world, I am not sure many of us will ever get to experience absolute silence ever again.
Walking through a deep forest shortly after a heavy snow, it is possible to lose yourself in the absence of sound. With three senses disabled, there is less to distract you. Given the reduction in stimuli, what fills the balance? Is it the Holy Spirit; and before I know it, I am communing… am in communion… with nature.
It is so difficult to find such silence in places other than nature. Can you find it in a shopping mall, a classroom, or a restaurant? And yet you experience communion in places other than a snowy wood. Maybe the capacity to commune has more to do with finding a silence within myself.
A mentor of mine once observed that the word "silent" and the word "listen" are comprised of the same letters. "In order to do the one," he said, "…you must first learn to do the other, and to listen, you must be intentional about it." There are very few times when real life will yield to the possibilities of silence, or where the absence of anything, sound included, is valued.
The value of being able to conjure inner silence, however, is inestimable. It takes the place of the deep snowy wood at those times when going into the wild is not possible. Finding the silence inside requires effort we’re not used to extending, for in committing to such an undertaking, I commit to leaving, even temporarily, worlds in which I have grown comfortable, worlds that have rewarded my tolerance of the cacophony associated with it all, worlds where I am leaving something, everything, on a quest for an absence, rather than a presence.
See how nature- trees, flowers, grass- grows in silence; see the start, the moon, and the sun, how they move in silence. We need silence to be able to touch souls.
–Mother Teresa of Calcutta
How kind of daily effort can you devote to finding or creating the silence to hear what is most important to you?
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
10. Your Last Hour
In his anguish he prayed more earnestly, and his sweat became like great drops of blood falling down on the ground. –Luke 22: 44
As Jesus was living his last hours on earth, he did what he loved most. He sat with his friends and he loved. He loved in so many ways it boggles our all-to-human minds.
He ate. In his last hours, he chewed the unleavened bread. He dipped it in oil and looked at his friends and savored the bitter yeast and the sweet grain. He lavished in the richness of the oil and the sacred moment with those who he’d traveled for three years.
He drank. He poured the wine and said remember, “You have to start over.” He talked about forgiveness and toasted the grace that is each new moment in a way that 2000 years later we still find sacred and precious. In his last moments he gave a toast so profound millions deliver it daily, in fact, hourly throughout the world.
He was honest. He told his friends what he thought of them, and made it clear that he was going to die. He told them how he was going to die and that even though he would be betrayed, he loved them and that they would end up in heaven together. The truth is only painful if we are attached to this life. He embraced eternal life, and so he spoke without fear.
He prayed. He spoke without fear, but he didn’t want to die. He gave his life because he knew he had to; so he prayed.
What would you do with your last hours? Why are you not doing it now?
No one can possibly know what is about to happen: it is happening, each time, for the first time, for the only time.
–James Baldwin
What would you do if you had just a few more hours to live?
As Jesus was living his last hours on earth, he did what he loved most. He sat with his friends and he loved. He loved in so many ways it boggles our all-to-human minds.
He ate. In his last hours, he chewed the unleavened bread. He dipped it in oil and looked at his friends and savored the bitter yeast and the sweet grain. He lavished in the richness of the oil and the sacred moment with those who he’d traveled for three years.
He drank. He poured the wine and said remember, “You have to start over.” He talked about forgiveness and toasted the grace that is each new moment in a way that 2000 years later we still find sacred and precious. In his last moments he gave a toast so profound millions deliver it daily, in fact, hourly throughout the world.
He was honest. He told his friends what he thought of them, and made it clear that he was going to die. He told them how he was going to die and that even though he would be betrayed, he loved them and that they would end up in heaven together. The truth is only painful if we are attached to this life. He embraced eternal life, and so he spoke without fear.
He prayed. He spoke without fear, but he didn’t want to die. He gave his life because he knew he had to; so he prayed.
What would you do with your last hours? Why are you not doing it now?
No one can possibly know what is about to happen: it is happening, each time, for the first time, for the only time.
–James Baldwin
What would you do if you had just a few more hours to live?
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