When God Shudders...

Mystic Mondays (Birthday Delay!)     October 17, 2016

I felt a great disturbance in the Force…as if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced. I fear something terrible has happened.        Obi-wan Kenobi in Star Wars

The other morning as I made that foggy transition from sleep into awareness I noticed that my whole body was shaking slightly. It wasn’t the first morning this had happened. In recent weeks it has shown up a handful of times. I recognized it. A few years before during a particularly fragile period of loss and transition I remember it being an almost daily occurrence for a number of weeks. This time, however, I was uncertain of the source and origin. I have a reasonable amount of security as I am just half way through an interim pastorate—meaning that I likely still have 12-18 months of secure employment and there are no major shifts with family and friends.But I have to be honest. It really didn’t take me long to recognize the source. As a preacher and blogger I feel a certain level of responsibility to keep up on what people most care about. And in this particular season it happens to be the tone of politics, the boundaries of public debate, and the future of our country. I knew exactly what was going on—I was internalizing the anxiety that we as a people are feeling and now my body was sending the same message.Therapists are telling us that they are seeing increased levels of anxiety, stress, anger, and helplessness in their clients. Recent disclosures about alleged sexual abuse is triggering PTSD symptoms among thousands (if not more) women around our country. In a recent survey 90% of those surveyed responded that this election was either causing them to be somewhat stressed or very stressed.My body has been telling me, “I feel a great disturbance in the Force as if millions of voices are crying out…”This really gives me a chance to share the deeper message of nurturing a mystical heart toward life. Often (and based on my prior posts) when we talk about mystical experiences we just focus on those experiences where we feel an intimate connection with the Sacred—experiences that we wish we could duplicate on a regular basis such as seeing God’s heart when looking at a sunset or recognizing the face of Christ in a moment of unparalleled kindness.But mysticism isn’t just about the moments of ecstatic beauty and goodness. At its heart mysticism is about allowing our soul to feel the very pulse of Life and God. It’s about seeing the Reality under the reality. It’s about tying into the vein of life that runs much deeper than what our eyes can see and our ears can hear. It’s about trusting the wisdom and the truth of the soul—a reality that we often keep hidden or simply aren’t aware of.If mysticism is about being so in touch with the heart beat of God that we can see God smile with delight, it also means that we can feel and tell when God's body shudders. It means that we can tell when the Force that unites us and sustains us is suddenly disturbed like the surface of a glassy still pond suddenly broken by a thrown rock.I am old enough that this is now my tenth presidential election that I have had the privilege to vote in. These elections have been and are hard. The debates can get contentious. Some elections have left me more concerned for our country than others. This democratic process is messy, not always fool proof and sometimes vulnerable to corruption, rigging, and manipulation. It is not and has not been a perfect system. But I have trusted it (even my candidate lost) to honor the deeper principles and spirit of democracy.But never has my body made clear to me in those elections like it has in this one that “there is a great disturbance in the Force.” My nerves are shot. My body trembles. This feels less like democracy and more like war.I am quite sure that what we are feeling is a great shudder by God. A disturbance in the Force. A rock violently thrown into a perfectly still sacred pond.When we see God smiling we cannot help but to share the joy of that experience with others. And when we feel God shuddering we cannot help but to do what? What are called to do? How do we respond? How do we reassure God that we have it under control? How do we let God know that it will all be okay?

Salvation is a Duet!

Mystic Mondays       October 10, 2016"We are co-workers with God. The mystery of salvation is a duet, not a solo."That was a line from the Greek Orthodox Diocese of America in an essay titled, "How Are We Saved?" The link was included by reader, Carl, from last week's post as I teased out one of the differences between our traditional Western Christian faith and Eastern Orthodox faith--that is that Orthodox Christianity seems to have a thinner veil of separation between heaven and earth than we do in the West.I told someone the other day that I felt like I had just discovered a long lost grandmother from an ancient past. I certainly discovered her through a rather circuitous path. Feeling somewhat dissatisfied with a religious tradition (Presbyterianism) that is weighted toward the powers of the mind, but gets nervous around passion, soul and body I went out in search for a spirituality that satisfied this deeper longing. I had read just enough of Rumi's poetry to recognize what I was missing. His poetry dripped with the language of a steamy love affair with God, an experience that I was having more and more often in recent years.On an intuitive lark I flew across the Atlantic Ocean, unloaded my bicycle in Rome and rode across three countries--Italy, Greece and Turkey before arriving at Rumi's Tomb in Konya, Turkey. It was there in Greece and Turkey that I experienced in the people, the culture, the music and the religion a taste of the embodied spirituality I was looking for. But the greater gift of the trip turned out to be my exposure to Orthodox Christianity--a long lost grandmother I didn't even know I had.This fall I began facilitating the BBC series on The History of Christianity--a series I had taught in 2011 in another church. But this time as they led us through Istanbul and the great Hagia Sophia (Church of the Holy Wisdom) I wasn't just getting a history lesson. I had been there myself in the interim between the two times I taught this class. Now the words from the narrator were matching my actual experience. I had heard the words before that the priests of the East were more poets and artists than philosophers, but those words slipped right by me in 2011. This time, after following the bread crumbs to Rumi and cycling through Orthodox Greece and Muslim Turkey, I heard the words and went "Aha! I get it!"And the discoveries just keep coming. I read through the essay that Carl forwarded from the Greek Orthodox Diocese. At first it read very much like the orthodoxy associated with the history of the Western  Church. There was an ancient feel to it in much the same way that reading the Westminster Catechism from the 17th century feels. And then suddenly there it was:

We are co-workers with God. The mystery of salvation is a duet, not a solo."

I laughed out loud. Thirty years ago I was reading cutting edge theology in seminary. One of the most intriguing was this "new" concept that was being called the "co-creative" model of humanity's relationship to God. The premise was, in contradiction to the omnipotent models of God, that God cannot act without humanity and humanity cannot act without God. The old language of obeying God was out; the new language of being a partner with God was in. God was not shouting orders to us from  the Trump Tower, but was in the streets pushing the brooms with us. "Salvation is a duet."I was struck once again that this "new" thing that we are discovering is really just a very old thing. While I was all excited by the new theology coming out in the 1980's the Greek Orthodox Church was quietly practicing and living out a similar theology and had been for over a thousand years. The truth is that what we have been doing isn't so much brand new, cutting edge, and modern. The truth is we in the West were just a little late to the party!Two years ago I rode my bike from Rome to Konya (I like to title it "From Rome to Rumi") feeling like I was riding into the future of an emerging spirituality. I was pioneering my way into a fresh new spirituality.  I have a hunch that I am not teasing out the future at all. I am just discovering a long lost grandmother that I never knew I had.This could get really fun and exciting!

Is This Heaven?

Mystic Mondays          October 3, 2016

Heaven is not a far off hope, but a present reality right here on earth.

I wrote those words in my last Mystic Monday post as I pondered the implications of the faith of our Orthodox brothers and sisters and their belief that life is a mysterious dance between the human and her partner, the divine. One reader, Roy, admitted, "Brian, I'm confused. (If this is true then) what do we have to look forward to after we die?" I promised this reader that the next post would be my answer to him. Here it is:Dear Roy,Great question! In fact, the question itself reveals the exact point that I am trying to make. I take the risk of making a gross generalization between typical Western Christianity and the mysticism of Eastern Orthodox Christianity, but I think it's worth drawing the distinction in order to answer your question.Both Western Christianity and Eastern Christian mysticism concern themselves with the subjects of heaven and earth, heaven and hell, and life and death. But Western Christianity draws thicker lines between heaven and earth and life and death. Western Christianity tends to associate this earthly life with the presence of sin (and the doctrine of original sin) and trials and tribulations. Heaven is not something that is hidden underneath the veil of earthly existence, but a reality that we get like a Christmas present if we have been more good than naughty.Western Christianity is very concerned (and often anxious) about what happens after death. And rightly so. We worry about what life will be like after marriage, the birth of children, divorce, retirement, etc. But with those we at least have the benefit of seeing others who have survived those tricky stages and have lived to tell about it. Death appears to be just a little more final and so far no one has come back to tell us, "Guess what? The water is fine!" So, it's no wonder we give so much eternal worry to the subject of death.Eastern mysticism also acknowledges the presence and finality of death. But those traditions that nurture a more mystical lens tend to give very little credibility to the power of death. The mystical traditions believe that God is both the God of life and of death. In fact the Brief Statement of Faith that was adopted by the Presbyterian Church (USA) in 1983 begins with these words, "In life and in death we belong to God." A mystic would nod in approval at that sentiment.You see, we tend to make a big deal about life on this side of the grave and life on the other side of the grave. Mystics tend to trust that the God who put all of this in motion, the God who created the magic of the seasons, the God who could transform a caterpillar into a butterfly, and the God who can create a mighty oak out of a rotting seed is a God who knows what She is doing when a human life is extinguished. Mystics tend to think more like the Ecclesiastical poet who wrote,

To everything there is a season and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born and a time to die.

The mystical wings of our religious traditions also believe that there is a heavenly life that is far more beautiful, peaceful, just, loving and fulfilling than this earthly life that we typically see and experience. The difference between the Western Church and the Eastern Church is that in the West we tend to see heaven as a future reality only accessible after death and in the East heaven is a deeper reality that is accessible now. The former distinguishes between two very different realities--life and death. The latter sees only one reality--life with God--a life that not even death can put a wrinkle in.I am reminded of the scene in Field of Dreams when John Kinsella asks his son, Ray Kinsella (played by Kevin Costner) while standing out in the middle of a baseball field created by the clearing of a corn crop, "Is this heaven?" To which Ray responds, "No, this is Iowa." John looks around again and shakes his head and says, "Iowa? I could have sworn this was heaven."Maybe heaven isn't a place that we one day get to, but a place that reveals itself when we are ready to see it. Maybe we don't have to die to get to heaven. Maybe all we have to do is to live, really live.

Pioneering Our Way Back to Old Time Religion

Mystic Mondays               September 26, 2016Twenty three years ago I stood before our presbytery in defense of my Statement of Faith. It's a historic tradition in the church to defend orthodoxy (that is, the beliefs that fit in the church's theological box). At its lowest point those who could not defend and promote orthodox beliefs were burned at the stake. Most often, however, it just meant excommunication from the community, which, in those days was often just a slow death sentence. Today, if a candidate for membership in a church body can't pass the orthodoxy test it just means that they find a church that better reflects their possibly unorthodox beliefs. These days there's a church for everybody!Twenty three years ago the orthodoxy police noticed something in my Statement of Faith that made them nervous. It was clear that when it came to the doctrine of the incarnation (that Jesus was fully human and fully divine) that I leaned heavily on the fully human side. I said, "Jesus was fully human and thus fully divine, manifested in his full commitment to compassion, healing, justice and peace."Some in the presbytery found it wonderfully refreshing as I discarded any references to Jesus divinity as somehow being above and separate from his humanity. But others were very nervous that I was driving my theological care right on the edge of a cliff called Arianism--an early heresy of the church that denied Jesus divinity and celebrated his humanity and his unique and intimate relationship with God. I took questions while shaking in my shoes knowing that my professional future was at stake. I wasn't going to be burned at the stake (it was raining outside anyway), but my livelihood was in jeopardy.In the end I found my way through, although at the time I felt that I had chickened out a bit. I told them that it wasn't that I didn't affirm the divinity of Jesus as much as I felt the need to get the pendulum to swing back more toward his humanity after centuries of highlighting his divinity at the cost of his humanity. Today my thinking on this is much more sophisticated and I wished that I could have defended my thesis with more depth than I did. At the same time I was glad that I had the intuitive sense to find a way to defend my nod to Jesus humanity while allaying the fears of those who were thinking that Arius had just been resurrected in their presence!I share this little vignette because these memories are coming back as I move more and more into this exploration of our ancient mystical traditions. Twenty three years ago I had no idea what I was doing or saying except that in my heart of hearts I knew that my understanding of Jesus divinity only came through my experience of his humanity. There was no divinity apart from his humanity. What made him divine (if we accept our creedal formulations) was his capacity to live fully into the human drama and predicament even at the cost of death on a cross. This stuff is not for sissies!This past week I had it confirmed again. I was facilitating the class on BBC's The History of Christianity by Diarmaid MacCulloch. We were reviewing the nearly 1000-year history of the Orthodox Christian Church that had split from the Roman Catholic Church in 1054 C.E. (Common Era). There is so much I can share about this, but the one thing that struck me was that Roman Catholicism (and later Protestantism) were largely shaped by the idea of original sin and the Orthodox Church was shaped by the idea of original blessing (a term coined by Matthew Fox, a former Catholic priest).The big difference is this. In the West we start with the idea that humanity is fallen and it takes a savior to redeem us to divine favor. We can become divine, but only through an intermediary who washes away our sins. In the East the assumption is that humanity and divinity are in a playful dance with each other and manifested in nature, art, music, drama and even humans themselves! Religion is not about redeeming us from sin, but about opening up the portals to see the divine within the created order. Heaven is not a far off hope, but a present reality right here on earth.I am just struck by this intuitive journey that I have travelled that began many years ago. It first started with a paper on the "Death of God" where I agreed with those radical 60's theologians that the images we have used for God would likely need to die before the Church could be reformed again. That followed my Statement of Faith defenses where I had made a nod to the humanity of Jesus and found myself on the theological hot seat. I have teased these ideas out over the years in sermons, but it was when my soul cried out, "Go to Turkey, visit the land of Rumi" that my intuitive hunches started to find an historical basis. It's all starting to come together.I am suddenly thinking, "I need to take people to Istanbul and to Konya (Rumi's Tomb) and to Thessaloniki, Greece"--all places where this ancient mystical impulse is rooted in the people, the land, the traditions and the history.It's funny. We are often talk about the new spiritualities that are emerging in the West as if were discovering new worlds. I actually don't think they are new at all. In fact, they are old, really old. I am starting to believe that we aren't breaking new ground here at all. We may be just healing a 1000 year old split in our Christian family. We may be just coming home, finally coming home.

Poet Priests

Mystic Mondays       September 19, 2016I was talking with my website and business consultant from Wild Ginger Press this  past week about the intuitive and almost impulsive decision to ride from Rome to Konya, Turkey in the fall of 2014. I was explaining how surprised I was that what I discovered on that pilgrimage is playing itself out in our churches and communities. Bobbi quickly inserted, "Oh yeah, Brian, I remember when you decided to do it and you said, 'I don't why I need to do this, but I feel like I need to ride from Rome to Rumi's Tomb in Turkey. It has something to do with the move from institutional religion to the language of mysticism.'"This conversation came up because I had a major confirmation this week. I am currently facilitating a six-week class on The History of Christianity at the church where I am serving. We are watching a wonderful DVD set that was produced by BBC and narrated by church historian Dairmaid McCulloch. In the first episode Dairmaid visited Syria to tell the story of the Orthodox churches that had thrived in the first few centuries after Christ. He was talking to a Syrian priest about the religious differences between East and West when he asked, "What is it that you  think is missing in the West?" The priest from the Syrian Orthodox Church gave a very concise answer that hit me like a strike of lightning.

"In the West your theologians are philosophers. In the East our theologians are poets and iconographers (artists)."

I knew immediately that what my head could not tell me my soul had already known. I had cycled from Catholic Italy, through Orthodox Greece, and into Muslim Turkey in search of a spirituality, a religious tradition that more closely mirrored the reality of my soul.Every pastor in the Presbyterian tradition has to write a statement of faith as part of the ordination trials for entrance into the profession. My earliest statements of faith relied on good theological philosophy. There was a rationality to them even in attempting to explain the relationship between God, Jesus and Spirit (as if the Trinity could be rationally explained!). I made logical connections and used the "If this is so, that must be so..." types of arguments.But in 2005 I threw out my old statements of faith. They bored me. They were air-tight rational explanations, but they didn't make my heart sing. I no longer thought about God through the powers of my mind, but experienced God through the softness of my heart. God was no longer to be explained, but to be experienced. I rewrote my statement of faith as poetry. Here is the first stanza:

In the beginning was the Word…pulsating, thriving, exploding;a world birthed, a world coming into being,rocks and seas and blossoming trees,the winged, the legged, and the scaledanimating and revealing the divine artistry of her Maker.

I am struck by the Syrian priest's comment and my come-to-Jesus revelation that the distinct difference between theologians of the West and the East is the difference one gets when one approaches religion through the lens of philosophy compared to poetry and the arts. It was the poetry of Rumi that first drew me to Turkey although I literally had only read a dozen or fewer of his poems. I just knew that my soul wanted more.I wonder if the philosopher theologian is no longer as satisfying to today's people as it is to me. We can describe God. We can elucidate on the exact relationship between Jesus and God. We can draw lines that connect divine entities and boxes that contain all the various descriptions of God. But even if we get it all right, even if our definitions are picture perfect will that be enough to satisfy the hungry soul? Will that be enough to heal the hurting heart? Will that be enough to quench the thirst of the spiritually yearning?The pastor as poet? The priest as artist? The minister as musician?Do our Syrian Orthodox friends know something we don't?

Tasting the Mystical Honey

Mystic Mondays        September 12, 2016I had a small window last week hiking up Mt. McLoughlin (elev. 9495 ft.) in Southern Oregon where I felt very in sync with the mountain. We were two separate entities, yet we were engaged in a delightful and playful rhythm, not unlike making love. The totality of the hike lasted nearly eight hours, but for a stretch of about thirty minutes neither I nor the mountain had the upper hand.In that brief window my breathing was rapid, but not labored, my pulse was up, but not racing. My mind had gone blank and all that was before me were the boulders I was negotiating my way over, the steep drop offs a few feet away and the sound of my raspy breathing and pounding heart. It was just me and the mountain and not a single other thought.I highlight this because, in contrast, the rest of the hike was a completely different experience. The first three hours were more like exercise as if I was on a God-sized treadmill. My body was stronger than the mountain required and I kept a rapid pace. I was enjoying the mountain, but I was not partnered with the mountain as I had felt in that brief glorious window further up. Then the tables turned. If I had been the stronger one on the way up, the mountain was clearly winning the battle on the way down. The steep descent required a different set of muscles that hadn't been taxed in years. It wasn't long before I was aware of every painful step, the twinges that were turning into cramps and the signs of dehydration. The mountain had suddenly become very cruel.But this blog is not about conquering that mountain that day or being conquered by it. It's not about biting off more than I could chew and paying for it for the next three days where I looked like a 90-year old man getting out of a chair. This blog is about that unique window just before the top where my legs, my lungs, my body and the terrain all seemed to be in a sacred rhythm.I am writing about this because in recent weeks I have become concerned that I am writing about experiences that others may have not have had and thus risking the perception of a sort of spiritual superiority for those who have had these mystical moments. I had one reader write that he had often felt a deep and rich sense of awe and wonder, often while singing, but didn't think they had ever qualified as being mystical.In remember in seminary that we were cautioned that one of the heresies was the promotion of a sort of secret spiritual knowledge where you either were in on it or you weren't. Those who had been blessed with this knowledge (or experience) were part of an exclusive club. I don't ever want to share my experiences in a way that separates me from others; I want to share them in a way that invites people into a deeper, fuller, more intimate love affair with life.I know that I run the risk of painting the picture of some exclusive club of mystics the more that I talk about this. Yet I also know that I cannot deny my actual experience. This past week on Mt. McLoughlin is a case in point. I know that something happened in that small window when the mountain had pushed me to my limit, but before it had broken me. For thirty minutes I was perfectly in rhythm with the mountain. We were two lovers exploring each other, testing each other, and taking turns giving each other pleasure. I was taught that rocks are inanimate objects, but I truly believed that day that the rocks were enjoying me as much as I was enjoying them.I think what is happening is that I am finding my own way into meditation. I have never been successful at the sitting-cross-legged-while humming-ohm-type of meditation that is supposed to produce a trance-like state at some point. My mind wanders too easily. I get fidgety. And my body  rebels against the posture. The only time I entered this deep state while sitting was an occasion where I was singing a repeated Taize chorus. We sang it over and over again for nearly a half hour and when it was time to end the singing I couldn't. The song had become part of my body and it took me four or five more verses until I could ease my way back out as if I was a diver slowly surfacing from the deeps.I just read an article that the practice of the Whirling Dervishes of Sufi Islam is catching on among Jews as well as people of the West. Two years ago I sat and watched (marveled, actually) as Whirling Dervishes performed in Istanbul. Honestly, I am quite sure that I would get dizzy and vomit if I did what they did twirling in the same direction for nearly an hour at a time. But it is said that the practice puts them into a deep trance-like mystical state that results in a transformed heart and a deeper love for humanity.I know that all sounds weird to our Western rationalistic minds, but I think there is something to this. I had my first experience of this mystical awareness about twenty years ago and have had it repeated a number of times since then (in fact, it is happening more often as if it is something one can practice). But I am noticing a pattern with myself. These mystical experiences have always occurred in relationship to rhythm--either a body rhythm or a musical rhythm. Maybe I'll just call it the "rhythm method" for kicks.Please forgive me if I start sounding like I am promoting an exclusive club and an exclusive experience. I certainly don't mean to. It's just that I know something is happening and there is something to this experience. I have tasted something that I can't help but to share with others.This summer at Ghost Ranch Conference Center in New Mexico I had the privilege of listening to two Sufi musicians perform for a small gathering of us. As they prepared to sing one of their hypnotic songs the man explained, "Mysticism is a little like tasting honey. You can try to describe it. You can say that it is sweet and sticky. But until you actually taste it you don't really know honey."I am quite sure that life has allowed me dip my finger in the mystical honey. I can't but help to share it with you as well!

Play Me, Play Me, Play Me!

Mystic Mondays         August 29, 2016You are the sun. I am the moon.You are the words. I am the tune.Play me.          Neil Diamond

I was reminded in a response to my post last week (which I'll  publish in coming weeks) that many people discover their mystical experiences in the intimacy of relationships as much as in nature.I remember when I was teaching a class on Christian mysticism nearly ten years ago that I asked about where people had experienced those moments when the veil between heaven and earth had been lifted. Most related experiences in nature. But one woman who had to have been considered one of the more religiously devout in the congregation shared something different. She said that it was in the frequent visits she made to members and friends who were isolated in nursing homes. That intimate time of prayer and touching was when she felt God most near. Immediately the mysticism of Mother Teresa came to mind as she often spoke of seeing the face of Christ on every dying patient she worked with in her Missionaries of Charity organization.I often speak of those sacred encounters that I have when I am immersed in a canopied forest hiking or cycling along a stream on a perfect day. But I recognize that while I and many people are rediscovering the mystical impulse of God in nature that it is not limited to the dirt, the sky, and the sun that bless us every day. In fact, I do wonder if the focus on nature these days is simply a reaction to the perception that God is supposed to be found in a building on Sunday morning at 10 a.m. In some ways the hyper-focus on rediscovering God in the good Earth may say less about mysticism and more about one of the liabilities of the church.Mysticism isn't really about nature exclusively. It's about connection and oneness and the dissolving away of the lines between heaven and earth. It's about seeing life as a dance and a love affair between the human and her partner, the divine.Neil Diamond captures this mystical quality in his tender love song, "Play Me" as he writes, "You are the sun. I am the moon. You are the words. I am the tune. Play me." More than just beautiful poetry that is supposed to make every woman's knees buckle, Diamond, in just a few words, writes a complete description of the mystical experience of being in relationship. No two hundred page self help book could say it any better or more completely.I grew up thinking that such poetic imagery was just that--poetic imagery. "You are the sun. I am the moon," were just fanciful ways to express one's love. Poetry was not literal; it was just a way to make a woman's heart melt. (I wished I had been better at it forty years ago!)I no longer feel that way. When I hear the phrase, "You are the words. I am the tune," I hear an almost literal truth that couldn't be said better any way. How does one capture a love that erases the boundary between one person and another, yet recognizes that the song that they sing together could only be arranged by their differences and individuality? How does one say any better than Neil Diamond did with regard to a full-bodied, soulful, forever commitment, "Play me. Play me. Play me." He says it all. He says I am yours. You are mine. Let's you and I make beautiful music together...because we are the literal song of God!You may think that I am crazy, but the mystic's eyes get opened when poetry no longer is just metaphorical. The heart of the mystic opens up when poetic imagery is not just a literary device to touch the heart. The mystic's world explodes wide open when the sun, the moon, and the words and the tune really are you. Science teaches us that all objects are separate. Our mystical traditions remind us that nothing is separate. All is connected.The mystic believes that love is not really just between two people as if they own the love between them. No, their love is really just a reflection and an expression of the divine love that pulses through all of life.We don't just choose to love as if it is a moral mandate. No, we fall into the divine love and, if we are lucky, we never escape.

Are You Secretly a Mystic Too?

I open and fill with love and other objects evaporate.All the learning in books stays put on the shelf.Poetry, the dear words and images of song,comes down over me like mountain water.

Those words are from Mevlana Rumi's poem, "Roses Underfoot," written nearly eight centuries ago by the beloved Sufi mystic. Two years ago when I cycled to Rumi's Tomb in Konya, Turkey I only had a sophomoric understanding of his mystical poetry. In fact that hasn't changed that much in the time since I returned. What I did have, however, was just enough of a taste of the experience that Rumi was pointing to know that I needed to delve deeper into his life and poetry. Seven weeks and 1500 miles after pedaling out of Rome I cycled into Konya just as the imams were calling people to afternoon prayer. What a rich and soulfully overwhelming experience."I open and fill with love and other objects evaporate." This mysticism thing is an elusive phenomenon, but Rumi captures what I have personally heard from dozens of people: there are experiences where the lines that separate objects disappear; there are moments of such pure ecstasy and connection that the usual distinction between the observer and the observed evaporate into a delicious Oneness; there are times when the Earth seems to stop its rotation, time stops and the entire book of knowledge is opened up before us.And then just as quickly...it is gone. A car horn beeps. An elbow joint cracks. A gust of wind grabs you. And life returns to its mundane normalcy with its usual categories, expectations, and lines of separation and distinction.I had my first mind blowing experience of mysticism (of course, I didn't know what to call it back then) twenty years ago at the top of a mountain after climbing a number of miles up a steep and rutted dirt road. As I looked at the valley below me I suddenly got lost in the scenery and for a moment (maybe even a few seconds) I was no longer the observer. I was part of the painting as if a divine artist had planted me right in that spot. God was Van Gogh and I was a single iris in a vase of beautiful delicate irises.Since that time I have experienced this same entrance into a deeper world of soul a number of times--occasionally at Sunday worship when all the elements meld together just right, often on my bicycle as my body and soul come into rhythm together, once as I sang hymns to dying hospice patient.But more importantly than my experiences are your experiences. Since I began sharing my experience nearly a decade ago dozens, if not hundreds of people, have also shared their mystical experiences. I have heard repeatedly, "How come I hadn't heard of this before? I think I have been a mystic my whole life."What really thrills me is that the experience of mysticism hasn't followed any of the religious rules we have come to expect. Evangelical Christians are as likely as progressive Christians to recognize themselves in this language. This has not fallen into the usual conservative and liberal traps--people from both sides are claiming mystical experiences and leanings. What is most exciting is that it has even given us a language to talk with people of other faiths. Our words may be different, but the experience is the same. When both a Muslim and a Christian talk of their love affair with Allah and God, the names of the supreme deity don't get in the way; We know we are speaking of the same love.My experience tells me that what is really needed is a forum for people to share their experiences. Every time I share my experience I hear from five to ten more people about their experience. All I have been doing is providing the language, but you all have been giving me the substance and meat.THIS POST IS AN INVITATION.Over the next few weeks I will collect your responses to the following question and use the Mystic Monday space to share your experiences:Question:

When have you felt so intimately connected to Life/God/the Sacred that usual descriptions evaporate and a delicious Oneness overtakes you?

Guidelines:

1. Responses should be no more than 500 words.
2. Responses can remain anonymous, by request.
3. I reserve the right to weave shorter responses into a longer post of similar experiences.
4. If you have pictures to submit please send those as a jpg file.
5. Please send submissions to brian@pedalpilgrim.com with the subject line "MM Submission."
6. Share this invitation with others you think might want to share their experience. It would be my pleasure to share this space with fellow mystics.

The God of Many Names

Mystic Mondays     August 15, 2016   (Vacation Post)Something is happening. And I have a feeling that what I am experiencing is only the “spark that gets the fire going” as the old camp song goes.I have been getting glimpses of this in recent years and with each new sighting I become more convinced that we are watching the future unfold before us.What I am talking about is the growing phenomenon of religious mysticism re-entering our conversations, language, and spiritual experience. This past week I have been enjoying some time at Ghost Ranch, a Presbyterian-affiliated conference center and retreat destination. This is the fourth time I have flown off to Ghost Ranch in the last five years, drawn to the soulful landscapes of this part of northern New Mexico and the creative offerings around spirituality, art, worship, and sacred connection.What has been true each time I have come was especially true this time—Ghost Ranch is less a place to reinforce one’s Presbyterian identity and more a magnet for the cutting edge of American spirituality.It started with a four day singing conference on the Glory to God hymnal of the Presbyterian Church. While that sounds rather traditional, one of the things that came out of our time together was a group consensus: Those of us who have followed the music of the church for the past thirty plus years noticed something. The new hymnal has a new emphasis that points to the re-emergence of religious mysticism. More and more of the songs are written as if they are love letters to God or are about the experience of God’s presence. This is a big deal. We have gone centuries where many of our hymns have been written as ways to teach about the character of God, but don’t capture the intimacy of falling in love with God.I took that new recognition of our shifting Presbyterian tradition with me as I joined a class in progress on spiritual activism. It was there that the song lyrics, “It only takes a spark to get a fire going…” played in my heart. On the first day I sat with a group as we sang along with two Sufi Muslims who have traveled the world playing the music of the Sufi mystics. In the room were Protestants, Catholics, Jews, and Muslims. Despite our various traditions we all sang and swayed to the seductive rhythm of the two talented Muslim musicians as they sang love letters to God.The next day we were treated to a one-hour reading by Mirabai Starr who is famous for her translations of the writings of St. John of the Cross, one of the fathers of Christian mysticism. What was especially quizzical was her description of herself as she opened up her talk. “I am a Mary loving, Jewish, Buddhist, mystic Hindu,” she said. And then added, “It’s been great. No matter where I go everyone can relate to a piece of me.”I share this with you because years ago I served on interfaith councils. We were at the cutting edge of initiating conversations, dialogue, and relationships between religions. But what characterized those councils was the awareness that we were in different places and needed to learn to listen to each other in order to understand each other better and thus create greater harmony between religions and in our world.Something is different now. In the past our different religions were barriers to deep and intimate relationships. We had to work at it to find commonality. Now, those of us exploring the mystical arms of our religions feel like we are brothers and sisters on the same path. We are drinking from the same divine cup. We are experiencing the same life-giving, transforming, loving Presence even if we get there through a variety of different names, spiritual practices, beliefs, and traditions.I have felt it for years. The re-emergence of our mystical traditions may be the medicine that will heal our long-standing divisions, lack of understanding, and distance from each other.I saw it this week at Ghost Ranch. Jew, Christian, Buddhist and Muslim all sat together and all experienced the same intimate Presence. We were tasting the same honey. We were not even interfaith partners. We were just brothers and sisters--all who had fallen in love with the same God, the God of many names.

De-Cluttering

Mystic Mondays        August 8, 2016De-cluttering is my theme this week. In fact, de-cluttering has been a theme of mine for nearly a decade now. I suppose it started after my divorce almost exactly ten years ago now. I can look back and see that it has come in stages—first, a few boxes related to my old life, then a few more, and finally, a complete purge of anything that I didn't want to drag with me into my new life and evolving identity.But the the big moment of de-cluttering came three years ago when I watched a St. Vincent’s moving truck drive away with ninety percent of my possessions. I spent the next year housesitting, saving enough money to travel to Italy, Greece and Turkey as I studied and wrote about the shift taking place from institutional religion to our ancient tradition of religious mysticism. I had images of returning from Europe, living out of an RV, and existing on half the income of what I had become used. I felt a new calling—to introduce our communities to this emerging new world and to give permission to let go of the baggage of an old world.Things didn’t go exactly as planned and after giving ninety percent of my possessions away I have re-accumulated about a quarter of what I had parted with. But the exercise has paid great dividends. Living without a lifetime of household possessions taught me the difference between what I really needed and what was just clutter taking up space in my house, my life, and my soul. I have re-accumulated, but each item has had to pass the test, “Will this lead me closer to my soul’s desires or become a barrier to my soul’s desires?”I write this today after having had an experience these past two weeks that tells me that de-cluttering is a powerful tool not only in one’s life, but in our organizations, our worshipping communities, and probably even in our economic and political systems.Two weeks ago the church where I am currently a pastor decided to sponsor a new group and activity. We reside in a region of the country where many people express that they find God and/or experience the sacred in nature. It’s easy to do here. There are three rivers within biking distance that support salmon, steelhead and river rafters all carving their way through a rugged set of mountains that separate central Oregon from the coast.But the church did something rather clever. They removed the barrier and clutter of church walls, membership, pledges, and even the dastardly perceptions that sometimes come with church-sponsored programs. They simply advertised that this group, Earth Adventurers, is for anyone who wants to gather as part of a community of people dedicated to enjoying and healing the Earth.Bam! Two weeks later 75 people have signed up and 20 people have come together for two separate activities.I am convinced that the sudden interest wasn’t that it was just a really good idea. I am convinced that the initial success of it was due to the small team’s ability to craft a description that spoke to our soul’s basic needs without all the trappings and clutter that come with the institutional church. It was the team’s ability to shed ninety percent of the church’s belongings in order to offer something that met the soul’s purest desires—connection, beauty, healing and a window into the Sacred.At both gatherings I was stunned at how easily we talked and shared. At the second gathering a spontaneous magic happened as we all ended up sharing our faith stories, our spiritual journeys. We had never met before, yet the simple structure of meeting without any other agenda than to connect opened us up in ways that I find often takes weeks, months and years to get within the structure of the church. Vulnerability happens in the church too, but we first must scale the walls of structure, overcome perceived expectations, and navigate through anticipated pious judgments. Earth Adventurers kept it soulfully simple.I am convinced that this experience was no different than my experience of getting rid of all the clutter, possessions and distractions of my personal life so that I could dedicate my time and energy to my soul’s deepest desires. It used to be that I would say that I would take guitar lessons after I swept the floors, mowed the lawn, had enough money, on and on and on. Now, without a miniature mansion to take care of (read as a 3-bedroom home), I discovered the time and money to take guitar—it was right there under the pile of my life clutter.I think the early magic of the Earth Adventurers has come as the result of creating a simple lean-to rather than a mansion for a place for people to connect, explore, share, and experience. I find it interesting that our churches would probably auction off their pictures of Jesus if it meant 20 new people would show up after one creative, open appeal to the community. Yet a simple, no frills invitation to connect with no agenda except to enjoy the sacredness of nature and each other suddenly hit a social and spiritual nerve. We often ask in the church, “How do we get people into our building?” I wonder if it is the building that is getting in the way of helping people connect with the Sacred.Possessions are not inherently good or bad, I believe. The question is not how many possessions we have, but whether our possessions lead us to our soul’s desires or are the clutter that keeping us from our soul’s desires.Only you know that answer.

Mysticism and Dirty Politics

Mystic Mondays         August 1, 2016Fourteen weeks ago I committed to this Mystic Monday blog. I was convinced after the 40-day Lenten series "Between Two Worlds" that our future is actually a return to the past--that is, we are seeing the re-emergence of religious mysticism in our culture and, to some extent, in our churches and worshiping communities.It is an uneven series to me. Less like following a paint-by-the-numbers picture and more like putting a 1,000 piece puzzle together--lots of fits and starts and trial and error. But the most uneven portion of this has been what felt like leaving my mystic theme in order to comment on current and political events. Out of the fourteen posts so far (yes, I did count them) three times I just couldn't help myself. Twice I felt compelled to speak to the bizarre Trump phenomenon and once to the mass shootings that have become as much a part of our American social psyche as baseball and apple pie.A voice inside was nagging me, "C'mon Brian, be a little more disciplined. Stick to mysticism on Mondays and save your political/social commentary for one of the other six days of the week." But a deeper voice, maybe even the voice of wisdom, trusted the need to write those posts as part of my exploration into the re-emerging world of mysticism.I knew a few days ago I was going to write on this subject. I knew that my discomfort with mixing politics and mysticism coupled with my decision to write those three posts anyway was rich fodder. The nagging discomfort revealed that despite a number of years of exploring this growing trend I was still subject to a shallow and false dualism: that is, mysticism is the art of seeing beauty in all things and politics is the reality of dealing with the dirt of life.Wrong!Once I named my discomfort with writing political and social commentary in my Mystic Monday blog I saw how a vestige of that false dualism was still residing in my body like a highly resistant virus. Mysticism is about experiencing life so intimately and trustworthily that one sees reality for what it is. The most succinct definition of mysticism is simply "the act of having direct experience with God or the Sacred."It was no wonder that I felt compelled on a handful of weeks to speak to our political and social environment. On those weeks I felt like Obi-wan Kenobi in Star Wars  when he said, "I felt a great disturbance in the Force, as if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced." On those weeks I felt a great tremor in my soul. As I sat down to write on Sunday evenings my head told me write about mysticism, but my soul said, "Speak your pain. Speak your grief. Speak your anger."In this time of emerging spiritualities it is hard to trust what is valid and what is just fluff. I have a good friend who once spoke to this when she said, "I don't trust any spirituality that doesn't take seriously the reality of evil." I have used her line many times when I have surveyed some new spiritual teaching. If it doesn't pass the Deborah test, as I would say, then it probably isn't valid. Many New Age spiritualities have countered the Church's over-reliance on sin and shame. But many of them also see only light and beauty and sugar and spice and everything nice. In other words they threw the baby out with the bath water without a hint of guilt!True religious mysticism isn't just about seeing goodness in everyone and everything you meet. True religious mysticism is about seeing things for what they are. Water both sustains life and destroys life. Fire can save a freezing man and kill too-slow-to-run man. War can be both sublimely beautiful and viscerally ugly.True religious mysticism doesn't place a value system on human experiences; it only seeks to live deeply into the experience at hand. "To everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven; a time to be born and a time to die..." writes the Ecclesiastical poet. Mystics don't value one experience over the other, but only try to honor the Source and the reality of the experience right before us.I know this, yet a part of me still wanted to split the world into the positive and the negative. Mondays would be reserved for heavenly mystical thoughts (positive) and political, dirty realities (negative) could be blogged about any other day of the week (except maybe Sunday when my thoughts would turn pure again!)But I feel my false dualism eroding away. Mysticism doesn't look down on Trump. Mysticism just seeks to see him for what he is--a fallen child of God in need of a big divine hug (somewhere far, far away from a microphone and any red buttons).This has been a good blog post for me. I am not sure exactly how it will manifest itself, but I can feel that I won't allow that subtle need to apologize to nag at me anymore for writing political, social, cultural commentary again. My only test will be, "What reality does my soul see? What psalm of praise or lament does my soul need to express?"Mysticism isn't just about seeing the beauty in all things. Mysticism is also about calling Ugly ugly. And learning to love both equally.

Chips Off the Divine Block

Mystic Mondays         July 25, 2016It was twenty years ago now that this event took place. It happened so quickly and of such small consequence that it evaporated almost as quickly as it appeared. I was attending an afternoon lecture at a presbytery meeting in California led by a rather popular and sometimes controversial professor in the Bay Area. His topic was on Christology which is just a fancy word for the study of the essential nature of Jesus. Was he human or divine? Half human, half divine? Fully human, fully divine?Somewhere in there the professor was toying with the eyebrow-raising concept of a person making themselves equal with God. He wanted to impress on his eager listeners how shocking and heretical it would have been for Jesus to put himself on the same plane as God. You know the God I am talking about--that being who created all that is, the author of Life, the beginning and end. Indeed, Jesus was making a heady claim!Without thinking I immediately shot my hand up and blurted out, "Well, that depends on whether a person is thinking in vertical terms or horizontal terms." I can be kind of a nerd at times. The professor paused for moment, looked my way and then gave a little wink and smile that clearly told me, "Hang on, Brian. Don't spoil this for me. I need to walk the rest of the group through this."I don't know where those words came from that day except that it was exceedingly clear to me that making oneself equal with God was only a problem if you thought of all Creation as a sort of pyramid--algae and mosquitoes somewhere close to the bottom, human beings on a rung somewhere above carp but below Trump (who has a very good brain), and God residing at the very top. But what if God wasn't at the top of a spiritual hierarchy, but rather was the DNA strand, the glue, the red ooze that binds all creation together?The professor ended his lecture saying, "What it comes down to is that we are all chips off the old divine block." He was making his point and mine as well--that God is not somehow vertically above creation, but the very DNA of creation. He was saying that God is in us and we are in God. "Like father, like son," was his point except that he was referring not only to Jesus, but to all the sons and daughters of God.I have been practicing yoga for about eight years now and the customary ritual at the end of every group class is to fold our hands, bow toward the teacher and say, "Namaste." I have been surprised at how much this word has permeated our every day conversations. While I hear God Bless You ten times as much as I hear Namaste, it is not unusual for a congregant to occasionally whisper Namaste following a particularly meaningful sermon. I'll occasionally hear it in a conversations around me, especially in stores that sell organic, natural food.But I have really come to appreciate the greeting of Namaste. It fits my whole thesis that equality with God is not only NOT a heresy, but part of understanding of our essential nature. Namaste is used as a casual greeting in Hindu countries, but there is nothing casual about its meaning. The most spiritual translation is "The divine (or life force) in me recognizes the divine (or life force) in you."Which gets me back to Jesus and his statements about equality with God. Maybe Jesus was trying to teach us this when he said that "I and the Father are one." Maybe Jesus was trying to level the playing field and bring God down from His vertical throne to live in a horizontal relationship with us. Maybe we got wrong when Jesus claimed equality with God. Maybe he was trying to bring God down to earth and instead we insisted on raising Jesus up to heaven.Namaste and God bless...

In Memory of Gavin

Mystic Mondays       July 18, 2016This post is in memory of Gavin Long.Gavin is the lone gunman who lured police into an ambush in Baton Rouge yesterday and shot six of them, killing three of those who are sworn to protect us. I know that many of you are already reacting, "Shouldn't this post be in memory of and in honor of the officers who were killed?" My answer is, of course, I have not forgotten them. This post is as much about them as it is about the shooter. This post is really about all of us. This post about anyone who wears the cloak of a human being.In recent years we as a nation have rushed to memorialize the officers, civilians and victims of mass violence while working very hard not to mention the names of the perpetrators. Of course, there is good reasoning behind this. If the motivation by those who fired the shots is to leave a legacy, even an infamous one, we do not want to play into their hands. Why splash their name across the screen when that is what they wanted in the first place? I do get it.But I also think this is a grave mistake. We do so at our own peril.The truth is yesterday we lost another one of our sons. Yes, I know--at least on this one day he was actually a shooter, a killer, an assassin, a criminal, and the personification of evil itself. I know almost nothing about Gavin at this point. But I do know that he was more than just a killer. I know that he was someone's son. He might have been someone's brother or cousin or uncle. Someone may have called him friend. He likely was someone's neighbor. There may even be funny stories from his elementary school teachers or military buddies.I do not want to highlight his heinous crime. I do not want to give any more momentum to his hate-filled revolution. I don't want to diminish in any way the terrible, life-altering grief that the families of those three officers are experiencing and will experience for months to come.But I also believe that our way through this time where the seams to our cultural fabric are splitting and fraying will not be to vilify the perpetrators as some sort of foreign invasion to our land. The officers were not killed by an evil person. They were killed by an American citizen, a former Marine, someone's son, a shopper at the local grocers, a member of a community, someone who might have even brushed up next to you on a busy sidewalk. He was one of us.We didn't get attacked by an outsider. Rather we lost one of our own. One of our own sons turned on us. I believe we do a disservice to ourselves to immediately vilify him as evil and say, "How could we have missed it?". In fact, we do ourselves a disservice when we refuse to say his name, Gavin, as if by erasing his name from our lexicon we can keep this violence and hatred at bay.Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. When we repress his memory and hide his name we are repressing the evil that is inherent in all of us and we are hiding from the truth of our own potential for evil. It's not how did we miss his potential for evil, but why can't we see our own potential for evil.When my family traveled through Bali in 2004 I was struck by the way that the curbs were painted. In America I had become used to seeing curbs with no paint, yellow paint and red paint indicating where one could and couldn't park. As our tour guide wound his way through some of the towns of Bali I was intrigued that many of the curbs were painted black and white intermittently. I didn't understand it. Our guide told us, "In Hindu Bali the black and white is a reminder that every day we must each choose between good and evil."I think the Balinese have it right. It's not that some people are good and other people are evil. Wouldn't it be great if it were that easy? We could just put a star on the sleeves of everyone who was evil and call it good. In fact someone tried that once and got it terribly, tragically wrong! And, in the end, did we not decide that the evil was not those who were wearing the stars, but the one who handed out the stars.The truth is we are all saints in the making and assassins in the making. Every day we must choose in hundreds of little ways between good and evil. This is partly why I like the liturgy of the Reformed Tradition, of which I am part. In our services we take time to acknowledge our fallen nature. We set aside a couple of minutes for prayers of confession. What we are doing is battling the tendency toward repression. We are trying to overcome our tendency to want to hide from the truth. Every time we look deep within ourselves and confess our sin we shine a big bright spotlight on our potential for evil and strip it of its power. It's not our potential for evil that is scary; it's our repression of evil that gets us.Gavin is no more evil than you or I. Gavin was one of us. I don't know the story behind his actions, but I do know well enough to say, "But for the grace of God go I."Do you know who I think really believes this? Dallas Police Chief David Brown who was at the reins of the police department when Micah Johnson, another son of ours, opened fire on police officers killing five of them last week. Chief Brown has admirably handled this horrific tragedy and he has also refrained from vilifying Micah as a horrible, evil monster.Why? Because in 2010 Chief Brown's own son killed two people, one a police officer, before being shot twelve times and ending his 27 year old life. We are told not to mention the name of the perpetrators. But tell that to Chief Brown. Tell him that his son, David Jr. has been erased from our consciousness. Tell him that we will not give an evil person the light of day. Tell him his son never existed. Tell him his name has been deleted from the book of life. Tell him that mention of his son's name only perpetuates the evil we are trying to eradicate.We are David Jr. and David Jr. is us. We are Micah and Micah is us. We are Gavin and Gavin is us.This post in dedicated in the memory of Gavin Long, and Officers Montrell Jackson, Matthew Gerald and Brad Garafola. Yesterday we lost four sons. We lost four of our own. We lost part of our family.

Thanks for Nothing Rumi

Mystic Mondays       July 11, 2016I had a strange confluence of images enter my world this week and they sort of crashed together like two waves coming into the bay from two different directions.Earlier in the week as I scrolled down through some of my Facebook posts I was reminded of one of my favorite Rumi poems, "The Guest House." "This being human is a guest house. Every morning a new arrival"  it begins.I have used the spirit that lies beneath this poem as the basis for much of my spiritual contemplation. Nearly ten years ago (hmmm...about the time I was suddenly divorced) I began a practice of writing Morning Pages as described in Julia Cameron's book The Artists' Way. Morning Pages is a sort of stream-of-consciousness form of journaling where you write whatever comes into your head and follow the words and images as if you were following a trail of breadcrumbs to some hidden treasure.One of the gifts from this practice has been that I have learned to not judge what I feel. Every feeling has a message of some sort. There are no good feelings and bad feelings. Every feeling has the ability to tell me on its own merit how much credibility it gets or not.The second stanza of Rumi's poem spells out a handful of those new arrivals (various feelings) that enter the human guest house--A joy, a depression, a meanness, some momentary awareness comes as an unexpected visitor.I have spent years learning to treat feelings equally as if they were guests in my house. Sadness gets just as much attention as joy. I may enjoy the feeling of hope more than hopelessness, but I treat them same as if they had paid the same amount for a room in my soul.But this week was different.As the wave of Rumi's poem neared the shoreline of my heart a different set of images came crashing in from the other direction. In rapid fire succession we were served a Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday plate of shocking violence--the killing of a black man by a white officer in front of a convenience store; the killing of a second black man by a white officer after being pulled over for a broken taillight; and then the horrific retaliation against Dallas police officers by a well-armed black man.I have practiced for years to let the waves of grief and sadness, anger and rage flow through me as if they were just temporary visitors passing through. I have learned to trust that these feelings are not permanent and I do better to honor them as friends rather than to fight them as enemies.But I will admit that I am struggling this time. It's as if my body cannot physically handle all the emotion associated with our current self-destruction. My hands shake. My stomach churns. My eyes sting. I find myself nearly wanting to shake my fist and shout, "Fuck you, Rumi. I don't want these feelings in my guest house. This is too much. This is too painful. No more!" Even innkeepers have the right to refusal, right?Yet I do know better. I know that in the end denial will not serve me well. I know that the longer I hold my real feelings at bay the more they will fester and poison my body and my soul. I know that the only true way through this is to follow Rumi's poetic wisdom. I know to treat all the emotions that are flowing through me with respect as if they were truly honored guests in my home.Hesitantly and nervously I welcome the grief and the sadness, the anger and the rage--not because I enjoy them, but because they are gifts.To feel nothing means is to be less than human. To feel something is to invite the possibility of healing, joy, forgiveness and reconciliation. I don't want to feel this way. But I also refuse to accept the alternative.Here is Rumi's full poem:The Guest HouseThis being human is a guest house.Every morning a new arrival.A joy, a depression, a meanness,some momentary awareness comesAs an unexpected visitor.Welcome and entertain them all!Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,who violently sweep your houseempty of its furniture,still treat each guest honorably.He may be clearing you outfor some new delight.The dark thought, the shame, the malice,meet them at the door laughing,and invite them in.Be grateful for whoever comes,because each has been sentas a guide from beyond.

Bono on the holy trinity!

Mystic Mondays     July 5th (Tuesday edition)I had an image this morning as I moved into my day. I have been thinking a lot about body these past few weeks especially as I aborted my usual routine of hiking, walking, yoga and cycling in order to serve at the biennial General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church. While I considered it a great privilege to serve as a commissioner to the national meeting my body nearly revolted. With the exception of the 7-block walk between the hotel and the convention center and the distance between the plenary hall and the mess hall I sat and sat and sat some more.Which gets me back to the image that came to me this morning. I had a picture in my mind of a church that was one part worship center, one part education center, and one part YMCA or health club.It’s little wonder that this particular image would show up in my consciousness. I graduated from college with a double major as I couldn’t decide between my two great loves—religion and athletics. By the time I finished my degree I had a major in religion as well as sports and fitness center management. Maybe I am just trying to bring these two worlds together for personal reasons, but honestly, I think there is more to it than that.I was watching a short YouTube program of a conversation https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-l40S5e90KYbetween U2’s Bono and the writer of The Message, Eugene Peterson, as they discussed their equal love for the Psalms. In that conversation Bono spoke of the doctrine of the Trinity as Christianity’s way of honoring mind, body and spirit. I was really struck by the natural comparison of these two ways of capturing the fullness of our experience of Life, especially its more sacred qualities.My experience of keeping the chairs warm at the General Assembly just exaggerated what I already know to be true. The Presbyterian Church excels at honoring the mind, makes a pretty good showing when it comes to honoring the spirit, but fails miserably at honoring the body. It’s as if it doesn’t even enter our conversations. We are good at stepping in when people get sick or are aging or need equal access to our buildings due to disabilities. But the day to day practice of listening to our bodies seems to be largely missing.If it is true that we also know God through the wisdom of our bodies, I do wonder how it is that we missed this aspect of the mind/body/spirit trinity. Colleges deal with the mind, churches deal with the spirit and health clubs deal with the body, is often how it seems in our overly-compartmentalized society.I know that I have written about the body a great deal in recent weeks. I don’t think I am beating a dead horse. What feels more accurate to me is that every week that I write takes me just a little further toward the recognition that if we are looking for God or the Sacred, I wonder if we have missed the thing that is right under our nose— that is our flesh and body. I wonder if this is why, in the East, yoga and tai chi and the martial arts aren’t just considered good forms of exercise; they are physical meditations to gain access to the spiritual world.I remember a vignette that Joseph Campbell shared in the Power of Myth series. He told of a Western man following a Shinto priest around his community. Finally he said, “I have been following you for weeks, but I don’t get your ideology; I don’t get your theology.” The priest paused for a moment and replied, “We don’t have an ideology; we don’t have a theology. We dance.”To my overly-trained Western rationalistic self I shiver at the prospect of no theology. But if the mind/body/spirit balance is a holy trinity in terms of our spiritual lives I have to wonder if the Shinto priest is at least getting the body and spirit parts right.I will always cherish the better than a week that I spent at the General Assembly. It is a privilege that comes once once in a lifetime, if that, for most pastors. But if the Shinto priest had shown up at the meeting I wonder if his first impression might have been, “We dance. They sit. Strange religion these Presbyterians!”Mind, body and spirit. Might Bono be right? Is this the secular version of the Holy Trinity?

Becoming a Human Being

Mystic Mondays               June 27, 2016I was lounging around yesterday morning at what was really my place of worship--at a bakery out front at one of the sidewalk tables enjoying the heat of the sun and the shade of a large umbrella. Behind me was a couple who were chitchatting about a variety of topics that were only important to them. Finally the woman asked her partner, "What do you have on your agenda today?" The man paused for a brief moment and said, "Nothing really. We could just sit here all day if we wanted to." I wanted to step in and say to them, "That reminds me of the Buddhist saying, 'Don't just DO something; SIT there.'"Of course, I refrained from butting in and trying to play the wise sage on a Sunday when I wasn't preaching and they weren't looking for any unsolicited wisdom. Like me they were just enjoying a sweet nothingness for a couple of hours on a perfect Sunday morning where the sun and the breeze were all they needed to caress their souls.It's a little ironic that I am writing about the wisdom of "sitting" on this day that follows more than a week of having my butt planted in front of two large screens while we debated, voted and prayed our way through more than a hundred overtures at the Presbyterian Church's biennial national assembly. I swear my chair has permanent indents carved into it that will never fit anyone else's cheeks ever again. Sitting is the last thing I want right now!But the Buddhist saying isn't literally about sitting; it's about "not doing." It's about setting aside our "to do" lists in favor of just taking time to be. I reminded my congregation a couple of weeks ago in sermon that in the beginning God didn't create human doings; God created human beings.I have found this especially helpful in recent years. I have to admit that most of my adult life has reflected an embodiment of human doing. I have always been reasonably ambitious never satisfied with just meeting minimum expectations or achieving mediocre results. Ask me to finish something in an hour and I am likely to have it done in thirty minutes or do twice as much as I have been asked to do. The Protestant work ethic is alive and well in me.But all this emphasis on doing things better, bigger and faster is feeling more and more hollow every year. The old motto of "Don't just sit there, do something!" sounds shallow and, quite honestly, exhausting. My soul seems to be craving more sitting time, quiet time, and nothing doin' time. I am tired of doing more. I want to be more.There is an old story of an American who joined an aboriginal tribe on an outback pilgrimage. On the first day they covered a great number of kilometers. The same was true for the second day and the third day. On the fourth day the whole tribe sat under a tree and refused to budge. The American wanted to press on berating them for wasting precious time and money. Finally a translator explained to him, "They're letting their souls catch up to their bodies."I think I know exactly what they are talking about. In recent years my pace has slowed down. But it doesn't just feel like the natural onset of aging and resigning myself to a body that does not have the strength and stamina it once did. I often feel like I refuse to go faster than my emotions and my soul will allow me. I can still force my body to keep up with my overly scheduled life, but I can feel something inside crying out, "Wait for me! You're racing off ahead of me."The people in Greece and Turkey taught me this when I cycled there in 2014. On numerous occasions I was asked to stop, drink Greek coffee or Turkish tea and just take time for sitting, conversation and relationship. At first I resisted it--I had so many miles I wanted to cover I would think to myself. But more than that my Western sensibilities nudged me to politely refuse at first.It would have been one thing if a meandering pedestrian had invited me to join him for tea. But often it was the shop keepers who were also engaged in commerce who pulled up a chair next to their cash registers and made sure that honoring me was as important as making transactions with the occasional customer. I was struck by my inclination to turn down their request in order to honor their business day and their intention to make sitting and talking and connecting a higher priority than the doing of business. I had assumed they had things to DO. They had assumed that I would want to BE with them.I learned from the Greek and Turkish people that being is often more important than doing.Well, gotta run...lots to do today. Guess I'll never learn!

Worship--Portland Style

Mystic Mondays       June 18, 2016I think I did a big No No yesterday. But I couldn’t help myself. It was Sunday morning in downtown Portland on the only Sunday during the biannual General Assembly meeting of the Presbyterian Church. Listed in our agenda for the morning were some 25 or so Presbyterian churches we could attend for worship. Of course most of the commissioners and visitors from around the United States had flown in. Transportation would be an issue. Our fine planning team from Cascades Presbytery (the local host) had arranged for vans and buses to take good Presbyterians to any one of the more than two dozen choices.But I chose my own church this morning. While hundreds of attendees sat in the pews in our local churches I strolled through the expansive front doors of Portland Waterfront Church. Inviting me in were the towering green spans of the Hawthorne Bridge famous for its 25,000 cyclists that cross it every day on their way to work. I strolled briskly (as my body demanded) after sitting twelve-plus hours in plenary sessions, informal table dialogues and sit-down meals the day before.I want to be very clear that I honor the choices of my brother and sister Presbyterians who kept asking me, “Which church are you going to this morning,” unaware that I was already hearing my body say, “You need to move. Your body needs to worship. You have to get your butt off of all those damned chairs.” Pews were not what my body was screaming for.Funny thing was that I wanted to worship just as bad as all my PC friends. But my soul was begging for the cool air of the morning. I couldn’t look at four walls anymore. I wanted to follow a liturgy, but it wasn’t the liturgy of the bulletin; it was the ordered and spontaneous liturgy of Portlanders celebrating a beautiful late spring Father’s Day right there along the Willamette River. Casual cyclists swooshed by me on my left in their tight outfits. Runners wove their way in and out pedestrians, tricycles, and older couples out for a Sunday stroll.I stopped at the railing of the river when I spotted a Native American woman performing some sort of dance before the water as if she was at the altar acting out the Creation story in liturgical dance. She was either oblivious to the stares of others or maybe her soul had just retrieved a deep memory from her past and she couldn’t help but to act it out in front of the sacred river.Ten minutes later I found myself as deeply in worship as I might have been in one of our great sanctuaries. A People’s Memorial had been set up and dozens of ten-foot panels with red hearts and the words, “Love Orlando” were painted across them. It was clear that when the memorial was completed it was to be full circle with “doors of love” placed on each side for people to enter  to pray and worship. A handful of people were meticulously and lovingly pouring out messages in colored markers expressing their grief and love and anger for the horrific tragedy of Orlando.Around the people’s memorial was all the diversity (such as it is in Portland) of this city that has earned the “Keep Portland Weird” motto. Gay and lesbians couples, homeless men, well-to-doers, children, white and black-skinned, purple-haired and bleached blonde all gathered around this sacred space. We were one family, even if for a brief moment and in a limited space, united by our grief, pain and hope.If I had been a good Presbyterian pastor and commissioner I would have gone and celebrated with my brothers and sisters in the pews this day. It’s not that didn’t want to. But my body just said, “No! Take advantage of this sacred Sunday morning time and worship me with your body. Move a little. Breathe some clean air. Feel the sun. Watch the hypnotic movement of the water. Soak in the energy of runners, strollers, cyclists, and children darting back and forth along the river." I heeded the call.My body took me away from church worship yesterday morning.  But what I discovered is that I walked through the sanctuary doors of another kind of church—out in the open, welcoming to all kinds of people, pitching my heart toward the sacred and worshipping with brothers and sisters around a People’s Church that emerged out of the tragedy of Orlando and the souls of the people of Portland.I was supposed to join my Presbyterian family in worship today. Instead, my body rebelled against more sitting and walls. But I discovered that the Portland community had also been drawn by some Spirit to worship, to re-create, and to pray and to love in their own unique way. On this Father’s Day Presbyterians and Portlanders both were all worshiping—some indoors and some outdoors.We are all one. All that separates us are a few thin walls.

Worship on Two Wheels

Mystic Mondays         June 13, 2016I went on a bike ride Saturday. In my mind I was also preparing for a sermon for Sunday on the place of worship and beauty in our lives. I have felt and said for many years that I feel closest to God (or the Sacred) when I am out on my bike feeling the rhythm of my legs churning, the road rising and falling before me, and the wind caressing my skin like a skilled masseuse. This day may have been the first time that I actually said out loud, "This is how I worship."The word worship just means to show reverence or adoration for something--usually a deity. I had no problem in the past sharing that I felt a sort of divine connection while out riding, but to claim it as an act of worship seemed like an exaggerated jump. Yes, cycling certainly takes me to a place beyond mere exercise or enjoyment, but to put it on par with the intentional and ordered liturgy of an actual worship service sounded more like a rationalization of why, if I had a choice, I would rather be cranking my way up a tree-lined mountainside road than leading people in a recitation of the Lord's Prayer.But Saturday I felt differently. I suppose the confluence of riding while thinking about a sermon on worship had something to do with. In fact, I am quite sure that was it. About halfway into my 35-mile jaunt it hit me and I repeated "This is how I worship God" over and over again until I had fully accepted that I meant it and that it wasn't just a ploy to dress up my sermon that was agitating in my head.Reverence and adoration. Those were the key words. When I lead a worship service I try to create an environment where we all feel a little of that reverence and adoration. I strategically place the hymns to draw out certain emotions or to pitch our hearts and minds into a reverential contemplation. I pray and preach also to draw at these deeper feelings from my parishioners. An order of service on Sundays is all about creating an environment for worship.That's when it hit me--that when I am on my bike I don't have to create the environment to draw out the feelings of reverence and adoration. The environment I am in does that for me. I don't have the set the stage for worship to emerge. The stage has already been set for me.I am especially blessed to have lived in two cycling paradises in the last three years. Currently I am living in Southern Oregon in the foothills that connect the Coastal Range with the volcanic range of the  Cascades with Crater Lake being our closest mountainous marvel. Before this I was in the lovely little village of Yachats on the Oregon Coast where hundreds of miles of old timber roads snaked their way around the mountains above my house.On a nearly daily basis I have been living in environments that easily pitch my heart and mind to the place of reverence and adoration (worship, that is). I ride along the Rogue River and watch as blue herons lift off like prehistoric jet planes as they slowly rise to cruising altitude. I often spook deer as I come around a corner and they take one look at me in my florescent spandex and go bounding off into the forest. I marvel at the strength of my body as I crank my way up Onion Mountain and then speed back down Franz Klammer-style as I carve my way around the curves at the maximum speed that my nerves and common sense will allow.I have probably been conditioned for too long by being raised in the church and having served as a pastor for nearly  twenty years. Worship for me has always meant that sixty minute service reserved for singing, prayers, the reading of scripture and the preaching of a good word (hopefully!). Worship was something churches put on. But I feel differently today after my weekend ride while pondering my "Worship and Beauty" sermon: Worship is not an event; it is an attitude. Worship is simply having feelings of reverence and adoration for a Presence that seems to transcend our normal human experience.I have seen this before. I remember seeing travelers sit at the base of a glacier-fed lake in Yosemite National Park. Not a word was spoken. Everyone sat on their individually chosen boulders and stared at the rugged mountains that towered above the glistening lake. Even the occasional camera shot seemed to violate the sacred trust of the moment. The goodness was almost too much to take in. Reverence and adoration seemed to accompany each person's every breath.I have experienced it in song when a singer somehow goes from singing pretty notes and a nice melody to  embodying a spirit that transcends them. No longer are they just singing the song, but the song is singing them. And you know it's happening, because everyone around is feeling the same thing--The quiet hush in the room, the tears emerging from the most sensitive, and the connection between singer and listener that is as unbreakable as two lovers holding hands. Reverence and adoration seem to float in the air like smoke in an overcrowded bar.I have been there when this worship shows up at the bedside of a dying patient. Conventional wisdom would tell us that this would be the worst place for worship. Who would want to offer words of praise, share feelings of adoration and act reverently as a loved one slips away? Yet I have been there and felt it. Not all deaths are this peaceful, but some families seem to give permission for a Deep and  Compassionate Spirit to show up. And when She does reverence and adoration seem to replace the usual feelings of anxiety and fear.I am convinced now that worship is not a liturgical service. Worship is an attitude. Worship is a way of life. Worship is what people who feel a sense of reverence, awe, respect and adoration for life do. Worship is our way of saying "Thank you."

Getting This Right...

Mystic Mondays        June 6, 2016I was re-reading my post from last week (A Trump Exorcism) after mulling over a handful of comments that were posted in response. As I came toward the end of my post I read again the words, "I want my soul to feel clean again." While the prior post certainly had a great deal to do with Trump the reality is that post was really about me. I was struggling with two extreme responses to Trump--red-faced anger at moments and a yoga-like calmness in other moments. In other words, an over-engagement and an under-engagement.I appreciated the many comments. They mirrored much of what I was feeling but also inserted the reminder of what our faith or spiritual values call us to do. Those reminders were actually at the core of what my post was about, but didn't name outright. The whole premise of "wanting Trump out of my body" was my frustration that I couldn't seem to find an action or response that lived up to my faith. My faith both called for me to do something (more than voting) and to accept gracefully the limits of what I could do (called voting).Neither were quite satisfying. I was uncomfortable with where my primitive red-faced anger was taking me. I imagined joining protesters if Trump just happened to come to town. But given my proximity to a computer and my love of writing most of my thoughts were finding expression in a whole range of satirical posts and attempts to beat Trump at his own game. I was trying to find some way to out him as if I was involved in a chess match with him. Even though I gave some time to those possibilities I usually thought better of it. I knew that I was just giving expression to my anger and frustration. I knew in the end my devilish thoughts would do no good.But the alternative was dissatisfying as well. I have a daily yoga and journaling practice in the mornings that I am nearly obsessive about. I rarely miss a day and even family and friends have learned that first hour or so of the morning is off limits to chit chat. In that time I often discover a yoga-like disposition. Despite the chaos of our current political circus I can find a grounded place that keeps me from flying off the handle (at least in public!).I ended my post last week saying that "I want my soul to feel clean again." That post was really about me. I am trying to find a response that makes my soul feel good. My dilemma is this: To simply act out my anger at how I feel our process has been hijacked puts me in a camp that is no better than this person who is fueling the fire of an angry American electorate. But to disengage in an attempt at personal soul preservation also feels irresponsible.This evening I stopped at a rural convenience store after a punishing hill climb on my bike in the Coastal Mountains. The conversation between the woman clerk and the male customer ahead of me in line didn't sound quite right. As his transaction was being completed I heard him berate her with some colorful language while she said over and over again, "Thank you sir. Enjoy your evening" in an attempt to get him out the door. He finally did exit, leaving a trail of expletives in his wake.I bought my cold refreshing Coke to cleanse my sticky dry mouth and headed toward my own car. Suddenly the man went back in. I knew exactly what was happening. He had waited for me to leave. Now the woman was alone in the store and he was returning with some sort of evil intent. I didn't know what he was capable of, but it had danger written on it. I hopped back out of my car and casually moseyed back to the front of the store where I could both see what was taking place and hear the tone of their conversation. There were a few "horse shits" thrown her direction. The woman held her ground. The man eventually left, but not before trying to bait me into saying something that would give him permission to unleash his rage on me.I thought about this event in relation to my seeking a good response to the Trump phenomenon. I realized that in this situation I found the wise balance between immediately taking this guy down and likely escalating the situation. Or driving off with the excuse, "It's not really my problem." I didn't over-engage, but I also didn't disengage. Both extremes might have ended with blood on my hands.This is what I am looking for with regard to our current political drama. I want to be engaged without being reactionary. And I want my soul to feel clean without feeling like I have disengaged. Like the scene with the woman in the store, it feels to me as if the stakes are high. Over-engaging and under-engaging both have their risks. I want to get it right. I don't want anyone to get hurt.

A Trump Exorcism

Mystic Mondays           May 30, 2016I don’t feel right. Despite my every effort get Trump out of my body and my soul, he seems to have permanently invaded my mind and my flesh. I can’t seem to shake him. I feel like I need an old fashioned exorcism. You know--where a priest scares a demon out of you in the name of Jesus.I mean this seriously. He won't leave me alone!I have voted in many elections and even when I had a visceral distaste for another candidate I was still able to wash the person from my skin like a hot soapy shower after a mud ball fight. The election cycle took care of that for me. I was promised a voice in the process, but once my vote was cast I could let go. My candidate may not win, but democracy would prevail either way, I would say. I could fight like hell, cast my vote, and then let go and trust the system until the next mud ball fight. I was a good sport even in losing.But something is different this time. Voting didn’t satisfy me. I had done my part and was supposed to be able to let go and trust the process to carry forth our good democratic principles and values. “May the best candidate win!” was always my motto after voting. And how would we know who was best? Obvious. Whoever the American electorate picked was the patriotic answer!But I feel betrayed this time. Something is not right. The anxiety in my soul (I am an off the chart Intuitive on the Meyers-Briggs test) tells me something is askew. This is not the usual tough election cycle (understatement of the year, right!). I feel like our democratic process is being used to forward un-democratic values. I feel like we’ve been conned and people don’t give a damn.Granted, everyone gets to have a voice in a democracy. But aren’t there some unstated assumptions that we all have agreed on and abide by? Aren’t respect and tolerance for the other side a basic expectation even in our disagreement? When did it become okay to demand the first and hold disdain for the second? When did we agree that everyone gets to have a voice, but respect and tolerance are optional? When did we become okay with a presidential candidate raising a big middle finger salute to all the unspoken covenants that provide the glue that hold us together as a democratic people. Somehow winning at all costs has replaced trusting the democratic process to do its thing! I am scared this time that Trump may win, but the country will lose.I know that I should have been able to cast my ballot, breathe and let go. I had done my patriotic duty. I know much of the country had done the same in their red, white and blue way. All seems to be in order, right? The system is moving forward. The conventions are only weeks away and we will be engaged in the next bout of this presidential mud ball fight.It’s supposed to be beautiful thing to watch, this democracy in action. But my body tells me something isn’t right. My soul feels betrayed. I flit back and forth from red-faced anger at one moment to wanting to hum "Om" and practice yoga 24 hours a day the next moment. It’s not supposed to be this way. Voting is supposed to feel deeply satisfying. I am supposed to feel proud of my engagement as a citizen in the process. But will voting be enough to protect our democracy this time around? I am not sure we are watching democracy in action. I don't recognize this.I voted. I will vote again. This is how it works in a democracy. We get to decide. We get the country we want. We get the leaders we deserve. Shoot--we can even vote for our own demise. That's the cool thing about democracy. No one is going to stop us from our own self-destruction.I voted. I will vote again. I hope that is the only exorcism I need. I want Trump out of my body. I want my soul to feel clean again.I voted. I will vote again. I hope that will be enough.