Fear. I’m so over it.

It seems like I’m being told to be fearful of everything these days. Don’t vote for this political candidate because she will take your rights away. Don’t vote for that politician, either, because he will be bad for the economy. Be suspicious of anyone who doesn’t believe in the right kind of God. Don’t drive, fly, drink bottled water, or even eat quinoa, because you’ll be a bad person. Don’t eat eggs; that’s just asking for a heart attack. Avoid doorknobs at all costs

If you’re Catholic, don’t you dare speak your mind; you’ll be silenced for having an opinion.

You know, it’s no wonder many of us are stressed out, anxious, eating too much, and not sleeping enough. We’re constantly told to be scared. Of everything. We live in a soup of fear.

What’s worse, we’re told to be scared of ourselves, our ideas and opinions, and the way we live our lives.

Maybe it would be worth it if fear worked as a motivator. I’m not convinced of that, however. If it did, wouldn’t we live in a happier, safer, more egalitarian world? If fear worked, would the diet and sleep aid industries be making billions? Wouldn’t pews be packed on Sunday and seminaries and convents filled to the rafters?

I know how I react when I’m afraid. I don’t feel motivated at all. In fact, it’s just the opposite. Tell me I need to lose weight or bad things will happen, and I will reach for the nearest chocolate bar. Warn me I’m not getting enough exercise, and I’ll spend the weekend on the couch playing video games. I react to fear by shutting down and going on autopilot. It’s not a way to motivate me to change.

When we’re afraid, we also make bad decisions. As a communications professional, I’ve counseled clients through some tough crises. Inevitably, a client’s first response to a perceived threat is either to adopt a bunker mentality or go on the attack. Neither posture is terribly supportive. As an outsider, I’m able to provide a more levelheaded perspective on the right course of action. The reason? I’m not amped up on fear. I can think clearly.

I think Jesus also knew fear wasn’t a winning strategy. He did not say, for example, “Blessed are the fearful.” He knew Peter would deny him three times out of fear. Even the angels heralding his birth told those poor freaked out shepherds not to be afraid.

Jesus did not operate from a fear-based mentality. His approach was one of openness, peace, and understanding. That is an attitude in complete opposition to fear. You can’t be open, peaceful, and understanding if you’re afraid — or fear mongering. Try it. I dare you. Just like I dare you not to think of a pink polka-dotted gorilla wearing a tutu now that I’ve mentioned one. See? It’s impossible. (And, you’re welcome.)

If Jesus did not embrace fear, why do we, his followers, insist on it? Why is our response to a new idea always condemnation? Why do we base our faith around a fear of going to hell rather than embracing the Kingdom of God that Jesus told us was already ours through grace?

Why have we made fear our eighth Sacrament, and a requirement for being loved by God?

For me, personally, it’s time to take fear out of my faith. Thankfully, there are good models to follow.

I recently found out that St. Francis of Assisi, who I always thought was just naturally saintly, was actually deeply afraid of lepers. But, here’s why St. Francis was a saint: he pushed through the fear, and kissed pretty much every leper he could get his holy mitts on. He didn’t let fear affect his response to others.

Now that is an evolved spirituality I can get behind. As a follower of Jesus, and admirer of Francis, I’m going to strive to give up my addiction to fear and kiss more of my own personal lepers. It won’t be easy, but I think continuing to live out of a spirituality of fear will be far worse.

For the good of the world, I fervently hope others pucker up as well.

A friend recently paid me the greatest compliment.

He said “For someone who is studying theology, you are the least religious person I know.”

I laughed, but he said he was serious. I knew he was. The reason I laughed, I said, was this misconception about what “being religious” means that draws me to my studies in spirituality and the new cosmology.

What my friend meant, I think, was that I’m apparently not a moralistic, dogmatic, judgemental kind of person. I’m not out to convert. The words “God” and “Jesus” or “repent” don’t come out of my mouth every other sentence. I rarely feel the need to self-identify as “Christian.” Don’t get me wrong, I can be annoying and awful, and judgmental in my own way. But my friend didn’t see in me as what he would call “religious.”

This conversation points to what I see as a real problem for those of us who see the world through spiritual eyes: we’ve had horrible PR. For those who don’t consider themselves spiritual, or religious, we’re seen as, well, what my friend meant by religious. And this is not just a problem for us, it’s a problem for the rest of the world, too. Because having a sense of the Divine and a notion of a power bigger than ourselves at work in everything is important if we want to change the way we’re going.

In his work on the New Atheism, theologian John Haught shows the damage done by religion. And by religion, I mean much of organized religion, the kind that excludes, moralizes and, quite frankly, causes a lot of pain. Many of the New Atheists — Dawkins, Hitchens, etc… — focus on that religion’s version of God. Yes, it still exists, and yes it is still doing damage, but in sweeping aside that version of God, the New Atheists don’t stop to think about the version of God they’re dismissing. It’s as if nobody ever asked them “Are you sure this is the only concept of God out there?”

For example, my perception of God, of the Divine, includes evolution. It includes the Big Bang. It includes 13.7 billion years of cosmic history. My spirituality is not lessened by scientific knowledge; it is expanded. I am also comfortable with paradox, with not-knowing. Or, at least I try to be. My spirituality is not an “if I behave in this way I will go to Heaven” way of being in the world. It’s much broader, it’s much more mysterious. And it places just as much emphasis on science as it does the work of the unseen.

John Haught says we need a third way to look at science and religion. This third way, he says, makes room for both. Haught says that theology has no place in science. Science should explore and attempt to explain what is observable and verifiable. Where theology comes in, says Haught, is at the edges, at the liminal, where meaning and mystery and paradox exist. In the third way, science and religion inform each other. They are not enemies, but co-creators, co-explainers, of this reality we live in.

I think we desperately need this third way right now. People need to know that to be a spiritual person does not mean throwing logic, reason and science away. Rather, it means looking at what we learn from science with wonder and awe at what the Divine has brought into being. And this attitude of reverence is so important, because we need to see our world differently if we are to save it. It’s time that we end this false dichotomy between science and religion, because it’s not real. It never was. It was a human conceit that no longer serves any of us. In fact, it is damaging us all.

For me, I think the challenge from John Haught is to embody that third way in all that I do. As I continue on this journey, I’m aware of the words I use to describe the Divine, and how I talk about what I’m doing with others. I choose my language carefully. I don’t hide what is my passion, but I don’t overwhelm or threaten with it, either. I’m not out to convert people. I’m just hoping to show that what they may think about God or spirituality or science could use a little tweaking.

(Note: Links to books in this post are Amazon affiliate links. If you buy a book from one of these links I get a little bit of money from Amazon to put towards hosting and other costs.)

Came across this really good article today on the role that women religious are playing on Wall Street. Primarily this involves how they direct their pension funds, and getting involved in shareholder activism. They are also putting together coalitions and community groups.

As promised, here’s the longer version of my commentary piece that appeared in the NCR on August 8.

It’s funny how things happen. I’ve had Judy Cannato’s book Field of Compassion on my bedside table for several months now. Ironically, I had bought it to read the chapter on intentionality, but hadn’t gotten around to it yet. Last week, I finally cracked it open. Coincidentally (or not) this was on the same day I’d read news accounts of the two very different definitions of dialogue given to the press by Sister Pat Farrell, president of the Leadership Conference of Women Religious (LCWR) and Bishop Leonard Blair of Toledo, Ohio.

I’ve previously avoided touching on the Vatican’s investigation of the LCWR, mostly because I wasn’t sure about wading into Church politics on this blog. This is a space focused on the evolution of my own spirituality as I integrate the Universe Story into my life. And, to be honest, I just didn’t feel like opening that particular can of worms. This is not to say I don’t have opinions on the issue, as I know many women religious (as well as priests) and their impact on my life has been significant. I just wasn’t sure this was something I wanted to tackle — or even had the authority to discuss.

Cannato’s book, however, gave me a framework for evaluating the comments from Sister Farrell and Bishop Blair in the context of Church tradition when it comes to dialogue and change.

First, here is Sister Farrell’s response when asked about the Vatican investigation:

“The question is, ‘Can you be Catholic and have a questioning mind?’ That’s what we’re asking. … I think one of our deepest hopes is that in the way we manage the balancing beam in the position we’re in, if we can make any headways in helping to create a safe and respectful environment where church leaders along with rank-and-file members can raise questions openly and search for truth freely, with very complex and swiftly changing issues in our day, that would be our hope.”

I also found Sister Farrell’s comments on the unique role women religious play in the Church — and the perspective that gives them — very powerful:

“Women Religious stand in very close proximity to people at the margins, to people with very painful, difficult situations in their lives. That is our gift to the church. Our gift to the church is to be with those who have been made poorer, with those on the margins. Questions there are much less black and white because human realities are much less black and white. That’s where we spend our days.”

She also noted:

“A bishop, for instance, can’t be on the street working with the homeless. He has other tasks. But we can be. So if there is a climate of open and trusting and adequate dialogue among us, we can bring together some of those conversations, and that’s what I hope we can help develop in a deeper way.”

So, for Farrell and the LCWR, dialogue is a process through which both tradition and lived experience are brought to bear on seeking truth, resolving differences, and moving forward. The purpose of dialogue is to arrive at a consensus, and everyone is given equal power.

Which brings me to Bishop Blair’s response:

“If by dialogue they mean that the doctrines of the church are negotiable and the bishops represent one position and the LCWR presents another position, and somehow we find a middle ground about basic church teaching on faith and morals, then no…I don’t think that is the kind of dialogue that the Holy See would envision…But if it’s a dialogue about how to have the LCWR really educate and help the sisters to appreciate and accept church teaching and to implement it in their discussions and try to hear some of the questions or concerns they have about these issues, then that would be the dialogue.”

Bishop Blair also noted that the Vatican scrutiny of the LCWR is not a “crackdown,” but “meant to be an effort to work with (women religious) to have them enter into dialogue with us in order to remedy what we feel are serious doctrinal concerns.”

As for how Bishop Blair would want the current divide resolved: “I would like the LCWR leadership to acknowledge that the bishops’ questions have merit, that they can appreciate why we are concerned, … and that they would be willing then to help their members to appreciate and accept the teachings of the church on these matters.”

So, for Bishop Blair, then, it seems dialogue is fine — as long as discussions end up where the Vatican wants them to end up. And, I guess that’s the Vatican’s prerogative. The LCWR, after all, is made up of a group of religious orders of women who all operate, ostensibly, with Papal authority. They may have their own internal structures and hierarchies, but their ultimate existence is owed to Rome. By that logic, they then should have to abide by what Rome wants, and the tradition of Papal decision-making going back to the first Pope.

But is this actually the Church’s tradition when it comes to decision-making? Until recently, I would have thought it was. I would have looked at the situation between the Vatican and the LCWR and grumbled at the hidebound nature of the Pope and some of his bishops, and gone on with my life. I wouldn’t have questioned Church authority — just what was being done with it. And I would have sympathized with the LCWR but decided that, in the end, there was very little to be done if the Vatican’s collective mind was made up. Dialogue, at least Sister Farrell’s definition, seems to have never had a place in the Church.

Or has it?

Judy Cannato, a well-known Catholic retreat facilitator and spiritual director, wrote Field of Compassion in order to examine the integration of current scientific thought into Christian spirituality. An important early chapter in her book deals with how Catholic theology gets made. Cannato’s reasoning is that if we want theology to evolve in order to integrate new ideas, we need to look at its roots and what went into the process of making it.

This is where things get interesting.

Cannato writes about a “meeting of many of the earliest Christian leaders described in Acts 15 [that is] often called ‘the First Church Council’.” She notes that “Councils, according to the Church, are theologically definitive.” They grew out of an awareness that “[e]ven though Jesus was primarily concerned with calling people to a way of relating to others and the Holy — a new consciousness — he could not possibly have anticipated all the issues that would arise as the infant movement began to grow.” Councils, says Cannato, were established by the early Church to deal with issues that arose “when followers of Jesus and their leaders negotiated the transition from Judaism to what would later be called Christianity.”

The First Church Council came about because some early followers in Judea were, writes Cannato, “teaching that Gentile believers must first become Jews” in order to properly follow Jesus. They were particularly concerned with circumcision and felt Gentiles who wanted to follow Jesus should comply with this practice. This triggered “no small discussion and debate” (Acts 15:2) between those followers and the disciples Paul and Barnabas, who didn’t agree. The latter were dispatched to Jerusalem to meet with the apostles and other early Church elders about the issue. What transpired in Jerusalem was the First Church Council.

Peter and James speak for the early Church during the council. They listen to both Paul and Barnabas, and they also listen to a contingent of Pharisees who side with those preaching circumcision as a requirement for following Jesus. Then Peter and James speak. I’m paraphrasing here, and you should read both Acts 15 and Cannato’s take for yourself, but, essentially, Peter and James question why Gentiles should be made to jump through hoops when the Holy Spirit clearly came to everyone, regardless of their faith or background. Peter tells of the Holy Spirit descending on both Jews and Gentiles equally. He wonders aloud why the early Church would impose a “burden” on new followers that they themselves no longer felt was important.

James then says:

“I rule that instead of making things more difficult for [Gentiles] who turn to God, we send them a letter telling them merely to abstain from anything polluted by idols, from fornication, from the meat of strangled animals and from blood. For Moses has always had his preachers in every town, and is read aloud in the synagogues every sabbath.” (Acts 15:19-21)

Acts 15, says Cannato, pretty much exemplifies how Catholic theology is made. “First, it is rooted in human life, the daily experience of those whose intention it is to respond to the holy within the context of a human relationship with the risen Christ.” Cannoto notes that Peter and James also draw on “the words of Jesus, both before and after the resurrection, as well as their lived experience of Jesus as they became his followers.” She also says their discernment considers “both tradition and scripture” as well as the testimony of those who came before them. In hearing from Paul, Barnabas, the Pharisees and others, Peter and James “did not appear to restrict the discussion, but allowed everyone involved in the matter to speak.” In fact, the author of Acts makes a point about Peter and James keeping silent (Acts 15:12) until they had heard from everyone. “Then, and only then,” writes Cannato, “after asking the difficult questions and entering into silence and discussion and debate, there came an interpretation — as broad as possible so as to facilitate an experience of the risen Christ rather than restrict it.” Says Cannato “[t]his is the pattern of theological reflection at root in the very early days of the Church, the one that still underpins our experience of faith seeking understanding.”

I’m not a theologian, but I am a discerning reader. I’ve read both Acts 15 and Cannato’s discussion, and this is what I think. At the time of the First Council, the early Church was in a period of becoming, of evolution. Its apostles, disciples, elders and rank-and-file followers were breaking new ground. Not only were they not exactly Jewish anymore, but they were also joined by people who had never been Jewish, and had no intention of following Judaism in order to follow Jesus. Any time you have such a mixing of cultures and beliefs, you are bound to have conflict. That’s a given. It’s how you resolve that conflict that’s important.

For Peter, James and the early Church it seems that it was important to them to resolve conflict in a way that broadened rather than narrowed the definition of a follower of Jesus. Yes, they had some non-negotiables when it came to scripture, tradition and the words and actions of Jesus, but they gave equal weight to what was going on in the real world. The lived experience and accounts from the boots on the ground were just as important as the existing rules. In this, they followed Jesus’ example.

Peter and James had another option: they could have hunkered down, refused to listen, and just carried on with what they thought was right. They, after all, had lived with Jesus, followed him, and who better to say what he would think? They could have ignored what was going on outside the walls of Jerusalem, and told Paul and Barnabas that the Gentiles would have to accede to all Jewish laws, no matter how out of touch with their lived experience, if they wanted to be included in the new Church. But this is not the Church that Peter, James and the others obviously wanted. They wanted a Church rooted in the teachings of Jesus that was inclusive, not exclusive. They broadened when they could have narrowed. They listened when they could have dictated. The decision-making tradition they established was one of consensus, dialogue, and practicality.

Which brings me to present day. In my view, the LCWR’s members are just like Paul and Barnabas. They are out in the field, in daily contact with humanity. They work with all manner of people, from all kinds of backgrounds. They encounter Christians and non-Christians, and they see what it’s like to live in today’s world. The LCWR’s sisters are, then, the Church’s boots on the ground, and, just like Paul and Barnabas, they’re reporting back to Jerusalem (Rome). And what they’re saying is this: “Houston, we have a problem.” Unfortunately, Peter and James aren’t running things these days. The current powers that be seem to feel the “traditional” response should be: “No worries. We’ve got everything handled. Ignore the gaping hole in your rocket’s outer hull and just follow this manual we wrote 100 years ago before anyone went into space, or before we had rockets, or rocket hulls for that matter.” And, when the LCWR responds that, based on what they’re seeing out the porthole, things may have changed since that book was written, Rome labels them disloyal and continues to quote unhelpful passages from the manual. Loudly.

All of this is to say that if you’re going to insist on tradition, you should at least define your terms. Because, from what I can tell of Acts 15, Peter, James and the early Church had a pretty clear idea regarding what constitutes dialogue and conflict resolution. Peter and James listened to everyone. They stayed quiet. They gave equal weight to both tradition and scripture as well as what was actually going on out in the body of the Church. They thought broadly about the matter. In this way, their final theological decision had actual real-world applicability. It was rooted in lived experience and the testimony of those in the field. It was a living truth rather than a dead law.

As I watch things unfold between the Vatican and LCWR I can’t help wishing that someone would send both sides a copy of Acts 15, as well as Judy Cannato’s book. Copies should also go to any media covering the matter. Just as these words were for me, I think might prove illuminating for all involved.

(Note: Links to books in this post are affiliate links. Should you purchase a book via a link I will be paid a little bit of money by Amazon.)

So thrilled that the National Catholic Reporter has published my article on the Vatican, LCWR and definitions of dialogue. Feel free to go check it out. I plan on posting a longer version of the piece on the blog in the next couple of days.

If you’re here after having read my post, welcome! Please check out the rest of the site and consider signing up for an email subscription so you can receive more of my posts in the future, if you’d like. Or add the RSS feed to your blog reader.

I met one of my heroes a few weeks ago. She’s not a rock star, or an actor — though Susan Sarandon played her in a movie. She’s Helen Préjean, and I’ve admired her work and courage for a very, very long time. Ever since I saw the movie “Dead Man Walking,” I’ve wanted to meet Helen. Her tenacity and hard work has lead to the end of the death penalty in many U.S. states. Sadly, it still exists in others, but Helen carries on.

Meeting Helen, for me, was a truly amazing experience. You need to know she looks nothing like Susan Sarandon. She’s a short, unassuming woman with a huge laugh and an even bigger sense of humour. Every other thing she says is a joke or wry observation. She had the whole room in stitches on more than one occasion. At the end of our time together, the group ended with something called the Elm Dance, which was created by Joanna Macy. It involves standing around in a circle, holding hands, and then stepping to first one side and then the other in a sequence. It’s a little complicated and you can get off beat fairly easily. Helen and I ended up together and when she took my hand she stared up into my eyes and said, deadpan, “You know if you do this wrong, you’ll squash me, right?” I laughed, and so did she. Inside I was bowled over. I had just shared a joke with Helen Préjean!

Being around Helen you could easily forget that she journeys with some of the most despised individuals in society — murderers on death row waiting for their execution. It’s hard to love this kind of person, or show them any kind of compassion. They have, after all, allegedly taken a human life — or several human lives. Yet, if you believe that the Divine exists in everyone, no matter what they’ve done, then you need to recognize the Divine in these individuals, no matter how heinous their actions. This is a big leap, and I don’t think many can make it. I’m not sure I can. In theory, moralizing about the evils of the death penalty is easy if it hasn’t touched you personally. If someone on death row had taken my parents, my sisters, my nephew, my brothers-in-law or a close friend from me, I’m not sure I could be so even-headed about why the death penalty is wrong. In grief, you cry out for anything that will make you feel better, to fill the loss, and vengeance is all too happy to rush in. And that doesn’t make you a bad person. It makes you human.

But I claim to be a human who understands that the Divine exists in everyone, and so there’s an added calculation to do in my moralistic math. And the Divine is kind of like multiplying by zero — it cancels out every other factor. With the Divine in all of us, we’re all the same, we’re all occupying the same point on the line graph. Nobody is higher or lower. We may have made mistakes, done horrible things, but, with the Divine inside, we keep our place on that graph. Nothing can remove us.

Even as I write this I feel a kind of tension. This is a really hard thing to accept. I mean, I often go through life being irritated and annoyed by people, and think unkind things about them. How they somehow don’t measure up to me because they don’t act in a way I’d want them to. This is why Helen Préjean so astounds me: she sees the Divine in death row inmates, where I can’t manage to see it in the guy who shoves his way past me in line or accidentally knocks me with his bag in a cramped airplane aisle. If I can’t do a namaste in their direction, what hope is there for me to walk where Helen Préjean walks?

Part of that answer came from Helen when she spoke to us. She talked about how life unfolds and changes. We can’t control it, we just need to understand that nothing is constant, nothing is forever, and we live in an evolving universe. This is both scary — what do you mean I can’t control anything??? — and reassuring. If I’m evolving and changing along with the universe, then there’s hope for me yet. I can grow into embodying a consciousness that recognizes the Divine in others. I still may not like the guy who nearly takes my head off with his carry-on bag (that probably breaks the size limit, but, I”m trying not to go there), but I will recognize that he has as much right to that bit of space on the plane as I do. (I just wish he wouldn’t swing his space into my space, but, hey…). From the guy on the airplane, I will likely have to evolve quite a bit more before I can recognize the Divine in a murderer, rapist, or drug dealer. But I have it on good authority, that it’s there. So, I live in faith until I can come to realize it myself, knowing I’ll backslide into thinking nasty things about my neighbour when he smokes outside and it gets into my winnow.

The other part of that answer comes from both Helen Préjean and another hero of mine, Ann Lamott. Helen’s work to end the death penalty has not been without its trials and tribulations. Consider for a moment the people who don’t exactly like what she’s doing. There have been death threats and hate mail. One of her group had his car shot up and when the police came they claimed they could not see any bullet holes in the car at all — despite the fact that they were right there and obvious to anyone. Helen’s first protest came as the result of a series of letters to the editor she wrote about ending the death penalty — many of which never ran. Then, one day, one did and, in it, Helen happened to promise that she would be leading a protest outside a prison where someone was going to be executed. When it ran, Helen realized she now had to do it. So she did. Her entire movement has been one of fits and starts. One of her first speaking gigs was at a nursing home. Three people came to hear her. Two fell asleep. For one of her long marches, Helen had gained significant media attention, but when they got to their destination, all the reporters wanted to cover was two women who had married death row inmates and chained themselves to the courthouse. Yet, despite all of this, Helen carried on, knowing her mission was good and true. And, we now see the result of that work. So, from Helen, the answer comes that you do what you think is right, what your’re supposed to be doing in this world, and, after some trials and tribulations, things will work. They may not work the way you thought they would, but they work.

From Ann Lamott, the answer comes in the form of her two best prayers “Help, help, help” and “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” The Divine is with in us, and as it unfolds, we unfold. All we need to do is ask for help and then be grateful for however that help shows up. Lamott’s other counsel is: Show up. Ask for Help. If all all else fails, follow directions. If we show up, trust in the Divine, and flow with the evolving universe, we’ll be OK. OK may not equal happy or entirely satisfied, but the universe doesn’t promise that. All the Divine promises is that we are here, we are alive, and we are meant to evolve, change and serve.

So, while I may not be ready to walk into a maximum security prison today and take up a journey with a death row inmate, like Helen Préjean, I can walk out into my own life and work to see the Divine in others. And that includes all the annoying people I’d sometimes wish I didn’t have to encounter. It’s the work of a lifetime, but every little unfolding is a step in the right direction.

I don’t know about you, but I’ve been having one of those weeks. From the moment I got up on Monday things seemed to just be spiralling out of my control, taking my mood with it.

It got to the point where I was waking up annoyed and frustrated, even before anything had happened in my day! I’d gone to bed agitated, then I tossed and turned as I stewed over all that went wrong during the previous day, and I woke up in an even darker mood. It was pretty much a never-ending cycle.

Until this morning. Today when I woke up I didn’t immediately reach for my iPhone and start checking work email. I didn’t automatically run down my work to do list in my head, grumbling at every seemingly impossible task. I didn’t step on the spiral and cede control.

No, this morning I took a what I’m going to call a sacred Mulligan. If you’re not familiar with taking a Mulligan, it comes from golf. If you hit a really bad shot, and you’re playing with amenable folks, you can ask to take a Mulligan. This means you can repeat the shot and hopefully it will land your ball in a better place.

My sacred Mulligan was in the same vein, though slightly different. I’m not sure I like the “do over” language of the golf Mulligan. It implies that by taking another crack you’re going to “do better,” and that gets too close to perfectionism for me. I have enough troubles with that already, and I don’t think trying to start my day perfectly would help my mood at all.

No, I see a sacred Mulligan as taking an opportunity to shift awareness towards the sacred, toward your soul, toward your purpose, whatever that means for you. For me, this morning I went through a simple body prayer I learned at a recent retreat. It’s simple, quick and easy, but I find it really effective for shifting my awareness and reminding me to be open to the sacred in my day, however it comes.

But, really, a sacred Mulligan could be anything that draws you for just a few minutes, towards the sacred. Some people open up the NASA Photo of the Day to get them in touch with the amazing reality of the universe, creation, and our place in it. Others use a poem or a piece of music. Some might go for a quick walk and talk to the non-human parts of creation they come across. I plan on trying out all of these as sacred Mulligans. Some might work, some might not. The point is to find 1) what works for you and 2) something that fits in your day and isn’t another item on the to do list.

Oh, and sacred Mulligans are not just for the morning. Any time your day starts to get beyond you, they might provide a brief shift in your awareness that’s just enough to remind you of your real intentions for your day. This post, for example, was a sacred Mulligan for me. I need a quick dip in my creative pool to refocus and re-energize for the rest of my day.

So, try out a sacred Mulligan or two if you feel your day (or week…or month) is out of whack. It probably won’t solve your problems. The stress will still be there. Your to do list won’t get shorter. But your awareness might shift just enough so you see the light of the Divine poking through the cracks.

And, if you do, let me know how it goes and what you choose as your sacred Mulligans!

(Photo credit: greenfinger; License)

So, it my last post I wrote about the need to retire my Loyal Soldier so I can experience new things and, ultimately, grow. The following is a poem I wrote along a similar theme.

Shed That Skin

Tonight I sit
on a rock
at the edge
of an obsidian lake
that effervesces in the
still
dying
light
of the gloaming.

I sit on this rock
restless,
ill at ease.
Uncomfortable
in
my
own
skin.

A skin that has served me well;
remaining tight, resiliant,
protective.
Sheltering what lay inside transforming.
Like a cocoon
that keeps caterpillar soup
from leaking out
before the DNA fates
have done their work
and built a butterfly
from a blueprint
known only
to Mystery.

But now, I know
I have solidified
enough
that this soldier skin
pock-marked and worn thin
pulled tight at the seams,
should give up its vigil
and rest.
Yet, I cling on,
force it down
stick it into place,
unsure the untested membrane beneath
will serve as well.
And so my soldier-skin digs deep
marshals its resources
and holds on.
Loyal to the end.

And, so, we sit
soldier-skin and I
on the precipice
of this rock
and of this lake.
Both knowing neither of us may go further
while we are so joined.
But I hesitate, unsure.
Is this the right moment to give up my shield?
What if I have no sooner set it aside,
than a crushing blow,
from an unseen foe
smites me asunder?
What I if I struggle free from this cocoon
only to
fall
into
flames?

A sudden wind ruffles my hair,
stirs the lake
pulls my attention
outside of myself
to a lopsided circle
of snowdrops
emerging from a winter’s slumber.
Glowing paperwhites
called by Mystery
to usher in another spring
with their silent clarion call.

And at that sight, I laugh
shake my head at my folly,
my ego.
How can I
dare to ask
more of Mystery
than is needed by
the caterpillar,
the butterfly
the snowdrops?

Laughing, I stand
and the movement releases
the last fastenings of my
soldier skin.
We rise together, attached for one more
brief
moment,
before it parts from me
and with a sigh
bursts into flame,
bathing me in light
as I slip
beneath the
lake’s
darkly
shimmering
surface.

(Photo credit: chelle; License)

I’ve done some boundary-pushing things since starting my program at Sophia. I’ve drummed and chanted with Afia Walking Tree. I’ve practiced tai chi. I’ve danced in a library courtyard. I’ve read something I’d just written with Joanna Macy and Anita Barrows looking on (along with about 80 or so complete strangers).

But I think the most challenging thing I’ve done so far at Sophia was during a recent weekend with Bill Plotkin. During our Saturday morning session, Plotkin talked about the need to fall in love with the world. He said that only by coming to love the world can you start to find your soul. Plotkin has a slightly different definition for soul than what some might be used to. For him, soul is an individual’s ultimate place in the world, their offering to the rest of creation. We’re all called to find our soul, says Plotkin, and that journey always involves a descent.

Before the descent, says Plotkin, we go through other initial stages. There’s the Wanderer, for example, where we go out into the world, searching for who we are. Part of that search, if I understood Plotkin correctly, involves coming to love the world.

In the spirit of that, Plotkin gave us an exercise: we were to go outside and allow ourselves to be led to any non-human part of creation. Then, we were to praise that non-human part of creation, as if we were speaking to a person. We were to do this out loud, emphatically and authentically. With a warning about watching for ticks and other natural hazards, Plotkin set us loose.

When I heard this, I looked around at the rest of the room. To my eye, everyone seemed not only fine with this, but absolutely ecstatic. Me? Not so much.

I’m so not doing this, I said to myself. Seriously? Go talk to a rock? Praise a rock? Did I actually pay for this?

This was my internal dialogue as I walked towards the door. To be honest, I dragged my feet a bit, both mentally and physically. I just could not fathom doing this. And, what if someone saw me?

But as I crossed the threshold of the door, I steadied myself. I was here to experience new things, wasn’t I? I was here to figure out new ways of seeing the world, seeing myself. If one of those ways involved losing touch with reality for 20 minutes and talking to rocks, fine. I’d give it a try. But nobody should expect me to enjoy it.

I emerged from the building onto a balcony of sorts that overlooks the rest of the Holy Names University campus, which is perched on the side of the Oakland Hills. And, right away, I was hit by gust of wind that brought me up short. I stopped, turned my face into the breeze, and inhaled.

I’ve always loved wind. I need moving air around me. When we shared a car, my sister used to always complain about being buffeted by the fan when she started it up. I always left the fan on full blast, with all the vents pointing at me. Still do, in my own car. When I fly, the fresh air vent is always cranked up full. The worst part of any flight for me is when the pilot shuts everything down, including ventilation, for a few brief moments when the plane pushes back from the gate. The wait for air to flow again always seems interminable.

Plotkin had said to let ourselves be guided to a non-human part of creation. I wasn’t just guided to mine; it smacked me in the face. A gentle smack, but a smack nonetheless. So, I faced into the wind and gave it praise and thanks.

And I didn’t feel the least bit goofy while I did it. It felt, pardon the pun, natural.

After awhile the wind let me go and roam, and I praised a few more non-human entities: a tree, the ground, grass, a Bird of Paradise. Then, as our time was coming to an end, I went back and praised the wind.

In addition to teaching me about the knowledge that can come by engaging in a conversation with creation, Plotkin’s exercise brought up something about myself as well. The main reason that I really didn’t want to do his exercise at first was not because I thought it wouldn’t be useful. No, I was worried about being seen doing it. I was worried about sticking out and looking odd. The fact that there would be about 30 other people doing the same thing all around me didn’t matter. I would stick out. I would look funny. I would be exposed.

In his book Soulcraft, Plotkin talks about some of the barriers to finding your soul. One of them he calls the Loyal Soldier. This is a part of our psychological make-up that was formed to protect us. He likens it to those Japanese soldiers from WWII who hid in dense forests and emerged, decades later, thinking the war was still on and ready to take up arms to defend their country. The Japanese did a smart thing with these men, says Plotkin. They welcomed them home, thanked them for their service, and told them they could now rest as the fighting was done. Handled this way, the soldiers were much more willing to accept that the world had changed while they were in hiding.

The psychological Loyal Soldier, says Plotkin, defends us against perceived threats. It leaps up, shield in hand, to provide mental protection. This is all well and good when we’re growing up and might need a little sheltering to get through the trials of youth. The problem, says Plotkin, is that the Loyal Soldier will remain on alert long after it should have retired to a quiet life with a little garden. What this means is we continue to view experiences for growth, that will prepare us to transition to another stage of life, as battles to be fought rather than opportunities to learn.

In my case, my Loyal Soldier is particularly attuned to situations in which I’m going to be exposed. I was teased a lot as a kid. I was smart. I was overweight. My Loyal Soldier got good at protecting me from this, and, he did his job well. I survived. But, in adulthood, his leaping to my defense gets a bit problematic. He sees every situation where I’m likely to look a little odd or provoke any kind of ridicule — even if it’s only from inside my head — as a call to action. He rises in his rusty mail, pulls his sword from its cobwebbed scabbard, and rushes in.

In Soulcraft, Plotkin offers a way of gently retiring your Loyal Soldier. You praise them. You thank them for their service. And then you point out that the threat has passed, the war was won long ago, and, really, wouldn’t a life of leisure be more inviting right now? Maybe the Loyal Soldier should take up stamp collecting or take that bus trip through Europe (skipping the battlefields and military graveyards, perhaps)? I’m giving my own spin to Plotkin here, but you get the idea. Slowly, the Loyal Soldier will catch on and realize peace as broken out and leave you to carry on.

So, since our weekend with Bill Plotkin, this has been one of my tasks. I’ve kept an eye on my Loyal Soldier, listening for the clank of armour that signals he’s about to intervene on my behalf. I assess the situation and give him the all clear. Sometimes he still springs into action, but it’s easier for me to back him off as time goes by. Hopefully I’ll soon be able to encourage him to move into that seaside cottage I’ve bought for him.

What about you? What’s getting in the way of your being able to live out what you were put into this universe to do? What’s your own Loyal Soldier doing? What conversations can you have with him or her to convince them the war is over and they can be at peace?

(Photo credit: ppdigital; License)

(Note: If you buy a book via a link in my blog post, I get a little bit of money from Amazon. Full disclosure. But, it helps with little things like hosting, etc…)

I’ve been thinking a lot about grace lately, especially since the event I write about in this blog post from the other day. It got me to thinking about what grace is, howe we experience it, and why we experience it. Out of that, came this poem.

When Grace Sneaks Up on You

Grace is always unexpected.
It arrives, out of the blue,
Like a crime novel plot twist
You don’t see coming
And it takes your breath away
Opens up new ways of seeing
What you thought was reality.

Grace is always unearned.
There’s no magic formula
No specific ritual
To bring Grace to your side.
You never deserve it,
Most often the opposite is true.
That’s why it’s Grace.

For if we could summon Grace,
We wouldn’t need it.
If we deserved Grace,
It would have no purpose.
If we could see Grace coming,
Predict its course and ETA,
Its arrival would be moot.

Grace comes just because we’re human,
That paradoxical mix of body and Divine.
Grace sneaks up when we’re mired in shadow,
Suffering from a case of soul hiccups,
Acting without thinking, letting our ego cloud our vision.
Grace arrives to startle us,
And shock us into presence.