Darned bodhisattvas!

      I had a friend in Berkeley who was a "sensei" (a "teacher" or "pastor") at a local Buddhist congregation.  We'd get together every so often for lunch.  I'd learn from him, and he from me.  One day he recounted the following story:  He was riding in the car with his daughter -- she was driving.  They were on a particular street in Berkeley that was heavily travelled (ironically, for those of us in Denver, Santa Fe Blvd!).  As is often the case on such thoroughfares, not all drivers were paying close attention to their main task, and she (the driver) was being cut off.  She became increasingly frustrated and started "talking" back at the other cars.  Her dad said, "Calm down, dear, they are bodhisattvas* helping you on your way to enlightenment.  You needn't be attached to arriving at your destination."  As one might imagine, however, this explanation did not completely mollify the daughter/driver.

       Several days later, the driver/passenger roles in the car were reversed, and my friend was behind the wheel.  They found themselves on the same street, and my friend began experiencing the same rude drivers that his daughter encountered.  Like his daughter, my friend became increasingly agitated, using colorful language to express his disdain of those cars.  His daughter gently reminded him that those drivers were simply "bodhisattvas helping you on your way to enlightenment".  His response?  "Darned bodhisattvas!"
       I remember too, a story from a book he loaned me about religious education from a Buddhist perspective.  The author of a particular chapter -- a "Sunday School" teacher in a Buddhist congregation -- bemoaned to another teacher the fact that her own children kept interrupting her daily practice; they were keeping her from focusing on her meditation.  Her friend reminded her that, as long as she had children her children were her practice.  They forced her to reconsider her "attachments" to her practice itself, and to refocus on the present realities:  the needs of those kids.

      "Love your enemies", Jesus is reported to have said (Matthew 5:44, paralleled in Luke 6:27 and 6:35).  I heard this passage quoted in a gathering the other night.  I know the context of the original quotation well (the original had to do with treatment of others--friend or foe), but, for some reason, the stories from my Buddhist friend sprang to mind.   I began to wonder if "loving" my enemies, or those other crazier-than-me drivers, or other distractions (such as MY children) was instructional as to what I might learn from those with whom I differ, or exclude, or demonize, or those who simply annoy me?
       My usual response, when challenged, is to set up my defensive perimeter, and then to prepare my counter-offensive (I suspect I am not alone in this!).  In so doing, I marshall all of my normal opinions, beliefs, and sets-of-statistics.  And, often, after the encounter has passed, I cling to my original position, maybe with some subtle rationalizations as to why I still hold that position -- but stubborn to the last.  I have to wonder what I miss, what opportunities for growth or compassion I've pushed aside.
       Darned bodhisattvas!  Keeping me off-balance like that!  Or, if I let them, are they really re-centering me?

Blessings,

Chaplain Gary

* A "bodhisattva", for some Buddhists, is an enlightened being who understands his/her role to delay entry into Nirvana in order, selflessly, to help others attain enlightenment.

Cats and Meerkats

      Yesterday, I attended a stimulating lecture by Rami Khouri, Director of the Issam Fares Institute for Public Policy and International Affairs at the American University of Beirut.  The talk was entitled:  "Has the Arab Spring Failed?  The Struggle for Democracy in the Middle East".* Khouri addressed many of the things that we've heard in the news about the troubles that Middle Eastern countries have faced as they have tried to establish democratic governments since the events of almost three years ago:  religion-state relationships, the role of women in government, national vs. regional authority, the role of the military, etc.
      What struck me most, however, was the "should-be-obvious-but-hasn't-been" point that these Arab nations (he mentioned Tunisia, Egypt, Yemen and Libya specifically) are trying to accomplish in a very short time what western democracies (such as the United States) took decades, or centuries, to do—and are being criticized for not succeeding.   The U.S., for example, fought for Independence in 1776, developed its Constitution over the next thirteen years, fought over slavery eighty years later, gave women the vote in 1920, and while granting African American males the vote in 1870, was still dealing with minority voting into the 1960's (let alone in the last few years!).  In short, Khouri intimated (to me, at least), we in the West cannot judge these recent efforts towards democracy from our current state of affairs:  we had to struggle, so we should not be surprised, or impatient, that others who do not have our history should have to struggle as well.
       This led me to (re-)consider the whole question of self-definition.  Defining who/what I am, or we are, always has some aspect of opposition to it.  In other words, "I am me, because I am not you!"  The Hebrew scriptures are full of efforts at self-definition. The Hebrews are exhorted over and over again not to be like the nations surrounding them; their notion of "chosen-ness" underlines that.  The same was true as early Christians had to define themselves, not only over against their Jewish forebears, but over against their Greco-Roman neighbors. Islamic laws forbad things within the Dar al-Islam (that is, within Islamic societies) that were permissible in other cultures.  All of these served their respective cultures, affirming their own self-identity over against their neighbors.
       Again, I believe this is to be a normal developmental process, whether among human individuals, or human cultures.  Where Khouri's talk hit me, however, was a realization that we often, in differentiating ourselves from others, tend to make the "other" somewhat lesser in stature; we have to build ourselves up by knocking others down a notch (or more).  Those who are not us are "barbarians" (and you know how they are!).  They may be indulged a bit, something like children who haven't reached the age of accountability, but they are really only deserving of a sidelong glance, not to be taken seriously.
       Something seems very wrong with that picture, I think.  It bespeaks a triumph of parochialism over hospitality -- hospitality being something at the root of most religious, and cultural, systems.  And, if that is so, we still have a lot to learn.  "One of these things might not be like the other", but is it any less worthy of our care or consideration?  Do not all of our traditions call us to something greater than the status quo in our thinking?  MIght we not learn to judge cats and meerkats on their own, respective, merits?

Blessings,

Chaplain Gary

*The lecture was hosted by DU's Center for Middle East Studies, located in the Joseph Korbel School of International Studies.

Letting go

   I suspect that pretty much everyone has heard the story of the "monkey trap". Depending on where you look, it can be attributed to experiences in Africa or Asia. And, who knows, maybe folks on each continent simultaneously observed that, if one puts a bit of attractive-to-monkey food in a constrained space (such as a jar, or closely-barred cage), a monkey would reach in and grasp the treat.  Of course, once the fist is formed around the treat, it can no longer be withdrawn from the trap.  The monkey's desire for the food is greater than its desire for freedom.  And the trapper can easily capture the critter.
      Earlier this week I was listening to a couple of interviews on the Canadian Broadcasting Company's show "Tapestry with Mary Hynes".  The two guests on the show both related stories of "letting go".  One was a pastor in the United Church of Canada who, in spite of the risk of losing her job, "let go" of her belief in God; she now considers herself an atheist.  And, remarkably, she hadn't lost her job, and still leads a congregation in Toronto.  In her telling othe story, her life now is more honest and fulfilling than it was before -- because she let go.
      The other guest was an author of graphic novels, born in Hungary, but living now in the US.  She, because of her experiences with the Nazis during WWII had a deep, abiding, suspicion of Germans -- especially older German adults.  So, when her son decided to move to Berlin, and re-claim his Hungarian citizenship, she faced a major dilemma:  could she let go of her past mistrust and support her son's choice, or not?
      I must say that, once I heard those two stories about "letting go," my first thoughts turned to the deadlock in Washington DC.  Intransigence on center stage!  The monkeys with their hands in separate jars grasping for treats that the others couldn't understand.  Unwilling to let go -- but willing to let the country go under -- because their "treats" were so wonderful (in their eyes). It seems that many of the legislators understand the risks they're taking, but, oh, the "treat", or prize, is SOOOO worth it.
      It is easy to point to the Washington circus, or to "like" various Facebook "status updates" that support our own point-of-view.*  But the stories of the two interviewees on the "Tapestry" show are clear examples that we only need to look in the mirror to see our own hands in the trap.  We all hold so tightly to possessions, habits, beliefs, etc., that we often are kept from living life fully, joyfully, lovingly.  And, for some reason, we are dead-set on trying to make everyone else agree with us!
      "Human nature", I suppose. We want security; we want certainty. But one thing that seems to be found throughout our religious traditions is a call to transcend that human nature, to be better than a creature that only seeks its own self-interest.  From Jesus' assertion that "to save one's life one must lose it", to the Buddha's advice, "If you see the Buddha on the road, kill him" we are counseled to examine those things that would limit us, that would entrap us. We are counseled, encouraged, exhorted, to let go.  The "treat" we receive may far exceed that which we're grasping.

Blessings,

Chaplain Gary

*By the way, how often DOES someone really update their status anymore, rather than share a video/news release opinion?

A long time ago . . .

       . . . in a univers(ity)* far, far away, there came a time of [reckoning].  I was serving on a committee at UC-Berkeley that was meeting to plan a student leadership conference.  It was our first meeting, and so it seemed appropriate to the student co-chairs that we do an ice-breaker.  Their choice:  "Mild or Spicy".  If you are new to the collegiate ice-breaker scene, this meant that each person chose "mild", "medium", or "spicy" (i.e., like salsa) -- in other words, the other members of the group got to ask questions of the subject that adhered to those categories.  So, if a person chose "mild," they might be asked, "What's your favorite color?" or "Where did you grow up?"  The "spicy" questions?  Well, you can imagine what might be asked in such a crowd.  The "medium" questions were somewhere in between.
       The chairs had allotted around 30 minutes for this exercise.  There were about fifteen of us, so that allowed two minutes apiece to be grilled.  As it turned out, I was the last in the rotation, sitting just to the left of the co-chair who started.  So, when it came to me, there remained only about 30 seconds to answer. I chose "spicy" -- just to put the students off-kilter (I was one of the only non-students there, and certainly the only one in a clerical collar).  After my declaration of "spicy", there was a deafening silence.  Finally a student, with whom I'd served before on a different committee, asked, "So why ARE you in the religion biz, anyway?"  We all laughed, and I said "In 30 seconds or less????"  Then, after a moment's thought, I responded, "It's the best way I've found of making meaning of life."  The questioner nodded like, "Okay, I'll accept that.", and the meeting continued.
       I tell this story relatively often; I may have even recounted in one of these meditation/reflections some years ago.  But I tell it because it helps open conversations about the other stories we know (either about us, or that appeal to us) that help us make sense of the world.  But more than simply make sense of the world -- they are stories that help us find meaning and purpose.
       The great religious stories of our traditions have "worked" for centuries because they function that way, that is, they help us find/make meaning.  They are true, yet they transcend "fact" (although many people might want to reduce them to that level -- either to "prove" or "dis-prove" their relevance in our "Just the facts, ma'am" world).  Of course, different traditions tell different stories to answer equivalent questions -- and the answers may not coincide.  In my opinion, that's okay.  They've stood the test of time, and so, have clearly provided answers, meaning, and hope to generations.
       We are a people who tell stories.  Clearly some are meant to be little more than entertainment.  Some are speculative, giving us a vision of a different world.  Some are meant to provide context or perspective.  Some are morality tales, hopefully to guide, or correct, behavior.  But, then, there are the stories that are told, and retold, to situate us in a much larger narrative.  They help us find our place in the grand sweep of things.  In my words to the committee, they help us make meaning of life.
       I find myself bombarded by many "stories" these days.  Whether they are of international events, congressional squabbles, scientific discoveries or weather events, I've had to remind myself that these "stories" don't make meaning; they cry out for meaning-making.  And, generally, that requires us to dig deep into our storehouse (story-house?) for those wise stories that have helped make sense to various and varied peoples for generations.
       What are the stories that help yo make meaning these days?  Share those the next 

Blessings,

Chaplain Gary

*  Yes, I know it's supposed to be "galaxy"!  Let me have a bit of poetic license!

Outside in

     Whenever a new interest grips me, I jump into it fully . . . or at least "fully" as that makes sense to me.  And many of you know that I recently took up fly-fishing as another hobby, so the pattern has repeated itself. Certainly I've taken a class here and there.  And I've gone out on the water with some knowledgable folks, as well as by myself.  What I've done most of, however, is research.  That's pretty normal, I suppose, for someone like me - a scholar.  But . . . books, magazines, videos, internet forums.  Consuming!  But, one of the things to which all of those resources point is something I'm not doing as much of:  Practice!
      Practice, as in "Practice tying knots so you won't fumble around in the cold while fishing."  Practice, as in "Practice your casting so you won't make a fool of yourself, or frustrate a guide."  In other words, the resources are telling me to quit reading/watching, and go DO it!  "But", I ask myself, "doesn't the research mean something?" Well, yes, but maybe not what I expect.
       Several weeks back I was listening to an interview with a filmmaker named Vikram Ghandi.  A few years ago, he made a documentary called "Kumaré" in which he "became" an Indian guru by that name, and gathered around him a devoted group of followers in Arizona.  It was clear to him that these devotees were attracted to him because he looked like, and sounded like, a genuine guru from India.  He was, of course, a fraud.  Yet he became fascinated by how much faith these followers placed in him, how much positive change they had undergone.  And that created a dilemma in him: should he "come clean" and disappoint them or derail their growth?
       Well, he eventually did.  And some of those who followed him became angry and disillusioned.  Others, however, did not.  Some of the latter mentioned that they had been looking for something, and, in Kumaré's teachings and encouragement, they had found it.  What I heard was that they had been looking in from the outside for some answers to their seeking, their yearnings, and Kumaré invited them in to learn for themselves.  What they gained nothing could take away, even learning that the teacher was a fraud.
       This resonated with me in so many ways.  Certainly I can identify with the desire to know something -- like the art of fly-fishing -- and the hope that some guru (instructor/guide/video/author) will magically impart that knowledge, as well as the satisfaction of successfully mastering the art.  But I also look at the "Religion/Spirituality" aisles in Barnes & Noble or Tattered Cover, and see how authors around the world are responding to the needs/desires of millions of people who seem to think that if they finally find the right books/advice on prayer or meditation (for example), they'll have a deeper spiritual life.  The authors aren't necessarily encouraging that almost voyeuristic approach; most give practical advice (that some readers, of course, don't want to actually implement!).
          So, clearly, I'm not alone in my desire to know because it may be simpler than getting out and doing.  Nor do I think that most of us, however, are truly content with being on the outside and looking in.  I suppose it's time to stop looking through the resource at the reality, to put the "book-learnin'" to the test.
          Put the book down. Get out the fly-pole. Find the prayer cushion. And begin the real adventure.

Blessings,

Chaplain Gary

Writing in the Sand

     I grew up in Oregon, about an 1-1/2 hours from the coast.  And I had an aunt and uncle who lived right on the Washington coastline, about a couple of hours away.  Their place was our "default" long weekend away.  In other words, I spent a lot of time at the beach.  But this was the Pacific Northwest!  We spent a lot of time at the beach (i.e., not in the water!).  Being at the beach meant clam-digging, shell-hunting, and sand-writing.  Like most kids who have spent time at the beach, there was always a race to finish the sand-writing, or sand-drawing, or sand-castle-building before the tide came in and washed it all away.  Yet it was inevitable.  The waves would slowly move higher on the beach; nothing could "save" my artwork (few parents would waste their Kodachrome on such things -- not so with with digital cameras!).
      I've thought a lot this week about my time on the beach, drawing, hunting, watching my footprints wash away.  The reason?  The book group I host on a monthly basis this month read Izzeldin Abuelaish's I Shall Not Hope:  A Gaza Doctor's Journey on the Road to Peace and Human Dignity*.  In the opening chapter of the book, Dr. Abueliash tells of an outing to the beach in Palestine with his children.  It was only several weeks after his wife and their mother had died of cancer.  He felt that such an outing would do the family good.  Abuelaish wrote:

That day they all sat for photos besider their names in the sand.  Even Aya and Mayar smiled into the camera.  When the tide came in and washed their names away, they wrote them again, farther up the beach.  To me, this action was highly symbolic of their tenacious, determined nature, one that I recognized in myself.  They had the ability to look for alternatives when situations seemed impossible; they were claiming this tiny piece of land as the own--because they believed that they belonged here and did not want to be erased.**

In a few weeks, Aya, Mayar, their older sister Bassan, and a cousin, would be killed during a tank shelling of their home.  The book is an account of what enabled their father not to react out of hatred and vengeance in a land where that was the norm.
      Abuelaish was faced with an incredible loss.  Something, however, in his life and faith would not let him be overwhelmed.  Throughout the book he writes of "turning bad into good" . . . and he had ample opportunities to practice that maxim.  It is an amazing story.  (If you search for his name in YouTube, you will find many hits.  I recommend the TEDxWaterloo video.)
      The story of turning bad into good is a story I've heard several times this week as well, as other people have faced incredible losses.  The airwaves and print media are full of accounts of folks who've lost their homes in the Colorado floods.  Many are dejected, as could easily be expected.  Others, however, are more forward thinking (as have been folks who have experienced our fires in the last couple of years):  "We'll rebuild.  It'll take a while, but we'll rebuild.  This is our home."
      And last Sunday night, at the memorial service for two fraternity brothers tragically killed in a house fire in Connecticut a month ago, the mood, while somber, aimed at the positive.  One of the boys' parents, in a letter to the gathering, wrote:  "Keep [these boys] in your hearts and live your lives in the moment--with great enthusiasm and love, love, love."  The other boy's mother wrote:  "It is the wonderful memories that we need to hold close to our hearts now.  [He] would want no tears or heartache.  [He] would want celebration and togetherness--laughter, love and joy."   Another letter urged the attendees to "use their tragic deaths . . . as a reason to be the best person and leader you were born to be and encourage those around you to do the same." ***
      Our lives are full of "writing in the sand" moments; indeed one might say WE are writings in the sand.  Something inevitably will wash over us:  a broken relationship, a unexpectedly poor grade, a death.  The challenge is whether we will be "overwhelmed", or whether we will move "farther up the beach", looking "for alternatives when situations [seem] impossible".  I am so encouraged by those who've suffered such great losses -- Abuelaish, the flood victims, and the parents of the young men -- how they, in the midst of their pain, can see a way forward, and encourage others to do the same.
      May I honor their charge, and never stop writing in the sand even when I know it will be washed away.

Blessings,

Chaplain Gary

* (Walker & Company, 2010, 2011).
** p. 14.
*** An article about the memorial service was published in this week's Clarion, DU's student paper.  It can be accessed on-line here.

Keeper of the Torn Cloak

      Last Saturday, I staffed a table at the Pioneer Carnival, the main "resource fair" for incoming students at the University of Denver.  It is one of the last events of the orientation week, and provides an opportunity for student organizations, local businesses and various campus offices to talk with students, and to invite them to become involved.  It's always a noisy, organized-chaos, sort of event.  And it's a lot of fun.

      When students com up to my table, one of the questions they often ask, evenafter staring at the table cover and all the brochures, is "What's this club do?"  I explain that I'm the University Chaplain, and that I oversee religious life on the campus, and help students make connections with the religious groups of their choice/interest.  Sometimes, they'll mention a particular group, and I'll point the way.  Other times, I'll get a follow-up a question:  "What's a chaplain?"  And that's a question I often get, even away from resource fairs; I was asked it at a religious student group meeting this week!  And, so, since I get asked it often enough, I thought I'd take a few moments, at the beginning of this academic year to answer it.  But, to do it, I'll have to get all historical.

       In the 4th century of our era, the story goes, a Roman soldier named Martin (from the city of Tours) found himself face-to-face with a beggar outside the city gates of Amiens.  It was a cold day, and Martin noted that the beggar had little to keep himself warm.  Out of compassion, the soldier cut his own cloak in half, and gave half to the beggar.  That night Martin had a dream in which Jesus was wearing the cloak that Martin had given the beggar.

       That cloak -- in some version of the story, it had been made whole by the time Martin awoke from the dream -- became a sacred relic and was sometimes carried into battle by the Merovingian kings.  The priest who cared for the cloak (in Latin, cappa) was called the cappelanu.  Military priests then all became referred to as cappelani, or in French, chapelains . . . chaplains.  Similarly, the small churches built to house the relic were called cappela (or "little cloak").  Later, even after the churches no longer contained the cloak, they retained the name capella or "chapel".  The clergy person in charge of the "chapel" retained the title "chaplain."

       So, one could say that, since I have charge of the University's Evans Chapel, I have the title "Chaplain".  But I, and other chaplains, also fill other roles, and here will quote from a description found on the Hartford Seminary's website describing an Islamic chaplaincy: 

A chaplain is a professional who offers spiritual advice and care in a specific institutional context, such as a military unit or a college campus, hospital or prison. Although chaplains often provide religious services for members of their own faith communities, the main role of a chaplain is to facilitate or accommodate the religious needs of all individuals in the institution in which he or she is working. Chaplains often serve as experts on ethics to their colleagues and employers, providing insight to such diverse issues as organ transplantation, just-warfare, and public policy. Professional chaplains do not displace local religious leaders, but fill the special requirements involved in intense institutional environments.

That seems to be a pretty good description of much of what I do (although I'm not so sure I'd claim the distinction of being an "expert on ethics"!).  On the other hand, sometimes in answer to the question "What's a chaplain?", I often answer by saying, "Well, I something of a cross between Fr. Mulcahey on M.A.S.H and a medieval court jester*."  That often elicits a smile of understanding.

         What I would ultimately hope, however, is that I, and other chaplains, faithfully execute the care and hospitality represented by Martin's torn cloak.

Blessings,

Chaplain Gary

*A "jester", not so much as being a funny, foolish, figure, but as one given the right, or responsibility, of speaking truth to power.