Doors closed; doors ajar; doors opening.

    When my wife and I were in China in the late '90's, we visited a very large Buddhist temple complex--the Lingyin Temple--outside the city of Hangzhou.  Of all the pictures I took at the temple, this one remains one of my favorites.  A beautiful closed door, with sandals awaiting their owner's return.  The overall sense to me was one of serenity, but with a sense of expectation, perhaps even adventure, most likely . . . duty.
     The memory of the door, and the photo returned to me the other night while I was watching the Hallmark biopic Temple Grandin (which starred Claire Danes and earned five Emmys).  Temple Grandin is an amazing woman who has not allowed her autism to keep her from success in many fields.  She is a fierce advocate for the autistic, but also an expert in animal science (she teaches at Colorado State University).  The movie frequently makes reference to her discomfort with doors; in one scene, she avoids one store for another because the first had a pneumatic door that disturbed her.  Doors appear in her mind as she tries to make decisions, and, finally, at a critical point, she seizes the opportunity to go through a "door", recognizing that something new and wonderful lay on the other side.
      And then, within a day or so of watching the film, I ran across a quotation from one of Emily Dickinson's poems:

        THE SOUL should always stand ajar.
          That if the heaven inquire,
       He will not be obliged to wait,
          Or shy of troubling her.*

And that reminded me of the passage from the New Testament book of Revelation:  "Listen, I am standing at the door, knocking; if you hear my voice and open the door, I will come in to you and eat with you, and you with me" (Rev 3.20).
       Doors closed, doors ajar, doors opening.
       Closed doors are such for a reason.  That reason may as significant as security or privacy.  Or it may be to keep the breeze from rushing through the room, scattering all of the papers on the table.  Or it may be a simple fear, or hesitancy, to engage with that which is on the other side of the door.
       Doors ajar may be such by design or neglect.  Regardless, there is potentiality (to use the more archaic language) for "weal or woe".  What is inside may escape; what is outside may intrude.
       Doors opening are an invitation.  The one inside is invited to depart and be changed by whatever is encountered.  Or the one outside may be invited in to encounter and change the host.
       I love leaving my office door open (unless I'm in conference).  I never know what adventure might walk through.  I hope that the doors of my heart and mind are equally open to encounters that will stretch them.
     
Blessings,

Gary

*Emily Dickinson, Complete Poems, IV:  Time & Eternity, 121.  (found online here:  http://www.bartleby.com/113/4121.html

Candles in the Wind

     Last Monday evening, I was part of a ceremony to mark the beginning of Holocaust and Genocide Awareness Week here at the University of Denver.  The ceremony was simple:  a series of readings from survivors, or witnesses, of various genocidal rages:  the Holocaust, Rwanda, Cambodia, etc.  After each reading, a candle was lit.  The service began with these words:

We light candles in memory of the light of the millions of our brothers and sisters extinguished in the Holocaust, Rwanda, Darfur, Cambodia, Armenia, and too many others.  Each candle represents the light inside each person affected, and the light inside all of us requiring us to remember their stories.

As you can see from the photo above, not all of the candles remained lit.  It was windy, after all.  I was struck by the efforts we took to keep them burning--whether it was shielding them from the wind, re-lighting them from other candles, or striking yet another match.
     How hard it is to keep the light burning!
     I certainly know the experience of getting totally engaged in a project, a cause.  The flame burns hot.  I am, to use the cliché, "fired up".  Inevitably, however, time or other matters conspire to cool the intensity.  My attention wanders to the next new thing, or the most urgent emergency.
     One of the beneficial things, though, about annual remembrances is that we ARE reminded again and again of events in the past that have made us who we are.  And we may vow "Never again"* when it comes to genocides or other horrors.  Yet we turn on the news, or read the papers, and see that we have a long ways to go before we realize those goals.  Or some other world event--missile tests in North Korea or India, airplane crash in Pakistan, financial crisis in Europe--crowds out our focus.
      Phhfffphffhpfhfhf.  The winds blow, and the candle gutters.
     We learn, however, from these memorials of the steadfastness and bravery of many of those who struggled against the evils.  The winds certainly blew, but their candles were not extinguished.  Many of them were people little different than us, but they saw a hopeful, more just, future as the light to which they were drawn.  Some of them fought alone; others found strength in community.
      Those of us gathered on Monday evening found common cause, and common strength.  We did work together to keep those candles lit; we can corporately recall that evening as we struggle with the winds that would seek to vanquish the light.  And therein lay the larger "take-away" for me:  as I contend with the adversities I face, finding a community -- even if only a two-person community -- to shield and nurture the flame in the face of all the winds is critical.


Blessings,

Gary

*  "Never Again" is the name of the student group at DU that stands behind Holocaust and Genocide Awareness Week.

A conversation between ocean and stone

     In an interview several years ago, Irish poet and philosopher John O'Donahue recounted growing up on the west coast of Ireland:  

 . . . [I]t's the Burren region, which is limestone. And it's a bare limestone landscape. And I often think that the forms of the limestone are so abstract and aesthetic, and it is as if they were all laid down by some wild surrealistic kind of deity. So soon - being a child and coming out into that, it was waiting like a huge wild invitation to extend your imagination. And then it's right on the edge of the ocean as well, and so a conversation - an ancient conversation between the ocean and the stone going on.* 

The photo above is of that interface between ocean and stone--the place of conversation--as O'Donahue put it.  A close look at the rock reveals the impact of those long encounters:  ridges, lines and fractures in the limestone.  His image of the interaction--especially in light of the photo--as being a "conversation" caused me to think.

      How many of us would think of water striking rock as "conversation"?  The Hebrew psalmist writes of the sea "making a noise" (Ps 98. 8) or "thundering" (Ps 96.11) and the "rivers clapping their hands" (Ps 98.9).  A quick search, however, doesn't yield a reference to water "speaking" or "saying".  And wouldn't most of us see such a conversation between water and rock as rather one-way?  The water being the active participant, the stone being passive? 

      Yet, over time, the impact of the conversation between sea and stone is evident -- certainly on the rock, as both the force of the water, and the corrosive nature of the salt take their toll.  But the water absorbs minerals from its splashing.  Particles of stone remain suspended for some time in the water.  In short, both water and shoreline are changed.  It is much like any conversation between people, I believe.  That is, any encounter changes us both in some way.

      Many years ago now, I took a class in Process Philosophy (derived from the work of mathematician and philosopher Alfred North Whitehead).  Process Philosophy (and its cousin, Process Theology) assert that any encounter changes all parties to the encounter.  Sometimes the change is easily apparent; other times, the changes are only evident after a long period of time.   I often recall, at moments like this, the words of another philosopher/scientist/theologian (often associated with process thinkers), the Jesuit Tielhard de Chardin, who, in a letter to a young student, begins:

Above all, trust the slow work of God. We are, quite naturally, impatient in everything to reach the end without delay. . . . .   And yet it is the law of all progress that it is made by passing through some stages of instability - - and that it may take a very long time.** 

      We are such impatient creatures.  Immediate satisfaction/gratification is our goal.  We see it, we want it . . . NOW!  We desire it, we demand it . . . NOW!  We want our children/partners/parents to change . . .  NOW!  And we find it so difficult to let conversations proceed at the pace they require, including our conversations with the Divine, i.e., prayer.  We often treat our interactions with God as if God were a cosmic ATM -- as long as we put in the right card, and type in the right PIN, we should receive what we ask, without much delay.

      I wonder if many of our conversations with God (and others) are a lot more like that between an ocean and stone:  real change only happens gradually.  Yet, at some point in the future, we can look back and see how much we've grown.  A conversation between ocean and stone CAN take a long time!  

       Now if I only knew who is the ocean and who is the stone?

Blessings,

Gary

*The interview was with Krista Tippet of "On Being."  The full interview, as well as other photos, can be found http://being.publicradio.org/programs/2012/inner-landscape-of-beauty.   There is a wonderful gallery of photos of the Burren at  http://www.burrennationalpark.ie/gallery.html.

**Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, The Making of a Mind: Letters from a Soldier-Priest 1914-1919 (New York: Harper & Row, 1961), 57.

And the daffodils stood!

     Sometime early last week I began to notice the daffodils poking their way out of the flowerbeds at home.  The snow had finally all melted and green was emerging out of the faded brown remnants of last year's growth.  New life was triumphing over death.  Last Sunday it was over 80 degrees in Denver.  "Spring was here," I thought.  "Bike commuting is a reality again!" I dreamt.   Ah, the best-laid plans .. .
       Monday dawned cool and overcast.  The forecast was for precipitation . . . including snow!  As the day wore on it kept threatening, but nothing significant.  Tuesday, however, I had to crunch through snow on the way to get the newspaper.  The daffodils were blanketed.  And, as the day wore on, the snow continued to fall.  The (what I thought were) vulnerable daffodil shoots were almost buried.  By Wednesday morning, however, the snow had begun to recede; it was gone by that afternoon.  And the daffodils stood proudly, survivors, triumphant!
       I guess there is no real surprise, then, that for many of the world's religious/spiritual traditions, this time of year is filled with celebrations of renewal, of the triumph of life over death, or freedom from bondage.  Ostara, at the Vernal Equinox in March, is the Pagan/Wiccan celebration of the reawakening of the seeds within the earth.  Zoroastrian Now Ruz, or New Year, celebrates the renewal of the world and the creation of fire.  This evening, Passover begins . . . the Jewish celebration of the departure--the liberation--of the Israelite people from bondage in Israel, and their setting-forth on their journey to the Promised Land.  For western Christians, today is Good Friday, marking the death of Jesus, and Sunday is Easter, the celebration of the resurrection of Jesus -- his triumph over death.*
       The festivals of the triumphs, the victories, at this time are not, however, one-time celebrations.  They are repeated every year.  And those who pay close attention to the broader stories they celebrate will notice, too, that the triumphs, the victories, are rarely complete.  True, the seeds are reawakened in the spring . . . only to flourish, re-seed themselves, and die.  True, the Israelites were freed from bondage . . . only to wander for forty years in the wilderness until they reached the Promised land . . .  only to struggle mightily to truly inherit it . . . and so on.  True, Jesus was raised from the dead and appeared to his followers, giving them strength . . . only for them to experience multiple cycles of persecution and calm, not just in one land but many.  It seems that the rhythm of life is rarely an increasingly upward series of success upon success, but rather more like some kind of sine wave, oscillating betweens highs and lows.
       Our holy days reiterate this with their seasonal reminders that we, too, go through many ups and downs, sowing and harvests, enslavements and liberations, deaths and rebirths.  They are all reminders of hope in times of despair.  They give us what we often desperately need.   May these coming days, then, be a time of renewed vision and hope and for you!
       For, after the snow fell, it melted.  And the daffodils stood proud!

Blessings,

Gary

*Eastern Christianity's observance of these same events falls next week this year.

We measure it how?

"Our gross national product, if we should judge America by that, counts air pollution and cigarette advertising, and ambulances to clear our highways of carnage. ... It measures everything, in short, except that which makes life worthwhile,"  said Robert Kennedy in a 1968 speech -- so the Denver Post reported in an article from the Washington Post feed today.  The article, entitled "Federal government looks to gauge happiness" claims that there are movements afoot in Washington to measure our "gross national happiness."  The team that is trying to come up with the metric is made up of psychologists and economists, including a Nobel laureate in economics.       On the one hand, I applaud the effort.  Think of all of the other ways we measure our national "health":  Gross National Product; Gross Domestic Product; unemployment statistics; housing starts; durable goods index; per capita income; the Dow Jones or NASDAQ.  All based on economics.  At least here is a different measure that doesn't necessarily bow to the "almighty dollar" (and where did that phrase come from?).       On the other hand, the fact that economists are (at least according to the article) the only partners with psychologists in developing the means of measurement seems to presuppose that happiness is intimately involved, or entangled, with money.  And I'm not going to argue that having a greater income doesn't make some things a little easier -- but does it necessarily correlate to happiness?       Earlier this week I heard a snippet of a piece on the radio where the speaker claimed that economics has become the "mono-culture" (or "meta-narrative") of our world--or at least our American culture.  That is, the measure by which we evaluate almost anything these days is an economic measure.  He contrasted that with earlier centuries when religion was the measure, or even more recent years when science was the measure.  Hmmm.  How, then, would science measure happiness?  Or even religion?       I remember hearing some years ago that Europeans, given the choice between receiving more vacation time or more money took the vacation time.  Americans, given the same choice, chose money.  We'd rather work for more cash, with less time to spend it.   Hmmm. How are we defining, or measuring, our happiness?  Or, even more significant, how are we defining, or measuring, our worth?         Are we "worth" the sum total of the minerals, chemicals and liquid that make up our body mass?  Are we "worth" the amount of money we earn over one year, five years, ten years, a lifetime?  Animal rights activist Tom Regan, in The Case for Animal Rights,* claims that all animals -- human and non-human -- have intrinsic, or inherent value, as opposed to our value as instruments or means to an (economic) end.  Whether or not one wants to agree that human and non-human animals have equivalent value, I  side with Regan that we have value simply because we ARE, not because we are homo economicus.  This, I think, is more in keeping with our religious traditions that suggest that we have value because God (however you conceive of the divinity) has decreed it.       Happiness is good!  And I hope we can find a way of measuring it, and taking it into account when we gauge the health of our society.  If we do, we might make some changes in policy that benefit not only us, but others around us . . . and not primarily because it makes economic sense, but because it's the right thing to do.   Blessings, Gary *See a summary of his position here.

Curmudgeon No More!

     There have been times when I've thought of myself as a bit of a curmudgeon (or at least a curmudgeon-in-training).  These feelings wash over me most often when I'm at professional gatherings where the conversation seems to be going nowhere.  My critical self jumps up and says, "Mutter, grumble, if someone else was running this, we'd be done by now!  And, in the old days, before PowerPoint presentations ruled the day, we'd have a real conversation about this issue rather than fighting with technology!  Harrumph!"  And, of course, it's best when there's a fellow curmudgeon sitting next to me with whom I can "curmudge".

      The other day, however, I had reason to check out the real definition of "curmudgeon" (more on that in a minute).  Both Wiktionary and the on-line Merriam-Webster Dictionary provide the above definition.  And so I've had to re-think my self-diagnosis.  I don't think I'm "ill-tempered"; I generally chafe at being characterized as "old" (even if I might be getting there).  I may, however, occasionally have "stubborn ideas and ideas" -- that's where I've focused my "curmudgeonliness."  And, so, if I'm not a curmudgeon, what's going on?

It seems that many folks confuse (or equate) "curmudgeon" and "cynic".  I may be one of them.  That is, my curmudgeonly tendencies may be more occasions of cynicism than a general "condition."  "Cynicism", at its ancient Greek roots, was a noble philosophy that simply valued virtue as the greatest good.  And so the Cynics reveled in exposing foolishness, either directly or indirectly.  I kind of like that characterization!

        Nowadays, however, a "cynic" is often less faithful to that ancient tradition, and is alternately defined as "a faultfinding captious critic; especially: one who believes that human conduct is motivated wholly by self interest"  They can be acerbic and unhelpful, maybe even downright nasty.   (I hope I'm not often that kind of cynic, although I can occasionally recognize "faultfinding captious critic" in the mirror.)  

        We usually can recognize a cynical comment when we hear it.  And one of my frequent reactions is to disregard, or discount, the comment as having little value other than releasing the speaker's emotion or disgust.  But the other day I ran across a very provocative suggestion.  In a book entitled Appreciative Leadership, in a chart with the heading "Eight Surprising Sources of Positive Potential", the third "source" was "Cynicism".  The suggestion was "Behind every cynical statement there is a dream wanting to be realized.  Ask about the dream; listen for it and reflect it."*

        That turned my thinking on its head!  Not only my thinking about cynical comments in general, but in my own self-characterization as either a "curmudgeon" or "cynic."  What is the dream that lies beneath my criticism?   What about the dreams that lie behind others' comments?  Are we all frustrated by not seeing our hopes and ideals realized?  And the only way we feel we can respond is by making "snarky" comments . . . and doing nothing.

       Dreams and visions are part of every religious tradition.  Sometimes they provide clarity for a current situation.  Other times they provide direction, or an alternative to the current reality.  All need to be heard; all need to be mined for the gems that they contain.  What a gift it might be for me to spend some time in self-reflection when I find MY cynical, curmudgeonly, tendencies come to the fore.  What an even larger gift it might be seek for the dreams behind others' comments?

Blessings,

Gary

*Whitney, Diana, Amanda Trosten-Bloom and Kae Rader.  Appreciative Leadership:  Focus on What Works to Drive Winning Performance and Build a Thriving Organization (McGraw Hill: 2010), 22.

Time for a change, of course!

        I've spent a lot of time over the last several weeks mulling over some suggestions that I start doing some things that take me a bit out of my comfort zone.  Nothing bad, to be sure.  Indeed, yesterday I came to the conclusion that what I'm sensing is more of a "growing edge" for me.    The overall suggestions--having to do with how the Chaplain's Office is present on campus--are things that I've sort of intuited for a while, and I'm pretty sure I have the resources to carry them out.  But I balk.  Some of my hesitancy is due to the "growing edge" piece (most of us don't like being pushed!).  Some of it is related to my introverted tendencies (believe it or not!).  And some of it probably due a set of learned virtues (like "being unselfish").  The need for some change, however, is pretty clear.  I did, after all, ask for the input
        As I observed above, I am pretty sure I have the resources within me to move forward.  But I frequently fall victim to an internal tendency to hold myself back, and, instead, to encourage others to employ their gifts and talents.  It is that "unselfish" thing!  To look to a different context, I know that many athletes in team sports are encouraged to be unselfish, to share the ball, to recognize that there IS a team to help score, to win.  On the other hand, individual players have been given, and have further developed, certain gifts and skills that have allowed them to play at highly-competitive levels.  And if they keep those gifts and skills so much in check (by being "unselfish"), then they are not playing up to their full potential.  And the team's overall effectiveness is compromised.  In short, selfishness and unselfishness are two sides of the same coin.
        I certainly have been in situations where I've had to be present in a different way, to try different things that don't necessarily come naturally.  And I've had the sense of enjoying both the experience, as well as the outcome.  But those have been somewhat the exception.  The habitual ways of my being in the world claim the upper hand -- this is true for all of us, I think -- and I acquiesce.  We are, as they say, creatures of habit.  Yet some habits breed stagnation, while others promise excitement and life.
        We are all summoned to consider and reconsider paths taken, as well as paths before us.  We are all constantly offered opportunities to make changes.  Sometimes they are life-changing.  Other times they are small, yet significant enough to make a difference.  New habits may be learned that lead to greater things!  I think I've been convinced to play a little more to my strengths -- something I am always encouraging others to do.
       So I suppose it's time to change course.  Time to develop some new habits!  Hard a-starboard!  Let's see what's over there!

Blessings,

Gary