The souls of the just are in the hand of God,
and the torment of malice shall not touch them:
in the sight of the unwise they seemed to die,
but they are in peace.
- Wisdom of Solomon 3:1-3
Friday, November 27, 2009
The Souls of the Just
The University of Utah Singers performing "Justorum animae" by Charles Villiers Stanford, live in concert on May 25, 2009 in St. Jacob's church, Ljubljana, Slovenia, under the direction of Dr. Brady Allred:
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Food Obsession
CHANTILLY
family extended so far even mom's fifth
cousins from a mile down the road and from
mexico city were crowded in with the rest of
us that thanksgiving day in aunt bernice and
uncle melvin's brick-faced 1930's bungalow on
their farm just outside of the village. My
brothers and cousins and second cousins and
children of relatives i no longer remember
grabbed handfuls of grandma's rich chocolate
-chip cookies and ran to the unfinished
basement to play pingpong and house and
create a pecking order that included rankings
for everone we didn't know yet too. Some of
the older kids wouldn't let us younger
cousins watch as they played spin the bottle
and kissed or ran out behind the barn for
short-lived privacy, but i kept returning to
the dessert table, waiting for the okay to be
given, for life to begin. apple pies and
pumpkin pies and mince pies and raisin pies
that would all nearly disappear within
minutes out of the starting gate and cherry
delight and rice crispies treats and don't
forget the annual rivalry between grandma's
plum pudding and grandpa's sister aunt
suzie's. grandma wrapped her thick batter of
flour and eggs and molasses and raisins and
candied fruit in a cloth, tied tight at the
top, and boiled it in a huge kettle for three
hours, on her enclosed porch because her
kitchen was too crowded, steam condensing on
windows and running down clapboard walls, the
air like a sweet steambath. out of its cloth,
the steaming pudding formed a sturdy, dark
rind that locked in the pudding's moist
delights. aunt suzie's pudding, steamed in a
tin mould with a tight lid was more elegant
to look at, but you had to boil a pudding for
three hours to get that wonderful rind, and
every year both puddings were eaten by those
who favored each style with orange sauce or
whipped cream according to their preference.
and i waited till the coast was clear. right
in the middle of this overladen table of
desserts, no one admitting back then to
reducing diets or concerned of fat or
cholesterol or worried about the very
ailments that would kill them off one by one,
right at the heart, the very heart of
thanksgiving, stood the biggest bowl aunt
bernice owned filled to the rim with whipped
cream. last thing to be prepared after the
turkey and farm hams were on their way to the
sideboard to be carved by menfolk eager to
eat so much they had to undo their pants and
let suspenders keep them decent, this final
task - the whipping of the cream. heavy
cream, well chilled, whipped with electric
beaters, vanilla and powdered sugar added
mostly carefully as the beaters whined and
clacked away, spattering apron fronts with
sweet mess. on pie, on pudding, the whipped
cream got dipped and dollopped and only many
years later in france i learned we'd been
eating chantilly on that midwestern farm, and
i bided my time and waited until everyone was
sated and couldn't bother themselves with a
nerdy kid's preferences, and i took a big soup
bowl from the cupboard and filled it to the
rim with the only desert i wanted. And years
later in france i learned its fancy name that
could not conjure up the childish delight of
making myself sick on whipped cream
thanksgiving thursday surrounded by far-
extended family I barely can recall anymore
in uncle melvin and aunt bernice's brick
bungalow on the farm just south of the village.
© 2009 by Paul Kent Oakley
family extended so far even mom's fifth
cousins from a mile down the road and from
mexico city were crowded in with the rest of
us that thanksgiving day in aunt bernice and
uncle melvin's brick-faced 1930's bungalow on
their farm just outside of the village. My
brothers and cousins and second cousins and
children of relatives i no longer remember
grabbed handfuls of grandma's rich chocolate
-chip cookies and ran to the unfinished
basement to play pingpong and house and
create a pecking order that included rankings
for everone we didn't know yet too. Some of
the older kids wouldn't let us younger
cousins watch as they played spin the bottle
and kissed or ran out behind the barn for
short-lived privacy, but i kept returning to
the dessert table, waiting for the okay to be
given, for life to begin. apple pies and
pumpkin pies and mince pies and raisin pies
that would all nearly disappear within
minutes out of the starting gate and cherry
delight and rice crispies treats and don't
forget the annual rivalry between grandma's
plum pudding and grandpa's sister aunt
suzie's. grandma wrapped her thick batter of
flour and eggs and molasses and raisins and
candied fruit in a cloth, tied tight at the
top, and boiled it in a huge kettle for three
hours, on her enclosed porch because her
kitchen was too crowded, steam condensing on
windows and running down clapboard walls, the
air like a sweet steambath. out of its cloth,
the steaming pudding formed a sturdy, dark
rind that locked in the pudding's moist
delights. aunt suzie's pudding, steamed in a
tin mould with a tight lid was more elegant
to look at, but you had to boil a pudding for
three hours to get that wonderful rind, and
every year both puddings were eaten by those
who favored each style with orange sauce or
whipped cream according to their preference.
and i waited till the coast was clear. right
in the middle of this overladen table of
desserts, no one admitting back then to
reducing diets or concerned of fat or
cholesterol or worried about the very
ailments that would kill them off one by one,
right at the heart, the very heart of
thanksgiving, stood the biggest bowl aunt
bernice owned filled to the rim with whipped
cream. last thing to be prepared after the
turkey and farm hams were on their way to the
sideboard to be carved by menfolk eager to
eat so much they had to undo their pants and
let suspenders keep them decent, this final
task - the whipping of the cream. heavy
cream, well chilled, whipped with electric
beaters, vanilla and powdered sugar added
mostly carefully as the beaters whined and
clacked away, spattering apron fronts with
sweet mess. on pie, on pudding, the whipped
cream got dipped and dollopped and only many
years later in france i learned we'd been
eating chantilly on that midwestern farm, and
i bided my time and waited until everyone was
sated and couldn't bother themselves with a
nerdy kid's preferences, and i took a big soup
bowl from the cupboard and filled it to the
rim with the only desert i wanted. And years
later in france i learned its fancy name that
could not conjure up the childish delight of
making myself sick on whipped cream
thanksgiving thursday surrounded by far-
extended family I barely can recall anymore
in uncle melvin and aunt bernice's brick
bungalow on the farm just south of the village.
© 2009 by Paul Kent Oakley
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Spiritual Practice
What the fizzleswitch is "spiritual practice"? Despite my use of the f-word, I'm being serious. I mean, growing up fundamentalist, it was pretty simple what was required to live the Life God required:
Of course, behavior had to follow the received rules of morality (usually reduced to the single requirement to have sex only with one's legally wed opposite-sex spouse with the occasional additional subcommandment not to scandalize the neighbors), one should share one's faith with those outside the faith (usually accomplished by once a year inviting a Christian neighbor of another denomination to a revival meeting), and one had to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and visit those sick or in prison, in some way or other (usually by giving extremely modest donations to support someone else's doing it), but these were treated as secondary to the bulleted list. And nobody talked about "spiritual practice."
As an adult I enthusiastically accepted a responsible freedom and relativism. But here we are in a mixed denomination with 54% Humanists, 33% Agnostics, and 18% Atheists (non-exclusive categories, of course), and we constantly now hear the importance of spiritual practice. Never mind that a huge portion are not at all convinced that there is such a thing as spirit, which should give pause regarding the insistent use of the adjectival form.
Here is a short list of the things that I've found others referring to as a spiritual practice:
Whaaaa?! That's supposed to be helpful?
The Spiritual Science Research Foundation (SSRF) defines spiritual practice thus:
According to that definition, doing social justice would only be a spiritual practice if you do it every day and do so with the aim of achieving Bliss. Sorry, when most of us do social justice work we do so because we believe it is the right thing to do, and absolutely NOT because it will bring us to Bliss, and we do it when it fits our busy schedules. And the God talk is probably not the best language for our members who are uncomfortable with "religious language" generally. But that is just one group's definition. Although it has the advantage that, even if it is not your definition, it is fairly understandable: doing something daily that gets you off, er, spiritually.
Good old Wikipedia anonymously and without charge currently defines spiritual practice by stating broadly that: "A spiritual practice, spiritual discipline or spiritual exercise includes any activity that one associates with cultivating spirituality." Thus it is thoroughly idiosyncratic. You find trimming your toenails cultivates your spirituality, so, to you, it is a spiritual practice. Which, again, tells us absolutely nothing. And, furthermore, since spirituality itself has nothing even close to a common definition but is, itself, either thoroughly idiosyncratic or dependent on in-group norms for its meaning, spiritual practice really can be absolutely any activity which the doer labels a spiritual practice and its aim just as idiosyncratic. Perhaps (surprise!) Wikipedia is just not sophisticated enough for this topic?
Rev. James Ishmael Ford, blogging at Monkey Mind, takes this approach: "[Spiritual practice] is how we prepare our lives, and it is the doing of our lives in quest of and informed by our experience of that which gives us life." I like that definition despite its absolute circularity. But if we take it literally, then, spiritual practice is, in essence, simply living life in a way that avoids the pitfalls we have the possibility of knowing about. In short, spiritual practice is about "not being a fool all your life." But I'm not sure that is in the same arena as the list from intercourse to abstinence, from marriage to monasticism, from breathing to social justice. It is so much less and so much more than all that stuff people follow as "spiritual practice."
One thing seems likely: until we have in common a UU definition of spiritual practice, there is no possibility other than to talk past each other.
- Do the very few required rituals (once-for-all-time water immersion for the forgiveness of sins and weekly communion with grape juice and unleavened chiclets as commemoration of Jesus' sacrifice) and no others
- Pray regularly both alone and in company of fellow believers
- Read/Study the Bible regularly both alone and in company of fellow believers
- Attend/Participate in Sunday worship services
- Believe the factual, literal truth of the "rightly divided" Word of God
Of course, behavior had to follow the received rules of morality (usually reduced to the single requirement to have sex only with one's legally wed opposite-sex spouse with the occasional additional subcommandment not to scandalize the neighbors), one should share one's faith with those outside the faith (usually accomplished by once a year inviting a Christian neighbor of another denomination to a revival meeting), and one had to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and visit those sick or in prison, in some way or other (usually by giving extremely modest donations to support someone else's doing it), but these were treated as secondary to the bulleted list. And nobody talked about "spiritual practice."
As an adult I enthusiastically accepted a responsible freedom and relativism. But here we are in a mixed denomination with 54% Humanists, 33% Agnostics, and 18% Atheists (non-exclusive categories, of course), and we constantly now hear the importance of spiritual practice. Never mind that a huge portion are not at all convinced that there is such a thing as spirit, which should give pause regarding the insistent use of the adjectival form.
Here is a short list of the things that I've found others referring to as a spiritual practice:
- Hanging out
- Social justice work
- Aging
- Attending weekly worship
- Work
- Leisure
- Childcare
- Meditation
- Chanting
- Journaling
- Writing poetry
- Calligraphy
- Doing visual art work
- Doing aesthetic performance
- Studying sacred text
- Prayer
- Use of prayer beads
- Yoga
- Sexual intercourse
- Sexual abstinence
- Martial arts
- Dancing
- Sitting
- Mortification of the flesh
- Dietary restrictions
- Hermitism
- Monasticism
- Gardening
- Marriage
- Listening to Mozart
- Skiing
- Performing ceremonies and rituals
- Drug-induced altered states of consciousness
- Labyrinth walking
- Breathing
- Telling a common story backwards
Whaaaa?! That's supposed to be helpful?
The Spiritual Science Research Foundation (SSRF) defines spiritual practice thus:
...honest and sincere efforts done consistently on a daily basis to develop divine qualities and achieve everlasting happiness or Bliss.
Another way of defining spiritual practice is our personal journey of going inward beyond our five senses, mind and intellect to experience the Soul (the God) within each one of us. One of the qualities of God is perpetual Bliss and so by tapping into the Soul, we too experience Bliss.
According to that definition, doing social justice would only be a spiritual practice if you do it every day and do so with the aim of achieving Bliss. Sorry, when most of us do social justice work we do so because we believe it is the right thing to do, and absolutely NOT because it will bring us to Bliss, and we do it when it fits our busy schedules. And the God talk is probably not the best language for our members who are uncomfortable with "religious language" generally. But that is just one group's definition. Although it has the advantage that, even if it is not your definition, it is fairly understandable: doing something daily that gets you off, er, spiritually.
Good old Wikipedia anonymously and without charge currently defines spiritual practice by stating broadly that: "A spiritual practice, spiritual discipline or spiritual exercise includes any activity that one associates with cultivating spirituality." Thus it is thoroughly idiosyncratic. You find trimming your toenails cultivates your spirituality, so, to you, it is a spiritual practice. Which, again, tells us absolutely nothing. And, furthermore, since spirituality itself has nothing even close to a common definition but is, itself, either thoroughly idiosyncratic or dependent on in-group norms for its meaning, spiritual practice really can be absolutely any activity which the doer labels a spiritual practice and its aim just as idiosyncratic. Perhaps (surprise!) Wikipedia is just not sophisticated enough for this topic?
Rev. James Ishmael Ford, blogging at Monkey Mind, takes this approach: "[Spiritual practice] is how we prepare our lives, and it is the doing of our lives in quest of and informed by our experience of that which gives us life." I like that definition despite its absolute circularity. But if we take it literally, then, spiritual practice is, in essence, simply living life in a way that avoids the pitfalls we have the possibility of knowing about. In short, spiritual practice is about "not being a fool all your life." But I'm not sure that is in the same arena as the list from intercourse to abstinence, from marriage to monasticism, from breathing to social justice. It is so much less and so much more than all that stuff people follow as "spiritual practice."
One thing seems likely: until we have in common a UU definition of spiritual practice, there is no possibility other than to talk past each other.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Nature Photos from New Melleray Abbey
Here are a few of the pictures I took while tromping across the monastery property over the past few days:
I especially love those last two. Wish I could have got a good angle on Father Tom's hermitage, a little cabin perched on the edge of a cliff over a wooded ravine...
And a couple more pictures of Brother Michael - here in his tromping clothes:
Gone 5 Days, In Church 29 Times...
I left Mt. Vernon on Thursday at 9:30 AM and arrived at New Melleray Abbey at 4PM. Reverse the directions yesterday. I was there not only to spend time with my friend, whom I've known for 22 years as John but who is now known as Brother Michael in the monastery, but also specifically to be there for him as he professed his vows, becoming a monk after 2 1/2 years in the monastery as first postulant and then novice.
This picture shows John writing out in his own hand his vows as part of the ceremony that took place Sunday morning after Lauds in the abbey's chapter house:
Since New Melleray Abbey has so quickly posted their photos, I'll not add more here but will, instead, post a photo of Brother Michael in the new black scapular replacing the white one of his novitiate and another of the two of us at the entrance to the abbey church.
John told me I looked like a lawyer in this picture. Hmmm...
While visiting in the monastery, I follow the monks' daily schedule: in the church for the Liturgy of the Hours seven times a day, beginning at 3:30 AM and ending at 8:00 PM, that is, bed time. Plus Mass every morning.
In between, John got permission to avoid some work details so he could attend to his guest, and we managed to take several long walks across the more than 1,000 acres of monastery land with fields, pastures for cattle, managed forests, orchards, gardens, a casket factory, a mission church and cemetery, and wild creeks and woods. New Melleray Abbey is 100% organic in all its agricultural operations. And the mix of land uses spread over rolling Iowa hills makes for very enjoyable walking.
As we walked across the abbey lands or sat in the guesthouse drinking coffee and eating pumpkin cream pie, we talked of, well, not:
But we did speak of many things, mostly of religion and theology and liturgy and, and faith and values and spiritual practice and mysticism and transpersonal psychology and, and his life in the monastery and my life outside the monastery, and... well.. how we both are at places in our lives that would have seemed very unlikely - even impossible - just five years ago...
Monday morning with only a half hour left before Terce, followed by my departure, we sat in a parlor on the southwest corner of the guesthouse, and John said to me, "I'm Roman Catholic, and you're Unitarian Universalist, and what's the difference?"
Now, he wasn't forgetting any of the organizational, doctrinal, dogmatic, symbolic, theological, liturgical, or other differences between our churches. But many times he has said that when he was beginning to discern his path in his final years in Japan, he was aware that he could have sought the same thing in a Zen monastery. His choice of Roman Catholicism was a function of his Catholic history and childhood love of Catholic ritual. In Zen or some other path he would have had to start from scratch while in Catholicism, he had the basic vocabulary and symbolic language with which to begin his deeper journey.
The universalist way of approaching life and faith is one that monks in Roman Catholic monasteries can also express, even if they must do so cautiously because of institutional norms. Brother Michael's path of faith takes him to the cloistered, contemplative life of a Trappist monk. Mine takes me toward the more public service of the Unitarian Universalist ministry. And what's the difference?
This picture shows John writing out in his own hand his vows as part of the ceremony that took place Sunday morning after Lauds in the abbey's chapter house:
Click on the picture to see other pictures
and the monastery's write-up on Brother Michael's Profession of Vows.
and the monastery's write-up on Brother Michael's Profession of Vows.
John told me I looked like a lawyer in this picture. Hmmm...
While visiting in the monastery, I follow the monks' daily schedule: in the church for the Liturgy of the Hours seven times a day, beginning at 3:30 AM and ending at 8:00 PM, that is, bed time. Plus Mass every morning.
In between, John got permission to avoid some work details so he could attend to his guest, and we managed to take several long walks across the more than 1,000 acres of monastery land with fields, pastures for cattle, managed forests, orchards, gardens, a casket factory, a mission church and cemetery, and wild creeks and woods. New Melleray Abbey is 100% organic in all its agricultural operations. And the mix of land uses spread over rolling Iowa hills makes for very enjoyable walking.
As we walked across the abbey lands or sat in the guesthouse drinking coffee and eating pumpkin cream pie, we talked of, well, not:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings.
But we did speak of many things, mostly of religion and theology and liturgy and, and faith and values and spiritual practice and mysticism and transpersonal psychology and, and his life in the monastery and my life outside the monastery, and... well.. how we both are at places in our lives that would have seemed very unlikely - even impossible - just five years ago...
Monday morning with only a half hour left before Terce, followed by my departure, we sat in a parlor on the southwest corner of the guesthouse, and John said to me, "I'm Roman Catholic, and you're Unitarian Universalist, and what's the difference?"
Now, he wasn't forgetting any of the organizational, doctrinal, dogmatic, symbolic, theological, liturgical, or other differences between our churches. But many times he has said that when he was beginning to discern his path in his final years in Japan, he was aware that he could have sought the same thing in a Zen monastery. His choice of Roman Catholicism was a function of his Catholic history and childhood love of Catholic ritual. In Zen or some other path he would have had to start from scratch while in Catholicism, he had the basic vocabulary and symbolic language with which to begin his deeper journey.
The universalist way of approaching life and faith is one that monks in Roman Catholic monasteries can also express, even if they must do so cautiously because of institutional norms. Brother Michael's path of faith takes him to the cloistered, contemplative life of a Trappist monk. Mine takes me toward the more public service of the Unitarian Universalist ministry. And what's the difference?
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