the lower self

The lower self is like a flame both in its display of beauty and in its hidden potential for destruction; though its color is attractive, it burns.
(Bakharzi)

It's always a negotiation figuring out just what books to bring on a trip like this, the balance of weight (in my back pack) and importance-usefulness. My bible of course (though I almost traded in my beat up RSV with its Florentine cover for a new slim leather bound version), and this time I also brought for Western spiritual reading Thomas Merton's New Seeds of Contemplation, which the Sangha is going to be studying over the next few months (so expect copious editorializing directed not very subtly at them); and for the Universal Wisdom I have my cherished now worn-in copy of the Bhagavad Gita, which has the Sanskrit and transliteration and The Essential Sufism from Harper. I've already run into a cool little resonance, about the scopos-the goal.

Recall: I am always arguing that between among traditions we often do disagree on how to describe the end, what John Cassian refers to as the telos in Greek in his Conferences. So Christians and Muslims say that our essential self lives on in relationship with the divine; Hindu advaitins say that our self disappears into the Great Self; Buddhism says there is no abiding self, neither of us nor an ultimate Self. But, I argue, where we do agree is on the goal, the scopos in Greek, the proximate thing we are aiming at. We also agree often on how to achieve that goal. The two examples of the scopos I use are, on a practical ethical level, some form of the Golden Rule and all that stems from that socially and personally; and, at the level of personal spiritual development, a certain "death of self," a going beyond what we regard as "self" to our ultimate self.

Thomas Merton refers often to the "false self." I think this is a phrase attributable mainly to him, and I wonder how much he himself was influenced by his study of Asian spirituality on this. In Chapter 4 he is making an eloquent argument for the holiness of all things, and arguing against considering any created thing as intrinsically unholy or evil, including our own bodies. His argument is that we are not supposed to detach from things (or people) so that we can attach ourselves to God; we are supposed to detach from our false selves, because when we do so we can regard all these things in their proper place. Our false selves accommodate everything--relationships and objects--in regard to how they effect "me," or "I" can use them for "my" own pleasure and an upbuilding of the "separate, external, egoistic will." They are not evil, but the way in which I approach them or use them is destructive and blocks my path to full spiritual development. So he sings: "The only true joy on earth is to escape from the prison of our own false self, and enter by love into union with the Life Who dwells and sings within the essence of every creature and in the core of our souls."

There is also a marevelous resonance with Zen Buddhism here too. I was recalling Alan Watts' description of spontanaiety in Zen as I read some of Merton's criticisms of so-called spirituality that obstructs or frustrated all forms of spontanaiety with cliches, guilt and arbritrary references to GOd.

For a marvelous explanation of what this false self is, turn to Shiekh Frager's introduction to the Chapter entitled "The Lower Self" in The Essential Sufism. This is what is referred to in Islam, and particularly in Sufism, as the nafs, an Arabic word translated variously as "essence" or "breath," or "ego" or "self" in its symbolic meaning. It is directly related to the Hebrew word nephesh, which is also translated in similar ways, and often simply used as the Hebrew version of the word "soul." Frager prefers to translate it as "the lower self." Remember that the Prophet Muhammed (peace be upon him!) refers to the conquering of this "lower self" as the great jihad, the jihad al-nafs, and you see we are in the same territory. Here is Frager's beautiful simple explanation:

The lower self is not so much a thing as a process created by the interaction of the soul and the body. Body and soul are pure and blameless in themselves. However, when our soul becomes embodied, we tend to forget our soul-nature; we become attached to this world and develop such qualities as greed, lust and pride.

I'm glad to read that "Body and soul are pure and blameless in themselves." Merton stresses this as well, and in 1961 I would love to know who he had in mind when he wrote that it is equally false to treat either the soul or the body as if either were the whole self: by the first we fall into angelism, by the second "we live below the level assigned by God to human nature." No: the marriage of body and soul is one of the things that make us the image of God: "Soul and body subsist together in the reality of the hidden, inner person." This marriage is also what presents the greatest challenge, negotiating with grace the proper proportion. In some Way I could say that this seems to be the ultimate matter of the practical spiritual life. It would be interesting to see what our Samkhya friends make of this, who tend to speak instead of the separation of the soul nature from the material nature; and yet Yoga as a practical path, embedded in and supported by Samkhya, is a perfect blend of the psycho-somatic realities.

Don't know when I will have access to internet again so I thought I'd get that off right away. I've had a luxurious little stay here at the "Perfect Haven" guesthouse. Now to battle the traffic of Chennai back to the airport, and so excited to be back at Shantivanam this afternoon.

pilgrimage 2010

By consenting to God's will with joy
and doing it with gladness
I have God's love in my heart,
because my will is now the same as God's love
and I am on the way to becoming what God is--Love.
(Thomas Merton, New Seeds of Contemplation)

5 january '10, Chennai, India

It was a crr-aa-zzy route getting here to India this time, four flights and a full 36 hours--Seoul, Singapore, Delhi, and finally Chennai where I am now. I'm staying at a pretty nice guest house in Chennai with a big comfy double bed and a hot shower en suite, and a host of friendly Tamilians downstairs quite eager to please. In the morning I head to Trichy, where I hope I will be met by prior George of Shantivanam and my old friend Michael Christian HIghberger, from here out known simply as MC.

The few days before leaving California were a bit of a blur. I had been at New Camaldoli for Christmas with the brothers until last Sunday and then, amidst packing and tying up loose ends, I attended 2 and a half days of the annual new year's Yoga retreat up at Mount Madonna. I have been many times now for class and breakfast on Saturday mornings these past years, but this was to be my fullest immersion in Mount Madonna's yoga. My friend Won-Jae Hur from San Francisco came down for it as well, so we stuck together quite a bit. I must say both the asana and pranayama classes were excellent, top notch, and it was good to get refreshed and stretched in my practice. There was also a Bhagavad Gita class each afternoon with Baba Hari Das in attendance. Those sessions ran very much like the Bhagavad Gita classes in town at the Pacific Cultural Center on Thursdays which I attended frequently this past year, where the text for each verse is chanted in Sanskrit and then carefully translated one word at a time; then Babaji's commentary on that particular verse is read before moving on to the next one. After an hour or so, Babaji fields questions, answering by writing on his white board (he has been silent for over 50 years). Always my two favorite parts of this whole enterprise are these: First of all I like the fact that a lot of it is so dry. I think I still have a tendency to think of Asian philosophy and theology as somehow more exotic and exciting; it's kind of a relief to see it not be so. Just like any relationship, a lot of it is the plain old drugery of mundane details to which we have bring loving devotion. And then I always enjoy the question and answer time--I am fascinated by the questions that people ask (again often comparing this to the context in which I usually find myself) as well as by how Babaji answers. Partly because he is writing his responses instead of apeking them, they tend to be pithy and to the point. It is in this context where the speculative becomes very concrete, advice about daily living and practice.

Each year there is also a bhakti night as part of the retreat. This year our friend Sarojani put together a beautiful presentation called "a tapestry of devotion." The first half of it consisted in songs and readings from various spiritual traditions presented by a small choir and several different soloists, culminating in a group dance for all 175 or so of us from the Sufi Universal Dances of Peace. And I was honored to be have been asked to do music for the second half of the evening. I had Steve with me playing tabla (and frame drum on one piece), and John Marheineke playing and singing as well. I had decided to do all India inspired music with the exception of the new favorite "Bismillah," and had printed up a sheet with lyrics so folks could participate as much as possible, even on pieces that don't usually call for participation. In that rarified group I hoped, and was not disappointed, that some might already know or want to learn many of the Sanskrit chants or kirtans that are the basis of many of the songs. It was great fun and I was delighted, nay, honored, to be asked to do it.

Then the next night was our 6th annual (forgive this long title) New Year's Eve Inter-religious Meditation Vigil for Peace at Holy Cross, sponsored by our Sangha and Pax Christi, organized by Shannon Frediani and a small group of others (the environment conjured up by Sarojani et al was especially warm and welcoming this year) and hosted by me, as each year except once. We had as usual a representatives from Judaism, the Friends and Ba'hai, as well as devotess of Krishna from the Caitanya Saraswat Temple in Aptos and members of the Heart Sangha in the Vietnamese Buddhist lineage of Thich Nhat Hahn. At the last minute our Muslim friends could not come so I got on the phone to our friends from the Pacifica Institute and two guys whisked over the 17 to be with us as well. Sarojani led a session representing Mount Madonna, Shannon for Voices of Angels, and then I led the last half hour with chanting, Scripture and a brief meditation. The two nights' events were similar to each other in character and purpose, though ours was much more subdued in tone. I thought they were both wondedful ways to culminate the old year's work and usher in the spirit of the new year. These events along with involvement in the Universal Songs of Peace with Lori Rivera up at First Congregational earlier this month and all the great events in Denmark earlier in November, sure do seem to be the work that I am called to and want to do the most in these years, helping to foster environments where folks from various traditions can meet in friendship and receptivity, through music and silence. It really does feel as if we are doing something concrete and positive for this crazy world.

Now ahead on this trip to India--first stop is Shantivanam where there will be a conference celebrating the centenary of the birth of Abhishiktananda. I have been asked to give one presentation near the end of that, which I have worked on very hard, choosing to speak on the concepts of the purusha and the guru in the thought of Bede and Abhishiktananda. The conference then moves up to Tiruvanamalai, a place very dear to Abhishiktananda, for five more days. After that I have made myself available for the next ten days to our old friend pastor JP in cahoots with Agnete of Danmission. I don't know exactly what I will be doing for him/them, but probably concerts and conferences-retreat days all centered again around the theme of dialogue and universal wisdom. I'll be staying for the most part there in Tiru at the ashram or in JP's dialogue center, Quo Vadis. After that my itinerary is a little murky. These are the possible things laid out in order: probable visit to one of our young monks studying in Banaglore, possible visit to our new sisters' ashram in Indore, hopefully to Delhi for a Sufi music festival attended also by friends of mine from Santa Cruz, maybe going farther north yet to Rishikesh and Haridwar to visit friends there. Or I may just turn around and head back to Shantivanam or some other quiet place for the last two weeks. I have a plane ticket out of Delhi on the 16th of February to Singapore where I will do two weeks' worth of concerts there and in Malaysia before heading home on the 2nd of March.

It was harder than usual to drag me out of the woods to embark on this journey, I think because I have been on the road so much this past year into the Fall and because I keep falling deeper in love with my simple life in the woods and among my friends in Santa Cruz. But by the time I got to Delhi I was in a good frame of mind and had gathered a sense of the mission that lies ahead. This dialectic between hermit and wanderer--let alone community member--is just as mysterious for me as it is to others who behold it quizzically from the outside, but it sure does seem to be the thing right now.

coming in and going out

See what love the Father has bestowed on us
in letting us be called the children of God.
And so we are.
We are God’s children now;
what we shall be has not yet been revealed.
We do know that when it is revealed
we shall be like him,
for we shall see him as he is.
(1 Jn 3)

I’ve been down with the brothers at New Camaldoli these past days for the holidays. It was a good time, albeit a little intense. The community is really feeling its fragility as some of the brothers get older and more frail, as they await a vocation candidate to come and stay (no one has for a long, long time), and especially as they said goodbye to Michael Fish, a dynamic and warm man who is taking a year sabbatical-leave of absence. My last act was to preach on Sunday, car packed, ready to go. It was the feast of the Holy Family. As I looked over the readings there were two saying that came to my mind. The first was this, something a friend of mine had written to me in a note years ago: “Experience tells us we cannot go out until we first come in.”

The simple and mundane truth conveyed in the feast of the Holy Family is that it’s all about relationship. The fact that Jesus was born into a family and submitted to the authority of parents, that it was in that context that he “increased in wisdom and in years, and in divine and human favor,” is very important. We human beings are made that way; even Jesus was. Abhishiktananda always pointed to Jesus’ Baptism in the Jordan as the hinge moment in his development, the moment when he knew for certain who he was––beloved, chosen, power-filled Son of God. (If you’ve heard me speak before you’ll know this a common theme of mine.) And that knowledge became for Jesus power, power to go into the desert and face temptation, power to give his life in service, power to know that his real self hidden in God could not be annihilated even by the cross. And that is what family, friendships, community and church are meant to be––I’m sure of it––that place where we learn who we are, where we are told who we are, where we can look into the mirror of someone else’s eyes and they give us––us. And if we don’t get that during our formative years, we spend the rest of our lives looking for that mirror, and often in all the wrong places from exactly the people who cannot give it to us, until we find the right relationships, the right communities, the right friends who can do that mirroring for us.

There may be something ironic hearing this from someone vowed to the solitary life, but I’ve learned the hard way that relationship is not vestigial for anyone; it’s not a luxury, and it is still not something that can be done away with. There is some growth that only happens within relatedness. Our own prejudice for celibate chastity over marriage in the Christian tradition and for solitude in the monastic can actually wind up stunting our growth if it becomes an escape from the work of maturity that only takes place in relationship, in those sands of relatedness where our solitude and our prayer and spiritual development get ground fine. I’ve finally been reading John Donohue’s famous book on Celtic spirituality Anam Cara recently; he says that “When we love and allow ourselves to be loved we begin more and more to inhabit the kingdom of the eternal. Fear changes into courage, emptiness into plenitude, and distance becomes intimacy.” Our very image of God teaches us that, since we believe in a God-in-Three-Persons. Donohue writes beautifully about how the Christian concept of the Trinity is a the “most sublime articulation of otherness and intimacy”; he calls it “an eternal interflow of friendship.” That’s what we think God is like, “an eternal interflow of friendship.” Through our friendship with Jesus––through, with and in Christ––we too “enter the tender beauty and affection of the Trinity,” he says; and “In the embrace of this eternal friendship, we dare to be free…”

That last line leads me to my second point. In the embrace of this relatedness, “we dare to be free…” The second saying I kept thinking of was, “If you love someone, set it free.” (Actually I saw this on a bumper sticker attached to the back of a Ford pickup truck with a gun rack in the rear window once at it had a line added: “… and if it doesn’t come back, hunt it down and kill it.”)

There is something ironic but telling about the fact that the two stories we heard on the feast of the Holy Family this year were both about boys––Samuel and Jesus––who from the moment of their births somehow don’t belong to their families, who from the moment of their births are destined to leave their families behind almost as if they never existed. In the reading from the first book of Samuel we hear about Hannah consecrating the prophet Samuel and giving him over to the Eli as soon as he was weaned. The gospel story we read was about Jesus in the temple with the elders, having stayed behind when his parents were heading home and he gives Mary a little lip when he says, “Did you not know I had to be in my Father’s house, about my Father’s business” I always wonder how Joseph felt about that. It’s hard not to remember Jesus saying that you shouldn’t even stop to bury your father if the call to follow the Lord comes, too; or that he hasn’t come to bring peace but that his message would set son against father, daughter against mother, etc.; or that his own real family was those who followed the Word of God rather than his blood relatives.

There are these moments (I know this as a son not as a father) when parents get that look in their eyes as if to say, “Who the heck are you? Where did you come from?” when they suddenly realize that the child to whom they have given birth and hearth and home, and whom they have reared is now a separate person, a surprise, a miracle of sorts, maybe greater than the sum of his or her parts. Both the going forth and letting go are difficult for everyone. And that was the death that both Hannah and Mary and Joseph underwent very early on.

I’m fascinated by theory about the chakras in Yoga, the seven psycho-somatic energy points in the person. There’s one teaching about the chakras that has been the particularly important to me: We start out low in the muddy depths of the inconscient, and then rise up to the level of generativity and creativity in our primary relationships. The fourth chakra, anahata–heart chakra, the place of selfless giving, is up in the chest where we would expect it to be, but we can’t reach it without going through the gut, through the belly. And that belly chakra––the manipura, which literally means the “city of the jewel”––is the place of courage, autonomy, standing on our own two feet, cutting the apron strings. Some traditions think that this is where the real enlightenment takes place, the hara of Japanese Buddhism, for instance. I like to think of it as the desert chakra, the place where we stoke the heat of in the fire tapas–discipline, the John the Baptist chakra. If we haven’t both accessed that lower energy in us and brought it up to the place of courage and daring to be free, then we can’t healthily reach the heart chakra, the place of selfless giving, what even some yogis refer to as agape. Without that courage and psycho-sexual maturity what we think of as our love might actually be mere dependence or co-dependence; what we think of as charity might actually be what C. S. Lewis calls the “passion of pity”––Mother Teresa was particularly hard on this; what we think of as our giving, our generosity, can actually be taking, our own need to be needed.

The conundrum of course is that we can’t have that solidity to go forth unless and until we have had that place to stand, the firm place that has given us to ourselves, a mirroring of who we are from a solid other. We’re not going to be able to go out healthily unless we’ve first come in, first gained our strength in relatedness. But once we find that place to stand, once we have looked into that mirror of who we are, it becomes our power to stand on our own two feet, to face the deserts of our lives, to dare to be free. However, our solitary path–whether it be in the cell or on the road––is not an end either; it too is a means toward greater love. That phase is going to end too, in a place where we learn how to love even more, with more purity, selfless, crucified love.

There’s something beautiful about St. Romuald’s suppleness that I was remembering here, too, the founder of our congregation of monks. It seems that he was a little reluctant to let some of his disciples go off to the hostile missionary lands (the origin of what we call the third good after solitude and community). But then he did let them go, and then he wanted to go himself. I didn’t mention it there at the hermitage but I was thinking too of all the men who have come and gone from there, how many times we have had to say goodbye. More than one person has commented on how the rotunda of our chapel is like a womb, and you know what wombs are supposed to do––give birth! We’ll never know how formative the time there was for someone, how much the community and that life formed and shaped and gave birth to something else. In the same way we never know what effect we have had on people who slip in and out of our lives: maybe we’ve helped to birth something/someone that we might not even recognize anymore, like parents say goodbye to their children, like teachers watch their students graduate, like mentors move to the sidelines while their disciples do even greater things than the master. Another inner strength is called for on the part of the one left behind, the strength of Mary, who treasured all these things––even the sorrows––in her heart; the strength of Joseph who remained in the silence into which he ultimately disappeared without a word or a trace, but for the lasting impact he had on the life and ministry of his ward, Jesus.

Both sides of these things apply to each of us in some way. We need to belong; we also need to provide belonging. Sometimes we need to go; and sometimes we need to let go. And all of this is somehow our poverty––the poverty of surrendering our autonomy to a greater belonging; the poverty and self-denial of putting someone else’s needs ahead of ours in communal life; the poverty of walking on water and taking risks to branch out on one’s own; and the poverty of watching a loved one walk away to his or her own life that may or may not immediately involve us any longer. That’s why we look to the Holy Family, to Jesus who walked through the desert and on the water, to Mary who treasured all these things in her heart, and to strong and silent Joseph, that we may have the courage to go when it is time to go, and the serenity to let go when it is time to let go; that we may be nurtured in our families and communities, and that we may in turn nurture each other in all our relationships, friendships, communities.

the arc of history

There is a creative force in the universe
working to pull down the gigantic mountains of evil,
a power that is able to make a way out of no way
and transform dark yesterdays into bright tomorrows.
Let us realize that the arc of the moral universe is long
but it tends toward justice.
(Rev Martin Luther King)

There’s something sober about the season of Advent. That’s one of the reasons I am such a Grinch about Christmas decorations and music and shopping right after Thanksgiving––they take away from the sobriety of Advent. I tend to think liturgically, and liturgically we are not in the Christmas season yet. We are in the season of Advent. The weather this week has been perfect for it. It has been so chilly and foggy and overcast. Out in the woods my main source of heat is the fireplace, so I have had many perfect long Advent mornings with the weather keeping me indoors, a fire crackling all morning and part of the afternoon, inviting me to go inward as well. I’ve also been listening to the new Christmas album by Sting (forgive the commercial), which someone kindly bought for me. I’ve been describing it as “brooding,” and that is kind of what Advent is to me, a brooding season. It’s not somber in the penitential way Lent is; it’s a season of making quiet interior preparations. Just like at Mass during this season: the readings in the early weeks are a little dour, and the music is a little more low-keyed; we don’t sing the Glory to God, for example.

But then there is this third Sunday of Advent that is a little taste of sweetness and light ahead. It’s called Gaudete Sunday because the first word of the entrance antiphon in Latin is taken from the same reading from the letter to the Philippians that we hear today: Gaudete in Domino semper––Rejoice in the Lord always; again I say, rejoice! Priests are invited today to wear, not pink, mind you, but rose-colored vestments. It’s almost as if we are also invited to look at the world through rose-colored glasses today. We hear so much from the prophet Isaiah in this season, but today we switch to Zephaniah, and this marvelous optimistic passage filled with hope and promise.

Shout for joy, O daughter Zion!
Sing joyfully, O Israel!
Be glad and exult with all your heart!
Fear not, O Sion, be not discouraged!
The Lord, your God, is in your midst,
you have no further misfortune to fear.

This is a specifically Judeo-Christian thing, this hope and promise. We are built on it. I often like to say that compared with other spiritual traditions that believe that time goes round and round in circles going nowhere until we escape, the Abrahamic religions––Judaism, Christianity and Islam––are built on this marvelously optimistic sense of time, a sense of time as a sacrament, a belief that time is going somewhere, and somewhere good at that. It’s going to the reign of God, to a time when God will be all in all in Christ.

President Obama often references a phrase of Martin Luther King Jr. during his speeches, and did so again this week when he accepted the Nobel Peace Prize, and that same reference stuck with me as I was pondering the scripture readings this week. The line of Dr. King’s is this: “The arc of history is long and it bends toward justice.” In an earlier speech he said it another way: “The arc of the moral universe is long but it tends toward justice.” This is an optimism rooted firmly in the Bible, in prophecy, and is somehow the core of what Advent is supposed to inspire in us again.

It’s not always easy to believe that though, is it? In this day and age, when many people are still facing the dire circumstances of the economic crisis; when we are involved in two wars; when we see violence and terror all around us: it’s not easy to believe that we are going somewhere good, or that the arc of history is tending and bending toward anything good.

The command we hear today is to rejoice. It’s in the imperative mood. Rejoice! That’s an order, because in some way it’s a choice. And rejoicing, choosing to rejoice, will be our strength. We don’t rejoice because we are strong; faith tells us that in our rejoicing we are made strong; in our hoping we are given hope; in our loving we are filled with love. And you know other than that, the weird thing is the demands are not that lofty: what does John the Baptist tell his followers? Simple things: take care of the hungry and the naked; he tells tax collectors simply to stop cheating. He doesn’t even tell soldiers to stop fighting; he just says, don’t extort, don’t lie, and be satisfied with your wages. Paul is even simpler: The Lord is near: be kind! Rejoice, and be kind. It’s as simple and quiet and boring as a seed falling into the ground, so is the Word of God that comes to us wanting to take root in our humble broken silent available hearts.

Advent is not only about being optimistic concerning the world in general. It’s also optimism also about ourselves, our personal development and our own growth toward God, the arc of our lives. I had a friend who told me he used to get up every day and say, “Is today the day Lord? Is today the day you’re going to shatter my blindness? Break through my deafness? Is today the day I’m going to finally give myself to you?” That’s why there’s something good about the quietness of Advent. Alongside all the images that we hear in the Christmas carols later about Jesus being born in the stillness of the night––that same stillness is what we are supposed to be cultivating inside of ourselves. That’s our poverty, that’s our virginity, our chastity, this inner quiet that is a tapping into the stillness and peace, the quiet darkness that is the essence of our being, that’s where the strength and the hope come from that are the root of our rejoicing. It is that inner stillness––our inner stillness––that will save and transform us, and thus transform the world, as opposed to the power of evil, which is so gaudy and noisy. I think we are often more cognizant of evil in the world specifically for that reason; it’s more apparent because it makes so much noise. While Satan is knocking down big buildings, we will be blazing thousands of well-worn paths between humble cottages.

“Rejoice! You have no more evil to fear.” Let me quote the whole section of Dr. King in this context:

Let this affirmation be our ringing cry. It will give us courage to face the uncertainties of the future. It will give our tired feet new strength as we continue our forward stride toward the city of freedom. When our days become dreary with low hovering clouds of despair, and when our nights become darker than a thousand midnights, let us remember that there is a creative force in the universe working to pull down the gigantic mountains of evil, a power that is able to make a way out of no way and transform dark yesterdays into bright tomorrows. Let us realize that the arc of the moral universe is long but it tends toward justice.
(MLK, August 16, 1967)

I don’t think that Dr King would mind if I do my own riff on his theme and say, let us realize that the arc of history is long––but it tends toward Christ and all that Christ is. That’s what Advent is about. The arc of history is long, and it tends toward our transformation and union with God.

christ in evolution

From the point of Light within the Mind of God
Let light stream forth into human minds.
Let Light descend on Earth.

From the point of Love within the Heart of God
Let love stream forth into human hearts.
May the Coming One return to Earth.

From the centre where the Will of God is known
Let purpose guide all little human wills -
The purpose which the Masters know and serve.

From the centre which we call the human race
Let the Plan of Love and Light work out
And may it seal the door where evil dwells.

Let Light and Love and Power restore the Plan on Earth.
(Alice Bailey)

28 november, 2009, back home

After I left Denmark, I spent a week in England working with three of the other composers who make up the collective known as The Collegeville Composers Group. We've been working for about eight years now on a project called Psallite (pronounced “Sal-lee-tay.”) It's a corpus of liturgical chant. By “chant” I mean (as I have probably said hundreds of times now) music that is essentially vocal--it might be harmonized, rhythmic and accompanied, but is not dependent on any of those things. Thus, we have not adopted any one style of chant but have drawn liberally from the many sources and influences that make up our corporate deposit. By “liturgical,” I mean it is essentially ritual music, meant to accompany the Christian sacramental rites, and therefore it usually winds up being almost totally scriptural as well.

I do little work in liturgy and/or liturgical music anymore, though that was my first and for years main discipline; the work in the Universal Call both in teaching and music has taken over. But I have stayed with the project, not only out of a sense of duty to see it through to its proximate conclusion, but because it is still a fascinating process. We actually compose as an ensemble, around a table piled high with Scriptures, liturgical books and music resources, one computer (the intrepid English composer Paul Inwood inputting directly to Finale files), and a candle. We “massage” a text until we find a rhythm and a form that suggest themselves, and then start testing bits of melody on each other. One piece of music may have a melodic contribution from all four of us. And then if there is to be harmony we sing and sing and sing it until that reveals itself as well.

Two of the composers (Paul and his wife Catherine) live in England, and so a few times in the past few years when I have had other reason to go to Europe, we arrange to have a session there instead of them always having to make the trek to us. Every time but one, the other Californian (Carol Browning) has made the trip over to meet them and me as well. It’s probably hardest on her, since she has little reason to come except for this work, so she leaves her work in California, barely gets over the jet lag, and then flies back home to work again. The other founding member of the group, who first convened us, Paul Ford, has never been persuaded to join us “across the Pond.”

As in past sessions, we housed together this time. I think all of our favorite sessions were the ones we held in Santa Cruz during the times I was filling in for Mark at Holy Cross and turned the rectory into Hotel Cipriano. But this session will stand out for me too. Paul arranged for us to stay at St John's Convent, in the village of Green Kiln, west of London about halfway to Reading, and not far at all from Windsor Castle. (Actually we went to Windsor for tea on Friday afternoon--not to the castle itself, mind you, though Her Majesty's standard was waving that day, as I'm told she is there every Thursday evening and Friday possible). St John’s is run by the Sisters of Pity, whose specific charism is caring for elderly and infirm priests. The property and housing are both ample, so they also offer retreat space and guest housing both in the large main house and in an assortment of flats and bungalows around the property. Carol and I were alone on the top floor of the main house. The sisters seem to delight in catering to their guests’ every need, and they spoiled the stuffing out of us: we were overfed; the beds were so comfortable that I slept painfully deep every single night; when I asked to use the clothes washer Sr Antonia insisted on washing and ironing all my clothes for me; a single mention of anything brought the desired item. There was a long stretch of a narrow road across the main highway from their street and so I had a beautiful jog every morning out into the countryside. Aside from our outing on Friday and our customary festive dinner at the end of the session--at the venerable Crown and Bray Pub, exactly what you might hope a pub to be on a rainy English night: generous portions, lager on tap, fires burning in every room, and laughter ringing ‘round the rafters--we never left from Tuesday through Sunday, working 9:30 ‘til 12:30, 2:30 ‘til 5:30 or 6. It may not sound much like work, but it is intense and tedious, so the spoiling was much appreciated.

While I was there I, as is my wont, rummaged through the books available to the guests. Among the many old volumes that our bibliophile friend Michael Doherty would have been tempted to slip into his backpack, there was a history of the Reformation by one Philip Hughes. It was perfect bedtime reading for me, especially having just come from eminently Lutheran Denmark and presently staying in the motherland of the Anglican Communion. (Interesting also to watch the BBC’s, and read the Daily Mail’s, report about the Archbishop of Canterbury Rowan Williams’ visit with the Pope in Rome this past week.) So I poured through Hughes’ portrayal of Luther, Zwingli and Calvin. While a Catholic--an English Catholic to boot--and writing before the Second Vatican Council as well, when one could assume there could be more bias and counter-Reformation rhetoric afoot, Rev Hughes did seem to be even-handed.

I had the same two reactions this time as when I have studied that era in the past. First, if history is to be believed, I am appalled at the corruption, mediocrity and fatuousness of the Roman church at that time. I had the same reaction when I read the biography of Michelangelo, mind you, and other historical biographies and novels about Rennaissance Italy. One can understand why Luther would be believed when he taught that “Catholicism itself... (was) now considered to be a corruption of the Gospel of Christ.” I found this phrase of Hughes’ interesting particularly, that the origins of Luther’s convictions lie not just in his own “discovery of the true meaning of the religion of Christ,” which according to him was divinely guided, but also and maybe especially “in his own personal experience of the ineffectiveness and the mischievousness of Catholicism as a solution offered him for his spiritual troubles.”

On the other side, the second thing that struck me, as usual, was this: while I sympathize with the rancor at the Roman church for whatever that corruption was and the desire to return to a pristine articulation and practice of religion, and aside from the external changes that the Reformers inaugurated, I just can’t go where they go theologically, and anthropologically. Because they were so disgusted with faith by works––which was really faith by magic formulas, Deus ex machina, buying one’s way to heaven especially through the practice of selling indulgences––the formula salvation by faith alone is based on the premise that there is no natural goodness in the human person. Human nature is totally corrupt (according to Calvin, for instance), and we are utterly powerless to do good. Even if an act is good in itself there is still sinfulness in it, so it is impossible to fulfill God’s commands. The “righteousness” that Luther taught “is no more than a righteousness cast around [us] by God, imparted to us.” But behind that righteousness “the sinner remains as he was before the divine acceptance.” At one point Luther talks about grace functioning like “snow over a dung heap.” It follows of course that “even the most virtuous of philosophers of the old pagan world were necessarily damned.” And so, one could assume, so were even the most virtuous sages of other traditions, never mind “seeds of the Word,” unless they expressly know and confess their belief in Jesus Christ.

I hasten to add, I mean this with no disrespect to Lutherans or other Protestants. I have no idea how operative this mentality is in peoples’ minds, though I know it is the foundational argument I have had with many Christians of the more evangelical persuasion. But it does become the philosophical garden out of which all one’s opinions are grown. I remember debating with a Contemporary Christian musician once about chant, basing my remarks on the fact a vocal form of sacred music developed in most of the world’s spiritual traditions. He countered by saying, “Yes, but they were pagans and that was music written before they knew Jesus,” and therefore it had to be replaced by “Christian” music. The same thing happened with Catholic missionaries all over the world up until Vatican II, mind you, replaying the “native genius” with Roman ritual and poorly executed Gregorian chant. Sigh. And that of course brings us back to the Psallite project I mentioned above, why I stress that “chant” does not mean “Gregorian chant,” and why we can draw from the native genius of other traditions. (Side note: we were working with the new translations of the Roman rite, not released yet. From the stilted language used in them and the whole trajectory of the “reform the reform” afoot, I fear we are heading back there.)

To counteract that, I was also finishing up Ilia Delio’s book, “Christ in Evolution.” In tracing the theology of Teilhard de Chardin, Raimundo Pannikar, Thomas Merton and Bede Griffiths, along with contemporary, mostly Franciscan, authors such as Ewert Cousins, Zachary Hayes and John Haught, Sr Ilia pushes forward two things. First the understanding that “Christ” cannot be limited to the historical Jesus of Nazareth. (This is theological thin ice for some, so tread carefully.) Before Jesus was born there was still the Second Person of the Trinity, the Word, associated with the Greek Logos, as well as, by some, the Tao of Chinese philosophy. After the death, resurrection and ascension of Jesus, the Christ is the whole Body: first of all understood as the church, which is understood primarily as “his body, the fullness of him who fills all in all” (as St Paul says in the letter to the Ephesians; and must include, as Ilia points out numerous times, all of creation which “is groaning and in agony as we await the redemption of our bodies” (as St Paul writes in the letter to the Romans).

Put those two things together and suddenly we see that Christ is now located at the heart of the whole evolutionary process, as a matter of fact what we call Christ is the whole evolutionary trajectory; or vice verse: the whole evolutionary energy of the universe is what/who we name Christ; Christians resolutely claim that the center of the universe is “personal and personalizing.” Christ is spirit wedding itself to matter, and matter then empowered to tend toward spirit. (Remember again here Sri Aurobindo: “Matter will reveal spirit’s face.”) Among the many paragraphs that I entirely underlined is this one:

We can now locate Christ at the heart of the whole evolutionary process: from cosmic evolution to biological evolution to evolution of human consciousness and culture. Within the evolution of human consciousness, Jesus emerges as the Christ, the fullness of God’s self-communication in history and the absolute expression of that self-communication in love… Christ is the dynamic life of the world. Christ symbolizes the fullness of life in God… Jesus is the symbol of every person and creature intended to rise from the dead and share in the glory of God… the realization of what we hope for in the universe: union and transformation in God.

Now this is a counterpart to the snow over the dung heap, because instead of starting with the corruption of human nature and the necessity for someone to come and redeem us from that corruption, this Christology starts out with the assumption that the Incarnation was not an after thought, but that this fullness of divinity dwelling bodily in human flesh was the design all along, the whole point of creation, the Omega point: “the realization of what we hope for in the universe: union and transformation in God.” (Ilia writes a line similar to that many times throughout the book and each time I underlined it.) And each person––here she quotes Panikkar––“Each person bears the mystery of Christ within.” And so “the first task of every creature, therefore, is to complete and perfect his or her icon of reality.”

The optimism of this view spills over. Why we would be in dialogue with other traditions is because any actions that are directed toward the good of the cosmos––the good, the true, the beautiful, the whole trajectory of evolution consciousness, and the evolution of matter to spirit––fall under the impulse of grace; their actions have eternal value, they are Christ inspired, because whether or not one explicitly knows Jesus, what we call “Christ” is the mysterious energy that is at the core of human life and life in the universe. To be a Christian then is to recognize a specific kind of mysticism of action as well as contemplation: to enter into dialogue with persons of other religions and cultures in which this Christ energy is making itself manifest; it is to plunge ourselves into the world, “getting involved with the tribes of humanity, earth’s people and the earth itself.”

I couldn’t help but think of Fr Bede and Abhishiktananda’s love for the concept of Purusa, the Great Person, as I read the closing lines of Ilia’s book, which also seem very poignant on this first Sunday of Advent, as we begin the great holy waiting:

We can look forward to a time when there will be one cosmic person uniting all persons, one cosmic humanity uniting all humanity, one Christ in whom God will be all in all.

When I was doing the presentation with Soren at the Center of Living Wisdom in Aahus, they ended the evening with a beautiful prayer. I later found out it was very famous, written by Alice Bailey of the Theosophical Society, and used by folks of many traditions who believe in a universal teacher who will come in some form––the second coming of Christ, the Lord Maitreya, the Imam Mahdi, the Messiah. I couldn’t find anything in it that was problematic. So, if you don’t know it, I leave it with you here as a great Advent prayer for anyone of any tradition, who is looking forward to the unfolding of the evolutionary process of matter and consciousness for the good of the cosmos, through Beauty, Truth and Goodness, seeds of the Word wherever they may fall.

From the point of Light within the Mind of God
Let light stream forth into human minds.
Let Light descend on Earth.

From the point of Love within the Heart of God
Let love stream forth into human hearts.
May the Coming One return to Earth.

From the centre where the Will of God is known
Let purpose guide all little human wills -
The purpose which the Masters know and serve.

From the centre which we call the human race
Let the Plan of Love and Light work out
And may it seal the door where evil dwells.

Let Light and Love and Power restore the Plan on Earth.

love in disguise

To discover Sufism,
it is up to you to take the first step
to drink from the sources of Divine Love.
It is like honey--
you cannot enjoy its sweetness if you do not taste it.
(from the Tariqa Qadiriyya Boutchichiyya)

16 november 09

I'm in London now, about to begin the working session with my fellow members of the Collegeville Composers Group. The original plan was for me to go up to Islington and spend the day and night with my friend Giovanni, yogi and rolfing master who I met through Laurence and the WCCM. But his mate Luke got stricken with the flu, so I got a room at a hotel near Heathrow, where I have to meet the others tomorrow, and was going to take the Tube into town and meet Giovanni for dinner and an evening out, and maybe some touristy gawking, all of which I was looking forward to. But then Giovanni wrote that he too has been struck down. As wonderful as it would have been to do all those other things, I still found myself not all that heart broken, glad to have some time to myself. I got in early and was in my room by 10 AM, and here it is after 5 PM and I am as happy as a hermit in the woods at the Park Inn Heathrow, with a gym (with a hot tub and sauna), wireless internet, Rai Uno on the cable television, enough room for my yoga mat, my guitar and Bible, a tea kettle, a pub called the Three Magpies across the street, and a free breakfast buffet in the morning. After a week of a lot of people stuff, who needs London? "Sit in your hotel room as if in Paradise," St Romuald might say, 'twere he in my running shoes.

I thought the evening at Sunhail's was to be the highight of the week, but it got even better, richer, deeper, with this little encounter on Sunday afternoon. It hadn't occured to me that I would have so much interaction with Muslims on this trip to Denmark. But indeed, there are a lot of Muslims in Denmark from many different parts of Asia and the Mideast. Of course, the country's relationship with Islam came into much higher relief after what Danes refer to as "the cartoon crisis." Put briefly, as one Dane explained it to me, while Denmark has long been regarded a neutral and friendly country, people here talk about the "cartoon crisis" as almost as much a watermark as we talk about 9/11. (You'll remember when a Danish newspaper ran a cartoon of Muhammad that was highly insulting to Muslims.) She said that the resulting cultural crisis revealed both the dark underbelly of xenephobia among the minority extreme right wing of Danes, as well as the dark side of some Muslims who were at least threatening to resolve a religious-cultural offense by violence. So, I was happy and should not have been surprised that I got to spend so much time with Muslims.

Agnete had arranged for me to spend the afternoon with Naveed Baig and his group of young Sufis from Pakistan. I think it is safe to describe them that way. Naveed is a soft-spoken bespecatcled gentle old soul, though quite young yet, perhaps in his mid-thirties. He was born in Denmark, and is immersed in promoting the Muslim community, active in civil society organizations, co-founder of MID (Muslims in Dialogue), which is the largest youth organization in Denmark, and also a member of the steering committee of IKS (Islamic Christian study center), which also functions as a dialogue center. The rest of his bio, gleaned from the Web also reports that

He has written various articles for Danish newspapers and journals, including an Islamic theology for spiritual care and counseling, sharing his gained knowledge from his work in hospitals and prisons. Furthermore, He contributed to an anthology regarding the post-cartoon scenario published by the 'information' publication. He participated in the month long series 'Islam's faces in Denmark' on DR (Danish Radio), and has also been quoted by various newspapers especially with regards to dialogue work and Islamic spirituality. Furthermore, he has organized and participated in outreach ventures as lectures at various universities, churches and for hospital staff. He was recently part of a Danish delegation to Syria in the aftermath of the cartoon crisis, supported by the Danish foreign ministry.

He is also a member of the Qadriyya Sufi Order, and is known as an imam (which he told me literally translates merely as "the one who stands in front") both for his hospital chaplaincy and his leadership of this particular group of young men.

I of course had no idea exactly what to expect, and really only the vaguest idea of what I would do or was expected to do. I'm starting to really enjoy that part now, to be prepared to go in just about any direction but to first meet a few people, look into their eyes, smell the room, get a sense of where people are at. You can tell a lot just from walking into a room, I think, and watching how people interact. I often think about these two different occasions in the past when I had no idea what to do. One was the famous concert for 3000 school children arranged by JP in Tiruvanamalai. Even now when I look at photos of that event I laugh at the look on my face. I recognize it. I'm saying to myself, "Oh. My. God. What am I going to do for a half an hour with this beautiful sea of faces that don't speak English?" The other time was when Shannon took me out to the prison in the central valley to give a day of recollection. I had plenty of things with me, but when I walked in the room I knew I wasn't going to be able to deliver any of it in the way I normally do. It wound up being one of the most memorable days of ministry I've ever had. I told someone that night on the phone that I had never felt so satisfied and so exhausted by a day's work.

As it turned out, I was to do the first part of the program, 45 minutes, whatever I wanted to do. We were a group of about 20, mostly young men. Some of them had been brought by a striking guy named Tokir, fellows he studies Arabic with. There were a few women and children as well, all arranged in angled tables with chairs in a small hall. So I decided to just pull up a stool, sit in the middle of them and sing my songs and tell my stories, talking about Fr Bede, and Universal Wisdom and the stories behind, and the reasons I sing, those particular songs. I only got through three or four songs with those long introductions. It was especially nice to open with the Gregorian Latin chant and then the Sanskrit one, and then go into "Hidden in My Silence," because that already brought three traditions together. Not only was Ghalib (from whom I got the refrain) Muslim, he wrote in Urdu, the native language of most Pakistanis. Something that Naveed said in his introduction made me want to mention over and over again "finding words that we can all share." That led of course to pulling out the "Bismillah" song again and telling the story of St Francis and the Sultan. I also had them sing "Lead Me" with me, of course. I must say, with all due respect, they were not giving me a whole lot back singing-wise, but they made a valiant effort. (There was however one young boy, maybe six or seven years old who sang out quite boldly and beautifully, named Hasan, I found out later.) They were not super responsive either but very attentive and respectful. So I wasn't sure who well I had connected. It wasn't a concert setting really, but more of a presentation, you might say. When I finished a very fine young Pakistani Sufi singer named Adeel then did the second half, singing selections from the Qur'an and various devotional poems of great teachers. (Again, Hasan sang along with some of the first pieces Adeel did which we well known traditional songs.) Adeel had asked me to stay up in front with him, and help him lead the dhikr then, which I thought was quite an honor, even if it was only a small thing. And then I led a short prayer service, which I called "Word Into Silence" as we normally name our regular service back home, which was sort of a very short lectio divina. Adeel sang (and Naveed translated) a section of the Qur'an, and then I taught them to let the words roll around on their own lips, then move into the mind and then to "put the mind into the heart." After a short meditation I sang a passage from the Sermon on the Mount from Matthew's Gospel and led them into the same thing. And then I pulled out the beautiful prayer from the Harmony Center in Singapore which I have been carrying around with me for years now and prayed it out loud. It was all very good, simple and sweet, in the best sense of the word.

I wrote earlier that I hadn't found them terribly responsive, though attentive and respectful, while I was speaking, to contrast that with our interaction afterward. I had a number of beautiful very in depth conversations with several of the guys who came up to me and wanted to speak. What I noticed the most about them was their presence: they were really present when they were speaking with me, or shaking my hand or giving me a hug, looking me right in the eye, standing quite near--really present. I knew I was hearing from their hearts.

I enjoyed meeting Naveed very much. I had told Agnete earlier that week that I really want to go to the Mideast some day, if for nothing other reason than just to sing these songs there, and she mentioned it in front of Naveed. I said to him casually, "We should go together." And he actually took to the idea right away, and little sparks started lighting right away in Agnete's eyes and mind with her genius for setting these kinds of things up, and we tossed the idea around a bit. I think that just might happen and I hope it does. What a beautiful thing it would be to do programs together, what a sign, what power in presence.
Agnete and I had spoken the day before about the pain around the issue of inter-communion between Catholics and especially Lutherans, there in Denmark, but really all other Protestant denominations. Often our own Catholic leaders want to insist that we can't share communion because we are not unified. But one wise holy old man once taught me that Eucharist is not just the sign of unity: it's also the instrument of unity--it's what makes us one. Why should we deny medicine to the sick? And so we ache. But I was thinking too that there is actually something good about the pain. It's a sign that we know something is wrong, and also it's the ache of the longing for the healing of that breach. It goes the same with our bonds of love with people from other traditions too, other ethnic groups and countries. That ache spurs us on. We need to wail and fast and mourn too, and then we need to be spurred to do unity, not just long for it, just as we know from Thich Nhat Hahn that "there is no path to peace--peace is the path," so there is no way to unity: unity is the way. Sychronistically someone wrote in an e-mail to me the other day about "the discomfort/pain of conflict that is inherent in any calling to wholeness..." and I thought of that later. One of the men at Naveed's group simply handed me a note when I had finished and was packing up my guitar and told me that this had occured to him while I was speaking and singing, and so he had written in down for me. After we left the building I pulled it out of my pocket and read it. It said simply,

In the Name of Allah
Most Gracious Ever Merciful
There is no sorrow
without love
Sorrow is love
in disguise

I half wanted to go back in and talk to him about it, but I figured "words are darkened lamps on a stranger's silent grave" anyway. Yes, that's it: It's all love. Even sorrow is love in disguise.

Agnete, ever the consummate host, then had me over to her place for a delicious farewell meal. We were again joined by Elizabeth, and she and I had a good discussion about en-bodied spirituality while Agnete cooked. At dinner Agnete told some amazing stories about her travels these years, from dodging bullets in Palestine to sneaking a group of pilgrims across the Syrian border while Israel was bombing the daylights out of Lebanon a few years back. I am amazed and inspired and humbled to have been in such good company this week. I feel as if I have been given more than I gave. The very friendly taxi driver told me at 6 AM as he dropped me off at the airport, "You must come back when the sun is shining. Copenhagen is soooo bea-uuu-tiful" with a big toothy grin. I said--though I don't know if I will spell it correctly--"I will. Tusund tak!" A thousand thanks.

other peoples' words

When you go forth begging,
let contentment be your earrings,
and modesty your begging bowl;
smear your body with the ashes of meditation,
and let contemplation of death be your beggar's rags.
(from a Sikh Morning Prayer)

15 november, 2009

I have had a harder thime than usual with jet lag on this trip so am still staying awake until 2 or 3 AM before I fall off to sleep (I stop looking at the clock after 1). That means I usually sleep until 8 or 9 in the morning which feels like a decadent extravangance. Actually the sky has been so overcast that with the curtains closed in my room it is pretty dark until then anyway. But this morning when I was rustling awake around 8 o'clock, through the little crack in the curtains there was some yellow and I woke up saying, "What is this?!", opened the curtains and, sure enough, there was sun shining on the steeple outside my window. As quickly as I could I gathered my running clothes and headed out for a jog around the lakes. It was the first time I was over-dressed for the run, with hat and gloves and a scarf, and worked up quite sweat. As other days, I was even more impressed to see so many people out doing the same thing this morning--even on a Sunday. On my way back, as has been my wont, I stopped for a caffe americano and a pastry. I had been going to what I came to find out was the most expensive bakery on the block: once I figured out the exchange rate I found out I had been paying around $10 for what I thought was a humble bun and a cup of coffee. The past two mornings I went to what I think is the Danish equivalent of Starbucks, and got the same for a little less. Heck, gotta have some treats on the road, and absorb a little of the local flavor.

Friday night, back in Copenhagen, I was scheduled to perform for Night Church back at Helligandskirken (Holy Ghost Church). This is an activity sponsored by quite a few Lutheran churches here in Copenhagen, a kind of open house from early evening until some time around midnight, with various events scheduled, at least in the case of Helligandskirken, every hour on the hour, with people drifting in and out as they wish. How well it succeeds at this I do not know, but the intent is to make a welcoming place for folks who would not normally come to church to drop in and stay as long as they want. As I had been told earlier in the week, I was to simply play for about an hour, whatever I wanted, without even talking. That sounded like my dream gig, and I put a set list together and practiced for it beforehand. As it turned out, Mikel, the pastor of night church (one of eight--eight!!--pastors at Helligandskirken), wanted a little more than that, and hoped that I would also share something about monasticism in general and my life as a monk in particular. So I played for about 40 minutes, and I did do some small introductions to the pieces, mainly just titles and translations. I was thinking it was like a "cabin set," what I would normally play while practicing at home in the afternoon (while listening to NPR in the background), going from an instrumental to a song, from Sanskrit into English. May favorites were playing the Malayalam "Aarathi" and then going into "Behind and Before Me," and then a long instrumental version of Christopher Walker's "Like a Child Rests" into "Put Love First." And then the last 20 minutes, led on by Pastor Mikel, I first led the crowd in "The Lord is My Light," then aided by Agnete sort of interviewing me, I spoke for another 15 minutes, and then closed with "Streams of Living Water." Again, this sort of fascination with "monkery" among the Lutherans here in Denmark. It was a sweet environmnet, the church low lit with candles all over the place, at least during the musical set, and I felt right at home. After my hour another pastor came, led by a candlelight procession, and led us in a simple eucharistic service, the church in total darkness except for the candle light. Pastor Mikel was off to the side accompanying a few hymns on classical guitar. I don't know if I have ever heard hymns sung so beautifully, especially one which is also a favorite of Agnete that she said she would get for me later. I was told it is not typical there in Denmark either for the hymns to be accompanied by guitar, as it is rare too in the US.

Saturday was a full day off. I had the morning luxuriously to myself in my comfortable room with the Jesuits, and then Agnete came to fetch me around 1 o'clock for sightseeing. She took me first to a Leggo store (Leggos are made here, you know) for a few small Christmas presents for a select group of beautiful nieces and godchildren; then on to the Lutheran Cathedral where Agnete will be ordained some time before the end of the year as the ninth pastor of Helligandskirken, dedicated mainly to dialogue. That church is filled with the statuary of the famous Danish sculptor Thorvaldsen. The twelve apostles are lined up along the aisles and at the very front is an enormous Christ. Agnete was keen on introducing me to his work, so from there, after some meandering around the beautiful walking malls of Copenhagen, we ended up at the Thorvaldsen museum, chock full of his sculpture. I had never heard of him at all, but he is the pride of Denmark (one of his statues is in St Peter's in Rome, of Pius VII). He was a contemporary of Hans Christian Anderson and Soren Kirkegaard, and apparently they all hung out in Rome together during their Italian period at a certain osteria, with a host of other thinkers and artists from around the continent. The place reminded me of the Uffizi in Florence and overall gave me a good case of nostalgia per l'Italia. From there Agnete took me to the district known as Nyhaun--the new harbor, an area where Hans Christian Anderson lived, which later became a red light district, and is now more of a tourist trap with kiosks and taverns and entertainment. There was also a view out over the harbor and national theatre and opera house, to which the Queen, incidentally, can sail directly from her castle. The Dane's are quite proud of their royalty, too, by the way, the oldest monarchy in Europe. I heard none of anti-monarchy talk that one hears from time to time in England, for instance, but instead a kind of fondness and affection for the heritage.

Agente and I spent a good deal of time talking about our various approaches to dialogue that day. This is a big word for Agnete--"dialogue"--, the main focus of her life and work, fostering experiences of and situations for folks from different religions and cultures, even different sects within religions and ethnic groups to find space for and the skills to be in dialogue. I was running by her what my experience of dialogue has been, what I feel like I've been attempting to do with the Sangha and in other situations as well. She often faces the opposite problem than I. She is often with people who are not open to experiencing difference from another religion, folks who are focused on the differences without necessarily knowing the facts. I said that I often feel that I am faced with folks who think "it's all the same"--without necessarily knowing the facts. We talked about the tendency of some moderns, for example, who want to reduce all mystical language and experience to the advaita non-duality, and dismiss any mystical experience and language that doesn't convey that as somehow "less than." This was a tendency in Ken Wilber's earlier writing, though his language has modified a great deal (I wonder how much influenced by wise old Fr Thomas Keating?). Again, I brought up how impressed I was by these two things in her work and that of IKON and Areopagus: the triple focus on spirituality, study and dialogue; and how they are intentional about including "alternative spiritualities" in their dialogue. I think that this is something I have been trying to articulate for some years, that we needn't go to India or Japan or Saudi Arabia to be in dialogue with Buddhists and Hindus and Muslims. Perhaps the more important work is being in dialogue with our neighbors who are already well steeped in a philosophical matrix and language, unknowingly or not, that is post-Western Christian, a language that often conveys and fills in some of the gaps in the practical application of Christian spirituality and anthropology, particularly about relation to earth, to bodiliness, and to spiritual psychology.

And then came what I think I will look back on as the highlight of the day and the week. For all the work I do, what these trips are really about is meeting these remarkable kindred souls from all over with their beautiful tapestry of stories. Per his invitaiton from last Tuesday, we showed up at Suhail's Marakesh Kitchen for dinner around 6 o'clock. As it turns out, oddly enough, we wound up being his only customers that night, so he was free to lavish us with his presence as well as his hospitality and food. He had cooked up for me a vegetarian dish that included, at last count, potatoes, eggplant, peppers, carrots, prunes, a pear, tomato paste, lemon (pickled with vinegar), corainder, turmeric, cumin, cinnamon. Tremendous, that combination of sweet and savory with the density of those spices. Of course there was bottomless pot of mint tea, and a delicious creme brulee style desert with mint and rose water, but the main course of the evening was the conversation. Suhail told us more about his own fascinating life, the son of an Indian mother and Pakistani father, raised a kind of secular Muslim, though he has been a spritiual seeker for many years. We talked about the Shi'a and Sunni spiritual differences, his experiences with the Sufis, and about the state of Muslims in Denmark. He was also quite well verses in various meditative traditions, especially Ramana Maharshi and Brahmakumari, and he and I had a good long talk about my favorite topic, spiritual psychology and integral spirituality. At one point while we were talking about prayer I mentioned dhikr ("rememberance," what Muslims call the style of worhsip they do that inolves a kind of ecstatic repetition of the name of God) and the tasbih (the Muslim prayer beads that accompany the 99 Beautiful Names of God), and Suhail sort of leaned back and looked at me through half-closed eyes saying, "So you know these words... It is very good to understand other peoples' words." That became the theme of the night for me: It is very good to understand other peoples' words.

We were then joined by another friend of Agnete's, who I had met once already, named Elizabeth, who is a cultural sociologist by training, but also, Agnete claims, a very good theologian besides. After working with HIV/AIDS patients here in Denmark, she moved to San Francisco in the late 1980's to work with the same there, and now is back in Copenhagen doing the same still, offering counseling and help wherever she can. And then after the creme brulle, while Suhail was serving a pot of ginger tea he had brerwed up specially for Agente, we were joined by two more friends, Thomas and Lotus. We had all met Thomas the other evening when he happened upon the concert/event at Helligandskirken. He had said that he was going to come for night church on Friday but never showed up. When we got to the resturant, I had asked Suhail if he knew him, and Suhail pulled out his mobile phone, and called and invited him as well. His lady friend Lotus was a tall beautiful girl of Danish and Gambian heritage. Then the conversation took on another depth altogether. Thomas himself has a rich background for such a young man. I may get this wrong, but he is the son of a Spanish father and Dutch mother. I never suspected that Denmark woul dhave such a beautifully rich variety of ethnic groups! Thomas is currently specializing in Disaster Management, the kind of folks who go in to a place that has been devasted by a tsunami or a flood. But before that he spent a year studying in the Rudolph Steiner school (and so a connection with the Theosophists), some time studying theology, and has been to Tiruvanamalai. After I got more of the dope on him, he, like Sunhail, started asking me some pretty in-depth questions about spirituality and monastic life. At one point he said something like, "I have so many questions, but this will have to do for now." We finally closed up the Markesh Kirchen around 10:30, having exhausted ourselves and probably Suhail's hospitality as well.

As I mentioned, I have had a worse bout of jet lag than usual on this trip, so with that added to the stimulating conversation and all that tea, I was up 'til well past 4 AM, tossing and turning, but all the while marveling at what a wonderfully small place this world is when people meet heart to heart, deep calling unto deep, like pure water poured into pure water. These are where the real "dialogue" goes on, in friendships, well worn paths between huts, when there is nothing forced about or exercised about it. It's just friendship.