Luke 9:28-36

 Sermon delivered by Amy Russell

St. Mark’s Episcopal Church, Hood River, OR

August 6, 2023

This is a sermon I offered recently. May you find something useful here.

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Prayer: Loving God, open our hearts and mind to hear your Truth, to know Your love, to walk Your Way.

It’s a joy to be with you, on this very special day, the Feast of the Transfiguration of Christ. This scriptural story is very near to my heart and I’m especially grateful to Kelly for his invitation for me to speak with you. 

I want to begin with the word “transfiguration” — not a word we use every day. Transfiguration is related to the word “metamorphosis”, meaning a process of deep interior change so profound that the physical form visibly changes. Transfiguration refers to something emerging that is of great beauty; an essential aspect of what or who is undergoing this change. Think of transfiguration like the caterpillar turning into a beautiful butterfly. The caterpillar has within its DNA the potential to become a butterfly. So too with human beings. In our religious context, transfiguration is a process of change that is of God.

Throughout the Gospel of Luke, we see Jesus in his element, doing what he does — teaching and preaching, healing the sick and feeding the hungry. Jesus knows the suffering that awaits him in Jerusalem, and has prepared his disciples. He gives them power so they will carry on his ministry. He also assures them that his painful death will not be the end, that he will be resurrected in a new form.

Then, in chapter 9, we come to the Transfiguration story. Jesus brings Peter, James, and John up to the mountain to pray. “And while he was praying, the appearance of his face changed, and his clothes became dazzling white.” In another version of this story, the language is a little different: “…His face shone like the sun, and his clothes became white as the light.” (Matthew 17:2) Transfiguration. An inner change in Jesus is expressed through a visible change in his outer appearance. Here, this change comes as Jesus comes closer to God in prayer.

Suddenly, cutting across time and space, Moses and Elijah appear in conversation with Jesus about what is coming. The presence of these ancient figures is key: Moses carries the wisdom of the Law, known in the 10 Commandments; Elijah represents the long line of prophets who speak God’s truth. Their presence affirms that Jesus is not contradicting the Law and prophetic wisdom. Nor is Jesus a reincarnation of Moses or Elijah, as some suspected. Rather, He is the Son of God, the fulfillment of ancient wisdom.

As if out of the whirlwind, an enormous cloud forms. The disciples are terrified. God’s booming voice pours forth, “This is my Son, my Chosen one; listen to him.” In Matthew’s version, the language is a little different: “This is my Son, whom I love… with him I am well pleased… Listen to him!” Matthew 17:5

What are we to make of this story? I suggest that the Transfiguration story points to one of the most powerful themes in Christian spirituality. In this one scene, we behold the mystery of God: Jesus the Christ, human and divine, existing in time and beyond time. Jesus the Christ, who came not to abolish the law and the prophets, but to fulfill them. And Jesus the Christ, the Son of God, whose life is deeply intertwined with ours. 

God said to the disciples as He says to us, “Listen to Him!” And what did Jesus tell us is our life calling: “Love God with all your heart, mind and soul…. And love your neighbor as I have loved you….. (John 13:34)

I suggest that transfiguration is the essence of our journey with Christ. We are transfigured through our closeness with Him. The force of Love that He emanates changes us. That Love opens our heart, heals inner wounds, and we reach out to others in love. 

What does Transfiguration in our human journey with Christ look like? Here are two examples:

First, transfiguration happens every day, around the world in the rooms of 12 Step recovery. If you have struggled with addiction or watched another struggle, you know the heavy burden of addiction. This is true is any form of addiction, alcohol, other drugs, food, sex, gambling, or other forms. People arrive at the doors of recovery beaten down, often near physical death. 

Transfiguration happens in those who receive the gift of sobriety (or abstinence). The rooms of recovery are full of those who bear witness to this dramatic change. The facial skin brightens, eyes light up, spontaneous laughter happens. Hope is restored. 

People in recovery learn quickly that recovery is not an event, it’s a journey. Recovery takes time, commitment, and work. We need to show up, examine the truth of who we are, the good and the bad, taking responsibility for our actions. But recovery is ultimately a spiritual process. We learn to put our lives on a spiritual foundation, meaning that we surrender to a power greater than ourselves. For those who are Christian, this is a familiar language. But it takes on new meaning in the process of confronting addiction. This is transfiguration.

Another example of transfiguration is in the process of grief. Here, transfiguration may appear quietly, slowly, almost imperceptibly. 

I suspect everyone in this room has experienced deep loss, if not several losses in life. Loss may come through the death of a loved one, or an illness. Loss may come in divorce, or loss of a job or home or a dream. 

Deep loss and the inevitable grief that follows is a universal human experience. It goes to the very core of who we are. Typically, moving through grief is a slow journey. We may get stuck in grief for a while — weeks, months, or even years. 

But grief is a healing process, a time when the pain of loss becomes the teacher of love, including how we care for ourselves. Prayer, community support balanced with time alone to feel may be especially helpful in healing through grief. Sometimes, psychotherapy may be useful. Over time, the grip of grief releases. 

The vulnerability of grief re-forms us. The light returns in our eyes. We stand a little straighter. Hope is restored. Healing through grief is not flashy or dramatic. Scars remain. Over time, we are called into new life. We are transfigured.

Transfiguration is the work of the Holy Spirit. It is an actual manifestation of the Spirit moving within us, shaping us, guiding us, bringing us closer to God, and into new Life. It is a journey of inner transformation that brings forward who we truly are. 

I encourage you to find your own examples of Transfiguration, in your life and in the lives of others. These examples are all around. Sometimes dramatic, sometimes quiet, always unique. 

This is our journey with Christ, a journey of love, a journey for a lifetime…

 AMEN.

For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” (Romans 8:38-39)

As a child, I enjoyed going to church. Something in the air, the stained glass windows, collective prayers, participating in the rituals. I went to Sunday School hopeful, curious, wanting to know more. I went to services and did what I was told. Stand here, sit there. Say these words, hold your hands like this, and so on. 

But I kept missing this “love” thing. I just didn’t get it. How do I know God loves me? How am I supposed to recognize Jesus? I felt like an outsider, standing at the door of the church, wanting to come in, but never able to open the door. As I stood on the outside looking in, I was also afraid of what might happen on the other side of that door. Did God love me no matter what? What if I wasn’t “good enough”? Was I doomed to eternal hell for my sins? It sounded like this happened, at least to some.  

I hung in with church until my teenage years. But my frustration was building. People in church talked about God’s love and spend a lot of time proclaiming beliefs. “I believe in Jesus Christ, the Son of God” “I believe Jesus died for our sins and resurrected on the 3rd day.” “I believe Jesus will return.” 

What do all these words mean? The words hung in the air, repeated over and over. My sharp-edged, teenage scent of hypocrisy heightened. But if it’s possible that I (or anyone else!) will end up in eternal hell, why should we care Jesus is the Son of God? Where is God’s love in this version of “truth”? This was too much for my teenage brain. Exasperated, I threw up my hands and yelled at God: “God, if you want me, you’ll need to come find me through something other than the church. I’m outta here!” I was 16.

Years later, when my husband, Bret, asked me to marry him, I was thrilled. Enthusiastically, I said, “Yes!” Quickly I followed with, “Just don’t ask me to marry you in a church!” My plea startled Bret, but he agreed. Instead of a church wedding, we had a lovely ceremony at the New York Botanical Garden. I was sure that wherever God was, He was present in that nature filled space. That happy day was in June, 1985.

Two years later, I was working near Wall Street, a block from the buildings known as the “Twin Towers.” I knew the streets well, including the local subway stations. And yet, I never noticed that almost daily I walked past a building that stood at the head of Wall Street. That building was Trinity Church, a large Episcopal church. One day in the spring of 1987, I walked by and for no particular reason, I walked in. I wasn’t aware that I was looking for anything related to God or church.

As I entered through an enormous doorway, I remember feeling peculiar, aware that it made no sense that I would enter a church. I felt my feet on the stone floor, as if the stone had been there since the beginning of time. The stone was solid, yet I feared it might crumble beneath my feet at any moment. 

Slowly, I walked into the sanctuary. My eyes gazed up from the floor, and immediately focused on an enormous figure of Jesus, etched in a stained glass window that hung above the altar. The figure of Jesus filled the window. His eyes were open but gazed down, His hand extended outward, palm turned up as if He were waiting just for me, inviting me to come close. Everything and everyone else in the church seemed to disappear. I stood, transfixed, unable to move, my eyes locked on the figure of Jesus that seemed to vibrate with loving power.  

I’m not sure how long I stood there. Then I heard the words, “You are forgiven.” Surely the words were in my mind, but they seemed to come from Jesus, speaking through the stained glass figure. Suddenly, tears poured out of my eyes, down my cheeks. Slowly, my feet moved, inching my body to a nearby pew. I sat down and surrendered to weeping, not knowing why I was crying or what was happening to me.  

I didn’t make the connection consciously, but my body knew. Something magnetically drew me, reminiscent of the Presence that I felt as a young child sitting in a quiet church. I felt safe there, as if sheltered by the walls that held a communal presence of prayer. I didn’t know it then, but this was (and is) the Loving Presence of Jesus Christ that stands at the center of Christian faith.

“You are forgiven” meant that no matter what I had done, God’s love holds me tenderly. In this moment that seemed to touch eternity, my lifelong fear that I would spend eternity in hell vanished. The fear melted away, like evaporated steam. I knew in my bones that this love was supremely trustworthy. 

While this was a uniquely personal message, intuitively I sensed that this is the message for all: the outpouring of Divine Love is available to all. This experience was no longer about “belief in God” but a heartfelt experience of connection “with God”. I stepped into the vision of God that Christianity holds, and it would radically change my life. A different consciousness emerged. I sensed God’s presence  — the reality of Love — in my life, the lives of others, and in the world. 

In this Trinity Church experience, I had a powerful transformation: sensing that God held me in love. This was an experience “of God”, a God in whom I could easily trust; much different from believing “in God,” a God who triggered more fear than love. I felt drawn toward Him, into a path of Love. In the weeks and months that followed, I attuned to Love that lives within and surrounds us. I came to a new level of consciousness. This was a deep feeling of “coming home”.

In the weeks and months that followed, I returned to Trinity Church. Some days I just sat in the quiet, other days I attended services. I was falling in love with the prayers and liturgy of the Episcopal Church. I learned to use the Book of Common Prayer (the prayerbook of the Episcopal Church), and the Hymnal (the book of hymns used in worship services). I learned the rituals: when to stand, sit, and kneel; how to receive communion. Most of all, I came through the door that had always eluded me, into a different dimension of experience, feeling loved and accepted by God. My fear of eternal hell no longer held my faith captive.

A few years after my Trinity Church experience, my husband and I joined a large church community in New York City. The architecture of the church building invited us in. This was a large Byzantine structure in midtown Manhattan. The building seemed to proclaim a spiritual power in contrast to the towering city skyscrapers that surrounded it. The rounded dome of the church building conveyed Divine maternal arms embracing all, and offering a refuge from the daily stresses of life. 

From our first experience, the Rector’s sermon captivated us, and we returned week after week. Each Sunday, we heard story after story of people transformed by God’s love. The message was, “God loves you, no matter what. This is the most essential wisdom you need. And here are actual stories of how God’s love transforms ordinary lives.”These stories were riveting. Our hearts opened, and we witnessed this vision of God’s love moved through the people and life of the parish. Within a few years, my husband and I became active members, taking on various leadership roles. These experiences continue to shape our faith today.

However, divine love notwithstanding, even the best church communities may face real financial challenges. In this community, long standing financial woes brought the community to the brink of bankruptcy. In time, leadership changed, bringing a sense of new vision and possibility. 

But like many large organizations, power struggles emerged and dominated decision-making. The “old guard” wasn’t happy with the “new guard”. Battle lines were drawn, heated arguments ensued, conversations got ugly. There was plenty of blame to go around. We became disheartened. Something of my old frustrations with church hypocrisy re-ignited.

And then came September 11, 2001. Suddenly this parish, like many churches, filled with people. They poured in, day after day, during the week and on Sundays. Why? Not because of special programs or exalted preaching. People came because they were frightened and desperate. Overnight the world had changed. Now we lived in a world where people used airplanes as to blow up office buildings. The new world was terrifying. People came to church looking for a larger reality than what we were seeing; a reality that offered hope in the essential goodness of Life.

9/11 was a potent reminder that, in our darkest hours, we yearn to touch the presence of  divine Love; a transcendence that holds all the darkness, yet not be consumed by it. In spite of all the failings of the church, 9/11 reminded me that a power within Christianity remains, as if buried deep in the basement of the tradition, that offers unwavering Love in times of great suffering. 

The challenge for church leadership is how to respond, how to bring the message forward and keep it alive, despite all the forces that might undermine it. The months following 9/11 were especially difficult for clergy. How to help? Many well-meaning clergy and leaders offered sermons, classes, and images to make sense of what happened. Panels of speakers interpreting the new reality popped up everywhere. 

These were noble efforts. However, the church offered another kind of power, the power of silence. In that silence is the unseen reality, the promise of hope that amid suffering, the encounter of Presence of God. This power has inspired two thousand years of Christian faith and discipleship, conveyed in transformed human lives, and witnessed in Christian art, architecture, music, and icons. In the words of Psalm 46: “Be still and know that I am God.”

The vision that inspires Christianity is full of mystery and promise. It’s an all-encompassing vision, capturing the totality of human life, including great suffering and joy. Perhaps you too have had powerful transformational experiences with God, within or outside the Church. Your experiences may look like mine or not. However, perhaps you know as I do that the reality of Christian community life often falls dreadfully short of its exalted vision. Perhaps, like many, you have concluded, “I believe in God, but I can’t go to church anymore…” Or, you may continue to attend church, yet feel vaguely dissatisfied. 

Wherever you are in your faith journey, consider these questions:

• How do you experience God’s presence in your life?
• How do you experience the absence of God?
• What support do you yearn for in your journey of faith? 
• What support are you able to offer others?  

For all the failings of Christianity as an institution, I remain captivated by the vision of God’s love. I am humbled by the power and beauty of the truths that She holds. These truths are worth fighting for.

“Above all else, guard your heart, for it is the wellspring of life”   (Proverbs 4:23)

My mother suffered from severe mental illness. As a toddler, I remember sitting huddled in a corner watching my mother talk to figures that I did not see or hear. Daily activities like preparing food, washing dishes, getting dressed were chaotic episodes as my mother straddled multiple realities. I watched intensely, with a mix of curiosity, confusion, and fear. I was four when my mother went into a mental institution, the first of several cycles over years of disappearance and return. Each time she returned home, she was more distant. 

Grandma Polly (my father’s mother) came to live with me when I was seven. (I introduced Grandma Polly in 2/9/23 post: https://incarnation-place.com/2023/02/09/beginning-to-question/)  She was a wonderful woman who lavished me with affection and attention, which I desperately needed. Grandma Polly was a “cradle” (lifelong) Episcopalian who never went outside without wearing white gloves and a pearl necklace. Each night she would kneel with me at the edge of the bed and say the “Lord’s Prayer.” Then I would crawl into bed, and, as she tucked me in, Grandma Polly whispered in my ear, “Now Amy, tomorrow I want you to be a good little girl so that you will go to Heaven.” The alternative hung in the air: “If you are bad, you will go to eternal hell!”

Grandma Polly meant well. She was a “faithful” Christian and was merely passing on the teachings given to her. This generous woman would not intentionally hurt me. But her message terrified me! I was sure that I would never be “good enough”, that I would go to eternal hell. 

Young children need to understand their world. And when things don’t make sense, they invent stories to explain it, and to create some sense of agency. As a child of a mentally ill mother, the story that I created was that I caused my mother’s illness because I was bad. I was unforgivable. I believed this story with every fiber of my being. 

The weight of fear became the foundation of my sense of identity; the lens through which I experienced life. I could not let the fear go. As I grew up, I became fearful of my mind, that I might become ill like my mother. Quite a burden for a young life!

Of course, this story I told myself wasn’t true. I had nothing to do with causing my mother’s illness. Through the years, well-meaning friends, therapists, and spiritual advisors told me my fears were misplaced. Their intentions were good, and they spoke the truth. But it was a truth that I could not hear. My belief that I caused my mother’s illness and fears about my sanity were threads that kept me tied to my mother, that kept her presence close.

Years later, as an adult, I shared my fears with a close friend. She suggested I try “Centering Prayer”, a form of Christian meditation which was outlined in the book, Open Mind, Open Heart, by Thomas Keating, founder of the practice. I had recently returned to Christianity after a long absence and was eager to deepen my faith. 

Keating’s book became a trustworthy guide and introduced me to the rich terrain of Christian spirituality that I never heard in church. Centering Prayer helped me turn my attention inward, learning to trust that God’s Presence was within me, within each of us. This book became a friend, as if Keating were writing just for me. I continued practicing Centering Prayer for several months.

One of the gifts of the gifts of meditative practice is that feelings — including unconscious feelings — surface. In my Centering Prayer practice, grief around my mother’s loss began to surface. Initially, the practice was a powerful support to feel and move through these feelings. 

But as the months went by, I kept hitting an inner brick wall. Old fears that I was bad and caused my mother’s illness haunted me. I kept asking how can I believe God’s love when I fear God will condemn me if I don’t behave well. I was struggling with the question, “How can I trust God?” I sought teachers of Centering Prayer and asked for help. Their advice: “Have faith, keep practicing.” This didn’t help. Other practitioners of Centering Prayer may encounter have this same struggle.

Centering Prayer assumes faith in God, and Jesus Christ as the focus of faith. For me, there was no room in Centering Prayer for the very fears that haunted me about God, fears that led me to Centering Prayer in the first place. The question is whether Centering Prayer practice can accommodate these kinds of fears and doubts. I suspect that it can.

(In fairness, my Centering Prayer experiences were in the early 1990’s when the practice was just emerging. Thomas Keating and some of his monastic colleagues were the only teachers. Since then, Centering Prayer has grown tremendously, many more teachers are available today, and a well established organization exists as clearing house of information. More information is given at the end of this post.)  

The deeper problem isn’t so much rooted in Centering Prayer as in Christian teaching that demands that Christians believe what they are told to believe because they are told to believe it. We do not encourage Christians to ask questions about what the scriptural story of Jesus Christ means, how it affects daily life, and how the realities of this story translate into the experience of the Presence (or absence) of God. We do not guide Christians in how to explore the truth of Christian teachings, or how to distinguish true versus false beliefs, or how to live in the presence of mystery. 

Buddhist teacher Sharon Salzberg makes this piercing observation:

”Faith, in contrast to belief, is not a definition of reality, not a received answer, but an active, open state that makes us willing to explore. While beliefs comes to us from outside — from another person or a tradition or heritage — faith comes from within, from our alive participation in the process of discovery.” (Faith, p. 67) Christian teaching seems to dread this process of discovery! 

This was the backdrop for my entry into Buddhist practice. (3/15/23 post: https://incarnation-place.com/2023/03/15/a-christian-finds-buddhism/ ) 

Buddhism, without using the language and imagery of “God” offers Christians an opportunity to challenge the separation between God and God’s creation, between who God is and who we are. And to explore questions like, “Who is God?”, “Who am I in a relationship with God?”, “How do I recognize God?”; “How do I grow in trust in God and access His strength in daily life?” 

Perhaps more important, Buddhism offers the freedom to explore doubts about these matters without fear of recrimination. This process leads to a greater sense of integrity, inner strength, and seeds of an authentic faith that many Christians yearn for.

This exploration is not merely an intellectual exercise, though intellectual understanding may be helpful. Rather, this is a journey to cultivate wisdom. In the ancient text, Proverbs, we hear: 

“Do not forsake Wisdom, and she will protect you;  

love her, and she will watch over you.” (Proverbs 4: 6)

“Wisdom” points toward knowing “from the heart”; knowledge that we know to be true “in our bones.” Wisdom may include intellectual or conceptual understanding, but wisdom comes from the deepest core of our inner being. The message from scripture is that this heart-based wisdom (akin to “soul”), is the interior landscape where we meet God, where we experience God’s Presence within us. Our capacity to receive the wisdom of the heart is built into the fabric of who we human beings are.

Opening to wisdom, to the inner heart, is central to the spiritual journey and the purpose of Centering Prayer. But without the freedom to question teachings and beliefs, Christians cannot fully explore the meaning of their faith. For me, Buddhism opens wide the doors, inviting me in to explore the full terrain of my inner heart, with all my questions, doubts, and fears. This journey into “heart wisdom” is like learning a new language, a language that changes how we experience ourselves and the world. 

Buddhist practice continues to support me toward a living faith that awakens to the power and beauty at the core of Christianity, and to acknowledge the deep distortions of this truth. When we dare to hear the Wisdom that pulsates beneath the surface, a deeper experience of the Living Christ is available, calling to each of us, welcoming us home. A new Christianity is forming amidst the ashes of what came before. It’s like discovering a great treasure that is buried in the basement. I awaken to the Living Christ within me, not as mere belief but as a life-changing, life-affirming experience, an experience that strengthens, day by day, year after year. This is a journey worth fighting for. 

RESOURCES 

Christian forms of meditation and yoga are widely available that are widely available through on-line and in person groups, workshops, retreats, and books:

Centering Prayer. A form of Christian meditation, developed by Fr. Thomas Keating, who was a well-known priest and Trappist monk. Today Centering Prayer training and practice groups are widely available online and in many parishes. Open Mind, Open Heart by Thomas Keating is the foundational that explains the practice and provides the context for understanding contemplative prayer in the Christian tradition. Keating was a prolific author and has written several other books about Christian life and practice. Books by other authors, as well as video and audio recordings, are widely available. For more information, see the website: centeringprayer.com. 

Center for Christian Contemplation and Action (CCCA). Founded by Franciscan priest Richard Rohr, CCCA offerings teachings, programs, and resources that bring together contemplative practice and action in the world. Their vision is: “Transformed people working together for a more just and connected world.” Richard Rohr is a prolific author who has worked tirelessly to name a vision of the Living Christ that we have yet to grasp. For more information, see the website:  https://cac.org/ 

Christians Practicing Yoga (CPY). CPY is a community founded in 2001 that was inspired by Prayer of Heart and Body, by the Paulist priest Fr. Thomas Ryan. This book was one of the first that offered a way of integrating Christian faith and yoga. Guided by Fr. Tom, a small group formed, to offer retreats and classes based on the book. Slowly the group grew and evolved. Today CPY is a global community of teachers and students. CPY continues to explore the intersection of Christian language, theology, and imagery with the ancient discipline and practice of yoga. This ministry is a prophetic witness to the wonder and beauty of the human body as an expression of God’s creation. CPY offers training and other resources for anyone interested in exploring this intersection. For more information, see the website: https://www.christianspracticingyoga.com/

O Lord, you have searched me and known me

For you formed my inward parts;

you knitted me together in my mother’s womb… (Psalm 139: 1, 13)

I lost my mother when I was very young. I learned to live with her absence, but the deep well of grief hardened as the years went by and I lived a “split existence.” On the outside, I went to school, earned good grades, had friends. But on the inside, loneliness, fear, anger, frustration, and unending sadness haunted me.

I felt a deep yearning to become the mother that I didn’t have. When my children were born, I felt overwhelming love, wonder, and appreciation, sensing that perhaps my mother, wherever she might be, was encouraging me. But within a few months, I was overwhelmed and exhausted, fearful or uncertain about what to do and what not to do. I was a practicing Christian (after a long period away), prayed daily, and attended worship services frequently. Yet no matter how often I prayed the 23rd Psalm and Lord’s Prayer, I could find no relief from the overwhelming emotions of fear, anger, and self doubt. 

Motherhood cracked open the chasm of buried pain about the loss of my mother. My faith was “strong” but I could not access the spiritual power I needed to navigate my world of mothering two young children. I had fallen into a deep well, what seemed an unbridgeable gap between my belief in God and my capacity to trust God.

One day I was in a Barnes & Noble bookstore, with the double stroller and my little ones in tow. I was vaguely scanning the section on religion, and a series of book titles caught my attention: Start Where You Are, When Things Fall Apart, The Places That Scare You, and my favorite, The Wisdom of No Escape. In the following weeks, I returned to that bookshelf, magnetically drawn to these titles. I discovered they were all written by Pema Chodron, a Buddhist nun. Spontaneously, I began repeating the words of the titles over and over throughout my daily life. An unfamiliar peace came over me. Little did I know that my Buddhist practice had begun. 

It was several months before I actually opened the pages of these books. I suffered from a hefty dose of Christian teaching that warned against investigating other religions. When I gathered up my courage to ignore the Christian teaching and tap into the profound wisdom that lay within the pages, I discovered a whole new world: a set of teachings and suggestions that helped me enter and navigate my inner world, which was so full of fear, doubt, and emotional chaos, with wisdom and compassion.

Pema Chodron’s teaching became a lifeline. She suggested beginning by breathing, inhale and exhale, and paying attention to that, just that: inhale and exhale. The extraordinary power of this simple technique helped reduce my anxiety. An inner sense of space replaced the tightness I felt in my body. The hardened inner walls within me softened, and I grieved my mother’s loss. I felt the pain of her absence, my disappointment and frustration at not having a mother. My tears subsided, and a newfound sense of acceptance emerged. For the first time, I appreciated my love for my children and the fierce determination to be a wonderful mother. I was learning to build trust, in small steps, one step at a time. Trust in myself, in Life, and in God. 

Books and tapes from Pema Chodron became daily companions. I came to recognize my strength, resilience, and courage. I learned to hold the tension between my deep love for my children and the pain of living in the shadow of an absent parent. The challenges and responsibilities of parenting were overwhelming. I became willing to ask for and receive help. For the first time in my life, I was experiencing an inner sense of safety. 

My Buddhist practice began in a Barnes & Noble bookstore. It continues this day, over thirty years later. Besides Pema Chodron, Buddhist teachers Sharon Salzberg and Tara Brach have made a profound impact on my practice. Each offers a doorway toward healing, helping me grow in my capacity to live Life more fully, within me, with others and with God. 

DEEPENING CHRISTIAN FAITH WITH BUDDHIST PRACTICE

Christians live with a painful dichotomy. Scripture emphasizes the importance of the inner world — what scripture calls “the heart” — the terrain where we encounter the meeting of God within our very being. Yet much Christian teaching either ignores the fullness of “the heart” (our interior life) or instills a sense of shame toward human emotions, desires, and the human body as the place of sin. Rather than offer clear guidance about how to navigate our inner terrain, Christian teachers emphasize doctrine over direct experience of spiritual reality, and belief in concepts over trust in the lived experience of the transcendent Christ. 

How can Buddhism help Christians? Buddhism meditation helps us experience the deep interconnectedness within all Life and shines light on how we experience ourselves and the world. Buddhist practice encourages us to question our experience and what we believe, including our doubts and fears. This is not to form us as “Buddhists” but to encourage us to face the truth of who we are, what we most value and believe is true. For Christians, this guidance can lead to a deeper, more tangible sense of God’s presence. We gain a sense of groundedness and authenticity in faith about who Jesus Christ is and how we relate to Him (or Her). 

We transform our experience of life as we deepen attention to our inner world. This journey into the heart demands our willingness to be vulnerable, and we may not welcome our vulnerability. We may believe that vulnerability is a sign of “weakness” and our task is to be (or at least appear) strong. We may build an array of defenses to “keep us safe”, which means keeping vulnerability hidden. And yet the path of Jesus IS the path of vulnerability, the path that reveals the “true self”.

As we explore our inner landscape, we discover a rich terrain of feelings, thoughts, fantasies, dreams, and yearnings. We learn to explore our experience by examining the internal effect of it. For example, if I’m angry, I can ask myself questions like “What thoughts come up with this anger?” We may notice a stream of thoughts, like “he/she has no right to do that!” Or: “I’m such an idiot for doing such-and-such!” Or: “This is a useless waste of time!”) We can ask, “What body sensations do I feel with this anger?” Perhaps we feel tightness in the chest, throat, or shoulders; heat or cold; a movement of energy; a sense of power. “Are there other feelings that go along with this anger?” We may discover fear, sadness, disappointment, or frustration are hiding just behind the anger. 

This process of self-examination slows down our inner experience. We relax a little, breathe more easily, and discover more clearly what our experience of “anger” is. As this happens, we have more “room” to make conscious choices about how to view our situation and what actions to take or not take. This differs from an experience of anger, which leads us to action that we later regret. Action that is motivated by unexamined emotions is among the most common causes of harm to self and/or others. Buddhist teacher Sharon Salzberg says: “Tuning in to yourself is the first step toward tuning in to others.” (Faith)

Most of us experience inner judgments toward our inner experience, judging some thoughts and emotions as “good” and others as “bad.” We construct these judgements out of (often well-meaning) messages from parents, care-givers and teachers, especially religious teachers, and cultural norms. These messages are often well-meaning, to help us “be good”, “accepted”, and to “belong.” This is what my grandmother intended, when she urged me to “be good” so that “I would go to heaven rather than hell.” (2/9/23: https://incarnation-place.com/)  

Jesus commands us to love God and love our neighbor as God loves us. In our desire to fulfill this command, we strive to be “more loving”. As St. Paul observed centuries ago, “For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do.” (Romans 7:15) The problem is that pushing away non-loving thoughts only serves to push the thoughts away from awareness. It does not eliminate the energy that fuels the thoughts. Rather, this negative energy becomes more powerful. We become afraid of our thoughts and emotions, afraid of who we are. And we redouble our efforts to “look good”, keeping hidden the parts of us we deem unacceptable (non-loving feelings). We remain caught in a double bind: wanting to be good, fearing that we’re not, perpetually trying to be someone other than who we are — human beings who experience a full range of inner thoughts and feelings. These inner patterns take many forms and go on day after day over a lifetime. 

Tending to the “heart” builds a compassionate inner presence for our own inner being, especially for the parts of our experience that frighten, frustrate, or disappoint us. This heart path says, “Do not fear any of your experience. Treat everything, especially thoughts and feelings that may be uncomfortable, with compassionate attention.” The more this compassionate attention grows, the more we can examine the parts of ourselves that we do not want to see, all the ways we turn away from God, away from the path of love for neighbor. This may seem paradoxical: becoming more loving to ourselves helps us know our sin more clearly. 

Christianity has a long tradition of attention to the inner world, mostly behind the cloistered walls of monasteries. Like so much within Christianity, this has changed dramatically in recent decades. Powerful voices, including Franciscan priest Richard Rohr, Fr. Thomas Keating was a well-known priest and Trappist monk, and Father Thomas J. Ryan have brought forward Christian approaches for meditation and Yoga. Their work is changing the landscape of Christianity and has helped me enormously. I will offer reflections on my experience with specifically “Christian meditation” in a future blog post.

Whatever path we take, tending to the heart is an essential ingredient of the spiritual life, in Christianity, Buddhism or other major religious traditions. This is not only about our own healing, but is an essential ingredient in offering compassion to a suffering world. Pema Chodron counsels: “Only when we know our own darkness well, can we be present with the darkness of others. Compassion becomes real when we recognize our shared humanity.” Pema Chödrön, The Places That Scare You: A Guide to Fearlessness in Difficult Times.

BUDDHIST RESOURCES

If you are interested in exploring Buddhist practices, listed below are some that may be helpful especially for Christians. These are western teachers, drawn to Buddhism early in life, and spent years studying in India, Thailand, Burma, China, and other eastern countries. These teachers help primarily western audiences learn Buddhist principles and meditative practices to facilitate healing, individually and in community. Each teacher offers an array of books, talks, and on-line and in person workshops and retreats:

Pema Chodron.  Pema Chödrön was born in 1936 in New York City. She is an ordained nun in the American Tibetan-Buddhist tradition and was a principal student of Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche (founder of Naropa Institute (now University) in 1974). Pema Chodron has written several dozen books and audiobooks, and is the principal teacher at Gampo Abbey in Nova Scotia. Her talks are widely available on tube and other streaming platforms. For more information: The Pema Chodron Foundation website: https://pemachodronfoundation.org/ 

Sharon Salzberg.  Sharon Salzberg was born in New York City in 1952, and in 1970 began several years of Buddhist studies in India and Burma. In 1976, she co-founded (with Joseph Goldstein and Jack Kornfield) the Insight Meditation Center in Barre, Massachusetts. Sharon is a popular teacher of Buddhist meditation, known for teaching loving kindness meditation to adults, teens, and younger children and in specialized groups such as medical professionals, abuse victims, teachers and many others. She is a popular speaker and has facilitated many research studies on the impact of meditation on health and the intersection of meditation and the cognitive sciences. She is a prolific author and has a down-to-earth style that makes Buddhist practice easily accessible to everyone. Sharon hosts The Metta Hour podcast. Her website: https://www.sharonsalzberg.com/ 

Tara Brach.  Tara Brach was born in upstate New York and lived for ten years in a yoga spiritual community. She attended her first Buddhist Insight Meditation retreat, led by Joseph Goldstein, and has been studying, practicing and teaching ever since. Tara holds a Ph.D. in Clinical Psychology, and her teaching integrates Buddhist meditation practice with psychological insights. She founded the Insight Meditation Community of Washington, D.C. in 1998 and is a popular and widely known teacher, retreat leader, and author. Tara has a gentle way of bringing compassionate attention to all aspects of our inner climate, especially the parts we would rather avoid like fear, anger, shame, and the “trance of unworthiness.” She and Jack Kornfield lead the Awareness Training Institute, which offers courses on the practice and training of mindfulness and compassion, and recently co-founded Cloud Sangha. Tara hosts the Tara Brach podcast. For more information: https://www.tarabrach.com/ 

Jon Kabat-Zinn.  Jon Kabat-Zinn, Ph.D. was born in 1944 in New York City. He is Professor of Medicine emeritus at the University of Massachusetts Medical School, where he founded its Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction (MBSR) Clinic in 1979, and the Center for Mindfulness in Medicine, Health Care, and Society (CFM), in 1995. Jon Kabat-Zinn was a student of Zen Buddhism, and a founding member of Cambridge Zen Center. His practice of yoga and studies with Buddhist teachers led him to integrate their teachings with scientific findings. More than anyone else, Jon Kabat-Zinn has crafted the practice of “mindfulness meditation” without the specific language of Buddhism, while remaining faithful to essential Buddhist principles of compassionate wisdom. His work with a global community of colleagues has brought mindfulness into mainstream institutions such as medicine, psychology, health care, neuroscience, schools, higher education, business, social justice, criminal justice, prisons, the law, technology, the military, government, and professional sports. He is a popular teacher and prolific author of books and articles, and host of the JKZ App. For more information:  https://jonkabat-zinn.com/about/jon-kabat-zinn/

My grandmother was a lifelong Episcopalian who read her Bible regularly and never left the house without her pearl necklace and white gloves. She taught me to kneel by my bed at night and recite “The Lord’s Prayer”. She tucked me in, brought her face close to mine, and whispered in my ear, “Now Amy, tomorrow I want you to be a good girl so that you will go to Heaven.” The implication was clear: Good little girls go to Heaven, bad little girls go to Hell, and God makes these decisions. 

Grandma Polly taught me as her family and church leaders taught her, and she meant well. But the impact of her teaching on my young mind was profoundly damaging and followed me well into adulthood, though I had little conscious memory of it. I felt drawn to church as a child but sat still, frozen in fear about my future. 

As I grew up, I tried hard to be good, to follow the rules at church and at home, but failed regularly. Each failure was an unconscious affirmation of my eternal future in Hell, condemned by the angry “God” who banished bad little (and big) girls. No one in church told me that goofing up was part of what humans do. No one assured me that God loved me, no matter what. Instead, I heard repeated affirmations I was born into “original sin.” Telling me that original sin was the fate of all human beings was little comfort. It never occurred to me to question these inner fears and the theological theory that lay behind it: “Be good, or else…”, implying that we need to earn our way into God’s approval.

When I was growing up in the 1960s, Sunday school teachers did not encourage us to “think for ourselves” in matters concerning God, faith, and Jesus. Clergy told us to accept their teachings “on faith.” Christianity, so the teaching went, was the “one true religion” and to be a “Christian” was to be “on the side of Truth”. “Truth” was Jesus, perfectly human and divine, unlike we humans who are born sinners. There was little room for ambiguity about what to believe about God and church, except among theologians who used words like “paradox”. It didn’t occur to most of us to question Christian teaching about original sin, or other “essential Christian teachings”, like the “Nicene Creed,” virgin birth, resurrection, to name a few of my favorites. Yet some form of this teaching is alive and well, sometimes overtly, often implied, not just in my childhood home but in parishes around the world, not to mention images given in the pages of scripture.

I didn’t know that I really had the freedom to question Grandma Polly or to wonder why anyone might trust a God that banished people to the gates of eternal hell. Being told what to think keeps powerful leaders in power, while the people are “kept in line.” What better way to maintain the power structure than threaten the people with “eternal damnation” if they go against traditional teaching? Grandma Polly learned this, believed it, and passed it on to me.

To blindly follow what someone else tells us is true has the impact of numbing ourselves to our own capacity for thoughtful reflection and relieves us from the work needed to come to our own understanding. The cost of this pattern is enormous: we give up our God given freedom to decide for ourselves what we believe, who and what we trust, and the values we choose to live by. We lose the fullness of our humanity and faith remains shallow, driven by fear, not love. 

In his book The Universal Christ, the Franciscan priest and theologian Richard Rohr says:

“(H)uman freedom matters!!… God does not want robots, but lovers who freely choose to love in return for love…Yet so many sermons tell us to never trust ourselves, to only trust God. That is far too dualistic. How can a person who does not trust himself know how to trust at all?” (p. 66)

Decades later, as I gazed in the eyes of my two young children, I felt utterly in awe of Creation. Yes, humans screw up. Yes, humans create unimaginable harm to one another. Yes, humans are sinners. But in the depth of my bones I knew, looking at my children, that our sin is secondary to God’s love. His love comes first, and that means we are good, originally good.

I didn’t know then that I was being called to awaken, to examine the inner workings of my mind, to explore my beliefs, what I really believed was “true”. This was the call of my soul to explore my “inner world,” including thoughts, feelings, memories, dreams, and the values I cherish. 

For Westerners, most of our education and training focuses on how to function effectively in the “outer” world. Our parents, caregivers, and teachers teach us “how to behave”. Formal education demands answers to factual questions. Students are trained to think conceptually, to analyze, investigate, and memorize facts and figures in increasing layers of complexity. These are important skills. We are not, however, trained to examine the inner world and its workings, the extraordinary space of our mind. Psychology is, for westerners, one exception which has offered valuable paths to inner examination. While valuable, western psychology is a more limited set of techniques, in part because of western demand for “scientific rigor.”

We in the west are learning from eastern and indigenous cultures who have tended to the inner world for centuries, and have explored it deeply and methodically. For practicing Buddhists, Hindus and Muslims, teaching care and understanding for the inner world are basic life skills which are introduced to children and practiced throughout adult life. Eastern spirituality and practices appreciate the inner world as the home of great secrets about how human life flourishes and what inhibits flourishing. For westerners, the discovery and integration of this wisdom, together with how it merges with and diverges from psychological understanding, is nothing less than an enormous step in human evolution!

Discovering Buddhist meditation was like a breath of fresh air. In short, Buddhism helped me to grow up, to think for myself rather than merely accept what others claim as “true.” Buddhist practice helped me explore the deep terror that lived within me from my grandmother’s counsel — that if I did bad things, God would punish me, not just for a day but for eternity! For the first time in my life, I felt free to question, examine, and reflect on my religious faith, how faith penetrates (or does not) any other aspect of my life, including my grandmother’s teaching.

As I practiced Buddhist meditation, I learned to sit compassionately with the inner terror of eternal damnation that haunted me. Slowly, the terror opened, and I discovered how this childhood memory played out throughout my journey, in my relationship with God, to myself, and with others. I came to recognize layers of fear, resentment, unspoken grief, and doubt that fueled my inner pain.

Buddhist nun and teacher Pema Chodron writes: 

“… feelings like disappointment, embarrassment, irritation, resentment, anger, jealousy, and fear, instead of being bad news, are actually very clear moments that teach us where it is that we’re holding back. They teach us to perk up and lean in when we feel we’d rather collapse and back away. They’re like messengers that show us, with terrifying clarity, exactly where we’re stuck. This very moment is the perfect teacher, and, lucky for us, it’s with us wherever we are.” (Pema Chodron, When Things Fall Apart)

I investigated questions like, what do I believe? What are my doubts, fears, and concerns? How do these impact of my sense of connection with God, myself and other people? What if I gave up the vision of God who banishes people to hell? Slowly, I released the grip of terror. And in this new found sense of inner freedom and space, a very different faith emerged, a faith based on what I knew inside as true.

Rohr suggests:

“We must reclaim the Christian project, building from the true starting point of Original Goodness. We must reclaim Jesus as an inclusive Savior instead of an exclusionary Judge, as a Christ who holds history together as the cosmic Alpha and Omega. Then, both history and the individual can live inside of a collective safety…” (p. 68)

And it is here, where faith, hope, and love may flourish. This has been my experience.The journey of inner exploration is a journey of revelation, with all that word means for Christians. 

Rachel Naomi Ramen offers this ancient story which she heard from her grandfather, a rabbi and scholar of the Kabbalah, the mystical teachings of Judaism:

“According to the Kabbalah, at some point in the beginning of things, the Holy was broken up into countless sparks, which were scattered throughout the universe. There is a god spark in everyone and in everything, a sort of diaspora of goodness. God’s immanent presence among us is encountered daily in the most simple, humble, and ordinary ways. The Kabbalah teaches the Holy may speak to you from its many hidden places at any time. The world may whisper in your ear, or the spark of God in you may whisper in your heart.” (Rachel Naomi Ramen M.D.,My Grandfather’s Blessings: Stories of Strength, Refuge, and Belonging)

“So come to this table, you who have much faith and you who would like to have more; you who have been here often and you who have not been for a long time, or not at all… you who have tried to follow Jesus, and you who have fallen short…..”     

(Prayer from the Iona tradition)

I began this blog in 2011. My intention was to create a space where faith in Jesus Christ embraces the fullness of being human, including all of our passion, complexity and creativity; our inner realm of thoughts, feelings, dreams, fantasies; and our bodies, including our sensory experience, sexuality, illness, injury, and ultimate death. I return here after a long break, fueled with this same intention: to create space for the fullness of human embodied life in Christian faith.

Much in my life has changed in these intervening years. My husband, Bret, and I moved to a small town in the Pacific Northwest, where there are more trees than people. This is an enormous change, after nearly 40 years in New York City! Our children, Matthew and Mark, have grown; each one is married and they are doing their best to balance busy lives with children and careers. 

For many years in New York, Bret and I experienced what I call “the best of church.” We made life-long friendships, shared and prayed through the joys and sorrows of life, including the birth children, successes and failure in work, grief of losing parents and loved ones, and the cataclysmic horror of 9/11. We lived daily life in the continual unfolding of Christian prayer, communal worship, and service, with plenty of doubts, struggles, disappointments, and tears and laughter.

AND, I know only too well that the reality of the Christian community often falls dreadfully short of this exalted vision. Divine inspiration notwithstanding, church life is often full of power struggles, pettiness, jealousy, resentment, procrastination, and avoidance, dominated by mediocrity and stagnation, infected with narrow-mindedness, and wrapped in a culture of exclusivity that ignores the fullness of the human experience.

The cost is enormous, for it means that certain aspects of Christian teaching force us to sacrifice the very gift of being human: thinking for ourselves, free to make conscious choices about belief and faith, including the values we choose to live by. This suffering underlies the enormous (often unspoken) gap between Christian teaching and the yearnings of people in the pews. To put it bluntly, church may not be a great place to find Jesus Christ!

My first experience of hypocrisy that affects so much of Christianity was in high school. A friend invited me to a local church youth group where I found a fun loving gang of restless, angry, depressed teenagers who were a lot like me! I enjoyed the experience of belonging and something magnetically drew me to worship services, singing in the choir, community service projects, and a weekly 7am Bible study group. 

My questions about scripture and faith exploded. Why did Jesus die “for our sins”? What does that mean? After Jesus died, where did his body go? What does ‘resurrection’ mean? Deeper questions loomed: Who are you, God, and what do You want of me? What if I fail? Will You leave me? Can I trust you? How will I know?

As months turned into years, I became increasingly uncomfortable in the youth group. Members of the group tried to answer my questions with words like, “Jesus loves you, He died for you, just have faith…” but I couldn’t connect my experience with their words, which only fueled my frustration. “What are you talking about?” I kept asking.

The clergy tired of my questions, especially since I had not “pledged”, meaning that I had not made a financial commitment to the parish, nor was I ready to enter a formal process of “confirmation”. The scent of hypocrisy was overwhelming. Frustrated and deeply disappointed, I decided that if this was church, I wanted out. I left, vowing never to return and told God that if He wanted me as his servant, He was going to find some alternative to church! The year was 1972. 

This was my first of many lessons in painful truths about institutional Christianity: well-meaning people can cause great harm under the guise of “Christian teaching.” All too often, people in the “Body of Christ” speak eloquent words that have little to do with connecting people to deeper truths about their lives. Many years later, I returned to church (another story for another time) and while I’ve experienced much of the positive transforming power of church life, worship, and community, the problems are very real and ripple through Christianity, across denominations.

Perhaps, like me, you are captivated by the vision of Christianity, yet profoundly disappointed. Perhaps you’ve struggled to stay in church on Sundays, haunted by thoughts like: “Why am I sitting here? The service no longer has any meaning…”; or, “The priest says I’m welcome, but it’s not true…”; or, “So much talk about Jesus’ suffering and death, but there’s no room to mourn human loss, my losses!” Perhaps you remain in church, fearing there is no other way to have a relationship with Jesus Christ. Or, you may conclude, “I believe in God, but I can’t go to church anymore!” Whether you remain in church or leave, you intuitively know, “There’s got to be a better way!”

In hindsight, I realize that one of my earliest childhood memories has fueled my journey of faith through the joys and frustrations. The memory is this: I am about four years old, sitting next to my mother in a church pew, holding her pearl rosary beads, watching her as she gazes at the altar. Though I am too young to have words for this experience, I sense a kind of exchange between my mother and a Loving Presence pouring out from the altar. A sense of peace is palpable. This is no mere recitation of words but an energetic, bodily experience of a connection between my mother and Jesus. I witness the connection through my mother and feel it in my body. For me, Jesus’ words point to this experience: “On that day you will realize that I am in my Father, and you are in me, and I am in you.” (John 14:20) 

I have chased this bodily connection with Jesus Christ ever since, inside and outside of Christianity. Today, at age 68, the core of my faith is a relationship with Jesus Christ, and His central teaching: “Love God with all your heart, mind, and soul, and love your neighbor as yourself.” I hold this relationship in the arms of Christianity, but the relationship transcends the boundaries of the church. Today I go through times of active membership in a church community and times away from church, re-discovering that the Love that birthed the church is same Love that fuels the vastness of Creation. Nowhere do I experience that Truth more directly than being a grandmother. 

In his Christmas message, Bishop Michael Curry, Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church, said:

“The older I get, the more I am convinced that God came into this world in the person of Jesus for one reason:… to show us how to live, reconciled with God, and with each other, and He taught us that the way to do it is God’s way of love. For God’s way of love is God’s way of life. It’s our hope for our families, our communities, our societies. Indeed, it is our hope for the whole world.” (https://www.episcopalchurch.org/publicaffairs/presiding-bishop-michael-currys-christmas-message-2022-love-always/?mc_cid=f79713fd34&mc_eid=a0f823687e)

This blog is an invitation to take part in this re-discovery of the life of love that Bishop Curry describes. This power of Love that is the essence of Jesus Christ who continually offers guidance, strength, comfort and healing, individually and collectively, to a suffering world. My goal here is to help Christians awaken to the vibrancy of the Living Christ as a transforming, life affirming experience. 

In postings that follow, I will explore new directions in science and how the language of trauma can help lead us back to the heart of Christianity: profound wisdom and presence of Jesus Christ. I will share more of my story, including my practices with Christian contemplative prayer and Buddhist meditation, that help me grow in my relationship with Jesus Christ and navigate my journey with the church.

These words from Thomas Merton remain a refuge: 

“At the center of our being is a point of nothingness that is untouched by sin and by illusion, a point of pure truth, a point or spark which belongs entirely to God… It is like a pure diamond, blazing with the invisible light of heaven. It is in everybody, and if we could see it we would see these billions of points of light coming together in the face and blaze of a sun that would make all the darkness and cruelty of life vanish completely.” (From Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander)

Identity begins with the cry of the newborn infant — yearning, craving, hunger. This is the cry to be known, to be seen, to be heard. This is the cry for love, love that unites the physical, sexual, emotional, and spiritual. As the infant grows into adulthood, this yearning takes the form of questions: Who am I? What am I doing here? How can I make a difference? These are perennial human questions that have been asked since antiquity. These are the questions of identity.

Today these are not merely questions for personal reflection. They are urgent. The urgency stems from the seemingly crushing list of crises facing our world today — from climate change to war, poverty, violence, and persistent forms of illness. Surely every generation has had its share of urgent crises, from basic survival — finding enough to eat, shelter, clothing — to threat of invasion, as well as the violence done from one human being to another, best captured by the “seven deadly sins”. This is nothing new.

What is new, especially in the west, is that many no longer trust the institutions that historically have provided guidance and direction. As a result, we see major changes in societal structures that until fairly recently have been slow to change. This is true in religion, government, economics, education, medicine, entertainment, and sports, to name just a few. In the past, each of these institutions were a foundational building block that offerred security. Our identity was defined in terms of the religion we followed, the political party we belonged to, the level of income we generated through career, the education we received, and so on and so on.

Today, all of these insitutions are in flux, and questions of “who we are” as a society have never been more urgent. From racial violence to war to climate change to ObamaCare, we are living through times that challenge our sense of who we are individually and collectively as never before.

For many (certainly not all!) of us in the west, we have plenty of food, water, housing, and access to education. Ours are not so much problems of basic survival. Instead the questions of identity that we face are questions about purpose: “What am I doing here? How can I made a difference in a world that is plagued with suffering? How can I find purpose without falling off into into despair that tells us that human society is ultimately doomed by its own creation? How can we survive this crushing anxiety?

Buddhism offers tremendous power, both in perspective and in actual practices that can be helpful. Buddhism suggests that before we dive headlong into tackling the world’s problems, that we grapple with our personal sense of identity. This requires deep faith, for it means commitment to an examination of self, looking at all the many pieces of who I am, and who I am not, while trusting that this inner personal journey will have value in contributing to a more humane society.

What happens when we take this inner plunge? First, we discover that my usual way of answering the questions “who am I? “what am I doing here?” emerges as a long list of roles, like: wife, mother, friend, daughter, sister, neighbor; and categories of identification: race, ethnicity, gender, and sexual orientation; and career choices. The answer to “Who am I?” becomes a statement, like: “I am a white female, of Russian and Irish descent, who is politically eclectic, a writer, dancer, teacher, wife, mother, and daughter.”

Each of these words captures some aspect of who I experience myself to be. But none of these roles captures all of “me”. When I am honest, I sense that even with this long list, there is some other “me” behind or beneath all of these aspects of identity. It’s not that any of them are false or untrue. They are merely the first rung to examine. To go beyond this rung is to tap into what Buddhist nun and teacher Pema Chodron calls the “groundlessness” of our being.

Experiencing this groundlessness is not usually something that we welcome easily. Often it is triggered through an experience of deep loss. It may be the loss of a spouse, parent, child, or dear friend or companion; or the loss of a career, home, community, or cherished dream. We begin to experience groundlessness. It’s a feeling of “coming apart at the seems”, or “the ground shifting beneath us”, or “no longer feeling like myself”. We become overwhelmed with emotions like fear, anger, and sorrow.

This experience of groundlessness happens when our identity, or some part of our identity, is challenged, or we discover that whatever we are holding onto no longer exists, or is merely an illusion. We no longer know who we are and cannot imagine who we might become. In this shifting world of identity we are in a constant state of flux, seemingly unable to find an anchor in the world, or in ourselves.

Ironically, this state of groundlessness in which everything seems to be in flux, is exactly what science is telling us is the true nature of all things. This reality is poetically captured by John Philip Newell who writes:

All things come from you O God,
and to you we return.
All things emerge in your great river of life
and into you we vanish again.
At the beginning of this day
we wake
not as separate streams
but as countless currents in a single flow
the flow of this day’s dawning
the flow of this day’s delight
the flow of this day’s sorrows
your flow, O God,
in the twistings and turnings of this new day. (1)

This poem lovingly embraces the flow of reality; or to put it another way, reality is flow. It’s a beautiful concept, and conjurs up images of rivers and streams. Science echoes this deep mystical impulse, telling us in the language of “quarks” and “quantum particles”, that things are not what they seem. Physical reality is not solid and fixed but in a constant state of moving, of flow.

The theory sounds good. When we look at trees and plants and birds and human babies, we see that over time these living forms shift and change and grow. But science is saying more than that. Science is telling us that all matter is moving, and it’s moving, not over time, but right here, right now, in this very moment. In other words, the tables and chairs and the couch that are in the living room are moving. Now it’s one thing to hear a scientific theory expounded but it’s quite another thing to live into this perception. If I walk into a room and perceive the walls moving, I would probably be considered to be having in the midst of a psychotic episode. Welcome to the land of flow.

For most of us, when we look at tables and chairs and couches we perceive them as solid and fixed. Even when we look at living tree, for example, the tree appears still, motionless. Intellectually, we know that the tree, like all living things, is growing. But that is not what see with our eyes. To suggest that our eyes do not convey a true picture of reality is an enormous shift in how we view ourselves and the world. This shift is exactly what science demands of us.

We human beings don’t like this sort of change much. We didn’t like it when were told that the world is round, not flat. We didn’t like it when Einstein said that…………. We didn’t like it when the washing machine came along and changed time honored ways of doing laundry. When science, technology, or some other aspect of reality challenges our fundamental perception of how we view ourselves and the world, it threatens our identity — for identity is precisely how we define ourselves in the world. To change the world means that we must change. It means giving up some idea, perception, or ways of doing things that have been a longstanding part of our experience. My grandmother thought the washing machine was “of the devil” and until she died washed all her clothes by hand.

Most challenges to our identity are on a far more personal level, however. Loss is one of the most profound challenges to our identity. The loss may be through death of someone close — a spouse, partner, parent, child, teacher, or friend. Or the loss may be through the ending of a job or career, whether the ending came voluntarily or not. The loss may be economic, when we suddenly feel frightened not to have enough money to cover expenses. The loss may trigger feelings of despair, if we lose a sense of purpose. Often parents experience this when children grow up and leave the home. Some people look forward to life in retirement, only to discover that one’s sense of structure, purpose, and meaning has dissolved into a huge expanse of time, with no sense of how to use that time productively. losing a sense of purpose.

Any one of these experiences threatens our identity because the loss feels so deep, as if a very part of our body has been taken away. Initially we may refuse to accept the change but sooner or later acceptance comes. When we our identity feels threatened we touch what Buddhist meditation teacher, Pema Chodron calls the “groundlessness of our being”. Our experience of groundlessness happens when what we thought was solid, fixed, and unchangeable is now gone.
The very ground beneath us seems to break apart. This can be a terrifying experience. When something, or someone, or some part of ourselves is suddenly gone, we face the terror of facing the unknown, and may feel profoundly alone.

This experience re-ignites the yearning cry of the infant, no matter how old we are. There is no greater pain than to have this yearning remain unfulfilled. Yet beneath the cry of yearning persists the voracious hunger to live, to grow, to move beyond the experience. I know this pain, this hunger, this will to live.

I loved my mother dearly and was very young when she became ill. When she died, I felt ripped apart, as if my very body were being shredded. With every fiber of my being I tried to will her back, and as the reality that she was gone sank in, I sank into suicidal depression. As I grew into adulthood, I found much success in education and work, but there was an inner hole that no amount of success could fill. That inner hole was where groundlessness remained.

Buddhist meditation gave me a way of approaching that hole, learning to inhabit it. Slowly I learned how to breathe through feelings of groundlessness, and all the anger, fear, and sorrow that go with deep loss. As I learned to sink into my sense of identity as “a motherless child”, I discovered a deeper sense of myself as a child of God, belonging to the world, anchored in Life. The profound sense of loneliness that I had carried all my life began to lift, and I gained a sense of presence.

Though the details of this story are uniquely mine, the process of identity formation is not. The hunger that begins in infancy is a hunger that we all share, and our first experience of identity begins with the presence of mother. As we grow, our sense of identity is shaped through the totality of our experiences — relationships with parents and other caregivers, teachers, friends and intimate relationships; education in and out of school; jobs and career; travel; sports; entertainment and so on.

Deep loss often triggers a period of identity re-formation that emerges out of the sense of groundlessness. Moving through this process, we may find our inner being mirrored in images of hurricanes, war, and earthquakes. We hear the echo of our inner being in various kinds of literature, films, and other forms of art. This harmonic relationship between our inner terrain and exeriences playing out in the world around us is not accidental. Religious scriptures express practice to express this deep resonance between inner and outer reality, offering humanity a place to anchor one’s sense of self, our identity at the deepest levels of our being. Spiritual practice is the vehicle for nurturing the awareness of and trust in this resonance. As we let go the many forms of identity that we have collected, we learn to trust an inner authority. This isnot the ego, but someting deeper. We learn to trust more deeply the process of Life itself, Life moving thru us, Life as context that we belong to. A new identity emerges, more deeply tethered to universal Life.

21st century Christianity (like so many forms of religious and secular institutions) is going thru this same process of new identity formation. In the last seventy-five years, the institutional authority of the Church has been dissolving. This is a complex process of evolution in the west. While numerous explanations can be given for why, there is no question that is has happened. And for many Christians and others, this has been a terrifying process.

As the authority of the Church lessened during the last one hundred years, the institution has had to confront very real questions of “Who are we? What are we? What are we doing here?” This process of reflection has rippled through every level of the hierarchy of Christianity, from the smallest parish to the deepest reflections of the Pope; across all denominations, Roman Catholic, Protestant, and non-denominational forms of Christianity.

This is a process of institutional identity re-formation. Signs of new identity emerging are seen throughout Christianity: new ways of crafting liturgy, worship; use of new technologies; new forms of seminary education that train clergy; new denominations appearing; interaction between Christianity and other religious traditions, both in theological reflection as well as interfaith spiritual practices; in the endless books, journal and magazine articles and blogs about Christianity today —- what it is, what it is not.

If, as science tells us, everything is flow, is there some aspect of who I am that doesn’t change? If “I” am not the various roles that I play, nor my relationships, home, or job, who am I? In some sense, “I am my body”. But while I may think of “my body” as a solid thing — a collection of bones, muscles, organs, skin — these seemingly solid things are actually living structures, in motion with every breath. And how easily I ignore that “my body” is mostly water. “My body” is a potent example of “flow”. It turns out that “I am” is more of a verb than a noun.

And yet, the question remains, is there something beneath it all, even beneath the flow? In the fourteenth century, Catherine of Sienna grappled with this question and answered it this way:

“…. when I finally see myself as I am, I do not discover a little nugget of lonely selfhood…I discover myself being loved into existence.”

In a conversation with God, Catherine reports that God told her:

“…it was with providence that I created you, and when I contemplate my creature in myself, I fell in love with the beauty of my creation.” (2)
Centuries later, Evelyn Underhill echoes these same impulses:

“This is a secret that has always been known to men and women of prayer, something we can trust and that acts in proportion to our trust. Sometimes it is on our soul that He lays His tranquillizing touch and stills the storm; sometimes on the hurly-burly of our emotional life, sometimes on events that we think must destroy us or the people and causes we love and who are mysteriously modified by the Spirit that indwells and overrules them. We do feel sometimes as if we are left to ourselves to struggle with it all. He is away praying on the mountain, or He is asleep in the oat; the waves seem to be getting decidedly higher, the night is very dark and we don’t feel sure about our gear — we begin to lose our nerve for life and no one seems to mind. Certainly life is not made soft for (people of prayer); but is is, in the last resort, safe. The universe is safe for souls.” (3)

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(1) John Philip Newell, Praying with the Earth: A Prayerbook for Peace (Grand Rapids, Michigan/Cambridge, U.K.: Wm. B. Eerdmans Pulishing Co, 2001), page 26.

(2) Catherine of Sienna, Passion for the Truth, Compassion for Humanity, edited by Mary O’Driscoll (Hyde Park, N.Y.: New City Press, 2005, 2013), page 94 (Dialogue 135).

(3) Evelyn Underhill, Light of Christ: Addresses given at the House of Retreat Pleshy, May, 1932 (Eugene, Oregon: Wipf and Stock Publishers, 1945), page 71.

“In the beginning….” says the writer of Genesis, “God created the heavens and the earth. Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters. And God said, ‘Let there be light,’ and there was light.” So begins the first chapter of Genesis. This is the grand cosmic movement — God giving birth. The journey of awakening begins, as history unfolds — one event, one era leading into the next — a continuous flow, marked by time.

But what is this “flow”? According to the dictionary,“flow” is “a steady, continuous stream of something.” This “something” might be a river in perpetual motion, or the movement of the sun around the earth — night becomes day, and day becomes night. “Flow” is the emergence of flowers, trees, fish, and babies from humble beginnings as seeds and cells. The very nature of thinking is flow, as thoughts, feelings, and sensations pass through consciousness. This organic movement, the “steady, continuous stream” of nature, is “flow”, the context through which all life breathes, shifts, grows, and dies.

David Bohm (1917 – 1992) was a 20th century physicist who was an early proponent of the idea that all physical reality is one undivided flow — that “flow” is the nature of being, the nature of life. In one sense this idea of reality as flow seems obvious, and yet Bohm was ahead of his time. Since Newton, physics defined “physical reality” in terms of particles — discrete bits of matter, fitting together like a jigsaw puzzle. Bohm suggested that these particles, the building blocks of physical reality, were not particles, and that they were not discrete. Rather, reality was movement, an all-embracing unity of flow.

Why is this important? When I look at a tree, I see a thing, an object — something that appears to be solid, not moving, and separate from me. Intellectually, I know that the tree is growing; I may even observe changes in the tree from season to the next, one year to the next. But my basic perception of the tree is rooted not in movement but in non-movement. I see the tree as a static object.

Bohm observed that our normal perception — not only of trees but of ourselves and everything in the world — is shaped in part by the structure of our language, which is rooted in “subject/object” form. “I” am the subject. Trees, animals, mountains, and other people are objects, and the objects are nouns. Bohm challenges this way of perceiving. Reality, says Bohm, is not a noun but a verb. Reality is not split into subject and objects. Reality is a continuous, undivided flow, more like a giant movie that we all participate in.

My husband and I were recently in Thailand. Everywhere we went, we were surrounded by tourists from all over the world, most of whom were recording their experiences in video on cell phones. Never before has a generation had such a voluminous record of human experience. The accessibility of video means that increasingly we record our experience not merely as a collection of still photographs but as a “moving picture”, a continuous stream, a flow.

This is a dramatic evolution of human perception that brings Bohm’s scientific theory up close and personal. No longer is the “stream of consciousness” a private activity that occurs interiorly. Widespread use of video shifts the “stream of consciousness” into a shared expression of embodied life; our experience is recorded and so reflected back to us, as movement, flow. The impact of video is to change the very processing mechanisms by which we experience life. Video allows us to perceive life flowing in every human interaction, as well as in every rock, stream, plant, animal — every aspect of human experience unfolding in time.

Theories are never born in a vacuum. One theory builds on another. Bohm’s work built on the foundation of another major western thinker, Alfred North Whitehead (1861-1947). Whitehead was an English philosopher and mathematician who lived a generation before Bohm. He suggested that reality is a perpetual process of “becoming”; a continual movement, an undivided process through which all things are perpetually emerging from one form to another. Flow.

Whitehead, like Bohm, was also ahead of his time and his ideas were not well received in the west. However, Whitehead’s “process philosophy” — the idea that reality is an organic flow, a process of becoming — gained a receptive audience in Asia. Whitehead’s concept of “process” fit in well with the eastern concept of energy as the life-force, the animating principle, in all things. For thousands of years, eastern philosophy and medicine has been rooted in the study, examination, and techniques to work with this life-force energy. In China this energy is called “chi”; in Japan it is called “qi”, and in India it is called “prana”. Whitehead’s “process philosophy” seemed less foreign to the eastern mind than to his colleagues in the west.

Increasingly, disciplines from Asia such as acupuncture, shiatsu, martial arts, qigong and yoga are widely available in the west. This influx of eastern perspectives and techniques challenges our usual western way of approaching the human body. In the west, we tend to think of our bodies as objects made up of individual parts, each part assigned to a medical specialty, like cardiology, neurology, or psychiatry. We forget that our bodies are mostly fluid — water, blood and other liquids — and that tissues, organs, and even bones are living, breathing, flowing vessels of life, each intricately connected to the whole. When we look at the body from an energy perspective, as Eastern disciplines have done for centuries, we see the body more as a verb than a noun. We discover that, indeed, we are living in a house of flow.

Whitehead and Bohm suggest that we see everything — rocks, hills, trees, birds, and human beings — in terms of flow. They suggest that we learn to see ourselves and the world we inhabit more like liquids than solids; more of a unified field, than a machine with individual parts, or a jigsaw puzzle to be figured out.

It’s one thing to hear these ideas intellectually, and engage mental debates about the nature of reality. But something happened that shifted this material from being an intellectual exercise to an embodied experience — one that made a tangible difference in my life. The more I studied Whitehead and Bohm, the more I intellectually focused on the concept of “flow”, the more I noticed that my actual perception of myself and the world changed. As I absorbed the idea that reality is flow, I began to experience flow more directly.

To my surprise, the more I experienced flow, the calmer I felt. A deep sense of “well-being” spontaneously emerged. I was learning that the experience of “flow” was not neutral. Rather, the experience of flow provided a window into the compassionate presence inherent in all life. A journey that began in the realms of science and metaphysics led me directly into a spiritual experience. I had tripped into a state of consciousness that is cultivated in meditation, a realm that may be called by various names, a Loving Presence that exists in all things. Whitehead called this Presence the “subjective aim” or “lure” that is inherent in the “flow”, the unfolding of Life.

I continue to discover that exploring “flow” offers tangible experiences into this transcendent realm. As a practicing Christian, using religious language and imagery as a context for these experiences comes naturally.

Christianity tells the story of Jesus Christ who fully embodies the Loving Presence of God. Jesus lives a human life marked by great challenge, betrayal, and dies a gruesome death. The life of Jesus is also a life transfigured. This is a story infused with miraculous healings that transfigure human suffering. Jesus emerges as Jesus the Christ whose death is transfigured into resurrection, pointing toward the end of death for all. The path of Jesus Christ is the path of unconditional Love. This is the call to give unconditionally to others, to relieve suffering, and release the chains of slavery and injustice, whether these chains exist physically, mentally, emotionally, or institutionally. This is the path that the Buddhists call “The Way of the Bodhisattva”.

The life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ is the story of God’s love expressed through an outpouring of forgiveness, tenderness, and all embracing concern for others; Love that transforms all suffering and breaks open the human heart. It is the story that captures the depth of human suffering, joy, intimacy, and service, and ushers into being what Christians call the “kingdom of God”. “Stepping into flow” is the reorientation of mind, body, and spirit into this mystical path of Love.

Why would a lifelong Episcopalian practice Zen meditation?

For most of my life, I have been an active member of one Episcopal Church parish or another, busily praying and serving and doing a range of “good works”. But as the years passed, I became increasingly uncomfortable in Church. I had learned to present a “Church-friendly” version of myself — a person that looked and sounded “good” but kept hidden the fullness of what was really going on inside. I had learned to maneuver around Church community, staying very busy doing “good things” but daring to express real grief or fear or doubt — especially doubt about God! Being “successful” in Church meant that I lived as a shell of myself.

A well of doubt lived beneath the pretense of “looking good” — doubt about God, about many of the Church teachings, and whether the teachings had any relevance to my life. These teachings included “articles of faith”, like the Nicene Creed, and various doctrines, such as the doctrine of the resurrection, incarnation and the trinity. And let’s not forget the real zinger, the doctrine of Original Sin. What do these doctrines mean? Are they merely teachings of old that largely reside in books on dusty bookshelves? or can they breathe new life into faith? Questions about these “basic teachings” are routinely shrugged off as either irrelevant or indications of weak faith.

The message behind the message of Christian teaching is often to “shut up and believe.” I was no longer willing to do so. I challenged the prevailing view of Original Sin that dooms human nature. I no longer accepted that Christianity was somehow the superior religion, while other religious traditions were inferior. I was weary of those who warned of the dangers of exploring other religious faiths and practices. These “dangers” were often cloaked in the language of Satan, suggesting that Christians who explore other faith traditions are going “against God”, as if the Christian God is somehow too small to include anything beyond what the Church claims is true. Increasingly, I felt unsure what the term “Christian” meant and whether I was willing to claim a “Christian identity”.

Gradually, as I spoke out about how uncomfortable I was feeling with Christian teaching and identity, I began to realize that I was not alone. The more I spoke out and listened to others share similar feelings and experiences, the more a painful reality dawned: the fullness of who we are — is not welcome in the Church. Church life demands that we “leave outside the door” the depth of what we think, feel, believe and practice in order to adhere to Christian teachings. In the process, many of these teachings no longer inspire or invigorate faith.

The sadness of this reality was overwhelming and frustrating. I yearned for a deeper understanding, hoping that understanding would alleviate my discomfort, or at least show me why the Church had lost her power to inspire, let alone heal, and had in many cases been a vehicle for harm. I went to seminary looking for answers. I read wonderful books, engaged in lively discussions with brilliant teachers and students, and discovered in myself a deep passion for the study of theology. Four years of seminary training had given me more words, concepts, and ways to debate questions of faith. But the sense of despair I felt only deepened. The Church has squandered her rich inheritance, building a hierarchy that no longer supports faith, dissolving into warring factions that maintain the illusion of separation, and focusing on maintaining power that has long since been lost. The clarion call of Jesus — to love God and neighbor as oneself (Mark12:28-31; Matthew 22:36-40; Luke 10:27) and forgive (Mark 2:1-12; Matthew 9; Matthew 18:21-35; John 7:53-8:11, Luke 23:34) — remains buried in the ashes. I felt still more fragmented: my intellect had expanded, but my body seemed further away.

My first encounter with Buddhism was through the writings of the Buddhist teacher Pema Chodron. The titles of her books grabbed me — titles like: “The Wisdom of No Escape” and “Start Where you Are”. The titles became silent mantras that soothed my weary mind and body. Inside Pema Chodron’s books, I heard messages about “the essential goodness of human beings”, with an emphasis not on belief but on the practice of breathing and meditation. These messages echoed some of the messages in the Christian mystical tradition, especially the work of Fr. Thomas Keating and the practice of contemplative prayer. But the Buddhist teachings offered more specific ways of understanding and working with the inner world of thoughts, feelings, moods and fantasies. Practicing Buddhist meditation became a doorway into a deeper sense of authenticity, of myself and my relationship with the world.

Some years later, my son invited me to a zendo (a zen meditation hall). In my first zendo experience and in the many times I’ve returned since, I experience what I can only call “Divine Presence”. This sense of Presence is so palpable it’s as though you could reach out and scoop it up, like a ladle of soup. At first I was startled. I’d been taught that this Presence was available only in Church, associated with Jesus and the Holy Spirit. But the feeling was unmistakable. No thought, confusion or doubt —just a knowing, as if held in the arms of Divine mystery.

Zen practice was giving me a whole new way to experience God. Ironically, this Zen way means putting aside all the language and questioning about God, Jesus and the Church. Zen challenges me to give up my most cherished images of who I am, who God is and trust that something new will emerge. In the process, I experience periods of overwhelming confusion, fear, and bewilderment discovering how hard it is to stay in the space of “not knowing” who I am or what I believe. And yet as I learned this sitting, I experienced tremendous relief — relief to admit “not knowing”, to accept fears and allow doubts to surface, breathe, and speak their reality; to “dress down” rather than “dress up”.

In sudden flashes of awareness, Christian doctrines begin to dance through my mind. I experience what the “doctrine of creation” claims to be true — that God is present in all that is, that nothing can be apart from God. Most Christians can probably parrot these words but Christian teaching promotes a very different experience: God is “out there”, separate from His creation; while Jesus, God’s Son, remains a distant, perfect, yet unreachable savior. As I learn to sit, breathe and let go what emerges is a deeper sense of authenticity, the very thing I was missing as a “practicing Christian”. This is a felt sense of belonging in myself, in the world, in God. This is an experience of breathing in and through the very fabric of Life, feeling Life breathing through me, in my body and mind.

The more I sit, the more alive I feel. As I learn to surrender who I think I am, to surrender the sense of “I”, what emerges is an experience of the interpenetrating unity of all Life: the Divine Presence breathing in and through everything, every being, every breath, every ounce of experience. Who is God? Who is Jesus? What is the Church? Who am I? Zen calls such a questions “life koans” — questions that gnaw at us, haunt us in the core of our being and shape our journeys. I’ve struggled with these questions for most of my life. Through Zen practice, I feel anchored in a more authentic sense of self and confidence in my own voice, learning to listen with deeper compassion to others. I experience a childlike sense of divinity which knows no separation between self and God. This is the closeness of the womb, of being at the center of creation. Breathing in, breathing out. The rhythm of life. This is a profound gift.

The great surprise of Zen practice is finding myself returning to Church! In sitting and chanting Buddhist texts, my Christian faith is invigorated with a new sense of awe and wonder, nourished through familiar Christian stories and the liturgical calendar. I discover new vibrancy in Christian liturgy and sacraments, the essential instruments of Church life. I find renewed hope that, with all her failings, Christianity holds seeds that have tremendous potential to help a suffering world. And I experience renewed energy to help those seeds flourish. This is not “inter-faith dialogue”. This is “intra-faith” experience.

In this essay, I offer many words to express that which remains inexpressible. Perhaps the words of the ancient psalmist are a fitting close: “Be still and know that I am God…” (Psalm 46.10)