Incarnation Place Blog

“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)

“May there be kindness in your gaze when you look within….  May your compassion reach out to the ones we never hear from.”

John O’Donohue, To Bless the Space Between Us, p. 44-5

Pulsating at the core of every human being is the longing for love — to love and be loved. To perceive this core, and to strive to relieve the suffering that hinders love, is the purpose of human life. The purpose of religion is to draw forth this essential core, to shape, mold, and channel human energy in the service of Love. When this happens the dignity of humankind is revealed.

It is a lofty goal that Christianity has often failed to live up to, as a growing number of books, blogs, and movies unveil. These failures leave deep pain embedded in the institutional psyche of Christianity. It is pain that drains the energy and life out of faith and quietly grows like a cancer. Often today’s churchgoers are haunted by thoughts like: “Why am I sitting here? The service no longer has any meaning…” or “The priest says that I’m welcome but it’s not true…” or “So much talk about death, but there’s no room to mourn, not really.” Many conclude: “I believe in God, but I can’t go to church anymore.” They walk away silently, leaving hundreds of once-filled parishes empty.

This is the pain of separation — from God, from ourselves and one another. Ironically, Christianity has fostered this sense of separation in portraying a God who remains in a distant place, separate from His creation; and a view of human beings as being inherently flawed, forgivable only through an act of grace. Life is viewed as a journey of struggle which ends in physical death — at which point the human being is released into heaven, another dimension separate from “this world”, where suffering is absent. While theologians would argue that this characterization of Christianity is not theologically sound, such theological arguments ignore that this is the experience of many sitting in the pews.

This sense of separation has deep roots in Christian theology and doctrine. The birth of Pentecostal Church (known as the “Black Church”) in the 19th century was one attempt to bridge the gap between self and the “otherness” of God and neighbor. For the first time since the Enlightenment, Pentecostal services encouraged Christian expression of faith that included the depth of human joy as well as the pain of grief, rage and fear. Human emotion was poured out in “gospel hymns”, like “Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child”, bringing into modern consciousness the energy of the Psalms.

Pentecostalism brought tremendous life and energy into Christian worship by opening the door of human passion and emotion, and sharing those depths with God. This was a major turning point in the evolution Christianity and has inspired many other styles of worship, including “Charismatic” and other forms that integrate upbeat music and encourage emotional expression.

But while Pentecostalism and the movements that continue to evolve from it bring forward human passion, the sense of God as distant and separate from human beings remains firmly in place. This sense of separation ripples through most forms of Roman Catholic, Protestant, and non-denominational worship services. Cloaked in the language of Original Sin, there is a deep belief in the “essential badness” of the human being — that you and I are, by nature, not good enough. This is a perspective that traps Christians in a shame-based view of themselves, others, and the nature of humanity. It leads to a life rooted in fear and desperation, and keeps God and others distant and unreachable. The cycle leaves many Christians feeling alone and ashamed.

Christian teaching is marked by a “we/they” perspective. The “other” may be practitioners of other religions, or other denominations within Christianity, including “non-denominational” groups. The “other” may be based on sexual identity, gender, geography, musical or liturgical preference, or a variety of ways to name “other-ness”. Christians are so accustomed to living in this “we/they” perspective that it is hard to imagine another. If we dare to scratch the surface of the “we/they” perspective, we find many who crave intimacy with themselves and others, and with God, and who struggle to find that intimacy in the Church.

Christians have lost touch with the simple truth that human beings matter. We matter because each person, Christian or not, is a magnificent creation of God. We matter because we are made of the divine perfection that ripples through all space and time, known and unknown, in mysteries revealed and unrevealed. God is “in charge”, not as a punishing tyrant but as the spiritual reality who weaves creation out of love. We are living breathing molecules of this creation, not separate from it, not separate from one another. We forget how much we matter. Maybe we never knew. Or maybe we feel so lost in shame that we doubt our very right to matter.

If religion can make a positive difference, and I believe it can, it must show us how to live the reality of mattering. Religion can only make a positive difference if it demonstrates how to integrate the mystical, theological, and the practical into daily human life. Christians have a long history of reaching out to those in need, establishing schools, hospitals, orphanages, and helping those who are hungry and homeless. This is wonderful work. But Christianity has lost touch with a healthy sense of self and is unable to appreciate that “you” and “I” are two sides of an essential unity.

Christianity, for all its flaws, holds essential truths. The story is not over. Jesus continually points to the Greater Reality, called “kingdom”. “Kingdom reality” requires that we shift our perspective. This is the reality of interconnection, in which all aspects of Life belong to an unbroken web. We shift from “I” to “we”. Jesus encourages his disciples to trust, let go of fear and worry, to love neighbor as self. Spirit is not the possession of the Church but the fabric of existence. When we open to the experience of this Greater Reality, we touch Life in a new way, pulsating in every moment. We awaken to the essential goodness of human beings and of Life itself. 

Greetings fellow travelers! Here is the first of a three part reflection on my journey with St. Augustine and his best known work, The Confessions. May my journey help you claim yours. Feel free to post your reactions.

JOURNEY WITH AUGUSTINE (PART 1)

Dad loved life, martinis, ideas, and books.  One of his favorite writers was St. Augustine, whose writings held a prominent place on our massive bookshelves.  Dad often quoted Augustine’s heartfelt prayer, “Lord, give me chastity and continence, but not just yet.” (Book VIII. vii. (17))

The quote is from Augustine’s spiritual autobiography and best-known work, The Confessions.  In that book, Augustine plunges into his inner being in a desperate search for honesty with himself and with God.  He reviews his life and reveals an explosive turmoil of passion, anxiety, restlessness, faith, and doubt, all held together by an unquenchable thirst for God.  I was afraid of that book, afraid that I wouldn’t understand it, or maybe that I would.  I was afraid it might force me to admit the force of my own inner turmoil.  Mostly, I was afraid of disappointing Dad.

It came as a big surprise that not everyone held Augustine in such high esteem.  In four years at seminary, I discovered that Augustine is the guy everyone loves to hate, whether or not they read any of his books!  Few seminary students had the interest or patience to deal with Augustine — his dark, brooding obsessiveness can be frustrating, repetitive, and downright boring.  Who cares about his doubts, anxieties, and endless questioning of himself, God, and the Universe? It’s easier to ignore him, or hate him.  Most people do.

There are exceptions. I remember one professor who drew our attention to Augustine’s power to name the peculiar inner conflicts that if we’re honest we all suffer: “In adversities I desire prosperity, in prosperous times I fear adversities. Between these two is there a middle ground where human life is not a trial?” (Book  X. xxviii. (9))  I get it! No matter how much success, fame, or whatever else I reach for, it’s never enough —  there’s always something more, some new desire to propel me into a frantic search for happiness.

It took years before I trusted myself enough to read The Confessions, but Dad’s love for Augustine was infectious, and eventually I dared to walk through the pages of that hallowed book.  When I did, I found a “companion on the inner way” (to borrow a Morton Kelsey title).

Augustine is on fire with love for God and God’s creation.  He aches to understand God, to know and surrender to God, while at the same time groping with the inner forces that keep him from God. As he reviews his life, Augustine rides waves of joy and sorrow, exaltation and despair.  What makes Augustine’s journey so compelling is that he directly confronts the powerful oppositional forces that exist within him: doubt existing alongside deep faith; fear and trust; arrogance and humility.  He discovers again and again what St. Paul observed centuries before: “I do the very thing I do not want to do.   (Romans 7:15)

In his groping, Augustine’s exploration of himself invites me to see what I do not want to face in myself: my doubts and anxieties, resistance and rage; my passion, unfulfilled longing, and endless questioning of myself, God, and the Universe.  Above all, Augustine helps me face my fears — a thousand different forms of fear that at the end of my life I will face God without having fully faced myself.

Augustine deals head-on with the paradox of human embodiment that has plagued Christianity from the start: if all that God created is good, if human beings are supremely good, why are there forces within us that propel human beings to act in ways that are destructive, uncontrollable and, seemingly, contrary to God’s intentions for humanity? How can that be? What are we to do with ourselves?

Augustine’s response was what came to be known as the doctrine of original sin.  Though the concept of original sin had appeared earlier, Augustine was the first to write extensively about it. Original sin was Augustine’s way of naming this aspect of humanity, reflected in the story of Adam and Eve, that leads human beings to turn away from God; to think and act in ways that are harmful to self and others and lead to suffering. But his point — the point of the doctrine of original sin — is to name human frailty, not to condemn humanity, nor contradict the message of Genesis that says what God created is good, very good indeed. (Genesis 1.31)

Augustine’s brutal honesty reflects a faith that trusts God absolutely; a faith in the perfection of God’s creation, including his creation of me. This is faith that who I am — including every drop of my restless, searching, grasping mind, and all OF my anxieties, resentments, and mistakes — is God’s raw material.  This is faith that God loves me, not when I get cleaned up and perfected, but just as I am, right here, right now. This is faith that says: Breathe, you are alive.  You are a perfect creation not in spite of your humanity, but because of it.

“Let us explore together the secret of a deeper devotion, a more subterranean sanctuary of the soul, where the Light Within never fades, but burns, a perpetual Flame, where the wells of living water of divine revelation rise up continuously, day by day and hour by hour, steady and transfiguring.” (Thomas Kelly, Quaker theologian; from his book “The Light Within”, page 31)

Do these words resonate? Post a comment.

We are made in the image of God.  My body and yours are sacred creations.  I forget that alot.  But I can remember, again and again, as if for the first time.  When I remember, I claim the privilege of being human.

J. Philip Newell (Echo of the Soul: The Sacredness of the Human Body) offers a lovely image of our bodies like royal garments woven with gold. “If the golden thread were to be ripped out of the clothing the whole garment would unravel. So it is with the image of God woven into the mystery of our being. If somehow it were to be extracted we would cease to exist.”

Do you believe that your body is sacred?  Can you “act as if” this were true,  just for today?  What difference does this one belief make?

Let me know what you think.

From the Book of Common Prayer, Service of Evening Prayer:

“Lord Jesus, stay with us, for evening is at hand and the day is past; be our companion in the way, kindle our hearts, and awaken hope….”

Do you want God (however you know God) to stay with you?  Do you trust God enough to stay?  Why or why not?

Psalm 139: 1-3

O LORD, you have searched me and known me!
You know when I sit down and when I rise up;
you discern my thoughts from afar.
You search out my path and my lying down
and are acquainted with all my ways.

I love these words. They teach me that I am not alone. They show me that I am seen, that I am loved just as I am. They heal my desire to be someone else, somewhere else. Now what?

Do you know that you are not alone? Do you long to be seen, known, loved just as you are? What if you are? What holds you back from embracing the fullness of life?