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Technorati Tags: Alien Invasion, Man from Planet X
Passion Hierarchy and Van Gogh
Some time ago I heard a preacher say, "Our passion for God must be greater than all our other passions." And I got to wondering:
No doubt, for a Christian, Moslem, Jew…passion for God is a touchstone, it is fuel. As the author of Ecclesiastes implies, passion is the energy that weaves together and creates the whole brocade of life.
But the thought that our passion for God must be greater than all other passions begs for me this question: Is it true that my passion for art, for a good book, a companion, a camp fire, or a walking stick and a well fitted back pack is separate from my passion for God?
My passion for a walk in the woods is not the same thing as my passion for God, but neither is it different. It’s a mystic thing, a Zen thing. Passion for God informs all my passions and any passion that makes me flourish informs my passion for God.
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So when we try to be more passionate about God, we unconsciously pit our passion for family, for life, for the smell of cut grass after a rain, against a love and passion for God. This is what allowed the Pharisees to twist passion into a duty, and abandon their obligation to family and supposedly devote all their time to God. A ruse for which that Jesus had words.
No, when it comes to the things that put wind in your sails, there can be no passion hierarchy. I’m with Van Gogh, "To love God, it is necessary to love many things."
Technorati Tags: Van Gogh, Passion, Beauty, Christianity, Spirituality
On learning to not give a rat’s ass
It’s been strange and shaky week. I’ve gone from not sleeping to sleeping in. The weather has been moody to suit. Never had this much trouble coming off a holiday. Wanting to care, but not. Caring too much, wanting not to care. And so it’s come to this rumination:
I suppose if there was one item not worthy of either retention or divestment, it would be a rat’s ass. It’s just one of those things most of us can get through the day without giving or having.
The complicating issue is that in order not to give a rat’s ass, one must first be in possession of a rat’s ass. Of course most of us deal with this as follows: I could give a rat’s ass, but I don’t; but if I did, I would, if I had to, go and find a rat, remove ass, and not give it.
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Procuring rats’ asses so as to then be in a position of either giving or keeping a rat’s ass is a messy and rabies-ridden business. Better to stay clear of the whole Rat’s Ass business.
But as I outlined earlier I think we can handle the whole not-giving-rats’-asses in the abstract. With the exception of exterminators, this works for most of us.
So here’s my admission: Over the years I’ve given countless rat’s asses. I’ve found that the spiritual discipline of not giving a rat’s ass–or if you prefer, "So do not worry about tomorrow…, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own."–is the hardest to cultivate and the easiest to give up on. I find myself not giving a rat’s ass about not giving a rat’s ass. And that double negative brings a big weighty positive.
I need help and I admit it. First step.
I remember a church baptismal service, where, during the prerequisite testimonial, one candidate, after a few preliminary remarks he was trying to read off of a sheet of paper, remarks he had obviously been coached in, simply threw up his hands and said, "The reason I’m here is because God has me by the short and curly’s!" The pastor blanched and the audience cleared their throats. Besides being a great testimony, it was a wonderful moment of not giving a rat’s ass.
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Men in Black Dress
For reasons that are often beyond me I feel a kind of beneficent breeze every time I go out to St.Peter’s Abbey, in Saskatchewan.
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But there is nothing romantic about this monastery. Most of the twenty five or so monks who remain are old, many are tired, and a couple are infirm. Young monks enter, but it’s unlikely their numbers will overcome the attrition rate.
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Sometimes it feels to me that perennial winter has set in on the Abbey. And yet they remain, living together, wearing their black habits, working at their given tasks. And then at the sound of the bell, five times each day, from Lauds to Vigils, they drop what they are doing and walk to the chapel for another half hour of chanting and praying the Psalms. And it is prayer they hope to be shaped by.
Brother Francis, afflicted with Alzheimer’s towards the end of his long life, was, until his death, always wheeled to the chapel by the brothers for prayer. He would often startle visitors by suddenly shouting out bits of the Psalms. The Psalms remained when everything else was gone.
It’s this counter attitude that attracts me and keeps bringing me back to the monastery. I am more than curious by their belief that being cloistered within a monastery, while sharing everything and owning nothing, is a freer way of life, and that before anything else it is a good way of living the gospel.
I too long to be schooled in love and service, as St. Benedict rejoins in his Rule. I too long for emancipation from the unspoken dictates of culture and its slavery to fashion and "correct thought". But I’m not that stable, open to conversion, or obedient (the three vows). Just thankful for the guys in black scapular’s who are.
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Technorati Tags: St. Peter’s Abbey, Benedictine, Christianity, Peace, Religion, Spirituality