It was an interesting, albeit jarring, juxtaposition, coming near the end of a concert already a few miles removed from my personal musical preferences. The artist was a little bit Liberace, a little bit Jim and Tammy Faye, a little bit Sarah Palin, a little bit Billy Mays, and a little dash of Hollywood. It was, in many ways, worth the price of admission (which, I recall, had been free) just to see the spectacle of all those threads woven into one man and his wife -- dramatic, flamboyant, endearing, huckstering, politicking, preaching. It was quite a combination. Then, as the artist inched toward the climax, he reflected at length on the historical, theological, moral and ultimately global significance of the recent 4th of July holiday before launching into a "mash up" of Let There Be Peace on Earth and God Bless America. Back and forth, like the warp and weft of a loom, the artist wove from the alternated themes a tapestry of implied Manifest Destiny and favor. The audience was on their feet, singing along.
Well, I stood; begrudgingly. I doubt many noticed that I wasn't singing.
Now, a day later, I still haven't teased out all the reasons for my dis-ease. Rehearsing in my mind the lyrics to the song, apart from the otherwise undeveloped phrase, "with God as our Father," there isn't anything intrinsically religious about Let There Be Peace on Earth, though it is in our church hymnal and I can't think of any time I have ever sung it outside of a religious observance. While I suppose it can be construed as a prayer, the grammar really suggests more of a personal vow and resolution that I doubt many non-religious types would have much difficulty singing. And the nature of "peace" is never really defined.
Still, it seems almost hymn-like; religious in character if not overt content. It's not that I want to hoard all aspirations for peace within the religious community; God knows it will take all of us -- religious or not -- to inch us ever nearer that longed for global community. Which hints, I think, at the source of my musical discomfort. While I certainly hope God does bless America, I would like to think God might equally be considerate of Italy and Ireland and New Zealand and Nicaragua and Haiti and the Galapagos Islands -- to say nothing of the African continent, Canada, Mexico, Brazil... Well, you get the point. And to imply, by the conflation of songs, that global peace is somehow uniquely, proprietarily tied to God's blessing of America feels...I don't know...wincingly narrow, uncomfortably arrogant, and, frankly, historically suspect. We have certainly had our moments. As a nation we have made precious contributions to the world in the monetary, moral, and industrial sense. But in other ways...not so much. To harp on the latter without appreciating the former is petulant grouchiness; but to laud the former while denying the latter is myopic at best and recklessly dangerous at worst.
I don't really think God needs us to keep incessantly reminding ourselves of how special we are. Haven't we been around enough children absorbed by that very self-indulgence to know how irritating that can be? One of these days, perhaps all of us in the global community can find room for the bumper sticker Lori noticed the other day on the car we were following: "Yes, you are special -- just like all the rest of us."
That, it seems to me, might be the day when peace really does come to the earth, and we can imagine a new song to sing.
Showing posts with label Peace. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Peace. Show all posts
Monday, July 12, 2010
Friday, March 27, 2009
Sometimes, Ever So Rarely, a Good Idea
Wednesday night the high school youth took their turn on the labyrinth. I'll have to admit, I was reticent. They are, after all, teenagers whose very job description is to be unpredictable -- emotionally mercurial, intermittently mature, fiercely compassionate while simultaneously cloyingly narcissistic. We can be having the deepest, most insightful conversations one minute, and then effortlessly slip sideways into petty trivialities and gossip the next without so much as a comma, let alone a period and a new paragraph. They are, I suppose when I put it that way, only louder, slightly more hormonal versions of the rest of us.
So, I had some questions about how the labyrinth would go. It is a silent walk, and our group isn't known for being quiet. It requires personal space, and our group is incessantly sitting on, picking at, playing with and throwing things at each other. It demands persistence, and we don't stick very long with very much -- except, I'll have to say, with each other, and that last fact gave me some hope. The labyrinth was either going to be just intriguing enough to hold our attention, or a total bust.
I began with a little history, then transitioned to a few instructions -- primarily involving leaving each other alone -- asked everyone to remove their shoes and then to mentally, spiritually prepare. I suggested they simply sit quietly before beginning the walk, and when finished, to consider sitting back down to reflect for a moment before leaving, since this was to be the last activity of our time together this week. I invited them to have no preconceptions or expectations of the experience, but to simply take the walk and allow it to be whatever it might be. It isn't magic, I said. Some people, I told them, find it a waste of time; others find it to be a very powerful, enlightening, even emotional experience of insight, clarity and holy presence. It is, I suggested, not for everyone, and while I hoped they would try it, it was not a requirement. Do it if you want, or don't. And then I stopped.
It was quiet as I walked to the back of the room where another adult was trying to get my attention. After conferring there and clarifying a few logistical questions, I turned to rejoin the group. I was aware that the gentle music was the only sound I could hear, and the labyrinth was alive with footsteps. It really was something beautiful and awe-filling. Slipping off my own shoes, I joined the group among the circuits, and when later I finally reached the center, I found the space quite crowded. All of the kids were there, still utterly silent; none yet ready or willing to begin the path back out. Everyone graciously made room for the next to arrive, and as I had suggested, gradually stood in a different place in the center to take in its unique view. After several minutes, one simply sat down at the edge of the center and bowed his head.
Eventually the circuits were animated by exiting steps, slowly, patiently, reverently working their way back out. From there, each moved to the chairs and sat quietly. Still, the one remained seated at the center, head down, unmoving. No one spoke; no one moved -- even the one who had opted to sit this one out remained silent and still. A moment later, the last walker rose and made his way back out and into a chair. A palpable spirit held us in suspension. It was time to leave, but no one was really willing to break the moment. Finally I asked if anyone wanted to comment about the experience.
"I told someone at school what we were going to be doing tonight, and how dumb it sounded, and how I was going to just laugh my way through it. But I loved it. I have never felt that peaceful. You are wrong -- there is something magic about it."
And the one who had lingered so long in the center said, in a voice calmer than I have ever heard from him, said, "for the first time in my life I felt at peace with myself. And it's strange; I was aware of walking in to the center, but I don't remember walking back out. I never knew when I left. This was an amazing experience -- the closest I think we can come to Nirvana."
A few other comments were shared, underscores of the others, and then gently, almost reluctantly, we filed out the aisles to go home. Just before exiting the door, one turned back for one last look...
...one last breath...
...one last savor...
...of the peace.
And locking the door and driving home, I somehow felt it, too. Every once in awhile -- ever so rarely -- you have a good idea.
So, I had some questions about how the labyrinth would go. It is a silent walk, and our group isn't known for being quiet. It requires personal space, and our group is incessantly sitting on, picking at, playing with and throwing things at each other. It demands persistence, and we don't stick very long with very much -- except, I'll have to say, with each other, and that last fact gave me some hope. The labyrinth was either going to be just intriguing enough to hold our attention, or a total bust.
I began with a little history, then transitioned to a few instructions -- primarily involving leaving each other alone -- asked everyone to remove their shoes and then to mentally, spiritually prepare. I suggested they simply sit quietly before beginning the walk, and when finished, to consider sitting back down to reflect for a moment before leaving, since this was to be the last activity of our time together this week. I invited them to have no preconceptions or expectations of the experience, but to simply take the walk and allow it to be whatever it might be. It isn't magic, I said. Some people, I told them, find it a waste of time; others find it to be a very powerful, enlightening, even emotional experience of insight, clarity and holy presence. It is, I suggested, not for everyone, and while I hoped they would try it, it was not a requirement. Do it if you want, or don't. And then I stopped.
It was quiet as I walked to the back of the room where another adult was trying to get my attention. After conferring there and clarifying a few logistical questions, I turned to rejoin the group. I was aware that the gentle music was the only sound I could hear, and the labyrinth was alive with footsteps. It really was something beautiful and awe-filling. Slipping off my own shoes, I joined the group among the circuits, and when later I finally reached the center, I found the space quite crowded. All of the kids were there, still utterly silent; none yet ready or willing to begin the path back out. Everyone graciously made room for the next to arrive, and as I had suggested, gradually stood in a different place in the center to take in its unique view. After several minutes, one simply sat down at the edge of the center and bowed his head.
Eventually the circuits were animated by exiting steps, slowly, patiently, reverently working their way back out. From there, each moved to the chairs and sat quietly. Still, the one remained seated at the center, head down, unmoving. No one spoke; no one moved -- even the one who had opted to sit this one out remained silent and still. A moment later, the last walker rose and made his way back out and into a chair. A palpable spirit held us in suspension. It was time to leave, but no one was really willing to break the moment. Finally I asked if anyone wanted to comment about the experience.
"I told someone at school what we were going to be doing tonight, and how dumb it sounded, and how I was going to just laugh my way through it. But I loved it. I have never felt that peaceful. You are wrong -- there is something magic about it."
And the one who had lingered so long in the center said, in a voice calmer than I have ever heard from him, said, "for the first time in my life I felt at peace with myself. And it's strange; I was aware of walking in to the center, but I don't remember walking back out. I never knew when I left. This was an amazing experience -- the closest I think we can come to Nirvana."
A few other comments were shared, underscores of the others, and then gently, almost reluctantly, we filed out the aisles to go home. Just before exiting the door, one turned back for one last look...
...one last breath...
...one last savor...
...of the peace.
And locking the door and driving home, I somehow felt it, too. Every once in awhile -- ever so rarely -- you have a good idea.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Thresholds to a Culture of Peace
At the transition into the new century, UNESCO gave imaginative reflection to just what might go into a recipe for a culture of peace. Their conclusion -- called a "Manifesto for a Culture of Peace" -- numbered six items. They have their own ways of imagining those six; I have mine, as expressed in narration during the closing ceremony of our sixth Thresholds Festival to a Culture of peace:
1. Respect all Life
In our imagination, God’s voice is the first thing we hear – speaking out loud the Divine Imagination, and with a word calling all life into being – snail and owl and salmon and ape; dragonfly and butterfly, anemone and grape; and somewhere along the way, you and me. Leaf and lamb; sparrow and sponge; walnuts and women; minnows and men – all singularly and chorally echoing the very voice of God. Imagine a world in which those echoes found themselves in harmony – valuing and respecting the augmenting voices that collectively swell us into something new and ever more beautiful. Dream of a world that sings in a fundamentally different key. Dream into being a world whose pulse beats with the conviction that there is nothing so courageously strong as holding the hand of creation in affectionate, profoundly appreciative love. The imagination begins, then, with a basic respect for all life, without discrimination or prejudice.
2. Reject Violence
Peace: the very word itself reflects an onomatopoeic expression of its intent. “Peace.” Even spoken in anger the word maintains its hold on a higher character and beckons those who hear and speak it to let go of violence – if only for a moment – and reach prayerfully toward its possibility. “Give us,” we implore of some higher power or each other or perhaps our own better nature, “give us…peace.”
3. Share With Others
There are wars to end and mountains to climb; there are burdens to lift and oceans to both swim and cross, but there may well be nothing that requires more strength than opening one’s fist, loosening one’s grip, and sharing. “The Earth provides enough,” observed Gandhi, “to satisfy everyone’s need, but not everyone’s greed." The earth provides enough, but until we believe it we will budge our way to the head of the line in desperate, grasping, hoarding fear. There is enough for us to share with others. If we will.
Change and the stewardship of creation can scarcely gain much momentum until we begin to simply pay attention – attention to big things, to be sure, but small ones as well: the distinctive kinks of a winter tree’s barren branches; the thawing pools in the midst of a frozen lake; the arch of an eyebrow reacting in surprise; shoulders melting in a loving embrace; and movement, like the way a necklace moves on a breathing chest. Noticing; attending; paying close, invested attention.
4. Listen To Understand
Listen to understand – understand the hopes that get me out of bed in the morning or the hurts that drag your face down into your hands. Listen to understand – the particular dialect that gives you some hint of my story. Listen to understand the gifts you have to offer and willingly, eagerly hope will be welcomed, honored, and used. Listen to understand the gratitude whose loudest expression is “joy” – for living, for loving, for connecting and for forgiving; for singing and breathing and eating and glorying in the sheer exhilaration of simply being. Listen to understand the simple happiness of “Amen.”
5. Preserve the Planet
Despite the flags we stake in it and the boundary lines we carve in it; despite the cement we pour over to control it and the holes we drill down to rape it, at the center of our faith and the humility of our souls pools this abiding truth: that the earth is not our own. This much we know: that mudded into form by the earth’s very soil, we are siblings with all there is; and the earth is our womb. This much else we know: that we nourish each other when we Preserve the Planet.
Lungs swell and fill with invisible, unnoticed air. Eyelids blink and the pupiled irises soothe with unconsidered wash. Some things are so common, so very much a part of our experience, that we don’t notice them until they’re gone – the song of a bird, the crystalline wonder of snow – a simple drop of rain. Precious and beautiful these essential gifts and vulnerable graces.
6. Rediscover Solidarity
Each of the six points to culture of peace is driven by a verb, representing in their very expression that peace demands action. It has never been the purpose of this Thresholds Festival to merely gather us together for sympathetic intellection. It has always been its purpose to inspire, to evoke, and to stimulate movement well beyond this place and weekend. Peace, like love, is not merely something we are “in,” it’s something that we “do.” And so we come to the end of the Festival, but only to a fresh beginning of our longing and living for peace. The movement begun in these sessions must now find its way into different patterns of living. The rhythms and currents that have swept through this house must now find expression in yours, and your neighbor’s, and beyond; and rediscovering solidarity with all God’s people and the gifts we bring, hand in hand, amplify the voice that gave us birth.
1. Respect all Life
In our imagination, God’s voice is the first thing we hear – speaking out loud the Divine Imagination, and with a word calling all life into being – snail and owl and salmon and ape; dragonfly and butterfly, anemone and grape; and somewhere along the way, you and me. Leaf and lamb; sparrow and sponge; walnuts and women; minnows and men – all singularly and chorally echoing the very voice of God. Imagine a world in which those echoes found themselves in harmony – valuing and respecting the augmenting voices that collectively swell us into something new and ever more beautiful. Dream of a world that sings in a fundamentally different key. Dream into being a world whose pulse beats with the conviction that there is nothing so courageously strong as holding the hand of creation in affectionate, profoundly appreciative love. The imagination begins, then, with a basic respect for all life, without discrimination or prejudice.
2. Reject Violence
Peace: the very word itself reflects an onomatopoeic expression of its intent. “Peace.” Even spoken in anger the word maintains its hold on a higher character and beckons those who hear and speak it to let go of violence – if only for a moment – and reach prayerfully toward its possibility. “Give us,” we implore of some higher power or each other or perhaps our own better nature, “give us…peace.”
3. Share With Others
There are wars to end and mountains to climb; there are burdens to lift and oceans to both swim and cross, but there may well be nothing that requires more strength than opening one’s fist, loosening one’s grip, and sharing. “The Earth provides enough,” observed Gandhi, “to satisfy everyone’s need, but not everyone’s greed." The earth provides enough, but until we believe it we will budge our way to the head of the line in desperate, grasping, hoarding fear. There is enough for us to share with others. If we will.
Change and the stewardship of creation can scarcely gain much momentum until we begin to simply pay attention – attention to big things, to be sure, but small ones as well: the distinctive kinks of a winter tree’s barren branches; the thawing pools in the midst of a frozen lake; the arch of an eyebrow reacting in surprise; shoulders melting in a loving embrace; and movement, like the way a necklace moves on a breathing chest. Noticing; attending; paying close, invested attention.
4. Listen To Understand
Listen to understand – understand the hopes that get me out of bed in the morning or the hurts that drag your face down into your hands. Listen to understand – the particular dialect that gives you some hint of my story. Listen to understand the gifts you have to offer and willingly, eagerly hope will be welcomed, honored, and used. Listen to understand the gratitude whose loudest expression is “joy” – for living, for loving, for connecting and for forgiving; for singing and breathing and eating and glorying in the sheer exhilaration of simply being. Listen to understand the simple happiness of “Amen.”
5. Preserve the Planet
Despite the flags we stake in it and the boundary lines we carve in it; despite the cement we pour over to control it and the holes we drill down to rape it, at the center of our faith and the humility of our souls pools this abiding truth: that the earth is not our own. This much we know: that mudded into form by the earth’s very soil, we are siblings with all there is; and the earth is our womb. This much else we know: that we nourish each other when we Preserve the Planet.
Lungs swell and fill with invisible, unnoticed air. Eyelids blink and the pupiled irises soothe with unconsidered wash. Some things are so common, so very much a part of our experience, that we don’t notice them until they’re gone – the song of a bird, the crystalline wonder of snow – a simple drop of rain. Precious and beautiful these essential gifts and vulnerable graces.
6. Rediscover Solidarity
Each of the six points to culture of peace is driven by a verb, representing in their very expression that peace demands action. It has never been the purpose of this Thresholds Festival to merely gather us together for sympathetic intellection. It has always been its purpose to inspire, to evoke, and to stimulate movement well beyond this place and weekend. Peace, like love, is not merely something we are “in,” it’s something that we “do.” And so we come to the end of the Festival, but only to a fresh beginning of our longing and living for peace. The movement begun in these sessions must now find its way into different patterns of living. The rhythms and currents that have swept through this house must now find expression in yours, and your neighbor’s, and beyond; and rediscovering solidarity with all God’s people and the gifts we bring, hand in hand, amplify the voice that gave us birth.
Thursday, January 4, 2007
"...the hopes and fears of all the years..." are met in crowbars and sledgehammers
I've read enough Brother Cadfael mysteries to comprehend that monasteries aren't always chanting pools of spiritual and fraternal placidity. Monks are, after all, people with all the complexities, emotions and frailties that designation implies. Still, I was surprised by the small news notice that appeared in the waning days of Advent titled "Rebel monks hole up at chapel after clash at Orthodox sanctuary." The short paragraph went on to describe the conflict in Thessaloniki, Greece between "rival groups of monks" -- a description that already seemed jarring -- "carrying crowbars and sledgehammers" that had to be subdued by police after seven people were injured. And what, you might ask, is the rub between these two prayerful fellowships? A "long-standing dispute between legally recognized monks and a rebel monastery that opposes Orthodox Church efforts to improve relations with the Vatican" (The Des Moines Register, Friday, December 22, 2006).
God knows we can't tolerate any improved relations -- especially between church bodies! Next thing you know we could find ourselves engaged in something ominous, like real dialogue; then -- and this gets really scary -- maybe even genuine understanding. Before you know it, we could find ourselves mired in an inextricable morass of tolerance, respect and -- perish the thought! -- peace. Better for those with their prayerful ears to the ground to nip such an ominous eventuality in the bud with their crowbars and sledgehammers. After all, if such a tectonic shift in global affairs and human interactions were to actually materialize, what would be next? Wolves living with lambs? Calves and lions and fatlings together? Cows and bears grazing side by side? Lions eating straw alongside the ox?
What would the church -- and its monastic constituents -- have left to pray for, hope for, work for? It's as though we would be out of job.
Now there is an Advent prayer, made even more vivid in the bright light of Christmastide.
God knows we can't tolerate any improved relations -- especially between church bodies! Next thing you know we could find ourselves engaged in something ominous, like real dialogue; then -- and this gets really scary -- maybe even genuine understanding. Before you know it, we could find ourselves mired in an inextricable morass of tolerance, respect and -- perish the thought! -- peace. Better for those with their prayerful ears to the ground to nip such an ominous eventuality in the bud with their crowbars and sledgehammers. After all, if such a tectonic shift in global affairs and human interactions were to actually materialize, what would be next? Wolves living with lambs? Calves and lions and fatlings together? Cows and bears grazing side by side? Lions eating straw alongside the ox?
What would the church -- and its monastic constituents -- have left to pray for, hope for, work for? It's as though we would be out of job.
Now there is an Advent prayer, made even more vivid in the bright light of Christmastide.
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