"I don't know where the moral center of the universe is any more," said the president of the Boston anti-poverty agency last week in a New York Times column by Bob Herbert. At issue: budget cuts that hurt the most vulnerable and neediest in our society as politicians make sure there are tax breaks for the rich while social services are slashed. Don't people matter?
Apparently not, at least in Florida, where our GOP governor, who proclaims his faith in Jesus but fails to live it, reduces the pay of teachers and other essential state employees with ruthless budget cuts.
Other examples of people living without moral standards:
1. Bernie Madoff, interviewed today for the first time, claims to be a victim of a corrupt system and suggests that the people he swindled knew perfectly well what was going on in his Ponzi scheme. Like the self-serving sinners in Dante's Hell, he remains deluded, locked both in prison and in his own ego. He belongs in the lowest circle of Inferno, in the icy realm where traitors continue to betray themselves and others.
2. John Boehner, asked if he should correct people in his party who claim that Barack Obama is a foreign-born Muslim, responded, "The American people have a right to think what they think." So much for moral leadership. True leaders confront lies and speak the truth. When Holocaust deniers make their absurd claims, they must be corrected. How else do we prevent racism and hatred? The Obama-haters take pleasure in, and get empowered by, seeing the president as an outsider; they need to be ignored, at best, or silenced. By refusing to condemn such hatred, the Speaker of the House revealed that he has no moral center; he is hollow at the core.
People matter; values matter. Enough said for now.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Magical Thinking--and Praying
In a recent blog, Frank Wilson talked about "magical thinking," which is not easily defined. I think the issue is related to prayer, so this post will be one of my reflections on prayer, in part a response to a friend's request, his interest in learning more about why and how people pray.
According to Wilson, the primal human engagement with the world was not logical, a matter of clear and distinct ideas, but more of a mystical encounter; not an objective, clinical observation. This is a valid way of apprehending reality, he says, and it "survives in quite a few of us" because magical thinking, involving how we feel as well as think, doesn't "radically detach the knower from the known." A purely rational approach to reality, by contrast, downplays imagination and emotion. It puts the other/Other "out there."
All of this seems to me relevant to prayer, a private experience not any easier to discuss than "magical thinking." It begins, usually, with words, as in a petition, then, ideally, proceeds to the non-verbal, to silence, the kind of silence Thomas Merton and others have talked extensively about wherein I can, on a good day, sense and feel the presence of God. I also feel a closeness to others.
So prayer is not really a narcissistic endeavor, any more than meditation is; it is not merely asking for favors but asking for God to make us aware of His presence within us. The contemplative prayer that is my goal when I pray leads to a resting in God.
It might begin with simple observation of the world around me, an appreciative sense of the present as a gift; it might use a word or scriptural phrase that is repeated until it is no longer needed.
It is quite possible, even desirable, to have this type of prayer as an ongoing activity throughout the day. That is what Merton presumably meant by having "an uninterrupted dialogue with God." Perhaps what we hear is our own voice coming back to us, but the knower is inseparable from the known, so what we hear can be called the voice of God whispering in the silence of our hearts.
Does prayer do any good? Can I change reality by praying for someone? I often doubt it. I remember C. S. Lewis writing to his brother and saying (paraphrased), "I don't known if my prayer does you any good, but it helps me." And that is not self-serving for reasons I just stated.
Why do I pray? To help myself deal with problems both external and internal: the daily fears we all have, the worries and decisions and choices that can't be made alone, that require "outside" help--help that is other than my inner self. I need the comfort that Someone is listening to my concerns, One who understands loneliness, pain, disappointment, and all that flesh is heir to.
Do I have the feeling of God's presence in church? Yes, at times, when the church is quiet and I am not distracted by the presence of others; but it happens mostly in those fought-for periods of silence when I am alone and my busy mind quiets down long enough to sense that I am not really alone. It can happen when I am in awe at the beauty of creation, absorbed in music or reading...all of which can be mystical experiences.
I know I need to say more, to define some of these indefinable terms, to say more about the mystery of an experience that is really beyond words. And I wish the process of praying was as easy for me as I have made it sound. Perhaps this rumination will lead to other reflections...
According to Wilson, the primal human engagement with the world was not logical, a matter of clear and distinct ideas, but more of a mystical encounter; not an objective, clinical observation. This is a valid way of apprehending reality, he says, and it "survives in quite a few of us" because magical thinking, involving how we feel as well as think, doesn't "radically detach the knower from the known." A purely rational approach to reality, by contrast, downplays imagination and emotion. It puts the other/Other "out there."
All of this seems to me relevant to prayer, a private experience not any easier to discuss than "magical thinking." It begins, usually, with words, as in a petition, then, ideally, proceeds to the non-verbal, to silence, the kind of silence Thomas Merton and others have talked extensively about wherein I can, on a good day, sense and feel the presence of God. I also feel a closeness to others.
So prayer is not really a narcissistic endeavor, any more than meditation is; it is not merely asking for favors but asking for God to make us aware of His presence within us. The contemplative prayer that is my goal when I pray leads to a resting in God.
It might begin with simple observation of the world around me, an appreciative sense of the present as a gift; it might use a word or scriptural phrase that is repeated until it is no longer needed.
It is quite possible, even desirable, to have this type of prayer as an ongoing activity throughout the day. That is what Merton presumably meant by having "an uninterrupted dialogue with God." Perhaps what we hear is our own voice coming back to us, but the knower is inseparable from the known, so what we hear can be called the voice of God whispering in the silence of our hearts.
Does prayer do any good? Can I change reality by praying for someone? I often doubt it. I remember C. S. Lewis writing to his brother and saying (paraphrased), "I don't known if my prayer does you any good, but it helps me." And that is not self-serving for reasons I just stated.
Why do I pray? To help myself deal with problems both external and internal: the daily fears we all have, the worries and decisions and choices that can't be made alone, that require "outside" help--help that is other than my inner self. I need the comfort that Someone is listening to my concerns, One who understands loneliness, pain, disappointment, and all that flesh is heir to.
Do I have the feeling of God's presence in church? Yes, at times, when the church is quiet and I am not distracted by the presence of others; but it happens mostly in those fought-for periods of silence when I am alone and my busy mind quiets down long enough to sense that I am not really alone. It can happen when I am in awe at the beauty of creation, absorbed in music or reading...all of which can be mystical experiences.
I know I need to say more, to define some of these indefinable terms, to say more about the mystery of an experience that is really beyond words. And I wish the process of praying was as easy for me as I have made it sound. Perhaps this rumination will lead to other reflections...
Saturday, February 26, 2011
How Lucky am I?
In the current issue of Commonweal, John Garvey writes a brief essay on a huge topic: Am I lucky or blessed?
People of faith generally prefer or are expected to be blessed when good things happen rather than merely lucky, merely the recipient of the whims of Lady Luck. But what if a tree falls on, and kills, my neighbor and not me, is God responsible?
Garvey is more comfortable being lucky than blessed, he confesses, opening up an issue that demands fuller treatment than he or I can give it. I think first of Boethius, the 6th century Roman thinker whose work greatly influenced the Christian Middle Ages. He contended that God is superior to fortune, which exists in time, whereas God is outside time. Fortune or luck operates in human time beyond acts of the will, including God's. The divine mind, then, cannot be held responsible for everyday events, despite some fundamentalist claims to the contrary.
I cannot, as a guy in the movies might, shout to the heavens, "Thank you, God!" for making the traffic light change just in time for a driver to make it to the nearest Starbucks to meet the girl of his dreams before she runs off....
Yet if we see God as Being itself (not a being who controls us, much less micro-manages our lives), God may be ultimately responsible for everthing that exists but only indirectly for what happens. His presence and reality in and with us do not preclude the existence of chance and accidents, which have nothing to do with the divine will, nor do they affect human free will.
So God has nothing to do with making the tree fall on my neighbor and not on me. Nothing to do with awful choices I might make. Bad things happen to good people, many of whom are unlucky and often stupid.
To be blessed implies, says Garvey, a relationship with someone who can bestow or withhold favors. This would seem to imply a fairly primitive, simplistic idea of God as a heavenly Santa Claus. My God is beyond all such random acts, yet I thank God for the people who perform random acts of kindness. I am grateful to God for the reflections of his love in our world.
So I, too, am mainly lucky; as a person of faith, however, there are times when I want to believe that God's will and my needs coincide, when God does indeed answer my prayers and cause good things to happen. How else could I be grateful?
I can't be grateful to Lady Luck. So I guess, in some things at least, I am blessed.
People of faith generally prefer or are expected to be blessed when good things happen rather than merely lucky, merely the recipient of the whims of Lady Luck. But what if a tree falls on, and kills, my neighbor and not me, is God responsible?
Garvey is more comfortable being lucky than blessed, he confesses, opening up an issue that demands fuller treatment than he or I can give it. I think first of Boethius, the 6th century Roman thinker whose work greatly influenced the Christian Middle Ages. He contended that God is superior to fortune, which exists in time, whereas God is outside time. Fortune or luck operates in human time beyond acts of the will, including God's. The divine mind, then, cannot be held responsible for everyday events, despite some fundamentalist claims to the contrary.
I cannot, as a guy in the movies might, shout to the heavens, "Thank you, God!" for making the traffic light change just in time for a driver to make it to the nearest Starbucks to meet the girl of his dreams before she runs off....
Yet if we see God as Being itself (not a being who controls us, much less micro-manages our lives), God may be ultimately responsible for everthing that exists but only indirectly for what happens. His presence and reality in and with us do not preclude the existence of chance and accidents, which have nothing to do with the divine will, nor do they affect human free will.
So God has nothing to do with making the tree fall on my neighbor and not on me. Nothing to do with awful choices I might make. Bad things happen to good people, many of whom are unlucky and often stupid.
To be blessed implies, says Garvey, a relationship with someone who can bestow or withhold favors. This would seem to imply a fairly primitive, simplistic idea of God as a heavenly Santa Claus. My God is beyond all such random acts, yet I thank God for the people who perform random acts of kindness. I am grateful to God for the reflections of his love in our world.
So I, too, am mainly lucky; as a person of faith, however, there are times when I want to believe that God's will and my needs coincide, when God does indeed answer my prayers and cause good things to happen. How else could I be grateful?
I can't be grateful to Lady Luck. So I guess, in some things at least, I am blessed.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Reader's Block?
When I check out Andrew Sullivan's Daily Dish blog, I am invariably introduced to articles I would not otherwise discover. Most recently, comments by the British writer Geoff Dyer, who, while shaped by his wide reading, has, for whatever reason, begun to suffer, not from the usual writer's block, but from an aversion to reading.
Perhaps, as he confesses, he is overdisciminating, maybe even lazy. He feels guilty, apparently, in not being motivated to read as he did twenty years earlier. He is right in saying that much fiction being published is a waste of time. Perhaps he is impatient and thus affected by the immediate gratification we all quickly learn from the media.
There are so many options out there for anyone intellectually curious, as Dyer obviously is. It is hard to concentrate on reading because, I think, we have learned from the computerized world of messaging that speed counts; the result is a scattering of our attention. Some would say that too much reliance on the web makes our thinking shallower.
Adam Gopnik, quoting Nicholas Carr in the current New Yorker, makes this
point. I suspect that Dyer has much in common with Sven Birkerts (author of "The Gutenberg Elegies"), who laments the loss of inner life that has long been made possible by the leisurely reading of fiction.
The way the social media and even the web make being unavailable a sin has clear implications for any serious reader, who needs uninterrupted time and attention, which are all too rare given the extensive competition.
Dyer no doubt would nod in agreement at the words of Rumi (the 13th cent. Sufi mystic): "I have lived too long where I can be reached."
Perhaps, as he confesses, he is overdisciminating, maybe even lazy. He feels guilty, apparently, in not being motivated to read as he did twenty years earlier. He is right in saying that much fiction being published is a waste of time. Perhaps he is impatient and thus affected by the immediate gratification we all quickly learn from the media.
There are so many options out there for anyone intellectually curious, as Dyer obviously is. It is hard to concentrate on reading because, I think, we have learned from the computerized world of messaging that speed counts; the result is a scattering of our attention. Some would say that too much reliance on the web makes our thinking shallower.
Adam Gopnik, quoting Nicholas Carr in the current New Yorker, makes this
point. I suspect that Dyer has much in common with Sven Birkerts (author of "The Gutenberg Elegies"), who laments the loss of inner life that has long been made possible by the leisurely reading of fiction.
The way the social media and even the web make being unavailable a sin has clear implications for any serious reader, who needs uninterrupted time and attention, which are all too rare given the extensive competition.
Dyer no doubt would nod in agreement at the words of Rumi (the 13th cent. Sufi mystic): "I have lived too long where I can be reached."
Friday, February 18, 2011
A Thing of Beauty
Suddenly, here in central Florida, what passes for winter seems to be over and spring with its flowering trees and shrubs has arrived. Azaleas, the most showy, are emerging along with the dazzling yellow trees called tabebouia.
It so happens we received an orchid last week: 12 white blossoms clustered on two stalks, a phalaenopsis, with butterfly-like blooms, each with a pink center. I hope this thing of beauty will be a joy until Easter.
I had been ignoring our garden until today, when the lure of the outdoors, the desire to plant and weed and enjoy the sunshine asserted itself. When the hot summer weather arrives, all this enthusiasm will melt; for now, life and renewal are here. Now is what matters.
I remember Thomas Moore, in his popular book from the 1990s, Care of the Soul, saying that we all need beauty in our lives. The soul, which he never tried to define, seeks out beauty. Perhaps one way to explain this is to say how easy it is to become dispirited when we have nothing natural or beautiful around us.
The spiritual challenge for me is to look at the familiar with fresh eyes, to de-familiarize my surroundings so that, like Montaigne, I can see things from new perspectives. Having lived in the same house for more than 30 years, it is easy for us to take it for granted. Mindfulness allows me to go from room to room and imagine I am photographing everything or seeing it as a visitor would. I begin to admire the wallpaper, the framed prints, even the familiar furniture, rather than looking at the tasks that need to be done.
Along with this mindfulness comes gratitude for the items we have acquired for our home as well as for the green and growing things outside. I am grateful for the mirrors that bring part of the garden indoors, and on a radiant day like today, it is possible to imagine I live in a grand mansion.
It so happens we received an orchid last week: 12 white blossoms clustered on two stalks, a phalaenopsis, with butterfly-like blooms, each with a pink center. I hope this thing of beauty will be a joy until Easter.
I had been ignoring our garden until today, when the lure of the outdoors, the desire to plant and weed and enjoy the sunshine asserted itself. When the hot summer weather arrives, all this enthusiasm will melt; for now, life and renewal are here. Now is what matters.
I remember Thomas Moore, in his popular book from the 1990s, Care of the Soul, saying that we all need beauty in our lives. The soul, which he never tried to define, seeks out beauty. Perhaps one way to explain this is to say how easy it is to become dispirited when we have nothing natural or beautiful around us.
The spiritual challenge for me is to look at the familiar with fresh eyes, to de-familiarize my surroundings so that, like Montaigne, I can see things from new perspectives. Having lived in the same house for more than 30 years, it is easy for us to take it for granted. Mindfulness allows me to go from room to room and imagine I am photographing everything or seeing it as a visitor would. I begin to admire the wallpaper, the framed prints, even the familiar furniture, rather than looking at the tasks that need to be done.
Along with this mindfulness comes gratitude for the items we have acquired for our home as well as for the green and growing things outside. I am grateful for the mirrors that bring part of the garden indoors, and on a radiant day like today, it is possible to imagine I live in a grand mansion.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Pulling the Plug
Some time ago, I wrote about our habit, inspired by my wife's insistence on having quiet Sundays, of disconnecting from the world for about 24 hours a week, from Saturday evening to Sunday evening. Why? Because we write and need uninterrupted time.
Just recently I encountered what seems like an entertaining book by Susan Maushart, "The Winter of our Discontent," about her decision, despite (and because of) having three teen-age kids, to pull the plug on all media and technology. For six months. Cold turkey.
She felt that the girls were becoming "accessories to their non-stop social networking," as if real life were "a dress rehearsal for the next status update." It was a life dominated by the artifice of computers and personal media.
Using Thoreau as her guide, Maushart, a divorced mom, was apparently able to restore some broken family ties and to discover what she calls the surprising pleasures of boredom. I like that. The joy of doing nothing but being. The main thing: the kids began to stop and listen; they slowed down. Bravo!
No doubt the family ate dinner together and shared their lives with each other. The question, of course, is Now what? After the six months, will they return to their own disconnected ways, like the characters in the Italian film of yesteryear, "L'Aventurra," who occupy separate islands? Or will, as I hope, they have learned an enduring lesson about the need to unplug, slown down, and re-connect with each other?
Just recently I encountered what seems like an entertaining book by Susan Maushart, "The Winter of our Discontent," about her decision, despite (and because of) having three teen-age kids, to pull the plug on all media and technology. For six months. Cold turkey.
She felt that the girls were becoming "accessories to their non-stop social networking," as if real life were "a dress rehearsal for the next status update." It was a life dominated by the artifice of computers and personal media.
Using Thoreau as her guide, Maushart, a divorced mom, was apparently able to restore some broken family ties and to discover what she calls the surprising pleasures of boredom. I like that. The joy of doing nothing but being. The main thing: the kids began to stop and listen; they slowed down. Bravo!
No doubt the family ate dinner together and shared their lives with each other. The question, of course, is Now what? After the six months, will they return to their own disconnected ways, like the characters in the Italian film of yesteryear, "L'Aventurra," who occupy separate islands? Or will, as I hope, they have learned an enduring lesson about the need to unplug, slown down, and re-connect with each other?
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