Using God as a tool to punish ourselves.

When we want to feel bad, we do.

I thought about stopping right there, but that would make for a very short blog. 

When we want to feel bad, though we may not know it, we do feel bad.

Not enough explanation?   How about:

When we want to feel bad, though we may not know we want to feel bad, and when we also rationalize, deny, and repress our way out of it, we do manage to make ourselves feel bad.

Yah.  That's more like it.

Some situations come up where we do something, or think something and feel bad about what we just did.  Perhaps you just don't want to go to our relative's house for dinner, but you would rather not tell yourself this.  Because, everyone knows that you need to get along with your relatives.  Something must be wrong with you if you just don't want to show up, right?

So what do we do?

Suddenly our stomachs don't feel that good, or we just got too tired, or we suddenly have a headache coming on.  Any excuse rather than the one that we just don't want to go.

It is funny that many times, when I made these rationalizations, I ended up feeling bad.  If I used the excuse, "gosh I'm too tired!" I would realize later that indeed, I was too tired.  If I felt a migraine coming on (which I have felt before but one has not developed ) then later a real migraine did come on.

It seemed that whatever rationalization became true, and I felt physically worse.  What was happening is that I was punishing myself for feeling that I didn't want to go or do something.

Most of the time, I was unaware that this self-deception and shame was causing these physical problems.  The initial lie I told my friends or relatives, and the rationalization so I wouldn't have to know that I lied to them caused me to lie to myself.

Now I want to change the phrase, "When we want to feel bad, we do." to:

When we want to feel that God feels we are bad, we make God in our own image, and thus we feel bad."


First, we don't do something that we feel we should have, but just didn't want to do it.  A service project came up with a church I used to belong to.  The day of the project, I just didn't want to go.  Of course I rationalized this so that I had some excuse.  Like always, I found I felt worse for the lie in combination for not doing this than I did if I just told them that I really did not want to come.

But since God was involved, and this was a project for others in the Name of God, then part of me felt like punishing myself.  And there is no better punishment to yourself that to make God into the image and tool of your own punishment. 

I felt that God felt deeply disappointed in me.  This caused me to feel shame.  Because I felt shame, I made sure that the next couple of projects for that church, I was there, regardless of how I felt, or how much I didn't want to do it.

This is a small and somewhat insignificant example, but it applies to much larger issues.   I made God into a God of shame.   I used God as a reason to punish myself.  In my opinion, this is just as bad as blasphemy.  It is misrepresenting God, and using God's image in a manner that it was never meant to be used.

Luckily I have never caused a person so much harm that it affected the rest of their lives.  At least I hope not.  However, some people feel that they have.  Some word, some fight, some struggle caused a permanent separation, or a deep abiding pain in another.    Some may then use that as an excuse for saying that God could not forgive such a thing.  Again, this is misrepresenting God and using God as our own tool for punishment.

If we feel that God cannot forgive us, then there is no impetus for us to forgive ourselves.  In fact, without this self-forgiveness, there is no motivation to ask another for forgiveness for our actions.   We are stuck.  We are stuck feeling shame and guilt, because we feel like we deserve such shame and guilt.  We deserve to feel bad, to have a broken relationship. 

I have used God as a tool of my own punishment.  Too many times to count.

God does not respond to the things I do in the same ways that I respond.  God does not want me to feel shame or guilt.  Nor does God want me to use God as an excuse to punish myself.

God does not say, "You have sinned.  Now feel bad for a long time about it!  Only by feeling bad for a long time will you prove to me that you realize that it is a sin, and that you did Bad!"

Plaah-eeeze!

God would rather we make a mistake, realize it for what it is, make amends, make changes, and move on.

Christian Mysticism - Breathing in and Out

Yes.  Another blog on Christian Mysticism. 

These ramblings are really an attempt to explain this whole experience to myself.  Sometimes I think I am writing to a large audience, but I am really engaging in a voyage of spiritual discovery.

Now on to Mysticism.

Of all the things I have read about Christian Mysticism, there seems to be a common thread that whatever the experience of one's ultimate reality (God, Jesus, etc) it involves a lot of introspection, meditation, contemplation.

For the last 15 months, that is what I have been doing.  I try to meditate.  I try to spend time with nature.  To see the beautiful among the ordinary.  To be aware of every sensation in my body, and to dismiss those sensations sometimes, to get to a greater state of relaxation.  Daydreams, visions, lucid dreaming, whatever you may call it, cause hundreds of sharp images to come to me when I need them. 

When I need to reorient my perceptions away from being self-centered, self-focused, images of sharing, caring, service, loving-kindness are generated, or perceived, or whatever in my mind's eye.  It does not take the focus off of myself, but includes others in a cycle of giving, receiving, mutual service, mutual caring that takes place.  Humbleness then happens because the picture has become greater than just myself.

Sometimes it is like watching videos of what has happened, or what may happen.  If I find my thoughts are dwelling more on depressive, self-defeating thoughts and my emotions are not too far behind, that a video is projected in my mind of singing in front of children, of holding the hand of those that have almost forgotten human touch.  Even videos of me dropping a plate and laughing uproariously.  Or having a mule sit on me (which actually happened).  It also sometimes expands into a vision of people I know who do not laugh, nor smile very much, hearing the best joke of their life, and roaring with unbridled guffaws.

There are surprises too.  I can be in the middle of meditating, and emotions just come up, so strong, for no reason at all.  Mostly, these are times of joy, love, understanding.  Sometimes, they literally bring tears to my eyes.

I have found out that these times of self-introspection, and meditation and times of peace are necessary.  I see why so many historical Christian Mystics wrote about them.  The mountain-top experiences.  They are engaging, sensational (filling the senses); a nice break from reality.

But it is like breathing.  If I only spend time with myself, it is like taking a large breath and holding it forever.  There is no where for that breath to go, nothing for it to do.

Breathing out; taking the experiences of the self, the recharged, re-centered, renewed me and using it to listen, to laugh, to serve, to love others is absolutely vital for my spiritual life.

Getting back to the Christian element; this sharing of the gifts and talents with others is when the real benefits of that self-introspection really happen.  It is, in the walk of the Christian Mystic, the expression of the presence of God. 

I have felt the presence; been sheltered by the presence; recharged through the presence' and now I need to express the presence.

Yet, unlike breathing out, I am not getting rid of anything, but adding another dimension to those things given me by God in the first place.  It goes from being a two-way practicing the presence to a community practicing the presence. 

The visions that recharge me are added to by the visions that recharge others.

The overwhelming feelings of love and understanding, are supplimented, are multiplied by the feelings of others.

Truly, "love your neighbor as yourself," becomes, "love your neighbor to the level, to the furthest expression of how you love yourself!"  What happens is that you find in that cycle; the more love you show, the more love you have to show.

"Take up your cross and follow me," becomes, "Be like Christ, your foundation, a perfect loving model, and show it forth!"  It is not a burden, but a gift to love others!

How can I feel the presence of God, the glorious experience of the way of Christ, if I do not love outside of myself, as I have been loved inside of myself.  

I tell myself to love everywhere that God loves.   This doesn't leave anywhere, anytime out.

The Christian Mystic's journey is never-ending.   There do need to be times of solitude; times of reflection; times of prayer.  Then there need to be times of living in community, breathing out, sharing. 

The breathing in and out of the presence is truly the breathing in and out of life.

Reality Hits!

Most of these posts are becoming more Christian oriented.  I guess that is because I am feeling closer to my past, have church in my present, and look forward to the future.   I am reliving that honeymoon phase in any belief, where everything is magical and anything is possible. 

That has been tested recently.  I would admit that reality and me do not really know each other.  My head has always been partially in the clouds.  I live my own reality.   Though, sometimes that reality is made a little more real by some things.  I have to stretch my definitions of faith, understanding, and love to accommodate real people going through real-world events.

I am going to be vague on purpose.  There are situations that relate to some readers of this blog, so I am going to change a lot of things, but the essence if still true.

A dear friend of mine has gone through some bitter betrayal by her separated spouse.  Bitter betrayal.  It is the kind of thing that in my normally optimistic and bold, brave and beautiful friend, caused  her to truly question her worth.  You could hear in her voice the unasked questions, "There must be something wrong or unworthy with me for someone to treat me that way."  It affected her and her daughter.  Both had their image of the same man shattered.   Now, I think that both will not trust men in general for some time to come.

How do you speak to such people of your radiant joy, your moments of the pure awareness of God.  What points of commonality can you share when the other has gone through such bitterness and self-doubt?

"God loves you!" just doesn't do it.   "It will get better" doesn't touch the hurt.  "Not all men are like that!" is just a platitude.  It does not address the hurt now, the betrayal now, the shame now, the grief now.

I was angry at this man.  I do not get angry easily.  It takes a lot.  Yet, I got furious at this guy.   My peace was shattered for a time by an overwhelming wish that something rotten happen to this guy.  I have never harbored such a thought in 20 years.   My sense of outrage popped that bubble of reality I had been blowing up.  The multi-color rainbows and joy filled life came to an abrupt halt.

Yet, at that moment I took a look at myself, and my thoughts.  I allowed this other person's behavior to affect my peace; just as my dear friend was allowing her husband's behavior to wreck her emotional life, hurt her self-image, and severely damage her trust.

That is when I realized that peace isn't the placid and unresisting fugue state of the mind where nothing affects you.  I got my peace back when I realized that I choose how people and events will affect me.  I choose.  Always.  

My dear friend did not need someone to share her outrage, but someone to listen, to love, to share with her the fabulous and inestimable qualities that she possesses.  I choose to be at peace so that she could have someone with whom to share her emotional journey.   There would be times when she needed someone objective to point out when her thinking and feeling were becoming too self-destructive.  She would need someone to be empathetic and understanding.  There would be a moment when she needed someone to reassure her of her worth, her value, her self, not with platitudes, but heart felt truths. 

There is a time to commiserate.  A time to share rage, grief, anger.

There is a time to understand.  To truly place yourself in the other person's shoes.

There is a time to be honest.   To point out when thoughts and feelings are doing more damage than they are healing.

There is a time to be real.  To live in the clouds, but to understand that sometimes it rains!

A Love Meditation

Yes, I meditate.  Several of these blogs have been about it.  The techniques, the times, the practice.  This one is one of the content.

I found a way to recharge not my mind, nor even my body, but my heart.  It is a meditation of appreciation for the love I have had in my life and the love I have now.

With a background of soothing music, I relax my body, and let my mind remember all the moments of love I have experienced through my life.  These are both moments of love I have received and love I have given.

As I remember each experience, I allow myself to feel the feelings.  The warmth, or excitement, or comfort, or understanding, or peace, or fun.  These layers of emotion I visualize as descending down, like layers of sunlight, soaking into me.   Sometimes, I visualize the really wonderful emotions as slow and sweet syrup, soaking into every part of me.  At other emotional memories, it is like a feather light touch which support my entire body; like being nestled in the arms and wings of an angel.

Each memory brings with it it's own unique combination of these feelings.  Each reinforces and reassures my heart that if they can happen once, they can happen again.  That I even have the capacity to love and be loved so much means that I can be and will be loved and love even more in the future.

For example:

One summer at Camp, I was working on the support staff, and after our duties were done, we usually had the mid afternoons and nights fairly free.  I liked quite a few of the staff, and even was a little attracted to the girl who ran the Cocoon (the camp store).  But, I really had no intentions to pursue anyone.

I remember one of the female support staff (not the Cocoon girl) asked if she could talk with me in the tree chapel (a very large tree used for devotions, etc.)  I followed her out there and she was hemming and hawing and I really did not know what she was trying to say to me, but I just listened.  She finally said, "Steve, I think I love you!"  I fell off of the tree limb on was on.   This was the first time in my life I ever heard that.  I was so shocked!  But, I felt wonderful.  Really wonderful.   I remember saying that we would see where this goes, but that I did not know her that well, but was more than willing to learn more about her.

While recalling this memory, I felt the same sense of shock and awe that I did then.  The same surprise that someone would even think that of me, let alone say it out loud.  It was a delicious feeling, and a great addition to my meditation.

There was another situation in High School when I was in band when one of my friends was freaking out because she had not completed her math work, but had band, and then a meeting before her class so that she did not know when she would finish her homework.  Because we treated our instrument cubbyholes as lockers, her homework was just there, behind her instrument case.  When she left for her meeting, and I was in the band room, I took out her homework and finished it for her and put it back in her folder.

I never heard, nor asked what happened when she went to math class.  I still don't know.   However, the feeling of being able to help her out, especially anonymously, was just a great sense of joy for me.  I would even say it was love, though back then, I would never have labeled it as such.

I would strongly encourage everyone to try recalling loving moments in your life.  It will recharge your heart, and spirit at the least, and give you ideas for how to love and be loved for the future.

Tension

Tension is a funny thing.  Not funny hilarious, but funny in that it is rarely noticeable until it is finally gone.

I knew I was under more stress.  More hours of working.  You know how it goes.  You think you are taking enough time to relax, meditate, reconnect with people, getting enough sleep.  However, when you really relax, when I finally relaxed, it was obvious that there had been a knot of tension.

My days are not that long.  People have longer days.  My hours are not that much.  People have longer hours.  My job provides more flexibility than  any other job I have ever held.  Others have more rigid schedules.  Even with all of this I engage my day with the same mind-set as I did when I held my most challenging, and my worst job.  Perhaps you have a similar way of approaching your job.  I just know, it no longer suites me.


I start my job hours before I start my job.  Schedules, to do lists, prioritization, all occur the moment I start thinking about the day.  The gears of this productivity machine engage and suddenly my mind is task-oriented, time-driven, and self-correcting, after self-reflection and self-criticism. 


I have had to schedule times to relax, and apparently, this has not been working. 


So what finally allowed me to relax?


I have reading books that talk about getting to a place of peace in silence.  To take time out and meditate.  To be still and know that God is God.  It works, but it is only part of the answer.


This is so shocking to me, because I thought it was the answer.  I really did.


It seems that I need people too. 


There was a wonderful retreat at a camp at which I once worked.  A three day retreat.   A retreat that wasn't retreating from my normal everyday, but going toward my best day.   The only common component present throughout the entire retreat was spending time with people.

I meditated when I was there.  I went into the chapel and played my guitar, sang songs.  I looked at the beautiful scenery, the cross on the hill.  I sat in silence, early in the morning while sipping coffee.  I felt the warm assurance of God.  God's presence was there.  I was at peace. 



I played with children.  They entertained my with their stories, songs, funny games, funny voices.  I entertained them with stupid human tricks, my stories, my voices, my accents.  Suddenly the sense of peace was accompanied by a sense of joy. 

I played with adults.  This is more difficult for me than with children.  I am used to playing with children.  However, they had their own stories, songs, funny ways of looking at the world.  I found the commonalities with them at the level of experiences, of faith, of shared truths, and shared laughter.  The sense of peace and joy was now accompanied by a sense of belonging.


I talked with people.   There were moments when it was one on one with a new friend, an old friend, and an old acquaintance  who I hope is now a new friend.   Stories came forth of similar trials and tribulations, pain and regrets, uncertainty and doubt.  Also stories of triumph, reconciliation, faith, repairing burned bridges, healing relationships, healing stories.  So now the peace, joy and belonging were blended with a fourth; Love!


After leaving this remarkable retreat, I now have a better way of approaching my life so the tension doesn't build up as fast and as severe as it did.


I know time alone in reflection and renewal is important.  It will remain in my life.
I know playing with children brings me joy.  I will find ways to include this in my life.
I know that playing with adults gives me a sense of belonging.  There will be more times such as this.
I know that talking with people spawns ever greater experiences of love.  I will listen, talk and love more.


Today is a perfect example.


I started the day with meditation. 
I worked on clients.
I talked with a friend mid-morning.
I worked on clients.
I had lunch with another friend.
I ran into another friend and his new wife at the gas pump and we had a laughter filled 5 minutes.
I worked on clients.
I am writing this blog.


While today is not over, I have yet to "engage' those gears of productivity, yet things have gotten done; and I have a little peace, joy, belonging, and love in my life.


I think it is a good recipe.

You're a What?

I have shared with a few people that I am a Christian Mystic.   My definition is short and sweet on this.  I am passionate about the unseen world of God.  I am passionate about experiencing the presence of God in myself and others.  Experiential learning is more important to me for my faith than theological or biblical learning.

When I shared with one person,  he said, "How can you even put Christianity and Mysticism in the same sentence!"  "Mysticism is not Christianity!"  He went on to explain how mysticism just doesn't have a place in "real" Christianity; and that he would pray "for" me for illumination.   This basically meant that he would pray that I see the error of my ways and turn toward his beliefs.

I would really like to address both of these kinds of responses to Christian Mysticism.  Both fail to understand the perspective, and the deep passion and faith that Christian Mystics have.

Before I get into that though, let me make one thing clear.  Being a Christian Mystic doesn't mean that I am holier than anybody.  In fact, it is a life of searching, of questions, of changes.  There is no point at which I can plant my feet and say, "This is the breath and width and height of my belief!"  For as many manifestations of God and God's influence there are in this world, both the seen and unseen, are as many ways that any believer, whether Christian Mystic or not, may walk his or her path.  I am only more or less holy than I was yesterday.

The Religious Right and Christian Mysticism
--------------------------------------------

The Religous Right, loosly, are those people who empasize more traditional moral and theological perspectives on the person, mission, life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.  The values that are applauded are good works, faith in the Word of God, the supremacy of the church as a moral entitiy, the Supremacy of Christ, the traditional family as a unit of faith and of the church, and so on.  

For the purposes of this discussion, the Religious Right are those that are not yet comfortable with experiences being on the same level as the Word of God or the Church as a point of authority.  

For me, my whole faith experience has been just that, experiential.  There is a place for the Word of God, for the Church, for a community of believers.  They are not the end all be all of my faith though.  It is through the dark times of the soul, the overflowing mountain-top experiences and everything in between, that have shaped my relationship with God and God's creation.

I am getting a little passionate about this, because to me, there is a great injustice done when someone says, "but that experience wasn't from God!"   Basically, they are telling me that my experience is not "right," "sound," "good," or "faithful."   It is a slap in the face.   At least, that is what it feels like.

Part of the reason I now call myself a Christian Mystic is that I love hearing about all the experiences of people.  I see how God has been a part of their lives.  All moments of discovery have that intertwined within.  I would sooner rip pages out of one of Shakespeare's plays than to judge someone's experience of God and therefore not include it or give it worth as part of their life story, of the unfolding of God in their book of life.

Yes, I understand that not judging people also means that I failed at this a little when I got upset at my friend's opinion on my declaration of Christian Mysticism.  I am working on it.   Truly.   I also love hearing about his experiences with God.  They are as valid as any other, and as valuable.

Let me post some good words from the known Christian Mystic and Teacher, LM Richardson.

Jesus said this about what the nature of the spiritual process would be after he had left this world:

But the Counselor, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you all things and will remind you of everything I have said to you. John 14:26 (New International Version)

The apostle Paul said this: But as it is written, ‘Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him.’ But God hath revealed them unto us by his Spirit: for the Spirit searcheth all things, yea, the deep things of God.” (1 Cor. 2:6-10)

LM Richardson does a much better job than I at what the process and journey of a Christian Mystic entails: 

The Holy Spirit does not require that we believe in just the right way for it to reveal its truths or that any of us understand the end before it takes us to the end. As Christians, all that is necessary is that we open our hearts each day so that the Holy Spirit can take us to the deep things of God culminating in the direct experience of the soul’s true nature in God, what the bible calls born again and the earliest Christians called to state of perfection. 

Dichotomies - Love and Justice

When I come across a dichotomy, especially when it has to do with faith, I start this process of struggle.
The struggle is always the same.  I know in my mind that the two branches of the dichotomy are both true.  Somehow, I need to reconcile them together, or it will always be a gray area of my faith.

For example, the dichotomy of God as a loving God, and God is a Just God.

When I was growing up, and am sure for many people, our first concept of God and what God was like came from our parents.

My mom and dad spend time talking about God. In church when I heard the words "father in Heaven" I immediately pictured God as a father.

My dad had times when he was a very loving dad. I remember the times when he helped launch model rockets with my brother and I. There were times when we went on canoeing expeditions. They were times when we did acrobatics, balancing on his legs, or spun around by our arms and legs in an "airplane" ride. There were times when my brother and I would roughhouse when he was sitting on the La-Z-Boy. We would crawl over him and he would try to push us off and we had a great time. Or at least my brother and I had a great time.

My dad was also just. I mowed a neighbor's yard for 5 dollars, but it had to be done at a particular time. The only time I would get off mowing his lawn as if it was raining outside. One time I got back from summer camp and I was going through a lot of emotional turmoil, because I had a crush on one of the female counselors that was there.  I remember feeling this huge vacuum, this huge hole. The last thing I wanted to do the next day was to mow this yard.. My mom was very sympathetic, and understood and didn't mind me skipping that week. My dad, on the other hand, said I had responsibilities. But no matter how I was feeling or what I was going through, I had made a pledge and a promise and had to follow through with them.

In that sense, my dad taught me that Just behavior was less about balancing the scales of justice, and more about keeping your pledges and promises and obligations. And not so much obligations for the fact that your reputation was something that was hard to get easy to lose and yet extremely important to have. Rather, keeping obligations and promises were important because of how you felt about yourself.

I ranted and raved about mowing that day. I thought my dad was being totally unreasonable. And yet, I went out in mode. And when I got back I could look in the near, and I even remember it today, that I had not let my customer down, nor myself.

Proverbs, in the Bible, states it very well. It says there is a time for love, and a time for work. In that same sense, there is a God of love, and the God of just behavior. The God of love, encourages us,... help, and holds us in God's eternal love, and reminds us always that we are part of him, part of his wonderful creation. The God of justice, or just behavior, is not a God of the scales of justice; rather a God of just actions.

So for me, the dichotomy of a God of love, and a God of justice, is not really a dichotomy. As God loves me, wants the best for me, wants to build me up, wants me to see in me the person I wish to be, God knows that it takes not only acts of love but behavior which seeks to be fair to all, to honor yourself and your obligations, to have your "yes" be yes, and you're "no" a no.

A just God, for me, is one who celebrates when I stand fast to behavior which promotes peace, promote understanding, gives the benefit of the doubt, fulfills my word, and his, and always seeks after the justice which brings people together.

One other thing about justice, is that it is not a response to those things which are unjust. It is rather a pattern of behavior, from this point onward, which seeks to honor the greatness, the truth, the love, and God in everyone around you.

God is not a vengeful God, but God is just.

God is a just God, and in that way.fulfills his role as a loving God.

Be Happy

Be Happy!


Well, I know that this is my goal.   It has always been my goal.  I want to be happy.  Don't we all?


When growing up, I was happy, for the most part.  I remember riding my bike up and down the culdusacs of Rochester MN when I was in second and third grade.  I would laugh, sing, yell.  It was great.


Did I accomplish anything with all this riding around?  Not really.  I just had fun doing it.  (Well, I did ride by a girl's house that I liked, and sang songs while going in and out of her driveway, until her dad told me to stop coming around one night.  I still came around during the day.)

There were the expeditions to the rock shop.  My dad would take my brother and I, and we would look at all the crystals, geodes, rock collections, etc.  We would pick out a few tumbled rocks, and a few mineral specimens to put in our collections.

We shot off model rockets.  Dad and my brother and I would spend hours building them, getting engines, setting up the launching platforms, and away they went.  There was a thrill when one would take off.  We never knew if the parachute would open, never knew if the rocket would survive.


Later, I was happy when I went to summer camp as a camper.  Everything was an adventure.  Hikes, swims, camping out.  It was all exciting.


Be Happy?


Now, I really wonder what it would take to be as happy as I was when I was growing up.  Would it take going back to my childhood, and riding a bike, building a rocket, being a camper?  Or do all these things have something in common, some shared elements that lead me to be happy?


The Familiar vs. the Unfamiliar

Sometimes, I found that it was the familiar, the often repeated activity in which I was happy.  Everytime I have ever played pool, I was happy.  It didn't matter who I played against, or whether I won or lost.  I loved playing pool.  I was happy playing with the same set of friends over and over again.  I was happy going to the same town, in the same cabins, doing the same activities on holidays.

I was also happy when new situations and new activities came up.  Repelling, scuba diving, archery, a talk with a stranger, laser-tag, driving to places I had never been.  All these captured my attention because they were new and exciting.


Likes vs. Dislikes

Absolutely, I was happy doing things I liked.  This goes without saying.  I like summer camp.  I was happy doing it.  I liked making homemade ice cream.  I was happy doing it.

I was involved in building a rope suspension bridge once.  I hated it.  It was hot, and rainy, and as fast as we strung the ropes, they tightened up in the rain.  Everyone left us and went back to the campsite, but three of us.  We persevered!  I was so tired, so wet, so miserable.  Yet, the next day, I looked back on it and was happy.  Would I do it again.  No.   But I was happy to do it once.

Getting Things Done vs. Doing Nothing.

Sometimes, I would be happy because I accomplished something.  I was happy when I paid off my student loans.  I was happy when I got a house.  I was happy when I got a girlfriend.  Somedays, I am happy when I get through work.  Yeah weekend!!!

I sometime do nothing, get nothing done, accomplish nothing.  These are great days too.  I am happy driving nowhere.  I am happy laying down and just letting my mind wander.  Happiness comes when I am sitting down and watching TV.  Happiness happens when I haven't achieved a single goal for the day.

So what does this boil down to?

Comparisons

Happiness is linked to the comparisons I make. If you're always comparing what you have to the holdings of those who have more, you'll feel lacking; if you compare yourself to those less fortunate, you'll have a sense of abundance. Being grateful for what you have can definitely promote happiness, and it can also relieve stress. If you focus on how things could be better, how things should be better, you will likely have a much more intense experience of unhappiness.

Relationships

Happiness has oftentimes involved investing in close relationships with friends and family.  I tend to be happy when I am working on or engaging in activities with others. Close friends and family can share in your joy and help you during rougher times. They offer a supportive ear when you need one, or practical support when you need a helping hand.  They also offer me a chance to be supportive for them.

And Several Other Things

Here's a list of several other factors that play into happiness.  The following is a list of the 16 different features that may promote happiness.

I could spend time on each of these; that would be an accomplishment, but I am happy nonetheless.

Health
Self-Esteem
Goals, Values and Spiritual Life
Money
Work
Play
Learning
Creativity
Helping
Love
Friends
Children
Relatives
Home
Neighborhood
Community


The most important thing though, is that being happy is a choice.  It really doesn't matter the characteristics of a situation, an action, an activity.  It is a choice to be happy regardless.  I just have to remind myself, trick myself, that this is truly true.

Unfinished Story - Repudi-Logic

I decided to put forth some of the one or two page stories that I wrote years ago, and never finished.   Perhaps, you can give me some ideas as to how to continue them, or you may want to use them as a start to your own stories.   Feel free.

-----------------------------------------------
Unfinished Story - Repudi-Logic
-----------------------------------------------.

It was a great day.  The sun overhead was shining, casting the red-blue shadows that Cornesk liked so much.  The fields of wheat were swaying with the wind.  Even the repudi were making their soothing crackling sounds.


“How could life get any better,” thought Cornesk.


The afternoon had been a little warm for him.  Sometimes it reached 45 degrees Celsius but the evenings, like this one, were perfect.  Not that a guy didn’t have to get used to the continuous light, but those were small matters.  Hampton was the planet for him.


A small repudi snaked around Cornesk’s ankle making a chattering sound like oatmeal funneled through an aluminum foil tube.


“Well hello.  Come to play did you?


Ever since the first expedition landed on Hampton the settlers found the one indigenous land animal both frightening in appearance and playful in action.  The Repudi was like a cross between a dwarf alligator and a python dipped in breakfast cereal.   The outer skin was a mixture of organic glues and pebbles, grass, sand, or whatever the little creatures rolled around in that day.  It made a great covering for their tender skin and made for good camouflage.


“I’m sorry, but I don’t have any sandpaper with me.”


Children discovered one day that the only think the Repudi liked better than eating was trying to cover themselves with sandpaper.  Some child thought that it would be a good joke to glue a piece to a board and watch the Repudi try to take it.  However, the Repudi seemed to enjoy rolling over the same piece of sandpaper trying to pick it up on their backs.  Now whenever someone came along a Repudi it would make it’s sound and demand that they be given a sandpaper block.


In fact, sandpaper blocks were the only way that the scientists could coax a Repudi to the lab so they could take a sample or the organic glue they used.  It was some marvelous stuff.  The Repudi not only secreted this wonder glue but could neutralize it with another enzyme from their bodies when they wished to shed their “coat”.


So far there were hundreds of applications for it.  Many of the houses were effectively wind and water proof because of a good coating of the glue.  Since the mining operations couldn’t keep up with the demand for metal nails, planks were glued together.  The stuff was amazing.  Even the weavers started using it to glue several lengths of cloth together to make sails for the few small ships that were built.


Hampton was a class IV agricultural world that allowed use of indigenous building materials and enforced population growth.   The Grand Council had found that if settlers used indigenous materials but had no growth controls that the planet started looking like old earth after a couple of hundred years.  The forests would be gone, the atmosphere poisoned, the seas contaminated.  It seemed that it was either use synthetic materials with no population growth or indigenous materials with controlled growth.


So far Hampton was unique in that the average population growth had never exceeded the parameters laid down by the Council.  Not one pregnancy had to be aborted, nor one “eighty” euthanized.  There were even jokes made that Hampton  itself was exerting some control over the settlers so that not too many people were born and not too many died.


Now where had Cornesk’s mind gone.  Here the Repudi had not only wrapped itself around his trouser leg but it was stuck there!! And good.


“Okay boy.  Now let go.  I need to get going!” Cornesk admonished the Repudi.


The repudi closed itself tighter around his leg, burying it’s tiny fangs into his shin.

“That’s it!”


Cornesk took an enzyme spray out of his pocket and let the Repudi have it.  In second the Repudi came loose along with its covering or rock and grass.  It slithered away with astonishing speed.


“Now what got into that beast,” though Cornesk.  “I never heard of one of the Repudi biting anyone. “Cornesk hurried to the Medistead, the one designated medical house in the colony.



The Medistead was not only the first building built but the original family that lived there had changed their last name to Medistead.  Right now the younger daughter was the current meditech.


“Rachael must be in her forties by now,”  thought Cornesk.  “Still a fine looking woman I must say!  Not that she would ever like an old bloak like me, but I might be great for a one night stand.”


Just then Cornesk’s ankle twisted in the underbrush and his body pitched forward, hitting the ground with a whoosh of air.


“Son of a …”


“Hey, are you all right?” said a concerned female voice.


Cornesk looked up and found himself looking at Rachael bending over him, a puzzled expression on her face.


“Oh yeah.  I just tripped over some damn thing.  And one of those little beast bit me in the ankle back in the meadow.”


“What!  I never heard of the Repudi biting anyone.”


“Well you have now!”


Rachael reached down and gave Cornesk a hand up.  When he put weight back on his ankle it was like a hot butcher’s knife digging into his flesh.


“Whoah!  Wait a minute while I get some splints from my house,”  Rachael said.


Cornesk tried to get up again but the pain was just too much.


“Stop it!  You stay right where you are and don’t move until I get back!” Rachael said.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Enjoy.

A Teacher's Story

I would like to repost this story.  Some of you may have heard it many times before.  However, it is one of the best stories I have ever heard about teaching.

----------------------------------------------------
A Teacher's Story

There is a story many years ago of an elementary teacher.
Her name was Mrs. Thompson.
And as she stood in front of her 5th grade
class on the very first day of school, she told
the children a lie. Like most teachers, she looked at her
students and said that she loved them all the same. But that
was impossible, because there in the front row, slumped in
his seat, was a little boy named Teddy.

Mrs. Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed
that he didn't play well with the other children, that his
clothes were messy and that he constantly needed a bath.
And Teddy could be unpleasant. It got to the point where
Mrs. Thompson would actually take delight in marking his
papers with a broad red pen, making bold X's and then putting
a big "F" at the top of his papers.


At the school where Mrs. Thompson taught,
she was required to review each child's past records
and she put Teddy's off until last.
However, when she reviewed his file,
she was in for a surprise.


Teddy's first grade teacher wrote,
"Teddy is a bright child with a ready laugh.
He does his work neatly and has good
manners...he is a joy to be around."

His second grade teacher wrote,
"Teddy is an excellent student,
well-liked by his classmates, but he is troubled
because his mother has a terminal illness and life
at home must be a struggle."


His third grade teacher wrote,
"His mother's death has been hard on him.
He tries to do his best but his father doesn't
show much interest and his home life will soon affect
him if some steps aren't taken."


Teddy's fourth grade teacher wrote,
"Teddy is withdrawn and doesn't show much interest in school.
He doesn't have many friends and sometimes sleeps in class."


By now, Mrs. Thompson realized the problem and she was
ashamed of herself. She felt even worse when her students
brought her Christmas presents, wrapped in beautiful ribbons
and bright paper, except for Teddy's.
His present was clumsily wrapped in the heavy,
brown paper that he got from a grocery bag.
Mrs. Thompson took pains to open it in the middle
of the other presents. Some of the children started to
laugh when she found a rhinestone bracelet with some of the
stones missing and a bottle that was one quarter full of perfume.
She stifled the children's laughter when she exclaimed
how pretty the bracelet was, putting it on, and dabbing some
of the perfume on her wrist.


Teddy stayed after school that day just long
enough to say, "Mrs. Thompson, today you
smelled just like my Mom used to."
After the children left she cried for at least an hour.


On that very day, she quit teaching
reading, and writing, and arithmetic.
Instead, she began to teach children.

Mrs. Thompson paid particular attention to Teddy.
As she worked with him, his mind seemed to come alive.
The more she encouraged him, the faster he responded.
By the end of the year, Teddy had become one of the smartest
children in the the class and, despite her lie that she would love
all the children same, Teddy became one of her "teacher's pets."


A year later, she found a note under her door, from Teddy,
telling her that she was still the best teacher he
ever had in his whole life.



Six years went by before she got another note from Teddy.
He then wrote that he had finished high school,
second in his class, and she was still the best teacher
he ever had in his whole life.


Four years after that, she got another letter, saying that while
things had been tough at times, he'd stayed in school,
had stuck with it, and would soon graduate from college
with the highest of honors. He assured Mrs. Thompson that she was
still the best and favorite teacher he ever had in his whole life.


Then four more years passed and yet another letter came.
This time he explained that after he got his bachelor's degree,
he decided to go a little further. The letter explained that she
was still the best and favorite teacher he ever had. But now
his name was a little longer. The letter was signed,
Theodore F. Stollard, M.D.


The story doesn't end there.
You see, there was yet another letter that spring.
Teddy said he'd met this girl and was going to be married.
He explained that his father had died a couple
of years ago and he was wondering if Mrs. Thompson might
agree to sit in the place at the wedding that was usually
reserved for the mother of the groom.


Of course, Mrs. Thompson, did. And guess what?
She wore that bracelet, the one with several rhinestones missing.
And she made sure she was wearing the perfume
that Teddy remembered his mother wearing on their last
Christmas together.


They hugged each other,
and Teddy whispered in Mrs. Thompson's ear,
"Thank you, Mrs. Thompson, for believing in me.
Thank you so much for making me feel important
and showing me that I could make
a difference."

Mrs. Thompson, with tears in her eyes, whispered back.
She said, "Teddy, you have it all wrong.
You were the one who taught me that I could make a difference.
I didn't know how to teach until I met you."

The Power of the Written Word.

The Power of the Written Word.

It used to be that correspondence was the only form of long-distance communication of any length.   Over 3000 years the little marks made on paper had meaning and power.  Historically, writing was used by governments, religious leaders, philosophers and other wise "men."  The rulers of any civilization knew that to have the power to write, and to read, meant that you had the power to influence, inspire, create, infuse, en-passion,  entrall, convert, confuse, and educate.  Therefore, most rulers made sure that those in power were the only ones who had the skill to read and write.

The earliest writing was almost certainly religious in nature.  Words stood for the many aspects and beliefs about creation.  The word became more than the word; it became THE WORD.  There was so much power in some words that they were written down only once, and buried or burned thereafter.  To look upon even the written symbol for such a word was forbidden.  In the land of UR, and the culture of the Sumerians, words were the magic of life; instructions in how to bring into existence what was needed to survive.  Truly, the word was THE WORD.

In other cultures, the standard oral tradition gave way to written commandments, proclamations, instructions, rules, and laws.  The campfire stories, myths and legends were frozen in their telling by words.  Multi-generational cultures became possible, more so, because of words.  The teachings could be passed down now, with more accuracy to greater numbers of people.  Such works were revered, as they are even today.  (The Magna Carta, the Declaration of Independence, the Code of Hammurabi.)

The ancient alchemists used written words as sources of power, in their incantations.  The makers of shields, swords, armor, and other forms of physical protection wove words of power into their works.   The Heraldry of nobles almost always included a family motto, phrase, word, or passage.  For many families, it became a generational rallying cry and mission.  It raised kingdoms and sometimes tore them down.

In late antique Babylonia (third–seventh centuries A.D.), for example, countless ceramic bowls were inscribed with prayers, curses and healing rituals written in the Jewish-Aramaic script.  The spiraling, cramped inscriptions of the bowls often encircled drawings of bound demons and other evil spirits. Writing, even in this late period, was still invested with the power to bring prayers and curses to life.

Words were used by many to protect, guard, warn and punish.  Curse inscriptions often protected tombs, monuments, graves, burial grounds, and other places for the dead.  A name could be written down on a piece of parchment, as a signal for that person to be killed.  Secret societies used the written word, hidden in codecs, to enforce the judgment or law of those societies. 

Words also meant the difference between life and death.

In ancient Israel, the simple act of erasing an author’s name was tantamount to wiping out a person’s very life.  Judaism and Christianity use the imagery of the Book of Life.  The Book of Life is the tome in which the names of every person who was created are recorded.  In Ezekiel 4, where one of the six heavenly envoys "who had the scribe's inkhorn upon his loins" is told to mark the righteous for life, while the remainder of the inhabitants of Jerusalem are doomed. The Psalmist likewise speaks of the Book of Life in which only the names of the righteous are written "and from which the unrighteous are blotted out". Even the tears of men are recorded in this Book of God. "Every one that shall be found written in the book . . . shall awake to everlasting life".

A deep and personal and basic need is fulfilled in the written word.  Famous works of literature were born out of the need to record, to bear witness to, to describe reality as it was experienced by the writers throughout history.

For many, it was their only outlet, their only way to express themselves.  Remember the works that came from such prisoners as Martin Luther King, Don Quixote, Paul (of the early Christian Church), Mahatma Gandhi, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Ezra Pound, and Nelson Mandela. 

Words on a page show us the moment and time, the vision and belief of the author at the time of that writing.  Diaries, letters and other correspondence have helped to fill in the lives of John Adams, Abraham Lincoln, Julius Caesar, Martin Luther, Anne Frank, Albert Einstein, and many others.


Words have power.   This really is the last word!

Mysticism - Weaving Understanding

What happens when you try to explain experiences that are mystical?


I have grown up, steeped in logic and reason; yet there are things that happened to me that were not logical and nor reasonable.  They had no facts attached.  At the time, I did not have the language to describe them.  Therefore, I used what language I had.  The problem is, that when you explain something in words that do not describe it, the memory or experience looses some of it's detail and import.  Instead of illuminating the experience, the language has made it a dim reflection of the actual event.  Then when I tried to explain it to others, they were even more in the dark than I was.

For example, I always knew of the presence of God in my life.   However, I only had the language I learned in church to explain this.  Many conversations were like the following:

"Hey pastor John, I know that God is in this church!"

"Yes, he is!"  
(Yah, but Pastor John; that is not what I mean!)


"That solo was great.  I really felt it all over!"
"Yes, she sang well!"
(Frustration.  Again not what I meant!)


I learned over time that if I wanted to feel understood, I would have to weave a story, a background before commenting on my spiritual experiences.  I had to pull the audience in, and enchant them in a way, get them into the mindset of the mystical before I felt they would understand.

So, how do you get someone into the Mystical frame of mind?

First, I appeal to their senses.  This is really because all of my experiences can be related to one of the five senses, and possibly more.

I had a wonderful experience looking at a tree.  (Stay with me!)

The morning sun was just peering over the horizon; casting light and shadow into the branches of this old, majestic oak tree.   Where the yellow light hit the bark, a thousand fissures, the patterns of many ridges and valleys were thrown into stark contrast.  The branches and leaves were surrounded with a glow from the sun's back-light.  Each branch was like a child of the tree; growing out of the trunk.  Yet, each branch was unique.  They grew; finding their own place in the sun.  No branch was ever so greedy for light, that it blocked out its brother branch.  The leaves were as the children of the branches.  They grew from the same source, but lived in the sun, unprotected by the dense bark of their parents.  They reveled in the wind, rain, and light, without the protection of the rest of the tree.  Yet, in this image was the realization that the wind, rain, light, sun, seasons were only to be truly experienced as the naked leaf does.  The core needs protection; it needs deep roots.  The branches of our lives need the core as a foundation, a growing place, a source.  The leaves need to be free to breathe, to rustle, and even to fall if the rest of the tree is to live. 

In one moment of illumination I saw my life and the lives of all as that tree.  It became a symbol, a living representation of life. 

This happened in about 10 seconds and took me the last 15 minutes to put into words. It was a mystical experience, because 90% of it is still unexplainable.  The feelings and perceptions are still impossible to put into words.

The Long Road.....And the Deluded Camp Counselor

The burden was just too much....

It started out as a simple Bible Study at a summer camp.  The children were not listening.  Even my thought-provoking and open-ended questions seemed to have no effect.  They were BORED, and not the least hesitant to show it.  These were the same children who, an hour before, were hooting and hollering at breakfast.  You could not calm them down.  Now, blank faces, empty stares, not a peep.

Looking around, I saw the large cross that was at the campfire site.  It was made out of 6-8" logs, tied and bolted together to form a cross some 8 feet high and 4 foot across.  It was made to be removable, used for processions, etc.  An idea started forming.  (Now keep in mind that many of my ideas are just not very good or wise ones....you'll see what I mean later in the story!)

A cross; talking about the walk toward Golgotha.  Add them together and I finally had something I could try.

So, I summed up the stuff I was talking about, went over and picked up this cross and hoisted it on my shoulder.  I remember thinking that this thing was a bit heavy, and a bit uncomfortable.  (I mean, I can carry the cross just like everyone else, just don't make it too difficult God!)

I started walking with this thing of logs on my shoulders.  My intention was to only walk to the edge of the field (some 350 yards) and then stop and talk with them about it.  No so!   I got to the edge of the field, and the kids were goofing off and just being kids.  So...here I go a bit further carrying this thing.

Before I knew it, I was at the entrance to the camp.   This was the stopping point, right?  I was sweating and getting mighty uncomfortable.  The logs were sawing a groove in my shoulder at this point.   Yet, I looked at the kids and saw that they thought this was great fun, watching their camp counselor carrying this thing around.  They just didn't get the point.  (Actually, it was I that wasn't getting the point, as you will see.)

Out the entrance of the camp, onto hard road-top.  I thought that the many bumps and dips in the field were bad, but the road gave a continuous vibration through the logs.  This was worse than the occational nudge or dip.  This was like being massaged with a splintered tree, but not so comfortable.  I had to start switching shoulders fairly frequently.   My legs told my brain that in no uncertain terms, this punishment would have to stop soon.  My arms were not too far behind.

So here the intrepid (stupid) camp counselor and his motley bunch of campers (oh ya, a pastor was there with us too.) were going up and down on a road that led further and further away from the camp. 

I knew there was a cemetary where we would sometimes bring the kids to do Bible Study, but that sucker was a good 1 1/2 miles on this hilly and unforgiving road.  Surely, one of the kids would get it, and say, with humilty and a deep appreciation for the moment, "No Steve, let me take that cross from you and carry it for a while!"   Ha!  No such thing.  I was determined that I would rather kill myself slowly than tell them that they should offer to take the cross from me.  (Yes, I was deluded.)

After about 1/2 mile, up a hill and down one, my arms and legs were very sore.   However, the pain of the cross on my shoulder far surpassed these small pains.  When I switched shoulders, I would touch the place where the log was and almost expected to see blood seep through my t-shirt.   It was raw.  It was hurting.  (Come on Guys, someone take this cross from me, or tell me to stop!)

Another 1/2 mile and my eyes could no longer focus correctly.  Everything was kind of blurred.  My nose was not constantly running.  Lines of snot were forming down my face, and a persistent need to sniffle accompanied me.

I had to start focusing on each step at that point.  When you are walking there is a transfer of balance between one foot and the other.  Usually it is automatic.  However, each time I took pressure off my back foot, I felt a tinge of uncertainty, of lack of balance, and the real possibility of falling with this heavy cross on top of me.  Soon, nothing existed outside of me, except for the motion, balance, feeling of each step being placed in front of the other.

Very quickly, the sight of my own feet blurred too.  Now, I had to go by feel alone.  I couldn't focus on the road.  I didn't know if I was stepping on road, on gravel, on whatever.  I tried to raise my head up, and found my shoulder muscles had locked with my head in the down position.  My mind was disengaged though.  I didn't think anything about it at this point.  Just an observation.  "Gosh, I can't move my head up.  Isn't that interesting?"

The last hill before the cemetery came up.  Twinges and what felt like electric shocks went through my shoulders and arm now.  Things in my skeleton felt like they were shifting in ways that they were not meant to shift.  Even my hearing started playing tricks on me now.  Sounds would be clear, then suddenly sound like they were underwater or distant, then clear up again.  There was also an edge of blackness at the very corner of my vision, streaked with afterimages and exploding phosphors. 

I have a fairly good memory, but the next part I had to piece together from the pastor and some of the campers.  I really don't have a memory until I woke up later....

Apparently,  this procession arrived at the cemetery, or right outside of it, before I collapsed.  The pastor told me later that there was a groan, and I went down.  Then, a couple of the campers took the cross off of me (though they could have done this long before I collapsed!) and I was partially dragged into the cemetary and put on a concrete bench.

I remember finding myself on that bench.   I was crying.  It couldn't be helped.  There was just a great sense of relief that I didn't have to carry that ******* cross anymore.   Things like words, and making sense with them, weren't available to me yet.  Luckily, the pastor jumped in and started talking about the walk to Gogotha, what Jesus went through, etc.  I didn't catch most of it.  I was still trying to find meaning in concepts like breathing, sitting, seeing and hearing again.  I know at some point that I gave my 2 cents worth into the conversation, but I have not idea what I said.

Somehow, word got back to camp that I was doing this stupid thing, and one of the maintenance trucks pulled in and I got a ride back to the camp, the cross in the back of the truck. 

The aftermath:

The kids didn't get the point.   I didn't get the point that the kids wouldn't get the point.  Subtlety is lost on Junior High kids.  Wisdom is lost on a (this) camp counselor.

After laying down in the staff cabin for about two hours, the director called me into his office.  He asked me to explain the reasoning behind carrying a cross, out of the camp, to the cemetary, taking more time in Bible Study that the campers had (they were very late for lunch), and putting a counselor (me) out of commission for an afternoon (which had to be covered by other staff!)

I thought about it, and tried to explain my reasoning, only then realizing that that reasoning was faulty.  He had good points, and I had no points.  After telling me to never, ever, ever do that again, or else...I was let go to sleep some more before dinner.

The next day, the kids paid more attention during Bible Study.  It was nothing that I did to change that.  I knew later that the pastor asked them to pay more attention and to be more involved.

The pastor did thank me for a wonderful week (though I have no idea if that extra twinkle in his eyes was because he had witnessed a grown man make a fool of himself to make a stupid point in Bible Study, or not.

The moral is:  don't carry a cross just to make a point!

A Spiritual Adjustment

I have gone to a chiropractor for years.

You know what happens.  You lay down, and the doctor starts applying pressure in the strangest places.  You hear and feel internal adjustments happening.  Pops, cracks, joints moving, the breaking sound of the chiropractic table, giving way.  You know something is happening, but are a little worried that these sounds sound more dire than healthy.  At the end, you stand up straight and feel a bit taller, a bit more inline than when you came in.

Another rule of thumb is that the longer you wait between adjustments, the more pops, clicks, cracks, and bangs seem to happen.  More pressure is required to adjust; more techniques to align the spine are used, just because we skipped a couple of appointments!

What about spiritual adjustments?

I know that I have had several that the cracks and pops were loud and painful.  In readjusting my spirit, the more out of alignment I am, the greater the time, effort, and change is required to get inline again.

The first thing is that, like the chiropractor, God has to get me to lay down, to stop, to hold still.  Now God can do anything, but I have to be at the point that I actually am still, quiet, at rest, at peace.  This is the tricky part.  Yet, when I am in this state, alignment can begin.

Much like at the doctor's office, I am told or shown that my parts don't quiet work together correctly.  One thing is stronger, longer, shorter than the other and they just are not getting along.  This is sometimes a shock. 

"Really, my left leg is longer than my right?  No one told me!" 
"My lower spine is not supported!" 

Yet, when these facts are presented to me about my spiritual life, they hold no less astonishment, denial, repression, nor ignorance on my part.

"My ego is how big?"
"I want to be comfortable more than I want to be happy?"
"I try to please people more than I try to be loving to them?  No, that's not me!!!"

Then come the adjustments.

Trust me; deflating the ego is always a painful process.  It involves a re-adjustment of how I see myself, and how I wish to be in relation to my family, friends, church, community, nation and world. 

Living life to the fullest also is quite a process.  I know that my living takes place on the razor's edge of discomfort.  Being uncomfortable means that things need to change.  Yet, I love comfort.  I like not changing.  So, sometimes pressure needs to be applied to shift how I approach life.  The crack and pain in the neck is sometimes the only way to be able to turn my head and go in a different direction.

What is really nice is that if I go through these adjustments often, it only takes a tap, a small shift, a brief push to get me back into alignment.  Sometimes, a word, a smile, a story, a movie is enough for my spirit to align with God again.

I guess my whole life is really a quest to become better adjusted.

What Is A Christian Mystic?

What Is A Christian Mystic?

So, what is a mystic? A mystic, quite simply, is a lover of God who pursues the beloved actively and deeply. 

In fact, a mystic is a person who feels the presence of the Mystery to the core and when that presence is not felt feels as keen and painful a loss as a lover whose mate is somewhere across the world.

To travel in the world of the Christian mystic, one must discard concepts such as ego, pride and spiritual materialism in favor of adopting a sense of humility and hopeful expectation. 

It is to begin a great and stirring adventure that moves the soul from this life to the next. To quote Ursula King,

"The story of the Christian mystics is one of an all-consuming, passionate love affair between human beings and God. It speaks of the yearning, a burning desire for the contemplation and presence of the divine below area mystics seek participation in divine life, communion and union with God. This yearning is candle by the fire of divine love itself, which moves the mystics in their search and leads him, often arduous journeys, to discover and proclaimed the all-encompassing love of God for humankind."

One of the hallmarks of a mystic is her or his ability to inspire and transform others by their very lives, deeds and words. In reality, the Christian Mystic is simply returning to the very essence of the Christian experience at its earliest stage.

Jesus spent his life pointing beyond himself toward the loving presence which he called "Abba", which doesn't mean Father as the strict, judgmental figure of the past, but as a loving term, the nearest of which we have in English is "Daddy" or "Poppa" as a term of closeness and endearment.

Indeed, Jesus' message that the Presence was not out there somewhere, giving some sort of cosmic report card on his subjects. That Presence, according to Jesus, is here, now, available to all without restriction or need of intermediary. It is a realization and a teaching, revolutionary, that reaches across time. Not only did he spend his life demonstrating that, it was this very teaching that cost him his life. 

With all this in mind, what is the most basic understanding of what it is to be a Christian Mystic?

For that, we can search in a variety of places. First, in the tradition of the teachings of Jesus can be found within the changes and interpolations of the New Testament. Secondly, within the great body of spiritual writings by such figures as St. John of the Cross, Meister Eckhart, Theresa of Avila, Thomas A Kempis, George Fox and others from Protestant and Catholic and Orthodox backgrounds. Third, there are contemporary Christians from a variety of denominations and backgrounds to explore. Finally, and above all things, there is the personal experience, guided by the authentic words of Jesus and the writings of those who followed.

All of these sources exist as road maps, guide posts, ways to check ourselves as we make the journey of the Christian mystic. We should be thankful that others have blazed a trail before us, a the journey is based upon our own yearnings coupled with the mysterious grace of God.

For now, it is enough to understand that a "Christian" mystic is a person who finds the teachings, life and event of Jesus of Nazareth to present, for them, the clearest way to grow into a spiritual relationship with God. This is certainly not to make a claim that God's Presence is based on nationalism or accident of birth in this world in this or that region. Put simply, God speaks to the "many flocks" Jesus spoke of in a language and a way they can understand. 

What a Christian Mystic is suggesting is that in the midst different cultures and approaches, the symbols within our particular culture provides the tools necessary they find to make this journey. The Dalai Lama, when asked about converting from this religion to that, states clearly it is in one's best interest to remain within the familiar territory of their own upbringing, culture and understanding.

Briefly, it would be misleading to simply assume that the Christ Path is easy. To embrace the mystic tradition within Christianity as a Christian is to invite misunderstanding, abuse, and, to a great extent, persecution. Yet, no journey is without difficulty and, in this case, one has the encouragement of Paul, who stated, "Not I, but Christ who lives in me."

Ponder, then, these basic starting points:

What you see is not all there is to life.

There is that which is uncreated, which pervades everything, but remains outside the reach of human knowledge and understanding. This can be called "The Myster."

The intellect can entertain the concept of God, but not grasp God.

God cannot be reached by logic or captured by thought. Instead, one can only approach by love steeped in humble expectation of God's grace.

The Christian mystic is not known by his or her words, but by deeds and actions.

The qualities that mark the Christian mystic include devotion, being humble and without spiritual pride, refraining from judgment of his or her brother or sister and trusting that God speaks to the heart of each person in a way of God's choosing.

A Christian mystic is transformed and transforming.

According to the great mystics of Christianity, the transformation is a continual, ongoing process, an unfolding of the soul. It is not accomplished in one step, as in "being saved" after which a person can sit back and pronounce judgments on others. One's "work" has only just begun. It continues in humble service to those in need, in constant prayer and in the realization of God's Presence..

A Christian mystic seeks an experiential closeness to that Presence. A check-list of beliefs is certainly not enough to know God..

-Brian Robertson

Listen to People's Stories

They are attentive...They look into your eyes...you are the only focus of their time....they wait patiently....no judging...no prejudices against you....just accepting and receptive to what you have to say!

People so need to tell the stories within them.   There is a fundamental need to feel like we are important enough for others to listen to us.  We have hopes and dreams, comedies and dramas and tragedies all inside that we need to share with others.  

Why do we share our stories?  What good does it do us?

Sharing our stories tells other people about where we came from and where we are going.

My grandfather used to spend hours talking about his life during The Depression.  He held so many jobs, including handy-man, roller-skate rink manager, coal miner, gold prospector, construction worker, brick-layer, that it is hard to recall all of them.

In the telling of these stories I learned about perseverance, and endurance.  I learned about the hope he had, the motivation to survive, to earn money, even during the worst of times.  From these stories, he showed me what kind of life he had and how he faced it.  I could see that he would face future challenges just like he had faced the ones in the past.


Sharing our stories tells ourselves who we are and who we may be in the future.

When I get to tell my stories to people, I listen back and find that I discover things about myself that I never knew before.  The stories of summer camp; being a camper, a staff and finally program director, are ones that revealed that when I focus on other people, that is when my gifts and talents, my patience and love are the strongest.  Looking at my future, I know that being of some service to others is where I will rediscover myself.

Sometimes our stories reveal to us areas where we need to grow.  We can share our stories of failure or tragedy and learn from them.  Then in the future, we can choose to do something else, to take another path.  Thus, we learn wisdom from our own stories.


Sharing our stories allows other people to feel comfortable sharing their stories with us.

It is a strange thing that what we put out we get back.  If we are open and honest with others; sharing with them our stories, then they are much more likely to be open and honest with us.   Not always, but often.  

There are times when I meet someone so very open that my only response to them is to be more open.   They are taking a risk in sharing who they are with me.  I begin to feel more comfortable sharing that with them.

Sharing our stories creates bonds.

There is an effort underway, sponsored by the Smithsonian Institute, to capture all the stories of the soldiers still alive from the World Wars, Korea and Vietnam.  Many of these people who have shared and helped to fill this audible archive, have left for contemporary soldiers, a reminder and a source of those that have gone before.  There are many stories of soldiers listening to these older stories, and finding solace in them.  What they have gone through or what they are going through, others have experienced similar lives. 

The whole point of the Oral Tradition for passing down cultural and historical information is that it creates a bond from the old to the young, from what was to what is; and keeps traditions, beliefs, and values alive.

Sharing our stories heals.

We are not passing down information only when we tell stories.   We are often caught back up in the emotion, the thinking, the spirit of the moment that story occurred.  Sometimes, we can get to a point of having a cathartic moment; a clearing of our emotional landscape.  Other times, our emotion sparks similar emotions in others. 

Stories of cancer survivors can inspire because they communicate one simple thing:  Hope.  

Stories of the underdogs, finally triumphing, can inspire others to persevere.  These stories share the power of redemption.  We can all identify with the underdog and be inspired that anything is possible.

Stories of love have inspired us to love even greater.  Whenever we hear of the power of love, the lengths to which people have gone to share it, the self-sacrifice, the glory, the chaos, everything, we see something for which to strive, to participate in, to show forth to others.

Take time to listen to people's stories.   Make it a priority!

Masks - Hiding Behind Them

What is it about the masks we wear, the defenses we put up, that makes it so difficult to get to know anybody.  How do these things get in place?  Do we take some unknown class  to learn how to choose and use these things?

I would like to give a couple of examples of the masks that I know that I wear sometimes. 

The Mask of "I've Got It All Together" or "I'm in Control!"

It's so easy to put this mask on, and then forget you are wearing it. We want to look to the outside world as if everything is fine, we've got it all handled, no problems, thank you very much.
This one weighs alot, and is very heavy to carry around. Even worse, it makes it very hard to ask for help, which leads to the next mask.............

The Mask of "I Don't Need Anyone"

There is a pervasive notion that to be a "Rugged Individualist" is to be strong, successful, respected.  While this concept is very American, it is so impossible to do. It's good to stand on your own two feet, pull yourself up by your own bootstraps, but, when taken to an extreme, it can be very isolating. While being independent is a worthy goal, we all need someone to lean on. The curious thing is, most people really like to help when asked.

The Mask of Perfectionism

Another very seductive mask because it makes us look so good. Too bad it's not only false, it's also not attainable. So many people strive for perfection as a way to feel good about themselves. A good move here is to trade in perfectionism for excellence, which is attainable, and a whole lot more fun.

The Mask of Busy-ness

Somehow, busy-ness has become associated with importance. If we are always busy, then we must be important. Unfortunately, busy-ness binds us to many things that might be good and worthwhile, while we miss the things that are the very best.

The Mask of Knowing It All

This mask is typically accompanied by a burning desire to beat people over the head with their important knowledge. The really sad thing is these folks tend to be very unteachable, and therefore never actually learn anything.

The Mask of "I've always got to make a good impression!"

While similar to the I've Got It All Together mask, it differs in at least one important way. It's much more exhausting. It's hard to put down the worry about what everyone else thinks, and the need to control the impression you make on each and every person.

The goal of most masks is protection. In many cases it is not needed.  However, sometimes, residual fears of acceptance cause these masks to remain on far longer than they should.

Taking off these masks involves risk.

 

It is easy for us to accept criticism if it is the mask and not ourselves that received it.  We can rationalize, then, that "They don't know me.  If they did, they would not have done that, or said that!"

 

The mask provides psychological distance from another person or situation.  Our mind filters our reactions through whichever mask we are wearing.  When we have the motivation to show fear, the mask changes it to anger, or patience, or even laughter.   While these transitional emotions are sometimes very healthy to have, the habit of continually using them means that we loose track of what we are truly and actually feeling.

 

No Masks means:

 

1.  The will to experience and show emotions as they happen to us. 

2.  The desire to let go of the desire that we must always impress others

3.  The release of the need to have things under control

4.  The motivation to experience the world, people, and situations for what they are, not what they can do for us nor to us.

I am going to include this poem about masks in this blog.  It sums up so much more than I can do.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE MASK I WEAR

Don't be fooled by me.
Don't be fooled by the face I wear
  for I wear a mask. I wear a thousand masks-
     masks that I'm afraid to take off
  and none of them are me.
Pretending is an art that's second nature with me
But don't be fooled, for God's sake, don't be fooled.
I give you the impression that I'm secure
That all is sunny and unruffled with me
  within as well as without,
     that confidence is my name
       and coolness my game,
         that the water's calm
       and I'm in command,
    and that I need no one.
But don't believe me. Please!

My surface may be smooth but my surface is my mask,
My ever-varying and ever-concealing mask.
Beneath lies no smugness, no complacence.
Beneath dwells the real me in confusion, in fear, in aloneness.
But I hide this.
  I don't want anybody to know it.
    I panic at the thought of my weaknesses
       and fear exposing them.
That's why I frantically create my masks to hide behind.
They're nonchalant, sophisticated facades to help me pretend,
  To shield me from the glance that knows.
But such a glance is precisely my salvation,
  my only salvation,
    and I know it.

That is, if it's followed by acceptance,
  and if it's followed by love.
It's the only thing that can liberate me from myself
  from my own self-built prison walls.

I dislike hiding, honestly
I dislike the superficial game I'm playing,
  the superficial phony game.
I'd really like to be genuine and me.
  But I need your help, your hand to hold
    Even though my masks would tell you otherwise
      That glance from you is the only thing that assures me
        of what I can't assure myself,
          that I'm really worth something.

But I don't tell you this.
  I don't dare.
   I'm afraid to.
I'm afraid you'll think less of me, that you'll laugh
  and your laugh would kill me.
I'm afraid that deep-down I'm nothing, that I'm just no good
  and you will see this and reject me.

So I play my game, my desperate, pretending game
  With a facade of assurance without
    And a trembling child within.
So begins the parade of masks,
  The glittering but empty parade of masks,
    and my life becomes a front.
I idly chatter to you in suave tones of surface talk.
I tell you everything that's nothing
  and nothing of what's everything,
     of what's crying within me.
So when I'm going through my routine
  do not be fooled by what I'm saying
    Please listen carefully and try to hear
      what I'm not saying
Hear what I'd like to say
  but what I can not say.

It will not be easy for you,
  long felt inadequacies make my defenses strong.
    The nearer you approach me
       the blinder I may strike back.
Despite what books say of men, I am irrational;
  I fight against the very thing that I cry out for.
    you wonder who I am
      you shouldn't
        for I am everyman
        and everywoman
           who wears a mask.
Don't be fooled by me.
At least not by the face I wear.

 

-Author unknown