Mindfulness!

The Module on Mindfulness: 

What is mindfulness?

We all have some idea of what it is. We’ve all heard the word. We hear it quite a bit, don’t we? It might have been one of the things that drew you to this webinar. Most of us have been to workshops where the leaders used some version. Most of us have tried to understand and practice it to some degree.

So what is it?

Questions and responses. (Is it possible to have a whiteboard and a “scribe”? LOL. We're getting the assumptions and previous learning out there.

Is it meditation?

Is it a process you do to prepare for an exercise, a visualization, or something else?

Is it a breathing exercise?

Is it religious or spiritual?

Is it a visualization?

Is it Buddhist?

If it is Buddhist, what are the sources of the practice?

Does it take long to learn? Or can you ever really learn it?

How is it different from a “normal” or ordinary state of mind, our normal walking around attitude and habits?

The answer to most of these questions is halfway correct, and they provide a great jumping-off point. But, and this is a big caution, the term mindfulness is fairly recent, and it’s taken on several new meanings and understandings depending on who is using it and in what context. It is not static. Modern neuroscience has added something to our knowledge and insight.

But in our rush to make it scientific, we've also cut out some elements that seem religious or prescriptions of behavior. We may want to be spiritual rather than religiously Buddhist. I have no real objection to the inquiry, but it also might have eliminated a few critical elements, or that is my suspicion, so I’ll briefly review its history before we dive in.

The source is the relatively early Buddhist text, the Satipatthana Sutta, originally in Pali, associated with what is known as the Elder Tradition, the oldest Buddhist school. The oldest text is two thousand years old, though it certainly existed as oral instruction for monks much earlier. These instructions were passed from one generation to the next as oral teachings. They were memorized word for word. It is a relatively short text. Even today, especially in Sri Lanka and Myanmar, which used to be called Burma, most monks and many laypeople know the entire text. They’ve memorized it. I’ve met them.

The Satipatthana Sutta is translated as “The Foundations of Mindfulness.” Sati, the Pali term translated as “mindful,” simply means “remember.” So, it is not an exact translation. There is not much Buddhist philosophy. The emphasis is on specific exercises for purifying the mind, including even how to count the breaths correctly.

Although associated with meditation, the practice of sati itself is not a meditation. It is sometimes done while you meditate, but it can also be done while walking, standing, or even sleeping. It should not be confused with vipassana meditation (which it often is). Vipassana is known more widely in the West as “Insight Meditation.” Mindfulness practice and Insight Meditation made their debut in the West when two, Joseph Goldstein and Jack Kornfield, stayed in Asia when the Conflict in Vietnam was raging, shaved their heads, and spent several years doing formal study as forest monks. When these men returned to California, they took off their robes and began to teach what they called Insight Meditation. They also taught sati practice. It attracted the attention of several clinical psychologists, who started to use various adaptations in therapy. Neuroscientists have also found that the practice can have remarkable effects on the synapses of the brain. (some have made incredible claims, but extraordinary results are new; in the two-thousand-year-old text, at the end, is a list of expected results from anywhere between seven years and two weeks of practice, and yes, they are all remarkable. Some things never change).

And you’ve been promised some remarkable results if you practice some form of Mindfulness.

Before I tell you to just be present and count your breaths, let’s examine the practice in detail and see what might be required. I am trying to opt for the non-religious or meditative version of the practice, but ironically, the earliest Pali texts give us the clearest introduction regarding the steps involved, the actual practice, and the overall understanding.

Starting point:

We are not creating a new way of thinking or believing. Mindfulness is not a new state of mind. It is not something you might get from a pharmaceutical intervention, like taking LSD or Ayahuasca.

It has to do with the ordinary day-to-day working of your mind. A concise answer about what it is might be to rule out specific definitions or descriptions of what to expect. We are not trying to change our minds or adopt a more helpful, different way of acting or behaving. If we discover something that appears new, better, or more exciting, we can be sure that it was already there and we just weren’t seeing it.

Even if I were to say that we are trying to learn a new way of seeing what’s happening, I would be wrong. So why don’t we see it? (most people who practice mindfulness do see and understand things that they previously not been aware of)

We get distracted. Human beings all get distracted. Almost anything outside our minds can be a distraction from what’s happening in our minds. A smell can trigger a memory; a single word can trigger an emotion related to something that happened in the past; a gesture reminds us that we were attacked one dark night. So this is an actual, normal reaction of our minds and something helpful; we may want to buy what smells good, we may want to avoid the person or situation that was triggered by the emotion, we may turn around and run from a situation that might become dangerous and not turn out well.

But these mental clues might also be false alarms, confusing a critical part of regular brain activity and giving us incorrect information. Have you ever heard that in a dangerous situation? You have to calm down, breathe deeply, and look around you to see what is really going on.

We are not necessarily in a life-or-death situation learning Mindfulness Practice, but the first piece of advice is the same--breathe. Count your breaths, 1 to 10. Start each count on the inhalation and end it when you breathe out. If you lose count, go back to 1 and start over. Keep it very simple. There is already a lot going on.

Then, we become aware of our bodies. How are we holding ourselves? Where are the strains, the tensions, the actual pain? What does it feel like? It may be the same as that night you were attacked, but right now, you are just sitting comfortably in a chair. If you pay attention to that area, does it disappear? You just allow your attention to go where you feel the contraction and rest. Does it change?

Then, we may start to see that the person you are at this moment is not the same person who was scared on the night you were attacked. So, just notice who is doing the breath counting and being aware of his or her body right now, not back then.

This is Mindfulness Practice. It might differ from how you usually experience your breath, thoughts, body, and idea of who you are, but it is not alien. It is just deliberately turning your focus inside your mind for a definite period. It helps us focus and train our attention so that we do not get distracted by everything happening outside ourselves.

When we first start doing this, we may experience discomfort. We will want to stop, but that is OK. I recommend that you start with five—or maybe ten-minute periods. It is called “Practice.” You may notice that your concentration improves, and you are less jittery or anxious. I cannot predict what will happen for you, but most people notice definite results over time.

Practice period (Probably 5-8 minutes, lots of silence).

Notice how you are sitting. Just make sure that you are going to stay awake. We will only be doing this for a bit longer than 5 minutes. Notice how uncomfortable you feel if you are uncomfortable or anxious.

Begin counting your breaths, 1 to 10; begin counting on the inhalation and end it on the exhalation. If you can't get to ten, simply go back to 1 and begin again. It is normal to lose track of the counting. This is not a contest.

Notice the quality of your breaths. Again, don’t try to change anything. Just notice if you are breathing deely or shallowly, rapidly or slowly. Is your breath labored?

2-3 minutes in silence

Do you notice any pains or tensions in your body?

Scan quickly from the top of the head to the toes. (3-4 minutes)

See what happens when you direct your attention to the part of the body that is tense or painful.

Who is doing all this?

Silence for 3 to 4 minutes,

Open your eyes, see where you are right now, see the room, readjust to the screen and the other Zoom participants.

Intimacy in the Temple Courtyard

Last night, my friend Kumar asked me to share what I understood about “intimacy.” I immediately understood him to be talking about more than just a concept, a feeling, the interrelationship of the lines and colors in a design, or even an attribute of human love. One might be able to base the concept of intimacy on feelings, relationships, or even the elements of design and still miss the point.

I love Kumar deeply and know he is going through a creative crisis as he formulates the final project for his degree at a prestigious design college. My immediate instinct is to help him in any way I can, but I know all too well that he is the creative genius and source of his own inspiration. Trying to be helpful might block him. I can point in a direction or share my own experience, but I cannot cancel the dilemma.

I mumbled something about my experience of intimacy being connected to my meditation practice. “Yes,” he said, “I’ve heard that meditation is connected. Can you tell me more?” He’s a young man with different sleep needs, so I begged off and said good night.

When I woke up, I found my mind flooded with memories of that period when I was trying to solve my first zen koan in the meditation hall. I can’t count the times that Aitken Roshi would try to soften the blow of my frustration and disappointment of a failed response with his gentle pointer: “Not intimate enough.” It became my mantra that I would carry back to the meditation hall. If I tried to forge an “est” business-like plan to achieve deeper intimacy, of course, that didn’t help, but it didn’t stop me. When I tried to figure out what “Intimacy” really meant linguistically, that was not much help either. Recalling instances of deep intimacy, usually sexual, leads into a deep thicket of regret and failed relationships. A feeling of intimacy, or a memory of that feeling, was not the key I needed.

I've spent long hours in the meditation hall. Oftentimes, it’s felt like a long, tough haul with very few rewards. But somehow, I was able to keep sitting. When I learned that sometimes, or often, or perhaps all the time, seeking the rewards of discovery actually stands in the way of practice, it helped enormously. The reinforcement of an opening is usually such a surprise; it is so rare and hard-won it’s almost like an archeological excavation on Mars digging for the lost continent of Atlantis. If handled well, such as Doris Lessing's writing about the Representative of Planet 8, it might bear fruit. But this is not for mere mortals. We have to deal with what we’re given, and eventually, I did have a profound insight into what I have been given, which I will perhaps talk about at more length another time.

But it’s the exploration of intimacy, with no agenda, that I want to pursue.

Sometimes, actually often, these few words, “Not intimate enough,” kept coming back, a deep refrain in all my meditation. And they still do.


I’ll turn to another koan (Case 37, Mumonkan): “The Chestnut tree in the Temple Courtyard,” “庭前柏樹子.”
A monk asked: "Compared to what was the intent of the ancestral founder coming from the west?”
Joshu (Zhou) said, "In front of the hall, a cypress tree.”

I was at the Angela Center in Santa Rosa for a long sesshin. I can’t recall if I was having an easy time or experiencing a lot of pain in my meditation; that really doesn’t matter, but I do remember exactly where my seat was, back in the far northeast corner of the hall, far from the offering table with the Buddha’s statue but right next to the main door. I had gone into Tarrant Roshi’s room twice a day, and my response became clearer and clearer. I will not speak of any “correct answer” or give away something about time-honored practice, but after I responded, he just nodded and asked if I was ready to move on. Something inside said no that there was more there for me to experience. A koan can keep lots of mysteries locked up inside.

So I went back to my seat. After dinner on the third or fourth night, we sat for another long period of meditation and then the usual closing ritual. In that moment, my mind was having a lot of difficulty staying tightly focused, something that I usually enjoy during long periods; I thought, well, it’s the end of the day, why don’t I give myself a wide open field?

Suddenly I was back at San Francisco’s Legion of Honor attending the opening of an exhibit that honored a gift of a wonderful collection of illustrated books to the Museum’s collection by Reva and David Logan, parents of my friend Jon Logan. I was wandering through a series of small rooms, every now and then edging my way through to the front of the crowd to catch a glimpse of a wonderful illustration. The collection was rich. A sampling: Joan Miró’s À toute épreuve by Paul Éluard, Pablo Picasso’s Le Chant des morts by Pierre Reverdy, El Lissitzky’s Dlia Golosa by Vladimir Mayakovsky, Ernst Ludwig Kirchner’s Umbra Vitae by Georg Heym. But the attention required to make out intricate designs on relatively small book pages induced a kind of narrow, tight focus.

I rounded a corner and had to look down to pay attention to the few short steps into the main hall, but when I looked up, in front of me, an entire wall of Matisse’s paper cutouts. The onslaught of bright color and form took my breath away. These were not framed posters you bought at Ikea, not the lavish prints that I’d treated myself years ago at MOMA in New York. These were the actual shapes that Matisse himself cut out and arranged on larger pieces of paper when his hands could no longer hold his brushes steadily enough to paint. There he was, an old man, holding his pencil taped on the end of a long stick to etch the lines of leaves, slowly, carefully, but freely, with the skill and care of a practice that traced back hundreds and hundreds of years. I traced their roots back to that legendary tree in the temple courtyard.




It was of course a kind of illusion, what zen meditators call makyō, and usually something to be handled with caution, like dreams. John was just leaving the hall after the service, and I reached out and touched his shoulder. He grabbed my hand, and we returned to his interview room. He asked me what had happened, and I blurted out a bunch of words. Then he asked me to show him the chestnut tree in the temple courtyard, and yes, really, there it was.

Thank you, M. Henri Matisse, for getting so intimate with your colored paper, your pencil, and your scissors. Thank you, David and Reva Logan, for your generosity. Thank you, Bob Aitken, for just pointing to where I might find intimacy, Joshu, for pointing to the chestnut tree, and John Tarrant for grabbing my hand as I was about to wander off. And thank you, Kumar Abhishek, for asking me about intimacy and then letting me fall asleep in your arms. May you shape your design faithfully, lightly, and freely.

Words cannot describe everything.
The heart's message cannot be delivered in words.







at February 22, 2021

Raksha Bandhan

Tradition bids me tie a ribbon on your wrist 

To say that you and I are related,

And it will always be

No matter what

What husband, what wife, 

what daughter, what son,

What lover, what friend,

May kisses, caresses

Abound.

May wounds be few.

No matter,

There will be love.

What prizes and honors won, 

Include the ones you lost,

What joy, what laughter, 

what grief, what loss,

What trouble, what pain, 

what fear, what tear, what discovery, 

Embrace it freely.

In this moment

You are my world.

We are blood and yet so different

It makes no difference

What barrier, what fence

What wall, what boundary.

Cross, venture, explore,

A postcard now and then might be nice.

Calls are also cheap these days,

But neither is required.

I know there are only so many 

Seconds, minutes, years granted to us.

Use them as best you can.

As best we can.

I will try.

Make mistakes,

I will join you.

We are forgiven in advance.

You are encouraged to make as many as possible 

Unharmed or even injured.

Try to stay safe.

Continue please. 

You encourage me.

Forgive me if I have hurt you.

It was not intentional.

I know that I can be blind and careless.

You are also forgiven.

The world as we find it

Is a blessing.

You are part of my world.

Sounds trite

But it’s true.

Reflections on the Feast of the Assumption

Mary, Mother of Jesus, Mother of God, pray for me, a sinner.

The traditional vow days in the Jesuits are feasts of the Virgin Mary, today, August 15th, and September 8th, her birthday. I took my simple religious vows on September 8th, 1968. It was common for most young Jesuits to take Mary as their “vow’” name. So I might have said, “I, Kenneth Maria Ireland, vow to your divine Majesty, before the most holy Virgin Mary and the entire heavenly court, perpetual chastity, poverty, and obedience in the Society of Jesus.” I asked to keep my given name, and it was granted. 

As far as my Marian faith goes, I am a pretty stripped-down basic gospel kind of guy. Some of this can be traced back to my Calvinist heritage; my father was a Yankee free thinker, and there was some rebellion against the rigid Irish nuns who taught the Baltimore Catechism by rote. I have zero desire to make a pilgrimage to Fatima or Lourdes. Apparitions are far too spooky for my rational mindset. I’ve always held that Mary's “Dormition” is far more palatable than her bodily transportation to the Gates of Heaven. I prefer myth when it comes to such matters. The infallible pronouncement of Pius 12 happened when I was 8 years old; even then, I wondered how something this momentous could be hidden and unrecognized for such a long period of time. I said the rosary every day when I was in a Jesuit house of formation. We all did. I liked the repetition of the words of a simple prayer and the contemplation of the mysteries I took to be more like visualizations of scenes from the stories told in Matthew, Mark, and Luke (John is a bit too gnostic). 

By Erik Cleves Kristensen - House of the Virgin Mary

When Ashish and I visited Ephesus, after tromping through the amazing Roman ruins, we took a small jitney several kilometers high up into the bluffs overlooking the ancient harbor to what is known as Mother Mary’s House. According to legend, Saint John, the gnostic one, took Mary to the small community that Paul had founded in that Roman colony after the death of Jesus. She was to spend the rest of her days protected from the turmoil of James’s Jerusalem Church. Of course, her presence also legitimized the ascent of the Jesus congregations of Greeks and Romans who were not observant of Jewish law and customs, but I will leave that side for polemicists to hash out.

When I got on that small, rickety bus, it had been more than 35 years since I left the Jesuits and 30 years of practicing Buddhist meditation. I’m just giving some background about the mindset of the guy who headed up Mt. Koressos (Turkish: Bülbüldağı, "Mount Nightingale") to the place that Saint Anne Catherine Emmerich had seen in visions as Mary the Virgin's last earthly abode.

It fit the parameters of a place that I could envision for the house of Mother Mary. Being there was wonderful and peaceful, with a genuine feeling of the Transcendent. No throngs of the faithful seeking miracles, no massive basilicas commemorating a Saint’s vision, no sellers of Marian trinkets and memorabilia. There were perhaps a dozen religious women, maybe less, quietly tending simple gardens and very austere shrines. We wandered wherever we wanted and stopped when we felt the urge. No one exhorted us, telling us what to believe or how to pray. There were few votary candle boxes like the ones I remember from the Irish parishes of my youth in front of Saint Mary’s statues. There was only one donation box near the exit.

I felt a real sense of freedom when I boarded that rickety little bus for the scary ride back down to Selçuk. I had been in the presence of the Virgin, and my mind was allowed the space to take whatever tack was appropriate for the time and place.

“Pedophile priests ruined many lives.”

Many people have asked me about how I reacted to the ongoing scandal of priests sexually abusing children in their care. I knew three dismissed from the priesthood and one who stood on the right side of history but whose ministry nonetheless ended.

I was a Catholic seminarian in Boston when the pedophile priest scandal was brewing. I use the term brewing because the stinky mess was happening in the dark. I had no inkling that anything was amiss. When I saw Todd McCarthy’s film “Spotlight” 50 years later, I wondered how I could have missed it. The priestly caste loves dark rumors, but the priestly veil of secrecy is also thick. We all missed it. Of the 2,324 priests who served in Boston during the last half of the 20th century, 162 were credibly accused of abusing more than 800 children and minors. Those numbers are staggering. I remember reading the original stories in the Boston Globe in 2002 and then Cardinal Law’s quick removal to Rome, where John Paul II promoted him to the cushy sinecure as Archpriest of the Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore with a stipend of $12,000 a month, a substantial raise above his salary as the Archbishop of Boston. That seemed like a reward and left a terrible taste in the mouth of everyone incensed by his willful blindness. It inflamed those whom the abuse had injured.

Although I was a Jesuit scholastic, I had strong connections with Boston’s regular clergy. In the summer of 1969, the final year of Cardinal Cushing’s era, I started working for a young diocesan priest. Mike Groden had started the Archdiocese's Planning Office for Urban Affairs. This was a very unreligious designation for an official arm of the Catholic Church because Mike set it up to do some very innovative work outside ordinary parish life. I liked that. 

Father Mike was only a few years older than me. He was boyishly good-looking with a great Irish smile. He was very much a priest but also a social activist with the sharp political instincts of a Democratic ward boss. After the Boston race riots in the summer of 1967, he became committed to racial equality. He did Saul Alinsky’s training for community organizers. 

I had finished my two years as a Jesuit novice, completed an abridged philosophy requirement at Boston College, and had just been accepted into The Graduate School of Design at Harvard for a degree in architecture and planning. My mentors at the Boston Architectural Center told me a young priest was looking for an intern to work on a low-income housing project. I had the summer off. Several other young Jesuits and I had rented a small house on Oak Street off Inman Square. We were all grad students at Harvard. I called Mike, and he hired me immediately. It was a great match. 

Every morning, I rode my bicycle from Cambridge down Massachusetts Avenue to an office in a small, older building near The Old State House. Sister Faine McMullen, a sister of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, was also a lawyer whom Mike had met during the Alsinky training, and I shared two small rooms in the back. The office administrator was the daughter of one of the wealthiest Jewish developers in Boston. A conscientious objector, Mosik Hagobian, worked under the auspices of the Office, although he spent most of his time in a young architectural office on the floor below. Our small team seemed perfect for a liberally educated anti-Vietnam War activist post-Vatican 2. It also reflected Father Mike’s instinctive ability to assemble an effective team.

I mentioned that Mike was politically well-connected. Lyndon Johnson’s HUD (Department of Housing and Urban Development) was flush with cash and administered by a cohort of bright young people convinced that the change promised by the War on Poverty was possible. Mike had secured a promise for a million-dollar grant, seed money for a community development corporation with a program that Mike designed. In the 1960s, a million dollars was a lot of money. He had identified a low-income Italian community in East Boston that was fighting the encroachment of Logan International Airport into their community. I never asked and was never told the way that he had secured the HUD money or picked East Boston, whose leader was a fiery Sicilian priest, Monsieur Mimi Pitaro, but after one dinner in the rectory of Holy Redeemer Church, I had no doubt who was in charge. I was also very impressed by his careful listening to the needs of his community and his commitment to help. I joked with Mike that Mimi seemed like a Mafia Don who took care of his folk. Mike agreed that I was not far off. 

As Mike’s deputy community organizer, I told Mimi that the development corporation could engage in various businesses to alleviate the impact of the airport’s rapid expansion. Mimi was insistent: Thank you very much, but we need housing. This single-mindedness was to shape the future of the East Boston Community Development Corporation and The Office for Urban Planning for years beyond that first summer. My job was to write the proposal for HUD. I’ve never had a more productive 2 or 3 months in real terms, dollar, and sense terms. I didn’t write the founding documents for a community development organization, but my proposal secured seed money for an agency that would develop 600 units of low-income housing over the years. It also set Mike on course to develop three thousand units of low-income housing working with archdiocese parishes over the following decades.

We secured the money within weeks of submitting the proposal, and The Planning Office had an MOU with HUD to establish the agency. We immediately began looking for an Executive Director. Mike told me that if I wanted to submit my name, I would get “favorable consideration.” I loved the work, and I considered it. Briefly. This was the summer of 1968. The assassination of Martin Luther King, followed by that of Bobby Kennedy, and the disruption and protest against the War in Vietnam had radicalized me, and rather than disrupt the long course of Jesuit studies, I decided that I would apply to begin the last part of a Jesuit’s training before ordination. 

I moved to Woodstock College in New York City for my first year of theology and then onto the Jesuit School of Theology in Berkeley, California. I would call Mike from time to time. The work of the Planning Office was thriving; he loved being a priest, and sometime in the 1980s, he was made pastor of a church in Boston’s Back Bay, Saint Cecilia, a cavernous building whose old-time parishioners had mostly fled downtown Boston. Mike set about reviving the parish through music. Of course, he could raise funds to restore its three organs, organize choirs, and hire choirmasters, but knowing Mike, it was also an opportunity to engage a community in conversation about things that mattered. He reached out to the LGBT community in a way that circumvented the official stance of the Church. Back Bay was one of Boston’s gay neighborhoods. Mike himself was also gay. He succeeded brilliantly.  

Then came the investigation of the Boston Globe's “Spotlight” and calls for the resignation of Cardinal Bernard Francis Law. Of the hundreds of priests and religious in Boston, only about 70 signed the petition demanding that Law be fired for the coverup. And Mike’s name was there, the highest-ranking priest on the list. He was on the right side of history.

Richard Gerard Lennon, Law’s auxiliary bishop and the placeholder after public pressure forced Law out of Boston, put the screws on Mike. Doing two jobs does not allow priests to collect two salaries that are not much more than $40,000. Mike had not collected any salary as pastor of Saint Celia, but for two years after the church could afford to pay him, he was still compensated for his work as the director of the Planning Office. There was some barrier in Canon Law prohibiting priests from being excessively paid. In 2003, Mike resigned rather than fight. He was just 63. It was retribution. He moved to his family home in Scituate, Massachusetts, where he lived for the rest of his life. I have no idea how much money he had for retirement, but certainly, Cardinal Law’s $144,000 per year was considerably more. About 2010, I called for the last time, and we had a long conversation. I could not find a trace of resentment in the hour we spent looking over the years.

Cardinal Law died in 2017 in the embrace of one of the oldest of Rome’s churches dedicated to the memory of the Virgin Mary. Though he had been removed from the Archdiocese of Boston, people who had petitioned for his removal did not see any real progress in addressing the scandal. The Church of Benedict had shielded him. Father Mike died in 2018 on the shores of a windswept beach town south of Boston. His supporters and admirers who had protested his removal gathered in Saint Cecilia to say goodbye. They felt no satisfaction either.

If Mike regretted anything, it might have been that the church he loved and served had prevented him from pursuing official ministry, but I am sure that he found a way—he always did.

Mike was certainly not involved in any sexual abuse, but his life as a priest was deeply affected by it. 

Mimi Pitaro became the first priest elected to the Massachusetts Assembly shortly after we set up the East Boston Community Development Corporation. https://archivesspace.library.northeastern.edu/repositories/2/archival_objects/307157

Sister Faine McMullen RSCJ

https://www.cny.org/stories/sister-faine-moira-mcmullen-rscj,13533?

East Boston Community Development 

https://www.ebcdc.com/

Priest Who Spoke against Law Resigns

https://www.bishop-accountability.org/news2003_01_06/2003_05_15_Paulson_PriestWho.htm

Msgr. Michael F. Groden

https://www.thebostonpilot.com/article.php?ID=181182

Eucharistic Flop, a lifeless, bloodless sacrilege

Why the Eucharistic Congress was not just a costly, meaningless show but a sacrilege: many of my ex-Jesuit friends fault it for being an anachronistic diversion from the nuts and bolts, tedious work of Tikkun, repairing our torn and frayed world with poverty, migrants, homeless people, misfits, fundamentalist racists, children murdered in Gaza and Ukraine, conscripted soldiers slaughtered, terrorists assassinated by high tech missiles that can find your bedroom window. The list seems endless. Worse for the activists is the fact that it seemed to be orchestrated by an increasingly right-wing leadership in the American Church as a counter punch for what they see as the activist agenda of the liberal Jesuit Pope. 

All those cogent reasons are, well, very cogent and appropriately political. What better way to shore up the memory of our forgotten religious life, where the priest was god's representative, and we faithful cowered in pews on the designated night and sang “Tantum ergo Sacramentum,” not having a clue that Thomas wrote those words after he had the experience of seeing all the hundreds of thousand words of very cogent theology disappear like so much straw and less idea of what any of it meant. I loved singing genitori genitoque, especially when we got to procedenti ab utroque, meaning that any meaning came from somewhere else, and I had no idea where although that was bad translation. But in general, now that my Latin is better than before a Jesuit education, I find the whole affair poorly conceived from somewhere else.

I was saddened by the silly parades, with thousands of altar boys in black and white, priests in white and gold, and bishops in lots of gold and big hats, stumbling along with no sense of what a religious procession might look like. They might have been trying to be regal and dignified, but actually, the volunteer fire department does a better job marching behind their red trucks on the 4th of July than these school boys could muster behind the crudely decorated trailers that were being dragged by the best trucks that the diocese could borrow from the Knight of Columbus who had a concrete company. Firefighters have a purpose. A New Orleans funeral marching band has a purpose. These jokers were doing something that they had been ordered to do. That seemed to be their only purpose.

The problem for me, however, goes beyond the aesthetics of mounting a religious festival with the obvious political agenda of lending support to an anachronistic, monarchial church of yesteryear. It is in the trivialization and even commercialization of God’s Presence. If I can be bold, even Thomas missed this. We are not worshipping a thing, a piece of flat, tasteless bread that has been magically changed by uttering magic words. When I bow before the Great Sacrament, I bow to the Presence of God. It is present, it is immediate, it is transformative. Instead of a flat, lifeless speck of white carbohydrate, it is love, intimacy, and mystery. All that got lost, not just lost in the sense that there was a piece missing and we knew that something was missing. It was lost in the sense that the ceremony didn’t even point to that Great Presence that is with us but invisible to our ordinary senses. Maybe Thomas, you did get it--Sensuum defectui..

And how much money did this farce cost?

The Road to Rohatsu

Ryutan’s Candle and Kenosha

Mumonkan Case 28

The original Chinese Goang

Longtan Chongxin (Dragon-Lake): Because Deshan Xuanjian asked more and more and night arrived, Tan said, "The night is deep. Sir, why don’t you go to lie down?"

Shan thereupon gathered his precious baggage, hoisted the [door] blind, and then exited. He saw the outside was pitch dark, withdrew, turned around, and said, "Outside is pitch dark."

Tan then lit a paper measuring candle and gave it to him.

Shan intended to accept it, but Tan then blew it out.

I was driving from Santa Fe to Crestone with Baker Roshi for my first Rohatsu sesshin. It was going to be just Baker and me for the four-hour drive. I was assigned a lot of packing tasks; his instructions were very exacting. I remember quite clearly that I had to fit the large densho bell into the trunk of the car. There were other bells and zendo items that were needed to keep the schedule and turn the Wheel of the Dharma. 

It was probably between 4 and 5, and already getting dark when we drove out Cerro Gordo Road. We were due by 9 to formally open the sesshin; I thought that we might have been late, but Baker Roshi knew the route very well and had the trip planned to the second. I’d heard about his legendary fast driving but felt reasonably comfortable.

We talked about Phil Whalen, Issan, the Hospice, and food. Then the conversation turned to losing normal mental ability, Alzheimers, and AIDS dementia. I was somewhat concerned about Issan’s losing his faculties during the last phase of his disease and asked about the effect of meditation and the blurring of our normal sense of time. I spoke of one guy in the Hospice who couldn’t even remember the past of 5 minutes ago and was completely unable to foresee any future. Given that he was a dying man, it actually seemed to be a blessing.

Baker told me that I probably shouldn’t worry too much. He mentioned something one of his old friends in Japan, Nanao Sakaki, the godfather of Japanese hippies, said when his memory was fading after he crossed 80 years, “I can’t remember what I didn’t need to know anyway.” 

I asked David Chadwick if he remembered if he had any more details about Nanao's condition. David pointed me to a conversation he had with Nanao before he died. David talked about a mutual friend who had colon cancer. Nanao seemed to follow the conversation but asked the same question several times, “What did he have?” "Shiri," David repeated, patting his butt, but said that he’d already answered the question.

Nanao wasn't fazed. "Kenbosho," he said. "I have kenbosho." David asked if that meant senility or Alzheimer's. Nanao wasn't exactly sure. But he was quite cheerful about it.

"Ah, kenbosho is very good," he said. "No need to remember anything anyway. My mind is becoming more empty and free every day! This is a very good thing. I like kenbosho very much."

After crossing Four Corners, the last 40 miles north up Highway 17 from Amoroso to Crestone, the road becomes totally flat, level, and straight for as far as my eye could take it to the edge of the car’s headlights. The night was very dark, with no light for miles; the sky seemed to be painted a deep penetrating purple that went all the way to the moon, but I didn’t really notice. I thought that we must have been late, and Baker Roshi might have been driving even faster, but it also might have just been my fear. I think we were riding in a BMW, but it might have been a Mercedes. I am not interested in cars; however Roshi's love of fast cars is legendary and actually got him into some trouble. He turned the conversation towards how German engineers make sure that the mechanics of the automobile are tip top because driving on the autobahn was very fast, and Germans demanded strict safety protocols and no speed limits. He joked, they at least needed the assurance of safety even if a ruse.

Suddenly the Roshi turned off the car’s headlights. It took a few seconds before my eyes adjusted. I was afraid. We were bolting up the highway at what seemed to be breakneck speed. After a few seconds, perhaps a minute, but certainly far too long in my judgment, Richard turned on the headlights again, and said with a little chuckle that we were lucky that no other driver had decided to turn out the headlights on their car to experience the beauty and depth of the dark night.  

I gradually regained my composure, but my perception of the night had changed. It opened up and I was so aware of the beauty of the night above the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. I was just part of a vast universe beyond any explanation. 

The Diamond Sutra says, “If there is even a bit of difference, it is the distance between heaven and earth.” If Deshan (Tokusan) had been a better student and actually understood before he went all out with his over-the-top melodramatic burning of the scripture, he would have saved generations of Zen students a lot of pain. But perhaps he thought that Longtan (Ryûtan) was equally dense, and the enthusiasm of a teaching moment simply overwhelmed him. It was I who needed to shed my unsentimental Jesuit training in order to catch the beauty of fire.

Within 25 minutes, we arrived on time to a waiting hall of people all sitting in good posture. I found my seat. The days rolled on; the sun came up; the stars appeared again. I heard the Temple bell ring, and I woke up.

I returned to Santa Fe with some other friends and quickly fell into a round of gatherings and holiday parties. I called Southwest Airlines and postponed my departure several times. I was having fun. 

Then, just after dinner at Robert Winson’s house, someone handed me the phone. It was Issan. He’d tracked me down. He asked how I was doing and how my sesshin had been. I told him that I thought Sante Fe was beautiful and just amazing with all the luminaria and snow.

“Oh yes,” he said; I remember his words exactly, “all those cute little mud houses. You know that the effect of sesshin can be like a drug trip, and it’s wonderful, but we need you here. Why don’t you come home?”

I called the airport and booked the next flight to San Francisco. It was time to return to my immediate experience of day-to-day life at Maitri Hospice where the moment of living life was always in the shadow of knowing that it will end sooner than we might have dreamed..

  

Daido Loori’s verse:

Within darkness there is light;

within light there is darkness.

If you really see it,

you will go blind.

Tarrant Roshi concurs.

"The Three Key B’s of Buddhism: Bowing, Boring and Bliss," by Phil Whalen & Ken Ireland

 

Phil with Allen Ginsberg and Anne Waldman at Naropa

Bowing, Boring, and Bliss

I recall a talk about “Bowing” by Zenshin Phil Whalen at the Hartford Street Zen Center. Damn, I loved his talks. He was, without a doubt, one of the most literate men ever to don the robes of a Zen priest anywhere, at any time. And if you want to challenge me, I’ll be suiting up on the Dalai Lama’s debate ground up here in McLeod Ganj. 

But first things first—I was going to try to record the talk, but I was my usual bumbling self with electronic equipment, and I couldn’t get the machine working in good time. Being his usual patient self, he yelled at me, saying that we didn’t have all day and, anyway, some things were just not meant to be recorded. Sometimes, words are purposefully impermanent. It was not like he was going to recite some goddamn hidden, secret sutra for the last time before he croaked.

So I lost the talk, but I am going to do my best to reconstruct it from the basic “B’s” as I remember them.

He began by saying that if he really wanted to write a bestseller, his publisher would insist that he come up with a title like the “The 10 Recondite Rules for Clean Buddhist Living” or something like that. So let’s give it a try: “The Three Key B’s of Buddhism, Bowing Boredom and Bliss.”  Perhaps Phil’s publisher was onto something. More than 20 years have passed, and I still remember long sections of his talk (it’s also true that, as with many teachers, he returned again and again to his favorite topics, like an old horse headed back to the barn).

When he was in Japan, in the monasteries and temples there, everyone bowed three times. People just always bowed three times. But for those who couldn’t count, he said, before he just sat down to begin his talk, he bowed nine times. We all bow nine times at Zen Center; why is that? Well, he said, when the first students gathered around Suzuki Roshi in San Francisco, they went to him one day and complained, “Roshi, we love you, but we’re Americans, and we don’t like all this bowing. We don’t understand it. So why are we doing it?” And the Roshi said with a smile, “Oh, so you don't like bowing three times? Good. Perfect. I think we should bow nine times. Better that way, More practice.”

So we bow nine times. Better that way. Practice.

Phil then told an anecdotal story about some legendary old Japanese teacher way out in the middle-of-nowhere backcountry who was revered for the callous on his forehead. He explained himself: one of his first teachers had scolded him for being stubborn and told him bowing would be a good practice. So he began bowing. He never stopped. He discovered that the body is stubborn and the mind is stubborn. He said that he would stop when he stopped being stubborn. So he just kept bowing and thus the calloused forehead. In one way or another, we’re all like that.

Then he said that Zen students actually have it very easy. In Tibet, all the new monks bow 100,000 times before they do anything. It’s called Ngondro, and it involves the whole body, not just your forehead, hands, arms, knees and feet touching the floor but your whole body flat out, like you were a swimming fish, and it’s so strenuous that it takes a lot of effort to reel back and bounce back up. Do that a hundred thousand times. I’m told that it’s a purifying exercise. But it’s not done with some idea of repentance like Christian pilgrims bowing every three feet along the Camino de Santiago. It’s done because we practice meditation with every bit of ourselves wholeheartedly, fully, without reservation, holding nothing back. 

And then he said that anyone who’s lived in Asia knows that bowing is just good manners. It’s a sign of respect. You tilt your body down, your eyes are not focused on the face of the person you’re greeting, and your whole body is lower. Of course, you’re going to bow lower to a king or abbot. There’s a whole book of bowing etiquette: you bow very slightly to someone who’s your equal, but your bow is lower when you greet your parent or someone who’s older out of respect. That’s why we bow to our teachers in a formal situation. We’re showing respect and love. And we show it by using our whole body and mind. Our mind bows down, and for maybe an instant, we’re slightly less arrogant. We have to throw every bit of being into the bow.

But the most important thing, and here is a place where I actually have Phil’s own words, from his notebooks from Tassajara, we have to make it our own. In the rule-infested monastery or practice center, we ask ourselves, are we “bowing to rules rather than using them? We must contrive to be Buddhas & patriarchs rather than students who are good at following schedules (and bowing).”

But you’ll notice, he said, we follow a certain order in the zendo—we bow to the cushion, then everyone else in the room, and we sit. How strange, bowing to the cushion. We’re not bowing to a Buddha or a person. You can think of it any way you want to. Sometimes, I like to think that I am bowing to the practice, but that is really way too abstract. Sometimes, I do it just automatically, without thinking much of anything. But in any case, we just do it. What you think about is probably not important.

Now we get to the B for boring.

We sit, and almost immediately after, we learn to sit with only slight discomfort. Our bodies become both more relaxed and more alert, and we get bored. We all have our own experiences, but I’ll tell the world I get bored.

But then the mind, it’s like fiddling with a bungled up ball of twine, if you try to untangle it when you’re frustrated or angry, the knots are just going to get tighter. You’ll be looking for a knife (He laughed). I’ve pictured the mind as a bag of worms or a net of living anchovies. But you get the point; it’s a conundrum, it’s a mess. It may be filled with ghosts or paranoia or algebraic equations. It doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, it’s just there, all tangled up. 

So there’s this big mess of thread sitting in your mind, and you just begin to play with it without much purpose, no rhyme or reason. You tug a bit here and notice that’s a bit looser over there, but you’re relaxed, and maybe you follow the thread to a knot that looks tight, but on closer inspection, it loosens up and falls away. And maybe after a while, there’s just a whole mess of lovely threads in front of you, and though you really don’t fully grasp how it happened, there it is.

Then the bell rings. 

I’ll end by quoting Mr. Robert Bly, who tells us to follow our bliss. Of course, Mr. Joseph Campbell has also told us to follow our bliss, and he did it on the Public Television Station, so it must be something worth doing. But I was watching Bly talk about it on the TV and found him quite interesting, if not persuasive—because bliss is not something I can buy, like the gummy bears I get at Walgreens. It’s just there. 

Some very fussy Buddhists might describe it as a fruit of meditation. If you hang out long enough, it’s just there because it’s always been there, but you wake up, or you open your eyes, or you open your heart. I’ll agree that it’s just there, and it really doesn’t matter how it got there. But this is something it shares with gummy bears: when you taste it, you know that it’s a gummy bear.

Sometimes, it might feel like something is lost in the process. Bly quoted a poem by Antonio Machado, which I quite like.

The wind one brilliant day called to my soul with an odor of jasmine.

The wind said, “In return for the odor of my jasmine, I’d like all the odor of your roses. ”

[Machado said,] “I have no roses; all the flowers in my garden are dead … ”

The wind said, “Then, I’ll take the withered petals, and the yellow leaves, ”

and the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself, “What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?”

I think that’s enough for today. Keep bowing. Thank you.