One of my favorite Christmas carols, for sheer aesthetic beauty, is "O Holy Night". According to Wikipedia, the popular English version was published in 1855 by a Unitarian minister named John Sullivan Dwight. You can find the words (of four distinct versions) at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/O_Holy_Night. The Reverend Mr. Dwight wrote that as Jesus is born "the weary world rejoices,/For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn."
According to most contemporary scholars, that moment occurred around 4 B.C (it seems the ancient scholars who calculated the break between "before Christ" and "the year of our Lord" got it slightly wrong). Today we find ourselves in "the year of our Lord" 2011 wondering when the sun will come up.
Of late there’s been a lot of chatter about the end of the world, as we know it, happening in 2012. Apparently it isn’t just that the Mayans got tired of calendar-making, but a variety of folks have found scientific and mythical clues that make them believe next year is the year. Though pessimists may believe everything will end next year, optimists tend to believe that’s when "breaks [the] new and glorious morn." I don’t know about you, but I can hardly wait. There’s only one problem: I’m not sure I believe it.
One of the most titillating developments of 2011 has been the "Occupy" movement. Occupy Wall Street. Occupy Boston. Occupy San Diego. Occupy Everywhere. A lot can be said about the Occupiers on all sides. I haven’t spent much time following or researching them, but I’m struck by the timeliness of their initiative. Before we can have a "new and glorious morn" for our world, we have to stop what we’ve been doing. That seems undeniable. Wouldn’t it be nice if 2012 were the year we finally figured it out?
When I was young I was a grumpy little kid who soured early at arguments at holiday gatherings and presents I didn’t want. For a few years I was a fundamentalist Baptist and tried to make Christmas mean something by recourse to what I thought was its real meaning–celebrating "the night of our dear Saviour’s birth." That episode ended 32 years ago. About the intervening years, the less said the better. But as the song says, I do find a "thrill of hope" anticipating that coming dawn.
Except among fundamentalists, there is a growing consensus that Jesus saw his mission as announcing the kingdom of God–and perhaps helping to inaugurate it in his lifetime. (Scholars seem unable to agree on what role he expected to play in the new kingdom, but they think it was a prominent one.) There’s an impressive resonance between the things Jesus is supposed to have taught and the type of world the Occupiers seem to want. Consider:
Then someone came to him and said, "Teacher, what good deed must I do to have eternal life? . . . Jesus said to him, "If you wish to be perfect, go, sell your possessions, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come follow me." When the young man heard this word, he went away grieving, for he had many possessions. Then Jesus said to his disciples, "Truly I tell you, it will be hard for a rich person to enter the kingdom of heaven. . . . it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter the kingdom of heaven." (Matthew 19: 16, 21-24, New Revised Standard Version)
"Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust consume and where thieves break in and steal; but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust consumes, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also." (Matthew 6: 19-21)
"Give to everyone who begs from you, and do not refuse anyone who wants to borrow from you." (Matthew 5: 42)
Many of Jesus’ ethical teachings are even more radical than these. They reflect the way he thought people should live in order to bring about the era of peace, justice, and abundance that was to be the kingdom of God. They reflect the selflessness that was to be the essence of that kingdom. They assume that there is enough for everyone–if no one insists on accumulating and keeping it for himself.
I am not so naive as to think the Occupiers are as unselfish as they ask others to be. No doubt most of them want what they think others are keeping from them. In that respect they’re no "better" then those they seek to influence. Neither, however, are they any "worse".
It’s been almost 2,000 years since Jesus died and supposedly rose again. In those 2,000 years the faith he inspired has changed human nature in the Western world for the better through teachings like those quoted above. But a world of universal peace, justice, and abundance has not been forthcoming. Enough has been written elsewhere about how Christmas has been hijacked by materialism. None of it matters. But Jesus did matter, and he still does, as and when people take his intentions to heart. His life and work are worth celebrating for that reason.
The "new and glorious morn" may not break for the world today or tomorrow, or next year. But perhaps it can break for each of us, and those whose lives we touch, when we choose to let it.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Sunday, July 3, 2011
"In every thing give thanks," part 2
I have never been a "dog person". Notwithstanding my newish belief that "all things are One," and with all due apologies to dog lovers everywhere, I have always found dogs generally unpleasant, and continue to do so. There are exceptions, of course, but they tend to be smaller dogs closer in size and temperament to cats. Why do I like cats better? They’re quieter and they usually stay the heck out of my way.
Dogs make noise, and I generally don’t like noise. I like quiet. It doesn’t have to be perfect silence, but a lack of obtrusive noise is always welcome.
In my new neighborhood in San Diego there is a dog–probably a small one, to be sure–that is left outside, fenced in or tied up, at all hours of the day and night. He seems to "bark" at the slightest stimulus. I put "bark" in quotes because his bark is closer to a yelp. As annoying as continual barking can be, continual yelping gets on my nerves even more.
I am an early riser, with or without barking dogs. I mean very early. I’m usually up by 2:00 AM. I just like the early morning hours better than any other, the same way others prefer other times of the day. Well, this morning (Sunday, July 3, 2011) I decided I would find this yelping dog and undertake whatever had to be done–without harming the dog, of course–to abate its level of noise pollution. I heard him yelp about 3:00 AM and went out to look for him. And then he became quiet.
Given the volume and angle of the sound of his yelp as heard from my apartment, I inferred that if I didn’t find him, or at least hear him, within my immediate block, I wasn’t going to find him then. So I took a tour about the block and came home. And as I sat down for a moment in my living room, the question came to me:
Has it ever occurred to you to stop complaining about hearing this dog and be grateful you can hear at all?
Well, no, actually, it hadn’t–until then. I’m grateful to be able to see at all, because my eyesight has never been good. I’m grateful that my vision doesn’t seem to have gotten any worse with age, as it might well have done. But apart from that–and like most people, I suspect–I tend to be grateful for some sensory stimuli and ungrateful for others. I tend to be grateful for graceful classical music, sweet floral fragrances, soft, gentle breezes, and so on. But I tend to be ungrateful for yelping dogs, foul odors, and cold, raw winds.
The Infinite has chosen to manifest a world full of all kinds of sensory inputs, and people to love and detest each and all of them. But as long as our bodies persist, which would we prefer: to hear some sounds we don’t like, or not to be able to hear at all? To see some sights we don’t like, or not to be able to see at all? Assuming we don’t detest every sound we hear or every sight we see, the answer seems obvious.
"In every thing give thanks," the New Testament exhorts us (I Thessalonians 5:18), and we might well take that advice the next time we see an unwelcome sight, hear an untimely and unwelcome noise, feel a chill wind, or what have you.
Dogs make noise, and I generally don’t like noise. I like quiet. It doesn’t have to be perfect silence, but a lack of obtrusive noise is always welcome.
In my new neighborhood in San Diego there is a dog–probably a small one, to be sure–that is left outside, fenced in or tied up, at all hours of the day and night. He seems to "bark" at the slightest stimulus. I put "bark" in quotes because his bark is closer to a yelp. As annoying as continual barking can be, continual yelping gets on my nerves even more.
I am an early riser, with or without barking dogs. I mean very early. I’m usually up by 2:00 AM. I just like the early morning hours better than any other, the same way others prefer other times of the day. Well, this morning (Sunday, July 3, 2011) I decided I would find this yelping dog and undertake whatever had to be done–without harming the dog, of course–to abate its level of noise pollution. I heard him yelp about 3:00 AM and went out to look for him. And then he became quiet.
Given the volume and angle of the sound of his yelp as heard from my apartment, I inferred that if I didn’t find him, or at least hear him, within my immediate block, I wasn’t going to find him then. So I took a tour about the block and came home. And as I sat down for a moment in my living room, the question came to me:
Has it ever occurred to you to stop complaining about hearing this dog and be grateful you can hear at all?
Well, no, actually, it hadn’t–until then. I’m grateful to be able to see at all, because my eyesight has never been good. I’m grateful that my vision doesn’t seem to have gotten any worse with age, as it might well have done. But apart from that–and like most people, I suspect–I tend to be grateful for some sensory stimuli and ungrateful for others. I tend to be grateful for graceful classical music, sweet floral fragrances, soft, gentle breezes, and so on. But I tend to be ungrateful for yelping dogs, foul odors, and cold, raw winds.
The Infinite has chosen to manifest a world full of all kinds of sensory inputs, and people to love and detest each and all of them. But as long as our bodies persist, which would we prefer: to hear some sounds we don’t like, or not to be able to hear at all? To see some sights we don’t like, or not to be able to see at all? Assuming we don’t detest every sound we hear or every sight we see, the answer seems obvious.
"In every thing give thanks," the New Testament exhorts us (I Thessalonians 5:18), and we might well take that advice the next time we see an unwelcome sight, hear an untimely and unwelcome noise, feel a chill wind, or what have you.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
I often wonder what to say
To me, social networking, in all its forms, is the greatest wonder of modern technology. Some forms are more wonderful than others, but the whole idea of being able to keep in touch with multiple people at once, with whom one might not otherwise be able to keep in touch at all, is utterly thrilling. When we think of social networking, we think of Facebook, Twitter, or perhaps MySpace, but blogs are also a form of social networking. For me, then, social networking also affords an occasional outlet for my long-neglected and usually frustrated dream of writing.
Strange as it seems, however, when I’m reading my Facebook friends’ statuses, I often feel as if I ought to comment, but I don’t. It isn’t because I’m not interested. It isn’t because I don’t care. I simply don’t know what to say. Occasionally I put the matter aside until I think of something to say, and then say it. More often I keep silence. I think it better to be a man of few words, fitly chosen, than a man of many words misused.
This seems especially true when my friends’ statuses are about suffering and misfortune, whether their own or someone else’s. Sometimes I might be the first to comment, but I don’t feel comfortable being first, so I wait and end up never commenting at all. On most occasions I’d be commentator #48 or 63, and I feel my comment would be superfluous. Of course I could message my distressed friend, but he or she probably already has 659 messages on the same topic. Yet it goes deeper than that.
No matter my number in the queue, no matter whether it’s a public comment or a private note, the question of what to say still vexes. I don’t want to say the very same thing 700 people have already said. In times of distress there is little room for originality. Only a small number of comments could possibly apply. It’s also possible that if I said what I really wanted to say, it wouldn’t be understood and thus wouldn’t be appreciated.
The last statement is not a comment on anyone’s intelligence. My beliefs are unusual in the Western world, and so are my inclinations about how best to address distress. The least superfluous comment I could make would be "I’m praying for you" (or for whomever), and that would be true, but it wouldn’t be the whole truth. Rarely do I pray for anyone individually, because I dare not presume that what I think best for them really is best, or that my friends’ (or my own) needs are more worthy of alleviation than someone else’s. Instead I pray every day for all God’s creatures everywhere who are in any need, want, or affliction, that their experience of need, want, and affliction be relieved.
Much is written about the power of prayer or positive intention, and it always involves intercession on behalf of specific individuals. Yet it usually also involves a distinct lack of specificity regarding the desired outcome. "Just be with them, Lord," is what we hear works best. According to the studies, it doesn’t seem to matter to whom or to what one prays, or what one believes or practices in one’s life, so long as one’s intention and faith are sincere. It also seems to help, as the words suggest, if one is not too attached to a particular outcome. Furthermore the number of people praying seems to be more important than their specific identities or relationships to the person or persons in need.
Some aspects of these findings seem a bit counterintuitive. Wouldn’t the prayer of someone close, someone who desperately desires the relief of the sufferer’s suffering, count for more than the incidental prayers of 100 total strangers? I’m as perplexed about that as the next person. I don’t know the answer. And because I don’t know the answer, I don’t presume to make judgments for the Infinite.
"Well," you ask, "if you’re praying for the relief of all suffering everywhere, how likely is that prayer to be answered?" I think it 100 percent guaranteed to be answered, but probably not today. Yet because we are One, I am obliged to pray for the highest, greatest benefit of all that is. But the Infinite knows that the specific people who I know need help are in my mind as I pray. The Infinite knows that my prayers are primarily for them.
I hope nothing more need be said.
Strange as it seems, however, when I’m reading my Facebook friends’ statuses, I often feel as if I ought to comment, but I don’t. It isn’t because I’m not interested. It isn’t because I don’t care. I simply don’t know what to say. Occasionally I put the matter aside until I think of something to say, and then say it. More often I keep silence. I think it better to be a man of few words, fitly chosen, than a man of many words misused.
This seems especially true when my friends’ statuses are about suffering and misfortune, whether their own or someone else’s. Sometimes I might be the first to comment, but I don’t feel comfortable being first, so I wait and end up never commenting at all. On most occasions I’d be commentator #48 or 63, and I feel my comment would be superfluous. Of course I could message my distressed friend, but he or she probably already has 659 messages on the same topic. Yet it goes deeper than that.
No matter my number in the queue, no matter whether it’s a public comment or a private note, the question of what to say still vexes. I don’t want to say the very same thing 700 people have already said. In times of distress there is little room for originality. Only a small number of comments could possibly apply. It’s also possible that if I said what I really wanted to say, it wouldn’t be understood and thus wouldn’t be appreciated.
The last statement is not a comment on anyone’s intelligence. My beliefs are unusual in the Western world, and so are my inclinations about how best to address distress. The least superfluous comment I could make would be "I’m praying for you" (or for whomever), and that would be true, but it wouldn’t be the whole truth. Rarely do I pray for anyone individually, because I dare not presume that what I think best for them really is best, or that my friends’ (or my own) needs are more worthy of alleviation than someone else’s. Instead I pray every day for all God’s creatures everywhere who are in any need, want, or affliction, that their experience of need, want, and affliction be relieved.
Much is written about the power of prayer or positive intention, and it always involves intercession on behalf of specific individuals. Yet it usually also involves a distinct lack of specificity regarding the desired outcome. "Just be with them, Lord," is what we hear works best. According to the studies, it doesn’t seem to matter to whom or to what one prays, or what one believes or practices in one’s life, so long as one’s intention and faith are sincere. It also seems to help, as the words suggest, if one is not too attached to a particular outcome. Furthermore the number of people praying seems to be more important than their specific identities or relationships to the person or persons in need.
Some aspects of these findings seem a bit counterintuitive. Wouldn’t the prayer of someone close, someone who desperately desires the relief of the sufferer’s suffering, count for more than the incidental prayers of 100 total strangers? I’m as perplexed about that as the next person. I don’t know the answer. And because I don’t know the answer, I don’t presume to make judgments for the Infinite.
"Well," you ask, "if you’re praying for the relief of all suffering everywhere, how likely is that prayer to be answered?" I think it 100 percent guaranteed to be answered, but probably not today. Yet because we are One, I am obliged to pray for the highest, greatest benefit of all that is. But the Infinite knows that the specific people who I know need help are in my mind as I pray. The Infinite knows that my prayers are primarily for them.
I hope nothing more need be said.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
