killing the Christ

Walking into the Reverend Canon Elizabeth Randall's office I confided, "I am still searching for a teacher." She just sat there and nodded with an impassive expression concealing her empathy and waited. Many times had she heard this from me, but this time I was hoping she might relent and take me on as a spiritual advisee. To break the awkward silence I continued, "Of course, Jesus is my teacher," and with a nod of her discerning head I immediately knew I had lost my case. 

For many years I sensed that a wise mentor was necessary to guide my spiritual journey. From devoted monks and nuns, to countless spiritual directors and confessors; from friends inclined in similar pursuits to professional counselors and respected authors, I have searched for the acute wisdom to understand the mystery: What does it means to live a human life? I am intrigued and consumed by this question. If I am not searching through tantalizing theology or pouring over logical philosophical arguments then I fear my questions will remain unanswered. To this day I have yet to find that esoteric messenger with all the answers.

Judas, one of the twelve, was confident he found his exalted teacher. But it is said that if one attains the Tao, it is not the Tao. So when things weren't turning out the way he expected, he did what he had to do. Though we vilify him as the one who set the wheels in motion by betraying his close friend culminating in the Christ's untimely death, Jesus himself understood that it was necessary. We think that without the treacherous kiss, he might have lived another 40 years, teaching his unskilled disciples just as the Buddha did after his enlightenment. But no, the master was convinced his hour had come and he was willing, if not prepared, to die. Occasionally we pardon Judas' behavior saying that someone had to do it. If it wasn't him, then surely another would have to. He became the scapegoat so the "Scriptures could be fulfilled." But perhaps the fratricide wasn't a case of predetermined lore to verify a Messianic heritage; instead the perfidy may have been exactly what needed to be done. 

In Buddhist tradition, the ninth century Zen master Lin Chi is regarded as saying, "If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him." This profound koan stipulates that when the object of religious faith - or anything we accept as valuable for that matter - becomes ensnared as a representative icon, then it may become necessary to disassociate the object from reality. We must let go of our trust in these elevated goods as the means to truth. Whatever we conceive as the Buddha, or the Christ, is mistaken. If the teacher is found outside oneself, as the parable implies, then we must kill our grasping instinct for facile salvation. The Buddha can only be found within. In this way, could it be that the action of Judas was right? 

When I was twelve my formative adolescent faith was rocked off its foundation while discussing the escalating Vietnam War in eighth grade Social Studies class, Basing my argument on the values learned from my liberal Democratic parents, I was convinced that there was no "just" war. My adversaries questioned my convictions with all manner of ethical implausibilities. Yet when they asked if I had known anyone personally killed in the conflict, they struck an emotional conundrum. Since I did not, nor did I know how to verbalize the underlying morality issue, my parental confidence was betrayed. What I believed to be concretely true was now open to debate. Doubt invaded the certitude I held in my parent's teaching and I became disillusioned. Never again would I trust so implicitly now that my idols were crushed.

I shall never condone violence and it is morally wrong and abhorrent to kill at any time. But our erroneous efforts to follow that which can not deliver must always be figuratively sacrificed. Judas had to kill his reliance on the cherished beliefs of an exterior god, as well as his interior ego, so that what remained would be his life-changing truth. Our golden heart can only awaken when we let go of all that is not oneself. We cannot live if we try to live another's life. The Buddha, the Christ, the god you seek is not to found, it can not be taught, nor can it be achieved, because it is already within you. You are what you seek.

 

love, always,

if only

"How delightful it would be if 'Dorian' could remain exactly as he is, while the portrait aged and withered in his stead. I wish it might be so," cited his creator, Basil Hallward, in the preface of Oscar Wilde's "The Picture of Dorian Gray." The emphatic desire had monumental and dire circumstances for him when the book's namesake acceded to the Faustian bargain. And unfortunately it reflected human nature's reliance on wish fulfillment fallacies. If only I could remain young and beautiful forever was Dorian's downfall.

Most people think they would be happier  if only they had.... I'm sure you can easily fill in a relevant ambition. If only I had a better job. If only I had more money. If only I had a new car. If only I was thinner, then things would be better. "If only," as author Mercedes Lackey wisely remarked, "must be the saddest words in the world."

Sad, because they can never be realized. We continually await a future happiness or, if we are fortunate to achieve what we want, we become trapped in a never-ending cycle of desire. As we succumb to the lascivious pull of hope, all that can remain is a sorrowful expectation. 

I saw an alluring woman in church this morning with gorgeous, long and thick red hair and envy enveloped me. It's all I ever wanted, screamed my wanton lust. If only I was that pretty. If only. Ever since I was young I secretly coveted a new life of beauty and grace. For a time I was satisfied with a modicum of success but resignation is my wan and subsequent sigh. I shall never be that for which I long, and so curse the object of my fascination.

And that's what happens in the Passion narrative today. The Christ emerges from the shadows of hope feeding an anticipation for a better world. He arrives as a promise that he never meant to fulfill. When the promise is dashed, the scorned quickly look for something new to take its place. Salvation, the would-be hero, is renounced and life missed its moment of glory.

When we find ourselves trapped in "if only," then it's time to remember what we do have. Instead of languishing in what might be, we must recognize the beauty and blessings underlying the present moment. With the freedom from cyclical desire we soon discover that we can have all the happiness we ever wished for. And that's a promise.

 

love, always,
pia

love from the tombs

Pacing back and forth in the middle of my bedroom, eyes cast toward a presumed heaven and hands clasped together in dire supplication, I desperately cried to god for deliverance. Anxiety overwhelmed me and earnestly I prayed that Monday should never come. The following day I was scheduled to perform a magic trick in front of my second grade class and I was nervous beyond compare. I didn't know a single trick yet I was deemed to make a penny disappear right before my friends eyes. What could I do? I was hopelessly lost and the thought of learning sleight of hand never occurred to me, so I turned to the only source imaginable - an all-knowing and powerful god. Surely he would make everything right. It was the first time I can recall asking god for help. However nothing miraculous happened. Though I bluffed my prowess in childish bravado, everyone saw my fraudulent attempt at a not-so-sly cache down my sleeve. I did survive the stress and the later embarrassment, but never again did I undertake impossible feats of illusion and the hope of divine intervention was sorely disappointed.

When things seem too much to bear, we often plead, cajole, and bargain with god for salvation. My dear aunt suffers from Alzheimer's and each week I beseech an almighty spirit for her recovery. My sister struggles with financial woes so I call upon a higher power for help. My best friend's nephew is locked up in prison and I appeal to grace for release. So many trials and tribulations we entreat god for and yet hear no answer. The frightening devastation in Japan, the amplifying crises in the Middle East and Africa, and the extreme political discord in our own country strike confusion in our hearts begging the question: Does god listen to prayer? Perhaps even; Does god exist at all?

This is what Mary and Martha of Bethany presume in this morning's gospel when faced with their brother's illness and death. They summon and implore Jesus as friend, healer, miracle worker, and savior to come to their rescue. Only he, or god working through him, can do it. But he doesn't - at least not at first - and not in the way we think. Lazarus dies and the Christ remains aloof. Both sisters rebuke him saying, "If you had been here, my brother would not have died." I, too, would have been angry. Here was our last and best hope and he let us down. Perhaps we've been deceived. If this god can not do what we think he can, maybe he's not the real Messiah.

And then comes the climax. No, not that the cadaver rises from the tomb, but that Jesus, upon seeing the heartfelt emotion of the mourners sitting shivah, weeps. The shortest sentence in the New Testament is perhaps the most powerful. Jesus weeps as he recognizes that this is where god exists; Not in the power of miracles but in the sorrow, as well as the joy, of the living. Rabbi Harold Kushner's classic tome "When bad things happen to good people" elegantly expresses this theme. God is not all powerful, he says, but all compassionate. Bad things happen for many reasons - being in the wrong place at the wrong time; Natural calamities occur over which god has no command; We are free to choose our own path and regretfully we often choose evil; and occasionally we bring tragedy upon ourselves and/or others. What he suggests is that there is no "answer" or explanation to suffering, but there is a response. It's how we deal with affliction is what calls out of Golgotha

The pain, anguish, and unfairness of life shall always be with us, but we are called to recognize that we - and we alone -  are the agents of healing. Impossible feats of divine intervention is simply childish, wishful thinking. We bring god to life by revealing the divine nature. As the harbingers of love, life is brought forth as god calls us out of our tombs of apathy. As such, love never ceases to arise. Lou Blanchard, Canon Missioner at Diocese of Colorado today preached, "God weeps with us in every pain we bear, and through this love he calls us to life." As the image of god that we are, we are called to mourn with those who suffer; Delight with those who are joyful; and bring mercy and justice to those who are needy, Come out and live. Be unbound. Be love.

love, always,
pia

your black swan

Looking down from my junior year, third floor, architecture studio window, I was captured by a most graceful sight. I noticed a student walking past the building with such a lively yet engaged gait that suggested she was in absolute harmony with herself and her surroundings. She was stunning - head erect, shoulders carefree, and arms swaying freely - I couldn't help but stare. Perhaps she was an angel because I have never seen anyone so at ease: sublime in poise, youth, and beauty. Her calm stride defined a peace that I've often tried to emulate but have rarely captured. It was an impeccable presence, the essence of pure perfection.

"I just want to be perfect" cries ballerina Nina Sayers in the haunting movie Black Swan. If you've seen the film, you know that the Prima Donna is anything but perfect. Though she can dance every move with precision, she has yet to transcend beyond rigid discipline to creatively express the requisite inner passion. Her white swan beauty, fragility, and fearful nature is readily apparent, but still her character remains incomplete. Notwithstanding her neurotic psychosis, there is something encumbering her which her choreographer, Thomas Leroy, identifies as fear. "You could be brilliant, but you're a coward. ...Stop being so f**king weak," he chides.

We are all blinded by this fear. The fear of embodying what we were truly made for. It's deep within us and it's dangerous, defiant, and difficult to manage. We may recognize enviable, angelic traits in others - but that's not their specter - for we brandish ours tightly. Keeping it private makes us even more unaware of its power over us. So we try to conform, burying ourselves in a living death of acceptability and respectability. But the only way to be fully alive is to befriend this intimate darkness. Eventually Ms Sayers black and white swans do unite giving life to her spectacle, but she gives her life to do so.

New Years Day 1997 I too struggled with a fate long bound by fear. Was I to continue to hide safely in a life confined by societal controls, or was it finally time to spread my wings and embrace my black swan? It wasn't easy, nor was it pretty, but it was necessary. Thirty-seven years of occlusion fell away as many people believed I hastily transitioned from one person into another. More correctly, however, was that I simply embodied my full identity. The journey to wholeness begins by bringing light to what we are afraid of in ourselves; bringing sight to that which we would rather have kept blind.

That's precisely what Jesus does in today's gospel. Encountering "the man born blind," he brings the light of god's infinite love to the fore. He allows the undiscerning to confront the scary parts we would rather keep in the dark. Knowing that god is always with us, loving us, validating and accepting us, no matter what we may do or how we may be, the frightening shadows are lifted from our doubts, fears, and negativities. Then we see the reality of our own life and can manifest the inherent beauty that was always there even though obscured.

Contrary to the New Testament's implication, none of us are born blind. Only through fear do we inevitably become unsighted to the true possibilities of our life. Indeed, we develop Pharisaical bulwarks against fear - be it through knowledge, skills, or righteousness - that we hope will save us. Yet our salvation is only in accepting our complete imperfection.

 

love, always,

pia