to be is to do

The "redlines" arrived on my desk unannounced and unwelcome. There weren't many, but the imperatives staring me down demanded in no uncertain terms to "Make the following changes." To say the least, I was a bit indignant. My "superior" sense of design, color, and proportion was being challenged by what I selfishly deemed to be unjust, coming from uncritical reason. These changes were not for the better, I scoffed, but arbitrary and imprudent. After fuming over a hurt ego for a spit, reluctantly I deferred. But only just so.

Recanting my stubborn refusal to change, I sifted through the pages and began to accommodate my superior's requests. At some I shook my head in disbelief, vowing that I could never affront my masterpiece with such embarrassment, but eventually found the resolve to make good. Others, however, I assented to quickly but proudly failed to perform. In the first scenario I started out wrongly but corrected my action, and the latter had good intentions but no follow through. It was a deja vu rendering of today's gospel parable. In both instances, words and actions did not align. The protagonist said one thing yet did another.

It isn't what you say you are going to do that's important, it's what you do*. And this is the point of Jesus' obvious story: Results matter; Intentions, well, not so much. He condemns the religious elite for starting out on the righteous path but ending up perversely distorting their objective. They mean to follow god but instead get sidetracked with innuendo and intrigue. More concerned with dead legal formalities than the life behind their words, the authorities proclaim: Do what I say not what I do. The unacceptable (the tax collectors and prostitutes), on the other hand, may have begun their journey in the wrong, Jesus infers, but finish strong by following the good. Their actions speaking louder than their words.

Who we are is shown by what we do. We inhabit the divine as the divine is in us and we must share the spirit to make it come alive. The self-emptying, humble, and loving Christ is born in our works. His adversaries speak only to confuse and disable. Our intimate nature seeks our involvement not just our words. We are called to follow through on our promises. Are we ready to say yes - yes to our obligations, yes to the right choices, yes to the god we intimately know and who knows us, yes to live the life of Christ?

love, always,

pia

* Of course the end doesn't justify the means. There is more than doing the right thing. What's not addressed, and arguably more important, is how we do what we do.

lights on, nobody home

A new roommate moved in to my condo last week. Unfortunately, day by day I have become increasingly dismayed over a multitude of instances which I consider violations of my space. Cabinet doors are routinely left open, items are left scattered about after their use, shoes sit on the furniture, lights left indiscriminately on, and the toilet remains unflushed. When I return home I consistently find something not being attended to. I wanted, not an admission of guilt, but a simple "I'm sorry," but none was forthcoming. I felt hurt because my home - and by extension, myself - was not being afforded the respect it deserved. The expectations of an orderly house have been abused.

It's a matter of awareness. To handle things with attentive care, whether through our speech, touch, or mind, is the embodiment of the divine. Of course, it is extraordinarily difficult to be conscious of everything we do and to do it with love, but I saw no evidence of an attempt. An early lesson from the convent was a reprimand for noisily clanging the dishes while placing them in the dishwasher. I was intent on hastily completing my task in order to enjoy free time in other, more pleasant, activities. But my Sisters reminded me that every action required heedful attention - from quietly closing doors to never hurrying. When we wash the dishes we do it carefully that even plastic dishes are given great accord. When we talk we speak with a reverent tongue as if speaking to one most honored. Everything we do is performed as if the our entire life depended on our work - as indeed it does - for the extension of our touch knows no bounds. In such a way, everything and everywhere is a potential for the sacred to emerge.

So a feeling of distress arose on account of my roommate's indiscreet manners. While unmindfulness may have upset the tranquility of my home, anger destroyed my inner peace even more. I became overly anxious and couldn't sleep until I came across a quote by the Taiwanese Buddhist nun, Cheng Yen, who said, "To be angry is to let others' mistakes punish yourself." I quickly realized that my roommate was not purposefully inflicting harm and that only my emotions were the root of my misery. The key to letting go of the pain was forgiveness.

However,  "Everyone believes in forgiveness until he has something to forgive," remarked C. S. Lewis. Why should I forgive when I was the one who (it seemed) required forgiveness? Yet this is what Jesus is attempting to relay to his disciples in today's gospel. In the parable of the Unmerciful Servant, he explains that we are all human and all in need of divine grace. There is no end to forgiveness. Peter, on the other hand, expects a quick fix. He wants to know when his work is done so he can get on to other, more preferable, activities. The Christ tells him that the job is never done. 

Forgiveness is not about accepting unacceptable behavior, it is about relinquishing our resentment and thoughts of revenge. On this anniversary of 9/11

that's something to be mindful of - and perhaps something we should have been aware of ten years ago. But forgiveness takes time for true healing and can't be forced. When we forgive, we let go of of our anger, not our ethics. We can then move on and not be disturbed when the lights are on but nobody is at home.

love, always,

pia

fences

This past Labor Day weekend I helped my father build a fence. He wanted to screen out a stand of junipers that over the years have become bare and unsightly, and although he did the majority of the labor, I found that I also built a fence of my own.

Unlike my father's project, mine could not be seen nor was it entirely useful. I constructed a subliminal fence meant to conceal the suffering from a negative onslaught of self examination. Things that I would rather forget or those that are too painful to live with, my critical mind uncovered and I wished to hide them. In deference to a functioning sanity, my subconscious built a fence around this deep hurt of shame and guilt. A hopeful strategy inflicting a minimal hand blister from the screwdriver of humiliation, but which soon enough is forgotten. However, underneath festers a writhing discontent rendering eventual turmoil onto the unsuspecting visible side.

And so it was this weekend. My usually adequate defenses were torn down, and faults, large and small, overwhelmed my sense of safety. The radical question "Am I looking at myself clearly and honestly?" failed to arise and a ready gainsaying of the provocations appeared to be negligent. Fast I held the gates closed, and in an exasperated resolve, vowed to build a better barrier.

Yet these fences serve only to disassociate ourselves from the true beauty we so hope to see. I wanted to screen out the internal graceless negativity leaving only a secure haven. But my freedom is not found in a separation from the pain but through the wisdom of acceptance. We can't rid ourselves of the things we don't like, these things are what make up our reality. There is always the good, the bad, and the indifferent. The problem is in ourselves and how we relate to what we're confronted with. Our strength and freedom reside not in the protective self but in the uncomfortable confusion of what is.

And this may be the subliminal message that Jesus is attempting to get across in yesterday's gospel. Of course the Christ is alluding to reconciliation of a deviant member of the group, but in effect he may also be acknowledging that all - the acceptable and the unacceptable aspects of ourselves - are part of the One. The joy lies in tearing down the fences and welcoming the undivided soul, not just the parts we find favor with. When we become friends with our Self there is a profound wholeness because nothing has to change and no new fences need to be built.

love, always,

pia