Renounce and Enjoy (and Give Thanks)

During her reflections at my final profession, our prioress quoted Gandhi's secret to life. (Get ready...it's not fun...)

Renounce and enjoy.

Isn't that brutal? Let go of it all, and experience joy. The gospel was about the young person who wanted to know the secret to inheriting eternal life. Renounce and enjoy... Really? Is there no other way?

Well, I got a fresh, and even more challenging, take on renunciation while reading Pema Chödrön's, The Wisdom of No Escape.

"Renunciation does not have to be regarded as negative. I was taught that it has to do with letting go of holding back. What one is renouncing is closing down and shutting off from life. You could say that renunciation is the same thing as opening to the teachings of the present moment.

"It's probably good to think of the ground of renunciation as being our good old selves, our basic decency and sense of humor. [...] It's as if everyone who has ever been born has the same birthright, which is enormous potential of warm heart and clear mind. The ground of renunciation is realizing that we already have exactly what we need, that what we have already is good. Every moment of time has enormous energy in it, and we could connect with that."

Renunciation is not just about giving up my possessions; it's about giving up anything that takes me out of the present moment. For me, that usually has something to do with giving up my ego and my anxieties and embracing my conceited, worried self just as it is. It means, after the awareness comes, trying to move away from the conceit and anxiety without beating myself up, but rather laughing at myself for falling into the traps of the ego, yet again, for the hundredth (thousandth?!) time that day. Renunciation is about giving up anything that takes me away from being who I am, where I am—so that I can be open, honest, and light-hearted about who I am, where I am.

Well, I'd rather renounce my extra winter coat.

(But it doesn't hurt to do that, too.)

I think, or at least hope, we've all had some taste of it—letting go of our agendas, letting go of our desire to live somewhere other than reality, letting go of our idea of the right way to do something, letting go of wanting to be something other than who we are—and tasting the joy that comes from just being. It's the call of meditation, as Pema would remind us. Let go. Breathe. Be. Renounce. Enjoy.

Yes, it's harder than giving away our coats, but there is indeed so much joy waiting for us there.

At the start of the chapter on renunciation from Pema, she writes that when people enter the Buddhist faith, they receive a title. People aren't too happy when they receive the title "Renunciation." No wonder.

We, too, in our community receive a title at profession. My title is "Of Mary, Joyful Bearer of the Word."

It's hard to joyfully bear much of anything when I am caught up in myself. No wonder I needed a reminder to "renounce" if I was going to "enjoy." 

I am so, so grateful to all those who journey on the path of renunciation with me. I am grateful to community, friends, family, guests of Emmaus, our volunteers, and so many more who come into my life with a reminder that the work of renunciation is worth it for the joy it bears in our lives.

Joyful Thanksgiving to you all!

Let us walk in the holy presence.

War No More

I always struggle to decide if I should watch movies about war.

This choice is made even more difficult when my favorite trusty website, Rotten Tomatoes, shows a good rating for a film or show on the topic. (As my friends know, I trust the site's averages [sample size dependent] wholeheartedly.)

So, when I saw that the new film version of All Quiet on the Western Front had a 92% with 99 reviews, I had to do some discernment.

I did end up watching it. The opening scenes were mostly piles of dead, bloody bodies, and people stacking piles of dead, bloody bodies. That made me cry.

And now I am writing this blog in response.

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When I was teaching, I kept this classic poster somewhere in each of my classrooms.

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Here's a poem I love... Bees by Alden Solovy

The bees
Do not stop
Collecting pollen
When humans
Murder each other
With guns.
The bees think:
How strange,
How low
On the evolutionary scale
Must those humans be,
That they haven’t yet
Figured out
How to make honey
Or peace.
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When will those wildflowers in our backyard begin blooming?

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I taught in a Quaker school for a year, and we weren't even to put war into the curriculum. It's debatable on a lot of levels, but it's what we did. We also had a tribute assembly at that school when Pete Seeger died.

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Josh Ritter, one of my favorite artists, sings some of the best contemporary anti-war music I've found.

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Old Monk has a quote on the wall of her office...

"I dream of giving birth to a child who will ask: 'Mother, what was war?'"

Gets me every time.

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May we walk into the Advent season with the Peace of Christ in our hearts and in our voices.

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Let us walk in the holy presence.

Another World

These are reflections I shared at Liturgy this morning, based on today's Lectionary.

II Maccabees 7:1-2, 9-14
Luke 20:27-38
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You know, if I had chosen readings to reflect on, I wouldn’t have chosen these.

I might have chosen Mary and Martha, or the Prodigal Son, or, any number of other biblical stories.

BUT…

That’s what you get for saying “Yes” without looking at the readings first!

And, isn’t that how life is anyway? We wake up in the morning; we say “Yes” to a new day, and then… the experiences that present themselves are rarely the ones we’d choose for ourselves, or the ones we’d imagine having.

So often the life that comes our way is challenging, mysterious, unexpected.

But it’s our life, and we’ve chosen to say “Yes,” so we have to do something with it.

So we do our best to dive in, to grapple with it, to live.

And once we dive in and grapple with these readings, there’s much to glean about our attitudes, our choices, and our way of moving through the world.

“There is another world, but it is in this one.”

I read this quote in a book recommended to me about the possibility of creating utopias here and now.

In the story from the Maccabees, there is another world for rulers who scourge those who live by their convictions, and we experience it in the pained, yet strong mother and her faith-filled sons.

In Luke’s Gospel, there is another world for those so concerned about distinctions and black and white answers that they cannot fully live, and we experience it in burning bushes and resurrections.

But inhabiting that latter world involves a choice. And it’s a hard choice. Because we are anxious, because we want clarity and not complexity, because we aren’t willing to let go of our grasp on the way things “should be,” because the work, both inner and outer, required to live in that other world demands too much of us, and asks us to change in a way that feels too far a stretch for us.

Yet, still, we hear the call to that world each morning. And we have to choose daily, and even in each moment, which world we not only inhabit, but also create.

We know from our own experiences, and now from these Scripture stories, that it is our experience of the Divine that takes us into that other world; it is our experience with the suffering and those on the margins that takes us into that other world; it is our experience of hardships and the inherent messiness of being alive that open us up to that other world. Does the Divine scourge? Does the Divine want black and white?

We know another world is possible. We have experienced it—the one of the mother and her sons, the world where what we eat does not matter as much as making sure those around us are not starving while we ourselves feast. We can create it right now.

We know another world is possible. We have experienced it—the one where our belief in life eternal unites us, the world where our true marriage is to the oneness that connects us all. We can create it right now.

But, to live in that world, we also have to choose a different narrator. The narrator cannot be those in power; it cannot be the capitalist economy; it cannot be the oppressor. We have to hear another perspective.

Come to the soup kitchen and listen to any hungry guest. Go to the shoreline and watch the water rise inch by inch. Take a walk through the poverty of any town or city. Unite yourself with the pain of the world.

Let your world be turned upside down by this new perspective. Welcome it with an open and compassionate heart and a robust humility. Welcome it with a desire for change, a desire to create a new world.

Because there is another world, but it is in this one.

It’s why we come to this chapel, to be together and to strengthen our communal resolve to choose to live in and create that other world, here and now—the one we know is so available to us when we hear another perspective.

That’s the outer world—our relationships with each other and with the earth itself. And how about my inner world? What about my relationship with myself?

What happens when I choose to narrate my own story rather than let someone else do it? What other world emerges? The woman and her sons do not allow the ruler to narrate their story. Jesus does not allow the Sadducees to narrate his. And it’s not only that I narrate my own story, but it’s the attitude with which I narrate it. Do I narrate my story through the world of my jealousies, my grudges, my desire for control and easy answers? Or, do I narrate my life through my experience of the Divine? Is my story one of abundance, of gratitude, of concern for others?

The former is so much easier than the latter, so much more comfortable, so much more seemingly secure. But, we know the former world is passing away. As we move closer and closer to Advent, the choice becomes more and more clear and more and more necessary. Christ is coming. Let go of the world you knew. Say to yourself, “I am the light of the world. I am the light of the world. I am the light of the world.” Believe it. Become it.

The possibility of this Christ-centered world comes in each moment, and there is a deep call from God to choose it.

And its name is simple. It’s love.

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Let us walk in the holy presence.

a new day begins at the monastery