Reflective Life

Standing on the Edge of Infinity

Have you ever stood on the edge of a cliff? I have.

When I was growing up, my family would often take trips to the mountains in my part of Canada. On these trips, we would sometimes go on day hikes.

As we would walk trails that were, until that time, unknown to us, we would go through forests, beside rivers, and into deep ravines. Sometimes we would walk along narrow paths with steep inclines on one side and sheer dropoffs on the other. While on these paths, the sound of rushing water would often burble up from somewhere far below us.

When making our way carefully along these paths, I would typically get a peculiar feeling in my stomach. On the one hand I was impressed by the sheer immensity of the scenery around me. On the other hand, I knew that if I was careless or lost my footing, I would plunge off the path into whatever lay beneath. Somehow, my body knew better than my mind that danger was nearby–so I better pay attention.

My body knew better than my mind that danger was nearby–so I better pay attention.

While it has been many years since I was last in the mountains, that peculiar feeling sometimes returns to my body. Typically it comes when I am facing a big decision about my future. I may not be in danger of plunging off a narrow path in the Rocky Mountains. But on my life’s path, in such moments my body suggests I am in danger of emotional or spiritual injury.

Now, some have suggested such feelings ought to be ignored. Making decisions, they say, is a purely rational process of weighing the pros and cons of whatever choice we are making.

Others argue we should envision the worst possible outcomes of our decision. Once we’ve done that, the various options in front of us will become clear. It’s unlikely the worst will happen. But, if it does, we can now choose the least worst from several terrible options.

Now, both these approaches can relieve whatever dreadful feelings might surface when approaching life’s turning points. But we can also navigate decisions in ways that are both emotionally and spiritually fulfilling.

When taking a first step in this direction, then, we might recall the path that brought us to the point of decision. Everything in the past has brought us to this point: all the things over which we had no control; all the things over which we had some control. We would not be here had our lives taken a different path. And, of course, all this includes the many specific decisions we made to get us here.

For all our specific decisions: we need to take responsibility. For all the things beyond our control: we need to let these go.

For all our specific decisions: we need to take responsibility. For all the things beyond our control: we need to let these go.

In a second step, then, we might consider the vantagepoint we now occupy. What are the values that brought us to this point? How have we embodied these values in our previous decisions? How might we have fallen short of living these values in past choices? How do we want to embody these values into the future?

For the times we embodied our values: we can be thankful. For the times we fell short of living them: we might choose to seek forgiveness.

For the times we embodied our values: we can be thankful. For the times we fell short of living them: we might choose to seek forgiveness.

In some ways, neither of these steps seems remarkable or different from anything anybody might do when making a decision rationally. But here comes the crucial piece:

As a third step we might widen our perspective to see how so many things we aren’t aware of brought us to this point. How many seemingly random conversations? How many seeming tragedies that somehow turned out alright? How many heartbreaks? How many deep and lasting joys?

But this is not the end of it. We could not have had any of these experiences if we were not connected to all other people, all other creatures, all other beings throughout physical and spiritual domains.

For example, my life in Canada is dependent on fruit growers in the Caribbean and clothing manufacturers in Asia. I am also dependent on ocean currents that moderate my weather, and cosmic radiation that affects the activity of the sun.

I need our planet to travel around our sun on its annual orbital path. This lets my earthly life flourish in accordance with its yearly seasonal cycle.

I require our solar system to maintain its position in the Milky Way. When our solar system has a consistent position in relation to other stars and planets, life on earth continues as it should. Life might not continue if other planets and stars moved to different locations.

Now, you’re probably thinking: “What’s the point of all this? Why have we gotten into all this cosmic mumbo-jumbo?!”

I’ll tell you why: When we view our lives this way, we can see how the universe itself has conspired to bring us to this point of decision. A unique balance of cosmic forces has influenced me, all my human relationships, and everything in the physical universe in ways I’ll never be able to understand.

Whatever decisions I might make will therefore have some influence on how things unfold for me. But, in reality, my influence is so small and my life so tiny, I can do little to predict or control the outcomes of any of my decisions. The forces in play are simply too great.

My influence is so small . . ., I can do little to predict or even control the outcomes of any of my decisions. The forces in play are simply too great.

So, now we are definitely on the edge of a cliff.

If I sit with how small I really am, even for a minute, I could easily sink into despair. What really is the point of anything if all I am is a speck of dust in an infinite universe?

But, in this realization, there is also a great opportunity:

What if I can consciously participate in the movements of the universe? What if I can attune myself to the deep and thrumming rhythms of the eternal cosmic dance? What if I can make myself a conduit for the consciousness that holds all of reality together?

Now, these are questions that need to inform every decision I make!

When I take these questions seriously, the bottom line is whether my choice will bring me into greater alignment with the cosmic forces, or whether it will take me out of alignment. Will my choice bring me into deeper relationship with all that is, or will it destroy that relationship, even in part?

. . . the bottom line is whether my choice will bring me into greater alignment with the cosmic forces, or whether it will take me out of alignment.

These are challenging questions, especially for those of us who live in the global West.

In the West we believe ourselves to be in complete control of our lives. We believe we are the only ones who can tell ourselves what to do. We even like to believe we can command the powers of life and death–our fondness for the accomplishments of modern western medicine is a case in point.

To discover we have limited influence over the unfolding of our lives can be very unsettling. To discover we can’t control the outcomes of our decisions can make us feel even more uncomfortable. These discoveries don’t match how we’ve come to view ourselves.

But it is healthy to shift our perspective to explore questions of alignment with the cosmos. To treat ourselves as isolated from the rest of the universe is a deeply unrealistic way of engaging life.

The result is we need to see ourselves as always standing on the edge of infinity.

All of life, all of reality, always surrounds us. All of us are simply nodal points in an infinite network of beings. Our responsibility is therefore to explore how best we can respond to the needs of those around us, keeping in rhythm with where we are in life and where we are in relation to others.

Our responsibility is . . . to explore how best we can respond to the needs of those around us, keeping in rhythm with where we are in life.

When thinking of decisions this way, we might ultimately be invited to live the following paradox: By letting go of their specific concerns, individual people can enlarge who they are; by seeing their connection to all of reality, individual lives can take on cosmic significance.

So, while we may feel we’re on the edge of a cliff when confronted with a big choice, in reality we’re standing on the edge of infinity. When we choose, intentionally, to let infinity inform our decision, and, when we choose to let infinity live more fully in us, that’s when we’ve also chosen to uphold our spiritual integrity.

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Any decision has immense implications. But so could be the impact of everyone’s life if such immensity is taken seriously.

Disclaimer: The advice and suggestions offered on this site are not substitutes for consultation with qualified mental or spiritual health professionals. The perspectives offered here are those of the author, not of those professionals with whom readers might have relationships as clients or patients. In crisis situations, readers are encouraged to contact these professionals for appropriate support and treatment if needed.

Human Perfection: A Real Possibility?

Like many people, I have, at times, worked very hard to be someone I’m not. Somehow I got it in my head that the best version of myself looked like . . . well . . . something that wasn’t possible for me.

Perhaps this was motivated by feelings of shame, or a desire to be loved, or just general insecurity. All these are probably true.

In acknowledging these things, however, I’m also acknowledging my desire for the impossible produced problematic behaviours in me.

Because there were parts of myself I simply could not accept, I worked hard to cover them over. If any of these were brought up in conversation, I would respond defensively. When I felt shame keenly, I would attempt to project perfection even more aggressively. You can imagine the results.

Ironically, in my desire to project perfection, my imperfections became more and more apparent. In some ways, this should not be surprising. But how do we understand this, if it can be understood at all?

In my desire to project perfection, my imperfections became more and more apparent.

Many religious traditions have founders who embodied a seemingly unattainable perfection. At least within my Protestant Christian heritage, we were supposed to worship Jesus as God incarnate. We were also to follow his moral teachings. But this was accompanied with an awareness that no one could ever reach his “level”, so to speak.

In believing this, I was also taught I should hate those parts of myself that did not reach Jesus’ standard. I therefore experienced war within myself. From my perspective, so much of me was unacceptable from both Divine and human standards. How could I ever embody what Jesus was calling me to be if so much of me was simply “wrong”?

Believing I ought to strive toward an unreachable perfection thus drove my already low self-esteem lower. In my own acceptance of these teachings, guilt and shame became a way of life.

For most of my formative years, then, I was, to some extent, unfortunately imprisoned by my sense of deep imperfection. These perceptions were reinforced by the teachings of my faith. In my experience, my faith encouraged my feelings of shame. Jesus’ worthiness of worship was affirmed by my perceptions of my own inner ugliness.

The challenge for me, then, was to find a version of faith and spirituality that could actually free me from guilt and shame, rather than reinforce it.

Jesus’ worthiness of worship was affirmed by my perceptions of my own inner ugliness.

It should come as no surprise, then, that over the years I have given a lot of thought to what constitutes healing. I have also thought a lot about how I can consistently and intentionally move in that direction.

Here’s where I’ve landed (for now):

Healing does not come when we strive toward impossible standards. Rather, healing comes when we recognize our striving as futile.

Healing does not come when we are motivated to overcome dominant feelings of guilt or shame. Rather, healing comes when we accept our feelings of shame and guilt, but also recognize how much more of us does not cause these things.

Healing does not come when we allow our relationships and traditions to reinforce beliefs that imprison us. Rather, healing comes when we hold a mirror up to harmful relationships and systems. We do not do this to make people and systems hurt as they have hurt us. We do this instead to repair the shared brokenness that enabled the harm to occur in the first place.

Healing does not come when we resign ourselves to playing the role of victim. Rather, healing comes when we recognize we are all victims, oppressed and oppressors alike. Once we recognize this, we can then start learning from one another, being open and frank about how we have all been hurt in one way or another. None of this is to blame the other. Rather, it is done to acknowledge how all our own experiences of being hurt have caused us to harm others. It is to acknowledge our need for forgiveness.

Healing does not come when we hold on to past conflicts. This only perpetuates the shame and guilt we might feel. This also prompts us to perpetuate the conflict. Rather, healing comes when we use our conflicts as a means for transformation–transformation within ourselves and in our relationships with others.

Naturally, all this entails we consistently engage in processes of letting go and forgiving. But, even more so, it means we persistently work to turn our enemies into friends. This, perhaps, is the hardest dimension of healing anyone might dare to undertake.

Yet to get there, it also means we must begin by letting go of our resentments and shame concerning ourselves. In my experience, it is this internal letting go that is much more difficult than forgiving others.

Healing means we begin by forgiving ourselves, even of those things we might not want shared publicly.

Much of this might again seem to have set up an impossible standard. I acknowledge that, yes, it is hard. But it is not unattainable.

By focusing on the concreteness of my feelings, beliefs, attitudes, and actions, I have given myself specific things to work with.

The good news? All these things are within my control. Yes, there is a lot of hard work that goes into shifting my longstanding emotions and attitudes. But all this is eminently attainable. And, as I consistenly engage this work, my behaviours and actions follow.

Anyone who has received an email from me knows I have a quote from Mahatma Ghandi in my signature: “Be the change you want to see in the world.”

Unless I can accept and transform my own tendencies to hate, oppress, and hurt others, I can only assist others in doing the same in a very limited way.

Somehow, the capacity to be deeply at home with myself, in all my warts, failings, and imperfections, is that which can produce the deepest healing, for myself and for those around me.

This does not mean I give up the work of becoming a better version of myself–quite the opposite. Rather, by doing the work to produce (sometimes painfully) honest appraisals of myself, that’s when I can start building deep and lasting change.

By being honest with myself in this way I can build the deep self- acceptance I need to accept and work with others in corresponding depth.

By being (sometimes painfully) honest with myself, I can build the deep self-acceptance I need to accept and work with others.

I recently came across a compelling reinterpretation of an idea I was familiar with in childhood. It’s something like this: The responsibility of Christians is to show the Christ to the world.

Previously, I would have interpreted this to mean “Christians need to go out and make converts by whatever means necessary.”

To be clear, I no longer believe everyone needs to worship Jesus to merit divine favour.

Rather, I now understand that showing the Christ to the world means, in part, embodying the deep self-acceptance that facilitates healing in one’s self and others.

The Christian faith teaches that Jesus was fully Divine and fully human. From my perspective, this means that Jesus so fully accepted his humanity that Divinity radiated forth from him fully. This means, then, we can follow Jesus’ example by embracing our own full humanity in all its distinctive humble glory.

Remember, Jesus’ embrace of humanity aligned him with the poor, the sick, and the dying. All of us experience different kinds of poverty; all of us have been and will be sick at different times and in different ways; and, whether we like it or not, all of us will die various kinds of deaths.

Divnity can be found in all of this–sometimes because of it. For Divinity to be liberated into its full radiance in us, then, we cannot bypass the realities of human existence. It is rather through acknowledging and engaging all our human foibles and follies that we can release them into the Infinite, being transformed into better people in the process.

The path Jesus revealed therefore leads into deeper engagements with our humanness, rather than away from it.

The path leads into deeper engagements with our humanness, rather than away from it.

All of us are Divinely loved, deeply and transformingly, if only we can learn to love ourselves this way, imperfections, warts, and all.

Ultimately, it is love that beckons us into transformation; shame and guilt only perpetuate themselves.

When love comes your way, then, may you follow it, be transformed by it, and, in turn, bring it to others. As Canadian singer/songwriter Bruce Cockburn says, love will find a way.

May love be your way; may it also be your way with others. Love will find a way. May it be your way, today.

References

Bourgeault, C. (2008). The Wisdom Jesus: Transforming Heart and Mind–a New Perspective on Christ and His Message. Boston, MA: Shambhala Press.

Panikkar, R. (2004). Christophany: The Fullness of Man. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books.

Wilber, K., Patten, T., Leonard, A., and Morelli, M. (2008). Integral Life Practice: A 21st-Century Blueprint for Physical Health, Emotional Balance, Mental Clarity, and Spiritual Awakening. Boston, MA: Integral Books.

What’s the Point of Anything, or, Everything?

In some ways, I was your typical depressed teenager. While I certainly had exciting and goofy times with my friends, I would also spend hours brooding. My tendency to look inward might have come from my family. It might also have been a symptom of my brain pruning its neural connections–a biological reality that occurs during everyone’s adolescence. Whatever its reason, my melancholy invited me to consider the big questions. What really is the meaning of it all?

Now, several decades, several careers, and several faith communities later, these questions haven’t abandoned me. But perhaps age, numerous heartbreaks, many joys, and a deliberate effort to transform myself have changed how I engage them.

Gone are the days of naïve idealism! Gone are the decades of blissful unawareness! Gone are the incessant strivings for impossible perfection! Gone are the persistent heapings of shame and self-recrimination when I perceive myself a failure!

If only life were so simple.

True, I have experienced some deep and lasting change. But I have also had to put the work in. And, if I have learned anything, the work continues. It will always continue. It will continue to the day of my physical death. It might continue beyond, depending on your perspective.

It seems the Work is the one constant in life. Change may be another. But if I want the change in myself to be ongoing, I’ve got to put the work in. So what’s the point of it all, if anything?

The Work is the one constant in life.

Here’s what I believe:

The purpose of grappling with the meaning of life is to consciously explore and manifest the cosmotheandric principle.

What does that mean!?

The word cosmotheandric was invented by Roman Catholic philosopher Raimon Panikkar. It combines three Greek words: cosmos, theos, and anthropos.

According to Panikkar, the cosmos is the domain of matter. It is the physical universe that surrrounds us and supports us.

Theos, in contrast, is the domain of the Divine, the Great Mystery. Sometimes this can be called “God”. But from Panikkar’s perspective, the word “God” is too limiting. Ideas like “the Divine” or “the Great Mystery” are more inclusive, and therefore present more possibilities.

Finally, anthropos is the human domain. It includes both the physical aspects of our existence, as well as our immaterial experience, like our emotions, thoughts, imaginings, and consciousness. The human integrates the physical and non-physical into a coherent whole.

“Cosmotheandric” thus indicates the deep interdependence of the physical, the Divine, and the human.

The cosmotheandric is the deep interdependence of the physical, Divine, and human.

Here’s one example of what this can look like:

Now that I’m in early middle age, I’m very aware of my habits. These are habits of thinking, of behaving, and of interacting. Some of my habits are healthy; some, not so much.

As I’ve understood how my body and brain interact, my habits not only appear in my body, but are primarily manifestations of structures in my brain. These structures were produced by my prior experiences, behaviours, attitudes, and choices. While I have some control over my habits, there are also a number of factors that helped them form of which I am largely unaware. These include my genetics, my temperament, my family of origin, and my responses to trauma, among others.

If I have a spiritual practice like meditation, for example, this allows me to become aware of my habits and to observe them. In effect, my practice teaches me to step outside myself and observe myself relatively objectively.

Yet when I step outside myself, I am also moving into a larger domain that includes all of what I am — physical and non-physical. But this larger domain is also characterized by an infinite vastness I can never contain completely within myself.

This infinite vastness might be what Panikkar calls the Divine — theos. My body is the physical — cosmos. My thoughts, emotions, and experiences, as mediated by my body, are the human — anthropos. I am therefore beginning to experience the cosmotheandric within myself.

I can experience the cosmotheandric within myself.

As my practice takes deeper root, my habits begin to change. By observing my habits, I can now choose whether to engage them or not.

In introducing the element of choice, my body also begins to change. Because I am observing my habits, my brain is not automatically travelling the neural pathways that make my habits habits. I am essentially re-wiring my brain, simply by taking the time to observe what is going on inside me.

By actively engaging the theos within me, then, the expression of cosmos in my body changes. I, as an anthropos, am engaging an activity that changes my experience of my humanness in relation to the Divine and the cosmic. As the horizon of my engagement widens, my embrace of the cosmotheandric fundamentally transforms my way of being in the world.

My embrace of the cosmotheandric fundamentally transforms my way of being in the world.

Now I am choosing which of my habits to engage and which to abandon, people start to notice some differences in me.

I am not as angry with my frustrating coworker as before. Instead of snacking on junk food as usual, I am going for walks with friends. Instead of brooding on perceived slights, I am openly discussing relational tensions with the other people involved.

My inner theos thus restructures my anthropos, and my cosmic body responds.

My body is not carrying stress the way it once was: I can lose weight; I feel more energetic; my mood is more consistently positive; I am treating myself as an integrated and integrating whole.

The cosmotheandric helps me see myself as part of a larger whole–everything, absolutely everything, is interrelated and interconnected.

In the cosmotheandric everything, absolutely everything, is interrelated and interconnected.

Too often in the western world we see ourselves as separate from everything else. Some say we are too individualistic. There is some truth to this. Yet I suspect the situation is more complicated.

More likely, we have fragmented the cosmotheandric, focusing on only parts of it to the detriment of others.

When we focus only on the physical cosmos we likely become attached to material objects. We desire to accumulate wealth and possessions while ignoring the human and the Divine.

When we focus only on the Divine theos we likely become caught up in defining and defending orthodoxies. This can result in human oppression and the neglect of the physical universe in the name of following “god’s truth”.

When we focus only the human anthropos we likely get bound up in self-indulgence. Stating our own truth and meeting our own desires prevents us from seeing the Divine in all things. We therefore only appreciate other people and the physical universe when they help us meet our goals for ourselves.

When we embody the cosmotheandric, in contrast, it helps us hold all aspects of reality in balance. Yes, at times we will emphasize the cosmic, theic, or anthropic. But we do this to maintain the balance of the overall whole.

The cosmotheandric holds all aspects of reality in balance.

If taken seriously, then, grappling with the cosmotheandric can be a vehicle for deep transformation–personal, collective, and cosmic.

Yet the cosmotheandric is only one version of ultimate meaning. There are others. I offer it here as one way to understand the meaning of it all. My depressed teenager self would likely not have grasped it, nor endorsed its path toward transformation.

Whether accepted or not, the cosmotheandric still presents one compelling picture of reality’s true nature and how we as humans fit into it.

Ultimately, all of us have to choose from among many multiple realities which realities we call our own. The cosmotheandric is but one among these possibilities.

May your choice of reality be blessed. Writing this summary has blessed me. I pray you will be blessed similarly by reading it.

References

Cozolino, L.J. (2017). The Neuroscience of Psychotherapy: Healing the Social Brain, 3rd edition. New York, NY: Norton.

Lasair, S. (in press). HAVE-H: Five Attitudes for a Narratively Grounded and Embodied Spirituality. Journal of Pastoral Care & Counseling.

Panikkar, R. (2010). The Rhythm of Being: The Unbroken Trinity. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Press.

Spiritual Health: A Foretaste

Those readers who follow me on social media will know I’ve been posting a number of videos regarding spiritual health. So, for followers of this blog, here they are, all in one place:

Awareness

Openness

Freedom

Wisdom

To learn more about the course mentioned in each of the videos please click here.

Upcoming Learning Opportunity on Spiritual Health

On this blog, I’ve written a lot about spirituality and spiritual health. Well, it’s now time to “take it to the street”!

Through my work at Emmanuel Anglican Church and The Refinery Arts and Spirit Centre, and, in partnership with Queen’s House Retreat and Renewal Centre, I’ll be offering a seven session online workshop series in November and January for those interested in learning about spiritual health and in building their spiritual health in the process.

Check out this video to sample some of the teachings I’ll be sharing during this learning opportunity:

You can click here to learn more about the workshop series.

I look forward to meeting you there!

A Spirituality of Loss, Or, A Meditation on Love

This time of year is always somewhat tender for me. September is a month when I have experienced multiple losses in the past–several deaths, the loss of jobs, difficult life circumstances–all these seem to have occurred during various Septembers in my life.

Sure, I’ve had very difficult experiences during other parts of the year. But September seems to be a month of particular intensity, and I’m not sure why.

In a previous post I wrote about how life can take on a certain rhythm. Sometimes it can seem like smooth sailing, with few difficulties to be navigated. Other times life can seem so intense that you can question why you have to live through all you’re experiencing.

Sometimes life is smooth sailing. Other times it’s so intense you can question why you have to live thorugh all you’re experiencing.

In the midst of such intensity, you can try and counterbalance the stress and pain by framing things positively, saying things like “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger!” or “there are people who have things far worse than I do.” But somehow these clichés seem only to paint a smiling clown’s face on situations that really cause weeping underneath.

The truth is that whenever you experience loss, you are not only losing the thing or person that is now gone. You are actually losing part of yourself. This is why loss hurts so much. When we invest time, energy, and other resources into things or people that matter to us, when these things or people are gone, all we’ve put into them, our time, our energy, our love, seems to vanish into nothingness.

Such experiences can be heartrending. We can question whether it was worth all the time and effort, we can rage against whatever it was that took this person or thing from us, we can dissolve into sobbing at a moment’s notice, but none of this, none of this, brings back what we’ve lost.

Yet, paradoxically, the strange alchemy of grief requires we let go–let go of the thing we’ve lost, let go of the person we thought we were because of this thing. Once we let go, only then can life and joy return to us.

In the strange alchemy of grief, it is only in letting go that life and joy can return to us.

In my own several experiences of grief, I have found this letting go to be so very difficult. All of me has wanted to hold on to what I once had–my loved ones, my jobs, my sense of security, my sense of self. Yet, by slowly and surely releasing my grasp on things I only thought were mine, I learned what I thought was mine was never really mine in the first place.

When reflecting hard on life, it becomes painfully clear what little is actually mine. My children are not mine. My spouse is not mine. My house is not mine. My belongings are not mine. My life is not mine. Any or all of these could be taken from me at a moment’s notice. And, if I am honest with myself, there is very little I can do to prevent it.

Does this mean I should not fight to preserve these things, if there is something I can do to prevent these losses? Absolutely not! There are times when it is appropriate to fight to protect the things we love.

But then there is the question of what is motivating my need to fight. Is it my need to dominate, prove my power, to assert my control over what I perceive to be mine? Or is it that I want to ensure the health, wellbeing, freedom, and joy of the people, places, and organizations I care about?

Discerning my responses to these questions can be challening. But arriving at a true answer can be empowering, especially in times of grief.

When you love well, meaning you love in the purest and truest sense, without coercion, manipulation, or control, it becomes evident that love is, in some fundamental ways, about letting go.

When you love in the purest and truest sense it becomes evident that love is, in some fundamental ways, about letting go.

Yes, love is about connection, it is about beautiful and meaningful realtionships. But it is also about sharing the freedom to be your own person; it is about nurturing what is good, beautiful, and inspiring in the people you love; it is about inviting others to be the best versions of themselves, while also doing the work you need to do to bring out the best in yourself. It is about giving others the freedom to do what they need to be themselves, while also trusting that your mutual love will always draw you together again.

Love can be frustrating, enraging, and painful. But it can also be inspiring, joyful, and powerful in the midst of the frustration, rage, and pain.

This is how you know love is love–it holds all the ups and downs of a relationship while also constantly affirming your committment to the good of the other. It is, in some ways, about letting go of yourself so you can work for the good of the other.

When love is mutual, all those in loving relationships do this for one another. And this is what makes love love: you are all in it together, you are all doing your work with and for one another.

Love holds all the ups and downs of a relationship while constantly affirming your commitment to the good of the other.

If this is what love is about, then it is no wonder losing a person or thing you love can cause so much pain. Your connection with that person or thing, your sense of being able to meaningfully express your love, is severed, or at least transformed beyond easy recognition.

But, strangely, love is all about transformation. It is about seeing the people and things you love transform themselves into more beautiful versions of who they are. It is about allowing yourself to be transformed by love, becoming a more beautiful version of yourself because of your love, no matter how painful this might be.

So, when grief comes, as it does for all of us, it invites us to see our bereavement as a kind of transformation. Certainly the person or thing we have lost has been tranformed. They are no longer with us in the same way they were before.

Yet, perhaps most painfully, we are also no longer with ourselves in the way we were before. This is likely the true depth of grief’s pain–we don’t know who we are any more because of losing our beloved person or relationship.

But if we have loved, and if we have loved truly, our love for the lost person or thing invites into yet another transformation. It invites us into a deeper love, into a greater vulnerability, precisely because our hearts have been broken wide open by our loss.

Grief invites us into a deeper love, into a greater vulnerability, precisely because our hearts have been broken wide open by our loss.

A number of years ago, after suffering a deep and searing loss, I made a conscious decision to become a more loving person because of it. I had lost many things before that–relationships, jobs, communities–and typically I dealt with those losses badly. I became angry, bitter, and resentful.

Yet, by opening myself to the depth of that most recent loss, the strange alchemy of grief filled me with compassion, joy, and love, precisely because I chose to open myself to the depth of pain I then experienced.

I don’t understand precisely how that worked. But, somehow, by allowing myself to feel how hurt I actually was, I began to understand, viscerally, the pain of others, especially how painful pain can be when we try to avoid or suppress it.

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There can be a strange purity to grief when we simply allow ourselves to embrace it. This does not mean clinging to our grief, trying to make it part of who we are. Rather, like all good embracings, it means welcoming grief when it comes, holding it for whatever time it needs, and then letting it go. Yes, this is a strange kind of welcome, because grief is a most unusual guest. But she is a guest regardless, and she is one who requires our welcome.

But if love is true, and grief is an invitation to deeper love, grief can be a midwife also, who, with our cooperation, can birth within us a richer care for our world, precisely because we have loved and we have lost and we have learned to love all over again.

Here, then, the ancient wisdom “Love is stronger than death” can be seen as true. Ultimately, it is though death, either literal or figurative, that we learn of love’s strength. For what other reason do we grieve so deeply when we see ourselves as having lost someone or something we love?

In this time when so many are experiencing multiple losses, then, I wish you a depth of love and the grace to embrace whatever grief comes your way.

May love hold you in the midst of pain. May you experience that love that is stronger than death, that can bring forth beauty from your pain, that is labouring to birth something new within you. May this newness know the pain of loss. But may it also know that loss is always most keenly felt because of the depth of your love.

For Further Reading

Miriam Greenspan. (2003). Healing through the dark emotions. Boulder, CO: Shambhala Press.

Relative and Absolute Reality

Here we are in the middle of summer. One thing I love about this season is getting outside under a starlit sky, seeing the lights of distant suns, imagining what life might exist beyond the bounds of our planet.

I remember lying on the deck of my family’s cabin one August to view the perseid meteor shower. I had never seen the meteor shower before. You can imagine my awe and wonder seeing the bright lights of alien rocks disintegrating in Earth’s atmosphere shooting directly over my head. That is a night I will never forget.

Often, people use such experiences to express their awareness that there is something out there much bigger than themselves. Who cannot be impressed by the seemingly infinite vastness of outer space? Who cannot be filled with feelings of insignificance in relation to the apparent endlessness of the known universe?

“Who cannot be impressed with the seemingly infinite vastness of outer space?”

Yet part of this human wondering is also trying to capture this infinity, to reproduce these feelings of vastness and insignificance within the confines of mathematical or philosophical formulations.

Somehow, to draw from within one’s self ways to express ultimate reality can be like a mystical experience. Is it any wonder, then, that many scientists and philosophers describe their work in deeply spiritual terms, even though they deny belonging to any spiritual tradition?

While it is true scientists and philosophers can formulate some very profound things, all these are approximations of what reality actually is. In fact, one of the goals of science and philosophy is to revise, undermine, and disprove previous theories concerning the nature of reality. In doing so, scientists and philosophers believe they are moving toward better understandings of life, the universe, and everything. It is therefore debatable whether there will ever be a single definitive statement about what is reality.

“It is debatable whether there will ever be a single definitive statement about what is reality.”

The challenge for a person living a spiritual life is thus to know the difference between truths that will die away at some point, and truths that are absolute.

Yet, ironically, absolute truth has to be experienced, whereas those that die away can be understood as limited attempts to communicate this deeper experience.

The goal of any spiritual practice, then, is to open one’s self to more and more of this absolute reality. But as this openness increases it also becomes more and more difficult to communicate experiences of the absolute to people who have not experienced things similar.

An emerging reality for such people is thus being in touch with a deep awareness of absolute reality while also watching others being caught up in realities or truths that will die away. When seeing others entranced by these relative realities, those in touch with absolute reality often feel a desire to draw people into greater awareness of the absolute.

The dilemma then becomes how best to navigate the practicalities of living in a world of relative realities, while also seeking to live a life in touch with the absolute. Various spiritual traditions respond to this dilemma in different ways.

What is common to many of them is the idea that by embodying a relation with the absolute in a world of relative realities, a person can bring healing to those whose lives are fragmented and torn by the pull of relative realities that pale in comparison to the absolute.

The absolute is thus that which holds all relative realities together; it is that which counterbalances the eternal change of relative realities through the manifestation of timelessness, changelessness, and infinity. The absolute grounds the relative; it is that from which all relative realities emerge.

“The absolute is that which holds all relative realities together through the manifestation of timelessness, changelessness, and infinity.”

To embody a relation with the absolute, then, is to participate in the work of creation, to bring infinite and absolute goodness into a world fragmented and dis-integrated by multiple relative realities. These relative realities might embody partial goods, but in themselves they are not absolute good. The absolute is absolute–that which is relative can only ever embody parts of it.

In the life that a person receives (if they live their life in consistent relation to the absolute) they will hopefully increase their manifestation of goodness, grace, love, humility, compassion, gentleness, kindness, and all the other virtues named by the great spiritual traditions.

In doing so, this person will draw the people around them into greater awareness of and relation with the absolute. Not only will this restore the wholeness and health of these people. But it will also prepare these people to do likewise with those with whom they live and associate.

A lofty calling if ever there was one.

Here are seven questions to help you reflect on your own experiences of the absolute:

What is the deepest experience you’ve ever had of being drawn into a reality bigger than yourself, if you’ve ever had one? What exactly happened? What did it feel like?
Have you ever had an experience where everything you thought was true was turned completely upside down? What exactly happened? What did that feel like?
What did you learn from each of these experiences?
How did you live differently as a result of them?
What did you desire or hope for in light of these experiences? How did you persue (or not) these desires or hopes?
What might have been some negative aspects of these experiences? How did you respond to them?
How were you changed for better or for worse because of these experiences? How do these changes connect to your deepest desires, if at all?

Feel free to share your experiences in the comments boxes below this post. I’ll be sure to respond and engage you in conversation, I promise.

May our Lives Embrace the World

Earlier in life I thought it was good to belong to the elite. I knew what I believed, and I knew I was saved–others be damned–in my mind they probably were. Unfortunately, I look back on that time and realize I exemplified the worst of religion.

Then I started making friends with people who did not share my beliefs. At first, I thought it was my responsibility to convince them to believe the same things as me. Their salvation rested upon it, not to mention the sense of power it gave me.

If I held the keys to salvation, I knew where I stood. I knew where others stood, especially those who did not share my beliefs and values. Life was simple; I could navigate my relationships easily. I knew what my responsibilities were.

But then I started listening, and not just in a superficial way. I started really listening.

All of a sudden, it was no longer possible for me to dismiss the viewpoints, perspectives, and experiences of others. I quickly learned others had suffered in ways similar, or even worse than what I thought I had experienced. I also learned that others had similar desires to me–all my acquaintences wanted good careers, fulfilling relationships, and a sense of meaning and purpose in life.

When I saw what connected me to other people, I realized I had much more in common with them than true differences. And this is regardless of race, culture, ethnicity, sexual orientation, socio-economic status, religion, occupation, or political alliegences. Though my younger self would likely reject the openness I now try to embody–perhaps even violently–I now feel meaningfully connected to others in ways I could never have understood or experienced earlier in life.

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Too often people believe religion is all about defining and defending truth. There is something to this idea, in that religion at its best does need to be about Truth. But, as I’ve written before, ultimate Truth can never be confined within the bounds of a single perspective or system. Truth surpasses anything anybody can meaningfully say about it.

So, when living intentionally, those who are committed to Truth need to acknowledge that everyone they encounter will embody part of Truth–not all of it, but not none of it either.

The result is, to get a fuller appreciation of Truth, we need to talk. And, perhaps more importantly, we need to listen.

The problem is there are many people who have been put in positions–socially, culturally, racially, socio-economically, politically, religiously–where they have become accustomed to defining Truth. This means they know what the truth is for them. And, because this works for them, they believe it must, must, work for all people.

This is, in part, because these versions of truth are comfortable. When a person defines what is true for them on their own terms, it means they get to define the nature of their reality. When someone or something questions this vision of reality, such a person can perceive this as a threat. It can seem their understanding of truth isn’t as true as they thought it was. What a recipe for insecurity!

One question in such situations is: What is at stake when a person is feeling threatened? Is it power? Security? Safety? Wellbeing? It could be one or two of these things; it could be all of them; it could be something else. Whatever it is, feelings of threat typically cause people to respond in extreme ways, often violently, even.

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Part of being spiritually healthy is being open to two things:

I become open to how I have constructed my experiences of reality. Because I have either consciously or unconsciously chosen to see life in certain ways, this has built filters around how I perceive and experience reality. Becoming spiritually healthy means I intially become aware of these filters. Then, once I am aware of them, I become open to how these filters have excluded significant parts of reality from which I might otherwise have benefitted. I become open to all that my limitations entail.
I become open to the perspectives of others. Because I am now open to my limitations, I can now see how others can contribute perspectives to my life that broaden out my own perspective. I will never be able to fully understand or overcome my limitations. But, by listening to the perspectives of others, I can learn to engage all of reality with kindness, gentleness, and compassion.

By building this kind of openness we begin to see how all of us are united by our frailty and fragility. Some may have built seeming fortresses of strength and power around themselves. But these are often illusions. Only by embracing our frailty and fragility can we begin to appreciate what strength and power we might have. And the path to achieving this leads us right into the heart of our own limitations. By gaining a sometimes painful awareness of our limitations, we can then connect deeply with others and thus build collective strength because of our shared frailty and fragility.

This is the basis upon which all of us can fight injustice. We cannot fight injustice on our own, simply because we have perceived ourselves as wronged in an individual sense. Rather, when we see the plight of one person is the plight of us all, that’s when deep and lasting transformation can happen.

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It is hard for me to see or understand the plight of others. I am a white, highly educated male. Although I have certainly had a number of hardships in my life, I have not suffered in the same ways as those who have experienced systemic discrimination and racism.

As I write there are anti-racism protests happening globally as the result of an African American man dying at the hands of a white police officer. Here in Canada, Indigenous peoples have faced generations of discrimination and racism, to the point that our government attempted to commit cultural genocide against them.

It is with a great deal of discomfort, and even shame, that I admit I still have to work against my unconscious attitudes that cause me to behave in discriminating ways, often without my being aware of it. For these I beg forgiveness. But I also commit myself to listen, and to listen deeply.

If we cannot embrace all of life, all of reality, all the world, then our hopes for the future will remain narrow and limited.

Yet the life to which I have committed myself, a life of integrity, of compassion, of optimism, and hopefulness, requires me to face and own the harms I have caused directly, as well as the harms from which I benefit both directly and indirectly.

Only by hearing the pain of others can we ever hope to build a better world. But to do this we must embrace the entire world, if only to hear its pain, and, within that pain, to discover hope.

May my life embrace the world, then. May all our lives embrace all the world.

All our futures depend upon it.

__________________________

Splitting Reality

When I was in my early twenties, the Harry Potter books were just being published. Although I didn’t read them until I was in my early thirties, I quickly became captivated by the intricate and detailed world constructed by their author, J.K. Rowling.

While there are many aspects of the Harry Potter books that are interesting and worth discussing, I want to focus on one character within them: Lord Voldemort (and yes, there will be spoilers for those who are unfamiliar with the books and movies).

For those who don’t know him, Lord Voldemort is the main villian in the Harry Potter books. In many respects, he is the epitome of evil: he is ruthless, he is driven by anger and revenge, and he will let nothing and no one get in his way. He is so determined to maintain his power he even splits his soul into seven pieces so no single wound will kill him. Only the destruction of each object containing a piece of his soul will defeat him.

In this brief summary, it is clear this story is very fantastic and not possible in the normal everyday world. Yet, in a sense, all of us split ourselves into different pieces.

The relationships I share at work are different from the ones I share at home; I get together with some friends at different times from others–I even have some friends who have never met one another. It is also true that some of the people with whom I share relationships never see parts of me that other people see.

All this is normal; life wouldn’t be life if this wasn’t the case.

“Things get complicated when we want to keep certain parts of life secret from people in other parts of life.”

Yet things get complicated when we want to keep certain parts of our lives secret from people in other parts of our life. It is true certain things need to remain private; that is proper and good. Yet when a person is ashamed of something in their life, like an addiction, relationships that others might consider improper, or highly dysfunctional ways of engaging life, keeping this a secret can spill over into other areas of life.

Soon other parts of life are affected by this thing we don’t want others to know about. Life becomes dominated by keeping these different areas of life separate.

The fear of discovery becomes something that is always in a person’s awareness. Maintaining a sense of control, a sense of power over one’s life, is directly dependent on keeping these different parts of one’s self separate. It is almost like the different parts of one’s self can’t admit the other(s) exist–to do so would spell disaster.

From a spiritual perspective, this is a very unhealthy situation. Spirituality is all about integrating the different parts of ourselves into a completed wholeness. This includes all those parts of ourselves we would rather not admit are parts of who we are.

“When life is defined by a fundamental split in our experience of ourself and reality, we become capable of all kinds of evil and cruelty simply to protect the separate parts of ourself.”

So, when life is defined by a fundamental split in our experience of ourself and reality, we become like Lord Voldemort, capable of all kinds of evil and cruelty simply to protect the separate parts of ourself.

Of course, this is all a matter of degrees–all of us do this to some extent. However, when carried to an extreme, sometimes because of deep shame and self-loathing, the damage a person does to themself is often projected onto others. The hurting person hurts other people; they become a mini-Voldemort. But, unlike Voldemort, others might be able to assist in their healing (more on this in a future post).

Here are ten questions to help you reflect on how you might experience splitting in your own life:

What are some parts of yourself you never want others to discover, even your closest friends and confidantes?
Why do you want to keep these parts of yourself private or secret?
What might be the consequences if others were to learn of these things?
To what extent do you build your life around keeping these things secret?
To what extent is the secret in your awareness during your daily activities?
What do you believe is the risk if you let your guard down with regard to your secret?
How do your behaviours and interactions with others help you maintain your guard of your secret?
How do you believe others perceive you, your behaviours, and your interactions with them?
In what ways might your secret be controlling your life in ways you’re unaware of?
In what ways might your secret be not so secret?

If your life is dominated by your secret, you may need to consider whether this is helpful or unhelpful for you and your goals. Depending on your response to this question, you might want to consult with a qualified mental or spiritual health professional.

Remember, all of us play significant roles in creating the realities we experience. So, each of us can also change our realities, if only we take the time and effort to do so.

I wish you well in your journey toward wholeness.

References

Lasair, S. (2019). What’s the point of spiritual care? A narrative response. Journal of Pastoral Care & Counseling 73(2): 115-123. DOI: 10.1177/1542305019846846

Lasair, S. (2019). A Narrative Approach Spirituality and Spiritual Care in Health Care. Journal of Religion and Health [Online First]. https://rdcu.be/bSZY3

Being in Rhythm

The year after I finished high school, I studied music at a local community college. My hope was to become a professional jazz guitarist. Having been surrounded with music my whole life (both my parents were music majors in university) I felt drawn toward this art form, especially jazz which nurtured my need for moment by moment creativity through improvisation.

Little did I know how hard jazz improvisation actually is. Not only does it require mastery of the instrument you are playing, but it also requires thorough understandings of music theory, music history, and the art of playing with other musicians.

“To perform jazz improvisation requires nerves of steel.”

It also requires nerves of steel. When you’re in front of hundreds of people, expressing some of your innermost feelings through your instrument, things can get a bit scary. You have to be listening to everything that’s going on around you. You have to be responding to what the other musicians are doing. You have to engage the audience in ways they will find inspiring.

Ultimately it was my lack of nerve that led me away from music as a career. When in front of people my performance anxiety would get the better of me. I also discovered I enjoyed ideas more than I enjoyed performing. Philosophy, religious studies, psychology, and sociology held my attention and interest more than practicing scales for hours on end. Call me crazy, but some of my books are my closest companions–they shape my understanding of myself and my worlds more than music ever did or could.

Looking back on that time, however, I have now come to appreciate the incredible lessons music taught me about life and spirituality. I will summarize the biggest lesson with the phrase: Being in Rhythm.

As I have come to see it, spirituality concerns how we understand and engage reality. It is true each of us can shape reality in some significant ways. This begins mainly by paying attention to our inner lives, specifically our perceptions about reality. Shaping reality also takes deep roots when we truly and deeply know ourselves.

But part of knowing ourselves is also knowing how we have been shaped by significant people and events in our lives. It means having some understanding of where our values and desires for ourselves and others come from. It means striving to be conscious and awake in every area of life, no matter how painful this might be.

During my years playing music publically, I knew I needed to know myself and my playing very well if I was to contribute to the ensembles of which I was a part. I knew that my unique voice would only be heard if I knew what role I played in those bands, how best I could play with the other musicians. The rhythms to which I played were not just those written on the pages of music in front of me. They were also the rhythms of the other musicians’ musical personalities. Unless I understood these subtler and more complex rhythms, I would never be the kind of musician I really wanted to be.

“Spirituality is all about rhythm.”

In some ways, spirituality is all about rhythm. By deepening our knowledge of ourselves, by plumbing the depths of our personality, we also come to understand how we as individuals are deeply connected with the rest of reality. We get to see how others live, love, fear, hope, experience disappointment, dream, and, ultimately, leave this existence. We see how, in some ways, their experiences are similar to our own; in other ways they couldn’t be more different.

Yet through it all, we come to recognize that life, reality itself, has a rhythm, and we are all gifted the opportunity of playing along with it. In this opportunity there is the potential for beautiful music; there is also the potential for incredible dischord.

Here are some questions to help you consider how you might or might not be playing along with life’s rhythms:

Have you ever felt like life is a fight, just simply to get by? If so, why? If not, why not?
What are the attitudes you bring to life? How do they make your life easier? How do they make your life more difficult?
What are some times you’ve experienced when things worked out in just the way you thought they should? What enabled this to happen? How did you contribute to having this work out this way?
What are some of the big lessons you’ve learned about life and reality? How have these helped you? How have they limited you?
What are some big lessons you believe you still need to learn? What do you think it will be like to learn them?

Life and reality are so big and so complicated it can often take a lifetime to master them.

But, in truth, nobody masters them. Rather, we work in concert, one with another, learning to engage life and reality fully, deeply, and richly in the hope that all of us, together, at the same time, might make beautiful music of our lives in the great cosmic symphony of which we are all a part.

May all of our lives be characterized by beautiful and rich music.

References

Bourgeault, C. (2013). The Holy Trinity and the Law of Three: Discovering the Radical Truth at the Heart of Christianity. Boulder, CO: Shambhala.

Lasair, S. (2019). A Narrative Approach Spirituality and Spiritual Care in Health Care. Journal of Religion and Health [Online First]. https://rdcu.be/bSZY3

Panikkar, R. (2010). The Rhythm of Being: The Unbroken Trinity; The Gifford Lectures. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis.