Community of Hope Logo

On April 20 I had the privilege of speaking to the Southeast Regional Conference of the Community of Hope International, an ecumenical organization of Christians whose mission is “to create and sustain Christian communities of volunteer lay pastoral caregivers around the world.” Their mission statement goes on to say, “We are united in prayer, shaped by Benedictine spirituality and equipped for and serving in pastoral care ministries.” I was invited to speak on the Benedictine tradition and how it has shaped my own life as a layperson, and how it might be of benefit to others as well, especially those engaged in lay ministry.

Community of Hope members serve as lay chaplains and lay pastoral caregivers in a variety of settings, including assisted living and nursing homes, hospice centers, homeless shelters, and anywhere else where people are in need of care and support. It’s a wonderful ministry, and the engine that drives it is Benedictine spirituality as adapted for laypersons outside of the traditional cloister.

This is the kind of thing that I think Lay Cistercians, Benedictine Oblates, Third Order Franciscans, Lay Carmelites, and other similar lay/secular organizations need to pay close attention to. It’s one thing for us to study the Rule of St. Benedict and other documents of the contemplative tradition and use those resources to deepen our personal spirituality. That’s fine and good, but I think there’s a higher calling here: a calling to ministry and service. Community of Hope is leading the way of integrating the riches of the contemplative tradition with the demands of lay ministry in our time.

You can hear a recording of the talk I gave on Benedictine Spirituality, as well as some of the other talks given at the conference, by following this link:
www.staidans.org/notices/communityofhopespeakers042013.htm

1960s Paperback Edition of “Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander”

A reader writes…

Carl, I am a theoretical physicist by training and have struggled with the idea of supernatural concepts like God. Even so, contemplation has increased my sense of God being part of me, which I like very much. So here is my question: Do you think it is too radical to say God IS your consciousness? After all, Jesus said, “The Father and I are one.”  Personally, it seems wonderful to have such awareness of God 24/7. Since we have no idea what consciousness is, saying it is God seems OK to me. What do you think?

I suppose most Christians would hesitate to say God “is” human consciousness; and I think the danger lies in trying to fit limitless, boundless God into the structure of finite human consciousness. We can say that a drop of water is the ocean, speaking rather poetically, but we get the point. And yet, there’s no squeezing the ocean into the drop. And the drop gets into trouble when it thinks it’s the whole thing.

So many of the mystics, from Meister Eckhart to Julian of Norwich to George Fox to Thomas Merton, have spoken (in different ways, using different metaphors) of God’s presence within the human soul. My favorite quote along these lines comes from Merton:

At the center of our being is a point of nothingness which is untouched by sin and by illusion, a point of pure truth, a point or spark which belongs entirely to God, which is never at our disposal, from which God disposes of our lives, which is inaccessible to the fantasies of our mind or the brutalities of our own will. This little point of nothingness and of absolute poverty is the pure glory of God in us. It is so to speak His name written in us, as our poverty, as our indigence, as our dependence, as our sonship. It is like a pure diamond, blazing with the invisible light of heaven. It is in everybody, and if we could see it we would see these billion points of light coming together in the face and blaze of a sun that would make all the darkness and cruelty of life vanish completely.

— Thomas Merton, Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander

How do we behold this “point of nothingness”? I would say, only in silence, and darkness, and unknowing. I agree with Merton: it is “inaccessible to the fantasies of our mind.” To gaze deeper than the depths of my soul, only God could meet my gaze. The problem, of course, is that so often our gaze, our beholding, simply doesn’t go deep enough. We get lost in the “brutalities of our own will” and we confuse that for God. We’re just another drop, convinced we’re the whole ocean.

“We have no idea what consciousness is” — how can an eye truly see itself? The most we can hope for is that our consciousness will reveal God — Love, Divine Love — to us. But in order for this to happen, we have to get out of our own way. Repentance is not so much about behavior modification (although I imagine true repentance must necessarily lead to a radical change in behavior) — rather, it’s about letting go of all the tangled thoughts within us that generate the hubris, hatred, cynicism, greediness, hyper-consumption, sexual objectification, indolence, and narcissism — thoughts that form the root of what Christianity calls sin. Repentance — metanoia — means letting go of these life-strangling thoughts, to gaze deeper into the vast silence that lies beneath them. That’s a kind of spiritual free-fall, but it’s what is necessary of we want to find that place where “my” little consciousness, and God’s boundless being, remain not-two.

So to my friend, who wrote me the question, I say this: it’s very radical to say that God is consciousness, or consciousness is God. It’s radical because it takes you to the root of things. Go beyond the root of your thoughts, your need to control your experience with your running internal commentary on it. Go to the root, and then beyond the root. Let go of the thoughts. Free fall into unbounded silence. And then behold. You won’t be alone. As Eckhart says, “The eye with which I see God is the same with which God sees me. My eye and God’s eye is one eye, and one sight, and one knowledge, and one love.” One Silence and one Love. The minute we start thinking about it, we’ve lost it. We’ve climbed out of the silence and back into the safety of the tiny shell that is our “mind.” We always do this, so there’s no harm, no shame: simply an ever-present invitation to let go again, fall into silence again, and behold.

]]> http://www.carlmccolman.com/2013/04/12/does-god-consciousness/feed/ 12 http://www.carlmccolman.com/2013/04/11/carmelite-review-reviews-answering-the-contemplative-call/ http://www.carlmccolman.com/2013/04/11/carmelite-review-reviews-answering-the-contemplative-call/#comments Thu, 11 Apr 2013 05:35:20 +0000 Carl McColman http://www.carlmccolman.com/?p=12035 The latest (Winter/Spring 2013) issue of Carmelite Review includes a review of Answering the Contemplative Call. Here’s the review.

You can purchase a copy of the book by clicking here.

Photo by Fran McColman

A reader writes:

Carl, when you are sufficiently silent with the “waters stilled” how do you experience revelation. I suppose a better question would be what is your experience “there” like? Does God float into view … or does God whisper … ?? Or do you find a path to look inwardly in order to find answers, results, etc. I guess that one overarching question here would be “Do you have a purpose or question in mind before you start out?”

I believe radically that “silence is praise” (Psalm 65:1, translated literally), and “for God my soul in silence waits” (Psalm 62:1) — so for me, any kind of purpose or question would just be more noise in the silence. I’m afraid I’m not one for anthropomorphic experiences of God, so no floating or whispering in my experience. How, then, do I hear the voice of God? I take my cue from Julian of Norwich: “For the fullness of joy is to behold God in all.” I believe a daily contemplative practice can help us to discern the leading of the Holy Spirit in our lives, but it may come from almost any possible source: insight from a conversation with a loved one, a song lyric, a meaningful passage in a book. As I see it, the Holy Spirit uses these mundane and random elements in our lives to speak to us. So our job is to listen — and to behold. And a daily practice of radical silence, again, with no purpose or desire other than to be still and know God, is training to help us grow in our attentiveness to the subtle movements of the Spirit in our lives.

My friend goes on to say:

Many months ago you recommended that I seek out a spiritual counselor here locally. I found several leads online and plan to finally make contact. Thanks for that direction. Perhaps the answers to my questions are so personal and individualized that I will need to address all of them with my spiritual director, when she/he and I have chosen one another.

Glad to hear this. The dance of intimacy with God is so unique and personal that no book (or blogger) can ever fully address our unique gifts, needs, hopes and challenges. Having a friend, mentor, director or companion who is herself or himself a person of prayer is so invaluable. Good for you for pursuing this.

Finally …. how about songs. You mention the breathing silence (I was taught this technique when I once dabbled in a variant of Hindu meditation/devotion in my “earlier days”). But later, when in mental and spiritual crisis I found that some of the songs I had learned in church as a youth helped me “find my way back”. Can passages of music serve the same purpose as the centering prayer or the Jesus prayer?

Of course. This points to the power of Gregorian Chant (or any kind of chant) as a tool for contemplative practice. As St. Augustine says, “The person who sings, prays twice.” So exult in the music that you have found meaningful. My only bit of unasked-for advice: don’t let your love for music become a way to avoid silence. Try to find a balance between the silence and the song. Let both nurture your ongoing journey.

Thanks for writing, and many blessings to you (and to all who read this). If anyone else has a question regarding the contemplative life, visit www.carlmccolman.com/connect where you will find a form for sending in your comments or questions.

Photo by Fran McColman

This message came to me the other day.

Hi Carl. Love reading your blogs. From one who is a struggling contemplative can you tell me what form of contemplative prayer you do and why? Also can one do more than one form of contemplative prayer? ie, will one complement the other?

Two questions here. First, what does my own daily practice look like? And secondly, what do I think about using more than one method of contemplative practice?

First, about what I do. I’m assuming you simply want to know my practice of intentional silence, so I’m not going to go into my practice of lectio divina or the recitation of the daily office. Suffice to say that I think any contemplative practice needs to be embedded in the prayer and wisdom of a faith tradition. So it is good for a practice of Christian contemplation to be embedded in lectio and the office as a way of anchoring both identity and fidelity within this particular tradition. It’s similar to how someone who has taken refuge in the dharma will not only meditate, but also chant Buddhist chants or study the dharma. Silent prayer teaches us mental clarity, while “wordy prayer” like the daily office or lectio divina help us to structure our thoughts in loving and faithful ways. Both are essential!

Now, as for my silent practice: When I enter into silence, I simply rest my attention on my breath; when my thoughts wander, I seek as silently and wordlessly as possible to return my attention to my breath; no judgment, no self-recrimination, simply return the awareness. Why the breath? Well, the words for “breath” and “spirit” are the same in Hebrew and Greek (ruach and pneuma), so I consider attention to my breath as a gift I give to the “Breath of God,” i.e., the Holy Spirit. My practice is very similar to what in the Buddhist tradition is called shamatha, or “calm abiding” — a contemplative practice intended to foster inner silence and relaxed attentiveness. But of course, I practice as a Christian, so I would call this “Christian shamatha.” While the method itself is simply shamatha, my intention is grounded in my faith as a Christian: I seek not only “calm abiding,” but also fidelity to the contemplative sense found especially in the Psalms, of “being still and knowing” that God is God (Psalm 46:10), of “waiting in silence” for God (Psalm 62:1) and the recognition that “silence is praise” (Psalm 65:1 translated literally). Incidentally, before entering the silence I begin with a simple chant from the Psalms (the same verse commended by John Cassian): “O God, come to my assistance, O lord, make haste to help me” and then the “Glory be.” I finish with the prayer of Julian of Norwich: “God, of your goodness, give me yourself, for you are enough for me. I may ask nothing less that is fully to your worship, and if I do ask anything less, ever shall I be in want. Only in you I have all.”

Now, in the past I have worked with other methods of remaining attentive in silence, such as centering prayer (attention placed on a single prayer word) and the prayer of the heart (attention placed on the Jesus Prayer). I think any of these methods of contemplative practice can be a beautiful and faithful way to pray. But — and now I’m moving to the second part of your question — I would question the usefulness of trying to mix different methods. All I can write about is my experience, so your mileage may vary — but I have found that when I wander back and forth between different methods of silent prayer, I tend to be more distracted. I think this can be a defense mechanism that my discursive mind uses to subtly remain in control. If I’m busy “deciding” what “method” to use, then my thinking-brain is hard at work: and defended against the vast, uncontrollable presence of God who comes to us in silence. I’ve tried shamatha in the morning and the Jesus prayer at night, but then I find myself bouncing back and forth between the two every time I enter silence, no matter what time of day it is! It’s like trying to fight a fire with both a hose and an extinguisher. You’ve got two great tools, either one will do the  trick. But if you’re busy fiddling with both and can’t decide which one is the best one to use at any one point, well, the flames just keep growing. Better to pick one tool and just get on with fighting the fire. I think contemplative practice works the same way: the “fire,” of course, is the unruly, distracted mind, which seeks to noisy up silence with the chatter of inane thoughts. We fight the blaze of our discursive minds with the soothing waters of a prayer word, or the Jesus prayer, or simply resting in our breath. Each one is wonderful. But pick one and stick with it! That’s my suggestion, at any event.

I think this is a great argument for having a spiritual director/companion/soul friend. Having someone to regularly discuss the depth and quality of you attention to silence is such a help. To use this question as an example: say you’ve been practicing centering prayer for the past year or so and you feel like you’ve hit a wall spiritually. Discuss that with your spiritual companion. Decide collaboratively if you might want to change to a different practice, such as the Jesus prayer, or the John Main “maranatha” method, or something as wordless as what I do. Or, perhaps, you need to stick with centering prayer and explore how to relax into deeper silence even in the face of the “wall.” You see, each one of us is a unique expression of God’s love, so there really is no one “right” way to pray. But having a spiritual companion can help to keep your focus where it belongs: not on what method or methods you are using, but on the heart of Divine Love that you wordlessly encounter in the beauty of prayerful silence.

So those are my thoughts, and again, I must stress, your mileage may vary. But if someone came to me in spiritual direction and mentioned they were working with multiple practices, I’d encourage them to settle on the one they find to be the most beautiful or encouraging, and stick with that, in a spirit of stability and perseverance. I suspect that for most people, this kind of simplicity of practice would be a help in settling into ever deeper encounters with silence.

Writings from the Philokalia on Prayer of the Heart

The Philokalia is an extensive anthology of writings on prayer by Eastern Orthodox contemplatives. The anthology was first compiled in the 18th century, and a number of editions have been published over the years, in Greek, Russian, and other languages; currently a four volume set is available in English (which does not include the entire anthology; I hope the editors plan on translating the rest!).

If you want a more succinct introduction to The Philokalia, one option — which, unfortunately, is out of print, and secondhand copies are a bit pricey, but perhaps you can find one at a local used bookshop if you’re lucky — is a book called Writings from the Philokalia on Prayer of the Heart. What I love about this particular anthology is that it includes all the texts that are listed in the book The Way of a Pilgrim as the most important for beginners to serious prayer.

Here’s just a tidbit of the kind of wisdom found in this collection:

As the physical eye looks at written letters and receives knowledge from them through the senses; so the mind, when it becomes purified and returns to its original state, looks up to God and receives Divine knowledge from Him. Instead of a book it has the Spirit, instead of a pen, thought and tongue (‘my tongue is the pen’ says the Ps. [xlv. 1]); instead of ink — light. Plunging thought into light, so that thought itself becomes light, the mind, guided by the Spirit, traces words in the pure hearts of those who listen. Then it understands the words: ‘And they shall be all taught of God’ (John vi. 45), and ‘he that teacheth man knowledge’ (Ps. xciv. 10).

— St. Gregory of Sinai, Texts on Commandments and Dogmas 23, in
Writings from the Philokalia on Prayer of the Heart

Prayer, of course, is far more than a mere mental exercise. But even when we meditate or contemplate, prayer involves bringing our thoughts into the presence of God. This idea of plunging thoughts into light — so that they become light — seems to me to be a powerful way to deal with a distracted mind during prayer. If you are having difficulty settling your restless thinking-mind into the silent presence of God, take a minute and envision all your thoughts, restless or distracted they may be, simply plunged into the wordless loving light of the Divine. Plunge your thoughts into light. Let them become light. And then sit in silence in the Divine presence.

Growing in Love and Wisdom

Readers of this blog know that my love and commitment to the Christian contemplative tradition is balanced by a heartfelt desire to learn more about other faiths, particularly the contemplative dimension of other traditions. Naturally, Buddhism, as a school of wisdom with many rich resources in the practice of meditation, is a particularly appealing tradition to me. I live only about three miles from the Atlanta Shambhala Center, so I’ve taken several classes there and have gotten to know some of the good folks in that tradition. Shambhala Buddhists are very open to inter-religious dialogue, so it’s been a fruitful connection.

So I was excited to discover that next Sunday, March 24, a Catholic author will be speaking at the Shambhala Center! Yes, it’s Palm Sunday, but I think this event would be worth the effort to attend. Go to church early and then come to the Shambala Center at 11:30. Susan J. Stabile, author of Growing in Love and Wisdom: Tibetan Buddhist Sources for Christian Meditation will be speaking and signing books at the Center that day.

Stabile is a Catholic laywoman from Minnesota, who teaches at the University of St. Thomas School of Law. She was raised a Catholic, but then spent twenty years practicing Buddhism and was ordained a Tibetan Buddhist nun. But in 2001 she returned to Catholicism. She’s now a Catholic blogger (Creo en Dios!), retreat leader, and spiritual director. And the author of this wonderful book which, I believe, sets a new standard for the possibilities in authentic, deeply rooted inter-religious dialogue.

A number of individuals who have explored the possibilities of integrating Buddhist wisdom with Christian faith have, in essence, become what Roger Corless called “dual practitioners” — with a more-or-less equal commitment to both paths. In addition to Corless, Paul F. Knitter, Ross Thompson, and Willigis Jäger would exemplify this kind of approach to interfaith exploration. When I heard Knitter speak at the Wild Goose Festival in 2011, he described his path like a catamaran — both hulls are necessary for the boat, and likewise, both Buddhism and Christianity remain necessary for the dual practitioner.

It’s an intriguing approach, but it’s not the only possible model for respectful, creative inter religious-dialogue. Stabile offers another model, one that I find quite appealing. She is clear that her “home” faith is Catholicism. She expresses anxiety with what she calls “hyphenated” labels, such as “Buddhist-Christian” or “Christian-Buddhist”; she notes that no less a luminary than the Dalai Lama has said that once a student reaches a certain level of commitment and practice, that making a choice to follow one specific tradition is necessary. “It is one thing to draw from another faith tradition and to examine underlying dynamics and shared values and principles which operate across faith traditions,” notes Stabile. “It is another to ignore places where Christianity and Buddhism differ in fundamental respects or where they possess a shared underlying reality… yet offer different ways of expressing that shared reality.” She compares dual-practice with being “spiritual but not religious,” noting the temptation to pick and choose elements of faiths because of a desire to find inner peace or serenity, which can all too easily turn into an exercise of spiritual narcissism. She concludes, “‘Double-belonging’ doesn’t fit for me. Thus, I tend to describe myself as a Christian whose Christianity is very much informed by my years as a Buddhist.” This sets the stage for the heart of the book: a series of meditations, all based on practices Stabile learned as a Buddhist, but adapted to fit within Christian cosmology and using Christian language and symbolism.

Now, let me confess that I generally am not a big fan of books filled with guided meditations. So exercises like this typically leave me cold. But I find Growing in Love and Wisdom to be a rare exception, for several reasons. First, the book is beautifully written, in a simple yet clear style, making its deft navigation of interfaith ideas ring with clarity. So it is a delight to read, simply as a work of literature. But the meditations are also richly devotional in their content. While my experience with Buddhism is far more limited than Stabile’s, nevertheless I recognized a few of the meditations she presents, so I can vouch for their authenticity. But she has so seamlessly grafted Christian terminology into these Buddhist meditations that someone who did not know these exercises came from a Buddhist source would probably accept them as thoroughly Christian. But to anyone with some experience of Buddhist-Christian dialogue, even as limited as mine, these meditations shed light on both faiths. By looking at Buddhist exercises presented in Christian language, I am invited to see Buddhism in a newer, deeper light. But I am also invited to consider some of the riches of Christianity, newly illumined by their presentation within a framework of Buddhist practice. So merely reading these meditations is, in itself, a rewarding experience. Of course, making the effort to actually “work” the meditations offers not only a rich devotional experience, but a genuine opportunity to put into practice the desire to integrate the wisdom of two faiths: to take inter-religious exploration beyond just reading books about other faiths, and actually seeking to embody it in practice.

So I highly recommend this book, not only to interfaith explorers but to anyone seeking a new set of exercises to deepen your faith. And if you live in Atlanta, come to the Shambhala Center on Sunday, March 24, at 11:30 PM, to meet Susan J. Stabile and to get an autographed book.

A staircase at the Chateau d’Amboise in France, as seen on the cover of Answering the Contemplative Call.

Good morning, my friends. First of all, my apologies for leaving this blog mostly untended over the past eight weeks. It’s hard to believe it’s been (as of tomorrow) two months said my dad passed away, but it’s not so hard to acknowledge that my grief journey has been a bit deeper and more chaotic than I would have anticipated.

The first month or so after dad’s death, I poured most of my energy into the Winter Feast for the Soul series of recordings designed to encourage a daily contemplative practice (the recordings are archived online, so feel free to go check them out if you haven’t already done so). Lately I’ve been working on a paper I’m delivering at a conference in April, plus the lesson plans and outlines for several classes and retreats I’m doing this spring. So I’ve been a busy pup. My writing has perhaps suffered the most during my time of grieving, but I’m beginning to feel the tug to get back into it. Which means not only (hopefully) showing up at this blog more often, but also getting to work on the follow-up to Answering the Contemplative Call.

Speaking of Answering — here are a few links I should have published six weeks ago, but of course that was when I was in the midst of my grief and wasn’t writing much of anything. In early February Patheos featured Answering the Contemplative Call in their book club. In doing so, they published a few links I’d like to share with you — better late than never.

Our mailbox as it appeared before yesterday morning, as photographed by the Google Maps camera.

Early yesterday morning, about 5 AM or so, Fran and I were both awakened by what sounded like a small explosion in our neighborhood. It seemed close enough that Fran got up and peered outside the window. She thought a car hit something. I said it sounded more like an explosion than an accident. We speculated that maybe a transformer blew somewhere in the neighborhood. Then we went back to sleep.

Three hours later, when she was leaving for work, we finally realized what it was. Someone had struck our mailbox. Our property is situated at the crest of a hill, and right at a point where the street curves to the left. Someone accelerating up the hill, and not paying attention to what they were doing, could easily collide with our mailbox, and that seems to be exactly what happened.

Our mailbox had been encased in its own little brick structure. See the picture above/to the right, courtesy of Google maps. That’s how our mailbox looked before yesterday morning. Now see the picture below for the after look (this time courtesy of my iPhone camera).

Our mailbox the morning of February 21, 2013 — or, should I say, what’s left of it.

There’s a goddess chant that goes like this: “She changes everything she touches, and everything she touches, changes.” Buddhists more simply acknowledge that everything is impermanent. Theists typically view God as unchanging and eternal, but God’s creation (i.e., the material universe) is, well, marked by impermanence. So every created thing will eventually suffer a fate like my mailbox. Hopefully just not so dramatic or violent!

I’ve been praying for the person who hit it (and who lacked the character to at least leave us a note offering to replace our damaged property). This was made of real bricks, not just some lightweight facade; so the vehicle that demolished it would not have emerged unscathed. Two small plastic pieces came off of the vehicle, marked “Ford,” so about all we know is the make of the vehicle. I’ve thought I should drive around the neighborhood and look to see who has a vehicle with a pretty badly banged up front end. But of course, that proves nothing, and frankly it will be cheaper just to replace the mailbox ourselves rather than get involved in the hassle of trying to fight with someone else over it.

So after I got home from work we went to Home Depot and picked out a new mailbox and a post for it. No more little brick structure for our mail. But at least if it gets hit again, it will be less of a pain to replace — or to clean up.

Historic Christian spirituality encouraged meditation on one’s own mortality. Today we consider that morbid and so we don’t do it. But perhaps reflecting on impermanence is not such a bad idea. At the very least, it makes dealing with events like this a bit easier to bear.

Now available on the three most popular ebook formats.

I’m happy to announce that three different ebook versions of Answering the Contemplative Call are now available. Pick your preferred version:

• Kindle Version
  
• Nook Version
• iBooks Version

And of course, if you’d rather have the old fashioned paper-&-ink version:

• Buy it at Amazon
• But it at Barnes & Noble
• But it at an Independent Bookstore (Online or Near You)

Hope you enjoy the book.