Faith's Bottom Line

I have written several times about how belief is that which you do when there is no reason to believe, but I want to make some clarifications to the general idea. I also noted that I had recently read Richard Rohr’s book on Job and how Job had never doubted the existence of god. When these two come together, it requires some explanation.

God is. Period – end of story, good bye, thank you very much! There is no ifs ands or buts about it for me. And yet with that, I concede that there is no scientific evidence to “prove” god’s existence. It is my belief, my faith that I stand on when I assert that. But let me be clear that it is not my saying so that makes god exist for me. I exist in god’s world, and I exist as a part of the overall divine manifestation in this world. My faith and my belief has only to do with my understanding of that and my relationship with that.

I had heard that a great master was once asked if he believed in god. He answered that he existed in god’s kingdom to which the questioner repeated, “but do you believe in god?” This ping pong match continued for several rounds with the master never conceding to answer the direct question of belief. Ultimately he said tat those who “believe in god” suffer from and live in a world of doubt.

So these two exist: belief and is-ness, and where they come together is in the verse from Mark 9. I do believe (I am certain the god is) help me in my unbelief (those times when I need evidence and proof). Job is the embodiment of this human struggle between an absolute faith in the existence and reality of god and a human need to hang one’s belief on some evidence or sign of objective reality.

Choose or Be Chosen

I have been observing the function of focus lately in an attempt to see how focusing on the divine altered the experience of life. The great news is in fact that doing that, like focusing on beauty or seeing love in others, has a marvelous effect. Suddenly the entire world looks sacred and holy.

In addition it was my intent to actively choose this focus. While all of us have that part of the brain that concentrates our focus on foreground, relegating all else to background, actively choosing to focus on this or that engaged the RAS and its focusing function. When in the middle of that mental conversation it hit me how arrogant or ego-centric it was to assume that my choosing made the sacred appear. It was not m choosing at all but in fact that god had already chosen me – all of us.

I cannot pretend that I am choosing god – god has already, always chosen me. And there is nothing in my choosing that can alter that, except that I forget and turn away from time to time. But each time I turn back there is god waiting, accepting, and welcoming me back. So while I do have a choice (whether to look away or toward god’s light) it is not my choosing that makes it so. It is that god has – long before you or I ever had this thought – chosen us, in the very act of giving this life to live.

The thought suddenly relaxed me – like my shoulders dropped from their tensed p position – like feeling as if it was all a huge effort I had to do. It isn’t. It is quite easy, Kris. Just shut up and accept the gift (I am not good at receiving gifts – much better at giving I think). Oh I am certain I will forget this lesson and turn away, but as it always has been, all I have to do is turn back and remember, effortlessly, and there it is. I think this is what others have called surrender.

A Wordless God

Yesterday I was talking with my Spiritual Director and found myself saying something I had not really articulated before - how difficult it is to use words to describe the spiritual experience. Oh, at times I have claimed that others had co opted words like god to mean something other than what I think and experience (definitely the bearded Moses-esque grandfather figure on high). But that wasn't what occurred to me yesterday.

It is my experience and belief (and I am not claiming this to be the truth that others should believe - it is just how it occurs to me) that god is not only the life force that causes us to breathe but that which is in, through and around us in so interwoven a way that it could not even be isolated on a DNA or RNA chain. God is in the conception, and it is god that births us. God is present within us from before we were and is certainly the unifying one after we have ceased to exist on this earthly plane. Thus we are born knowing god - but if so, what happened?

We happened; words happened; events happened; and meaning happened. As we assembled a meaning and identity in our youths we left behind the one thing that we absolutely, intimately knew in search for words and meanings and skills to cope with our living life. And along came the theologians - attuned to the yearning sense inside each human - and gave us words to describe both the feeling and the source. But the horrible thing was that the words took over the experience and became the full extent of the meaning.

I was talking yesterday about how I missed the experience, of how I seemed to well up and choke on some words in hymns we sang in church. When I was pushed to identify that feeling, it resembled the longing and "missingness" I feel for my dad (who died some 41 years ago when I was only 18). I know god, and I believed in a historical Jesus, and I am awed/inspired/humbled by the thought and reaity of the crucifixion, but I was missing something, and there were no words to label that something.

I miss the being of being one with god. I know that sense and I have known that oneness. But when I try to describe it there are no words - because it comes from a knowing as old as I am that predates my knowing all these nifty theological words. I feel it tug in me and call to me to sit with it swirling around in my blood and bones and between the cells, vibratinng the chromosomes. It is a presence that is not distinguishable from my presence (when and if I am ever fully present). There may be zillions of names suggested for what that is, but I don't know them. I only know that when I don't pay attention, when I am not awake - as in fully present - I miss that and am missing who I am that I am. And isn't that what god called himself?

Focus, Focus, Focus

I haven't written in a few weeks because my focus has been elsewhere - in a book. It was not a focus I intended but a required one for a class I am about to begin. I was focused on depression and on the sadistic twist of fate that results in those least capable of coping being hit hardest with this disease/disorder/state.

But what I notice most is the function of focus played in mental health and mental unhealth. As the spiral of depression kicks in on someone, their focus turns downward to the pain, the losses, the what ifs, until even movement, or walking or swallowing saliva is an event of momentous effort. But what seems to be a common thread throughout these books is the role of one's focus.

I recall from my undergrad and grad work the research of the Gestalt movement and their description of the Reticular Activating System - a central part of the inner brain's functioning. The RAS is like a switching servo-mechanism that distinguishes foreground and background so that we don't get overwhelmed by the zillion stimuli bombarding us at each instant. In essence, the RAS is our focusing switcher. Yet I see no reference to it in any of the depression literature I am reading so far.

The reason I am fascinated with focus comes from another recent event. I was talking to a friend about his infatuation with a woman with whom he said he was in love. I related to him how I had re-fallen "in love" with my wife during the year of preparing for her 50th birthday extravaganza. Each day I had done something requiring my focus on her and with each day became more infatuated. I know it sounds cold and unfeeling, but I suggested that his state was more a result of his intense focus, the dozens of daily text messages, the hourly anticipation of seeing her again - the intensity of his focus may have been more the issue than anything else.

Does depression work the same way? Is the RAS part of the cause or solution in depression? If so, what little is there to focus on when one lives in austere poverty - nothing but loss and refuse and vacant lots or deserts. Is my friend's focusing actually the root of the intensity of his love? And if what we focus on alters our emotional state, what choice might we have in shaping our moods, our successes and failures and our fidelity and relationship successes? I don't know but it sure seems like it is worth asking. And when we turn our focus to god, and begin to focus daily or even hourly on that relationship with our god, what might we notice then. I don't know but it surely seems like it might be worth the try.

I do not mean to lessen the personal tragedy of depression for those going through it nor suggest anything less about its toll on people and societies. I am only wondering if there might be a connection with the RAS and with the function of focus.

What Is Hope?

Like nearly all Americans today, I watched and listened and hardly dared to breathe, least I miss a moment or a word. But I started realizing that it wasn't about the man. I started hearing people of reason acknowledging how much work we all had to do. I heard a leader talk in realities. No flowery platitudes, no campaign promises. Just realism and challenges and hard work ahead. So why is it that I feel so hopeful?

I have grown tired of empty suits and political rhetoric. I am wearied from chest-thumping machismo and might-makes-right mentality. I have been worn down by far too many agendas. I need to have my feet planted flatly on the floor.


I don't need to hope for things to come. I don't live my today in the promise of a hereafter. I need to be present - here - right now, and nowhere else. and when I see another who looks like that is what is up for him, I am heartened and lifted up.

I don't know if he can live up to the expectations but I know that those whose expectations are unrealistic will certainly be dashed. I do not know if he will win over his opponents, but I am certain that those who think less of him will find all the evidence they will need in future days. But I am filled with hope today, because one man told his truth. I am encouraged today because the cameras saw all the colors of the faces. I am uplifted because I saw strangers smiling at each other and embracing in the cold air. And I really really want to believe that we can be more together than we are separately, and that something started today that is unique and different in the world. It started today - and I felt it and saw it. And that is what hope is all about.

The Well of Grief

In honor of the surviving family and lovers of Jon Choate and Rebecca Raboin, I submit this brief poem by David Whyte:

The Well of Grief

Those who will not slip beneath
the still surface of the well of grief
turning downward through its black water
to the place we cannot breathe
will never know the source from which we drink,
the secret water, cold and clear, nor find in the darkness glimmering
the small round coins
thrown away by those who wished for something else.

By David Whyte from Close to Home

Words Fail Emotions

There is a fundamental problem we have as humans and that is that we invented words and then made the mistake of letting them become the feeble container of what we really meant. Though poets can write volumes in just a few short lines of well-chosen words, somewhere around the space of emotions, words just fail.

I am certain that if you look up the word "love" in a dictionary it would say something like "a warm fuzzy feeling about some person or thing." And I am equally certain that such a definition doesn't enter the neighborhood of the length and depth and breadth of the actual feeling I have for my wife or my children. That definition (or any definition) doesn't have the color, depth, vibrancy, history, pain, joy, pleasure, and myriad other dimensions that my love has at any nanosecond.

And grief, I believe, is more complex.

I was reading my daughter's blog as she prepared to eulogize her step-dad Jon Choate, and let the half dozen other responses from friends and family sink in, really touch my inner being, as I read through them. And I am in awe at the texture and dimensions of grief/love that abound in and through all of that discussion. That we humans are capable of such love and only then open to such pain and loss is beyond miraculous. It is stunningly beautiful. There are no words when smiles and tears and love and pain all embrace each other simultaneously. There is only being.

My friend Bill had a daughter born 18 years ago so severely handicapped that she never walked, talked or even fed herself. Faced with the option of institutionalizing her, Bill and his wife decided to love her for as long as she lived. That commitment ended last weekend as Rebecca finally slipped into death. Though there were so many times it felt like a burden, Bill never stopped loving and caring. And now he still cannot stop. He doesn't know how or where or what it looks like. Grief has that depth of love in it that only lovers and parents and real risk-takers know.

I am proud and honored to be part of a family that so easily and openly expresses emotion, and who so fully risk loving. And with all of our words, we don't even come close to what we know each other to be feeling. I love you guys!