Evangelism: "come and see"

I just read this excerpt on another blog and it so powerfully spoke to my condition that I had to put it here as well. It's from Bryan Stone's Evangelism after Christendom: The Theology and Practice of Christian Witness:

Christian evangelism, as I will argue throughout this book, is pacifist in every way. The good news is, as Isaiah said, the good news of "peace." But this peace is not only the content and substance of evangelism, it is its very form. Christian evangelism refuses every violent means of converting others to that peace, whether that violence is cultural, military, political, spiritual, or intellectual. Evangelism requires only the peaceable simplicity of an offer and an invitation to "come and see" (John 1:46).

The practice of evangelism, I believe, inescapably counters and disarms the world's powerful practices by unmasking the narratives that sustain them and by offering a story and a people that are peaceful and beautiful. The gospel can, therefore, be good news again in our world. But only if in Christ something new in the world has been made possible and the Holy Spirit present--something both disturbing and inviting, a salvation in the form of a new story, a "new humanity," a new peoplehood.

Healing

I was standing in the kitchen with two housemates one morning, grabbing a quick bite to eat before work (plain cold pasta and a slice of cheddar cheese, I must admit).  One housemate, a gentle giant from Oklahoma, expressed his frustration at the fact that people usually laugh when he tells them that he's majoring in Contemplative Studies (which essentially amounts to a combination of practical/experiential Buddhism and psychology).   He told us that he usually responds with "Tell me what contemplation is.  You can't? Get the fuck out of my face. (...well, a gentler version of that.)"

Then he said that he wished that meditation classes were required parts of the college curriculum, as much as science or history.  At first, this made sense to me.  Don't all frazzled students need required times in their schedules specifically set apart for stillness?  But now I'm beginning to wonder what exactly that would mean.  Such a requirement could only stem from the current popular fascination with meditation, in which it is abstracted from any religious context and seen as the supreme way to de-stress and center oneself in a chaotic and frenetic society.  Scientific inquiry has shown us the beneficial effects of meditation.  I can't deny that.  These effects are good and wonderful.

But I can't help thinking that non-religious meditative practices too often devolve into the self-centered (interesting that a self-centering practice could become self-centered...).  It seems to me that secular meditation (dare I say nontheist meditation?) focuses too much inward.  It doesn't connect or diffuse.

A few months ago, my friend tried to kill herself by taking too many sleeping pills.  She ended up in the emergency room, completely delirious, with tubes and wires hooking her up to mysterious machines and monitors.  Four of us spent most of the night with her there, and she kept repeating over and over "I'm not supposed to be here.  What happened?  I'm not supposed to be here."  We couldn't tell whether she was talking about the emergency room or earth.  Periodically, she would regain lucidity and express concern for what her parents would think, whether her boss would still allow her to work, what she would tell her professors.

"Don't worry about them," our friend said.  "Focus on yourself.  You need to think about yourself right now."  Everyone smiled in agreement and stroked her hair, her arms.  But I didn't agree.  I thought that self-centeredness was what brought this about to begin with.  "And you need to think about us," I said.  I told her that we loved her very, very much and that she was accountable to all the people who love her, not just herself.

I get the feeling that most suicides come from self-centeredness.  It is an act of supreme selfishness.  I haven't done any research into this.  But I suspect that most college suicides that stem from depression also stem from alienation, that is, the ignoring of the deep bonds of love that connect human to human.  Jesus asks us to deny our parents and follow him.  In him all are family.  The difficult task is extending to everyone the same deep, inexplicable, instinctual love we feel for our close family.

That night, we were our friend's only family, and God was there, in that room.  The nurses were going in and out, doing whatever it is they do to heal.  But God was also healing, directly through the five of us there together.  When God heals, he opens us upward and outward.   The healing that occurs with popular secular meditation is solely inward.  I understand the usefulness of all these kinds of healing, but you can't have one without the other.  We needed to be there, in smiling quietness, with our hands on her, radiating peace and love and rest.  

The next day, she was moved to a psych ward in another facility.  Coming to visit her one day, I walked there and back with people I hadn't really known before (several miles in all).  It should have been winter, but it didn't feel like it.  The grass was green and fresh, the ground covered with moist maple leaves, and there was a thick fog lying close to the soil.  The three of us really connected on our walk, in a way that went much deeper than our conversation.  We hadn't expected to be healed by our friend, but she did something wonderful to us, she brought something out of us.  It was warm and tingling to my core.  God really works in mysterious ways.

On the way back, we picked a few tiny yellow chrysanthemums and put them behind our ears.  The fog had lifted, and the leaves were moving in currents in the buttery late-afternoon sun.

So, on Saturday, I left the sun, sea, and sage of Southern California and returned to Rhode Island.  In true form, Providence was cold, grey, and snowing softly when I arrived.

Late last night, I ventured out into the snow.  The sky was pale, luminous, and opaque, and it seemed somehow closer to the earth.  I walked for a while, and then paused in the middle of the street to gaze at snow passing through a nearby streetlamp's yellow glow.  The absence of my footsteps' crunch crunch crunch allowed me to really listen in on other things.  First, I heard the gentle plodding of snow on the brim of my hat.  Then I heard the icy shimmering sound of snow falling on the trees, the houses, the sidewalk, everywhere, for what seemed like forever into the distance.  I hadn't realized that snow made a sound.  The sound of snow falling, snow on snow, seemed to bring far-off mountains, cities, and bare forests very close.  

"Love one another."  These words came into my head, and repeated themselves.  How do I love people?  I mean, how do I really love people?  Yes, of course I love my friends and family.  I even love and show love for friends of friends, acquaintances, students, co-workers, professors.  Even my exes.  But that's easy.  Do I love and show love for complete strangers, especially those that usually receive no love?  Do I open myself and give of myself generously, with heart in hand, or do I hurry past, awkwardly?  

Then again, do I really show love for those I consider to be my friends?  In my own house, there is someone whose frequent power trips and lack of tact really annoy me.  I love him very much, but sometimes I complain about him behind his back.  I also happily participate in conversations where others complain about him.  Last night, in front of a dark tree drooping heavy with ice, I came face to face with my true intentions:  in complaining about him, I'm actually hoping to fracture the community against him.  I realized how often I sow discord, intentionally.  This realization made me feel heavy and dry.  

I closed my eyes.  There it was again:  snow, soft on the brim of my hat.  I let the cold stillness into my skin.

Plainness and mindfulness

During Lent, as a personal discipline, I go vegan.  That means, of course, that I can't have fried eggs, cereal and milk, yoghurt, fish, or pizza.  But this also means that I can't have anything that happens to have eggs, dairy, or meat in it.  Some brands of bread contain whey.  Some bagels are brushed with egg.  Many Japanese dishes are secretly flavored with fish.  I have to constantly scrutinize ingredient labels to make sure that I will not accidentally consume any animal products.  If I don't know what's in it, I don't eat it.

The effect this has on my eating habits is simply that I eat less randomness.  I ignore the bowl of candies at work, and also the free pastries when they have them.  When I go out to breakfast with friends, I can only order fruit.  Once, I couldn't even have any of my birthday cake because the friends who made it forgot about the vegan thing.  I definitely lose weight during Lent.  But vegan Lent isn't only about denial.  I find that it has another, more positive and constructive aspect.  During Lent, I become extremely conscious of the things I put in my body.  Because of this, I discover a wonderful mindfulness in the simple act of eating.

As I continue exploring Plain dress, I have come to see a similar effect on the simple act of dressing.  In the mornings, I used to have to think about what I would wear for the day.  I would have to take into consideration the things I would be doing, where I would be going, who I'd be seeing.  Sometimes what would be appropriate for one circumstance wouldn't be appropriate for another, and I'd find myself changing clothes during the day.  On more than one occasion, I've caught myself changing three or four times over the course of a single day.

I don't do this anymore.  In fact, I don't even really change clothes from day to day.  I have one pair of pants, one pair of suspenders, and two shirts.  I have a sweater and a coat for warmth.  Now, instead of pausing in the morning to consider how I will be dressing for the day, I pause to consider the simple fact that I am dressing.  Plain dress has been incredibly simplifying for me--even liberating.

I know this may seem to be the opposite of the kind of mindfulness I find in vegan Lent:  with veganism, I have to think about everything that I eat;  with Plain dress, I don't have to think at all.  But mindfulness is about more than just a dichotomy between thinking and not-thinking.  It's about acute awareness, about being present.

I see in Plain dress the same kind of wholesomeness, simplicity, and honesty that I find in much vegan food.  Dressing and eating with wholesomeness, simplicity, and honesty--not wearing or eating any old thing--allows me to be acutely aware of these acts, stripped of baggage.  Really, it centers me and frees me at the same time.  Now, I am putting things on my body.  They will cover my nakedness and give me warmth.  Now, I am putting things into my body.  They will give me nourishment and life. 

I think of what Jesus said about mindfulness:

"Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink;  or about your body, what you will wear.  Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes?  Look at the birds of the air;  they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them.  Are you not much more valuable than they?  Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?  And why do you worry about clothes?  See how the lilies of the field grow.  They do not labor or spin.  Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these.  If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith?  So do not worry, saying, 'What shall we eat?' or 'What shall we drink?' or 'What shall we wear?'  For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them.  But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.  Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.  Each day has enough trouble of its own."  (Matthew 6:25-34)

Practice:  Go out into some natural or wild area.  Inhale deeply.  A collage of scents will flood your nose.  But pay attention:  there will be one scent in particular that seems to characterize this particular area, season, time of day.  Pause to enjoy it.  Then seek it out.  What is making that scent?  Black sage in bloom?  Dry eucalyptus leaves?  Algae and compacted silt?  A hidden honeycomb, warmed by the sun?  

Try to get as close to that scent as you can.  When you have identified it, smell it, then let your other senses at it.  Touch it, stroke it, admire its colors and textures, and, if you're up to it, taste it.  Try to get a complete sensory impression of what was once a vague and disembodied fragrance.

Say that you have identified a particular plant.  What part of that plant gives off the scent (don't assume that it is the flower!)?  Why is the scent so strong, strong enough to permeate the entire area?  What use is the scent to the plant?

When you have had your fill, use your fingers to try and pick up some of the scent.  You may rub it on your neck or clothes.  See how long the scent stays with you.

Some thoughts on song

I was walking home late a few nights ago, and, except for a few cars that whizzed past, everything was quiet and still. The moon was plump and radiant, and the chill in the upper stratosphere had dissolved all clouds. The night sky seemed vast, luminous, and resonant.

Moments like these make me sing. Solitude (and, in this case, the occasional car noise) takes away inhibitions, and I sing softly to myself, directing my voice into the rounded corners of space. On one trip to the Eastern Sierra several years ago, I found myself on the side of a mountain, scaling huge pale granite boulders on my way up. The careful and cautious placement of each step was paramount, so I focused most of my attention on my feet and my groping hands. Then, I turned my head a little to the side. I stopped dead in my tracks. Everything opened up. The small river down below glinted in the late-afternoon sun. An iridescent flash of indigo signaled a jay in flight. Groundsquirrels hurried to attend to whatever it is they do, pausing briefly to eye me with sideways glance and twitching tail. I inhaled the vanilla-like fragrance of Jeffrey pine and the crisp smell of cedars and distant glaciers. I could hear the low swishy rumbling that mountain ranges make, whatever it is (wind rushing through valleys? subterranean currents of water? the slow movements of earth and stone itself?).

As if by reflex, an old hymn from my childhood welled up in my throat.

O Lord my God! when I in awesome wonder
Consider all the worlds Thy hands have made,
I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder,
Thy power throughout the universe displayed;

Then sings my soul, my Savior God, to Thee,
How great Thou art, how great Thou art!
Then sings my soul, my Savior God, to Thee,
How great Thou art, how great Thou art!

It was unconscious, instinctual. It was a visceral response to the sensory overload of that mountainside. I continued up, and couldn’t stop singing it.

I do a lot of walking. Often, when I walk, I sing. This is nice for a while, but I soon get caught up in the words. Either I find it frustrating when I can’t remember them, or I catch myself in a groove like a scratched record, feverishly repeating the same lines over and over. Or, when trying to create my own words, I get caught up and weighed down. So I end up slightly irritated and claustrophobic, with little of the joy that made me start singing in the first place.

But that night when the moon was full, I just broke free. I started singing an old Shaker song, a song that had no words: lo lo-dle lo, lo lo lo lo-dle lo… The Shakers had many such songs that straddled the lines between composed, improvised, and Spirit-led music. So, I began with one of the old songs. But soon, I was making up my own wordless songs, all on those nonsense syllables, letting the beauty of the night dictate the melodies. I was expressing the night and my walk in pure sound, without the hindrance of words and all their cumbersome semantics and poetics.

I have found that creating pure sound is a wonderful method of attunement. We know that God ‘sounded’ the universe into existence, so it’s no wonder that sound should be such a sublime way of experiencing and expressing it. When I come into a wonderful new space, and I can tell by my footsteps that the space is acoustically ripe, my first impulse is to sing. I usually suppress this impulse, of course, but when I’m alone I let ‘er rip. The sound of my voice caressing and reverberating from the space itself is my way of deeply experiencing it, because I believe that spaces, like instruments, are tuned. My medieval music group, Resonanda, always practices in my dining room. We never pitch ourselves or situate ourselves in a key from a piano; we just open our mouths and begin to sing. But for some reason, we always end up in the key of B flat. One of our singers supposed that B flat must be the pitch of the dining room. It must be the key of optimal resonance there in that space of old wood, secondhand plates, and well-loved cookbooks.

Quakers have traditionally eschewed song in worship. This is understandable; after all, the pre-written words, when everyone is compelled to voice them, can never be fresh and authentic expressions of the promptings of the Spirit. I think, especially, of those tired Victorian hymns and the trite new-fangled “praise songs” that characterize contemporary Protestant worship. Although there are other Christian songs that I do love singing, I can’t really say that anything about them except the pure act of singing itself—as well as the joy of singing with other people—truly allows me communion with God.

So, what if we began to look at sound, freed from words? What if we allowed for the fact that the Spirit may sometimes express itself in sound, in music? What if we also imagined that sound, just like it resonates in space, can allow us to harmonize (to tune) with the wider world? What if we also imagined that sound allows us to give harmony to the wider world? The wordless songs of Shaker tradition and the songs that spontaneously arose from my throat on that moonlit night seem to show me that song can go hand in hand with true worship. When I really still myself and listen in on the presence of God, sometimes what I hear is so beautiful that I just have to sing along. In meeting, I have not yet been led to offer up a song—wordless or not, improvised or not. I wonder what will happen if I ever am…

"Mind the light"

A recent "Daily Fox" from Quaker Jane's website was an excerpt from George Fox's Epistle 4.  I read and loved the rest of the epistle and needed to put an excerpt here as well.  It's simultaneously simple, direct, and hauntingly mysterious.  I feel like I'm only on the threshold of understanding it.

"Mind the light, that all may be refreshed one in another, and all in one. 
And the God of power and love keep all Friends in power, in love, 
that there be no surmisings, but pure refreshings
in the unlimited love of God, 
which makes one another known in the conscience, 
to read one another's hearts. 
Being comprehended into this love, 
it is inseparable, and all are here one. 
And keep in the oneness, 
and note them that cause dissension, 
contrary to the gospel you have received; 
that one pure faith may be held in all, 
to guide and preserve all in the unity of the spirit and bond of peace; 
all one family of love, children of one father, and of the household of God."

The Living Library

Today, I picked up the January issue of Whole Life Times.  This is a local, free publication that describes itself as “an LA-area beacon of positivity,” bringing together “the latest and greatest in green living, social change, health and wellness, spirituality and personal growth.”  I love this magazine.   Well, in this issue was a little write-up about the Living Library (http://www.living-library.org).  This is a program that brings to libraries “living books,” that is, people whose lifestyles or identities are often subject to misunderstandings or stereotyping:  vegans, atheists, policemen, Muslims, male nurses, homeless people.  These “books” sit down and simply engage in conversation with the people who ‘check them out.’

I love this idea.  I’ve been reading Just Peacemaking: Transforming Initiatives for Justice and Peace by Glen H. Stassen, which I recently picked up for a buck at Salvation Army.  Stassen illuminates many ways that the Sermon on the Mount and the Book of Romans can provide concrete models for “just peace” (instead of “just war”) in our modern world.  One of these models is based on open conversation and real attempts at understanding and reconciliation.  He quotes from Pinchas Lapide’s The Sermon on the Mount: Utopia or Program for Action?: 

“Love of one’s enemies, as Jesus understood it, means far more than covering things up with a smile by tolerating enemies or holding them at a distance with politeness;  it entails an honest effort, a campaigning and struggling with them…[so that you] become reconciled.  In short—a theopolitics of little loving steps aimed at making the enemy cease to be an enemy.”

It seems to me that the Living Library is just such a ‘little loving step.’

Tsuchi-dango for the new year

Mochi (sticky-chewy confections made of pounded rice) is traditional fare for Japanese New Year, which coincides with the American New Year.  Every New Year morning I make zenzai (mochi floating in bowls of sweetened azuki beans) for my family.  Then, we head off to our family friends' house for more wonderful fare:  sushi, nishime, onigiri, and the traditional New Year ozoni (mochi and other things simmered in seaweed/fish broth).  All these dishes are supposed to bring good luck to the coming year.

Here, I'd like to share with you a Japanese recipe that jives well with my kind of New Year.  This recipe does not go after luck, however.  It goes after transformation.  Yes, friends, tsuchi-dango ("earth-dumplings") are little tools you can use to personally and directly effect change in the world, from the roots up.  

The use of tsuchi-dango was an ancient farming technique before it was revived in the twentieth century by Masanobu Fukuoka.  These little balls of clay, soil, and seeds already contain everything needed for healthy germination;  just add water.  You can strew them on top of untilled soil, the seeds wait for prime germinating conditions, and the sprouts grow healthily and robustly in their rooting medium until they are well-established in the ground.  What a revolutionary farming technique!  

But tsuchi-dango can be used for much more.  Think of the possibilities:  when these little balls of clay and soil are filled with the seeds of edible or native plants, every vacant lot, urban nook, or suburban crack can become a radiant garden.  Arm yourself with some of these, and you can transform your world.  You'll have a green touch.

RECIPE

2 parts seeds

3 parts compost

5 parts powdered red or brown clay (available from pottery supply stores)

Mix together.  Add water until it forms a "dough" that you can roll into little balls the size of large marbles (about 1 inch in diameter).  Allow to dry for a day or two.  Fling about with wild abandon, or store someplace cool and dry.  I've also seen a recipe that calls for equal parts of each--seeds, compost, clay--although I'm not sure how well that works.

Tailor the seeds you use according to your vision and your area:  tomatoes, rosemary, white sage, blue flax, fennel, prairie-dock, sunflowers, peppers, peas.  Be bold, audacious, and utopian:  imagine the side of that parking lot as a butterfly garden of native sages or that chain-link fence overflowing with delicious stringbeans.  Take direct and concrete initiatives of transformation:  anarchy in action.

Omedetoo gozaimasu!