New eyes for reading the Bible: Judgement

Last Judgement, Triptych (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

What had been intended as one post has been split into a brief series. You don't have to read the rest of the series to get anything out of the post you are about to read, but it would probably help. My connection to these views and why I am writing them are also covered there.

I don't plan to go into any kind of theology about judgment in Christianity, as it's been covered before. And the starting premise is a continuation of the aforementioned post split into different parts, in which the imagery of God as Prophetic Authority is being used to explain what we could roughly compare to the concept of karma. That is, for the all the focus on what God is or isn't going to do to people, a more interesting and potentially useful way of looking at it is that judgement, resulting in a blessing or a curse, is about what people are bringing upon themselves.

The trick here is to put aside the Prophetic Authority image when you do so, or else you get into questions of theodicy. Now if you like that kind of thing, go for it. But otherwise, when thinking of God's judgement in the Bible, de-personalize it and think of it like a law, a law of cause and effect, a law of karma.

This I think helps relieve a good bit of the uncomfortable and often unnecessary discomfort with the way judgment is interpreted by contemporary readers, and it takes a lot of the wind out of the sales of the kind of fundamentalists who revel in a stern and punishing God and who get a thrill in vicariously judging others in the name of God. God isn't sitting on a throne passing judgement; rather, the universe manifests as an aspect of God, with certain natural "laws" or rules of cause and effect. Those who don't understand them or care about them are going to have more problems as they face the consequences of their ignorance or disregard. It can also be compared to being out of harmony with the Tao.

This next change in perspective can be added to the one above or practiced separately. In the tradition of the Desert Mother and Fathers of the early Church, and likely additional groups Christian and otherwise, there is a practice that I am going to co-opt and modify here. The enemies of the Bible, the Pharaoh of Exodus, the ancient Kings of Canaan, and others are taken to represent unvirtuous thoughts and feelings such as terror, hatred, greed, indifference to the suffering of others, and so on.

Chanting to the Gohonzon and praying the Psalms

Español: Este es un Gohonzon inscripto por el mismo Nichieren en 1280 para su discipulo Nissho; etse estilo de Gohonzon es llamado Ichinen Sanzen Gohonzon (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Yes.

So now that I've confirmed you read the title correctly, here is a quote from an article by Sandy McIntosh titled "As American As Apple Pie?" that appeared in a 1992 in the Winter 1992 issue of Tricycle magazine:

The liturgy of gongyo encourages one to clear the mind of wishes, anxieties, and other distracting thoughts so that when it is time to chant Nam Myoho Renge Kyo (the most important part of the practice) the mind will be sufficiently stilled to concentrate on the Gohonzon. The goal of this "assiduous practice" is the fusion of one's mind with the reality of the Gohonzon—it means reading the Chinese characters not simply with one's eyes but "with one's life"—through chanting Nam Myoho Renge Kyo.

 ...

I had friends who started off chanting for cheaper drugs and free money. Like them, I treated the Gohonzon as a pimp. I wanted to see if chanting would work. I set about praying for things (a summer job, a girlfriend, even a good parking spot) that would fill immediate needs or give instant pleasure. Some things I got; others I didn't. The things I really needed-such as better relationships with people and with myself-eluded me. Nevertheless, I continued to chant. Gradually, my interest in shortterm material benefits was displaced by a hunger for longerterm spiritual ones. I found that chanting incessantly about difficult personal problems, like polishing a mirror, brought clarity to my situation. The more difficult or painful the motivation for my chanting, the clearer the mirror of my faith reflected my ownership of whatever troubled me. I could no longer deny the responsibility for my predicaments. In my experience, the activity of chanting for material or spiritual things becomes a process of cleansing one's spirit, not corrupting it; and Buddhists who began by chanting for hotter cars ended up driven to awaken themselves and help others, at times with great energy and joy. 

This was published not long after the bitter split between Nichiren Shoshu and the Soka Gakkai, so it is relevant to the perspectives of people in both camps at that time. The whole "chanting for stuff" issue has been debated many times in various venues and forums, with the above as an example of a pro-chanting for stuff argument that has been developed and polished over the years. It is akin to petitionary prayer in theism.

The point of similarity I wish to make between that and chanting or singing or just reading the Psalms as prayer early in the Daily or Divine Office is one of clearing the air, getting out what is most distracting you by way of engendering fear, anger, lust, or despair. I think the Psalms, along with prayers for specific personalized petitions, might serve a function similar to what McIntosh and others have described. You pour out your heart to make room the the divine, whether that is conceptualized as God or Buddha-nature or the Buddha-dharma (rendered in Nichiren Shoshu and the Soka Gakkai as the "Mystic Law").

I would not be surprised to find parallels in other forms of Buddhism or in non-Buddhist traditions. I suppose it does make a certain kind of sense. One problem I have with the Psalms though is that they may not really reflect the state I am in and therefore not really act as a way to clarify it. I suppose it could be seen as a way to practice sympathy and solidarity with others, although as I understand it that is not the point of praying them, but really it just makes me bored, sad, irritated, or judgmental.

Oblation Update

c. 1437-1446 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

My updates here are sometimes tardy. This one is really late.

In the fall of 2010 in the midst of re-exploring Christianity from a contemplative perspective, I thought about how my growing interest (which culminated in actually attending services at a small parish of the Episcopal Church on Trinity Sunday in 2010) was connected to the lives and writings of monastics, or "religious" as their are also known. I checked online and yes, the Anglican Communion in general and the Episcopal Church in particular had such monastic communities.

I contacted a few in late summer and early fall of 2010 and then selected one to begin a dialogue with about being an oblate, which basically means being attached to a community without taking full vows. I spent some time trying out parts or whole recitations of the Daily Office while I put together my application and continued communicating with the community. By March 2011, as I wrote last year, I was submitting my application. Then there really wasn't much written about the whole thing after that. So what happened?

Well, I got through about 10 months (starting at the end of June/beginning of July 2011 and continuing to nearly the end of March 2012). Before I even started, I was not in love with many parts of the Bible, especially the Psalter (i.e. the Psalms), and Benedictine communities read and pray a lot of the Bible, especially the Psalter. And to be honest, my hang-ups with Christianity and spiritual deafness caused me to feel like quitting the community almost as soon as I had officially started my novitiate. I sent an email withdrawing from my one year period as a novice oblate by the end of July. But over the next month I resolved a particular roadblock, not really sure what it was now exactly, and kind of wished I had stuck with it. Or maybe I just hate making choices that possess such finality. I sent an inquiry was granted a chance to continue as a novice.

This pattern of really getting frustrated with Christianity, and wondering why I continued participating in it when in general I really didn't believe a lot of it or feel any deep connection it, but then getting some insight into a theological puzzle or something similar, continued. I wouldn't really come any closer to faith or believing after such pendulous swings, but I would find something to inspire or intrigue me just enough not to give up, and I figured I might as well keep trying. I mean, maybe it would work out, and maybe it wouldn't, but why quit again unless I was really sure. They wouldn't take me back again a second time, I was pretty sure of that.

By December of 2011, I had become more familiar with the Psalms and learned more about them, but it didn't seem to help. Around this time they became the focus of my Oblate study. That didn't really help much either--I eventually found that I could appreciate them for other people but not for me. Also by that time, my plunging headlong into regular study and reflection crystallized some of what I really don't like or am not comfortable with about Christianity. It seemed as if the more I actually got into the readings and church teachings, the less I liked them. (At least as often as not, and sometimes more.) And a friendly letter I had received a little before that from a fellow novice oblate made it even clearer how differently I viewed things from those who seemed to have faith and found solace in the passages I couldn't stand. How could I ever really belong, and did I actually want to?

The Psalms as mirror and inner voice

The Psalms are not my favorite example of sacred literature. I am just not a fan. My reaction to them was one of the red flags that kept me questioning my connection to mainstream Christianity. I simply do not find them comforting, empowering, or inspiring but I do tend to find them tiresome or offensive.

The Psalms in Hebrew and Latin. Manuscript on parchment, 12th century. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

First, understand that I do appreciate that the Psalms are sacred poetry. I've read various books by Thomas Merton including three with a heavy emphasis on the Psalms (Contemplative Prayer, Praying the Psalms, Bread in the Wilderness), I've read Psalms: A Spiritual Commentary by Basil Pennington, I've read Psalms: The Prayer Book of the Bible by Dietrich Bonhoeffer, I've read The Cloister Walk by Kathleen Norris, Prayers from the Darkness: The Difficult Psalms by Lyn Fraser, and so on.

Second, I read these books while studying as a novice oblate with a Benedictine community and wrote reports examining and reflecting on them and the discussing my thoughts and reactions with a Benedictine to further delve into meaning and response. This was not casual reading.

Third, prior to and during the novitiate I regularly performed the Daily Office and chose a schedule for the readings which completed the Psalter once per month. I did this for over a year and a half. I am  familiar with the Psalms themselves.

My relationship to the Psalms then isn't based on a casual acquaintance, nor is it based on a fundamentalist or literalist mindset. I realize that there are cultural and historical differences with the writers of the Psalms and today's readers of these ancient poems, and that poems are not to be read as prescriptive theology. Yet I am still not fond of them and don't connect with them.

And now I'm going to suggest what value they can possess for anyone on a spiritual path, whether or not they identify with the Bible or the Abrahamic religions.

The Psalms still sound awful to me

Image via Wikipedia

You may not be familiar with the Psalms. Even folks who have a favorite or two memorized or read portions of them on Sundays often aren't. But whether you are or aren't, here is a list I previously published about the take-away message I was getting from them as of last February. The basic themes I identified for the Psalmist(s) were:

• waiting for God (to help, to save, to be a friend, etc)
  
• trying to follow the Jewish laws and requirements
• claims his innocence
• then confesses his guilt
• bargaining/negotiating a trade of obedience for blessings
• desperate and fearful of mocking, violent, dishonest enemies
• angry at the the oppressors and murderers
• equates justice with blessing for the poor and oppressed
• equates justice with the horrible suffering and the swift destruction of the wicked and powerful
• recognizes (at least partially) the mercy and splendor of God
• sitting and lying down are equated with those stuck in sin
• walking and running are equated living in righteousness
• the (coming) judgment of God is good news to the weak, the infirm, the slave and the prisoner
• doesn't understand why God hasn't yet rendered judgment 
• maintains faith in God despite misgivings and disappointments 

It's interesting to me that even the most progressive or contemplative people in the Christian traditions, especially the vowed Religious, in a sense swear by them and affirm them as the very heart and soul of the Judeo-Christian tradition. Not only that, but I recall people who are in other sacred traditions and even some non-religious people speaking in glowing terms about the Psalms.  I am at times genuinely hard pressed to understand why that is.

Seriously.

Wrestling with traditional Christian scripture and prayers

So here's the thing.

There are many wonderful people who have come to such profound insight into the Divine, and through this to a solidarity with the core insights of other religions, by practicing with traditional Christian scriptures and prayers.  They have inspired me, and I mention them often: Fr. Thomas Merton, Fr. Thomas Keating, Fr. Richard Rohr, Fr. Bede Griffiths, Br. Wayne Teasdale, Br. David Steindl-Rast (to name a few).  So for reasons discussed elsewhere I joined a politically tolerant, theologically inspirational Episcopal parish with a strong anglo-catholic flavor ("high church liturgy"). The Anglicans, including the Episcopal Church, recommend their version of the Daily Office to both priests and laity alike, religious and secular.  So this sounds like a good idea.  Many in the Anglican tradition simply don't do any of the Daily Offices at all, let alone on a regular basis.  And when they do go to Mass, the reading from the Psalter (the Psalms) tends to be edited so that the harsh portions are left out.  So I will offer some background on my views as well as examples of why this practice hasn't been working out as well as I had initially hoped.

It should be recalled that I see no reason to defend the Bible as something it isn't but rather to appreciate it for what it is.  It is an attempt to record people's understanding of their encounter with the Divine Mystery.  This means appreciating things such as historical and cultural context in the use of language and thus not missing the point of why something was phrased a particular way rather than assuming it would have been said the exact same way if it were written today.  Otherwise much of the power of the texts is muted and we risk misunderstanding that can be profoundly damaging. The necessary process of maintaining the vitality of such texts and their commentaries produces a perpetual tension between between received wisdom through tradition and insights from ongoing revelation.  I don't have any need to deny that there is all manner of ugliness recorded in the Bible, often framed as the will of God, nor should anyone be surprised to find such things.  The human path to peace and wisdom is filled with wrong turns and dead ends because of our shortcomings and poor choices.  Our hearts, the deepest parts of our selves, are often hard, narrow, and crowded, which causes plenty of distortion in discerning who God is and what God wants.