Attention is the essence of contemplation. Paying attention. Attention, says one dictionary definition, is the cognitive process of paying attention to one aspect of the environment while ignoring others. So it is deliberately selective -- we are choosing to pay attention somewhere and not elsewhere, during the time of prayer. The mantra is intended to assist us in this, because left to ourselves our monkey minds are all over the place.
Of course in other parts of our life, being able to attend to fifteen things at once is widely admired. This is now called multi-tasking. People add it to their CVs. Others of us, usually male I understand, are more or less unable to multi-task. And that I imagine explains why I am not CEO of Air New Zealand or Archbishop of Canterbury. I am generally unable to do more than one thing at a time. Well, while it may indeed be admirable to multi-task, in contemplative prayer and life what matters is that we learn how to focus attention to the present moment and to God’s presence. God is paying attention to us. This is a discipline that needs to be practised and developed.
Another thing we hear a lot about is attention span. Commercial advertisers seem to be of the opinion that we have very limited attention spans, and so they have to speak to us in rapid sound bites and suchlike. A lot of people have an extremely low boredom threshold. Suddenly, very soon, they need to be entertained in some way. In contemplative prayer and life we work on our attention span. We set aside times for prayer in silence and stillness, and sometimes these can be quite demanding. During these times we are awake and alert and paying attention.
The ability to pay attention starts to spill over into the rest of life. We begin to find that it is possible and important to be able to give someone else our undivided attention -- this is a gift, often a healing gift, which we can both receive and give. Total attention... I remember seeing one teaching monk, who was in great demand at a crowded meeting, and getting pecked to death by devotees -- but he was giving his undivided attention to one person who had asked, and he would not be diverted. It was an object lesson for me, lest I be one of those ministers with shallow automatic responses to people, their eyes always flickering around elsewhere in the room in case there is something they are missing. The development of the gift of attention spills over in all sorts of ways -- it may also produce a growing impatience with shallowness and triviality.
25 November 2011
18 November 2011
Blessed are the poor - 18 November 2011
In an article in the Tablet, Fr Laurence Freeman introduces us to Dr Pierre. Dr Pierre is co-ordinator of all the meditation groups in the Caribbean nation of Haiti. He is also a very bright doctor who is medical director of the one major hospital not demolished in the recent devastating earthquake. Although it was not that kind of hospital, Dr Pierre was obliged to take in a lot of patients with spinal cord injuries, and then set about getting the proper staff and equipment for them.
Eventually, also, he started a Christian Meditation group with these patients. In his spare time -- in his case a concept hard to understand -- he provides assistance and encouragement for Christian Meditation groups all over that ravaged land. Most of these are poverty-stricken people in a land of tragedy, endemic corruption, and exploitation. And yet, interestingly, suicide in Haiti is virtually unknown -- almost as though it is more a disease of affluence.
I don’t know how you teach Christian Meditation to desperately poor people. Perhaps you would need to be one yourself, as Jesus was. And yet, there is a sense in which contemplative life and prayer makes us all poor. Blessed are you poor, taught Jesus. Meditation introduces us to the poverty which is a gift for us to receive at levels deeper than all the knowledge and achievement, and of course all the outward show. This poverty is not anything bad or reprehensible. It is not a problem. When I am poor, wrote St Paul, then I am rich. Empty hands and a receptive heart are the necessary ground for love and grace.
Fr Laurence reminds us that prayer is more than consolation or relief from misery or anxiety. You can teach Christian Meditation to the poor precisely because it is a political act. It introduces people to a new personal dignity, it clears the mind, purifies the heart and releases wisdom and compassion. And so Dr Pierre adds to his medical skills the wisdom to teach not only the poor, but also men, women and children in long, probably partial recovery from spinal injury, to be still and silent. Who knows what healing this facilitates -- in the brain and spinal cord, or in the psyche, in the memories, the relationships, the courage to hope… and most certainly in the fears we have.
Eventually, also, he started a Christian Meditation group with these patients. In his spare time -- in his case a concept hard to understand -- he provides assistance and encouragement for Christian Meditation groups all over that ravaged land. Most of these are poverty-stricken people in a land of tragedy, endemic corruption, and exploitation. And yet, interestingly, suicide in Haiti is virtually unknown -- almost as though it is more a disease of affluence.
I don’t know how you teach Christian Meditation to desperately poor people. Perhaps you would need to be one yourself, as Jesus was. And yet, there is a sense in which contemplative life and prayer makes us all poor. Blessed are you poor, taught Jesus. Meditation introduces us to the poverty which is a gift for us to receive at levels deeper than all the knowledge and achievement, and of course all the outward show. This poverty is not anything bad or reprehensible. It is not a problem. When I am poor, wrote St Paul, then I am rich. Empty hands and a receptive heart are the necessary ground for love and grace.
Fr Laurence reminds us that prayer is more than consolation or relief from misery or anxiety. You can teach Christian Meditation to the poor precisely because it is a political act. It introduces people to a new personal dignity, it clears the mind, purifies the heart and releases wisdom and compassion. And so Dr Pierre adds to his medical skills the wisdom to teach not only the poor, but also men, women and children in long, probably partial recovery from spinal injury, to be still and silent. Who knows what healing this facilitates -- in the brain and spinal cord, or in the psyche, in the memories, the relationships, the courage to hope… and most certainly in the fears we have.
11 November 2011
The opposite of love - 11 November 2011
One of the major steps on our journey is the discovery that the opposite of love is not hate, but fear. There is no fear in love, we read in the First Letter of John, but perfect love casts out fear. In a way, this is not what we expect. Love and hate seem to be opposites. But in fact, psychologically and one might think perversely, love and hate can be quite closely related.
It is the miracle of love, the sudden, surprising security of love, that gets rid of our fear of God. You can’t read great literature -- Tolstoy, Shakespeare, Dickens -- without becoming aware of the primal fear of God that much religion seems always to have engendered, fear of what God might do. It infects so much of the human story. Music such as sections of the Mozart Requiem depicts terror of a just and implacable God - Dies Irae, Day of Wrath... So many people assume that adversity must be some kind of punishment, deserved or undeserved. If it is undeserved, then God is a tyrant indeed to be feared. To counter such superstition St Augustine wrote: Fear is a suffering that oppresses us. But look at the immensity of love. We actually don’t have to be afraid.
All tyranny thrives on fear. Religious tyranny is no exception. Of course we do have a built-in fear mechanism, reflexes that are necessary to our survival -- I am not talking about that. It is our sometimes subconscious recognition of danger, leading to fear and flight. That much is simply the provision of a good Creator. The fear I am referring to, which is the opposite of love, is something altogether corroding and debilitating. It stops love, because love is always by its nature vulnerable. This fear causes you to be forever trying futilely to eliminate risk, to protect people from the perilous world and from nasty realities. In Coronation Street the children are immediately, by reflex, told lies and sent upstairs, by adults themselves afraid of the truth. Fear becomes the default position, and then love becomes impossible -- only relationships that masquerade as love are possible.
Silence and stillness are necessary while we discover how to be open to God who is unconditionally loving. Each time of prayer for a contemplative is an act of faith, because we are setting aside our normal defences and risk-limitation strategies, in order to sit still and receptive where God is, in our hearts. And as we keep on saying, if we need to assess or review our meditation -- what are we getting out of it? -- we need to ask ourselves, are we becoming more loving -- that is, less afraid?
It is the miracle of love, the sudden, surprising security of love, that gets rid of our fear of God. You can’t read great literature -- Tolstoy, Shakespeare, Dickens -- without becoming aware of the primal fear of God that much religion seems always to have engendered, fear of what God might do. It infects so much of the human story. Music such as sections of the Mozart Requiem depicts terror of a just and implacable God - Dies Irae, Day of Wrath... So many people assume that adversity must be some kind of punishment, deserved or undeserved. If it is undeserved, then God is a tyrant indeed to be feared. To counter such superstition St Augustine wrote: Fear is a suffering that oppresses us. But look at the immensity of love. We actually don’t have to be afraid.
All tyranny thrives on fear. Religious tyranny is no exception. Of course we do have a built-in fear mechanism, reflexes that are necessary to our survival -- I am not talking about that. It is our sometimes subconscious recognition of danger, leading to fear and flight. That much is simply the provision of a good Creator. The fear I am referring to, which is the opposite of love, is something altogether corroding and debilitating. It stops love, because love is always by its nature vulnerable. This fear causes you to be forever trying futilely to eliminate risk, to protect people from the perilous world and from nasty realities. In Coronation Street the children are immediately, by reflex, told lies and sent upstairs, by adults themselves afraid of the truth. Fear becomes the default position, and then love becomes impossible -- only relationships that masquerade as love are possible.
Silence and stillness are necessary while we discover how to be open to God who is unconditionally loving. Each time of prayer for a contemplative is an act of faith, because we are setting aside our normal defences and risk-limitation strategies, in order to sit still and receptive where God is, in our hearts. And as we keep on saying, if we need to assess or review our meditation -- what are we getting out of it? -- we need to ask ourselves, are we becoming more loving -- that is, less afraid?
04 November 2011
Being in the world differently - 4 November 2011
One of the important contemplative teachers of our day is the American Benedictine nun, Sister Joan Chittister. A lot of the art of teaching, it seems to me, is being able to say the simplest truths in a fresh and simple way. So it is that Sr Joan Chittister writes: The contemplative life is about becoming more contemplative all the time. It is about being in the world differently.
And so, if what we want or expect from faith in God, from loyal and busy attendance at church -- and I have to say, for many people, from simply being good -- is stability, a reduction of change in our lives, protection from adversity and pain, then as contemplatives we are seriously out of luck.
Paying attention to God does mean change. It is a life of being in the world differently. It becomes increasingly difficult to live superficially. We start seeing things we may not have seen before. We find we can pay attention more to aspects of things we hitherto didn’t want to know about. But basically, we ourselves are changing, even at our great age. Sr Joan puts it this way: What needs to be changed in us? Anything that deludes us into thinking that we are not simply a work in progress, all of whose degrees, status, achievements, and power are no substitute for the wisdom that a world full of God everywhere, in everyone, has to teach us.
This is a kind of freedom, you see. Personal change, whether it is merely in the ways we do things or react, or whether it is much deeper, in the thoughts and fears we may reveal to no one, is always the result of discovering we are free to change. We may have thought we weren't. We are not locked into any determination of our background, or upbringing, or past sorrows, or beliefs we were taught. God’s spirit is working in us at the level of our fears, including our fears of mortality and not being here any more.
And so, to be contemplative is to be a work in progress, as Sr Joan puts it. As our fears about that reduce, our surprise quotient reduces also -- there may be things we intensely dislike, but we are no longer so surprised, horrified, aghast, threatened, because we are free to be still and because we are understanding better. It is a kind of wisdom, as Sr Joan says. I tend to be amused when people quote St Teresa’s most famous statement, that all will be well and every manner of thing will be well. It demands the Tui Beer response: Yeah, right. But St Teresa was speaking from her personal inner freedom. She wasn’t afraid any more.
And so, if what we want or expect from faith in God, from loyal and busy attendance at church -- and I have to say, for many people, from simply being good -- is stability, a reduction of change in our lives, protection from adversity and pain, then as contemplatives we are seriously out of luck.
Paying attention to God does mean change. It is a life of being in the world differently. It becomes increasingly difficult to live superficially. We start seeing things we may not have seen before. We find we can pay attention more to aspects of things we hitherto didn’t want to know about. But basically, we ourselves are changing, even at our great age. Sr Joan puts it this way: What needs to be changed in us? Anything that deludes us into thinking that we are not simply a work in progress, all of whose degrees, status, achievements, and power are no substitute for the wisdom that a world full of God everywhere, in everyone, has to teach us.
This is a kind of freedom, you see. Personal change, whether it is merely in the ways we do things or react, or whether it is much deeper, in the thoughts and fears we may reveal to no one, is always the result of discovering we are free to change. We may have thought we weren't. We are not locked into any determination of our background, or upbringing, or past sorrows, or beliefs we were taught. God’s spirit is working in us at the level of our fears, including our fears of mortality and not being here any more.
And so, to be contemplative is to be a work in progress, as Sr Joan puts it. As our fears about that reduce, our surprise quotient reduces also -- there may be things we intensely dislike, but we are no longer so surprised, horrified, aghast, threatened, because we are free to be still and because we are understanding better. It is a kind of wisdom, as Sr Joan says. I tend to be amused when people quote St Teresa’s most famous statement, that all will be well and every manner of thing will be well. It demands the Tui Beer response: Yeah, right. But St Teresa was speaking from her personal inner freedom. She wasn’t afraid any more.
28 October 2011
Speaking up - 28 October 2011
In the TV drama Downton Abbey, the execrable aunt who has caused a lot of damage by her plain speaking says to the wonderful Dowager Countess of Grantham, “My dear, I always say what I think...” “Why,” asks the countess, “no one else does.” There are people who have never experienced what it is like to think it perhaps, but choose not to say it.
One of the most famous of the Desert Fathers and Mothers of the 3rd and 4th centuries was Abba Moses the Black. He was probably an Ethiopian, and tradition says he had been a robber, a highwayman. One of the many stories tells how a council was being held in Scetis, and some of the fathers there treated Moses with contempt, saying “Why does this black man come among us?” But Moses kept silence. Later, some asked him, “Abba, did that not grieve you at all?” He said to them, “I was grieved, but I kept silence.” On another occasion, when one of the brothers had committed a fault, Abba Moses was asked to come and help with the judgement. He took a leaking jug, filled it with water and carried it with him. The others said, “What is this, Father?” Moses replied, “My sins run out behind me, and today I am coming to judge the errors of another.” When they heard that, they said no more to the brother but forgave him.
One of the consequences of a contemplative discipline in which, so far as we can, we are paying attention to the real world rather than day dreaming or fantasising, and to human brokenness including our own rather than blaming, judging, labelling, is that we seem to have less and less to say. If God teaches us in the silence to make peace with ourselves, as Jesus taught, then it becomes less difficult to understand what C S Lewis called this bent world. At any rate we pause now on any threshold of passing judgement, and often as not we say nothing at all.
It doesn’t mean at all that we lose our sense of justice and our indignation when people and our precious environment are maltreated by the misuse of power. But it is not possible to come from the silence and resume the old strategies of label and divide, name, blame and shame. The silence extends out far beyond the time of meditation, the mantra follows us off down the road, and there is something in our hearts put there by God which tells us that speaking up judgmentally and hurtfully will not improve anything. And if we are compelled to speak up, it is likely to become a rare event, and it will always somehow reflect what we have come from in the silence and stillness.
Isidore of Pelusium, one of the later Desert Fathers, put it this way: Living without speaking is better than speaking without living. For a person who lives rightly helps us by silence, while one who talks too much annoys us. If, however, words and life go hand in hand, it is the perfection of all philosophy.
One of the most famous of the Desert Fathers and Mothers of the 3rd and 4th centuries was Abba Moses the Black. He was probably an Ethiopian, and tradition says he had been a robber, a highwayman. One of the many stories tells how a council was being held in Scetis, and some of the fathers there treated Moses with contempt, saying “Why does this black man come among us?” But Moses kept silence. Later, some asked him, “Abba, did that not grieve you at all?” He said to them, “I was grieved, but I kept silence.” On another occasion, when one of the brothers had committed a fault, Abba Moses was asked to come and help with the judgement. He took a leaking jug, filled it with water and carried it with him. The others said, “What is this, Father?” Moses replied, “My sins run out behind me, and today I am coming to judge the errors of another.” When they heard that, they said no more to the brother but forgave him.
One of the consequences of a contemplative discipline in which, so far as we can, we are paying attention to the real world rather than day dreaming or fantasising, and to human brokenness including our own rather than blaming, judging, labelling, is that we seem to have less and less to say. If God teaches us in the silence to make peace with ourselves, as Jesus taught, then it becomes less difficult to understand what C S Lewis called this bent world. At any rate we pause now on any threshold of passing judgement, and often as not we say nothing at all.
It doesn’t mean at all that we lose our sense of justice and our indignation when people and our precious environment are maltreated by the misuse of power. But it is not possible to come from the silence and resume the old strategies of label and divide, name, blame and shame. The silence extends out far beyond the time of meditation, the mantra follows us off down the road, and there is something in our hearts put there by God which tells us that speaking up judgmentally and hurtfully will not improve anything. And if we are compelled to speak up, it is likely to become a rare event, and it will always somehow reflect what we have come from in the silence and stillness.
Isidore of Pelusium, one of the later Desert Fathers, put it this way: Living without speaking is better than speaking without living. For a person who lives rightly helps us by silence, while one who talks too much annoys us. If, however, words and life go hand in hand, it is the perfection of all philosophy.
21 October 2011
Inner peace - 21 October 2011
Why are we meditating? Of course there is a variety of reasons, motivations. What we frequently hear when we ask is a desire for inner peace. People are meditating because it is so different from the other aspects of their lives, which may be busy, noisy, demanding -- and for some, full of anxiety or fear, or regret. For a while they can be still and rest, with permission as it were to set down the load. And that’s fine. If that’s what it is, “not a problem” as everyone seems to say these days.
Christian Meditation however invites us to rather more than that. If our motive is personal inner peace, there are perhaps two things to say. The first is that there are many offers of peace of mind around, such as Transcendental Meditation, TM, and much of it is simply part of the consumer culture. Secondly, it may not work. In half an hour’s time we are back where we came from, amid all that is not peaceful. What we have had is a rest. In the classical Christian teaching, that “rest” was known very well. They called it the pax perniciosa, day-dreaming, a kind of alpha consciousness, an escape from reality.
In Christian Meditation it is important that we are awake and alert, and not hiding from reality. I think the word rest is not appropriate because there is in fact a lot going on. We are the ones who are still and silent, but we are consenting to the work of the spirit over the days, weeks and years, eroding the false self and calling the true self, which was always there, and which God always saw. The much-used hospital cliché has some relevance here -- informed consent. We are consenting, and sometimes that is quite hard work, because it means facing our reality and the present moment.
One frequent question is about results -- what do I get out of this, if not an amazing and instant inner tranquillity...? You see the consumerism again... there has to be some reward, some benefit. If we must look for a result, we should look for it in the area of our relationships. Are we more loving... of ourselves in the first place? Less judgemental and inclined to labels which are exclusive of some and inclusive of others. Are we acquiring more understanding or sympathy with human difference, including our own human frailty and fallibility?
It is a long process of being brought closer to the Way of Christ, to some of those sublime requirements such as the Beatitudes which may have always seemed far above us. The Danish philosopher Kierkegaard said that most Christians typically treat the Sermon on the Mount rather as they set their watches deliberately ahead of time, so that they will at least possibly approximate. The work that is going on in our stillness is something we learn to trust, and it becomes apparent in our hearts and in our relationships.
Christian Meditation however invites us to rather more than that. If our motive is personal inner peace, there are perhaps two things to say. The first is that there are many offers of peace of mind around, such as Transcendental Meditation, TM, and much of it is simply part of the consumer culture. Secondly, it may not work. In half an hour’s time we are back where we came from, amid all that is not peaceful. What we have had is a rest. In the classical Christian teaching, that “rest” was known very well. They called it the pax perniciosa, day-dreaming, a kind of alpha consciousness, an escape from reality.
In Christian Meditation it is important that we are awake and alert, and not hiding from reality. I think the word rest is not appropriate because there is in fact a lot going on. We are the ones who are still and silent, but we are consenting to the work of the spirit over the days, weeks and years, eroding the false self and calling the true self, which was always there, and which God always saw. The much-used hospital cliché has some relevance here -- informed consent. We are consenting, and sometimes that is quite hard work, because it means facing our reality and the present moment.
One frequent question is about results -- what do I get out of this, if not an amazing and instant inner tranquillity...? You see the consumerism again... there has to be some reward, some benefit. If we must look for a result, we should look for it in the area of our relationships. Are we more loving... of ourselves in the first place? Less judgemental and inclined to labels which are exclusive of some and inclusive of others. Are we acquiring more understanding or sympathy with human difference, including our own human frailty and fallibility?
It is a long process of being brought closer to the Way of Christ, to some of those sublime requirements such as the Beatitudes which may have always seemed far above us. The Danish philosopher Kierkegaard said that most Christians typically treat the Sermon on the Mount rather as they set their watches deliberately ahead of time, so that they will at least possibly approximate. The work that is going on in our stillness is something we learn to trust, and it becomes apparent in our hearts and in our relationships.
14 October 2011
Paying attention - 14 October 2011
Sitting still and paying attention, according to our experts, is a very complex human problem. While tens of thousands of our compatriots have no difficulty paying close, focussed attention (if not sitting still) for over an hour to a rugby game they want to watch, and can recall every detail of it later, I for one am bored rigid in the first five minutes. I think that is because, wildly exciting as it may be, it seems to me not to matter.
And indeed, those who compile our TV programs are assuming at present, I think, that our attention is successfully captured for serious lengths of time only by relentless sport, or by the preparation of food to the accompaniment of much drama and tears, or by TV and pop icons locked in battle with their hormones. One bloke on a food program cooks what he himself has hunted and killed, so that combines two criteria, as it were, if indeed hunting and killing is a sport.
Paying attention is a large subject, I do realise. Our attention span depends on many things. When the New Zealand Anglican Prayer Book was published in 1989 it was such an excellent thing it seemed to me, except for what they did with the Psalms. The old 1662 Prayer Book had instructed in the Preface: The Psalter shall be read through once every month... Obviously not everyone paid attention when it was, but some did, and expected it, and it tended to result in a red-blooded church in which, as one Benedictine Abbot pointed out, God was not expected to behave in ways prescribed in the manuals of doctrine. But now in 1989 the Psalms got selected for our tender sensibilities, and abbreviated for our attention span, the language was cleaned up, and they have become in our worship like little approved sound bites as it were. Some Psalms we never hear now because they might upset someone.
Well, when we come to pray as contemplatives, we are taking whatever attention span we might have -- and of course it will differ from day to day, depending on a lot of things -- and we are making it completely available in the present moment, whether it encounters difficulties or not, as it will. I had a lovely teacher in Standard 3, Mrs Stephens -- I think her husband was killed in the war, in that year, because suddenly we felt very sad for her without knowing why -- nobody told us. One day Mrs Stephens said, I would really like it if Ross Miller would pay attention and stop staring dreamily out the window. Well, Mrs Stephens, I have got better at it now. I have learned to sit still for 20 to 30 minutes and pay attention as completely as I know how to the present moment. I hear everything that happens in that time within my auditory range -- but I now know to decide not to start thinking about all that. I am content to be where I am at this moment, and to be still, and to be aware that I am in the presence of God, as is always the case, except that now I am paying attention. I am not expecting emotions or revelations or any such thing, and I would be very surprised to start levitating -- that would wreck my attention.
And that is all. My loving presence here is my very best response to God’s loving presence here, since God is always paying attention to me. And that in the end is the whole of prayer.
And indeed, those who compile our TV programs are assuming at present, I think, that our attention is successfully captured for serious lengths of time only by relentless sport, or by the preparation of food to the accompaniment of much drama and tears, or by TV and pop icons locked in battle with their hormones. One bloke on a food program cooks what he himself has hunted and killed, so that combines two criteria, as it were, if indeed hunting and killing is a sport.
Paying attention is a large subject, I do realise. Our attention span depends on many things. When the New Zealand Anglican Prayer Book was published in 1989 it was such an excellent thing it seemed to me, except for what they did with the Psalms. The old 1662 Prayer Book had instructed in the Preface: The Psalter shall be read through once every month... Obviously not everyone paid attention when it was, but some did, and expected it, and it tended to result in a red-blooded church in which, as one Benedictine Abbot pointed out, God was not expected to behave in ways prescribed in the manuals of doctrine. But now in 1989 the Psalms got selected for our tender sensibilities, and abbreviated for our attention span, the language was cleaned up, and they have become in our worship like little approved sound bites as it were. Some Psalms we never hear now because they might upset someone.
Well, when we come to pray as contemplatives, we are taking whatever attention span we might have -- and of course it will differ from day to day, depending on a lot of things -- and we are making it completely available in the present moment, whether it encounters difficulties or not, as it will. I had a lovely teacher in Standard 3, Mrs Stephens -- I think her husband was killed in the war, in that year, because suddenly we felt very sad for her without knowing why -- nobody told us. One day Mrs Stephens said, I would really like it if Ross Miller would pay attention and stop staring dreamily out the window. Well, Mrs Stephens, I have got better at it now. I have learned to sit still for 20 to 30 minutes and pay attention as completely as I know how to the present moment. I hear everything that happens in that time within my auditory range -- but I now know to decide not to start thinking about all that. I am content to be where I am at this moment, and to be still, and to be aware that I am in the presence of God, as is always the case, except that now I am paying attention. I am not expecting emotions or revelations or any such thing, and I would be very surprised to start levitating -- that would wreck my attention.
And that is all. My loving presence here is my very best response to God’s loving presence here, since God is always paying attention to me. And that in the end is the whole of prayer.
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