The Passionate Life

A young American disciple of Buddhism went to his master one day with a question. “Master, you are always telling us that we suffer because of our attachments. So I have been striving in my daily life to not become so attached to things, or to my feelings, or even to people. But now my girlfriend says that she is not happy because I am aloof, that I do not seem to care about her. But I do love her. What must I do?” The question of this young Buddhist novice is a more common one than you might think.
The beginning premise of Buddhism is that life is suffering. And the reason given for our suffering is our attachments to the things of this life. The more we are attached, the more we suffer. And the solution Buddhism offers, or at least a big part of the solution, is the quieting of our monkey mind, this constant preoccupation with obtaining things, always being held in high regard by others, and forever seeking to secure and advance our station in life – all the things that the ego attaches itself to. This quieting of the monkey mind can’t be done by force of will. It requires training and discipline through the act of meditation.
As soon as Buddhism mentions nonattachment, or letting go, a great many people start heading for the exits. Who would want to go through life without being able to have and to hold, to love, to feel a sense of accomplishment, to live a life of passion for the good things of this worldly existence? I must say that I too have found the idea of renunciation one encounters in Buddhism a bit of a put off. My experience has been “Its better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all,” as Tennyson said. So was the Buddha wrong in teaching that the suffering we will inevitably experience in this life is so great that we should discipline ourselves to forego all of its joys and pleasures?
Before one of the Buddhist practitioners out here in the congregation decides to stand up and straighten me out, let me emphasize that the Buddha was not wrong. He was a very astute psychologist and understood the machinations of the human psyche perhaps better than anyone in the last 3000 years. He compared the human mind to an elephant – a creature which crashes about and acts on instinct to preserve itself and the things it values, and is constantly on the alert for threats to these things that are out there in the jungle of life. In this comparison, Buddha presaged the teachings of modern psychology – that we are endowed with an intricate system of automatic reactions and unconscious processes which were critical at one stage of our biological and evolutionary development. However, like modern psychology, he also realized that these tendencies do not always serve us well in our more developed state as human beings who must learn to cooperate rather than compete, and who seek after values such as happiness and joy which are beyond the plane of mere survival.
The teachings of Buddhism are clearly not anti-relationships, anti-love, or anti-passion. Nor does nonattachment mean indifference to these things. The Buddha clearly had sources of enjoyment, including relationships. Buddhism even has a word for lovingkindness, metta, and compassion, karuna, and these things were considered an essential part of the goal of the enlightened state of being. Nonattachment in the Buddhist sense is not the purposeful suppression of compassion or love or sex or dance or music or anything else that brings joy to life. Rather the teaching is meant to guide us away from the great drama of the ego around these things.
It is not the desire itself that causes us discontent and discomfort. It is the clinging to the object or person so strongly that thoughts of it dominate our sense of well being so much that we think we can’t live without it and we fail to recognize that it, like all things, is impermanent.
This is what the Buddha meant by attachment, and it is in this sense that he urged his followers to cultivate nonattachment. It is not the things of this world that cause problems, it is the way our ego relates to these things. To keep a proper perspective is the key to enlightenment. The Judaeo-Christian teaching is not so different in this regard as regarding money. That teaching being: “Money is not the root of all evil. It’s the love of money that is the root of all evil.”
This story serves to illustrate the idea well, I think:
In Southeast Asia, hunters have an ingenious way of trapping monkeys. They take a coconut, and carve a hole in the top a certain size, and take out the insides of the coconut. Then, they place a tasty, sweet morsel, such as a piece of fruit, inside the coconut. Then they fasten this coconut securely to a tree. A monkey comes along, sees the tasty morsel, and reaches its hand in through the small hole. The hole is big enough to admit the monkey’s hand, but not large enough for him to remove it once he has grabbed the food and made a fist. So he can’t get his hand out of the coconut. The monkey is not willing to let go of the sweet thing, and the hunter catches him.

With monkey mind, and our habitual ways of attaching ourselves to objects and people, we are the monkeys, and so we can’t let go of them and we are trapped. Even when we are stuck, we continue to cling to them. Even though we may see how it causes us to suffer and lose our freedom, we refuse to let go.
Much of the misunderstanding of the Buddhist concept of nonattachment is due to language. In Buddhism, the idea of attachment would probably be better translated “clinging.” Conversely, in English the word attachment can simply mean connection. In fact, modern psychology uses the word attachment in a positive sense as in “attachment theory,” which has to do with the formation of healthy relationships such as the bonding between parent and child. With that in mind, it’s no wonder that the word has caused confusion.
Even research psychologists such as Johnathan Haidt, who wrote “The Happiness Hypothesis” and seems to have a genuine admiration for the precepts of Buddhism, has difficulty with the concept because of the way he understands the word nonattachment. He wonders if the Buddha was in error, and writes that cutting off all attachments is a mistake. Then he says, based on the thesis of his work, that “attachments bring pain, but they also bring our greatest joys.” He goes on to say that the “calm nonstriving advocated by Buddha” leads to “lives designed to avoid passion, and a life without passion is not a human life.”
Haidt’s criticism of Buddhist philosophy is shared by many who have this misunderstanding of the concept of nonattachment. If Haidt had rather substituted the word “clinging” for attachment then we could rephrase his statement to say “Clinging brings pain, but attachments, when we keep proper perspective on them, bring our greatest joys.”
A life designed to avoid passion would be an empty life, devoid of all the things that give it zest and verve. Buddha taught a Middle Way, somewhere between indifference to the things of this world and wild, irrational clinging to them. How can we find this middle way?
Another story from the Buddhist tradition serves to illustrate:
There is a fire burning in front of us. It’s beautiful. With red, yellow, white. And it’s warm. We like it, so we reach out to hold it. And what happens? It burns us. We pull our hands away, because when we reached out to hold it, it burned us. Does this mean we hate the fire and want to put it out? No. Instead, we desire to behold its beauty and feel its warmth, and so we must learn to sit back and enjoy its colors and its radiance from a distance. We can appreciate and love the fire without holding on to it.
Yes, “passion,” in the best sense of that word, can give “fire” to life—a sense of exuberance and joy. Yes, to live is to risk being burned by the passions. Probably all of us have been burned at one time or another by our own or other people’s appetites and needs and wants. Basically the teaching of the Buddha in regard to attachment is to teach us how to live with passion in the best sense of the word, and not in a way that might lead to us being burned or consumed by the fire. Love and appreciation for the good things of this life requires that they be held – but not too close. The fire of passion is good, when we discipline ourselves to get close enough to feel its heat, but maintain the proper psychological and spiritual distance so that we are not consumed.
This distance may vary between persons and even in the same person at different times. There is a season for the red-hot heat of passionate love, just as there is also a season for the glowing, comfortable warmth of long time companionship. Besides these fires, there are also the beauty and warmth given off by the glowing embers of friends and family. Though my grandkids are not perfect, (they are hopelessly spoiled,) I would not want to dis-attach myself from them. And though they get into trouble and get hurt and experience disappointments that I feel even more than they do, in no way would I want to give up the sweet aches of being a grandparent and watching them grow up. Jut to have one of them take pleasure in sitting in my lap and engage me in conversation can sustain me for days.
Neither would I want to disengage from the sensual pleasures of the body? Yes, they are fleeting, and may give no lasting benefit, but what would life be without the taste of strawberries, the tender touch of my spouse, the smell of the earth after a rain, the sight of a new baby, or the sound of a violin concerto? Who can possibly believe it would be worth giving up all the preciousness of what life has to offer just to avoid suffering? That is not Buddhism as I understand it. The insight of Buddhism is that we are not separate from this world. That our perception of being so is an illusion, and that we can enjoy every good and natural thing if we can only come to grasp that what we love is not truly ours, but belongs to life itself; that what we achieve is not of our ego but is a part of the whole, and is but is a part of the process of the betterment of life unfolding. If, rather than striving to gain things we can learn to find satisfaction in losing ourselves in them, then we might could say that we have understood the idea of nonattachment.

How should the Master have answered the young novice who asked about his girlfriend who was not happy because of his misguided efforts at nonattachment? Perhaps the Master would have told the young grasshopper that he was too attached to his ideas of nonattachment. But in the end, I think he would have chastened the young disciple, and told him to go and do what he must do to get the girl back.

I will give the last word to the poet, who always find ways to say things in ways that speak beyond the words. Mary Oliver says what I have been trying to say in a remarkabley succinct way. She ends her poem “In Blackwater Woods” with these lines that to me speak the essence of nonattachment:

To live in this world you must do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go.
So may we find the courage and grace to make it so. Amen.

Happily Ever After?

Once upon a time there lived a girl named Cinderella. You may remember bits of Cindy’s story; how her birth mother was a kind and gracious woman who died when Cindy was young and how her father remarried a haughty and overbearing woman with two older daughters. How life became difficult for Cindy in this new household with her stepmother and stepsisters. She works incessantly to please her stepmother and stepsisters and caters to their every need. She does all the cooking and cleaning, and is treated like a servant. The step sisters become more and more demanding of Cindy as the years pass. Her father, meanwhile, was sort of “not there” for Cindy either emotionally or physically as she grew up. Cindy somehow lived through this difficult childhood, went to the ball, met Prince Charming who immediately fell in love with her, she ran from the ball at the stroke of midnight, she lost her glass slipper which somehow remained a glass slipper while the rest of her clothes returned to rags, the prince searches the kingdom for her, he finally finds her and the shoe fit so to speak, they get married and, as movie producers lead us to believe, they live happily ever after.
However, the sequel to Cinderella’s story may have turned out to be something less than a fairy tale ending. Happily ever after it wasn’t. There were many ups and downs to Cindy’s life after the regal wedding, mostly downs. At first, she seemed to fit into the royal family perfectly. Her Barbie doll beauty and docile personality made her popular with most everyone in the court. She was used to doing everything for herself and serving those around her, and this did not change after she became a princess. If something needed doing, she didn’t sit back and wait to be waited on, she jumped in to help. This earned her the admiration of the common folk who were used to the royal family acting like, well, royalty by being spoiled and expecting everyone to cater to their every want and desire. Yes, she was popular. Too popular, in fact. Soon the prince and the royal family started to show signs of jealousy. The queen mother began to snap at her and criticize her every move. Cindy began to constantly overhear the queen tell everyone how she was just a commoner and would never be good enough for her son. The prince, always a little more preoccupied with his image than with his studies or with making a career for himself, fell into a depression. He began to refuse to go out in public with Cindy, his princess, because she seemed to outshine him so much whenever they were together in the public spotlight. The more active Cindy became in civic affairs and charitable works, the more he retreated into the seclusion of the castle walls. Cindy bore him 2 boys, but they did not seem to be any source of joy to him. He began to drink and became rather bitter about his life. The more Cindy tried to motivate him to pursue outside interests, the more despondent he became. She fussed over him, making sure all his favorite meals were prepared just the way he liked them. She tried to engage him in cheerful conversation about her daily activities, but he only became more and more sullen. The more she tried to do for him, the more he withdrew from life. Rather than the life she had fantasized about where her prince came and rescued her from her previous life of misery she was now living a nightmare. It seems that the conditions of her previous life had been recreated all over again.
Given the patterned ways that people tend to function, this rendition of Cinderella’s untold story is quite likely how her life would have gone, considering the hints we have about her family and her character from the traditional fairy tale. The patterns that led to her unhappiness in marriage and childrearing were already clearly established before she even met Prince Charming. Cinderella was a classic overfunctioner, and was caught up in what is called an overfunctioning-underfunctioning reciprocity. When someone is overfunctioning in a family, there is someone else who is underfunctioning. When one person begins to do for others things that they are capable of doing themselves, it often begins a cycle of learned helplessness ala Cinderella’s stepsisters. The overfunctioner in the family system overfunctions and the other family members compensate by downshifting to a learned helplessness form of existence. The overfunctioner responds to this underfunctioning by ratcheting up the overfunctioning, and the followers sink even lower into greater and greater degrees of underfunctioning. It becomes a vicious cycle that, without the intervention of either a fairy godmother or a marriage and family therapist, often spirals into the demise of the family or worse. Actually, I wrote this fanciful continuation of the story not with Cinderella in mind, but with knowledge of a real life princess, Princess Diana. She fit the pattern I described as well, and we remember how her life ended.
Cinderella is such a classic case of overfunctioning that family therapists often refer to overfunctioning as the Cinderella Syndrome. Overfunctioning in the way that Cinderella did, as by fixing your kids lunches everyday when they are old enough to do it for themselves, or picking up after your spouse when he is perfectly capable of tidying the house, will not result in a prince coming along to carry you off to some romanticized disneyesque world. More than likely the overfunctioner will somehow manage to recreate the same hellish circumstances no matter where he or she lives and works. Considering how conditioned we are to avoiding dealing with the real issues in our lives, the sequel I imagined to Cinderella’s life is the all too probable outcome. All too often the dysfunctions we develop in our families of origin, whether it’s overfunctioning or whatever, get transmitted into our relationships with our spouses and partners and our relationships with our children. Wherever you go, there you are.
When we overfunction in our families or organizations it means that we are taking on more than our share of the responsibility for the welfare and ownership of the system. It is such an easy pattern to fall into. Our overcaffeniated society actually encourages us to fall into this trap, by giving us messages like: always being fearful of losing our jobs, encouraging us to go into debt to have it all now, to always be multitasking one more thing than the human brain was designed to do. Whether we call it overfunctioning or just chronic “busy”ness, it has deleterious consequences. If we are overfunctioning toward others, it encourages them to underfunction. If we are overfunctioning toward others, we are underfunctioning toward our self. If we are overfunctioning at work, we are underfunctioning in some other aspect of our relationship in our life.
Several things attracted me to family systems as the best way to think and process one’s way through life. First, in the family systems way of thinking, the focus is not on the cause of the problem – in this case overfunctioning – the focus is on recognizing it and changing the dynamic. Traditional psychoanalysis usually only encourages us to focus on the psychological cause of the problem. So, before we might have discovered that the person who overfunctions is the oldest of siblings, and thus compelled to take care of the younger siblings, or perhaps that they are the adult child of an alcoholic and they grew up overfunctioning to keep some semblance of normalcy and homeostasis in the family, or that they developed a pattern of overfunctioning because they grew up feeling unloved and this led to compulsive efforts to earn love and acceptance by constantly doing things for the family. These psychodynamics are all very interesting, but family systems cares little about what led to the problem.
Second, family systems thinking focuses on the whole group, or system, rather than just the one on one relationships within that system. This gets us away from thinking “cause and effect,” which automatically leads us to assigning blame for the problem. In systems thinking, we retrain and rewire our brains to think of the interrelations of the entire group or system. Rather than focusing on finding fault in others, systems thinking encourages us to consider the part we play in creating the problem, and how we might better manage ourselves in the situation. This keeps us in the emotional system, but it also allows us to step back, gain perspective, and maintain our objectivity while also lowering our reactivity. Systems thinking doesn’t mean we ignore emotions. On the contrary, it gives us the edge to critically assess and process the emotional field of the entire system. It allows us to be mindful that the entire system is affected by what each person does. But conversely, it also raises our awareness that each person can effect a change within that system.
In a relationship where one person is overfunctioning and the other is underfunctioning, our tendency is to think of the overfunctioner as the healthier, more independent, and more complete of the two. But both are equally dependent on the other for what is missing in themselves. Overfunctioners are invasive of the space of others. They are convinced that they know what is best for someone else and rob them of the ability and initiative to do things for themselves and limits the other persons functioning and makes them dependent. Ever heard of killing others with kindness? That saying likely came from a good systems thinker.
Third and most important, family systems is concerned primarily with effecting change in the system. So, I would ask you today, are you experiencing the Cinderella Syndrome in a relationship at home, work, or perhaps even here in this congregation? If any of this rings true for you, you may be wondering how does one bring about meaningful change, how does one recover from this dysfunction? It requires us to gain an understanding of systems theory and the part we are playing in this dysfunctional dance. Then the overfunctioner has to take control and make themselves less responsible for the other. It requires Cinderella to take stands with the stepmother and stepsisters and perhaps even suffer some of their nastiness. The overfunctioner has to step back and take responsibility for themselves and only themselves, speak for themselves and only themselves. Often, if the overfunctioner can function in this way consistently over an extended period of time, the underfunctioner will step forward and begin to take initiatives to a reciprocal degree. Similarly, if an underfunctioner wants to recover his or her equal place in the relationship, he or she can take initiatives to advance his or her own contributions and take his or her own responsibility for decisions. In systems parlance, this is called defining yourself to the other. Sometimes the best approach is to sit down with the other person or persons and directly renegotiate the terms of your relationship. However, you choose to go about it, expect resistance. You are interfering with the homeostasis of an entire system, and there will be a flurry of protest. If you have been doing things for others that they should be doing for themselves, they will resist, perhaps even call you selfish or insensitive. But if you stay the course, the relationship can be expected to establish a new pattern at a higher level of functioning for all members.
Keep in mind what we discussed last month about putting on our own oxygen mask first. We are not responsible for how others may respond to our initiatives. We are not responsible for their anger and we can’t bring about their happiness. We can only be responsible for our own. If we offer a relationship of mutuality and they accept, wonderful. If they refuse, that is their choice. Our responsibility is to act in a way that honors ourselves as much as the other. To act in any other way disrespects the inherent worth and dignity of every individual and, even though it may give the appearance of being helpful and earn us lots of kudos, its ultimately self defeating and eventually causes more harm than good.
Living with others in an environment of mutuality while at the same time finding and maintaining our own self respect is really the only way to grow peace in our heart and fulfill our human need to both give and receive. Striving to be better differentiated in ways that avoid beckoning traps like overfunctioning is really the only way that life in the real world will ever approximate the wistful ending of happily ever after promised to our imaginations by the magical fairy tale of Cinderella.

The Elephant in the Room is You

“If you don’t like something change it; if you can’t change it, change the way you think about it.” — Mary Engelbreit

Every now and then, I make a resolution that I will start getting up an hour early to go jogging before I start my day.  As a physician, I am very much aware of the benefits of exercise to the body.  Exercise keeps us fit, trim, lowers our cholesterol, increases our stamina and energy levels, and may even prolong our life.  All good things, right?  So I set out to do this on a regular basis.  I set the alarm by the bed to go off at 6 am instead of 7 and I fall off to sleep, snug and secure in the satisfaction that tomorrow is a new beginning toward translating my deeply held conviction that you only go around once in life and you should be all that you can be.

6 am arrives and the alarm goes off.  There I am, in my little cocoon of sheets and blankets and the room is cold.  Coming out of the fog of my dreams, its hard to awaken my firm resolve of the night before.  I look at the digital dial on the alarm and realize that its two hours before I have to be anywhere.  Just reaching up to shut off the alarm is rather annoying, never mind the thought of forcing myself to actually get up and venture outside where it’s really cold to do something that requires me to muster a great deal of energy.  So do I get up or not?  One part of me says yes, another says no.  No matter how much spiritual practice I do, I remain totally schizophrenic.  There are two voices in my head battling it out for my very soul.  Which one eventually wins?   I invite you to look to your own experience for the answer to that one.

The divided self is universal to the human experience.  Our rational side wants us to exercise, to lose weight, be more disciplined about something or other, but our instinctive side, our emotional side, wants to turn over and go back to sleep or to order that tempting dessert.  Our rational side is aware of this division in ourselves, this split in our personality, and may try to outwit our instinctive side by putting the alarm clock across the room to force us to get up.  Or put a lock on the refrigerator to keep us away from the ice cream.  But often this strategy backfires.  What you get instead is a crazed man cursing himself as he stumbles across the room to hit the snooze button or a frantic woman who raids the refrigerator in the middle of the night to get at the tempting dessert that she has held off all day until she can’t stand it any longer.  Let’s face it.  We are an insane species.

This division in the self is at the heart of the human situation.  Poets, philosophers, and psychologists throughout the ages have commented on it.  Plato compared us to a charioteer who uses whip and goad in our attempt to control the unruly horse.  St. Paul wrote, “For I know that nothing good dwells within me, that is, in my flesh.  I can will what is right, but I cannot do it.  For I do not do the good that I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do.”[1]  Buddha said that the mind is like a wild elephant and needs a trainer to control it.  Freud wrote about the selfish id and the conscientious superego.  Perhaps the best analogy comes from Johnathan Haidt, a psychologist at the University of Virginia, who picked up on the elephant idea of the Buddha and says that the dynamic tension between these two aspects of our selves is best represented by a rider atop an elephant.  The tiny rider being the rational side of our self and the 6 ton elephant being our instinctive, emotional side.  The rider can direct the elephant as long as the elephant does not have desires of its own.  However, when the elephant really wants something, the rider is totally outmatched.

Why did human beings develop is this way, so that they are often divided in purpose?  It really makes perfect sense, if you think of it in evolutionary terms.  These two “minds” roughly correspond to the two information processing systems within our brains.  Humans have automatic processing, which handles dozens of functions all at once without us even having to think about it. The automatic response system developed because its quick and reliable action gave our species an advantage in securing food quickest and avoiding danger the fastest.  Things like breathing, blinking, and withdrawing our hand from a hot stove happen without any conscious effort on our part.  That’s the elephant.  We also have controlled processing, which requires conscious effort and deliberation, but is able to analyze and plan for the future.  That’s the rider.   Our elephant part works pretty well, as thousands of years of product cycles of natural selection has gotten all the bugs out.  But controlled processing, the ability to deliberate and plan for the future is, in evolutionary terms, a relatively new addition.  But the rider helped certain elephants do certain things in a better way.  Evolution selected the elephants that got the most use out of the rider.

How do these two information processing systems work together?  Suppose it is getting to be about dinnertime.  The elephant only knows its hungry.  To plan a meal, the rider is needed to choose the menu, look up recipes, choose the proper ingredients, and plan the process of putting the ingredients together.  Controlled processing, while it can be quite elaborate, is quite limited.  It can only think consciously about one thing at a time.  But while these elaborate controlled processes required for cooking take place, everything else is done automatically by our elephant – breathing, stirring, chopping, maintaining proper distance from the heat of the stove, even feeling the proper texture and consistency of our culinary creation are all functions that happen without any conscious effort on our part.  So both parts of our divided self are necessary to bring about purposeful, intelligent behavior.

All in all, this divided system of processing functions fairly well until we decide to make some significant change in our life.  If you’ve ever tried to get up early, started a diet, bought a piece of exercise equipment, started piano lessons or the study of a foreign language, you know what I’m talking about.  That’s when your rider, who thinks its in control, likely finds itself at odds with the elephant.  And the elephant, being much larger, usually wins.  The rider wants the trim body and the elephant wants the ice cream cone.  The rider is simply unable to keep the elephant on the path long enough to reach the destination.

The elephant and the rider is a brilliant metaphor for helping us think about our internal difficulties with discipline and change, but it can also lead us to oversimplify the problem.  The elephant isn’t always the bad guy.  The elephant also has good qualities and the rider has its faults.  Emotion is the elephant’s turf – love and compassion and sympathy and loyalty.  That fierce instinct you have to protect your children from danger – that’s the Elephant. That spine-stiffening you feel when you need to stand up for yourself – that’s the Elephant.  All the gut feelings, visceral reactions, intuitions, everything about us that comprises emotional intelligence, that’s the elephants domain.  Most importantly, it’s the elephant who furnishes the drive to get things done.

Conversely, the rider isn’t always the good guy.  The rider tends to spin his wheels. Have you ever heard of analysis into paralysis?  That’s the rider.  The Rider tends to get focused on problems and this can lead to hesitancy and inaction.  The rider is that part of ourselves that can see into the future, but if all he ever does is plan and plan and never takes action, nothing ever gets accomplished.  The elephant and the rider each have their own intelligence that contributes to the unique brilliance of human beings.

The big question – one that has plagued humankind ever since we became reflective beings – is how do you get the elephant and the rider to cooperate with one another?

Willpower alone seldom brings about change.  In other words, while the rider can yank on the reins or goad the elephant and get his way for a time, it seldom lasts very long.  The elephant is simply too strong for the rider to win a tug of war, and the elephant, being emotional, will get angry and refuse, or simply be stubborn.  So the rider exhausts himself.

Motivational speakers, personal trainers, using the rider atop the elephant metaphor, have come up with all sorts of effective strategies to get the two working together.  Most of these techniques, well known to behavioral scientists, usually consist of 3 elements.  Directing the rider, motivating the elephant, and clearing the path.  First, direct the rider.  That is, set concrete, one step at a time goals.  How do you eat an elephant?  One bite at a time.  For me, in my quest to begin a jogging program, that meant telling myself, the goal is not something abstract like, get in shape.  It meant the goal this week is to run a mile every other day.  Next week run a mile and a half every other day.  That’s directing the rider by giving him small, concrete, achieveable goals.    Second, motivate the elephant.  Engage the emotions.  The elephant will be more motivated if it can imaginatively envision the destination or goal.  It also helps to create stronger emotions related to the attainment of the goal.  For me, the idea of having a smaller waistline was not motivating enough.  So I began to think of something that was more important to me.  I want to be around to play with my grandkids and watch them grow up and do things with them.  That turned out to elicit much stronger emotions within me toward the attainment of my goal.  And it has helped me to stay with my exercise regimen.  Third, clearing the path.  Make it easier for the elephant to go the way that you desire it to go.  For me, that meant changing the time I planned to go jogging.  Overcoming the inertia of my lazy body at 6 am was simply too difficult a path for my elephant.  So now I attempt to run first thing when I first get home in the afternoon.   This is much more agreeable to my elephant as my elephant already has its adrenalin flowing at 5 pm whereas at 6 am its hopeless to get him moving.

To me, the genius of Haidt’s book is that he took this idea of the divided self, the idea of the rider and the elephant, and applied it to several facets of human development, human flourishing and human well being, not just to the discipline and motivation to diet and exercise.  He reexamines such big ideas as – how we change our minds, how we deal with challenge and adversity, the role of relationships, the role of virtue, the role of religion and the divine – all from the perspective of this struggle between the rider and the elephant.  And it is amazing how illuminating it is to examine these crucial pieces of the human situation in light of the rider and elephant model.  That’s what I will be doing in a series of sermons I will be doing once a month – looking at some of these ideas in light of Haidt’s model of the rider and elephant.

I will finish by sharing something Haidt shared when he was interviewed right after his book was published.  He said his research on human fulfillment and well being really can be boiled down to two big ideas he picked up from Buddhism.  The first is the idea of the human mind being like that of the elephant and the trainer which he modified into the metaphor of the elephant and the rider.  The second is this thought from the Buddha, “All that we are arises with our thoughts, with our thoughts we make the world.”  From these two simple ideas Haidt develops a remarkably coherent path for those of us who strive to better understand ourselves and others and who seek to bring about meaningful change.  It basically boils down to this.  The elephant often gets stuck thinking it can somehow make the world conform to its wishes.  The rider is the real change agent, but only when the rider learns to change its thinking.  As the quote on your OOS today says, “If you don’t like something change it; if you can’t change it, change the way you think about it.”

If nothing else, an examination of these ideas will help us to be more gentle and patient with ourselves and with others.  Most all of us have learned from years of experience that you can’t just resolve to be happy. You can’t just resolve to exercise, that you can’t just resolve to quit overeating, you can’t just resolve to stop and smell the flowers – because the rider does the resolving but it’s the elephant that does the behaving. Once you understand the limitations of your psychology and how hard it is to change yourself, you become much more tolerant of others, because you realize how difficult it is to change anyone.  A valuable lesson for us all, one that it seems we keep having to learn again and again.

May it be so for all who have the grace to accept this difficult teaching.  Amen.

---

[1] Romans 7: 18,19

Out of Silence

Though I’m quite excited about the material we will be studying in our Adult Religious Education classes this coming year, I am even more excited about the possibilities we will have to build community through our experience of being together in an intentional way for some 28 weeks.  I have occasionally commented that it is not so important what we study when we are together, but the really instructive thing is the way in which we are together when we study. 

Those of you who have been in small groups with me in the past year have probably noted that I usually begin with a couple of minutes of silence.  This “group meditation” serves a whole host of functions in the dynamics of groups.  I usually frame the period of silence as a time to center and get away from the “monkey mind,” that constant inner chatter that comprises so much of our lives.  Things that happened this past week, what I need to do in the coming one, what did so and so think about what I said to her just a minute ago – these are the distractions that prevent us from being present to one another and to our task of learning and growing together.  Being more mindful of this present moment and what is happening right here, right now at least gets us all “in the room” so to speak, and if silence did nothing more than this it would be a worthwhile exercise.  But I am also convinced that it is only out of silence that radical transformation is possible. 

Mystics of many faith traditions have extolled the virtues of silence.  When mystics refer to silence, I believe they are talking about more than just the absence of speech.  Silence, in the sense of silencing the mind, is making our mind and spirit empty.  Unless we are capable of doing this - of “emptying” ourselves of our inner chatter, of our preconceived notions, of our need to have every moment of our day filled with some distraction, of our uncomfortableness when there are silent moments in human encounters – then this present moment has no more promise than to be a mere repetition of what has gone on before.  To be silent, to empty ourselves, is the only way we can make room for God, for the transcendent, for the other, for some new way of processing and being.  It may feel a bit scary, because if this emptiness of silence is done well, we have no control over what may come in to fill it. Perhaps the introvert in the group, who processes more slowly but much more deeply, will find the space to share something profound and meaningful with the extroverts, who are caught a bit off balance by these “forced” moments of silence.  Perhaps we may find the space in our own being to listen more deeply to ourselves and what our own still, small voice has been trying to say.  Who knows what may come. These are just some of the possibilities.  That’s what may make it a bit frightening for some.  But that’s also what makes it an exciting adventure! 

This may be a lot to expect from two minutes of so of silence.  But if some radical transformation might be possible, even remotely, isn’t it worth it?  I hope that some of you think so, and will come and be a part of Adult RE this year.    

The Sermon That Didn’t Make It

While researching some potential topics for my Labor Day sermon, I came across a fascinating tale of redemption.  I got so absorbed in the story and spent quite a bit of time with it.  After much deliberation, I decided I could not in good conscience use it in a sermon as a celebration of redemption, and so I put it aside.  Nevertheless, it is an engrossing story.

I imagine most of you have heard the expression, “That’s a real Horatio Alger story,” referring to someone who has gone from rags to riches.  In the latter 19^th century Horatio Alger wrote over 100 books about impoverished young men who overcame adversity through hard work, courage, and determination.  They weren’t actually rags to riches stories, as most of his characters went on to achieve middle class status at best.  But the overwhelming success of his books led to his name being forever associated with achievement of the American Dream.  One of his books called “Ragged Dick” sold more than 20 million copies and was read by millions more.  It was continuously in print for more than 40 years.  The population of the United States at that time was only 50 million, which means that virtually everyone in the country was familiar with his stories.

Though you have probably heard of Horatio Alger, you may not be aware that he was a Unitarian minister before he achieved such popularity as a writer of children’s fiction.  His association with us is not much celebrated, however, because he was compelled to resign his pulpit after allegations of sexual improprieties with young boys, allegations that were found to be true.  All parties involved agreed to suppress the incident, and, according to the biography of Alger published by the Unitarian Universalist Association, “no further such incidents occurred” during the remainder of Alger’s life.

What really got me interested in the redemptive aspects of this story was a beautiful, heart rending poem that Alger wrote not long after he resigned his ministry in disgrace.  From all indications, it appears to be autobiographical – that is, Alger wrote it in confession of his own sin.  It has the same form and cadence of the poem “Abou Ben Adhem,” and its called Friar Anselmo’s Sin. 

Friar Anselmo (God’s grace may he win!)
Committed one sad day a deadly sin;

Which being done he drew back, self-abhorred,
From the rebuking presence of the Lord,

And, kneeling down, besought, with bitter cry,
Since life was worthless grown, that he might die.

All night he knelt, and, when the morning broke,
In patience still he waits death’s fatal stroke.

When all at once a cry of sharp distress
Aroused Anselmo from his wretchedness;

And, looking from the convent window high,
He saw a wounded traveller gasping lie

Just underneath, who, bruised and stricken sore,
Had crawled for aid unto the convent door.

The friar’s heart with deep compassion stirred,
When the poor wretch’s groans for help were heard

With gentle hands, and touched with love divine,
He bathed his wounds, and poured in oil and wine.

With tender foresight cared for all his needs, -
A blessed ministry of noble deeds.

In such devotion passed seven days. At length
The poor wayfarer gained his wonted strength.

With grateful thanks he left the convent walls,
And once again on death Anselmo calls.

When, lo! His cell was filled with sudden light,
And on the wall he saw an angel write,

(An angel in whose likeness he could trace,
More noble grown, the traveller’s form and face),

“Courage, Anselmo, though thy sin be great,
God grants thee life that thou may’st expiate.

“Thy guilty stains shall be washed white again,
By noble service done thy fellow-men.

“His soul draws nearest unto God above,
Who to his brother ministers in love.”

Meekly Anselmo rose, and, after prayer,
His soul was lighted of its past despair.

Henceforth, he strove, obeying God’s high will,
His heaven-appointed mission to fulfil.

And many a soul, oppressed with pain and grief,
Owed to the friar solace and relief.

It appears that Alger was genuinely contrite about what he had done and took the exhortation of the angel in the poem seriously because, judging by the rest of his life’s work, he did indeed dedicate himself to “noble service” to “thy fellow men.”  He would spend the remainder of his life living in relatively obscure circumstances, advocating for homeless and impoverished children.  Through his books he exposed the plight of these poor children, and worked tirelessly for improvements in their working conditions.  Despite the enormous popularity of his books, he never had much money because, according to legend, he gave most of it away to the homeless.  How much truth there is to all this is difficult to determine for certain, as all of Alger’s personal papers were destroyed at his death. 

As I mentioned, I considered using this story for a sermon but ultimately decided against it.  Though it is an intriguing story, I felt conflicted by the prospect of acknowledging publicly the merits of someone apparently guilty of a sexual offence against children.  Alger’s hometown of Marlborough, Massachusetts found itself in a similar situation 3 years ago.  The town had been celebrating a “Horatio Alger Street Fair” for many years, but when it was confronted with what was known about Alger’s past decided it could not in good conscience continue to use his name for its big event.

It’s difficult, if not impossible, to gain public redemption for such offences.  I certainly hope that Alger and the victims of his acts were finally able to find some personal peace about what he had done and that his story really was one of redemption.  As someone who has familiarity with the subject because of an incident that affected someone in my own family, I know a little bit about how difficult this is to talk about.  Maybe someday we as a society will find a way to discuss this subject more openly and some healing can come to those who have been affected by such terrible acts.

Guess Who Came to Dinner?

If I was asked to explain what made our shared worship experience of this past Sunday so special, I guess I would have to say it was  a true religious cultural exchange.  Unitarians often visit temples, synagogues, and churches of other faith traditions, but the way the experience is structured usually ends up putting us more in the role of ”observer.”  In contrast, Sunday’s shared worship was a true exchange, where a representative portion of our congregation took part in Serenity’s worship service, and a great many, if not most, of Serenity’s congregation came and participated fully with us.  In other words, neither group were “religious tourists,” but got full cultural immersion.  That made the experience pretty special, I think.  Now I know so much more about the identity of Serenity Christian Church, as I have an experience of being with them and I witnessed a bit of both the form and the substance of their ministry.  And I think a great many of their members can now say the same thing about us.

We were greeted by ”Welcome Unitarian Universalist Church” on the marquee in front of Serenity.  An even warmer welcome awaited us once inside the sanctuary.  Kathy and I sat near the front, so I didn’t get to observe how much the UU crowd got into the praise music provided with the accompaniment of a keyboard and drums, but Kathy and I did.  As a Methodist and a former Methodist, we recognized some of the songs.  (Yes, Methodists do praise and worship style music also!)  Then we heard a sermon from Rev. Rose, who used a folksy, storytelling style that I found most engaging.   We recited the Serenity Prayer together.   Communion was offered to those who wished to participate.  There was also a time of sharing from the congregation.  It was good to go back to my religious roots in such a positive way.

We then convoyed over to our church.  What a joyful sight to see four rows of seating around our sanctuary completely filled!  Keith treated us to “One Love,” “He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother,” and “Lean on Me.”  Lars made everyone in our diverse multitude feel welcome and at ease.   In the Story for All Ages, we talked about some of the changes in our society since MLK’s “I Have a Dream” speech in 1963 and also how much work is yet to be done to build better relations between races.  Each of the kids got a “stone of hope” to help them remember that every effort we make hews away from the “mountain of despair.”

The texts for my sermon on “The Language of Love” were the Tower of Babel story from Genesis and the coming of Pentecost from Acts 2.   In a nutshell, my point was that language and the meanings of religious words can divide us, but actions of love speak a language all their own that can bring us together in a spirit of harmony and peace.  

Then we all shared in a pot luck feast thanks to our dedicated kitchen crew and those who brought a dish to share.  My thanks to all who worked so diligently to make the meal possible.  The food was plentiful and delicious! 

I think our courage in moving forward with this shared worship experience will be felt in both our congregations “like a mighty wind” as was mentioned in Acts.  Some may understand that mighty wind to be the spirit of God, some may prefer the language of ”human spirit.”   Whatever variation of language we wish to use to express the great mystery within and beyond ourselves, l hope our real focus will continue to be on our actions and not merely on our words, and that those actions will continue to speak love one to another.  Our congregations have so much more in common than we have in differences – especially where it counts.  Both our congregations stress inclusivity and focus on work that promotes justice and equity.   I am excited about the possibilities for collaborative efforts between UU Valdosta and Serenity Christian Church going forward as we continue in our efforts to build the beloved community.