How do we know if someone is born from above or of the Spirit? According to Jesus, it hinges on the ability to perceive the kingdom of God. Yet, this response seems insufficient. What does it truly mean to ‘see’ the kingdom of God? How can one achieve such a sight? Jesus’ answer leads us back to our initial inquiry: ‘If one is born from above or of the Spirit.’ Thus, we find ourselves caught in a referential loop.
But this, of course, is not the end of my reflection. There’s a way out. Jesus provides a subtle clue in his dialogue with Nicodemus, reminiscent of the idiom, ‘Like a leaf in the wind.’ So, here’s the saying of Jesus where I think the clue to break the referential loop of God’s kingdom and being born of the Spirit is found: “The wind (pneuma) blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit (pneuma).” (John 3:8) Let’s delve into a re-translation to perceive this saying as a clue. Both the word ‘wind’ in the initial segment of the saying and the word 'Spirit' in the latter part stem from the same Greek term, ‘pneuma.’ ‘Pneuma’ carries at least three meanings: wind, breath, or spirit. It's understandable why nearly all English translations of the Bible opt for ‘wind’ in the first part of the saying, given the verb ‘blow’ used in context. Selecting ‘wind’ over the other two interpretations aligns most coherently with the overall meaning. However, why not consider 'breath'? In Isaiah 40:7, we encounter, “The grass withers, the flower fades, when the breath of the LORD blows upon it; surely the people are grass.” Moreover, in J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings, there's a poem titled “When the black breath blows.” Let's substitute ‘wind’ with ‘breath’ and explore how it alters our interpretation: The Breath blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Breath. (John 3:8) Nicodemus, addressed as ‘you’ in Jesus’ discourse, lacks understanding of the origin and destination of the breath. Understandably so, as such knowledge often eludes those who haven’t experienced or embraced the kingdom of God within. The breath serves as the pathway to God’s presence—a vital force that both physiologically and spiritually sustains all living beings. Unlike Nicodemus, we comprehend the source and course of God’s breath: it flows in and out of our bodies. This breath transcends mere air; it embodies the energy of the Spirit. Not only does it nurture and uphold our existence, but it also leads us inward toward God's inner sanctum. Imagine that every breath we take is the movement of the breath of God or the Holy Spirit. The breath doesn’t go anywhere but remains within us. We may often forget that we’re even breathing at all, but it’s okay. The breath is ever-forgiving; even if you miss one breath, the next one comes right away. (This insight originates from Thanissaro Bhikkhu, a Theravada monk.) There’s never a single moment when the breath has left us. This is the faithfulness of the breath or God. What we’re left with, then, is to be mindful and alert about how to breathe, how to skillfully allow the breath to govern our mind and body, and how to guide our thoughts and feelings. When the breath of God governs our mental and physical actions, it embodies the essence of living in the kingdom of God—a state of heightened awareness and alignment with divine guidance. Our cultivation of the breath of God in our mind and body is none other than experiencing God in a trinitarian way. Our human mind and body into which God the Son incarnates encounters the presence of God the Father through the Breath of God the Holy Spirit. So my friends in Christ, take a moment to acknowledge the breath of God in your breath. Breathe in and out the grace, compassion, and hope of God who breathes back the peace, which surpasses all understanding, guarding your hearts and your minds in Christ. In the Eucharistic prayer, sanctification is invoked twice. Initially, we beseech the consecration of the bread and wine, followed by a plea for our own sanctification. What does this process of sanctification entail? It is not a mystical phenomenon but rather signifies a sacred separation. Specifically, during the Eucharist, the bread and wine are set apart to symbolize the body and blood of Christ, paralleling our own consecration to embody the body of Christ.
This concept of sanctification aligns with Jesus' discourse in today’s gospel reading. He implores, “Sanctify them in truth (aletheia ἀληθείᾳ in Greek, literally meaning unforgetfulness or awakening)” (John 17:17), affirming, “I sanctify myself.” In other words, he prays that we are to be set apart in truth as he is set apart for the kingdom of God. That we are set apart or sanctified can be expressed as follows: “In truth, we’re in the world but not of the world.” This notion encapsulates Jesus’ prayer in the lesson. What are the implications of “In truth, we’re in the world but not of the world.”? It does NOT imply exclusive possession of truth by Christians or a constant vigilance against secularism due to our non-belonging to the world. Rather, it prompts thoughtful reflection: “What defines the world we inhabit but are distinct from? How do we transcend our worldly attachments? What truth does Jesus allude to?” Let’s delve into the first two inquiries. What defines the world? This question, pondered by philosophers, theologians, and others, merits a cognitive exploration of our perception. Consider the schematic depiction, world 1, illustrating our conventional understanding of our relationship with the world. We physically inhabit it; our bodies are enmeshed within its fabric, presenting an ostensibly objective reality. Now, examine world 2, representing how we comprehend the external world. Although it exists beyond our physical selves, we interpret it through sensory experiences — sight, sound, smell, taste, touch. We construct our understanding through sensory data and neural processing, resulting in individualized perceptions. This multiplicity of perspectives elucidates why identical stimuli yield divergent interpretations. World 1 and world 2 delineate distinct frameworks for comprehending reality. While world 1 embodies a commonplace perception of reality, world 2 necessitates metacognitive awareness. We assimilate external stimuli and construct a personal narrative, fostering a kaleidoscope of identities within our singular existence. Beyond these realms lies world 3 — the kingdom of God or divine presence. The key to being in this world 3 is to have a keen awareness, unforgetting, awakening, truth, aletheia, transcending the multiplicity of selves engendered in world 2. This is a radical change of how we think of the world and ourselves that leads to the presence of God in which we pause creating a world of our own. We return to the creation story in Genesis when God begins to create. There’s no “thing,” but the presence of God, the kingdom of God. When we live in this world 3, we’re neither of world 1 nor world 2. In our practice of unforgetting or stilling prayer, we are truly sanctified. This is the world of God that we’re bringing to the world of suffering. In doing so, we become peace, compassion, and grace. May God nurture the flourishing of your world 3! In the Christian tradition, love stands as the paramount concept, a truth underscored by Jesus in today's Gospel lesson: "This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you. No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends." (John 15:12) The latter part of his teaching, which seemingly defines true love as sacrificing one's life for others, poses a significant challenge. Does this imply a literal sacrifice of life for another? This notion raises troubling questions. One method to contemplate this literal interpretation of Jesus' teaching on love is through a hypothetical scenario.
Imagine someone sacrificing their life for you, allowing you to live. This act is undeniably heroic, yet it prompts complex emotions. Would you feel gratitude, obligation, or overwhelmed by guilt? Now, consider this twist: What if the person who sacrificed themselves was someone you deeply despised, someone who had wronged or hurt you profoundly? How would their sacrifice affect your perception of them? However, dwelling solely on these questions derived from a hypothetical scenario risks missing the essence of Jesus' teaching on love. It presupposes that giving up one's life in a literal sense epitomizes love, neglecting other potential expressions. This approach, which I term "literalistically," disregards metaphorical or symbolic meanings, emphasizing a strict adherence to surface-level interpretations. Such rigidity limits our understanding of love, closing off avenues to life-affirming expressions of it. So, how else can we lay down our lives for others? By relinquishing our perceptions of them. Our views of others too often reflect our own biases and limited experiences, shaping them into caricatures of who we think they are. This approach risks loving an idealized image rather than the true individual. Who they are is boxed in our perception. So, we say, “I know who he is. I know what he’s going to do. He’s just like that…” This way, we end up loving (or liking, disliking, hating) our one-sided perception of who they are, not necessarily loving them as they are. We think we love them but only love the image of who they are that we ourselves fabricate. Philosopher Slavoj Žižek comments on this: “All too often, when we love somebody, we don't accept him or her as what the person effectively is. We accept him or her insofar as this person fits the coordinates of our fantasy. We misidentify him or her – which is why, when we discover that we were wrong, love can quickly turn into violence.” Alternatively, perceiving others as they truly are demands humility, curiosity, and respect. Though we can never fully comprehend their inner selves, approaching them with openness and a willingness to challenge our preconceptions is an act of self-sacrifice akin to laying down one's life. It requires acknowledging the fallibility of our perceptions and embracing the mantra, "I can be wrong about them." To truly love as Jesus commands, we must embark on the self-sacrificial journey of relinquishing our preconceived notions of others. Mere discussion of this concept falls short; words alone cannot encompass the depth of this transformative process. Excessive discourse may deceive us into believing we have mastered the art of loving without ever putting it into practice. This is my concern regarding mere rhetoric. Therefore, my aim in sharing this reflection is to inspire action, urging us all to actively engage in the practice of love. The foundation of learning to love as Jesus loves lies in prayer. This prayer is not focused on the individuals we aim to love, but rather on stilling our minds to discern the fabricated images we hold of them and the value judgments upon which these images are based. Below is a suggested template for practicing this introspective prayer, adaptable to individual circumstances:
Can you share how this practice transforms our perception and expression of love towards others? Let’s be a bit mischievous this morning by reflecting on a realistic description of a shepherd as we read the following poem, “The Good Shepherd” by Stanley Moss. For more reflection on this poem, please check out this link.
The second and third stanzas show us how this poem’s depiction of the shepherd starkly differs from that of the gospel lesson and Psalm 23. The lost sheep’s view of the shepherd is not always a good one that “makes me lie down in green pastures and leads me beside still waters” but a butcher. So says the sheep, “I knew there was only a thin line / between the good shepherd and the butcher.” These lines capture the most realistic job description of a shepherd. This thin line that the lost sheep sees can be applied to our context this morning. Where does this shepherd of our own lead us? Psalm 23 explicitly illustrates where the Lord as the shepherd provides. In the gospel lesson, on the other hand, it’s unclear since the image of the shepherd who sacrifices oneself for the sheep is repeatedly emphasized. Then, we want to ask, "What prompts this good shepherd to lay down his life for the sheep? What puts into that situation? Again and again, we must not lose sight of Jesus’ good news for his sacrificial image: the kingdom of God, the presence of God is within you. This is too simple of teaching but radical and dangerous enough to have him killed on the cross. His teaching empowers everyone because it directs them all to experience and realize God’s inner presence which is deathless. No human authority can get in between people and divine authority. This free access to God, we can imagine, can be politically threatening to those in power. (Historically, the spirit of Protestantism lies in this intimately personal encounter with God.) Jesus as our good shepherd then leads us to the inner presence of God. All the comforting metaphors and illustrations of Psalm 23 can become much more real to those who meditate. In the presence of God, we shall not be in want that we’re satisfied. We no longer depend on external factors to fulfill our wants. They are accessible internally. Green pastures and still waters become the state of our mind in which our soul is revived, renewed, and restored. This surely tells us we’re on the right pathway to the depth of God. However our external circumstances are, as if we’re walking through the valley of the shadow of death, we’re not consumed with fear but can see the light of God’s peace. We may finally realize that our encounter with God’s inner presence leads us back to the symbol of baptism in which we’re anointed with oil and nourished with the body of the resurrection. The rebel sheep's cry to return “back to the mortal fields, my flock, my stubbled grass, and mud” echoes the Psalmist's assurance of dwelling in God's house forever, a reality experienced within our own bodies. Can you be resurrected now? What would be our response? We might assume that the resurrection is supposed to make us radically different from how we physically look now. Or it is something we can never accomplish in this life on earth, meaning it’s only available to the dead. But the gospel lesson this morning says otherwise. The resurrection is not some ethereal phenomenon or a paranormal event shrouded in mystery. It’s as tangible and real as the sensation of holding your loved one's hand or eating a meal as the risen Christ symbolically demonstrates in the gospel lesson.
Let’s ask ourselves, “Why do we Christians seem to take the resurrection as something that doesn’t happen here in this life? Why is it so challenging to believe the resurrection can happen to us even before we die?” Jesus raises the same question, “Why are you frightened, and why do doubts arise in your hearts?” He hints that fear is what prevents us from experiencing the resurrection as real. What kind of fear would this be? While there are many types of fear, this particular fear that Jesus’ friends and we might resonate with is the fear of being changed into someone we cannot imagine ourselves to be even if it’s for the better. Can we envision ourselves acting differently from how we would usually behave? Suppose I’m extremely upset over something. I might lash out or take it on someone I’m most comfortable with. (It’s most likely our family member who becomes our punching bag. Why? Because we know they’ll still embrace us and will not leave us because of love.) When conditions are set, we are somehow programmed to act in the way we always do. Those who know our pattern of (unhealthy) behaviors would say, “I knew you were going to do that.” This is like limiting and drawing ourselves to stand behind the lines of who we are as well as who we can never be. We are not supposed to step outside these fabricated lines that we’re conditioned to behave. Fear sets up those lines not to cross and lures us to continue to act as we used to. No change means no fear. But this time, I want to do something different. I imagine myself choosing another path of patience and understanding. I’m not going to act out of rage. Instead, I choose to remain still while gently acknowledging there’s rage arising but keeping it at a distance. I see the gap between my stillness and rage. I can enjoy a sense of freedom in that gap I can actually be released from being entrenched in outrage. To jump over this hurdle of fear, Jesus suggests, is to “Look at my hands and my feet; see that it is I myself. Touch me and see…” Don’t try to look at the hands of Jesus but your hands and feet. Touch them and see them. That’s where the resurrection takes place. It must begin with your body right here and right now. Look within. Our gaze upon ourselves interiorly first leads us to raw feelings and thoughts. Yet, as we still the mind, that is, to see them pass by, the presence of God is revealed to us with a sense of peace. How we know the presence of God is near as Jesus’ good news proclaims is through our experience of peace within. As I mentioned some time ago, the presence of God and the resurrection are two sides of the same coin. Our encounter with the presence of God transforms us. In other words, we’re resurrected through, with, and in the presence of God. The resurrection in this sense isn't a distant concept detached from earthly life; rather, it's meant to be palpable, substantial, and discernible. It's an experience that transforms us in concrete and measurable ways. Who we once were and who we become after experiencing the resurrection are not the same. The profound impact of the resurrection is evident in the observable changes it brings to our lives. Then, I return to the question I raised at the beginning of my reflection. Can you be resurrected here and now? Yes, you can. The present moment constantly opens up for us to make the resurrection possible. This present moment is God’s present. What we’re called to do is to keep our present moment resurrected. Don’t just spend your present moment in a way you’re used to but skillfully, heedfully, and attentively examine your thoughts, words, and deeds. To this resurrection being embodied in our hands and feet, we are witnesses. |
Paul+"...life up your love to that cloud [of unknowing]...let God draw your love up to that cloud...through the help of his grace, to forget every other thing." Archives
April 2024
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