October 10, 2004

Joy and Self

The only moments in which we are truly happy are those in which we forget ourselves. I think about the times when I have experienced joy, not simply the masturbatory gratification, but real joy, and have to agree: it was categorically when I had forgotten myself and was just being in the moment. No pretense of transcendence or enlightenment, those things place the ego in the center: just simply involved in being and finding that I was sublimely in joy.

The Greek term in the NT is “µετ’ χάρα.” It is used of saints and sages that forget themselves in the presence of the divine and simply let it be.

I think of those fleeting moments that make life bearable. They were in disparate contexts but shared the common denominator of finding myself forgotten in the experience:

  • Making love with MM
  • Playing my music when it is in the pocket and happening
  • Sailing
  • Being with my children
  • Cycling in the zone
  • Writing and losing myself in the beauty and wonder of language
  • Cooking a beautiful dinner
  • Teaching
  • An unintended and spontaneous act of kindness or compassion

The hard think is that in order to forget myself I can’t think about myself. Now this is where the whole thing becomes paradoxical: If I try not to think of myself I am thinking about myself. It can’t be forced. It can be learned, but I am a slow learner. It just happens. And there is the realization that there is something beautiful and good happening.

Ah, to live is such forgetful bliss. I wish you joy and peace.

But I am only a fool…

A blast from the past...

I used to be a pastor. I came across something I had written during those years as a teacher of the Word. I used to write well. This was written in December of 2000, as the church moved into Advent, the season of preparation that preceeds Christmas. Enjoy, good and gentle readers...
- TDF



Sometime around 30 AD there arose in Palestine an itinerant preacher. He spoke his message to whomever would listen, whether Judean or Gentile. This preacher spoke of God’s impassioned care for the poor and our calling to love in thought, word, and deed. He claimed that love was superior to empty observance of religious obligation. He healed the sick and gave hope to the despondent. He drew the attention of the local religious and military authorities as well as that of the crowds that clamored to hear and to hang onto each word. The word he preached was radically simple: love your enemy, pray for those that persecute you, love God above all and your neighbor as yourself. His career lasted no more than three years and ended with his execution. The Roman authorities tried him and found him guilty of insurrection and incitement of the masses. He might have been forgotten had his story not resonated in the hearts of those whom his preaching had touched. It is his Advent that we celebrate at the dawn of a new millennium and his story that we tell.

Advent is the season of hope. Hope is the attitude of faith that looks toward the future trusting that it will be brighter than the present. It is repentance from cynicism and despair; it is faithful affirmation that God’s good and perfect will for the creation might be accomplished in us. To this end we pray, “thy will be done,” trusting that the one to whom we pray is able to meet our prayers with good results. Our faith rests on a history of promise and fulfillment, each bringing us closer to the final day when Christ will come in beauty and in power to share with us the great and the promised feast. In this interim moment while we stand between what the prophets dreamed and what will be, we hope for hope's fruition.

More than anything, hope makes the story of this itinerant preacher real in our hearts. We claim to know him through the power of the words that he spoke which have been repeated for nearly two thousand years. We come to trust him because his word is worthy of confidence. We look to the past and see how his birth to a virgin mother calls us to either trust in the promise or to dismiss the premise as superstition unfit for this postmodern age. Trusting, we see and love the child and grow to love the man. Listening, our ears strain to hear the echoes of the angelic host, singing “Glory to God on high and on Earth peace to those who enjoy God’s favor.”

But mostly, we hope.



Indeed... I wish I could believe this now. Do I dare to hope?



Incomplete History

All history is incomplete. The telling of a story is an act of definition and therefore exclusion. How the story is told, whose stories are included, are all part of the process that deems importance and sets a trajectory of the communal memory of a people. I was reading Zinn's history of the American people. It is told from the perspective of the "underclasses" and attempts to bring an unabashed leftist lens to the heuristic task. While I read it occurred to me that the heuristic task is complicated by the loss of memories that may give significance to documents, events, and people that were "in reality" - a problematic phrase - significant in the moment. History can record events, attempt to reconstruct motives and means, articulate sequence and ascribe meaning. But it is never complete.

This does not mean that historians are not doing thorough work or that history is somehow flawed. It is simply the nature of the art. I like the image of a trellis. I can follow the growth of a vine, tracking its changes and meanders over the trellis. I can observe its inter-relations with other vines, but I cannot catalog the whole experience of the whole because there are events that are speculative and remain unknown, many of which may be significant. What of the trellis itself? How could this have changed the life of the vine? I may speculate and extrapolate, but if I am to be a good historian I must note that I am engaging in speculation (however well informed).

History is as incomplete - and as valuable - as the memories of the people whose past it seeks to memorialize. How we got here is as important as that we are here. What we will do will depend by and large on what we did. The past is the fountain from which the present flows.

I recall when I was in grad school I took a class in historiography, the art of writing history. There have been attempts to present "objective" histories. These become little more than recitations of dates. That, to my mind, is not the art of history. History is the willingness to ask what happened and why. It is attempting to understand not only the sequence but what motivated the whole thing. Consider the American Revolution: We forget that this was an issue of controversy in the colonies as well as in England. The "Founding Fathers" had no idea how the damn thing would turn out. There was no certitude and there was certainly no consensus as to what the new nation(s) should be. All could have been hung for treason. None lived with the knowledge that they would be victorious. There was no doubt a synergy of events, most of which are unknown to us, that allowed the course of history to run in the direction that it did. What were these events? They remain lost in the mist of memories forgotten.

I tend to believe that all human knowledge is tenuous. We know only partially and never with absolute certitude. Much of what we "know" is simply the consensus of convenience. "Turtles all the way down... " because we cannot propose a better explanation. For years the conventional wisdom was that the world was flat. That made sense. Looking toward the horizon the curve of the earth could not be imagined. And when water runs over a sphere, it does not cling evenly. Gravity was known but not understood - not that we understand it now - in the context of planetary orbits around a star. It is all too easy to think, how quaint of them, poor ignorant bastards, they didn't know. But what would it look like if it were flat? All things being equal, the simplest explanation is probably the best.

But not all things are equal. And indeed we do not know all.

But we keep asking...