The gospel lesson today, particularly the opening verse, is steeped in philosophical symbolism: "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God." (John 1:1) But what exactly is this "Word"? To elucidate this cryptic term, the following block quote succinctly delves into its usage:
Logos operates both in individuals and in the universe as a whole. In individuals it is the faculty of reason. On a cosmic level it is the rational principle that governs the organization of the universe. In this sense it is synonymous with “nature,” “Providence,” or “God” (When the author of John’s Gospel tells us that “the Word”--logos–was with God and is to be identified with God, he is borrowing Stoic terminology.)...But the logos is not simply an impersonal power that governs and directs the world. It is also an actual substance that pervades that world, not in a metaphorical sense but in a form as concrete as oxygen or carbon. In its physical embodiment, the logos exists as pneuma, a substance imagined by the earliest Stoics as pure fire, and by Chrysippus as a mixture of fire and air. Pneuma is the power–the vital breath–that animates animals and humans. It is, in Dylan Thomas’s phrase, “the force that through the green fuse drives the flower,” and is present even in lifeless materials like stone or metal as the energy that holds the object together–the internal tension that makes a stone a stone. All objects are thus a compound of lifeless substance and vital force. (Aurelius, M. and Hays, G. (2002) in Meditations: A new translation, with an introduction, by Gregory Hays. New York: Modern Library. pp. xx-xxi) St. John further explores this notion of logos, linking it to life and light: "What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people." (John 1:4) Contemplating today’s gospel lesson with Hays’ insightful philosophical background, we acknowledge that the world adheres to the order of the logos on both individual and cosmic scales. However, the essence of the gospel lesson lies in the advent of Christ, the "true light" whose purpose is to "enlighten everyone." (John 1:9) Where do we find this light? St. John asserts that this light enters "into the world." The world, in this context, is not the external realm but our internal one. Through our senses, we actively shape our world. We do not perceive the external world as it is, but as we are. This fundamental truth elucidates why individuals may perceive the same painting differently. The coming of Christ, therefore, signifies the light infiltrating the world we internally construct—a realization akin to "The kingdom of God is within you." This contemplative practice encourages us to recognize how we shape our world. Imagine creating a pond. Upon initial observation, the water may seem clouded, stirred by the antics of playful monkeys. The sight of unclear water might evoke a sense of discouragement, yet, in the practice of contemplation, we begin to perceive these monkeys at play. The crucial insight lies in resisting the urge to fixate on their actions; instead, let them play. In time, with sustained practice, the water in your pond becomes clearer, unveiling the gentle and wise radiance of the moon reflected on its surface. As the Collect for this first Sunday after Christmas beautifully expresses, the "new light of your incarnate Word" is poured upon the pond of your mind—an illumination extended to the world in which we engage and interact with others. As someone with a perpetual interest in languages, I would like to share three non-SAT vocabularies. The first one is “kuchisabishii.” This is a Japanese word. Its literal translation would be “a lonely mouth.” It’s used at times when I eat even though I’m not hungry just because my mouth is lonely. The second vocabulary is “hiraeth [/ˈhirˌīTH/].” It is a Welsh word that is in every-day use today, but which doesn't easily translate into English. Hiraeth is often described as a deep longing for a place or time that may never have existed, or that may have existed only in one's memories or imagination. The last word is an English term, “coddiwomple.” It means to travel purposefully towards an as-yet-unknown destination.
Common threads among these words include loneliness, deep longing, and the courage to move forward despite uncertainty—themes fitting well with the season of Advent. While Advent is marked by yearning for the coming of Christ, Christmas invites us to realize Christ’s presence within us. During this year's Advent season at St. Agnes’, we embraced an unusual experience: simulating Mary’s labor pains. This might have been a challenging experience, especially for those who have one X and one Y chromosome. More challenging since not only were we to imagine we were pregnant with a child but were already in labor pains that we were about to give birth during the Advent season. This spiritual practice at St. Agnes’ somewhat echoes Angelus Silesius, a 17th-century German mystic’s saying, “Even if Christ is born a thousand times in Bethlehem, but not in you, you were lost eternally.” The whole idea behind this metaphor of Mary in labor pains is that all of us, all human beings and God’s creatures are already pregnant with God’s presence in themselves. As Christians, we are to embody that presence in the deepest core of our being which is symbolized in the language of Mary in labor pains. We are to bear the fruits of Christ, which involves labor pains. These pains are nothing but the process of examining our unskillful thoughts, words, and deeds and learning to become skillful in how we think and feel, how we talk to ourselves and others with kindness and wisdom, and how we act. Now that this Advent is over, I’m eager to not just say, “Merry Christmas!” but also, “Congratulations!” that Christ is born within you. This also means, no more kuchisabishii, no more lonely mouth, no hiraeth, no coddiwompling. If our goal for this Advent is to pave the way for Christ to be born, meaning delving deep into the depth of your being to secure a womb, our goal for this Christmas season is to receive and secure Christ in us. This is what the front page of today’s Christmas program intends: “…no place for them in the inn…Find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.” No place to look for Christ just as no place for Mary and Joseph in the inn. Our hearts wrap Christ the child in bands of cloth and our bodies become that manger where Christ the child is lying down. So, don’t look further to see Christ. We hear some fellow Christians shout, “Put Christ back into Christmas!” That misses the point. It’s rather “Put Christ in Christians.” as you might have heard it somewhere. I say more, Christ is already within the manger of our body, warmly wrapped in our hearts. The task is how to grow and cultivate Christ in us. And I can repeatedly tell you this saying “grow and cultivate Christ in you. Be like Christ” and on and on. But this will not go anywhere unless I share with you exactly how you do that. The first step to this task to grow and cultivate Christ in us always begins with where we are right here and right now. The second coming of Christ happens right here and right now, within us, not without, not elsewhere in the sky above. Look into our mind. See what’s in it. What thoughts and feelings are there? If our mind is cluttered with so many aimless thoughts and feelings, we cannot even see our mind clearly. This is when we are consumed with thoughts and feelings that we become this thought or that feeling. When our vision of the mind is clouded, we might as well lose our vision of the world around us. It’s hard to see what matters. So, we still our minds first. The closest thing that connects the mind and the body is the breath. We let the breath radiate throughout the body so that the mind is more concentrated and focused. Our bodily work with the breath stills the mind and we can soon realize that this breath of ours is nothing but the presence of the Breath of God, the Holy Spirit. As the wind becomes calm and the ocean is still, we can see what’s in it. As our breath becomes steady, we can see what’s in our minds. That which we encounter in that stillness of the mind is the Christ in the manger of our body. This manger is not always clean. That’s why it's a manger. This act of stilling the mind and body is "stilling prayer." The more we are able to encounter Christ within, the more we can grow and cultivate the presence of Christ without. This coming of Christ in us, we’re celebrating this day of Christmas. As I conclude my Christmas message, I want to leave you with one more non-SAT word: “apricity,” the warmth of the sun in winter. May the Christ born in you bring the apricity of God where winter feels colder. May the world apricate in the light of Christ carried by each one of us. Glory to God the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, as it was in the beginning and will be forever. Amen. This year's Advent season will be notably brief, spanning only 22 days, culminating with the fourth Sunday of Advent on Christmas Eve. As we delve into the significance of this season, we are reminded that pain is more bearable when its duration is shorter. Today, as we contemplate and embrace the image of Mary enduring labor pains, we acknowledge that it marks the due date of our reflection. (More precisely, our celebration of the Christmas Service is scheduled for 5 pm this afternoon.)
In the gospel lesson this morning, we are transported to the scene of the Annunciation, where the angel Gabriel delivers the momentous message of Jesus' conception. Some may have already observed that my enduring favorite religious painting is Henry Ossawa Tanner’s "The Annunciation." Notably, Tanner's portrayal of Mary lacks the conventional halo. Mary appears youthful and visibly "much perplexed," aligning with the gospel depiction. Her clasped hands convey a contemplative pondering of Gabriel's greeting: "Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you." The significance of the Lord being with her is realized in a literal sense as the Lord is destined to be within her womb. In examining the painting, note the absence of an anthropomorphic representation of the angel Gabriel. Instead, a radiant and luminous light on the left side of the painting manifests the divine presence, akin to the angel revealing itself to Moses in flames of fire at the burning bush (Exodus 3:2). Dear friends in Christ, as we approach the celebration of Jesus' birth and anticipate the imminent arrival of Christ, I invite each of you to immerse yourselves in contemplation by embracing the images of Mary and Gabriel in Tanner's painting. In this reflection, you may find yourselves once again perplexed yet pondering in awe. The radiant manifestation of the divine presence, as conveyed by Gabriel, symbolizes the light of Christ that is destined to be born within each of you. Gabriel's proclamation resonates: "The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; therefore, the child to be born will be holy" (Luke 1:35). To this proclamation, let all of you, embodying the spirit of Mary, respond, "Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word" (Luke 1:38). Let us not forget that we continue to experience the metaphorical "labor pains of Mary" since the first Sunday of Advent. These symbolic birth pangs compel us to delve candidly into our unskillful thoughts, words, and deeds. The contemplative process can be challenging, demanding a sincere acknowledgment of our shortcomings. While few are eager to recall their mistakes and errors, it is essential to recognize that not all pain is detrimental. Similar to the pain of labor, the discomfort of acknowledging our flaws is necessary for fostering a genuine desire to evolve and mature as followers of Christ.
This introspective journey, if undertaken without wisdom or direction, may lead to self-hatred or self-pity—attitudes contrary to the work of the Spirit. The spiritual labor pain of compunction must be embraced in the ever-present company of the Holy, infused with the joy of transformation and liberation. The birth of Christ within us empowers us to confront our imperfections. In today's Gospel lesson, St. John the Baptist calls us to engage in reflective self-examination: "...the voice of one crying out in the wilderness: 'Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight.'" (Mark 1:3) Proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins, John speaks in Christian terms that we often use without fully grasping their meaning: repentance and sins. As discussed earlier, repentance (metanoia in Greek) involves turning away from missing the mark. To avoid repeating the same mistakes, we must first discern the mark missed—the consequence of our unskillful actions. Reflecting on our unskillful reactions in thought, word, and deed when someone upsets us is crucial. What was the impact of our response, and how can we avoid missing the mark in the future? Building upon the reflections from the first Sunday of Advent, the practice of repentance, or changing the heart in traditional terms, hinges on asking the right question. Rather than adopting a moralistic stance, the key inquiry is always, "Is it skillful?" in thought, word, and deed. This approach starkly differs from the binary question of "Was I right or wrong?" It invites us to a nuanced examination, encouraging growth and transformation in our journey as followers of Christ. So, what qualifies as "skillful"? The measure lies in the results of our thoughts, words, and deeds. Are they beneficial to ourselves and others? We label our unskillful actions as such because we recognize their negative impact on ourselves and others. For instance, violence is deemed unskillful not just because it harms others physically, emotionally, and spiritually but also because it damages our own integrity and dignity as fellow human beings. What skills are we to acquire? True repentance begins from the heart, urging us to learn how to still the mind and body. Training our mind and body to be still creates a skillful environment that allows us to pause before unskillfully reacting to external stimuli. In this stillness, we can examine our 1) words, 2) thoughts, and 3) deeds, as we recite our sins according to the Book of Common Prayer: “We have sinned against you in thought, word, and deed, by what we have done and by what we have left undone.” (BCP, p. 360) 1) We can observe thoughts and feelings in our interactions with others. Are these thoughts and feelings skillful? What results do they bring to us and others? For instance, if we feel anger, how can we handle it skillfully? 2) We can listen clearly to how we talk to ourselves. What tone do we use? Is it harsh, judgmental, kind, or understanding? 3) What fundamental deed or action, such as breathing, is impacting us? How do we breathe when angry? Can we change our breathing to lower our anger and channel it into a sense of passion and motivation for positive change? The more skillful we become in thought, word, and deed, the more we connect with Christ, as though the unborn baby is connected to the placenta by the umbilical cord. As we embark on this sacred season of Advent, let us immerse ourselves in the profound imagery of Mary in labor. I invite each of you to adopt the role of Mary, not merely as one informed of her impending pregnancy but as the Mary in the throes of labor pains. For those who may find it challenging to envision themselves in Mary's position, consider taking on the perspective of Joseph.
Picture, if you will, the expectant parents, fully attuned to the rhythmic beeping sounds emanating from the medical devices monitoring their unborn child—the cardiotocograph, blood pressure monitor, and external tocodynamometer. No admonition is needed to "beware, keep alert; for you do not know when the time will come" (Mark 13:33). They vigilantly remain awake, their vigil concluding only with the safe arrival of their newborn. As a form of spiritual practice, I would like us to ponder on the following poem written by Yosano Akiko. Labor Pains I am sick today, sick in my body, eyes wide open, silent, I lie on the bed of childbirth. Why do I, so used to the nearness of death, to pain and blood and screaming, now uncontrollably tremble with dread? A nice young doctor tried to comfort me, and talked about the joy of giving birth. Since I know better than he about this matter, what good purpose can his prattle serve? Knowledge is not reality. Experience belongs to the past. Let those who lack immediacy be silent. Let observers be content to observe. I am all alone, totally, utterly, entirely on my own, gnawing my lips, holding my body rigid, waiting on inexorable fate. There is only one truth. I shall give birth to a child, truth driving outward from my inwardness. Neither good nor bad; real, no sham about it. With the first labor pains, suddenly the sun goes pale. The indifferent world goes strangely calm. I am alone. It is alone I am. The poet’s heightened attentiveness, this acute awareness, is the very essence that befits the spirit of Advent. The season mirrors the anticipation and pain of a woman in labor, a mother undergoing the transformative process of birthing new life, even with the numbing comfort of Adderall coursing through her veins. Through this pain, Christ is born within us. This pain for us is to contemplatively reflect on our unskillful thoughts, words, and deeds because it is painful to recognize our shortcomings. It’s crucial to keep in mind that this frame of self-examination for pain is “what’s skillful or unskillful.” It goes beyond the dichotomy of "good or bad" and "right or wrong." It also adopts a less judgmental yet more discerning stance—prompting us to transcend self-pity, guilt, and shame and inspiring genuine transformation in our thoughts, words, and deeds. Advent stands as the counterpart to Lent, much as Christmas complements Easter. The incarnation and resurrection manifest within our very cores, mirroring the experiences of Jesus of Nazareth. In both Advent and Lent, we celebrate the resurrection—the advent of Christ. During Advent, we not only identify with the expectancy of Mary but also find ourselves in the midst of labor until Christmas. The symbolic representation of Mary in labor throughout the four weeks of Advent places us in the liminal space of Holy Saturday—the day of labor, where the tomb transforms into a womb giving birth to the risen Christ. The feast of Christ the King marks the last Sunday after Pentecost and can be seen as a prelude to the Season of Advent. This theme of Christ as the king aligns well with Jesus’ consistent teaching of the kingdom of God. In God’s kingdom, Christ is the king. This theocratic concept, however, isn’t too attractive. It feels too archaic if not oppressive, especially when we just take the term, “God’s kingdom” or “Christ the king” at face value without unpacking how it’s linked with Jesus’ teaching.
The kingdom of God is God’s inner presence. Christ being a royal figure is the one who embodies the rules of God’s kingdom. These two are not two different realities but are always available deep in our hearts. God’s presence is 24/7 available and even beyond death. The life that is attentive and thus led by God’s inner presence is how one becomes Christlike. God’s presence born in us and lived out in the world is the embodiment of Christ in us and out in the world. Then how do the rules of Christ in God’s kingdom play out? In today’s teaching, Jesus is simply teaching us how to treat the vulnerable. Yet, this topic of moral teaching can be taught by anyone with exemplary moral authority. What he does differently here is that he is inviting the followers to be the “place” of hospitality. This is different from saying one becomes a hospitable person. One becomes a physical and geographical place of empathy and compassion as any physical being occupies Jesus embodies the presence of God. His physical nature becomes the channel of God’s perpetual availability to all. It becomes the place where hungry, thirsty, naked, sick, and estranged people can find their needs. This doesn’t mean that Jesus turns out to be a Roman welfare agency. Whoever comes to him is able to find existential fulfillment which originates from God’s presence. He affirms everyone’s worth to be alive and be seen. He then shows the way of life to true happiness. We often hear a slogan that says about the church. The church is not a place but a people. I think this is a false dichotomy. A person is a place, a physically and geographically specific area occupied on the earth’s surface. In the case of a person, it is mobile. Each one of us is called to become the place of Christ where the vulnerable find peace, courage, and rest. When we gather together, this place of Christ multiplies and becomes the place of Christs. This image of Jesus as a place echoes his analogy of the kingdom of God in Matthew 13:31-32: “The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed that someone took and sowed in his field; it is the smallest of all the seeds, but when it has grown it is the greatest of shrubs and becomes a tree so that the birds of the air come and make nests in its branches.” The place of Christ is where birds come and make nests. Now what I’ve unpacked regarding Christ the King as the embodiment of the rules of God’s inner presence means nothing if there’s no practical implication. We always ask ourselves, if we’re serious about us becoming the place of Christ, how to construct the place of Christ in us. First, we want to work with our experience of being vulnerable. Rather than forgetting about our personal experiences of suffering, we use them as a way to empathize with those who are suffering. We know what it’s like to be hungry, thirsty, embarrassed, sick, and isolated or lonely. Our own experiences are the way to join others. Yet, we don’t want to presume that others’ experiences are the same as ours. We only know what they’re “like.” We do not fully understand what they “are” because we experience them in different contexts and personal circumstances. This practice of keeping in mind our experiences of vulnerability, however, is not to remain in the past and continue to victimize ourselves. The healthiest way to transform the wound is to make it healed by accompanying those who are wounded. An unhealed hurt continues to hurt while only a healed wound can heal. (This can surely remind us of the term “a wounded healer.”) To become the place of Christ ourselves, no wounds can be buried but must be open for the radiant light of Christ to heal. The only way that our suffering is worthwhile is when our experience of it is used to walk together with those who are suffering. We become the shade that they can at least take a breath and a break. Then this specific image of creating a shade or shelter calls us a deeper question about ourselves. How peaceful do we feel about our presence? Is there room for others to sit in our presence? Am I too occupied with myself, my agenda, me, and mine? To physiologically make space to create the place of Christ in us, we breathe in and out as though we sweep in and out. Our hearts must be vacant to inherit the kingdom of God. |
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
January 2025
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