Thursday Lent week Five


We crave drama, anything to animate the monotony of the mundane. But this craving contradicts the need for security and the advantages of routine that usually win the day. We are attracted to risk but we do everything we can to manage it. We want growth and progress but haggle over the price. Cliff-edges are dramatic places that sharpen our senses and give us a buzz: but there are always persuasive reasons for not jumping.

How to handle this contradiction and get to the paradox? Entertainment offers a quick solution though not a very satisfying one. Hollywood and Bollywood feed us a buffet of crime drama, war movies, passionate romances and cliff-edge series. In a well-run buffet the serving dishes are constantly replenished and our appetite re-kindled by fresh food. In a similar way, our consumption of vicarious thrills through sensational news, disaster weather warnings, TV and movies is fed so continuously that we don’t know we are becoming addicted. (‘I don’t have time to meditate but it’s been a hard day and I have earned a couple of episodes of…’).

Life is dramatic because we are unique and so no modelling of the future can really prepare us for what is going to happen next. Prediction works well for weather, less well for economics and hardly at all for when we fall in love or when love seems to die. We cannot predict when the contemplative dimension of the soul awakens and eventually disturbs the entire pattern of our priorities and habits.

This is the real cliff-edge of the human journey but it is usually a slower dramatic transformation than we have come to expect in the course of an action movie or even a gripping novel.

The other day I was watching a child acting out the intense dramas of his imagination in a world of his own. He was oblivious to everyone around him. I wondered what programs or cartoons were animating his rich and turbulent inner world. Such fantasies are part of our development. In the middle ages he would have fancied himself as a knight in a jousting match or as a hero slaying dragons. When you see a young adult walking down Islington High Street dressed like the long-coated character in The Matrix, and walking like him, you wonder where fantasy feeds the imagination and when it cannibalizes the creative forces of the mind.

Without knowing it we dramatise ourselves, occupying self-generated roles of succeeders, heroes, victims, unrecognized geniuses or neglected sages. We typecast ourselves and thereby cease to be surprised by the wonder of our own being and our liberty of spirit.

Meditation smashes the shells of fantasy that entrap us. Then we feel at risk; and we are. We risk the cliff-edge of reality, the passing through the portal. The very non-dramatic nature of meditation is what opens us to real wonder and amazement at the way things truly are.

Wednesday Lent Week Five


A key word in relating to the mystery of Christ is kenosis or ‘emptying’, We are told that Jesus ‘emptied’ himself or ‘became as nothing’. This applies especially to the ordeals of his last days of life which are described as the ultimate act of service – using the metaphor of a slave or servant who has no identity of their own but has become wholly other-centred. It also illuminates someone caring for another who chooses, in love, to put the other first. Psychologically this sometimes raises alarm signals for modern people but theologically it opens the window into the deepest mystery.

Emptiness  – sunnyata in Buddhist thought – refers less to the way we relate to others but it is still an indispensable element in compassion. ‘No self’ refers rather to the essential nature of everything. Nothing has independent or permanent existence. This is reflected in the Beatitude of Jesus that he calls poverty or poverty of spirit. It sounds like a deprivation or afflicted state. But, if as he says, it is the direct way into the kingdom, then it is more truly understood to mean detachment, renunciation or letting go.

These ideas might sound abstract to the non-meditator or anyone who has not reflected on the meaning of their life-experience. Meaning arises through connection. Meditation is a universal way to meaning because – another paradox to add to the list – the solitude we enter when we meditate opens up the reality of our fundamental connectedness. This begins with feeling connected with our selves as we overcome the illusion of separateness and the suffering it brings. But this is only the beginning.

Exactly how these general truths work out in the story of our lives – as it did in the life of Jesus – make for the uniqueness of our existence. This singularity of human existence is also the basis of love and justice. We love another because they are unique and their singularity somehow resonates with our own. Justice treats each case, each person, on their unique merits. All love is solitude transformed in communion.

In the case of the story of Jesus this touches not only the individuals he loved, his family and friends, but us as well – ‘us’ meaning all those who have ever lived or ever will.

However much we like to postpone thinking about it, death is also an indispensable element in the meaning of life. It makes us see that every life-story, however insignificant it may be in terms of the power-and-wealth systems of the world, is a universal drama. Properly reverenced, each human being and his or her unique story, thus reveals the cosmic mystery.

Tuesday Lent Week Five


Paradox is the portal to truth.

This may easily sound glib. Paradox can be fudged into something merely confusing where we don’t really suffer through the awkward contradictions of life, the bitter disappointments, betrayals of hopes, hurricanes of egoism, jungles of illusion and those swamps of misunderstandings that separate us from others for decades. We skirt around them rather than enduring the passion of them. Passion is undergoing.

Paradox – as the Tao and the Gospel testify, together with every sacred text that the human spirit has given birth to – is more than just not getting what we want or having a setback. It is ultimately not less than everything, not less than the Cross.

In a few days’ time, the purification of mind and heart that Lent has worked in us – to whatever degree – will be tested in the way we re-tell the story of the last days and hours of the life of Jesus. These occupy a disproportionate amount of space in his biography because they squeeze and distil, from the driest of stones, the meaning of his words and of his very nature. His story is who he is : the eye of the needle.

On Netflix – which is taking the place of novels in many people’s world – there is a menu selection of films or series that you have watched before and that you might like to ‘watch again’. In a world of relentless novelty, it is rather comforting that the world’s greatest marketing minds recognize the deep human need for familiarity and repetition.

As the perceptive Oscar Wilde said “If one cannot enjoy reading a book over and over again, there is no use in reading it at all.” The portal of paradox is rarely recognised at the first encounter and, if it is, it is often quickly denied. It requires many second visits before the full demand of reality can be faced.

Repetition burns away the dross of distraction. In meditation, as in any other form of faithful love, we learn to put our whole self into it. Then we have to take our whole self out of it. Even the idea that it is ‘my work’ or that it will bring me benefits must be given up. Having invested everything and then renounced everything, what is left is our true self, an authentic work, a new creation.This is what makes for a good story and one we can never forget because we come to love it as a child loves.

Monday Lent Week Five


According to the Te-Tao Ching, an ancient Chinese wisdom text, right living depends on wisdom; and wisdom consists in a paradox as radical as that we find in the Beatitudes and the meaning of the story of the life and death of Jesus.

The Te Tao Ching, like Jesus, uses homely language not a hifalutin intellectual tone.

Thirty spokes unite in one hub
It is precisely where there is nothing that we find the usefulness of the wheel..
We chisel out doors and windows
It is precisely in these empty spaces that we find the usefulness of the room

The word ‘precisely’ in this translation engages our attention. We respect and demand precision, the right word, the accurate financial report, the correct assessment of a situation. Businesses and governments spend fortunes trying to achieve the appearance of precision. It is the new ‘virtuous’ and a universal value in an age where everything must be probably useful.

Used in this wisdom context, in a powerful but mundane metaphor, however, precision is not the same as scientific proof. Because the scientific method is our very highest value, it is easy to dismiss words like those above as mere folk-wisdom. We may read it on the train to work or in bed at night but we don’t feel challenged to apply it to the actual ways we live or run our institutions.

Our materialist value-system revolves around verifiable usefulness. What’s the point if something doesn’t produce obvious benefits? Naturally, wisdom is about making life better but not necessarily obvious. Lao Tzu – and the gospel story we will be plunged into next week – make a very disruptive point. The most useful may be the least obvious.

Meditation is a wisdom path. It is a narrow one – in the way Jesus meant when he said that the way to life is narrow. But its narrowness produces immense expansion in the way that two converging lines, meeting in a single point, ricochet outwards into an infinitely expanding trajectory. A point is infinitely small; it has a position but no magnitude.

It is like the emptiness of a window or the hub of a wheel, like death itself.

We owe an immeasurable debt to the transmitters of wisdom in every field who illustrate this in ways we can understand, even for a fleeting moment before we forget again. Such teachers of wisdom are not like loquacious consultants paid by the word or the length of a report. They say everything in almost nothing.

At which point in my failed attempt at Lenten minimalism I should stop.

Fifth Sunday of Lent

Jer 31:31-34; Heb 5:7-9; Jn 12: 20-33


Life is one damn thing after another. Religious people often deal with that by building walls and ramparts against change and thereby produce a religion full of damnation and condemnation. Religion is meant to be an enlightened and fearless way of managing change on life’s inexorable journey to God.

Today’s readings begin in the Axial Age – that evolutionary period of human consciousness that threw up the Buddha, the Upanishads, Lao Tse, Plato – and the Hebrew prophets. It was a time of deep, irreversible change in how we perceive ourselves. Jeremiah saw that his people’s understanding of God and themselves – the ‘covenant’ as they called it – had moved from a tribal deity with submissive worshippers who derived their superior sense of identity from it. Instead the ‘new covenant’ would consist not of an external Law but of one ‘written in their hearts’.

The upshot of this revolutionary change in religious consciousness was a new perception of equality uniting the whole people. Those who experienced God in this way forever look differently at each other. Teaching about God ceases to be from the top down. Now, ‘they will all know me, the least no less than the greatest.’ Such a perception of equality drove Pope Francis to call clericalism one of the three great corrosive temptations of the church. It also drove Mary McAleese last week to challenge him sharply to put this into practice in an incorrigibly patriarchal church institution and to respect the equality of women and men at all levels of its life.

In the second reading, from the Letter to the Hebrews, the beam of this revolutionary shift in consciousness is passed through the lens that is Christ. Or, more accurately, passed through the humility of Christ who learned (and who doesn’t?) to obey through suffering. Only leaders who are not afraid to show their wounds can bring redemption to those who follow them. If Jeremiah illuminates the equality of the new covenant, Hebrews reveals the transformative fraternity that Jesus opens for humanity through his way of living the human journey.
In the next reading Jesus speaks in that mysterious tone of voice we hear in John’s gospel. We meet the Word of God made flesh in his human tears and fears. The one damn thing after another has brought him to an ultimate, tearful and fear-filled moment in which he perceives the inevitable logic of his teaching:  it, and he, will be rejected by the power structures it exposes. He will fail; and we can only choose to follow him through that black hole or remain in a religion that has sold out to power. Oddly and disturbingly, this is what liberty really looks like.
Prophetic equality, mystical fraternity and liberty of spirit. These are the elements of the revolution we are all caught up in now, like it or not. A revolution that has, so far, still hardly begun.

Saturday Lent Week Four


I once visited a man in hospital who had taken a knife against his wife and child when she told him she was leaving him. In a deranged state he then turned the knife on himself. When I saw him he was calmer but in immense inner suffering and totally without perception about the reasons that had led him to his sad and sorry state.

He told me that he was totally surprised and unprepared for what his wife had told him. He insisted that for all their marriage they had been as much in love as at the beginning of their relationship. And, he claimed, they had never once had any kind disagreement but always been in tune and devoted to each other.

Perception can be a terrible thing when it is false and when anything that challenges it and the world-view it supports is at all costs denied. Sometimes the denial remains complicit in a group or marriage for long stretches of time. When it becomes unsustainable something – or someone like this poor man’s wife – snaps. Then the accumulated forces of self-delusion smash the mind and flood into all our feelings like poison. One of the greatest descriptions of this in literature is in Jane Austen’s Emma. As a novel it is a comedy: that means it ends happily with everyone getting married to the right person. But, as in many comedies, the dark side of experience and its great sufferings have to be faced first.

In the course of a few moments, at the end of the story, Emma realises what a foolish, arrogant and totally unperceptive young woman she has been. She was bewildered amidst the confusion of all that had rushed on her within the last few hours. Every moment had brought a fresh surprise; and every surprise must be matter of humiliation to her. How to understand it all! How to understand the deceptions she had been thus practising on herself, and living under! The blunders, the blindness of her own head and heart! .. she sat silently meditating, in a fixed attitude, for a few minutes… sufficient for making her acquainted with her own heart. A mind like hers, once opening to suspicion, made rapid progress. She touched — she admitted — she acknowledged the whole truth.’(Chapter 47)
It is impossible not to feel compassion for someone when the veil of illusion they have been hiding behind is removed. It is a violent surprise and the violence is often, as in the man I mentioned, turned, one way or another, against oneself. Friends are never more essential than at such times of shame and insight into one’s misperceptions.

The negative surprise and misery of dis-illusionment is the mirror image of what happens when reality bursts upon us and we surprised by joy and filled with delight. This too can be painful but in a way of growth, like realizing your life has been turned upside down and inside out by love.

The sand in an hourglass appears (another misperception) to run out more quickly at the end of the hour. Our forty days are running out. But whatever we have been disillusioned about prepares us for Easter and the biggest surprise of all.

Friday Lent Week Four


Ultimately the cleansing of the doors of perception leads to purity of heart and the consummation of all conscious perception in the vision of God.

Every degree of perception – they cannot be numbered – is a door into another. If we reach a certain level of awareness – for example in peace and clarity of mind or imageless awareness – we may be tempted to think that we have reached the end of the journey. God, however, into whom the journey is being made, is infinitely simple. To arrive always means to set out again.

In our way of meditation, this explains the teaching about saying the mantra continuously and accepting that ‘we do not choose when to stop saying it’. However this does not mean, as some fear when they first hear it, that we are condemned to life-sentence of monotonous and mechanical repetition. Quite the reverse, faithful practice clears the way. The mantra itself is like an ice-breaker opening the way into deeper and more subtle levels of perception.

As it does this, the mantra is recited more gently and attentively, with the degree of subtlety appropriate to the level we have been led to. John Main described this work of the mantra to climbing up a mountain side. The more we climb the more the mantra sounds more faintly in the valley below us; but we continue to say or listen to it as soon as we fall into earlier levels of distraction or turbulence.

At times this may lead us into complete silence which means the letting-go of self-consciousness and the observing self. We are in a sense now beyond experience, because experience in the ordinary sense is always how we remember or describe something that is no longer fully present. Many people who remember a good experience long to recover it and endlessly regret its loss. Often what they remember and call the experience looks very different from what actually happened.

This is living in the past. But the essence of contemplative consciousness is absorbing and integrating the past, and then moving ever further into a deeper entry of the present moment. Real cleansing of our progressive levels of consciousness, which is what growth means, brings about progress by touching and throwing open the deep core of our being, in the cave, the abyss, of our heart.

All that is good about our humanity is there awaiting liberation and fulfilment. At this level of being we undergo a transformation that cannot be observed because it is simultaneously within and outside us. Often we become aware of the inner change by perceiving the new power of forgiveness, truthfulness and compassion in our daily life. These fruits of the spirit point to an interior change that we cannot watch happen. Without trying, though, we become aware of it in the silence of a pure heart (without effort or control on our part).

We then see God but without an objectifying vision, with liberty of spirit. This is prayer and it is the answer to all forms of prayer.