(please see below, Tran Quoc Pagoda, Part 1, first-- t.t.w.)
I returned to Tran Quoc Pagoda in the afternoon. There were many more monks and laypeople there this time. In addition, there were two laymen, of whom was Chinese, who were there to help out with the ceremony.
One of them played dan nhi (a Vietnamese version of the Chinese jinghu, a two-string fiddle related to the larger erhu) and a shawm (sona), an extremely loud, wailing oboe-like double-reed horn. The other, who was proficient in classical Chinese, helped with some of the chanting and also played drums. The two men were dressed in black lay robes.
I had a hard time understanding the context of the ceremony. I expected to stay only a short while, but when I left, over three hours later, the ceremony was still going, with no sign of stopping.
I was directed to sit on the tile floor, about twenty feet from the altar. The hall on this level was much more complex than the one downstairs. There were paper pendants and flags hanging everywhere with Chinese characters written on them, and the altar itself was huge, with four or five levels extending back another twenty feet. On the altar were of course the requisite Buddha images but also about a dozen life-size statues of men sitting in Chinese mandarin chairs with long beards and traditional imperial headgear. Upon closer inspection, I realized that one of the figures was King Tran, a medieval monarch of Vietnam who lated abdicated the throne, took on the robes of a monk, eventually becoming a Zen master and an important patriach of Vietnamese Buddhism.
Before the ceremony began, an elderly monk donned formal robes and a silk Chinese crown. He also carried a large staff and stood solemnly in front of the altar. The rest of the monks and the two laymen, sitting behind him in two rows, began to chant and play their instruments. One of the monks had a mircophone that was hooked up to a speaker system that was turned way up, so the chanting was rather loud, especially in a tiled room where most of the materials reflected the sound. And with the wailing shawm and drums, bells, and cymbals played at a high volume, it became extremely loud. But the chanting and the music that accompanied it was beautiful and had a centering quality, and all of the men played together exceptionally well.
The opening chants, sungs from books or from memory, lasted about an hour, at which point my last had fallen asleep and probably were dreaming, though I'm not sure. Then the elderly monk began a complex, esoteric dance before the altar, employing highly stylized mudras (hand gestures) and intricate footwork. Hen then took a carving knife and a red pair of scissors (supposed both remplacement for more expensive ritual items) off the altar and continued his dance with them, as if he was holding a Tibetan bell and vajra.
The monk danced rapidly around the hall, stopping by the walls and pillars to hack off various pieces of paper and cloth imprinted with Chinese characters, which he wound into a ball. The characters were the names of deceased people associated with the temple and this ceremony, I think, was a way of remembering, honoring, and transfering merit to them, and marking the impermanence of all things. The monk held the ball with the knife and scissors, brought it to the altar, bowed low, set the ball on fire, and continued the dance around the hall while holding this ball of fire, which he eventually placed in a bucket of water at the front of the altar.
Midway through the ceremony, a candle accidently set a paper flag ablaze, which prompted several monks to set about trying to put the fire out. At this point, I realized that there were no smoke alarms in this temple! Occasionally the elderly monk would lead us in a quick-paced circumambulation of the altar as a way of further honoring the dead.
A little after six in the evening, I realized I needed to leave to meet a friend, but the ceremony (and the deafening music) was still going strong after three hours. I quietly bowed and left, hoping that I would return one day to talk to the monks again.
Although I experienced only a small part of Vietnam, I am thankful that I had the chance to experience that part deeply and meaningully. Everyone I met was warm and friendly, and many wanted to talk to me. Earlier in this blog, I mentioned how I thought that joyful and honest interactions with strangers were a good measure of the health of a society. And while I don't know to what extent the Vietnamese wlecomed visitors from within their own country, I did always feel welcomed here, in a way that went beyond simple means of securing their income from my wallet. For example, I don't recall the same friendliness in China or Japan, and only on occasion in the States. As I was writing this on the plane to Cambodia, I am sad to leave but very excited to settle more long-term in a new culture.
To all of you who read and don't read this blog, I extend my best wishes to you and I would love to hear from you anytime.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Tran Quoc Pagoda, Part 1
One thing I love about traveling is that even ordinary things in far-away places become full of interest and wonder. I was walking through the streets of Saigon, not having any idea of where I was or where I was going, and I was amazed at how much the city came alive when I walked this way. I didn't need to look to find anything--everything captivated me, from the tiles on the sidewalk to the patterns of the traffic, from the scent of fish sauce to the cries of small children, from the signs of shops to shops of signs. And as I was heading down a crowded street, I happened to run into a temple, sandwiched neatly between some motorbike repair shops and furniture makers, by the name of Tran Quoc Pagoda. I had been to some of the temples on the tourist circuit, but this one was not in the books I had seen about Ho Chi Minh City.
The outside of the temple is rather dull and gray in color, but the second and third levels of the facade has ornate Buddhist images. I walked into the doorway, and an elderly woman, crouching in a corner, directed me inside. I removed my shoes and entered into the lower level Buddha hall, where three monks and about six lay believers were chanting and bowing. The style of the musical accompaniment (very vigorous drum and cymbal work) and the motifs on the altar (lots of colors, ornate Buddhist imagery) gave the temple a Tibetan feel. And monks were wearing very formal ritual robes--this was not a Chien (Zen) temple! I joined them until the ceremony ended.
Afterwards, I began to talk with some of the lay believers there, some of whom spoke English. They seemed to appreciate that someone was interested in their religion. One of them even insisted on giving me an apple and an Asian pear (which I think she snatched off the altar) as a "souvenir." I tried to refuse, but they insisted. I was getting ready to leave when the monks led me in to their kitchen, sat me down at the table and served me some tea. I was suprised and delighted by this unexpected hospitality, and appreciated the chance to be able to meet some of the sangha in Vietnam.
We attempted to communicate through hand gestures for a while, but one of the monks slowly began to reveal his English skills. We talked about our families--some of them had family in America--and when they couldn't quite say what were trying to say, they wrote it down on a piece of paper and we worked it out together. When we began to talk about Buddhism, I discovered that some of them knew Chinese, and most of the extremely limited Mandarin and Chinese Characters I know are Buddhist-related. I had never really had a useful conversation in Mandarin before, and it was a pleasant suprise to have it in Vietnam. My tea cup was always kept full!
Later on, the elderly woman who was at the doorway of the temple came up to me and began to speak in French. She was 82 years old (I had originally thought 92, but I mixed quatre-vingt-deux and quatre-vingt-douze!) and had studied French in the eight years she attended school during the colonial era. She had a consistent and beautiful smile on her face, and I feel fortunate that we shared a common language.
One of the monks, Thich Giac Lam, gave me his email address and asked for mine. I didn't hesitate, but I was slightly suprised because a) the temple had bats in it b) I didn't see a laptop under his robes and c) I wouldn't know how to email in Vietnamese. However, I could understand because a) the bats weren't that big b) Thich Giac Lam did indeed have a cell phone under his robes and c) the abbot of the temple took cell calls during ceremonies.
We got to talking about Guan Shi Yin Bodhisattva, when one of the monks disappeared through a door and came back with a small ceramic image of her (Guan Yin). Again, they insisted tthat accept it as a souvenir (although they explained that was infact from China, and the colored strings inside were of special importance. We then shared some of the mantras we knew associated with Guan Shi Yin pu sa.
The monks asked that I return the next day at 3:00 PM to see the drums and bells upstairs. We then bowed and said goodbye ("nam mo a mi ba phat," except the elderly woman, who said, "Au revoir!").
I was out of clothes, so the next morning I perused some shops to obtain a couple of shirts, a pair of shoes, and trousers. Again, it was a delight to just do simple everyday things in Saigon.
(continued above in Tran Quoc Pagoda, Part 2)
The outside of the temple is rather dull and gray in color, but the second and third levels of the facade has ornate Buddhist images. I walked into the doorway, and an elderly woman, crouching in a corner, directed me inside. I removed my shoes and entered into the lower level Buddha hall, where three monks and about six lay believers were chanting and bowing. The style of the musical accompaniment (very vigorous drum and cymbal work) and the motifs on the altar (lots of colors, ornate Buddhist imagery) gave the temple a Tibetan feel. And monks were wearing very formal ritual robes--this was not a Chien (Zen) temple! I joined them until the ceremony ended.
Afterwards, I began to talk with some of the lay believers there, some of whom spoke English. They seemed to appreciate that someone was interested in their religion. One of them even insisted on giving me an apple and an Asian pear (which I think she snatched off the altar) as a "souvenir." I tried to refuse, but they insisted. I was getting ready to leave when the monks led me in to their kitchen, sat me down at the table and served me some tea. I was suprised and delighted by this unexpected hospitality, and appreciated the chance to be able to meet some of the sangha in Vietnam.
We attempted to communicate through hand gestures for a while, but one of the monks slowly began to reveal his English skills. We talked about our families--some of them had family in America--and when they couldn't quite say what were trying to say, they wrote it down on a piece of paper and we worked it out together. When we began to talk about Buddhism, I discovered that some of them knew Chinese, and most of the extremely limited Mandarin and Chinese Characters I know are Buddhist-related. I had never really had a useful conversation in Mandarin before, and it was a pleasant suprise to have it in Vietnam. My tea cup was always kept full!
Later on, the elderly woman who was at the doorway of the temple came up to me and began to speak in French. She was 82 years old (I had originally thought 92, but I mixed quatre-vingt-deux and quatre-vingt-douze!) and had studied French in the eight years she attended school during the colonial era. She had a consistent and beautiful smile on her face, and I feel fortunate that we shared a common language.
One of the monks, Thich Giac Lam, gave me his email address and asked for mine. I didn't hesitate, but I was slightly suprised because a) the temple had bats in it b) I didn't see a laptop under his robes and c) I wouldn't know how to email in Vietnamese. However, I could understand because a) the bats weren't that big b) Thich Giac Lam did indeed have a cell phone under his robes and c) the abbot of the temple took cell calls during ceremonies.
We got to talking about Guan Shi Yin Bodhisattva, when one of the monks disappeared through a door and came back with a small ceramic image of her (Guan Yin). Again, they insisted tthat accept it as a souvenir (although they explained that was infact from China, and the colored strings inside were of special importance. We then shared some of the mantras we knew associated with Guan Shi Yin pu sa.
The monks asked that I return the next day at 3:00 PM to see the drums and bells upstairs. We then bowed and said goodbye ("nam mo a mi ba phat," except the elderly woman, who said, "Au revoir!").
I was out of clothes, so the next morning I perused some shops to obtain a couple of shirts, a pair of shoes, and trousers. Again, it was a delight to just do simple everyday things in Saigon.
(continued above in Tran Quoc Pagoda, Part 2)
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Four Pagodas in Saigon
The grounds of Vietnam Quoc Tu Pagoda are a peaceful retreat from the buzz of the city. At two o'clock in the afternoon, a monk in saffron robes leads a congregation of mostly women, dressed in humble gray ao dai which resemble traditional lay robes in China. Their chanting is very beautiful, distinctly Vietnamese in melody and inflection, and is accompanied by traditional Chinese Buddhist bells of various sizes and timbres. The temple itself is not particularly beautiful, with lots of overly bright painted images and colored tiles but little older religious art. Yet the practice of those participating demonstrates sincerity and faith. The posture of the sangha is very clear and upright, and the lay worshippers bow with precision and dignity.
The temple is a real community center, with little kids and elderly alike just hanging out on the premises, seeking refuge from the midday heat in the shade of its trees. And those chanting parked their motorbikes only a few meters from where they now stand barefoot, with hands in prayer. The horns of the street traffic are wholly mixed with the beautiful sounds of the chanting. A layman, meditating with his prayer beads, eyes closed in concentration, invited the large hanging bell to sound at regular intervals.
When the weather is this hot and humid, thinking comes a little slower and it is easier to relax. There are so many new smells here. Even the incense is different, and in already polluted air is takes on new dimensions. Humid, warm air itself feels a certain way in the nostrils.
This morning I visited three other temples, each of which had a distinct character. The second temple I visited seemed deserted at first, as I could hear loud chanting but couldn't tell where it was coming from. I walked towards the rear of the compound and a woman directed me upstairs to where a group of about twenty monks and fifty laypeople were chanting in a large, open-sided hall. I went to the back and sat down next to a young man who shared his chanting book with me. I was eventually able to follow along in the Vietnamese text, but I didn't dare actuallt chant!
It was a beautiful temple, almost French in style, but with many Sino-Vietnamese elements as well. Although Buddhism came to Vietnam mostly from China, the chanting style is markedly different, and of course even the Buddhist mantras (sacred syllables) are pronouced differently (nam mo a mhi pa phat). Occasionally a particular mantra in the chanting will remind of something I've heard in Chinese, but the similarity ends there. It is so refreshing to be in a new Buddhist culture!
At the last temple I visited (the third temple actually was deserted, unlike the second), which was decidedly Chinese in style (it was built by ethnic Chinese), I went to the back of the main hall where I heard some chanting. I was unsure of the occasion, but the familial bonds between those attending made it seem like a memorial observance. I didn't intend to crash a funeral! But I met another young man there, in his late twenties, by the name of Dui. He spoke excellent English and we discussed meditation practice at length. Hen graciously showed me downstairs and explained a series of pieces of Vietnamese Chien (Zen) calligraphy. It was really wonderful to meet someone who shared such interest and experience in the Buddhadharma from another country. A practicioner of Pure Land Buddhism, he also clearly understand the connections between the various Buddhist schools, especially Chien. And despite our different cultural backgrounds, we were able to communicate in the language of Mahayana Buddhism and when it came time to part, it came naturally to use the universal Buddhist gesture (gassho in Japanese), bow to one another and say "Na Mo Amitabha Buddha," which replaces "Hello," "Goodbye," "Thank you," and "You're welcome" in Buddhist community life.
At all of the temples I visited, after the service ended, a relaxed atmosphere pervaded the pagoda, and everyone takes time to chat with one another or ask questions of the sangha. Another thing that struck me at the places I visited was that I saw barely any tourists, unlike other parts of town. I only wish I could stay longer in Vietnam and learn and experience more of its fascinating and endearing Buddhist tradtion.
The temple is a real community center, with little kids and elderly alike just hanging out on the premises, seeking refuge from the midday heat in the shade of its trees. And those chanting parked their motorbikes only a few meters from where they now stand barefoot, with hands in prayer. The horns of the street traffic are wholly mixed with the beautiful sounds of the chanting. A layman, meditating with his prayer beads, eyes closed in concentration, invited the large hanging bell to sound at regular intervals.
When the weather is this hot and humid, thinking comes a little slower and it is easier to relax. There are so many new smells here. Even the incense is different, and in already polluted air is takes on new dimensions. Humid, warm air itself feels a certain way in the nostrils.
This morning I visited three other temples, each of which had a distinct character. The second temple I visited seemed deserted at first, as I could hear loud chanting but couldn't tell where it was coming from. I walked towards the rear of the compound and a woman directed me upstairs to where a group of about twenty monks and fifty laypeople were chanting in a large, open-sided hall. I went to the back and sat down next to a young man who shared his chanting book with me. I was eventually able to follow along in the Vietnamese text, but I didn't dare actuallt chant!
It was a beautiful temple, almost French in style, but with many Sino-Vietnamese elements as well. Although Buddhism came to Vietnam mostly from China, the chanting style is markedly different, and of course even the Buddhist mantras (sacred syllables) are pronouced differently (nam mo a mhi pa phat). Occasionally a particular mantra in the chanting will remind of something I've heard in Chinese, but the similarity ends there. It is so refreshing to be in a new Buddhist culture!
At the last temple I visited (the third temple actually was deserted, unlike the second), which was decidedly Chinese in style (it was built by ethnic Chinese), I went to the back of the main hall where I heard some chanting. I was unsure of the occasion, but the familial bonds between those attending made it seem like a memorial observance. I didn't intend to crash a funeral! But I met another young man there, in his late twenties, by the name of Dui. He spoke excellent English and we discussed meditation practice at length. Hen graciously showed me downstairs and explained a series of pieces of Vietnamese Chien (Zen) calligraphy. It was really wonderful to meet someone who shared such interest and experience in the Buddhadharma from another country. A practicioner of Pure Land Buddhism, he also clearly understand the connections between the various Buddhist schools, especially Chien. And despite our different cultural backgrounds, we were able to communicate in the language of Mahayana Buddhism and when it came time to part, it came naturally to use the universal Buddhist gesture (gassho in Japanese), bow to one another and say "Na Mo Amitabha Buddha," which replaces "Hello," "Goodbye," "Thank you," and "You're welcome" in Buddhist community life.
At all of the temples I visited, after the service ended, a relaxed atmosphere pervaded the pagoda, and everyone takes time to chat with one another or ask questions of the sangha. Another thing that struck me at the places I visited was that I saw barely any tourists, unlike other parts of town. I only wish I could stay longer in Vietnam and learn and experience more of its fascinating and endearing Buddhist tradtion.
Monday, August 15, 2005
Good Morning, Vietnam
I woke up this morning in Ho Chi Minh City, and turned to the window of my hotel room to check out the view. Well, it's nothing spectacular, but I'm happy to have made it over here. A harrowing taxi ride gave me plenty of excitement last night, but it was also great to see the city by night, when the air is a little cooler. Saigon reminds me of parts of Chinese cities, and the traffic is equally confusing, even at 12:30 AM. I won't say any more because I've seen so little. After today, hopefully I'll have a different picture of the city.
Beautiful Clouds in Korea
The keyboard which I'm typing at now has the Korean hangul alphabet on it, which means, I suppose, that I've ended up in Seoul safe and sound. The airport here is particularly clean and well-maintained, and it has fantastic views of the green hills and blue mountains which seem to encircle the runways and terminals. The clouds are also very beautiful here, and the sun is still quite high in the sky at 5:00 PM local time.
I must confess that I love long plane flights. I enjoy the opportunity to sit in one spot (apart from getting up to go to the bathroom every hour) and just focus on reading. I'm in the middle of an admirably good book, "The Gods Drink Whiskey," which chronicles a year spent in Cambodia by a young Chicagoan professor of Buddhism. Although unsettling at times, his reflections on his experiences in Phnom Penh reveal the complexities of life there more than an objective text ever could. And as much his opinions and observations challenge my preconceptions, his tone is warm and endearing, and it puts the fears I have of living in Cambodia in a better perspective.
Because I received a vegan meal on the plane, one of the flight attendants knew my (sur)name and proceeded to call me "Mr. Walker" for the rest of the flight. This I found rather amusing but reminded me of the unexpected kindness we receive from people we only see once in our lives. A couple of months ago, a friend and I discussed such moments that occur in our everyday lives, where we interact with total strangers, like bus drivers, waiters, clerks, shopkeepers, or just people on the street, who greet us warmly and with kindness without expecting anything in return. And when we, too, reach out with kindness in such momentary and singular relationships, then we are suprised by the enduring good-heartedness of others. These encounters, however brief and seemingly inconsequential, are vital to a healthy society. Of course, in urban settings we cannot trust others so easily, a fact I am sure to encounter in Saigon and Phnom Penh. But when there is warmth and honesty between strangers, then human life becomes real again.
I'm soon to be boarding a plane to Ho Chi Minh City, where the weather will be much hotter. Even though I haven't arrived in Vietnam, it is truly exciting to be on the other side of world, and I am ever thankful to all of you that have made this adventure possible for me. Best wishes to all.
I must confess that I love long plane flights. I enjoy the opportunity to sit in one spot (apart from getting up to go to the bathroom every hour) and just focus on reading. I'm in the middle of an admirably good book, "The Gods Drink Whiskey," which chronicles a year spent in Cambodia by a young Chicagoan professor of Buddhism. Although unsettling at times, his reflections on his experiences in Phnom Penh reveal the complexities of life there more than an objective text ever could. And as much his opinions and observations challenge my preconceptions, his tone is warm and endearing, and it puts the fears I have of living in Cambodia in a better perspective.
Because I received a vegan meal on the plane, one of the flight attendants knew my (sur)name and proceeded to call me "Mr. Walker" for the rest of the flight. This I found rather amusing but reminded me of the unexpected kindness we receive from people we only see once in our lives. A couple of months ago, a friend and I discussed such moments that occur in our everyday lives, where we interact with total strangers, like bus drivers, waiters, clerks, shopkeepers, or just people on the street, who greet us warmly and with kindness without expecting anything in return. And when we, too, reach out with kindness in such momentary and singular relationships, then we are suprised by the enduring good-heartedness of others. These encounters, however brief and seemingly inconsequential, are vital to a healthy society. Of course, in urban settings we cannot trust others so easily, a fact I am sure to encounter in Saigon and Phnom Penh. But when there is warmth and honesty between strangers, then human life becomes real again.
I'm soon to be boarding a plane to Ho Chi Minh City, where the weather will be much hotter. Even though I haven't arrived in Vietnam, it is truly exciting to be on the other side of world, and I am ever thankful to all of you that have made this adventure possible for me. Best wishes to all.
Saturday, August 13, 2005
And He's Off
This is my last day at home for about thirteen months. Tomorrow, I board an airplane for Seoul, Korea, which stops there for a few hours before moving on to Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam. I'll spend a couple of days there in Vietnam before boarding a flight to Phnom Penh, Cambodia, where I'll be, probably, until September 2006.
I'm going to Cambodia as an intern for Cambodian Living Arts--a division of World Education Fund-- which works to help preserve and reinvigorate traditional Cambodian performing arts. I'm not entirely sure what I'm going to be doing there at the moment, but I expect to study the Khmer language, study a Cambodian instrument and/or musical genre, and conduct some research on particular aspect of the connection between religion and music education in Cambodia.
Over the past few days I have been packing and preparing to leave. It's an interesting exercise to consider which items are essential for a trip and which are not. As it turns out, very littleis essential, and part of the joy of leaving home is findinga a new set of material expectations--that is, finding out how little we actually need.
It's been harder to say goodbye to those who I won't be seeing for a while. But I've noticed that when people realize that they won't see each other the next day, their thoughts are more sincere and more honest-- this is something I've really appreciated lately.
I hope that with this blog I will be to share my experiences with all of you. Please also email me if you have questions or would like to hear more.
I'm going to Cambodia as an intern for Cambodian Living Arts--a division of World Education Fund-- which works to help preserve and reinvigorate traditional Cambodian performing arts. I'm not entirely sure what I'm going to be doing there at the moment, but I expect to study the Khmer language, study a Cambodian instrument and/or musical genre, and conduct some research on particular aspect of the connection between religion and music education in Cambodia.
Over the past few days I have been packing and preparing to leave. It's an interesting exercise to consider which items are essential for a trip and which are not. As it turns out, very littleis essential, and part of the joy of leaving home is findinga a new set of material expectations--that is, finding out how little we actually need.
It's been harder to say goodbye to those who I won't be seeing for a while. But I've noticed that when people realize that they won't see each other the next day, their thoughts are more sincere and more honest-- this is something I've really appreciated lately.
I hope that with this blog I will be to share my experiences with all of you. Please also email me if you have questions or would like to hear more.
Last Ride on BART
Even though I am still in my home country, everything suddenly seems fresh and new. Every moment here is a moment to appreciate, every breath is a breath to take care of , to cherish. My seat on BART is well-worn, with a subtle and thick fragrance. I don't know anybody aboard--I haven't met them--but I smile at their prescence, and pause to wonder what their worries are.
I don't try to listen with my ears; the heart knows better. The heart knows my mistakes and their mistakes, and it forgives. The heart does not say much, so I listen to its listening. When I pay attention to the heart, the thoughts of the mind don't matter so much. I laugh at myself for the silly things I worry about.
I enjoy feeling my two feet on the floor--to touch the Earth, even on a moving train, fills me with peace. And I ask myself, "Am listening? Am I listening? Am I listening?" And I ask myself again, "Who's listening?"
Who, indeed, is listening? Who is it that is sitting on this train? I have no idea who I am, how I got here or where I'm going or who this "I" is. And that's okay, for the most part. To not know such things confuses me, amazes me and fills me with wonder. To not know turns me inside-out, but it also opens me, frees me. And in a moment of stillness, where sound and listener and listening merge as one, it's okay. It's really quite okay not to know who I am or where I came from. It's really quite okay just to sit here on this BART train and let wonder open into wonder.
I don't try to listen with my ears; the heart knows better. The heart knows my mistakes and their mistakes, and it forgives. The heart does not say much, so I listen to its listening. When I pay attention to the heart, the thoughts of the mind don't matter so much. I laugh at myself for the silly things I worry about.
I enjoy feeling my two feet on the floor--to touch the Earth, even on a moving train, fills me with peace. And I ask myself, "Am listening? Am I listening? Am I listening?" And I ask myself again, "Who's listening?"
Who, indeed, is listening? Who is it that is sitting on this train? I have no idea who I am, how I got here or where I'm going or who this "I" is. And that's okay, for the most part. To not know such things confuses me, amazes me and fills me with wonder. To not know turns me inside-out, but it also opens me, frees me. And in a moment of stillness, where sound and listener and listening merge as one, it's okay. It's really quite okay not to know who I am or where I came from. It's really quite okay just to sit here on this BART train and let wonder open into wonder.
Saturday, August 06, 2005
Living in God's House
Good morning! This summer I lived at Cameron House as part of the summer staff, where I worked as the coordinator for the 3rd and 4th grade department of the Cameron Ventures Program. This year, our department was blessed with ten wonderful leaders and over thirty highly energetic kids.
I graduated from high school in
When I was in high school, I never thought I would end up attending a Christian church, much less working at a place like Cameron House. As a Buddhist, I never had much interest in the Christian faith of my ancestors. I found spiritual fulfillment in the Buddhist tradition of meditation and mindfulness; I had little interest in Christianity.
However, my experience at PCC changed my view. This church introduced me to an open-minded, socially aware, and justice-seeking model of spirituality which really appealed to me. I don't mean to say that I am now less of a Buddhist than before, but I now feel comfortable living with the two religions side by side in my heart.
And so, today I'd like to speak about my experience this summer in terms of what it means to live in God's house. One meaning of what it is to live in God's house is simply living in a Christian community, a community where we make a conscious and explicit commitment to live honestly before God. To live honestly means that we take responsibility for all of our actions, words and attitudes, and to live before God means to live humbly, in respect and wonder. I'd lived in other spiritual communities before, but I'd never lived in a Christian community before coming to Cameron House. I am not without my qualms about Christianity—about evangelism, for instance—and I don't hesitate to say that I would probably feel uncomfortable in many other Christian congregations in this country. But there are aspects of the Christian life at Cameron House that I have come to appreciate very much.
At Cameron House's youth programs, we work to create an environment that balances and fosters physical, mental, social and spiritual development. These four aspects of growth are outlined in the Gospel of Luke, and the expectation is that we model our lives and our development on that of Christ. So much of our media-saturated, hyped-up, heart-broken and suffering world lacks this principle of balance, and our children are not encouraged to grow into their full potential, especially in the spiritual realm.
My time with the kids and high school leaders this summer gave me the chance to encourage their balanced development by working on devotions—spiritual lessons—for the kids and working with the leaders to develop creative and meaningful devotions of their own. I encountered a fair amount of resistance, from the kids, from the leaders, and even from myself, in making these devotions a part of every day. And it forced me to step away from my own perspective and get into the heads of the kids and youth, and see what was meaningful and relevant—spiritually relevant—to them.
Let me offer you an example. A couple of weeks ago, my department was struggling, and the problems were not with the kids, but between my leaders and me. In the end, everything worked out, and to the credit of my leaders, they were able to transform their negative actions into positive lessons for themselves, for me, and for the kids. They accomplished this by creating devotions that spoke to the choices they had made and the lessons they had learned, and I was impressed and moved by their sincerity and thoughtfulness. This sort of transformation is, in my eyes, the essence of the Christian life, that our unwholesome thoughts and deeds may be transformed into what is wholesome and good, through our will and that of God. And I am thankful that we worked out our mistakes in the context of a Christian community, because it was our shared life in God's house that made everything possible.
However, beyond the simple fact of living in a Christian community, there is a further meaning of what it means to live in God's house that I learned about over the summer. For me, God’s house is the wealth of peace, joy and contentment that is available—through the grace of God—in the present moment. To live in God’s house means to live in gratefulness—mindfully, lovingly, slowly but dearly—so that the wonder of life, the wonder of being alive, is fully available to us. The door to God’s house is always open—it is only through our self-centered wills and desires that we cannot find it.
I cannot live this way very well. I find it difficult to slow down and truly appreciate the people who are around me. It’s hard to for me to remember to live mindfully, to live humbly, in wonder. Usually I’m carried away by worries about the past or the future or simply desires and emotions in the present—I rarely can just take a breath and appreciate the whole breath, or listen without judgment to every word someone is saying. But this summer I have learned that when I do take the time to enter the present moment, offer thanks for what I am blessed with, and let God take me in to God’s house, then everything works out better.
This summer, I was called to find resources of patience with the kids that I didn’t know I had. I was called to find energy and enthusiasm to make each day fresh and new. I was called to reconcile conflicts that I struggled to identify with and understand. And much of the time, I didn’t succeed at these things. But remembering to live gratefully in God’s house was a source upon which I could rely to see and care for the kids and leaders more clearly and more carefully. Living in God’s house—in touch with the Holy Spirit—allows us to be in touch with God’s unconditional love and the seeds of unconditional love in ourselves. When we are aware of God’s unending love for us, we begin to see God in other people and appreciate them in their highest potential.
Let me offer you another example. Over the course of the summer, I ended up spending a good portion of my time at Cameron Ventures with one of the kids in my department who really struggled with his anger. I often encountered him fighting with the other kids or physically expressing his frustration on the leaders. Often, together with one of my leaders, I sat him down outside the group and had a conversation with him about his behavior. These conversations were difficult, but they revealed to me that he knew he was struggling with his emotions as much as we were. Moreover, I realized that if I was angry or showed any frustration myself, we wouldn’t be able to move forward. Each day had to be a clean slate, without making judgments about him from his past behavior. And I noticed that when I took the time to remember that God’s house is always here, that the present moment is always here, that each and every person is overflowing with God’s love, we were able to reconcile his behavior and come to a solution. It seemed that when we let ourselves return to God’s house and took refuge there, God took care of the situation in a way that no forcing or extra effort on my part could ever do.
A couple of hours before our Parent’s Night, an annual celebration of the kids and their talents at BYP and Ventures, the same kid stormed out of the room where we were rehearsing and proceeded to shout at me and the leaders. He refused to perform that night and was threatening to break things. It took a long time to reach him, to really communicate with him and have a conversation about why he was so angry. I began to ask him about his anger: where he felt it, what color he thought it was, what shape it had, and other physical qualities of his anger. He said it was a deep, deep red and in the shape of the Devil. He was an exceptionally gifted drummer, so I asked him what the beat of the Devil was. Confused, he said it was just random rhythms, not conforming to a particular beat. Eventually, he worked through his anger and performed with great gusto and enthusiasm that night.
However, for me the real miracle came the next day, when he came running up to me with a big smile on his face, saying, “
I feel exceptionally fortunate to have spent the summer at Cameron House, and to have become familiar with a Christian community, one that is welcoming, vibrant, and socially engaged. And I am thankful to have worked and grown together with a wonderful group of kids and leaders. Most of all, however, I am grateful that God’s house opens its doors every moment of every day, that peace and transformation are indeed possible, and that the Holy Spirit can be present in our lives. May the peace of Christ be with us and may God’s house always be our refuge and our strength. Amen.
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