Category Archives: Spiritual Practice

I’ve been mulling over a Zen story about a farmer whose horse ran away.  “Such bad luck!” his neighbors said.  “Maybe,” the farmer replied. Then the horse returned, accompanied by two wild horses.  “So fortunate!” the neighbors said.  “Maybe,” said the farmer. Later, the farmer’s son tried to ride a wild horse, was thrown off, and broke his leg.  “How awful!” the neighbors sympathized.  The farmer:  “Maybe.” The army came through town, recruiting all the young men.  They passed by the farmer’s son because of his broken leg.  “Such good luck!” declared the neighbors.  “Maybe,” said the farmer. What I can’t get out of my mind is the farmer’s abiding equanimity.  Where I ride waves of emotion, he keeps an even keel.  The highs of anticipation, excitement, and jubilation, he seems to say, can throw us off as much as disappointment.  Throw us off what?  Our center.  Our place of…

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Sorry, folks.  I’m too busy to write a Faith Finder article this month.  I could give you all sorts of explanations—the 8 a.m. phone call with Gwyn’s teacher, the hassle of bundling her off to school, the disaster I’m ignoring in the kitchen, my crazy to-do list—but ultimately the problem is internal.  Jangled nerves.  Thoughts popcorning willy-nilly.  Disquiet, distraction, disease.  Can’t write if you can’t focus. So instead I’ll give you the cat:  She’s a lump of white and black fur curled on a blue blanket.  From here I can’t see a head, only the slow rise and fall of her breathing body.  Her every muscle is slack.  Her snores are soft and even. Or perhaps I’ll give you this morning’s trees, sticky with snow, each branch white against a crystalline blue sky.  The snow details the trees. For that matter, I could give you this awesome red easy chair. …

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It’s gone out of fashion.  Even in Christian circles we associate humility with the mothballed faith of our grandmothers.  These days we have more hip spiritual practices, like living in the present moment and doing yoga and advocating for GLBTQA rights.  Why bother groveling?  With anything that might undermine our pride?  Spirituality’s supposed to make us feel good, right? Lately I’ve been reading some Benedictine spirituality.  Joan Chittister believes the Rule of Saint Benedict is a relevant and alive document, one that speaks directly to the contemporary consciousness.  In my skepticism, I came across this question in the Rule—“Who will dwell in your tent, O God?”—and Benedict’s answer:  “These people reverence God, and do not become elated over their good deeds; they judge it is God’s strength, not their own, that brings about the good in them.  They praise the Holy One working in them, and say with the prophet: …

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Arnold Lobol writes a cautionary tale about a housefly who one day wakes up to see all the dirt in his house.  He diligently begins sweeping.  When he pushes the pile over the threshold, he notices the dirt on his front path, and then on the road.  He’s a good way down the road when Grasshopper comes along and inquires what he’s doing.  Poor Housefly; he’s taken on cleaning up the world. I am that housefly.  Not that I’m a compulsive cleaner—far from it.  But I can’t look around me without seeing what needs to be done.  A moment spent admiring the (glorious) flower garden with Gwyn turns into a to-do list:  weeding, transplanting, pruning, seeding.  Cleaning the kitchen after dinner, I’m acutely aware of all I’m not cleaning:  the grease on the kettle, the spills in the refrigerator.  Clearing out my email, I berate myself for not writing to…

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