My Religion is Simple, My Religion is Kindness

 There is no question that love is at the very heart of Christianity, love for God and God’s love for us.  Throughout his ministry, Jesus instructed his disciples to love.  Indeed, love is central to all religious traditions.

In the book Mark, when Jesus was asked, "Of all the commandments, which are the most important?" He answered, “The most important one is this: …Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength.' The second is this: 'Love your neighbour as yourself."

A similar scene occurred in Matthew's gospel, only this time, Jesus told the parable of the good Samaritan, expanding the parameters of who one’s neighbour is to include cultural adversaries.  

It is, however, in the Sermon on the Mount where what love demands exceeds all previous expectations.

You have heard it said, 'Love your neighbour and hate your enemy.' But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.  If you love those who love you, what reward will you get? Are not even the tax collectors doing that?  And if you greet only your own people, what are you doing that others aren't?  Do not even pagans do that?

Today, there is a significant misunderstanding of how Jesus used the term love, partly because it can mean so many different things.  When Jesus tells his disciples to love their enemies, it can feel impossible, because what does love even mean in this case.  We end up in this weird place where we say “I love my enemies,” but rarely ever engage with them in any meaningful or productive way!,

Loving our enemies while being disconnected from them becomes a dim reflection of what Jesus intended by the word 'love'; and certainly isn't the powerful emotion expressed in music we just heard.  It ends up being  more symbolic than transformative.  How do we as Christians love our enemies, where love is not a whim or an abstract statement, but a verb.

 "My religion is very simple.  My religion is kindness." When I first heard those words spoken by the Dalai Lama,  I began thinking what Christianity would look like if we talked less about love and acted more out of kindness.

In contrast to love, kindness is simple and accessible; it is tangible.  We all know what it looks like.  Most people already practice it in their everyday lives, and we have all benefited from the kindness of others.  

Suppose we taught our children about God's kindness before delving into the mysteries of divine love.  What if instead of trying to figure out how to love our enemies, we focused on being kind?  

Replace the word 'love' with 'kindness' in Jesus' commandments to his disciples, and we gain a more accurate understanding of what Jesus was actually asking of them.

You have heard it was said, 'show kindness to your neighbour and hate your enemy.' But I tell you, show kindness to your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.  If you do kindness to those who love you, what reward will you get? Are not even the tax collectors doing that?  And if you show kindness only to your own people, what are you doing that others aren't?  Do not even pagans do that?

The scripture we read tonight does not include the words love or kindness, but is clearly in keeping with Jesus’ instructions on how to live as a disciple in the world:

For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’

If you read any book or watch any lecture on kindness, the consistent message repeated in all of them is that kindness begets kindness.  It's contagious!  The kinder we are to others, the kinder they become, and the kinder we become.  This is why it is so often said that one small act kindness is the impetus for multiple small acts of kindness, which, when aggregated, drives real change in the world.

Theologian Frederick Buechner puts it this way. 

Humanity is like an enormous spider web, so that if you touch it anywhere, you set the whole thing trembling… As we move around this world and as we act with kindness toward the people we meet, we too are setting the great spider web a-tremble.  The life that I touch for good or ill will touch another life, and that in turn another, until who knows where the trembling stops or in what far place and time my touch will be felt.  Our lives are linked together.  No one is an island.

Part of the limitation of love is that it is, by its nature, local.  While love can deepen an already established relationship, it has has to be experienced up close and personal.  Being kind to a stranger sends out ripples that can travel further into places love doesn't reach.

You don't have to be religious to practice kindness in this way.  As I began exploring this topic, it became apparent that most advocates promoting kindness as the highest virtue for social change are outside faith communities.  

This is unfortunate.  Religious practice fosters a spiritual discipline that empowers one to enter into uncomfortable situations, situations where kindness is needed the most!  Returning to Jesus' commandment to show kindness to our enemies, this is the demand that God places upon us.  And it might look something like this:

On a cold morning, you see someone on the street corner protesting against something you are passionate about.  You choose to go out of your way and bring that person a cup of tea and a pair of mittens.  You offer them a warm smile and wish them well.  And you go about the rest of your day.

You may never know the impact of that kindness on them.  But that little connection, the gratitude they offer back to you, can calm some of the anger in your heart.  These small acts of kindness not only benefit our enemies, but they help us to develop the compassion and empathy so desperately needed to bridge some of those divides in society!  And as bridges are built, enemies can become acquaintances, and those acquaintances can evolve into real relationships.  That is when love begins to enter in. 

And if Jesus did actually mean to love our enemies, whatever iteration of love that may be, to make that happen begins with kindness regardless!  

So just be kind.

LIGHTING UP THE DARKNESS PART III: WHEN DARKNESS OVERWHELMS

 As with most people, I have lost those who are dear to me.  More often than not, these losses happened as part of the natural rhythm of life.  As we grow older, that rhythm inevitably speeds up.  We all come from dust and to dust we all return.  Eventually, if we live long enough, it can feel like there isn't anything but dust blowing all around us.  But we take comfort in the memories of those who are no longer with us, and rejoice in the vibrancy of life we see in our children and grandchildren. 

It is the losses that occur outside the natural rhythm of life that stop us cold.  The kind that brings darkness so overwhelming it becomes the stuff of poetry and song.  

 The Rolling Stones song “Paint It Black”:

I look inside myself and see my heart is black

I see my red door, I must have it painted black

Maybe then I'll fade away and not have to face the facts

It's not easy facing up when your whole world is black

Or Metallica's “One”:

I can't remember anything

Can’t tell if this is true or a dream

Deep down inside I feel the scream

This terrible silence stops me

Now that the war is through with me

I'm waking up, I cannot see

That there's not much left of me

Nothing is real but pain now

Hold my breath as I wish for death

Oh please, God, wake me

While I have witnessed unimaginable circumstance in those around me, it has always been just far enough removed that I wasn’t swept into that vortex of darkness.  When people talk about having more than their fair share of grief or tragedy, I can’t help but feel some of that should have been mine.  I live with this sense of dread hanging over me.  Is my time coming?  What if one of my children is taken away?  Can I be as strong as others I've seen? 

As many of you know, my theological home is in process theology.  What captivated me, and what draws most people to process thought, is the belief that divine power is not manifested in the world in ways that allow God to override the laws of nature and supernaturally intervene in creation.   Unlike the God in the book of Job, process theology does not view divinity as something which causes or willingly allows evil to happen in the world.  Instead, God suffers with us, grieves with us, and our pain is divinely shared.

When my time comes and I'm facing down some of the worst life has to offer, my battle won't be with God.  I won't be shouting at the sky asking, "Why, God, did you allow this to happen?  What could possibly be the reason for this?"  Nor will I have the unsavoury temptation to defend God honour during these times or to protect God by thinking, "This is all part of a greater design, some mysterious plan to bring more goodness into the world.”   And I won’t feel the need verbalize those same words to try and comfort someone else.

We read tonight the passage in Job that sets the stage for the rest of the story.  The book of Job spans over a thousand verses across forty-two chapters, yet the majority of time in this account is relegated to a mere three verses.

When Job's three friends, Eliphaz the Temanite, Bildad the Shuhite and Zophar the Naamathite, heard about all the troubles that had come upon him, they set out from their homes and met together by agreement to go and sympathize with him and comfort him.  When they saw him from a distance, they could hardly recognize him; they began to weep aloud, and they tore their robes and sprinkled dust on their heads.  They sat on the ground with him for seven days and seven nights. No one said a word to him, because they saw how great his suffering was. 

For seven days and seven nights, his friends sat in silence with Job.  Their empathy for his suffering surpasses all expectations.  

This vigil is finally broken by the intrusion of theology.   After a week sitting in the dirt with his friends, Job finally speaks, and in his suffering, he challenges the unquestioned belief that God blesses the righteous and curses those who are not.

When Job puts God's honour on trial, the friends who sat and mourned with Job immediately assume the role of God's defenders.  In their urgency to protect their preconceived understanding of God's justice, they could no longer remain silent.  The need to respond to Job’s questioning took precedence over their continued willingness to be comforters.  

There is a time for theology, a time to reflect on why there is unimaginable evil in the world, but it has no place in the deep darkness.  Theologians and ministers who repeatedly defend God are an unwelcome intrusion into these moments.

Jesus' approach is different.  When he speaks about grief and suffering, such as in the beatitudes, he offers no defence of God's goodness, but rather instructions to his disciples on how to live in such times. 

"Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.”  These are not only words meant to bring mourners hope, but it is a command to the disciples to be comforters to others, not defenders of God.  

One of the greatest gifts we have to offer is to be there for those whose whole world has been painted black!  In the midst of profound grief it ceases to matter who you voted for, what your religion is, or any other manner of ideology that can cause division.  It is in these times that our humanity, that essential part of ourselves we all share, becomes most important.

So often, it is those who carry with them the memories of unspeakable tragedies who take up the task of being comforters.  Those guardian angels who have been through the overwhelming darkness and have come out the other side, bruised and scarred, but still with light left to share.  Those who willingly re-enter the darkness, to risk having their hearts broken again, who can be that gentle wisdom and empathy so needed in those times.  And sometimes without even knowing it, their unassuming presence lights up a little bit of that darkness, just enough so others might glimpse the path out. 

When the dark night of the soul comes for me, as it does for all of us, I expect the light I see will be God's gentle light shining through those who have walked that path before.  What a gift they are to are to the world. 

LIGHTING UP THE DARKNESS PART II: MULTIPLE LIGHTS BECOMING ONE MOMENT

 "When I was living in Halifax in the early 2000s, I received a call from a local Baptist Church asking if I was interested in interviewing for their youth pastor position for the summer. I had no idea how my name ended up on their list of possible candidates. I later found out that someone at Acadia Divinity College, where I had applied to study, had shared my name with various churches in the area. 

As I tell this story, one thing you need to know is that at this point in my life, I had a chip on my shoulder against an evangelical version of Christianity. Some of that had to do with my own evolving theology, but mostly I had some passionate views on specific social issues with which that Church disagreed. In spite of this, I was too curious about the whole process not to say yes. 

When I arrived for the interview, I met with the board of the church. One of the first questions they asked me about was my conversion experience. 

I don't know what it's like to grow up in other denominations, but in the Evangelical tradition which includes the Baptist church, there is a belief that every Christian must have a definitive moment when they ask Jesus to come into their heart and receive the gift of salvation. Kids like me—those who grew up in these churches and especially those who attended youth camps—will have any number of these conversion experiences, each of which, at the time, seems transformative. There is something about the combined forces of lack of sleep, peer pressure, and an emotionally charged worship service which facilitate these types of commitments. These were meaningful experiences were at the time, but in hindsight, they did not have a lasting impact on the trajectory of my faith. I know this because, after being back in the real world for a few days, I was my old self again —a mix of good decisions and bad, wrestling with a faith that seemed so certain just a short time ago when on the sacred ground of that camp.

Circling back to the interview, I knew the church board was looking for a particular type of answer when they wanted me to tell them about my conversion experience, and if I wanted to play the game I could have picked any one of those camp conversions. Now remember, I was in my early twenties. I didn't want the job because I knew I would be a terrible person for them to hire. So I gave them the worst possible answer, even if it was true. "I have never had a definitive conversion experience,” I said. "I grew up in the church, and I've always had a relationship with God. And that relationship has deepened over the years.” And that was it.

One of the sweetest ladies I’d ever met, with genuine concern and sadness, shook her head and said, "Oh dear, I don't think you're a Christian." I remember at the time wanting to reassure her, to let her know that I would I’d be all right. That I trusted God's grace is with me in every moment, and is not confined to a one-time contractual agreement. 

Conversion experiences, similar to Paul's on the road to Damascus, are the exception rather than the norm for most people in the wider Christian faith. Denominations that emphasize this 180-degree life-changing event do reach those people who are in urgent need of that spiritual transformation. Whether through the telling of the gospel story or a community accepting that person where they are, these moments can have a profound impact on one’s life and genuinely change them in that moment. And often it is at a time when their life is in crisis and when change is most needed. 

In no way do I do diminish the importance of these experiences, but I feel most people will never have the dramatic "I have seen the light" moment. Most of us change slowly over the course of a lifelong spiritual journey, marked by ups and downs. But when we look back over the course of time, our lives end up equally transformed, shaped by thousands of little moments of light along the way.It is difficult for people who have had that big “Aha! I have seen the light" moment to understand why others don't instantly share their views when exposed to the same knowledge that has so profoundly changed them. 

As someone who has had my own “Aha!” moment, I understand this. In the late 1990s, after my former college roommate came out as gay to the rest of the school, I became, almost overnight, a Christian evangelist for the LGBTQ+ movement. This was something that would have seemed impossible just a few months prior. 

Whatever circles I found myself in, I believed that I could change people's minds on this issue. I armed myself with well-honed and persuasive moral arguments. I did a tremendous amount of reading and research, to the point where I could easily deconstruct any of the often-quoted biblical passages that seem to condemn same-sex relations. I was certain I could convince anyone that their views on this issue were wrong and antithetical to authentic Christianity. 

To my surprise and constant frustration, this approach did not work. I had neither the patience nor the humility to converse in good faith with people who saw this issue differently. It put a great deal of strain on how I treated people in the church as my own personal views became more important than people. 

The ineffectiveness of this approach taught me an important life lesson: words don't change people's hearts and minds, relationships and time does. And looking back at my “Aha!" moment, I realize my heart was changed not because someone convinced me with logic that how I saw the world was wrong. The change in my worldview had everything to do with the friendship I shared with my college roommate. The hours we spent in the afternoons having tea, sharing our stories of faith and our struggles. His love of singing, especially as part of a choir singing sacred music, and my indifference to it. It was only after being a beneficiary of his light for so long that I began to acquire the knowledge to support what my heart already knew to be true. 

It's tempting to read the story of Saul's conversion in the book of Acts and interpret it as supporting the idea that God transforms people in a singular moment, isolated from past events. There are so many details of Paul's past story that will never be known. And it's these unknown details that cannot be separated from what took place on the road to Damascus. When I think about these dramatic conversion experiences, which are shared and lifted up, I don't deny the possibility that something miraculous can happen in those moments, however one might define a miracle. But I expect that these conversion events are less the result of the overwhelming presence of God finally coming down after years of inactivity, and more a culmination of little moments of divine light, small miracles in and of themselves, coalescing into a one. 

For the rest of us, these little instances of divine light shine on in smaller ways. Less dramatic to be sure, but just as transformative nonetheless.

Closing

If you ever have the chance to read or pray along with some of the late Walter Bruggleman's prayers, I encourage you to take that opportunity.  As gifted as he was as an old testament scholar, he’s equally gifted at writing some of the most beautiful prayers.  This is one of my favourites:

PRAYER OF CALLING BEYOND OUR COMFORT ZONES by Walter Bruggleman

We are among your called.

We have heard and answered your summons.

You have addressed us in the deep places of our lives 

in responsive obedience we testify, as we are able, to your truth as it concerns our common life.

We thank you for the call, for the burden of that call,

for the risk that goes with it,

for the joy of words given us by your spirit, 

and for the newness that sometimes comes from our world

We have indeed been in the counsel of your summoning spirit, and so we know some truth to speak.

We are, on most days, a hard mix of true prophet and wayward voice, 

a mix of your call to justice and our hope for Shalom.

Here we are, as we are, mixed but faithful,

compromised but committed,

anxious but devoted to you.

Use us and our gifts for your newness that pushes beyond all that we can say or imagine.

We are grateful for words given to us;

we are more grateful for your word fleshed among us.

LIGHTING UP THE DARKNESS PART 1: THE ABYSS (OCT. 19TH)

"Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster.  And if,” continues Nietzsche, "you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you."

Over this past year, I sometimes worry that the Abbey has become an exercise of staring into the abyss.  There has been a lot of dark subject matter —metaphorical monsters, if you will —covered over these past weeks and months, from the negative impact of AI and social media to political division and the rise of Christian nationalism.  It's all been a lot of end-of-the-world kind of stuff.  

It has never been my intention to bring more distress into the lives of those who come into this place.  I had always hoped this service could be a reprieve from a lot of that.  Much of the writing I've done this past year has been difficult; I’ve been spending too much time in a negative information space. 

I kept telling myself the next week I would move on to more hopeful things, but with each passing day, it became increasingly difficult to shake off the feelings of dread that our current times seem so adept at nurturing.  It is then difficult not to have those feelings be reflected in our time here.   Sometimes it seems I'm not only gazing into the abyss, but the abyss is beginning to gaze back at me … and also into this service.  

With this in mind, I keep asking myself, is it time to step out of the metaphorical darkness and into the light?  To leave behind talking about the problems that plague the world, and shift our gaze to things that bring simple joy and easy peace for those who come.  But I don't believe that is the solution either.  That line between blissful ignorance and wallowing in despair is not a thin one.  There is a world of meaning in between those two poles. 

As I reflected on this, it has been helpful to differentiate between a philosophical concept of darkness and Nietzsche's use of the word abyss, as they are not interchangeable terms.   

Darkness is not evil or antithetical to good.  It's easy to forget that everything that exists in the light is also present in the dark.  While many things are more difficult to see, it does not mean they are not there.   And in fact, there is a lot of beauty that cannot be seen in the light.  This sanctuary is a perfect example. 

The abyss, on the other hand, marks an absence of what exists in the light.  It can be best described as a deep void of nothingness.  When staring into the abyss, what stares back at you is not hidden meaning or a hard-to-find hope but a nihilistic emptiness.   

The book of Ecclesiastes captures this in its opening chapter: 

“Meaningless!  Meaningless!”

     says the Teacher.

“Utterly meaningless!

     Everything is meaningless.”

Or the more recognizable translation:

“Vanity of vanities,” 

says the Preacher.

“Vanity of vanities! 

All is vanity.”

This is a place where none of us wants to find ourselves!  But Feeling overwhelmed by darkness is not the same as gazing too long into the abyss.  Sometimes I do feel overwhelmed by everything that is happening in the world.  This service is often a tangible expression of that feeling, and sometimes it can be hard to differentiate between the two.

The last song we listened to in our Easter service, “O Hope”, was written by Joshua Luke Smith, who also wrote the blessing poem we heard earlier tonight.  He captures the idea of coming close to the abyss, but not yet being there. 

I saw a light burning dimly in the distance

But it meant the darkness had not overcome

And I heard a voice, oh so quiet I could hardly even hear

But that whisper meant that I was not alone

And I didn't feel so far from home

How much easier life would be if there could be one big bright light leading us out of this darkness, or at least a clear message from above that would make sense of it all.  So many are waiting for a saviour, a life-changing revelation, a personal transformation to banish the darkness forever.     

But life is rarely easy, and the dawn can seem to never come.  

In truth, I don't mind the darkness.  The deepest meaning, the most profound moments, so often happen in the dark.  I've always believed that inspired voices speak most emphatically in troubled times, and the messages of hope resonate loudest against the backdrop of despair.  

People spend so much time and energy trying to escape the darkness, believing that they'll find happiness and beauty on the other side, that they miss one of life’s fundamental truths.  You don't have to leave the dark to see beauty and to experience joy, you just have to linger long enough for your eyes to adjust, and your heart to calm. 

Flecks of light begin to appear and become brighter!  It is in moments such as this that we meet the bearers of these lights, reflectors of divine love and grace present in the darkness.  They are the poets and composers, the writers and huggers, the quiet listeners and the healers.  It is in these moments that their creativity is life-inspiring, their small acts of kindness are life-saving, their grace becomes life-changing, and their hope becomes the life-giving force we so desperately need.      

As we adjust to the darkness, we not only see constellations of small lights, but we start noticing the places where the light doesn’t penetrate.  I don't believe God is calling us out of the darkness and into the light.  Most days, I like to think the divine call is to go deeper into the darkness and to light it up.  A call to expose the beauty goodness all around us.  In doing so, we are there not to protect other from the dark, but protect those in danger of falling into the abyss.

Closing

Last winter, I had to drive to Charlottetown to pick up a new flute for my daughter and then drive from Charlottetown to Mount Allison to deliver that flute.  The trip was about two and a half hours long.   I had been listening to several different podcasts the morning I left.  Some were related to the work I had been doing for the AI series here, others were political and current event stuff.   By the time I arrive at Mount A, I must have consumed close to 5 hours' worth of media that day.  

As I got in the car to go home I felt like a zombie.  So, instead of listening to yet another podcast, I decided to put on my own music playlist, something I hadn’t done in months.  I remember as the music played it was like having my soul awaken up from a restless sleep.   

Music has played such an essential role in this service. It is possible that some of you would not have stuck with us this past year here without the counter-balance that these songs provide.   

I read a Facebook quote the other day that said this”

“If you want to believe that the world is terrible, watch the news. If you want to believe that the world is incredible, spend time in nature.”

I'd add one more, if you want to believe that humanity is beautiful, listen to music!