Authentically Sublime

One place I have not truly been is the Church of the Nativity, though I walk by it daily. Odd as it is, I have not visited the epicenter of Bethlehem Pilgrimages. The throngs kill my mood; maybe I have become a spirituality snob. I want my Nativity Church visit to take on a sublime and deeply authentic quality, to be alone in prayer with the place. The giant queue of muttering tourists deters me. Technically, I was in the building, once, but I don’t count that. Rafík, Zoughbi’s thirteen year-old son, wanted to light a prayer candle on our way to السوك to buy fruit one Saturday. Rafík went up to the priest, in athletic shorts and cleats, whispered in his unimposing way, and the priests nodded their assent and lifted the rope for him. I held his soccer ball and enjoyed the looks of indignation on the faces of all the visitors. It was a moment of authentic spirituality for my young friend, though.

Most Sundays, the Zoughbis bring me with them to an Arabic speaking Orthodox Church not far from the Star Street. I’ve learned to cross myself and to say the Lord’s Prayer in my own language when I notice the congregation reciting it in Arabic. I am still just learning. I like this Orthodox church because they must know that I am an interloping Protestant but they still give me communion. Just before the feast of Saint Francis Assisi, however, Zoughbi and the boys decided they wanted to attend at Santa Catalina’s, the Roman Catholic appendage to the Church of the Nativity complex (not “The Church” proper—they connect through a courtyard). We ended-up at the back behind a pillar. Once again, I crossed myself and spaced-out until the Lord’s Prayer.

The following Tuesday, I joined Liam for an evening vigil at St. Cat’s. Liam is another international volunteer; he just received a graduate degree in physics and looks as Irish as his name sounds. I rely upon my Catholic friends to interpret events like these and I’m rarely disappointed: I picked-up a few tid-bits about St. Francis and the way to distinguish between some Roman Catholic orders.

Liam was not any help deciphering the content of the liturgy, however. The service was conducted neither in English nor in Arabic but in Italian.

“I think I have a fighting chance in Italian,” I joked, “I know some Spanish... they’re related...”

To some extent, I was right. Thanks to a Latin alphabet I was able to sing almost all the words to the songs written in the bulletin and had a vague idea what I was saying (less than half but more than a quarter...). It was refreshing to be singing again but I still felt disconnected from the experience. Occasionally, there would be a reading: first Italian, then Arabic, English and French.

I discretely clicked a few photographs of the inside of the church at this point. The ornate ceiling and the artwork along the walls were beautiful but my attention was drawn to the supporting pillars: the place had obviously been partly destroyed at some point and then restored. The thickest of the pillars were made of more roughly hewn stone but the second-wave of architects had ingeniously managed to join the new parts of the structure smoothly with these relics, creating a network of supports that gave the space a hybrid character and a hint of antiquity. The monks handed us each a long, thin candle. The flame passed from wick to wick. The electric lights dimmed to nothing and I began to wonder if this was where I would feel a moment of heaviness or the movement of the Spirit. Like anyone, I meander closer and further from the Divine.

My hair stood on end when a long moan sliced through the thickening air of the church. From across Manger Square, for the fifth time that day as every day, the mosque loud speakers trumpeted the evening prayer. It was other-worldly, to hear that from inside the church. Barely a minute later, the sounds of the pipe organ and people singing in Italian rose into the air and juxtaposed against the modal changes of the prayers. The resonance of that moment was surreal; we were that close, Christians and Muslims, worshipping the One God with deepest reverence in two historic traditions.

That night, my worship took on a sublime and deeply authentic quality.

Kairos

I feel embattled, as I have this entire day. I want this entry to be insightful while I simultaneously want it to be over. I know that it should be written but I wish I were writing something else. It warrants being written yet I will only be able to touch upon its subject matter. I want this entry to be momentous yet it is about the very moment that it desires to be...

The word 'Kairos' has its origins in Greek. Chronos is the form of time with which we are all so familiar. As my spiritual director said to me Thursday, that kind of time is a "commodity" that we "parcel". I confessed to him that time has become my idol, though I hadn't any clue how that came to be. We agreed to blame society, he and I. Then we started talking about Kairos—the fullness of time. That word has sat on the back of my tongue ever since. I find it an entertaining irony that my entry titled "kairos" seems to be coming at what would seem an inopportune moment—days after this discussion with Gerry.

It will not surprise you that I have chased Chronos. It is the 'American' condition. For too long I have envied those who are much better at that chase than I am: organized, driven, capable of intuiting just how to do something most efficiently. Those visions of perfect chronos management appealed to the perfectionism that had gone to seed in my mind since early school days—quantifiable bench-marks for success. But I failed utterly. I am twenty-four years old with no clear career track, no wife, and an absent-minded nature. If chronos were puss, I am covered with open sores. It oozes out of my skin and I lose it forever.

This concept of Kairos came as a subtle relief to me—and an affirmation of another tendency in myself. Thursday, I left work an hour before my session with Gerry so that I would not be late. Half-way to my destination, I realized how early I was going to be. I thought about time and how it had become my idol. I wondered what I would do, nonetheless, during those extra fifteen minutes. The moment itself was momentous. I climbed from my car and sat on an embankment over-looking a wetland and began to say an open-eyed prayer. I found Kairos—the sense that I was in the right moment doing just as I needed to be doing.

My addiction to chronos continues, though. You readers are spared my long internal monologue about how I spent my time today because it is almost midnight and I know that I cannot fully tackle this. Instead, I want to tease at the beginning of these thoughts—

The image of a boulder in a stream. Gerry said "why don't you plug that image into your mind a few times this week; see what happens." –not knowing that a day will not pass for at least a week without my thinking about that boulder. Upstream is the entirety of my past, down-stream is a bend in the river that I cannot see past. There, on the down-stream side of that boulder RIGHT before the future is a back-eddy where I can put the nose of my kayak and cling to that boulder indefinitely.

The Kairos I found while I researched on the internet is about seizing a moment but the Kairos Gerry was speaking to me about is like that boulder in the stream. He keeps stressing "being" as opposed to "doing." So, perhaps I was right to drink whiskey and watch "Rush Hour II" on Thursday night, rather than seize the moment (perhaps not) because this thought carries on and to fold-it-up neatly in a journal entry would not bring it to life as I had hoped.

"Whenever something happens or you have a thought, John, I notice that you feel compelled to do something with it. That's not necessarily bad but... do you think it is okay to just take the experience in and then let it go? There is worth in that, too..."

As I often say in my hand-written journal (when I get to it) 'many thoughts'. Kairos is just one dimension of 'Waiting'. My mind is splitting in eight different directions again, trying to do something with all of my complex thoughts and emotions.

When Gerry mentioned the boulder, he was not trying to describe Kairos. He was trying to get me to stop being completely absorbed with either my thoughts or emotions, running back and forth between them. He is trying to get me to dwell inside my soul.

I am afraid I have left more questions instead of answers. As I said, I think I would rather be writing something else—so when will that occur? Perhaps that time is nearing.

*unsatisfied*

Windy Days

I am still doing fine; as the band Switchfoot once said, I want "more than fine". I'm feeling my restlessness again. It may be the only feeling that is a sufficient condition for my journaling. I've certainly had many things I could have mentioned-- yet, it is restlessness that motivates me to blog.
I need a commission to come my way, fast. My girlfriend is "encouraging" me to apply to the camp she works at and that's fine-- for a short-term commitment. I know that it can be good for me. It comes into my thoughts intermittently during the day-- the prospect of being out-doors more, of being forced into a role-model position, of being free of technological encumbrances. It will all end, though. That will be it-- nine weeks or so. Then what? Another X number of years of drifting around spiritually. I fell away... but I fell softly away. I hate that. I hate when separation is like falling into a fluffy couch or warm water or whatever. I hate how I have trouble feeling where I am spiritually. Everyone knows that truly spiritual experiences are complicated and end up bringing us challenges. If they don't admit they know, some part of them does. I wonder if that same part of me is putting up a block or if I am just in an easy place.
What can I do to get out of here? Maybe this is a natural feeling-- God's way of keeping me from being satisfied. The problem is it's the worst test there is for me... to let me fall away softly like I have in the past. Women. Small successes. Luxury items. That's why I don't brag about the car-- I'm afraid of what it means. Yes, I have a nice little car. I'm already starting to splurge on it in little ways. Booze. Maybe I was happier when I had quit it. Then, I never had to wonder about it. Not at all-- it just wasn't there. It wasn't helping or hurting or providing anything. It was just not there.

I am seeing how people give up on being spiritual individuals. This is annoying-- it is annoying because I have to be forgiving of people for settling for less-- I have to admit that I have been there in my adult life. That I have just let lax, at times, too. This annoys me-- it annoys me that my intense spiritual experiences are memories and I don't know where to get more, necessarily. It annoys me that I am positioned to be loved and comfortable. I'm annoyed.

Obviously, I am also very confused right now. I've quit the medicine. It just wasn't getting me anywhere forward. It keeps you steady, where you are. Sometimes I don't WANT to be steady. I wanted everyone to believe I was sane for so long and now... I just want to be crazy. This time, I want to be crazy and not care what anyone thinks except the Divine. I want to be good crazy~ not depressed, of course. I want to undertake a journey and actually make the RIGHT turn when the fork in the road comes.

I remember this frustration with journaling right before I weaned off and quit. I hope I'm headed in reverse; I want to think I'm fighting back this time. That instead of settling down into nothing I am going forward into a chaotic something. This medium might be insufficient but... I still have it. It's still here, to draw from. To vent in.