No Cows to Lose
March 11, 2008
Because whoever has a desire to keep his
life safe
will have it taken from him; but whoever
gives up his
life because of me, will have it given back
to him.
Jesus, Gospel of Matthew
Without wonder we approach life as a
self-help
project. We employ techniques; we analyze
gifts and
penalties; we set goals and assess progress.
Spiritual formation is reduced to
cosmetics.
Eugene Peterson
One day the Buddha was sitting with his
monks. A distraught farmer approached. "Monks,
have you seen my cows?" The Buddha said, "No we
have not." The farmer continued, "I am
distraught. I
have only twelve cows, and now they are gone.
How
will I survive?" The Buddha looked at him with
compassion and said, "I'm sorry my friend, we
have
not seen them. You may want to look in the
other
direction." After the farmer had gone, the
Buddha
turned to his monks, looked at them deeply,
smiled
and said, "Dear ones, do you know how lucky you
are? You don't have any cows to lose."
This is an easy story. Because I own no cows. A few cats maybe. It's just that the things which do clutter my heart and mind (and absorb my energy and focus, and weigh me down) are much more encumbering than the farmer's cows.
My need to be in a hurry.
My need to impress those around me.
My dissatisfaction with ordinary days and gifts of grace.
My preoccupation with all that's left undone.
In the comic strip Downstown, John (single and still looking for the perfect woman) sat on a park bench with a friend. He saw a beautiful woman sitting not far away. "That's a beautiful woman," he said to his friend. "I'm going to ask her for a date. Yes, I'm going to get up right now and ask her. That's right, I'm going to get up and go over and ask her." He stood, began walking, and said, "After all, what have I got to lose?"
As he walked to the woman's bench, his friend shouts, "Nothing, just all your masculinity, your self-confidence and your self-esteem." John returned to the bench, sat down and said, "Thanks for reminding me."
When my identity is defined by what I have, or possess, or earn, or strive for, or require in order to impress, I have everything to lose.
The Sabbath--stopping, sitting still, waiting--allows us to hear the voice of Grace saying, "You are accepted. Period. Deal with it."
Paul Tillich elaborates, "You are accepted by that which is greater than you, and the name of which you do not know. Do not seek for anything. Do not perform anything, do not intend anything. Simply accept the fact that you are accepted." If that happens to us, we experience grace.
It is a reminder that I can live and choose and commit "from acceptance" and not "for acceptance." I'm not doing any of this (Sabbath, prayer, rest, reflection, renewal) to impress anyone or earn points. Life is full. This life. Or moment. Or relationship. Or conversation. Or encounter. The sacred present begins here.
A young man boarded an overnight train in Europe. He was told, "There have been a lot of recent thefts. We take no responsibility for any loss." This worried the young man, because he carried a lot of stuff. So, he lay awake, fearing the worst, staring at his stuff. Finally, at 3 am, he fell asleep. Waking with a start twenty minutes later, he saw that his stuff was gone. He took a deep breath. "Thank God," he said. "Now I can sleep."
This is an easy story. Because I own no cows. A few cats maybe. It's just that the things which do clutter my heart and mind (and absorb my energy and focus, and weigh me down) are much more encumbering than the farmer's cows.
My need to be in a hurry.
My need to impress those around me.
My dissatisfaction with ordinary days and gifts of grace.
My preoccupation with all that's left undone.
In the comic strip Downstown, John (single and still looking for the perfect woman) sat on a park bench with a friend. He saw a beautiful woman sitting not far away. "That's a beautiful woman," he said to his friend. "I'm going to ask her for a date. Yes, I'm going to get up right now and ask her. That's right, I'm going to get up and go over and ask her." He stood, began walking, and said, "After all, what have I got to lose?"
As he walked to the woman's bench, his friend shouts, "Nothing, just all your masculinity, your self-confidence and your self-esteem." John returned to the bench, sat down and said, "Thanks for reminding me."
When my identity is defined by what I have, or possess, or earn, or strive for, or require in order to impress, I have everything to lose.
The Sabbath--stopping, sitting still, waiting--allows us to hear the voice of Grace saying, "You are accepted. Period. Deal with it."
Paul Tillich elaborates, "You are accepted by that which is greater than you, and the name of which you do not know. Do not seek for anything. Do not perform anything, do not intend anything. Simply accept the fact that you are accepted." If that happens to us, we experience grace.
It is a reminder that I can live and choose and commit "from acceptance" and not "for acceptance." I'm not doing any of this (Sabbath, prayer, rest, reflection, renewal) to impress anyone or earn points. Life is full. This life. Or moment. Or relationship. Or conversation. Or encounter. The sacred present begins here.
A young man boarded an overnight train in Europe. He was told, "There have been a lot of recent thefts. We take no responsibility for any loss." This worried the young man, because he carried a lot of stuff. So, he lay awake, fearing the worst, staring at his stuff. Finally, at 3 am, he fell asleep. Waking with a start twenty minutes later, he saw that his stuff was gone. He took a deep breath. "Thank God," he said. "Now I can sleep."
Poems / Prayers
Where the Shopkeeper Would Say
I was
looking for that shop
where the shopkeeper would say,
"There is nothing of value in here."
I found it and did
not leave.
The richness of not wanting wrote these poems.
Kabir (1440-1518)
Deep peace of the running wave to you.
Deep peace of the flowing air to you.
Deep peace of the quiet earth to you.
Deep peace of the shining stars to you.
Deep peace of the infinite peace to you.
Amen.
Celtic Prayer and Blessing
Peace,
Terry Hershey
