Faith January 25, 2009

This is the first in a series of essays about various concepts I find relevant to my work as a nun and priest. These may or may not mirror the lists of values I’ve written about in previous entries, and they are not meant to be taken as either a declaration of firm personal convictions or an attempt to impose dogma on others. It’s not that I don’t have convictions, but as I have no formal training in theology or religion, this is my way of learning to see certain things in a new light. As always, your comments and observations are welcome.

* * *

Recently I was talking to a friend about various issues related to the presence of the gods in one’s life. I heard myself utter the following, without really thinking about what I was going to say beforehand.

“Faith,” I said to him, “is about not having assumptions.”

I don’t know exactly how I came up with that, but later on when I thought about what I’d said, I realized that it makes a certain kind of sense, at least from my particular theological standpoint, which is different from that of many people — especially those from traditions where the Deity or Deities are seen as all-powerful.

I believe that when many people say that they have faith, what they really mean is that they have hope. They hope that things won’t be as bad as they fear they’re going to be. They hope that circumstances will lead to this or that desired outcome. They hope that their loved ones will choose this course of action rather than that one. They hope that all their attempts to behave in what they see as a proper manner will earn them a reward in the end. I don’t believe this is faith, because while hope may be faith holding out its hand in the dark, as George Iles said, real faith is not fueled by fear. And much of what people call “faith” these days seems to be — fear of the unwanted outcome being the predominant driving force.

I’m not slamming people for being afraid of outcomes, or for wanting some shred of comfort in dark times. It’s not as if I’ve never wanted things to turn out the way I desired, or hoped against all hope that something wouldn’t happen the way I feared it would. But as a monastic, one of the things I have had to learn right off the bat was that fear of what might be should not be the main thing that powers my belief in the gods or my desire to cultivate a better relationship with Them. And having faith without its attendant shadow of fear is a difficult thing indeed. Perhaps it’s not even possible, some would argue. But I disagree.

When we’re talking about big issues like life and death — rather than, say, whether or not the buffet at Pizza Hut has any sausage and mushroom pizza left — that sort of “faith” is also very dependent on two assumptions: 1) The universe is a fair and equal place where people who are good get what they deserve, and people who are nasty likewise get what they deserve, and/or 2) There is a higher power that is benevolent and wishes for you to be happy and well above all else. Unfortunately, neither of these viewpoints are ones I find particularly useful, true or very conducive to the maintenance of my mental health. Judging from the ambivalent way people express their various interpretations of faith these days, it seems as if I’m not the only one who feels that way, either. As a hard polytheist with some small personal experience in dealing directly with higher powers who are neither omniscient or omnipotent, I can with certainty say that, in my life at least, neither #1 or #2 is at all true.

There is nothing wrong with hope, of course. It is the thing that cannot be killed — in Neil Gaiman’s The Sandman, there’s a scene where Dream is challenged to “the oldest game” and wins because the demon he’s pitted against cannot think of anything that can defeat hope. Hope helps people fight and win battles against all odds, and brings others back to their loved ones after many years and extenuating circumstances have forced them apart. Hope has kept many a prisoner or other victim of misfortune or crime alive when things were at their worst. However, I’d say faith in the context of religion (especially Pagan religion) is a different animal altogether.

If it is your belief that having faith in the gods means assuming that They will always act in what we believe are our own best interests, then I strongly advise anybody with such an inclination to reconsider your thoughts. Our gods, at least those of the Nordic lands, are mighty and marvelous but most definitely not perfect. They occasionally make mistakes. They do not know everything. Shit happens and sometimes even They cannot stop it from hitting the fan. And because They can be ruthless as well as generous, They will sometimes act in what is purely Their own best interest — which may have nothing to do with what we want for ourselves.

I don’t say this merely because I am a Lokean and thus more familiar than most with a deity who is less than trustworthy when it comes to making His followers happy. I say this because I have also dealt with other, less “exciting” gods and know many other folks whose experiences with the Holy Ones have borne out my view that blind faith in the gods is a dangerous and ultimately disappointing endeavor. Believe me or not, as you will, but unless you are one of those people who’s convinced that the universe and everything in it exists for the sole purpose of making you feel empowered or aiding your personal growth, you must admit that gods are not obligated to do whatever we want, and there is no way to make Them.

Also, the idea that, apart from the influence of the Divine, the universe is a fair and equal place is one that I cannot share or even pretend to share. First of all, one need only look around at the state of the world to discover that no, people don’t always get what they deserve whether they behave rightly or wrongly. Second, the laws that ensure that nature abhors a vacuum and that nothing exists without an equal and opposing force do not have a lot to do with human ideas of morality. Will the universe smite someone who said something nasty about you just because they hurt your feelings? No. Will you be bound to never defame another person if you then use magic to curse that person for what they said? Possibly, but that’s because you expended some energy in a particular direction, not because the stars themselves find it odious that some guy at the occult shop called you a dilettante wanker. The point of this is that if you have “faith” that the people you dislike will all wind up broke, old, helpless and alone just because it’s not fair that they get away with things, or that by “harming none” you will escape all misfortune, you’re most likely going to be as sorely disappointed as you will be by expecting Thor to smite whoever rubs you the wrong way.

So what’s the point of having any faith at all, then, if the gods are going to act however They please and the universe doesn’t seem to care if anybody behaves themselves or not? Why should we bother with faith at all? I believe faith is important because assumptions are a dangerous thing, and if faith really is about not having assumptions — about the gods, the world we live in, other people or ourselves — than striving for that makes us readier to handle whatever challenges arise and more likely to appreciate the blessings that come. While the universe is not an entirely benevolent place, neither is it an entirely awful one. Faith prepares you to handle whatever you get because it is as much about not assuming the worst as it is about not hoping for the best.

Having faith in one’s gods is somewhat more complex. While I would advise folks never to take anything Loki says merely at face value, I can and do try to have faith in Him, even though I know He isn’t always honest with me. I don’t have faith that Loki, or any other god for that matter, is going to do something just because I want it. I have faith that They will be Themselves. In order to cultivate that faith, I need to try and understand the gods as They truly are, not just as I want Them to be. This is really hard, and it’s also where not having assumptions really comes in handy, because few things are so disappointing as when we discover that people really aren’t what we thought they were. And when it’s a god or goddess who’s suddenly shown you Their true colors, it can be devastating to realize that you were wrong all along about Them. I don’t have faith that Loki will protect me from every harm, or strike down all my enemies, or that He’ll never do something that affects me in inexplicable or possibly painful ways. He isn’t all-powerful, after all. But He is what He is, and I have faith that Loki won’t be other than what He is — imperfect as my understanding of that might be. And the imperative is on me to gain greater understanding of Him, rather than expect Him to jump through hoops to “prove” to me that my faith in Him is justified.

When it comes down to it, faith without assumptions can bring us to a level where we are continually aware of our exact place in the web of existence, with our orlog around and behind us, our hamingja in our hands, our wyrd before us, and the Holy Ones beside us to guide us along the way and to use us as Their hands in this world of ours. Cultivating faith, having it, can also show us that our concerns of the moment, the things for which we say we have “faith” or hope, might really be insignificant in the long run. Or maybe not. The cool thing about faith is that you can choose to have it or not. If you’d rather live with hope because faith as I’ve defined it here doesn’t seem optimistic enough, that’s up to you. Even if my ideas about the alleged true nature of faith seem somewhat sketchy, I do know one thing for certain: nobody can give or take away your faith. You’ve got to find it and keep it for yourself.

My Joy: Mysticism January 12, 2009

My joy –
My Hunger –
My Shelter –
My Friend –
My Food for the journey –
My journey’s End –
You are my breath,
My hope,
My companion,
My craving,
My abundant wealth.
Without You — my Life, my Love –
I would never have wandered across these endless countries.
You have poured out so much grace for me,
Done me so many favors, given me so many gifts –
I look everywhere for Your love –
Then suddenly I am filled with it.
O Captain of my Heart
Radiant Eye of Yearning in my breast,
I will never be free from You
As long as I live.
Be satisfied with me, Love,
And I am satisfied.

– Rabi’a Al-’Adawiyya (717-801)

I love this poem. It captures so much of what I feel about Loki, and it is true that I have been the recipient of many gifts from His hands — even if some of those did have strings attached. I love other gods very much, but Laufey’s son holds my heart in His hands, no matter what other people may say or how much they disapprove. I am a mystic as well as a priestess and a nun; at times there is no clear boundary between the three roles.

I believe the mystic’s journey is essentially the same no matter what tools one uses along the way or which Beloved waits at the end of the road. I often see familiar things in the love songs and hymns of praise written by other mystics — Christian, Hindu, Muslim or Pagan — to their gods. I’m especially fond of Mirabai, daughter of a high-caste family who ran away to become a wandering holy woman, constantly writing poems in praise of Krishna, who she considered to be her husband. I can relate to her constant and often painfully sweet search for Him. The longing for the divine Beloved is sharper than any earthly hunger, and the joy that comes from nearness with one’s Beloved is more intoxicating than any earthly pleasure.

My understanding is that in other traditions,  the mystic seeks to rise above the physical world, the body and its needs, in order to unite with the Divine, which is seen as transcendent, even if the world is the creation of that same god(s). As a Pagan, however, I believe this faulty, magnificent world is holy in and of itself. I don’t wish to transcend the physical so much as incorporate it into the realm of all that I consider sacred and praiseworthy. And I don’t need to drag the spirits down to my level to be a Pagan mystic. The gods and spirits are already here, present in all that I see, touch, smell, taste and hear. My ancestors live in my flesh and blood and memory. The spirits of the land and sea, of the animals and plants that live in and around and beneath, are everywhere I look. And while one particular Personage is the fire that burns at the center of my heart, all the gods are never far away so long as I remember Them, tend Their harrows and holy places, care for the things They love and allow Them to speak to me when They have something to say. So long as I remember that while They inhabit Their own worlds, those worlds touch mine, and interconnect in ways I might overlook or mistake for something else, if I am careless or hasty to judge.

The trick is in learning how to know all that in a way which cannot be forgotten. Yes, it’s hard, because the world we live in is imperfect, frustrating, often frightening, and there are times (such as recently in my own life) where the gods seem remote, the spirits silent, and the heart beats in what seems an eternity of dreadful silence, and one feels totally disconnected and alone. Every mystic grapples with those feelings, too, though they are written about less often than when we are full of the power and ecstasy of the Holy Ones. It is not an easy path, and it is often a lonely and scary one. But whatever my other religious and spiritual responsibilities might be, I feel that for me at least, learning how to be a Pagan mystic is a worthwhile and rewarding task.

Food for Thought January 7, 2009

I recently finished reading Kathleen Norris’s The Cloister Walk. It is half memoir and half meditative account of what it’s like to be a Benedictine oblate, in the monastary from time to time, but not of it. Much of the theology is alien to me as I am not a Christian, but Benedict’s Rule has existed for centuries as a guide for monastics, and today many folks other than Catholics are finding inspiration within it. Among other things, it is a helpful and compassionate guide to living as a true community rather than merely a collection of individuals. And I find that admirable.

Norris’s book is difficult to get through at times since although it’s loosely structured in a Book of Hours-like format, in chronological time it jumps around quite a bit. And since it is part memoir, a good deal of the content has little or nothing to do with monasticism (the author is a poet by profession and tends to wander all over the mental map, as most poets do). But Norris’s friendships with various monks and nuns and her own reflective, thoughful nature have given her a unique perspective on modern monastic life. Take, for example:

Monastic men and women tell me that one question that bites pretty hard in their early years in the monastary is why anone would choose to live this way, deprived of the autonomy and abundance of choice that middle-class Americans take for granted. We’re taught all our lives to “keep our options open,” but a commitment to monastic life puts an end to that. It is not a choice but a call, and often the people who last in a monastary are those who struggle through their early years reminding themselves of that fact.

I found this incredibly heartening, having recently grappled (yet again) with the question of “why am I doing this?” I often have a hard time remembering that for me, too, it was not a choice but a calling. And by “calling” I don’t just meant that my gods told me this is what They wanted. It was also a deep, inexorable soul-pull towards the culmination of action that in my own religious tradition is called wyrd, a recognition that for me, this is the way things ought to be or rather, become.

Elsewhere she writes:

If scarcity makes things more precious, what does it mean to choose the spare world over one in which we are sated with abundance? [...] What would I find in my own heart if the noise of the world were silenced? Who would I be? Who will I be, when loss or crisis or the depredations of time take away the trappings of success, of self-importance, even personality itself?

Reading these bits was electrifying for me. It came along precisely at a moment when I, in the grip of acedia, was desperately and uselessly searching for some kind of banal distraction with which to avoid silencing the noise of my world. I was not born knowing I’d become Loki’s priestess-wife, never felt that one day I would willingly choose this weirdly cloistered existence over the things my parents, my peers and everyone else told me I ought to pursue to supposedly fulfill my life. When the call did arrive, I answered it gladly enough, but that hasn’t made it any easier to lose the things that obstruct my view of where I’m going and want to be eventually.

I realized that I can make vows and take on the veil (symbolically speaking) and commit myself to a more rigorous daily life, but only the silencing of the voices that take my attention from my Beloved can really help me understand who I am and what shape my devotion will take. And I can’t do that if I’m constantly getting involved in useless hobbies that don’t serve any practical purpose, or getting caught up in issues that have nothing to do with my religious commitment. Just because I haven’t got a cloister to retire into, and just because my god is one who requires neither chastity nor self-restraint nor fierce asceticism from His followers doesn’t mean I’m exempt from the need to improve my life’s signal to noise ratio.

So reading this book, while sometimes boring or annoying, provided me with some things to chew on as regards my own life and novice state. I’d owned my copy for some months but never gotten around to reading it until a month or so ago, and when I did I found that, as so often happens, it was exactly what I needed to hear.