A Peace Not of This World

“Where is peace to be found? The answer is surprising but it is clear: in weakness. Few people are telling us this truth, but there is peace to be found in our own weakness, in those places of our hearts where we feel most broken, most insecure, most in agony, most afraid. Why there? Because in our weakness our familiar ways of controlling or manipulating our world are being stripped away and we are forced from doing anything much, and relying on our self-sufficiency. Right there where we are most vulnerable, the peace that is not of this world is mysteriously hidden.”
Finding My Way Home: Pathways to Life and the Spirit  Henri J.M. Nouwen

If we are ever to find peace, it will be "peace that is not of this world."  Every year during the holidays we hear or sing, "Let there be peace on earth" hoping against hope that this will be the year. The truth is, there will never be "peace of earth". The only way we could  honestly claim "peace on earth" would be when there is no conflict whatsoever within nations, between nations, within families and between all people everywhere.  Until the end of the world, that is not going to happen. If we're waiting for peace on earth to find peace within, we're going to be waiting for a long time.

So we're back to "peace that is not of this world."  Even  if this is possible, and I think that it is, we will only  enjoy this state from time to time in spurts of awareness.  It is unreasonable to think that we're going to reach Nirvana and stay there in a perpetual state of being.  I can think of a few times that I experienced "peace that is not of this world."  One afternoon in the summer of 1971  I sat against a headstone in a cemetery in Owensboro, Kentucky.  I was taking a break from the rigors of door to door sales.  While I was sitting there this "peace not of this world" found me.  I had never felt so good in my life.  In that moment I had no problems and the problems of the world seemed to vanish.  I remained in this blissful state for nearly an hour until I got up to resume knocking on doors. And to some extent I stayed in that state for the rest of the day.

Another time I experienced this peace was the morning in 1981 my son was born.  My wife had been in labor for more than 30 hours. I was coming off a one week sleep-deprived mission trip with the youth of my church so we were both exhausted.  Obviously, my exhaustion paled in comparison to hers. I don't want to suggest that our fatigue was equal. As he was being  born, even with Lamaze and Gentle Birth training, I was not prepared for what I saw.  As he was emerging from the birth canal, my son was a bluish/purple color and I wondered if he was alive. After he was born and after the token pat on the butt, he started crying.  My tears flowed and my relief was immense. I thought my heart was going to explode. After my wife held our son for a few minutes, the nurse handed him to me.  Holding this newborn baby who carried my name and my DNA was about more than I could comprehend. The room became a holy place. The Bible speaks of "angels unaware"; this room was filled with angels very much aware. The nurses had prepared a warm bath for our baby.  I gently lowered him into the water as he quietly searched my face and blinked with awareness.  Like the experience in Kentucky a few years before, never had I felt as at peace with the world than in those moments.  Later when I started calling people, that peace turned into exuberance as I exclaimed to my family and friends, "I have a son!"

Nouwen says that "peace is to be found...in those places of our heart where we feel most broken, most insecure...most afraid" because we are forced to not rely on our self-sufficiency. I have little idea what he means by that. But in my case, sitting in a cemetery and a few years later standing in a maternity ward, there may be a connection between death and birth. There may be a mystical something in common with both experiences. "The peace that is not of this world is mysteriously hidden."

So were my experiences peace in the world or peace not of this world? They were some of both. Neither were out of the body experiences. I was very much in the body. And yet in both cases I was in the presence of Something not of this world. As much as I would love for there to be peace on earth this Christmas, for now I'll be content to know that absolute peace is possible. "Let there be peace on earth and let it begin in me."

Phaedrus

This article contains several spoilers to the book Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert Pirsig.  If you intend to read the book  you might not want to read this.  On the other hand this information might could jump start your understanding of a deeply complex narrative. More than 10 million copies have been sold. Most of us who have read it have read it more than once. I’ve read it four times. Just because you haven’t read it doesn’t mean the book’s not worth reading and it doesn’t mean that you’re a worthless reader.  It just means you’ve never read it and may not care to.

The Phaedrus was a book written by Plato around 360BC.  I’ve never read that book.  That Phaedrus is not who Phaedrus is to me.  My “Phaedrus” is the fictional creation of Robert Pirsig in his book Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance published in 1974. “Phaedrus” is also a very real emotional ghost in my own life.

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance has been called “fictional autobiography”.  But  the events of the 17- day motorcycle trip were essentially true and the four people who made the trip were very real. Besides the author, his son and two friends made the trip from  Minnesota to California, well except the friends bailed out in Montana.  I didn’t understand just how real Chris was and had become to me until I picked up a 10^th anniversary copy over 30 years ago. I was in a bookstore in Nashville, Tennessee when the book virtually jumped off the shelf into my hands.  I opened to the preface and read that Chris had been murdered. I came unglued, I had to go to the restroom to cry and to collect myself. Twelve year old Chris had been the glue that held his father together and who made the trip possible for all of them. Now Chris Pirsig was dead. He died on November 17,1979 at the age of twenty two. Years later Pirsig would say “I kept living more out of  habit than anything.” Robert, the author, died on April 24, 2017 at the age of 88.

Robert Pirsig was mentally ill.  He suffered with a variety of mental and emotional problems.  Those problems become apparent in his book. He not only recalled his mental illness before treatment, but became progressively ill on the trip. The reader learns that Pirsig had entered  treatment in a mental hospital several years before the motorcycle trip.  Furthermore, you learn that he had undergone several shock treatments while he was there. After he was released from the hospital and started getting better Phaedrus came into being. Phaedrus was the part of Pirsig before the treatment.  The ECT had taken a toll so Phaedrus appeared in random times and places. He felt Phaedrus’ presence before he figured out why.

Yesterday my wife and I were traveling home from a fun and meaningful family Christmas gathering in Montgomery, Alabama  and visits with two sets of lifetime friends in Birmingham. We were on I-459 in Birmingham approaching the interchange with I-59 north when he showed up. Phaedrus’ company is unmistakable. Although I had nothing on my mind but good memories and positive expectations, I suddenly felt that poignant mixture of hope and sadness. More sadness than hope.  As I traveled up I-59 north toward Chattanooga, I contemplated my emotional plight and I understood I was feeling the shadow of a multitude of trips up  that highway between 1979 and 1983. Phaedrus remembers so many things that I have long forgotten. Phaedrus is not evil, but he doesn't always have good intent.  35 years ago was both a wonderful and horrible time.  Those trips north always involved love and fun from Enterprise or Jasper in my rear-view mirror and dread through my windshield. Looking back,  I really had nothing to dread;  it’s just what I chose to feel. And my emotional system was happy to accommodate.  

Yesterday afternoon I thanked Phaedrus for the memory and then  told him to go away.  I may have chosen to feel down and out 35 years ago, but I had way too much to look forward to yesterday. Between hope and sadness, I chose hope.  Pirsig also had to make a decision.  In a dramatic showdown on a mountain top and again in California he had to decide if he was going to give in to Phaedrus or continue the trip with Chris.  He chose his son.  They completed the trip together. 

There's a term in psychology called emotional intelligence.  I have not always been emotionally intelligent, but I think I'm getting there.  Like yesterday in Birmingham, Alabama I can't control where and when Phaedrus will show up, but I can control what I do with his company.  "Be gone!", Jesus said. And he was.

Eventually I'll read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance again.  Each time I read it I not only understand the book so much better, but I understand myself so much better. The title page states that the book is "an inquiry into values."  Being reminded of what really matters is a lesson I never get tired of learning. I don't ride motorcycles, but I can read.

Connections

“As you prepare to travel out in the world, remember it will always feel smaller with a little kindness. Because we know the most important connections we make aren't between places, they're between people.” Delta Airlines

I’ve only been out of the country twice.  During the summer of 1975 I traveled internationally on a college choir trip.  Our main destination was a performance in Stockholm, but we also traveled and sang in Zurich, Oslo, Copenhagen and London.  Visiting that many countries in thirteen days was quite an undertaking.  The musical highlight for me was singing in an ancient cathedral outside of Stockholm. Our choir had rehearsed and memorized German double motets in our practice room in Birmingham, Alabama.  The two choirs sing antiphonally. But then in that setting in Sweden, we divided across the chasm of the cathedral. In that split chancel choir loft we sang those marvelous double motets where they were created to be sung. I sneaked a peak at the tourists below me who were transfixed by the beauty of the music as it echoed from wall to wall and ceiling to floor.  I was transfixed as well. I’m affected as I think about it now.

Then in April of 2003 my wife and I spent a week in Santiago with our son who was there on a college mission adventure. The highlight of that trip for me was a day trip to Vina del Mar.  That place was the most beautiful ocean side setting I had ever visited. On a gloriously beautiful day,  I witnessed the Pacific there in all its  majesty and splendor as the afternoon sun danced across the water and the breaking waves.

Delta suggests that the world is made smaller with kindness, and that is so true. But I would say that jets have a lot to do with that too. I’m about a 90 mile drive to Atlanta and then about a 20 hour flight to nearly anywhere in the world.  Delta’s ready when I am, but I’m just not ready.  You might say that I’m a domestic kind of a guy.  Most of my life revolves around northwest Georgia and the greater Chattanooga area. I drive to Alabama and Indiana quite often to visit family and friends.  I travel less often to Florida, Texas, Missouri and Arkansas. And again, these places aren't about places, but about people. About twice a year we let Delta take us to California to visit our son, daughter-in-law and her family.  Yes, in spite of local opinions to the contrary, California is part of the United States and is a domestic flight from Atlanta. So there you have it. Except for occasional vacation destinations, Georgia, Tennessee, Florida, California, Alabama, Indiana, Texas, Missouri and Arkansas are pretty much where I “travel out in the world.” The fjords of Norway without a doubt displayed the most incredible beauty I’ve ever witnessed.  But every afternoon the sun sets over Lookout Mountain and I only need to walk out my front door to see it.  The marvelous Cloudland Canyon is about a thirty minute drive from where I sit. The hiking trails and cascading waterfalls draw hundreds of thousands of hikers and spectators from all over the country to this state park every year. Fall Creek Falls State Park is about an hour northwest of here.  It's as beautiful as it sounds.

Delta is right that the connections between people are more important than the connections between places, but for me to see those people Delta’s connections are very important.  When I step off the plane from Chattanooga  into the terminal in Atlanta, I want to look at the digital board and see a flight, a gate and a time of departure. And I hope and pray it all matches what’s on my itinerary.

Delta Airlines ends its welcome video with “Thank you for letting us be a part of your journey.” My journey. That always catches me a bit off guard.  I just think of it as a flight and Delta thinks of it as a journey. I think the next time my wife walks to the mailbox and back I’m going to ask, “How was your journey?”  And she’ll look at me and say, “Looks like we got some bills. Airmail."

The Truth about Santa Claus

“Life, too, is like that. You live it forward, but you understand it backward.”  Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese

I’ve heard many people say that one of the greatest benefits of aging is the accumulated experience.  Experience, though, is a double-edged sword.  We can accumulate bad experiences just as much as good experiences. As I think about it, it’s not the “experience” that we accumulate, but the memory of the experience.  And we are the ones who choose how to remember it

.

At my age I have accumulated much experience and  have vivid memories of those experiences.  Though most of my memories are good and healthy and pleasant, some of them are not.  Some of the experiences though that happened decades ago are fresh in my memory. And the problem with that is although I have forgiven myself for any grief I may have caused, I still remember doing what I did and saying what I said. How do I ever get ahead of that?

From 1973 through 1976 I was a music student at Samford University in Birmingham, Alabama. Simultaneous with those studies I was the part-time Minister of Music and Youth at a church in Jasper.  Jasper was about 50 miles northwest of Birmingham up Highway 78. I made that hour drive two, sometimes three or four times a week. Although it was both time-consuming and demanding, I enjoyed that job very much.  Part of my responsibility during the worship service was to sing a solo before the sermon. I don’t remember if it was required or that I just expected it of myself.  Either way, I sang a solo every Sunday morning.  When the dean of my music school sang a solo, he always told a short story; so I did the same.  For reasons that failed me then and fail me now, in front of 250 men, women, boys and girls of all ages, I told the story of the Christmas when I found out for sure there was no Santa Claus. How is it that now, forty three years later, I’m still thinking about it?  And it still embarrasses me if I let it. I just don't let it. 

The Christmases of my childhood were magical.  Members of four families gathered on Christmas Eve at my maternal grandmother’s house in Enterprise.  We ate cake, cookies and boiled custard. My great aunt accompanied carols. My aunt showed movies on her eight millimeter projector for the eight cousins.  About twenty of us enjoyed a grand time together.  Santa in our tradition not only went to every house in the world that night, but he went twice. At about 10:30 pm he rang a bell to tell boys and girls it was time to go to bed so that he could come back and bring the presents. On one fateful Christmas Eve when I suspected there was no Santa I asked my aunt if I could ring the bell.  To my  consternation and dismay, she retrieved the bell, handed it to me and said, “Just be sure and stay close to the house so that they can’t see you.”  My heart sank. Christmas as I knew it was over.

I found no joy in ringing that bell. Furthermore, as a card-carrying young adult, I got to stay up and help assemble the Santa presents for the young cousins. When I woke up on Christmas day, everything was exactly as we had left it late on Christmas Eve. Santa came, but he was me.

I have absolutely no idea why I chose to tell that story on that fateful December morning at the New Prospect Baptist Church in Jasper, Alabama.  I have consoled myself that most of the children weren’t listening to me or that the parents were able to explain it away.  I also  console myself that those children are now in their 50s and I'm quite sure would have figured it all out by now with or without my story.

So how do we get beyond the pain and embarrassment of these blunders?  We forgive ourselves for sure, but the best way is to learn to laugh. I see these people from time to time and they inevitably recount my story,  I'll see two of them this coming weekend. No doubt they'll bring this up. And as they laugh, I'll laugh. No foul,. No harm. 

That very Santa bell is now in our possession. And on Christmas Eve I get it out, ring and remember. There is so much love and goodness to recall from 309 W. College Avenue, Enterprise, Alabama.  And I laugh and laugh and laugh.