How It Seems To Me

Prayer is alignment of our souls with that which is good in the universe. Some things lead toward health; others lead toward disintegration. It’s hard to know which is which sometimes, for without disintegration we would not have health. Nourishment depends upon dis-integrating our food from its form as, say, bread into its form as, say, carbohydrates.

So even to aim for health as if instead of disintegration leaves us open to subjectivity. That’s where the faith comes in: the mystery. Or rather the prayer. That is, as we surrender to the awareness that we do not—cannot—know for sure what is right, we call out—pray—to that which is beyond us which can lead us toward health. (Often, that which is beyond us is referred to as God; coincidentally and conventionally regarded as male.)

My prayer for you is that you will settle into a central place in your heart, where you find confidence and rest in the face of that which so deeply perplexes, confounds, disappoints. I pray that you will be immune to an expectation–within yourself or from others–that prayer is a formula, an incantation, that can lead to what we want … except, of course, insofar as what we want is aligned with that which, in the grand scheme of things, represents/reflects wholeness and not destruction.

I presume it’s obvious that these rambling, disjointed thoughts are partial, not complete. Ultimately, we don’t get to “complete” in this life, anyway. We just move in a direction, sometimes forward, sometimes back. All the stuff of our life, our history, is just history–the starting point for Now. It’s the source of lessons, of wisdom, that can help us take the next step toward love—which, finally, is the only measure of health, of going the “right” direction.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

The Four … Nothings.

It’s a bright, sunny day in 1987. I’m walking along Victoria Street, near the Gas Company office. I’m reflecting on my boss’s invitation.

I’m inviting you all (he’d said) to submit a saying that’s meaningful to you. We’ll pick a winner to put on the wall for inspiration for all of us.

I ponder that … and I think to myself, “Well, why not just start from scratch? A saying.”

I tuck that little assignment into my subconscious, where it ruminates for a few days until suddenly, just as I pass the doorway at Southern California Gas, there it is:

• Nothing to Hide
• Nothing to Fear
• Nothing to Regret
• Nothing to Prove

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Nothing to Hide.

Cyrus had a medical appointment. He was a little hard of hearing, so Mabel had to go with him to make sure she knew what was going on, and also to explain to her husband in case he couldn’t hear the doctor.

“Ahem,” says the doctor, “I’ll need a urine sample, a stool sample and a sperm sample.”

Cyrus turns to Mabel: “W-w-w-what does he want?”

Mabel yells back, “Well, honey, he wants you to leave your underpants here.”

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Old Cyrus left his dirty laundry at the doctor’s office. It was in group therapy that all my dirty laundry came out … and I discovered two things:

1. It looked just like everybody else’s dirty laundry; and
2. Somehow, getting it out into the light had a bleaching effect—it seems some of the grunge, miraculously, got washed out in the understanding and forgiveness of others.

For a while, in celebrating my discovery, I figured the whole world would want to join me in examining my dirty laundry.

Hmmm. Not so.

I eventually began to see the wisdom of this saying: “The real art of conversation is not only to say the right thing at the right time, but also to leave unsaid the wrong thing at the tempting moment.”

Yes, I came to realize that I needed to exercise some discretion when deciding with whom and when to share the details of my life.

But still, learning to live with nothing to hide is like crawling into a fresh pair of shorts: crisp … cool … and clean.

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Nothing to Hide.

And now: Nothing to Fear.

Here’s some more wisdom, this time from the mouths of babes:

Patrick, age 11, says, “When you get a bad grade in school, show it to your mom when she’s on the phone.”

Alissa, age 9, says, “When your mom is mad at your dad, don’t let her brush your hair.”

One of the things we often fear as kids is our parents. And, if they taught us right, one of the things we often fear as adults is the police.

It was my Buddhist years that taught me this one: Life a right life, and you’ll have nothing to fear.

My Zen priest encouraged me to consider … driving the speed limit.

Ridiculous, I said.

Try it, he said.

So I did.

And I discovered a principle that has bubbled over into many areas of life: when I live with nothing to hide, I can live—hey—with nothing to fear.

I don’t have to spend mental energy looking in the rear-view mirror of life, afraid of getting caught. What a burden that lifts. What a freedom from distraction and anxiety.

But it’s more than that, isn’t it? It’s more than just trying to keep our laundry clean.

It’s taking on the fears of life, and learning that they can be overcome. Fear is just a clue that there’s something we need to pay attention to.

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Nothing to Hide.

Nothing to Fear.

Nothing to Regret.

Regret is about being sorry for what we’ve done.

Being sorry is about needing forgiveness for what we’ve done.

Getting forgiveness is about being set right in relationships, despite what we’ve done.

Sometimes we don’t seek forgiveness, because we’re waiting for the other person to take the first step. We’re afraid we’ll be rejected, so we don’t take initiative, and as a result we are burdened (consciously or not) by our unresolved regrets.

What’s given me courage to get past my fears, to come out of hiding, to seek to make the amends needed, is the starting point of forgiveness when I, first of all, get set right in my relationship with my Creator.

In the Christian story, God takes the first step. God says, “Whew, all that freedom I gave you guys—including the freedom to mess things up the way you do—I’m really sorry about that. I’m responsible for creating you with freedom, and I accept that responsibility. I want to be set right with you. And so I’m going to be a person just like you—so you will know, that I know, what it feels like to hurt the way you do.”

Well, when someone takes the initiative toward me, it’s easier for me to take my own responsibility in that relationship. And having practiced for a while making peace with my Maker, it gets a little easier to take initiative to make peace with my neighbor.

And so it helps me live with Nothing to Regret.

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Nothing to Hide.

Nothing to Fear.

Nothing to Regret.

And finally, Nothing to Prove.

I put this last, and not by accident. It’s last because it’s the hardest for me.

Somewhere inside, there’s still this scared and lonely little boy who wants to be accepted, and thinks he has to prove himself in order to be loved. In my head I know that’s not really true.

When I succeed, now and again, in letting go of trying to prove myself, of trying so hard to be approved by others, I get, again, this jubilant sensation of freedom.

What a marvelous thing that is!

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The Four Nothings have come to mind many times over the years, and they’ve helped me over many a hump in life.

I should tell you, though: I didn’t win that sayings contest those many years ago. I didn’t even get Honorable Mention.

But, what the heck! I’ve got … Nothing to Prove.

Who cares?

Who cares how it goes for you at Westmont?

I’ll tell you who cares.

Obviously, you care. And your parents care. And the faculty care.

Not so obviously, though, the staff care. The many people who work in jobs that may be invisible to you during your years at Westmont, are doing so faithfully and gladly behind the scenes to help you have the best possible experience here.

I was invited to share a few things about my connections with Westmont, so I’ve strung together several personal vignettes as connecting points for four things that we, as Westmont staff, care about: your adjustments, your academics, your friendships, and your faith.

First, we care about your adjustment to campus life. Some of you will experience tears of homesickness. Others will experience the thrill of escape. I was among the latter when I showed up over 40 years ago this week. I was a Baptist preacher’s kid. My parents divorced when I was a senior in high school. I “got away from it all” by coming to Westmont. I didn’t have a clue how hurt I was on the inside. And I had no idea there were people on the staff I could turn to for the help I could have used at that point. The Student Life staff, the RDs, the Career & Life Planning staff, the Counseling Center staff—these people are here explicitly, and visibly, to help you in the transitions you’ll be facing in the coming weeks and years. But the invisible staff, like me and many others, are caring about you and your adjustment as well. About a quarter of all our employees are Westmont alums, and many of the rest went to other Christian colleges where their experience of leaving home was not a lot different from yours. We’ve “been there, done that.”

Second, we care about your academics. I arrived as an Honors-at-Entrance hotshot, and it took a whole semester to reality-check me. Instead of studying for my Intro to Psychology final that December, I and a bunch of other students spent the night at Refugio Beach. I had an A going into the final but got a C in the class. Do the math.

Fortunately I was able to pull it out, turn it around, and graduate cum laude as a member of the Omicron Delta Kappa Honor Society. So don’t fret if your study habits aren’t fully refined this coming semester. You’ll have time to get back on track (that is, unless you’re aiming for Summa Cum Laude!

Third, we care about your friendships. You’ll make friends here for a lifetime. At one point after I graduated, I had Westmont alums as my realtor, my banker, my business partner, my financial advisor, my lawyer, my neighbor in a duplex … and my wife.

BUT, you need to choose your friendships well. I didn’t. I didn’t realize that so much was at stake, and at risk, in choosing my mentors. Westmont was going thru a hard time in the years I was a student. Three presidents, some minor scandals, even just the aftermath of the turbulent 60s. Those were hard years at Westmont, and the commitment to keep Christ preeminent was much thinner then than now. The mentors I chose, rather than keeping me on track in my faith, contributed to my wandering years, to my divorce, to a whole lot of unnecessary pain.

Thankfully, though, that pain is not unredeemable. The purifying God can do thru pain is one of the miracles of life. He retrieved me from the pit so that now I can speak from experience about the importance of your choices about whom you’ll look up to while you’re a student. Maybe one of you, hearing this, will be spared the disappointment of choosing friends and mentors who will drag you down rather than lift you up.

Finally, we care about your faith. One of the traps of religion—all religions and everywhere—is how easily we can pretend the outward things. As a student, I was involved in Sidewalk Sunday School, I attended worship and prayer meetings and the Bill Gothard crusades, I was student body president. I thought I was pretty good at faith, but I was only pretty good at fooling myself. My heart was corrupt. All that stuff was external—my effort to look good on the outside so that I could try to feel good about myself on the inside. I actually didn’t, until years after college, finally “get it,” … realize that I’m loved by God no matter what. We, the staff, hope, and pray, that you’ll be able to avoid detours like mine on the road to genuine faith.

Before I close, I want to tell you a bit more about how the staff can go about caring for you at Westmont, and then I’d like to share a miniature teaching on prayer.

First, about caring for you as a staff member.

I’m glad you’re here. Glad that you’re here at Westmont. That’s why I always look forward to opportunities to connect with you, especially early on.

Like so many other staff, my work behind the scenes doesn’t give me nearly as much opportunity as the faculty have to get to know you. Over the next four years you’ll see me if you study abroad—which most of you will—because I’ll do the safety training segment of your orientation. You may—or may not—notice I have a tent in the field with you at Potter’s Clay. Other than that though, for most of you I’ll simply be one of those familiar strangers whose faces you vaguely recognize around the DC, where I like to connect with students over lunch.

That’s how it was for me as a student. Of course I saw the mailroom staff, and the maintenance staff, and the bookstore staff, and the registrar staff—but all and only with my peripheral vision. (I didn’t realize then, as now, that the dining commons staff work for another company, where the personal faith commitments of the people they hire is not a matter of prime concern for the contract management company.)

I had no idea that Westmont’s staff were caring about me. That they might interrupt their day for me, as I did last semester, when a student I was acquainted with answered my casual “How are you?” with unhappy eyes—so we went to a bench on Kerrwood Lawn and took time to pray about some of life’s troubles.

As staff, we consider it a real privilege to have occasional opportunities for caring like that, for they’re a blessing in both the giving and the receiving.

There’s another part of our caring that’s mostly invisible. Now that I’ve been back at Westmont for many years, and I’ve seen a couple of graduating classes come and go, I’ve started to anticipate the pain of caring—in the grieving that comes during finals week in the spring, when it bubbles up to my awareness that you—not just as a member of a “class”, but individually, personally, uniquely you—will be leaving.

Joanne in the mailroom. Bill, who helps the college buy its supplies (you’ll have less chance to meet him than even me!). Marilyn in the bookstore. All of these people, and many others, will have been praying for you over those years—privately as well as in our staff meetings—for your adjustments, for your academics, for your friendships, and for your faith. All of these people will have been available to love and support and encourage you when you needed it. And all these hidden servants will grieve their loss when you—individually, personally, uniquely you—graduate.

And now, a very brief teaching on prayer. My wife and I (my second wife now of 20+ years; she’s a Westmont alum too; we re-met at our 15-year reunion)—my wife and I have discovered the ancient Christian faith called Orthodoxy.

A 75-year-old Orthodox priest was interviewed for a magazine article. Here was the question, and his answer (paraphrasing here and there):

Question: Is it possible in our hectic, frenzied world to have the sort of prayer-life you’re describing?

Answer: Yes, it is possible. The whole of life is a situation in which God has placed us: to bring our faith where there is no faith, to bring hope when there is no hope, to bring light—even if its a very dim light, a spark—where there is only darkness or twilight, to be salt to prevent corruption, to bring a flicker of love where there is lovelessness. There is no evil or distracting situation into which we cannot enter in a prayerful way.

And here is how we can develop that abiding prayerfulness.

Before we try to be with God in serenity and peace and stillness, we should turn to him and say, “Lord, here are a few things that worry and torment me.” Someone’s illness, a breakup with a special friend, even the smaller worry of preparing for an exam—there’s nothing too small for God. Present the whole thing to God in detail, saying everything that you’ve got to say. And then make and act of faith, and say to God, “I have put it in your hands, I will now leave it in your hands for a short while.”

You can add, if you are honest, “I don’t think that I’ll be able to leave it for long, because I don’t trust you enough. I will take it back because I feel, in my worry, that this problem is more central, perhaps, than you do.” (You will discover later that this not true, but still we must often start that way.) And then, once you have given it to God, say, “Now Lord, let us be together for a short while.”

You would do precisely the same thing, would you not, with your family, or with a friend or a roommate. You would come loaded with worry, and you couldn’t simply enjoy their company, the happiness of being together. You would first say, “My day sucked,” and you would tell your family or friend or roommate all about the worry of the day. Having unburdened yourself, you could then sit back and say, “Ah, isn’t it great to be together?” [End Quote]

You’ll have many worries in the coming semesters, but you’ll be able, too, to relish how great it is to be together. I hope you’ll receive the love of the staff members who are also glad to be together with you.

Mine is only a small voice among the many you’ll hear before you start your first college class. And what I want you to hear is … who cares. At Westmont you are surrounded by a mostly invisible cadre of people—the staff—who are caring for you, praying for you.

And so, as one of those staff members caring and praying for you, let me close with the simplest of Orthodox blessings.

Glory be the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, now and ever, and unto ages of ages, Amen.

I spent years each as a Baptist, a Lutheran, a Buddhist, and a non-denominational. For most of the last decade I’ve continued to be amazed at the richness and depth to be found in the practice of Orthodox Christianity. Here is something I have come to believe:

Religion is a means, not an end. It is the way we connect with one another, about connecting with the Mystery that lies beyond. God is not bound by the religious box we put him in. Heck, God is not even a him.

Religion is a toolset. I can make something amazing with lousy-quality tools or I can do a schlock job with top-quality tools. It’s not the toolset that matters; it’s what I do with it. I mustn’t get hung up on the brand I prefer, or think mine’s better than someone else’s, or fear that mine’s not good enough.

Religion is a language. I can use it to bless and encourage, or to curse or control. It is no more a betrayal of my religion to engage in dialog with a Muslim or an atheist or a pagan–on their terms, on their turf–than it is a betrayal of my native English to converse with certain friends in Spanish.

Religion is for help and not for harm. I make progress toward a More Whole Life alongside those who travel its road with me. And I bemoan the woe caused by those (alas, including me) who have used it as a bludgeon.

Religion is a grand parable. It tells a story that conveys deep and abiding truth. I need not be troubled about whether all the particulars of all of its stories are “true.”

Religion is a complement of science, not its enemy. When the earth was found to revolve around the sun rather than vice versa, we simply had to stretch our religious understanding as we’d stretched our scientific understanding.

Religion is a choice–not unlike choosing a mate. In my twenties, I tried juggling multiple simultaneous relationships. I came to realize there’s a depth of intimacy that can be found only by choosing and investing in one.

Christ came not to establish a new religion, but to demonstrate the dazzling power of ultimate love. His harshest diatribes were against those who let their religion get in the way of their faith.

I have learned to find freedom within religion; I do not need freedom from religion. I relish the delight of wonder, the value–nay, the necessity–of doubt, the exhilaration of discovery in a shared spiritual life.

So … is religion any good? I offer a qualified “yes.”

I have come to see religion as a gift to the human race that, rightly regarded, can give each soul guidance toward faith, hope and love. Religion points to the treasure. It is not the treasure.

I embrace my religion wholeheartedly. I seek to live it with gratitude and congruence.

And I hold it with an open hand.