Something Spiritual for Christmas?

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Or, why our Immigration Policy is
The Hand Of God Moving in Mysterious Ways.

I have a new IPad app that lets me listen to British radio stations (oh yes, the thrill of it all!) and I recently caught the tail end of a conversation with an Anglican Bishop who was bemoaning the decline in Church attendance. He made the following comment:

"The Evangelical movement has failed as a reform movement within the Church."

I was amazed he had ever thought it could be one, when, to paraphrase my youngest daughter, it could best be described as "petri-dish mysticism" [i]. So, lest I be damned at Christmas, let me explain: First, churches operate at two levels:

1.     The communal and religious: the human urge to come together and sing uplifting songs, hear the word of their God expounded, and unite in worship and that warm feeling of virtue and connectedness. Enjoying communion - being part of a spiritual community.

2.     The individual and spiritual, or mysticism: an individual and direct personal spiritual connection to God, the Godhead, the Universal Soul (or whatever term works for you).

The first is the visible part of the church: the people it includes and all the charitable, generous, open-hearted and 'inspired' works they do. Which is the part of most Christian churches that's dwindling just as fast as their congregations are aging and dying.

The second is the personal spiritual connection that's always been distrusted and tightly controlled by Christian churches. Known as mysticism, it's about personally penetrating the 'cloud of unknowing' to reach and connect with the ineffable mystery of God. And that's why the Evangelical movement in Catholic and Protestant churches is a problem: it's a hybrid form of communal mysticism. All that speaking in tongues and spiritual healing and what looks uncomfortably like mass hysteria is the spirit of Christ, or the Holy Spirit, or whatever you want to call it, reaching down and overwhelming the faithful with bliss and rapture. It's a group orgasm of the spirit.

And if you think this doesn't have anything to do with you let me remind you that our Immigration Minister, Scott Morrison is a very senior Evangelical. His faith guides him, and therefore his attitudes and actions. And this is where the 'petri-dish mysticism' comes in. There are four levels or stages of transcendent experience involved in mysticism. They are:

1.     Bliss, or rapture.

2.     Illumination - the enlightenment bit, where you get new insights and a little humility.

3.     Exstasis, the separation of the soul from the body, and:

4.     Merging with the infinite, the Universal Soul, or God.

The problem is that Evangelicals aren't reaching beyond the first level. The 12th century Christian mystic and Augustinian monk Richard of St Victor described it thus:

"In the first degree spiritual feeling sweeter than honey
enters into her soul and inebriates her with its sweetness.."

That inebriation, being spiritually drunk (on the Holy Spirit), is what Evangelical services offer. Mass drunkenness, without alcohol. A cathartic emotional release which can wash away guilt and pain and regret without the understanding, insight or reflection of personal mediation or prayer. When people break out into babbling and gibberish it isn't a sign of over stimulation, mental intoxication and emotional overload it's a sign of holiness, of purity, of God's acceptance of who you are, with all your faults. And there's the rub. If this emotional and spiritual hot-tub washes only God's chosen vessels then we are, by definition, absolutely worthy, upright and deserving, true and correct in all our opinions and beliefs.

The Catholic and other traditional churches' long-held suspicion of this 'rapturous connection' is based on a genuine spiritual concern. People who are in this state of spiritual and emotional openness are enormously suggestible. And there's plenty of charismatic individuals in any generation willing to allow themselves to be first adored, then worshipped as beyond ordinary conceptions of morality, then obeyed to the letter in any despicable act or impulse. Cult leaders from Jim Jones to Charles Manson are notable examples of rapture followed by bloodshed. And while the Church may debate the degree of demonic influence involved the results here on earth are still bloody, appalling and socially destructive. 

Defensiveness, cults and reactionary politics

And it's not just religious cults that feed on this emotional and spiritual orgasm. When historian Robert Waite described Hitler as the 'Psychopathic God' this process is exactly what he had in mind; the cynical and systematic manipulation of people's emotional states to prey on their religious needs and instincts. The cult of personality around Lenin or Mao are similar extremes, but you can see the same fervour at an Obama rally, or in the cult of personality around Ronald Reagan among the conservative 'faithful'. People in groups will quickly connect and hype each other up emotionally, but intellectual processing drops to the lowest common denominator just as quickly. There is no need, or use, or room for intellect, discernment or logic. Just the rush, and the obedience of the herd.

That rapture, for the solitary individual praying or meditating is a sign that you're becoming spiritually open and emotionally responsive. It's there to motivate you to engage in the hard work of reflecting on yourself and your place in the world. On honestly seeing yourself in a broader context, which should produce humility. 

Instead Evangelical Churches favour an anti-intellectual Biblical literalism whose status as 'the absolute truth' is directly proportional to the fevered fervour of their emotional and spiritual experience. Which is the greatest, most powerful experience of their lives.  So there are no questions which can't be answered by their 2000 year old book of fables, myths, eye-for-an-eye morality, xenophobia, selective editing and obscure metaphysics. 

The head-shaking and derision this elicits from the rest of us does not make them feel loved. It only serves to amplify their self-imposed cultish isolation. And with all cults isolation breeds defensiveness, suspicion and a pseudo-martyr complex. God knows, they know they're right (about everything no matter how ridiculously uninformed they may be). They have God's miracle of orgasmic spiritual fever to prove it. 

This is the mindset that inspires reactionary politics: suspicion of outsiders, possession of a Holy Truth that others lampoon, direct authority from God for their opinions, no matter how small, or petty or cruel, or selfish, or self-serving or .. well, you get the drift. And when they get the power to punish others for their temerity in questioning God's chosen people.. well, watch out, Buddy.

I once worked with an Evangelical Catholic and his most prominent trait was an astonishing level of spiritual arrogance. He truly believed he was 'chosen of God' if not chosen by God. He was, unsurprisingly, reactionary and conservative, and he closely identified with the authority structure of the organisation, becoming progressively more humourless and authoritarian the longer he held any organisational power over others. He went from being regarded with amused condescension, to mockery, to animus, to fear and eventually outright hatred for his punitive, bullying manner and acts of spite and petty revenge.

The 'holier than thou' reactionary politics of Evangelical Christians is consistent with history's worst religious excesses. Pogroms, massacres, jihads and crusades all stem from religious fervour and fear. Fear which morphs into hate, and hate which generates violence. 

The cumulative weight of micro-aggressions targeted at refugees and other outsiders makes our society uglier and more hateful. It isn't just the 'boat people' who suffer. We all do when they arrive here damaged and in pain, embittered by their treatment, angry and resentful. And while Scott Morrison and Tony Abbott may keep them from staying here we will all still have to live in a society with new norms of behaviour that are progressively more hate-filled, mean-spirited and extreme, less tolerant of difference and diversity, more abusive, authoritarian and violent. 

And no God worth a good goddamn could be pleased with that.

And A Merry Christmas to You All.

PS: If anyone would like to engage me upon the rest of the four levels of transcendent whotsit, mine's a very large rum.

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[i] An acerbic and insightful young lady, she once memorably described the idea that pole-dancing empowered women through physical mastery as 'petri-dish feminism'.

On Being a Samurai.

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Writer, thinker, teacher and trainer, therapist, shaman, initiate, musician, mystic, intellectual, samurai, priest, magician, psychic, empathic, mythologist, shape-shifter, husband, father, lover, Kabbalist, Tantric and Gnostic.

It's been a long, strange trip.

About twenty-five years ago I was a management consultant running a communications skills workshop for a team of young professionals: psychologists, social workers, speech therapists and so on, all intelligent young women in their twenties or early thirties (I've certainly had worse jobs). During conversation it emerged that one woman, a social worker, had a particular skill that she would occasionally agree to do for people. She read palms. She went pink from embarrassment when it was brought up, but agreed after some encouragement to read mine.

She took my hand in hers and leaned forward until her face was over it, her blonde hair falling forward around her face, and gently stroked my palm and began to speak. But not about lines and ridges and loops on the skin. She just slipped straight into a trance state and spoke in a faraway voice about my life, my past and my inner self. It was fascinating. And accurate enough about the real me to give me food for later thought. After she finished and her face regained its frank, friendly countenance I said,

"That's an incredible gift. You really should develop it."
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"Oh, no." She said.

"Why ever not?"

"Because I don't want to be thought of as a freak."

I know how she feels.

For most of my life I've been fighting that particular epithet.

But while I may not be a freak I am definitely not one of the normal. And it's true that my natural milieu is among the peculiarly gifted, the psychics and second-sighters, the freaks and the fey. I don't like it, but it's true. It's what I am. Like the list of qualifications above. I am all of those things. For an introvert with a healthy level of paranoia hiding this has become second-nature. Experience has taught me that keeping  my light under a bushel is far better than trying to fend off a pack of freaked-out village idiots with a pitchfork, a smile and a plausible explanation.

But no more. 

I am what I am. 

All of it.

I became a samurai in 1992. 

I've been a martial artist since I was eight years old. Forty-seven years of judo, karate, iaido (Japanese sword kata), halberd, spear, longbow, crossbow. Anything and everything up to and including small arms. Years spent studying and developing subtle forms of thinking and awareness and spiritual attitudes (Zenshin, Zanshin, Mushin and the rest) that began with Zen meditation and led in the end to ritual magic and Kabbalah. I spent years refining my skills and my spirit, up at dawn and building a Tree of Life the size of a cathedral down by the Brisbane river, with the ten spheres each filled with their own kata, and connected by long galloping runs with blades whirling and sweat running.

Now, here in Canberra I can see every inch of it in my minds eye, recall every blade and bird and tree, feel the sun burning off the grey mist in autumn, scorching the ground to dust at midsummer.

Like I said, it's been a long strange trip.

But it takes more than simple competence or even a lifetime of acquiring skills to become a samurai. There's a simple qualification that goes beyond this. You have to serve. You have to be accepted as a retainer by a noble house. Which happened to me in '92.

Her name is Maeda Asano and she came to Brisbane to teach Iaido at the club I was attending, and to demonstrate Ryushin Ryu Kenbu, a combination of dance, sword, fan and spear work used to tell stories of Japanese historical events. Meetings between famous samurai, incidents during famous battles, demonstrating the techniques used at the time. She was also a 'living national treasure' in Japan for her ikebana flower arranging.

She would have been in her 60s then. I volunteered to do some PR work for her, and arranged ABC news to interview her and show a demonstration of her art in a bamboo grove at the Brisbane Botanical Gardens. I was also able to involve her in an Asian Cultural festival and a highlight for me was leading a huge procession along Brisbane's Southbank with Maeda San, with my youngest daughter Ellen marching along between us. Despite my having only 'dojo and sushi' Japanese, and her having no English we were able to communicate and I was much taken with her grace, dignity and bearing.

At the last training session, just before she left, I presented her with a box full of Australian bird feathers I had collected, yellow cockatoo crests, beautiful reds, greens and blues from rosellas, and black and white magpie feathers like the black and white of hakama and dogi. I'd prepared a short speech (in hastily scribbled phonetic Japanese) expressing my thanks for her generosity and patience, and formally offering myself for her service. This I carefully read out in the car park, surrounded by mystified fellow students. She listened seriously and intently. 

She accepted the box with a graceful bow, then quickly snatched the crumpled paper I'd read from and tucked it away in her kimono. She then took a purple and gold fan from her obi and presented it to me with a smile. She had formally accepted my offer.

I've been thinking about her a lot recently, particularly when I found the fan last month while tidying up the study. I found out this afternoon that she passed away that day, January 7th. Which I suppose makes me a ronin, and my own man. 

I don't have the words I said that day. 

But I do have a haiku I composed for her, while watching her perform in the bamboo grove.

                                 When she moves her feet
                                 turn small circles in the dust,
                                 Maeda Asano.

I'll be transferring this blog to a new website soon: leekear.com