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The Miracle of Persistence

By: Rabbi Nikki Lyn DeBlosi, PhD; Reform Rabbi & Senior Jewish Educator; NYU Bronfman Center for Jewish Student Life; NYU Affiliate Chaplain

On Tuesday night, Jews around the world light all eight candles of the menorah to begin the final 24 hours of the holiday of Hanukkah. The letters on our spinning dreidels remind us that “Nes gadol haya sham”--“A great miracle happened there.” “Then” and “there” are undisputed: the Jewish Temple in the city of Jerusalem in the year 165 B.C.E. But the “miracle”: what was it?

The Tanakh (the Jewish scriptures, including the Torah, the Prophets, and the Writings) does not mention Hanukkah and its eight days of light. The extra-canonical books of the Maccabees, part of the Christian scriptural canon, do mention the campaign of a band of Jewish fighters against Syrian Greek forces who had outlawed Temple worship and other Jewish religious practices. The famous miracle of the one-day supply of oil that lasted for eight days? Completely absent from this historical account. In the Talmud, a piece of rabbinic literature codified by the year 600 C.E., the rabbis ask, “Mai Hanukkah”--“What is Hanukkah?”

There are historical, religious, and spiritual answers to that question.

Hanukkah marks a military victory of the outnumbered Maccabean forces against Syrian Greeks as well as Jews who had assimilated into Hellenist society. It marks the day the Temple was reclaimed and rededicated for Jewish cultic worship, restoring the Jewish people to its central means of connecting with G-d in that time and place (animal sacrifice).

As the Talmud relates, Hanukkah marks the miracle of the oil. As the Maccabees set about the task of rededicating the Temple and its precinct for Jewish worship, they needed to re-ignite the menorah with oil that had been set aside (“sanctified”) for ritual use. Judah Maccabee discovered a tiny vial of oil sealed with the mark of the High Priest, enough to last just one day. Alas, the process of rededicating the Temple, much like the process of sanctifying the desert Sanctuary that marked the centralization of G-d’s Presence as the Israelites wandered in the wilderness, would take eight days. The oil lasted: a miracle!

An historical view marks Hanukkah as one of the military victory of a small band of Jewish folks against a broader culture that wanted to repress its particularist religious and spiritual practices. A religious view focuses on G-d’s role in providing a miraculous return to worship in the Temple, itself marked by the practice of korban (sacrifice), which literally means “a way of coming close.”

As a liberal, queer, feminist, and Reform Jew, how might I answer the question, “What is Hanukkah?”

Hanukkah celebrates the miracle of persistence.

On the first day, the oil lasts. Obviously. It’s not miraculous. Okay, so maybe it’s miraculous to find even a meagre cruse of oil in the destroyed and defiled Temple, but the fact that it burns for a day is not exactly surprising or unexpected. What’s miraculous is that it burns for a second day. And a third… and a fourth, fifth… eighth!

And what’s miraculous is the persistence of coming back day after day after day. What’s miraculous is the dedication to rebuilding after utter destruction, hoping to re-establish a minority culture after attempts to codify it out of existence.

One of the most rewarding events of my year as a campus rabbi is always Keshet’s (LGBTQ+ Jews @NYU) “8 Flaming Nights” Hanukkah party, which focuses on two important aspects of Hanukkah: visibility and persistence.

A central commandment of the holiday is pirsum nes, “the publication of the miracle.” We are called upon to light our menorah in the darkness, when it will surely have the most effect. And we are called upon to place our menorah in a window, at the entrance to our home, or another similarly public location, where it will surely be seen by as many people as possible. For queer Jews, visibility can be risky and vulnerable; how beautiful, then, to embrace a holiday that asks us to let our light shine.

As for persistence, queer Jews most certainly are that. In a time when many Jewish (and other religious traditions that rely on a shared Scripture) communities continue to twist the book of Leviticus to condemn our very existence, it is indeed a miracle that so many of us have found a way to embrace all the parts of ourselves while remaining firmly embedded in our Jewish traditions.

This Hanukkah, I joyfully light the menorah publicly and visibly for all eight days, celebrating the abundant persistence of communities of marginalized folks. May you know the light and the freedom of being able to express who you are in your fullness. And Happy Hanukkah.

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The Answer of Calls: A Poem by Zen Ahmed

Of the various ways in which we pray,

These are the most frequent, some might say, 

Sometimes I pray tired,

Sometimes I pray still,

Sometimes I pray crying, 

Sometimes I pray thrilled,

Sometimes I pray dejected, 

Feeling burdened by it all,

Sometimes I pray rejected,

Knowing compared to you I'm so small,

How I'm feeling sometimes,

Changes from day to day,

Months turn to years,

But the motion stays the same

As long as I stand tall,

I know I can never fall,

As long as the prayers don't stall,

I know you'll answer my call. 

Zen Ahmed is a freelance writer out of Forest Hills, NY. He has a bachelor’s in biomedical science and attended NYU for a master’s program in Biomedical Engineering. Zen works in the startup ecosystem at a leading artificial intelligence company in San Francisco called Quid. His influencers include spiritual thinkers and freestyle hip hop artists. 

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Letting Go

By: Keri Sender-Receiver

Most of the free days I have on the tropical island of Hawaii that I call home, I head straight for the beach. And even though on some level it can always occur like summer here on the Big Island, if you pay attention you can feel the subtle shift in energy of the seasons. So instead of bathing in the sun and playing in the Ocean like it's summer on the East Coast, this October I headed up the mountain for the forest to connect with the trees and honor the cool fall energy that came with the recent Equinox. The longer I live here in Hawai'i, the more I connect with Mother Nature and understand how our own bodies and lives mirror the rest of Spirit's creation. So as the trees begin to let-go of their leaves, I also find myself in a place of letting go of my attachments—from relationships to work. To quote Sigmund Freud, "Love and work are the cornerstones of our humanness." We can look to the trees to show us that if we are rooted in who we are—Divine Beings of Consciousness that are here to love and serve and remember Who We Really Are and Be joyous and Be ourselves—then the elements of the outside world can never shake us. The tree that's rooted in itself will sway in the storm but as it surrenders to the elements, it'll only bend and not break. This is the message I received from a tree on a recent hike. The tree told me to let go of trying to control how it's all going to go, plant myself firmly into the Earth and simply watch where all the different kinds of weather takes me. The tree doesn't resist the wind or the storm. It doesn't resist letting its leaves fall. It embraces the change of the season, and trusts that new leaves will grow when it's time. So this Fall, what leaves of your own do you need to let go of and how can you ground your roots deep into the Earth so that no storm can ever break you?

Keri has a Masters in Clinical Social Work from New York University and holds a social work license in both the State of New York and Hawaii. She worked as a trauma talk-therapist and taught Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) to graduate students in the LMHC Program at Brooklyn College. Keri currently combines energy-healing, past-life regression therapy, and transformational tools with talk-therapy techniques to assist others to remove emotional and energetic blocks from the past and Unlock Who You Really Are. Visit her website:

 www.UnlockWhoYouReallyAre.com

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Far From Home: A Poem by Richard Ramos

La selva está cansada.

my feet, sore from walking,

fall short from the dirt road

that leads me home

La selva es húmedo,

weighted, my lungs struggle

with something thick;

a heaviness named “lack”

y no hay recurso con el viento.

lines break through the symmetry

of what a life used to be

beneath the sunlight and the trees

Pero allí estás, sobreviviendo,

She called me niño

but I could not answer her

tossed as I am across the sea

Abuela hermosa.

Keep walking, she tells herself

though the mountains crumble

beneath the weight of winds

La selva está cansada

y el Yunque se ha caído,

pero la isla, nunca olvido.

This poem was written after a meditation I had for myself regarding Puerto Rico. My family is safe, but struggling through the aftermath of the hurricane. I hear messages and clipped stories of what is and what could be happening on the island and my poem reflects the distance between that distinction. Meditating for Puerto Rico and for my family by sending my heart across space and time has been helpful in connecting myself to the reality of the situation: that I can't make the damage disappear but I can reach out to them. That I can encourage them to keep walking, that I haven't forgotten them. That my heart still beats beside theirs, calling out softly beneath skyscrapers to a land beaten, but alive.

Richard Ramos is a second-year graduate student in Religious Studies at GSAS. He is a poet and studies religion and its role in indigenous identities and politics. He is a peer leader for the LGBTQ meditation group OUTBreath, held every Tuesday at 6pm at the NYU LGBTQ Center.

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City Noise, City Sound: This Precious Life

By: Jae Carey

To make ends meet, for years, my son and I lived with roommates, New York City style. We made a 3-bedroom out of a small 1.5 bedroom Crown Heights apartment. The living room with paper-covered French doors was my room. The tiny office space was my young son’s room, complete with a specially made narrow bed frame to fit a cot mattress. The one legit bedroom went to the third person. It required tolerance from all. I considered it a triumph when one of the three roommates who lived with us over the years continued to be our friend after moving out. So when the opportunity arose to move into a 1 bedroom two years ago, just me and my son, I felt such relief. No more constantly telling him not to: stomp, run, pound, close doors loudly. No more shhh-shing in the early morning hours, ready for our roommate to come out and give us that look, or no look at all, which was worse. I hoped that my domestic noise issues were over for at least a while. I felt over-sensitivity exhaustion.  

We come home for refuge. Or at least, that’s been my wish. I come home wanting a break from city noise, city stress. So it was with no small amount of heartache that a new noise issue presented itself almost immediately in our new home. It was summer, the windows always open. Then, at some point, I started hearing it at night: clink, clank, clink clink, clank. Looking out the third story window, there was a large white van directly across the street, and the grating noise of cans and bottles colliding and reverberating. It went on for hours. I had to close the window, even though it made it very stifling inside. This went on for many nights, then weeks, and little by little, it got to me. The sorting would regularly start in the evening and go on until 2 or 3 in the morning. I even called the local police precinct and asked if what they were doing was legal. Unfortunately, it was. But didn’t this violate noise levels after hours? No, apparently not.

So one night, around 1:30 am, woken up yet again and not able to go back to sleep, I decided to do something. I threw on some clothes, put on my shoes with determination, and stomped down the stairs to the street, to … ?  There was no plan, my body just had to DO something. I walked briskly over to the van, and without pause began ranting. “Do you know what time it is? Do you know people are trying to sleep? That there are families with their windows open, who can’t sleep?” On and on. They just looked at me like I was a ghost. They stopped, but they didn’t say anything, no expression. I am not even sure if they understood me. Even more agitated by their silence, I became frantic, almost crying. “You just have to STOP. It’s too late for this. Please STOP.”

Back up in my apartment moments later, pumped up now with adrenaline, I felt amused in an off-kilter way. The clink-clank just continued. They neither stopped nor left for another hour or so. So I started a campaign. I began putting signs on their van windshield. I started using white noise and ear plugs. I bought a portable AC unit which helped with the mugginess of closed windows. It became a mission to sleep through the night. And I was thrilled when, one day, about a week later, the van stopped parking outside our building. It was absent for a whole 10 days. I thought I had won. And then, on the 11th day, the van was back. The clink-clanking resumed. I did not know what to do.

Finally it started occurring to me more and more often, oh right, Yoo-Hoo: Attention. Practice. We often think that mindfulness is something we do while meditating, on the subway, or while doing something “neutral,” like washing the dishes or waiting in line. How easy to forget that all of that low key practicing is also to create the ground for use, when and where we are most triggered. It’s a mindfulness muscle: it gives us the stability to stay with our experience. And it feels so much harder to do this when we’re actively struggling, and when we feel vulnerable. So how could I bring attention to this particular agitation? Since I could not seem to change it, how to be with it? I knew on some level, but I needed a reminder and some discipline.

On one of my first urban retreats in Brooklyn in 2008, I had a moment of insight, when the traffic, subway vibrations, and kitchen noise blended into a fascinating and wild symphony. It was one of my first experiences of being genuinely interested in the unfolding of what I would usually categorize as noise, not sound. Like many insights, however, I seemed to quickly forget about it once back out on the streets of New York. And anyway it had just happened, I didn’t make it happen. Was it just luck, I wondered? A seed was planted.

Last year, that seed began to take more conscious root as I began to engage in hospice work. I was sitting with a patient, Ron, who was a heart attack survivor. In fact, he had been pronounced dead and somehow his heart did not give up, but started beating again on its own. Although a hospice patient, he was remarkably childlike, mischievous, and sometimes full of energy, often playing with a video game console that one of his grandsons brought, getting riled up watching Jerry Springer shows, and engaging with a steady stream of visitors.

His patient-neighbor Mary had a different situation. She didn’t speak much English. In fact, she didn’t often speak, she mostly yelled and screamed. Unlike Ron, no one could bare to be with her for long. She was the strongest personification of a hungry ghost that I have ever personally encountered. Her body was in decay, with open sores and unpleasant odors emanating from her person. She was no longer eating but seemed to be suffering dreadfully from thirst. Only able to take in water from a sponge stick, she would plead for water, and then smack the sponge out of your hands. Her screaming was loud and frequent, upsetting the whole floor, including in the middle of the night. And she was in the room across from Ron’s, just steps away.

So one day I asked Ron, how he managed being woken up in the middle of the night to such screaming on a regular basis. His answer surprised me. “Oh, I’m always grateful.” What? “Yeah, because I shouldn’t even be alive. Any time I wake up now, by whatever, I’m just happy because I know that I’m still here.”

It took a while for his response to settle within me, but the simplicity of it moved me deeply. Eventually, also in part because I was exhausted by my noise campaign, something inside of me simply gave up. Slowly, I began to change my attitude. I started to watch the workers outside my window, to study them in fact. They worked hard, consistently, persistently. I began to notice that it appeared to be a family, that sometimes children would play nearby them on the sidewalk, chasing each other with scarves, but staying close by the van. I noticed that I had a small window of choice, when first starting to hear the clanking, to veer towards annoyance or to incline towards studying the situation. Over the next year, I went through seasons with these beings. I saw them start to dress more warmly as the fall set in, to barely hear them through the winter, and to almost be reassured when the spring brought back open windows again and the familiar sounds. I began to look for them if I passed that side of the sidewalk, and tried to make eye contact. And one day, I noticed that it was no longer noise, it was sound. The sounds had become almost like a wind chime barometer, soothing or grating, depending on my mood. The sounds reminded me that there was work to do, and often brought me out of stuckness. At night, for some reason, it stopped waking me up.

At many Japanese zen temples, there has traditionally been a “han,” or wooden slab that was struck in a cascading rhythm, to call monks to the meditation hall from the surrounding areas. The tradition is still carried on in zendos throughout the world, however small, and often there is an inscription on it. At the Brooklyn Zen Center, my teacher Teah Strozer painted on it:

It has been quite a slow process for me, but finally I have internally befriended my sidewalk neighbors and their sound messages, even if they do not know it. They still have no idea, that the sounds they make have become a call for me to pay attention, to be less self-centered, more grateful, and ultimately, to not waste this precious life. Do they need to know, I wonder? Perhaps, or perhaps not, I don’t know. One day, if the timing is right, I may have the courage to take a step further, to engage with them in an open way, and not as a ghostly apparition. Until then, they act as my han.  

____

Jae Carey works for MindfulNYU as a graduate student and meditation instructor. She will be teaching the Monday MindfulNYU sit on October 23 at 5:30 PM.   

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“Through feminism you make sense of wrongs; you realize that you are not in the wrong. But when you speak of something as being wrong, you end up being in the wrong all over again. The sensation of being wronged can thus end up magnified: you feel wronged by being perceived as in the wrong just for pointing out something is wrong. It is frustrating! And then your frustration can be taken as evidence of your frustration, that you speak this way, about this or that, because you are frustrated. It is frustrating to be heard as frustrated; it can make you angry that you are heard as angry. Or if you are angry about something and you are heard as an angry person (an angry black feminist or an angry woman of color), then what you are angry about disappears, which can make you feel even angrier.” – Sarah Ahmed, Living a Feminist Life

I remember the first time I ever felt feminist rage. It was the Christmas of my first year of college, and I had returned home for the holidays. My family always gathered at my aunt’s house for Christmas dinner. This time, I was in charge of planning the meal, helped by my mom, aunt, and cousin. I’ve always loved cooking, and this Christmas was no exception. With a colourful apron wrapped around my waist, I kneaded pasta dough, shredded cheese, washed green beans, blanched almonds. By the time dinner was ready, I was exhausted. I had been on my feet for hours, as had my coterie of sous-chefs. Almost as soon as we started eating, my mother and aunt were back on their tired feet—refilling people’s plates, replenishing water, clearing dishes. We hardly had a moment to digest before the cleaning effort began.

This is how it had always been. As far back as I could remember. My Dad, Uncle, brother, and (male) cousins putting their feet up on the living room table and cracking open a beer, and us spraying down the countertops and scrubbing burned bits off the cookies sheets. Only this Christmas, for the first time, I felt like something was wrong.

I remember approaching my Uncle at one point, a humorous and charming man, and asking him to help with the dishes. “Your aunt would kill me,” he said with a laugh, taking a swig of his drink, “she always complains that I’m not doing it right.” Instead of asking my aunt how, in fact, he could “do it right,” he opened up a bottle of scotch and disappeared into the den.

I was eighteen at the time, and my sense of rage was tempered by a deep sense of shame. Not only had I pointed out an uncomfortable family dynamic, but I had done so at a time of year when such dynamics are not to be pointed out, when everyone is supposed to be cheerful. I was not cheerful. I was angry, and hurt by his response. But I was also ashamed. What I had perceived as injustice, he had brushed off as tradition. I began to doubt myself, wondering if maybe he had a point.

This was only the first of many such experiences. At the age of twenty-one, when I came out as a lesbian, I found myself filled with a new wave of anger. I was angry at myself for not knowing sooner, angry at my family for not celebrating my identity, angry at my straight friends for not supporting my first relationship, angry at the world for teaching me I should be ashamed of myself.

When I started graduate school, this anger became a source of purpose. As I began studying the history of queer folks, and their long fight for social justice, I realized how hungry I had been for proof that I was not alone. I realized just how long I had spent thinking there was something “wrong” with me. I realized I didn’t want to think that anymore. I didn’t want to feel like that anymore.

It was around this time that I started meditating. For the first few months, I felt like I was going through an emotional detox. Almost every time I sat down on the cushion, my chest began aching. As I settled into my breath and into my body, it felt like I was greeting a stranger. All these things people had said about me—most often, with the pretense of having my “best interest” in mind—came roaring back: that I was too gay, too chubby, too smart, too talkative, too opinionated, too stubborn, too emotional, too… me.

It’s not as though those voices ever disappeared. Even when my period of detox came to an end, I still had my bad days—days when I looked at myself in the mirror and said, without thinking, “you’re a worthless piece of shit.” The difference was that, for the first time, I realized this was only a voice. It wasn’t the truth.

For those of us who live in bodies that are perceived as “wrong” by normative standards, there will always be bad days. There will always be days when we are told our voices don’t matter. That our histories are exaggerated, or untrue. That our life stories are exaggerated, or untrue. That our pain is exaggerated, or untrue.

On those days, we do what we can to get through. Yesterday was one of those days. It was one of those days when I didn’t have to call myself worthless—other people were doing that for me. It was one of those days when I didn’t have to worry I was being too loud, or opinionated—other people were making that explicitly clear. It was one of those days when I didn’t have to worry that I was being abandoned. I was.

There was something… clarifying about this realization. Painful, yes. Enraging, yes. But also clarifying. I remembered that I am too loud because people want to silence me. That I am too big because people want to make me smaller. That I am too emotional because people want to ignore my need for love.

When I sat down on my cushion that evening, surrounded by my sangha, these voices that had wanted to silence me became, like all the others, only voices. Instead of trying to prove them wrong, I simply tried to prove myself alive. Prove that I was breathing, that I was sitting, that I was upright, that I was safe. In that space, there was nothing abnormal about my anger, or my pain. Nothing abnormal about my body, or my voice. Nothing abnormal about my tension, or my fear.

As I came to the end of our last meditation, I remembered something. Something I had forgotten about that long-ago Christmas. After my Uncle, Dad, and cousins had disappeared into the den, and the rest of us had finished cleaning the kitchen, we pulled out the chocolate cheesecake we had placed in the fridge. My mother topped it with raspberries, my aunt drizzled it with chocolate, my cousin sliced it into four neat pieces, and I finished them with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. 

In the half-lit kitchen, long after the sun went down, we sat there licking our plates clean, feasting on the fruits of our collective labor, healing together. 

--

Hannah Leffingwell is a PhD student and graduate student worker at Global Spiritual Life. She is the co-founder and co-facilitator of OutBreath, a queer-affirming space for mindful meditaiton practice. OutBreath meets every Tuesday from 6:00-7:00PM in the LGBTQ Center. More information can be found on our website or facebook page. 

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On Lent and Spirituality: Julia Matthews

Julia Matthews is a sophomore in CAS at NYU. Hailing from Los Angeles, California, she loves trekking across the nation to see the unknown East Coast (although one day, she hopes to see everything that’s in between). She finds an infectious energy at NYU that inspires her to pursue science, music, and spirituality. As a member of GSL’s student staff and the Multifaith Advisory Council, Julia is most interested in facilitating interfaith dialogue, increasing visibility on campus, creating safe spaces for spiritual development, and spreading joy.

I pull my backpack over my shoulder and  rush through the park, going over a list of five things and counting that I know I need to have done before the end of the night. Chemistry homework to do, food to eat, a friend to call. But just as I hit the fountain, I hesitate, and turn around, making my way towards the Catholic Center at GCASL. Today is Ash Wednesday, a Catholic Holy Day which begins the Lenten season of preparing for Easter. On Ash Wednesday, Christians attend Mass and receive a blessing, along with a mark of ashes on their foreheads. But this year, I find myself hesitant to receive mine. 

I was raised Catholic, so I grew up honoring the Stations of the Cross, abstaining from meat on Fridays, and giving up something for forty days every spring. But as an adult, I often find myself wondering how these practices continue to develop my relationship with God. When asked about my personal sense of spirituality, I usually end up giving the rather complicated but most true answer I know: I believe in God, informed by Catholic faith, but I don’t necessarily identify with all of the beliefs or practices that come with Catholicism. Catholic school gave me plenty of time spent in churches-time that was often spent with a wandering mind and stubborn impatience. When it came time for me to decide how I wanted to pursue my faith independently, my intuition told me to refrain from doing anything that felt out of step with my spirit. So I stopped going to mass out of obligation and I prayed in my own spaces. I was introduced to meditation and mindfulness and I used such techniques to carry me through the times when I felt a bit more structure was needed to inform this individual spirituality I was trying to build. 

But Lent feels different. Standing in front of the Catholic Center, I ask myself, “Doesn’t such a sacred time deserve more consideration and more discipline from me? Is this time still sacred to me? Why do I feel that God still calls me to be a part of this practice, if I feel so disconnected from other forms of religious tradition?”

 I can’t say I have many of the answers at the moment. But I do think that practices of religious discipline serve me well if they can manage to ground me and refocus my life. The structure of Lent reminds me to reflect on the ways in which I’m not being the most compassionate, open, truthful person I can be, and it calls me to change them. It reminds me to eat mindfully and to do things out of reverence, not convenience. It sets me straight when I take myself a little too seriously and helps me to look beyond myself.

I return to the fountain after receiving my ashes and take a deep breath. To find God, I usually turn to getting lost in the beauty of the world around me: trees and sunlight and rain. Laughter. Empathy. In this way, simply honoring the gift of life feels like a prayer to me. It’s a spiritual tradition I won’t be giving up any time soon.

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“A Divine Trinity: Beauty, Love and Mysticism”: Kirsten Rischert-Garcia

Our last #HumansofGSL post is by Kirsten Rischert-Garcia. Kirsten is a senior at Gallatin with a concentration in philosophy and theology. She loves running into friends serendipitously, learning new languages, and reading the spiritual insights of Thomas Merton or St. Hildegard of Bingen. Some of her most joyful memories at NYU have included singing soprano in the All University Gospel Choir, helping the “Underdogs” team win the 2015 Women’s Volleyball IM League, and taking John Sexton’s course Baseball as a Road to God.

Let’s read what Kirsten has to share.

“Prayer is naught else but a yearning of soul ... it draws down the great God into the little heart; it drives the hungry soul up to the plenitude of God; it brings together these two lovers, God, and the soul, in a wondrous place where they speak much of love.”        — Mechthild of Magdeburg

The Catholic medieval mystic Mechthild of Magdeburg wrote these beautiful words in her book The Flowing Light of the Godhead during the 13th century and was the first mystic to write in German. This quote, in particular, elucidates the themes of human desire for God in a sort of mystical marriage between God and the soul. Her work also notably influenced Dante’s Divine Comedy although she is just one of a great tradition of female mystics celebrated in the Catholic Church alongside many others.

For example, 13th-century Flemish mystic and Beguine, Hadewijch of Antwerp, is known for her comparable brautmystik or bridal mysticism drawing particular inspiration from Bernard of Clairvoux’s commentary on the Song of Songs.  Perhaps also influenced by the apophatic theology of 5th-century theologian Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite she wrote: “To be reduced to nothingness in Love/ Is the most desirable thing I know.” In another paradoxical line, she alludes to Jesus’ full divinity and humanity as well as the possibility for our divinization or theosis which is taught in Eastern Christian theology as a transformative process that aims at likeness to or union with God. She writes: “I saw God was God, and man was man, and then it did not astonish me that God was God, and that man was man. Then I saw that God was man, and I saw man was godlike. Then it did not astonish me…”

Another comparable mystic to Mechthild and Hadewijch might be German Benedictine abbess, philosopher, and composer St. Hildegard of Bingen who wrote in the 12th century in Latin. Hildegard’s visionary theology is extensive and merits her being named a Doctor of the Church by Pope Benedict XVI in 2012. She also happens to be my Confirmation Saint whom I chose coincidentally in 2008, unaware of her rich history within the Church. In a way, I feel as though St. Hildegard chose me in the sense that I was given her name as my second middle name in honor of my German grandmother Hildegard.

“Every creature is a glittering, glistening mirror of Divinity.”

        —Hildegard of Bingen

The beauty of these words is even echoed by modern day mystics such as Thomas Merton who described his experience standing at a street corner in Louisville, Kentucky and having the sudden revelation that he loved all the people surrounding him in the shopping district. He writes: “And if only everybody could realize this! But it cannot be explained. There is no way of telling people that they are all walking around shining like the sun…If only they could all see themselves as they really are. If only we could see each other that way all the time. There would be no more war, no more hatred, no more cruelty, no more greed.”

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“Freedom”: Gavriella M Rubin

Our next blog is on Gavriella M Rubin, also known as Gavi. Gavi is originally from Sacramento, CA and is here at NYU studying Applied Psychology, Music, and Hebrew. In the future she hopes to study Music Therapy and practice it in an inter-group mediation setting. For now though, she is a student, bartender, and Hebrew teacher. She loves the sunshine, people, and riding my bike in NYC traffic.

Sixteen days ago marked the beginning of Passover, the Spring festival that honors the ascension of the children of Israel to Jewish peoplehood following years of bondage in Egypt. Jews around the world sat down to an experiential feast: moving from slavery to freedom, transforming bitterness into sweet, and shedding chains in exchange for autonomy.

But what is freedom?

We celebrate freedom on Passover by having a feast that is called a Seder, meaning order. It is a prescribed order of activities that one must partake in, step-by-step, to experience the feeling of “freedom.”

When the Israelites exit Egypt, the first commandment they receive as free people is to acknowledge the lunar calendar and celebrate the first of every month: literally tying them to the physical world of time.

Then, a spiritual 49 days after the Exodus, the “free” Jewish people receive the Torah at Mt. Sinai.

And how do Jews celebrate today? By counting each individual day from the day after the first of Passover until the Holiday of Shavuot (celebrating the giving of the Torah).

So is freedom order? The calendar? Counting?

When I try to imagine freedom it usually looks like riding a motorcycle down a wide open road into the sunset, destination unknown; I think of summer time without deadlines; I think of Shabbat; I think about the wind rustling through my hair…

I definitely don’t think about my schedule.

Why then, does the freedom of Passover feel so ordained, bound, almost the opposite of free?

When the Israelites were slaves in Egypt, they did not have control over their schedules or their time. They could not decide when to eat, when to sleep, or when to hang with friends. They lacked control over their own clocks.

And yet even when they were free and had time (the first of each month) within their control, they still could not enter the land of Israel. The only way to be granted entrance was to stop thinking of Egypt as home and give their hearts fully to the concept of a new land.

Right now I have a class schedule, so I don’t always feel completely free. But I also know that the prospect of having no plans in a few weeks when I graduate... that doesn’t make me feel completely free either. 

Every year around Passover I come back to Kris Kristofferson’s beautiful words (made famous by Janis Joplin): “Freedom’s just another word for nothings left to lose.”

The Israelites needed two things out of bondage: 1) Ownership over time and 2) An idea that they could rest their hearts on.

Maybe time does not enslave everyone. Maybe it’s something else. But whatever it is, maybe freedom doesn’t require an elimination of that thing, but rather an embodiment of it.

I still think of a “motorcycle riding off into sunset with no destination in sight” as the perfect image of freedom… As long as the image in the rearview mirror makes the rider’s heart swell.

Some listening for the soul:

By Kris Kristofferson:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G-J7mLyD3yc

By Janis Joplin:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WXV_QjenbDw

By Pink!: (just cause I love her)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wwmUMvhy-lY

[nyugsl]

“The Power, not the Symbol, of the Cross”: Megan Montgomery

Megan was born and raised in Canton, OH into a Christian family. She is currently a junior majoring in Linguistics and Middle Eastern & Islamic Studies. She studies Arabic and is particularly interested in studying the similarities between the Abrahamic faiths and their histories.

Let’s hear what Megan has to say

Holy Week is the most important week in Christianity. It is not only the death of Jesus of Nazareth but the events leading to His resurrection. The week includes

Palm Sunday – The day of Jesus Christ’s triumphant entry into Jerusalem.

Holy Monday & Holy Tuesday – nothing is really recognized on these days of which I know.

Holy Wednesday – often recognized as the day that Judas Iscariot, one of the Twelve Disciples of Jesus Christ, was prompted by Satan to betray Jesus.

Maundy Thursday – The day of Christ’s Last Supper. This is the day Christ gave His last teachings to His disciples and made prophecies of what was to come. Later this night, Judas betrays Jesus, Jesus is arrested and tried as a blasphemer, and Peter denies Jesus.

Good Friday – The day of Christ’s appearance before Pontius Pilate, His flagellation, and crucifixion.

Holy Saturday – The day Christ’s body laid in the tomb.

Easter Sunday then follows Holy Week and is the day Christians celebrate Christ’s resurrection. The actual week we remember would have taken place during the Jewish Passover, but due to different calendars in modern times, the Roman Catholic (and thus Protestant) Easter is hardly ever at the proper time in the Jewish calendar (the Orthodox Easter, though, is). However, this year Orthodox Easter and Roman Catholic/Protestant Easter were on the same day.

The Christian faith would be nothing without Easter and is, therefore, our most important celebration. Without Christ’s death on the cross, Christianity means nothing: Holy Week and Easter are celebrations of the true power of God. Humans all think of power in different ways – it can be a good thing, a bad thing, corrupted, pure, etc. However, God tells us in this week what power should be.

Upon entering Jerusalem (Palm Sunday), Jesus was welcomed as a King because people thought that He would meet their expectation of a King, of a Savior – they thought He would establish His kingdom on earth in earthly ways, like David. By Friday, the crowd is demanding that He be crucified. His power, Christians believe, was exercised in becoming human, in humbling Himself to a human state and dying upon a cross as the ultimate sacrifice to cleanse humanity of their sin, the “sacrificial lamb.”

On Easter, I saw an article from the Washington Post titled “Five Myths about Easter,” a nice, provocative title by Fr. James Martin – who has been a favorite on social media lately for his condemnation of government policies. Initially, the title frustrated me, then I read the article and was happy with the fact that on Easter I didn’t have to defend my faith, that this could wait until Easter Monday. However, soon I was angry because on Easter, the holiest day of the year, that was what Fr. James decided to write about.

I was angry because the same man who realized a video condemning the Muslim ban was writing an article for Easter not on the importance of Easter, but how symbolism isn’t always accurate.

I was angry because on Palm Sunday 17 Copts were killed in Egypt.

I was angry because Evangelical news sources were questioning whether or not Copts are actually Christian in response to the massacre.

I was angry because on Holy Monday my friend’s brother was shot and killed in my hometown in Ohio for no apparent reason.

I was angry because on Easter Sunday a man in Cleveland decided to kill Robert Godwin and live stream it on Facebook because he was mad at his girlfriend.

I was angry because on Easter Sunday, instead of addressing what true power is, this priest used his platform in the Washington Post to talk about the fact that the cross Christ was crucified on probably looked more like a capital “T” than the traditionally used ✝.

Easter is the most important story in all of Christianity: Easter is the redemption story. I was taught that when God cursed man and the serpent after the original sin when He said to the serpent in Genesis 3:15 (NKJV)

        And I will put enmity

        Between you and the woman,

        And between your seed and her Seed;

        He shall bruise your head,

        And you shall bruise His heel

That this is telling the story of Jesus, of what was to come – that Jesus, the offspring of Eve, will bruise (some translations use crush or strike for this “bruise”) the head of the serpent, seen as the devil, and that the worst the devil will be able to do Him bruise His heel. Jesus, in dying on the cross, took on all the sins that humans committed and will commit, was punished for them, and was raised from the dead. In doing so, if we confess our sins, we can never be tried for them – think double jeopardy, the legal term, not from Jeopardy – because Christ was already punished for them. This is man’s ultimate redemption as we are no longer separated from God as we were after the fall of man, but can now be in full communion with Him.

If we are truly in communion with Him, Christians believe that one of the things that happens is that we will start to live our life in a way which resembles Christ’s life on earth. We will not use power to elevate ourselves, but to humble ourselves. We will not work towards selfish goals, but for others. We will become each other’s, servants. Just as Christ, fully God, humbled himself to the human state and served us, loves us, died for us.

Where, then, is this teaching in the world? There is a time and a place for apologetics. There is also a time and place for the teachings of Jesus to be explained and to tell the Christian community to remember them. It is not the symbol of the cross that is important to Christians, but what that cross represents to Christians: the death, the resurrection, the redemption, and the love.

May the Peace of the Lord be with you and may the joy of Easter be yours.

[nyugsl]

Reflections from my Pilgrimage to Mecca and Medina: RJ Khalaf

Ever wondered what a normal day at a Muslim Pilgrimage is? Let RJ walk you through his Pilgrimage experience to Mecca and Medina. But first let us introduce you to RJ. RJ Khalaf is a Junior at NYU Majoring in Global Liberal Studies with a concentration in Politics, Rights, and Development. Originally from Las Vegas, Nevada, he is the founder of LEAD Palestine, an organization that aims to inspire, motivate, and empowers the next generation of Palestinian refugees.

Over Spring Break, I traveled with the Islamic Center at NYU to Saudi Arabia in order to perform the minor pilgrimage, “Umrah”. It was an incredible journey characterized by reflection, exhaustion, and renewal.

This was my third time traveling to Saudi Arabia to perform “Umrah”, and my second time with NYU. I performed the pilgrimage for the first time when I was 10 years old. Last year, during my sophomore year was my first time with NYU. That time I performed it with my father. This year, I traveled to the Holy Land with my mother and sister— along with about one hundred other people from the NYU Islamic Center community.

In order for one to get somewhat of an accurate understanding of the emotions and feelings of the trip, I think it is best for me to run through the usual day. It is easily one of the more challenging trips I have endured. It is by far the most rewarding and invigorating experiences I’ve ever had.  

This is what a regular day at the Pilgrimage looks like:

3:00 AM: Wake up and head to the mosque for individual prayers.

5:00 AM: Sunrise prayer. This was done in congregation.

5:30 AM: “Halaqa”. This was something that our group had organized. It loosely translates to a religious class.

7:00 AM: Breakfast.

8:30 AM: Field Trip. We would travel as a group to some of the different religious sites around the area like local mosques, the Prophet Muhammad’s date farm, and other sites important to Islamic history.

12:00 PM: Mid-day prayer. This was again done in congregation.

12:45 PM: Naptime.

3:30 PM: Afternoon prayer. This was also done in congregation.

4:15 PM: Naptime (if necessary) / Individual prayer time.

6:00 PM: Sunset prayer. This was yet again done in congregation.

6:45 PM: Dinner time. My favorite dinner was the Shawarma wraps. I was able to indulge in one for about

$1.50.

8:00 PM: Evening prayer. This was also done in congregation.

8:30 PM: Halaqa.

10:30 PM: Snack time/shopping time / Individual prayer

12:30/1:00 AM: Bedtime.

Clearly, there wasn’t much time set aside for sleeping or eating while we were in Saudi Arabia. One of the most amazing things about it all was that we didn’t have to sleep or eat as much as we normally do. We were fueled by other forms of energy. One can pin that on the adrenaline that you undoubtedly feel in this holy place— I choose to explain it by the undeniable metaphysical benefits that can only be found through prayer.  

While we are here in the United States, our time is organized by class, meetings, work, food, friends, etc. Somewhere between all of that we try and find some time for prayer and reflection. While you are in the blessed cities of Mecca and Medina, everything is flipped. All we worry about is prayer, sleep, food— in that order. Time is not dictated by things like “Ok we will meet at 1:30”. Rather it is dictated by “When is the next prayer?” or, “We will meet after “Asr” (the afternoon prayer)”. When your time is dictated by prayer, reflection, and a constant focus towards God— you lose track of distractions and unnecessary worries. You only focus on God. Now I don’t mean to sound preachy, but there is a certain liberation that comes when you put all of your heart, energy, and trust in the hands of God. No matter what is going on in the world, you know and believe that things will be ok.

It was a blessing to be able to spend this journey with my mother. It was the most time that we have spent together since I was a child. While we have always had an amazing relationship, we have grown apart over the years. This was mostly due to the mere fact that I had left home for college. Rather than being able to talk every day at home, our ability to catch up now is only limited to the 15-minute conversation we get every few days. The beauty of the cities of Mecca and Medina is undeniable, but that beauty was only compounded by the presence of my sweet mother and loving baby sister. I felt a certain responsibility to take care of them and be a source of positivity, patience, and care— qualities that only helped better my experience on the trip.

Saudi Arabia has a history of human rights abuses and laws that are sexist and characterized by misogyny. These laws are antithetical to Islamic values and virtues. They seemingly disregard the reality that the Prophet Muhammad was a feminist and that he would speak out against domestic violence, called for equity in divorce cases, and brought an end to practices in a region where baby girls were buried alive. He would welcome conversations about women’s menstrual cycles and he is known for saying that “Heaven lies beneath the feet of a mother.” Nonetheless, due to laws set forth by the Saudi government, women are not given adequate access to prayer spaces and have to adhere to whatever order a Saudi security guard barks at them. It isn’t right, but it is the reality. While I was there with my father, I didn’t have to live this reality much. While I was with my mother, the case was a bit different.  

I had the opportunity and responsibility of making sure that my mother was well taken care of. It was my job to make sure that she had a spot to pray, and that she was comfortable. While my privilege as a man ensures me the ability to find a prayer space nearly everywhere, we had to take some extra time to find space for my mother and sister. God has blessed my mother with a special ability to be patient even though the most trying circumstances. Whereas I was fuming and visibly upset about the treatment of women in what is supposed to be a space that truly embodies Islamic values, my mother was the one who was taking care of me. There isn’t a lot more that I can say other than; I pray and hope that the day soon comes where the Saudi government enacts laws that protect the rights of women, give them adequate spaces to pray, and treat them the way they deserve to be treated— just as the Prophet Muhammad called for nearly 1400 years ago.  

I could write an entire book filled with reflections from my trips to Mecca and Medina. No amount of words, no matter how long, or short, can describe the beauty, serenity, and sense of security that one feels in these places. It is an honor to have been invited to these wonderful spaces. At any given time of the year, there are hundreds of thousands of people filling these cities, praying to the same God and performing the same prayers. It doesn’t matter what race, ethnicity, gender, sexuality, or social class an t individual belongs to— in those spaces you will find Muslims from all around the world praying in peace, harmony, and devotion. It is a sight to behold. It makes you think that there might not actually be an inherent problem with Islam.

[nyugsl]

Unbiased Ears + An Empathetic Heart = A Fair Judgment: Arif Khalil

Our next story is by Arif Khalil. We have heard from him in the past but for those of you who are reading this blog for the first time, here’s a little something about him. Arif is a senior in the College of Arts & Sciences majoring in Mathematics and pursuing a career as an actuary.  He is the co-President of MuCh, the Muslim-Christian dialogue club on campus, which he has been with since its inception.  He also actively participates in the Muslim Student Association and engages in other interfaith dialogue groups such as Bridges.  As a member of the Multifaith Advisory Council (MAC), he is most interested in teaching multi-faith awareness and learning how to be a leader in interfaith relations through a process of sharing personal narratives.

Here’s what he has to say.

It’s difficult. You’re sitting with a group of your closest friends and you’re all laughing having a great time.  Jokes are being thrown left and right, and you can’t stop laughing because they’re just so funny…until finally the stereotypes and racist comments make their way into the mix.  Or perhaps you notice backbiting and gossiping join the lovely conversation instead.  What do you do?

You clearly don’t want to ruin the group’s momentum, and think about it this way, do any of your friends really believe in what they’re saying?  Relax.  Let it slide. No big deal.  They’ll probably stop soon.

But they don’t.  You start to feel somewhat ashamed on the inside because you remember how the other day you stood at a protest with the very same people your friends are currently ridiculing.

You love your friends to death and have only the utmost respect for them, but you also understand that in certain social settings people’s tongues tend to slip up.  Given that you are conscious of the situation, you feel responsible to take action.

You wait to find a moment of silence to slip in your comment.  You’re nervous, reluctant, and worried.  Are you about to spoil the mood?  Couldn’t you just let it go and move on?  You conclude that maybe it’s really not that much of a big deal. No one after all is getting hurt…

…except for you on the inside.

Sometimes we become so close to others that we become tolerant or even blind to their forms of discrimination.  We love our friend, partner, or family member so much that we allow some of their comments to slide.

Similarly, we are sometimes so fond of a person that regardless of how complicated their conflict was with another person, we are quick to defend our friend without even hearing both sides of the entire story. We become deafened to the narrative of the “other” simply because we do not know them well or as closely enough.

Just to be clear, I am not saying that we should not be empathetic toward our friends or family members, in times of their difficult struggles, simply because we do not understand the whole context of their story.  Regardless of how little information you may know about a person’s past or present experience, everyone deserves having his/her story genuinely listened to without judgment.

However, it’s not always easy to be fair or unbiased in situations where someone close to you has been hurt.  We trust our friends and family with all our heart.  They are honest with us and give us comfort, so why should I listen to someone I barely know, better yet the person who damaged my friend?  Why does their narrative matter?

The reason is simple: no one is perfect.  Regardless of how deeply we believe in social justice, religion, or equality, we have tendencies to act differently and slip up amongst those we are most comfortable with; we essentially get too comfortable.  And while there is beauty and something sacred in being able to loosen up and feel free among close friends and relatives, we still cannot abandon the values we stand up for.

The context may seem microscopic and harmless, and you may be thinking why I am making such a big deal of this?  Well, I honestly believe that true leadership is an art that is steadfast regardless of the degree of comfort you have towards others.  Leadership is an ongoing process of being genuine towards all of those around you no matter who they may be.

Empathy does not come hand-in-hand with weakness.  Having a spirit of mindfulness and unbiasedness towards different parties does not mean we cannot have a firm stance on what we believe. Sitting down and listening to the one who hurt me or my friend does not necessarily mean I support, justify, or even tolerate the act.  Such a conversation simply provides me with an opportunity to understand the complexity of the situation from multiple angles, and it helps me feel better knowing that my next steps and decisions taken come from a spirit of having listened to a richer narrative.  

Thus, if I choose to defend my friend or teach the “enemy” a lesson, I could feel more confident doing so because I know I am making a conscious decision based on having a more holistic understanding of what really happened.  I know that my words are now coming from a place which is rooted in my morals and values rather than a place that simply says, “He is my friend, so I must justify whatever he did.”

Overall, I just want to bring a sense of mindfulness to our everyday interactions with people, those whom we are close with and those we are not.  Sometimes we find ourselves neglecting empathy toward those we don’t know or trust because we are scared to forgive or perhaps step into their shoes and point of view.  Intimacy with those who are dear to us does not have to come with apathy toward others.

Like I had mentioned at the beginning, it is difficult.  But the next time I come to pass judgment towards someone, I’ll try my best to first have a sense of empathy and unbiasedness.  

[nyugsl]

Mindful Dating

Recently, I’ve been working with a very simple mantra: Ko! Kan! I! 

In translation, this Japanese zen expression simply means “Observe! Reflect! Just that!”

I laughed out loud when I came across this teaching for the first time. So simple! I thought. What could be easier?!

My discovery of this particular teaching happened to coincided with an important transition in my life. After more than a year and a half spent healing from a painful breakup, I had finally decided to start dating again. I was scared… terrified, in fact. What if I got hurt again? What if I lost myself in a new relationship? What if everything I had worked for in my personal and professional life over the past two years dissolved into turmoil and confusion?

I turned to my meditation practice to ease my anxiety, reading teaching after teaching about loving-kindness, compassion, interdependence—all of the ooey-gooey stuff people might think of when they imagine a mindful approach to romantic love. These teachings were, of course, instructive, reminding me that romantic love comprises only one small part of the spaciousness of Buddha nature.

But to be honest, I wasn’t totally convinced. In the ongoing battle between Compassion and Self-Loathing, the latter always seemed to come out on top. Sure, I was 100% committed to cultivating compassion for all sentient beings, but somehow I didn’t feel that I always deserved their compassion in return. Love, the Self-Loathing voice kept screaming, is something you must work for.

Zen master Shunryu Suzuki, in his book Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind, describes the dizzying nature of this kind of thinking by comparing it to a train on a railroad track:

“The Bodhisattva's way is called the ‘single-minded way,’ or ‘one railway track thousands of miles long.’ The railway track is always the same. If it were to become wider or narrower, it would be disastrous.  Wherever you go, the railway track is the same.  That is the Bodhisattva's way. … But when you become curious about the railway track, danger is there.  You should not see the railway track.  If you look at the track, you will become dizzy.  Just appreciate the sights that you see from the train.  That is our way.”

I love this passage because it reminds me that there is no teaching outside of the practice. The practice is the teaching. By worrying about what might happen if I started dating again, I was really just hanging my head out of the window of a train, staring at the tracks until it made me dizzy. Simply reading about compassion wasn’t going to suddenly make me compassionate. Thinking about the intellectual reasons why I might deserve love was not the same thing as seeking and accepting that love. Thinking about mindful dating was not the same thing as mindfully dating. The only way to mindfully date was to date, and be totally awake for it.

I can happily report that Ko! Kan! I! is one of the best pieces of dating advice I have ever received. It is a simple, straightforward reminder to trust what my body and heart are telling me at any given moment, and to embrace the fact that everything is constantly changing. No need to project into the future, or agonize about the past. No need to torture myself over my “baggage” or drive myself crazy worrying about the potential for future pain. Just to be with what is, exactly as it is: that is the teaching. That is the practice. And that, I am beginning to see, is love.

--

Hannah Leffingwell is co-facilitator of MindfulNYU’s LGBTQ peer-led meditation group and a PhD student in the department of French Studies at NYU.

[nyugsl]

What Is Reality? Moving Forward in a Globalized World: Selaedin Maksut

Selaedin is a current senior at NYU pursuing a double major in Religious Studies, and Middle Eastern & Islamic Studies. Along with being the co-president for MuCh (Muslim-Christian Dialogue at NYU), he is also the Director of Membership for TMN (The Muslim Network of NJ). He also an actively participates in the Islamic Center at NYU activities. As an open minded and driven student, Selaedin very much enjoys interfaith dialogue and exploring the history and theology of the many faiths and traditions of the world.

What is taste, love, childhood, family, law, nation, religion—can we define these words? Are they universal concepts?

           A single mother from the suburbs of New Jersey might have a different idea of what “family" means than that of a grandfather from a Sudanese city. Likewise, a Tibetan school teacher and an Arab theologian from the 12th century would have different conceptions of law, religion, and even taste in food. Our ideas of life and the material world are subject to our social interactions. Everything is a social construct. What does this mean?

           Let’s take money for example. The dollar bill as we know it is essentially worthless. We attribute worth to it by claiming it is backed by gold. But what about the gold? Is gold inherently valuable? Does gold possess some quality that transcends time and space and gives it worth? No. Gold is just as worthless and meaningless as the money we use. Same goes for our ideas of family, law, taste, and even the color red. Confused yet? Maybe even upset with what you’re hearing? Good. You should be. These ideas will challenge any authoritarian view of the world. But how? And why? Let’s find out.

As a product of our environment, our thoughts and beliefs differ throughout time and space, as a society and our environment change throughout time and space. Everything from the color red, to ideas of secularism and religion, are constructed by us, humans, to help us understand the world and our experiences. The word “red” carries no intrinsic meaning that calls for it to be attributed to a specific color. Likewise, “taste” is constructed by humans to express what we like, but no taste is universal. Nothing is inherently “tasty.” Not even pizza. Nor will everyone like habaneros in their chicken wraps. (Believe me on this one). We come up with concepts of “taste,” “red,” and “family” and attribute value and meaning to them that would otherwise not exist. We shape notions of “love,” “secularism,” and even “right” and “wrong” so that we can function in society. But the issue is each society has a different notion of everything.

Language is the vessel we use to construct meaning and to transfer our thoughts and ideas to other people. But language too is problematic, because it too is a social construct. The moment we want to describe something we go into rules of description. The language we use is a way to box categories for us to have conversations and share ideas. Life is like a word game. We create our own ways of talking that carry alternative ways of acting.

           Why does this matter? Because to understand why people have different notions of “family,” “law,” and “taste” we must first realize that we have become victims of a category system, language, which tries to categorize everything. While fashioning a language is not bad, on the contrary, its natural and very useful, but we must be conscious of the categories and meanings we construct because there is always a way of life implied by it. And not everyone ascribes to the same way of life or world-view.

Most importantly, we must realize that any declaration that you hold to be true begins to hold power over you and you become a victim of the truths you hold. What does this mean? You unconsciously subject yourself to the notions you create. What I mentioned above can be understood as a paradigm. As I explained, everything is a product of our social constructions. This creates a paradigm in which we think through, like a lens, and language is the way we express our thoughts. But this paradigm becomes limiting and holds power over us because now we cannot think outside of it without breaking our own rules and concepts. We cannot begin to make sense of other notions of “family,” “law,” “love,” and “right” and “wrong” that are outside of, and therefore differ from, our notions of these concepts. Because we have attributed gold as “inherently” valuable we cannot understand why other people throughout time and space did not see it as such. Likewise, we have a hard time understanding other beliefs of empire and governance when we have been conditioned to think in a “nation-state” paradigm.  

Now that we know everything grows out into being from some kind of community/society (i.e. paradigm), how do we break out? If we are a victim to our own paradigm and can we break out? Yes. But only until you realize you are in a specific paradigm, to begin with. Until you realize your world revolves around and is dictated by the paradigm you come from, you will not be able to conceive of other paradigms and world-views. But now that we know everyone thinks through a paradigm and that paradigm gives meaning to everything, what happens when we abandon all paradigms? If you abandon all the perspectives, what then can you say about anything? Nothing. We are left with nothing. There is nothing outside of paradigms. In a vacuum, nothing has meaning. This is the point. There is nothing that has an intrinsic value or meaning that transcends all paradigms. Now, this was alluded to earlier, but I imagine it’s a lot more depressing to hear it spelled out. But don’t worry, it gets better.

So, everything that is real for us comes out of communal relationships—we socially construct everything for what it is. Everything is a whim of history. People create a shared reality that is objectively factual and subjectively meaningful. The social world is not given, revealed, or fully determined, it is made up by people. The meaning of any and everything is generated through the discourse of each paradigm (and is what constructs everyone’s personal “reality”). There is no value-neutral description of the world. Hence, nothing exists independent of any paradigm. Whatever we do is coming from the enclave from where we exist- there is no independent person or observes that makes a discovery. “Love” only exists because we allow it to by defining it through our experiences.  

 So what are the implications of this?

There becomes a meaningful order of life. People have lived their lives with the idea that there are objective knowledge and notions of what is true, right, wrong, moral and ethical. And that’s fine because the question we are asking is not what is real? But, how do things become real to us? And if the answer is social construction then that means no paradigm is better than any another. So it’s not about who is superior or “right” but it’s about how to live together with all these views out there claiming to have the truth. Truth can still exist but no paradigm can claim to have a monopoly on truth. Natural realities are independent of humans and our activities. Personal realities are dependent and rely on humans and are subjective because they only exist in the minds of the people who believe them.

These ideas are threatening to any ideas deemed “authoritative.” The entire message here is that no idea, concept, notion, from any paradigm or world-view, is superior, and that all perspectives are on an equal playing field. This challenges the dominate discourse and challenges the dominate paradigms that seek to wipeout other beliefs, traditions, and world-views.

           These ideas don’t mean to question “ultimate reality” but your own personal “reality.” It is not trying to say what is true, nor is it trying to eliminate, science, religion, tradition or any sort or paradigm. It is a way of bringing others into the conversation. It asks for multiplicity. Instead of shutting out all other paradigms we should engage them, be willing to entertain them and bring them into conversation with one another. It is a way of talking, writing, and a resource to be used to better understand and appreciate our surroundings, relationships, and various world-views.

We all study from within a paradigm. So to make sure we are having productive conversations and are asking the right questions we must become aware of our assumptions that are rooted in our paradigm. Realizing the assumptions of your paradigm allows you to break loose from its shackles on your mind. Now that we know every paradigm is limited and that there is no authoritative paradigm, we can cross through paradigms and cultures to better understand other “realities.” So in a world with multiple realities how can we take on alternative realities? We need new forms of coordination!

           How? What can we create out of this? New organization methods, new ways of talking through various realities and then understand other people’s realities and bring in new forms of dialogue into life. This is an attempt to honor all traditions and gives everyone a voice. In this new approach, there is no room for bigotry, racism, prejudice, and hatred. Only understanding.  

           So for those asking about God, let me say this… our beliefs about God are clearly social constructions, but our faith is that the reality of God lies beyond those constructions.

           This is a call for humility. By humbling ourselves in front of the traditions of the world we would be slow to judge, and quicker to listen. Is that not God’s rallying call?  

           Any grievances? Take it up with Thomas Luckmann, Peter L. Berger, Ludwig Wittgenstein, Thomas Kuhn, and of course our beloved Michel Foucault.

[nyugsl]

#HumansofGSL: Michelle M. Huang

Meet the artist behind the social media platforms of NYU’s Meditation Center. Michelle M. Huang is a senior studying Politics, Human Rights and Sustainable Development at NYU’s School of Global Liberal Studies. She first became introduced to Global Spiritual Life in 2014 when she was asked to co-found Generation Meditation, a student-led organization for young people interested in developing their mindfulness practice with the community. Shortly after, she was invited to participate in a one-of-a-kind meditation retreat at Princeton University entitled “Changing With the Breath.” There she received training by two Buddhist monks - one from Vietnam and the other from Japan - on how to bridge the fields of mindfulness and social justice.

“Spirituality, from my perspective, is the state connectedness that one experiences to something bigger than themselves. It is the understanding that things are bigger than they seem, and that our existence extends outside of our physical forms. It differs from religion in that it is not limited to the belief in a god or higher power; it stretches into Nature, into others, and even into deeper parts of ourselves. While I do not identify as a religious person, I know that I am a profoundly spiritual person - and that is possible! Overlaps exist, without a doubt, but you can be one without the other. I wish that distinction was made more evident to me in my more formative years.

Well to back up a step, I was first introduced to the Mindfulness Project three years ago when I was curious to learn more about my own spiritual side. I had been brought up in an extremely religious family and because of their extremity in practice, I felt pushed towards godlessness. It was only until I took a course freshman year called "Religious Origins" that I became curious to revisit religion myself again.

MindfulNYU had put together a fantastic panel of speakers including a Buddhist Nun, a Jewish Rabbi, and a Muslim Doctor heavily involved in Social Justice and Interfaith community to speak productively about the commonalities in these various religions. I thought to myself - how rare! how wonderful! A dialogue being held to find common ground, as opposed to debating about what separates them. It was a wonderful panel and afterwards, I knew I needed to reach out to the organizer and share my gratitude for putting the evening together. That was when I met Reka. Weeks later, she reached out to me to see if I wanted to take part in founding a new secular student organization on meditation and mindfulness. And so began a new dawn. (You can check out more on @generationmeditation!!)

My favorite part about GSL, and the reason why I continue to stay so involved with the center so many years later is the unconditional support and kindness from everyone in the community. Balancing the interests of such a diverse group of students is no easy feat, especially in a university setting that gets as politically charged as ours, and I believe that our center (and NYU at large) does an incredible job at doing that. Here, diversity is embraced. Celebrated, even.

Of all the friends I have met in my four years, of all the schools I have visited, I can say with confidence that NYU is one of the best-equipped institutions in the nation for religious and spiritual support. If you have ever been curious to learn more about your spiritual tradition, ask questions about another you have considered, or wish to explore it all and see which speaks to you most - come enjoy a warm tea with us in the office and let's chat. University is a place designed for self-discovery and exploration... the only "bad" question here is "no question."

I have been driven to both teach and advocate for the important connection between inner growth and social development. My vision is to one day create a program that teaches mindful activism as a means to achieving sustainable change. In between researching for my thesis on the Bosnian Genocide and consulting for social impact enterprises throughout New York City, you can catch me behind my computer developing MindfulNYU’s digital brand.”

[nyugsl]

equally empty

equally to be loved

equally a coming Buddha

–encountered on a scroll at the Village Zendo

In the summer of 2015, I traveled to China to participate in a month-long immersive Buddhist studies/monastic living program for Western students led by a Taiwanese Buddhist nun. After a month of a shaved head, white robes, and meditation and tai chi daily, we concluded our sojourn with a silent retreat at a nunnery on Mount Wutai, one of China’s four sacred Buddhist mountains. After an ascent of 108 full-body prostrations in a climb to one of Wutai’s plateaus, bowing into stones gritted with incense from the fires of offerings, I participated in the ritual of taking refuge—the Buddhist equivalent to baptism. Among the fires of the shrines and the murmured chants of old nuns, I took refuge in the Three Jewels of the Buddha (the teacher), the Dharma (the teachings), and the Sangha (the community).

This practice of taking refuge—rooted in the ancient Indian custom of a servant taking refuge in a master—means surrendering to the sovereignty of teachings whose totality is ultimately beyond our ken. For me, the teaching whose totality ultimately resides beyond me is that of love and compassion. When I am practicing metta (or lovingkindness) meditation, a form of meditation that cultivates an immense aura of active compassion toward all beings—including the self—I surrender to an emotion whose fullness I cannot entirely fathom. For me, compassion for self and other is an awakening, a bursting to the surface from a roiling sea. Arising from the stressors of work and study that pose challenges in my ordinary daily life and from the chronic struggles of self-esteem and self-consciousness about my sexual identity and my body image, when I meditate I believe that I am taking refuge in a great cresting wave of compassion in whose presence all thoughts vanish.

In the space between breaths—in the space between the concentration of meditation and the submission of prayer—I sense the presence of spirit, in whose affirming silence dwells deep healing. Through meditation, I am able to reconcile, at least momentarily, with the anxious, self-critical monologue within me. Through meditation, I am able to strive to awaken the reality of injustice and the possibility of justice. Through meditation, I am able to embrace my deepest, truest self, unconditionally deserving of love.

Matt Gesicki, Global Spiritual Life’s Student Engagement Coordinator, is a Master of Divinity candidate at Union Theological Seminary, where he studies psychology and religion with an emphasis on Christian and Buddhist perspectives. 

[nyugsl]