Sermon Competition
03 Aug '08 04:404 editsGenesis 3:21 And YHVH God made garments of light for the man and for his wife, and clothed them.
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When I walk out in the morning in this wild place where I live, my presence, appearing among all the other presences, is noticed by them—I am seen.
The wrens, who are busy building another nest in one of the hanging ferns on our porch, scold me for being there—but they are not so inhibited by my presence that they do more than that. I speak to them, the female and the male in turn: they cock their heads, say something that I do not understand, and continue their project. We have known each other for some time now. I may be a bother, but I am no threat. In the late evening, they will even tell me when it is time for me to go inside.
A hummingbird zooms in to tease me as I sit on the porch swing and drink my coffee. If I play my flute, sometimes one or two will come over and dance for me. If I forget to fill their feeder, they will inform me of my oversight—and watch through the kitchen window as I prepare some food for them. In fact, if they have not seen me outside, they will search through the windows. Even my absence is noticed.
When I go out to fill the feeders for the other birds—gold and purple finches, cardinals, indigo buntings, woodpeckers, jays, cowbirds, mockingbirds, doves and others—I notice the change in their songs to each other. Sometimes, I can see them watching me from their various perches. In season, we breakfast together at the cherry trees.
I have had conversations with the deer, and they have brought their young to visit our yard (really: they have brought their young to—visit!). I have spoken close with the blacksnakes coiled in the grass. The turkeys keep no more than a pleasant distance (and once we had a cat who could stroll without commotion through a whole flock: apparently they had come to some understanding). Every day the great blue heron fishes in our creek, but flees if he believes he has been seen.
I have locked eyes with coyotes and bobcats. The hawks acknowledge my wave. I have made treaties with the wasps. Various butterflies have no fear of me at all, and drink the salt-sweat from my skin. The hornet has no fear of me at all, and seems to sense my fear of him.
I do not say that the world is full of presence—I do say it is filled with presences. When I go among them, I am noticed—I am seen. I am one of them. That does mean that I am a friend. I am seen by some as at least a potential predator. I am weighed; my presence is judged. Some are more wary than others. As I say, some—or their offspring in some strange way—have known me longer than others.
I have spent some years here now, observing the others. But it took me some time to learn that I was also being observed, to notice how I was being noticed, to watch how I was being watched. I now have conversations even with the trees, though I assign them no particular consciousness.
Noticing and being noticed; seeing and being seen; listening and being heard. Becoming aware of a kind of—relationship; a communion among species. Basically, we share habitat.
Sometimes, it seems to me, we are so busy observing the world around us, and its inhabitants—assessing and judging them in relation to ourselves—that we may forget that we as well are being observed, assessed, judged. And not simply by our own kind. Take a walk in the forest. Allow your mind to go quiet. And simply become aware—that your passage does not go unheeded. You are being noticed; you are being watched; your presence is being weighed and judged.
In all this, the lion does not lie down with the lamb; the red-tailed hawk still takes the mole from the meadow; the rattlesnake will strike you if she is startled. Life eats life to live, as do I. As I say, I live in a wild place.
I am no longer sure that it is that much different living among strictly human presences.
The point is that I am daily present as a presence among other aware presences, among whom I live and move and have my being. I cannot hide, except inside my own mind. I cannot pretend with mere words that my presence is other than it is, that my intentions are other than they are, that I am not who I am—right here, right now. These wild folk see too clearly for that. They know.
It is, for me, in this being aware of being seen that all spiritual egoism collapses. I am not seen as being special: I am only seen as another presence to be assessed in this whole web of presences, wandering in and out of one another’s space. I am seen by some as friend, by others as foe, by others as worthy of no more than a casual wariness, by others as—irrrelevant. A presence appears; the web adjusts; folks continue about their business. That’s all.
There is a tradition that translates the Hebrew word Or in Genesis 3:21, not as “skins”, but as—light. There is one letter’s difference in the Hebrew between the two words (an ayin for an aleph). I forget where that particular reading comes from, from how ancient a text. But it is an interesting one. The original humans in Genesis were naked and unashamed of it; then they became ashamed; and then YHVH (pretty literally, “the One that is” ) dressed them in skins of—light. They are now not less exposed (except in the illusions of their own mind), but even more exposed. They are, not in their own sight but to the sight of the other creatures, en-lightened.
I walk out in the morning in this wild place where I live. My presence is noticed; I am seen. It is in that being-seen, in the awareness of that being-seen, that I become aware of my presence among all the other presences in this web of presence, that I become aware of the others, not just as things, but as—presences aware. In that moment, no matter what “skins” I use to cover myself, what “skins” I attempt to wrap around my own awareness, I am—en-lightened.
The Christian mystic Meister Ekhart once said: “The eye with which I see God is the same eye with which God sees me.” Jesus spoke, paradoxically, of the eye that both lets light into the body, and reveals the light that shines (or does not shine) from inside the body [Matthew 6:22,23].
I walk out in the morning in this wild place. I am seen by eyes not my own. In the light of those eyes, I realize my own presence—not as a singular ego-self, but as one among others, as a presence observed.
Who am I? I am present. I am present as a presence among presences, all entangled in the same web of presence. I am a presence en-lightened by the eyes of others, whose awareness (whose “light” ) declares it. As I declare theirs. That’s all.
We are not alone. None of us is alone. We can pretend to each other that we are shrouded in garments of this or that “skin”. We can pretend to ourselves that we are safely hidden in our shrouds. But if you walk outside in a wild place, a hummingbird or a kingsnake or a hawk will declare to you that it is not so. The wild folk will reveal to you that you are revealed—that you are naked, and clothed in light, and you are not alone.
And if you embrace that revelation, you may become enlightened indeed.
______________________________________
When I walk out in the morning in this wild place where I live, my presence, appearing among all the other presences, is noticed by them—I am seen.
The wrens, who are busy building another nest in one of the hanging ferns on our porch, scold me for being there—but they are not so inhibited by my presence that they do more than that. I speak to them, the female and the male in turn: they cock their heads, say something that I do not understand, and continue their project. We have known each other for some time now. I may be a bother, but I am no threat. In the late evening, they will even tell me when it is time for me to go inside.
A hummingbird zooms in to tease me as I sit on the porch swing and drink my coffee. If I play my flute, sometimes one or two will come over and dance for me. If I forget to fill their feeder, they will inform me of my oversight—and watch through the kitchen window as I prepare some food for them. In fact, if they have not seen me outside, they will search through the windows. Even my absence is noticed.
When I go out to fill the feeders for the other birds—gold and purple finches, cardinals, indigo buntings, woodpeckers, jays, cowbirds, mockingbirds, doves and others—I notice the change in their songs to each other. Sometimes, I can see them watching me from their various perches. In season, we breakfast together at the cherry trees.
I have had conversations with the deer, and they have brought their young to visit our yard (really: they have brought their young to—visit!). I have spoken close with the blacksnakes coiled in the grass. The turkeys keep no more than a pleasant distance (and once we had a cat who could stroll without commotion through a whole flock: apparently they had come to some understanding). Every day the great blue heron fishes in our creek, but flees if he believes he has been seen.
I have locked eyes with coyotes and bobcats. The hawks acknowledge my wave. I have made treaties with the wasps. Various butterflies have no fear of me at all, and drink the salt-sweat from my skin. The hornet has no fear of me at all, and seems to sense my fear of him.
I do not say that the world is full of presence—I do say it is filled with presences. When I go among them, I am noticed—I am seen. I am one of them. That does mean that I am a friend. I am seen by some as at least a potential predator. I am weighed; my presence is judged. Some are more wary than others. As I say, some—or their offspring in some strange way—have known me longer than others.
I have spent some years here now, observing the others. But it took me some time to learn that I was also being observed, to notice how I was being noticed, to watch how I was being watched. I now have conversations even with the trees, though I assign them no particular consciousness.
Noticing and being noticed; seeing and being seen; listening and being heard. Becoming aware of a kind of—relationship; a communion among species. Basically, we share habitat.
Sometimes, it seems to me, we are so busy observing the world around us, and its inhabitants—assessing and judging them in relation to ourselves—that we may forget that we as well are being observed, assessed, judged. And not simply by our own kind. Take a walk in the forest. Allow your mind to go quiet. And simply become aware—that your passage does not go unheeded. You are being noticed; you are being watched; your presence is being weighed and judged.
In all this, the lion does not lie down with the lamb; the red-tailed hawk still takes the mole from the meadow; the rattlesnake will strike you if she is startled. Life eats life to live, as do I. As I say, I live in a wild place.
I am no longer sure that it is that much different living among strictly human presences.
The point is that I am daily present as a presence among other aware presences, among whom I live and move and have my being. I cannot hide, except inside my own mind. I cannot pretend with mere words that my presence is other than it is, that my intentions are other than they are, that I am not who I am—right here, right now. These wild folk see too clearly for that. They know.
It is, for me, in this being aware of being seen that all spiritual egoism collapses. I am not seen as being special: I am only seen as another presence to be assessed in this whole web of presences, wandering in and out of one another’s space. I am seen by some as friend, by others as foe, by others as worthy of no more than a casual wariness, by others as—irrrelevant. A presence appears; the web adjusts; folks continue about their business. That’s all.
There is a tradition that translates the Hebrew word Or in Genesis 3:21, not as “skins”, but as—light. There is one letter’s difference in the Hebrew between the two words (an ayin for an aleph). I forget where that particular reading comes from, from how ancient a text. But it is an interesting one. The original humans in Genesis were naked and unashamed of it; then they became ashamed; and then YHVH (pretty literally, “the One that is” ) dressed them in skins of—light. They are now not less exposed (except in the illusions of their own mind), but even more exposed. They are, not in their own sight but to the sight of the other creatures, en-lightened.
I walk out in the morning in this wild place where I live. My presence is noticed; I am seen. It is in that being-seen, in the awareness of that being-seen, that I become aware of my presence among all the other presences in this web of presence, that I become aware of the others, not just as things, but as—presences aware. In that moment, no matter what “skins” I use to cover myself, what “skins” I attempt to wrap around my own awareness, I am—en-lightened.
The Christian mystic Meister Ekhart once said: “The eye with which I see God is the same eye with which God sees me.” Jesus spoke, paradoxically, of the eye that both lets light into the body, and reveals the light that shines (or does not shine) from inside the body [Matthew 6:22,23].
I walk out in the morning in this wild place. I am seen by eyes not my own. In the light of those eyes, I realize my own presence—not as a singular ego-self, but as one among others, as a presence observed.
Who am I? I am present. I am present as a presence among presences, all entangled in the same web of presence. I am a presence en-lightened by the eyes of others, whose awareness (whose “light” ) declares it. As I declare theirs. That’s all.
We are not alone. None of us is alone. We can pretend to each other that we are shrouded in garments of this or that “skin”. We can pretend to ourselves that we are safely hidden in our shrouds. But if you walk outside in a wild place, a hummingbird or a kingsnake or a hawk will declare to you that it is not so. The wild folk will reveal to you that you are revealed—that you are naked, and clothed in light, and you are not alone.
And if you embrace that revelation, you may become enlightened indeed.
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