In his book The Different Drum: Community Making and Peace, the psychiatrist and writer Morgan Scott Peck recounts an archetypal tale of paying attention and the opening of the heart that is the foundation of community.
Learning to see Christ in ourselves and others
In his book The Different Drum: Community Making and Peace, the psychiatrist and writer Morgan Scott Peck recounts an archetypal tale of paying attention and the opening of the heart that is the foundation of community.
A monastery had fallen on hard times. The once great order had been reduced to only five monks: the abbot and four others, all over seventy in age. Clearly it was a dying order.
In the deep woods surrounding the monastery there was a little hut that a rabbi from a nearby town occasionally used for a hermitage. Through their many years of prayer and contemplation the old monks had become a bit psychic, so they could always sense when the rabbi was in his hermitage. ‘The rabbi is in the woods, the rabbi is in the woods again,’ they would whisper to each other.
As he agonised over the imminent death of his order, it occurred to the abbot at one such time to visit the hermitage and ask the rabbi if by some possible chance he could offer any advice that might save the monastery.
The rabbi welcomed the abbot at his hut. But when the abbot explained the purpose of his visit, the rabbi could only commiserate with him. ‘I know how it is,’ he exclaimed. ‘The spirit has gone out of the people. It is the same in my town. Almost no one comes to the synagogue anymore.’
So, the old abbot and the old rabbi wept together. Then they read parts of the Torah and quietly spoke of deep things.
The time came when the abbot had to leave. They embraced each other. ‘It has been a wonderful thing that we should meet after all these years,’ the abbot said, ‘but I have still failed in my purpose for coming here. Is there nothing you can tell me, no piece of advice you can give me that would help me save my dying order?’
‘No, I am sorry,’ the rabbi responded. ‘I have no advice to give. The only thing I can tell you is that the Messiah is one of you.’
When the abbot returned to the monastery his fellow monks gathered around him to ask, ‘Well, what did the rabbi say?’
‘He couldn’t help,’ the abbot answered. ‘We just wept and read the Torah together. The only thing he did say, just as I was leaving—it was something cryptic—was that the Messiah is one of us. I don’t know what he meant.’
In the days and weeks and months that followed, the old monks pondered this and wondered whether there was any possible significance to the rabbi’s words.
The Messiah is one of us? Could he possibly have meant one of us monks here at the monastery? If that’s the case, which one?
Do you suppose he meant the abbot? Yes, if he meant anyone, he probably meant Father Abbot. He has been our leader for more than a generation.
On the other hand, he might have meant Brother Thomas. Certainly, Brother Thomas is a holy man. Everyone knows that Thomas is a man of light.
Certainly, he could not have meant Brother Elred! Elred gets crotchety at times. But come to think of it, even though he is a thorn in people’s sides, when you look back on it, Elred is virtually always right. Often very right. Maybe the rabbi did mean Brother Elred.
But surely not Brother Phillip. Phillip is so passive, a real nobody. But then, almost mysteriously, he has a gift for somehow always being there when you need him. He just magically appears by your side. Maybe Phillip is the Messiah.
Of course, the rabbi didn’t mean me. He couldn’t possibly have meant me. I’m just an ordinary person. Yet supposing he did? Suppose I am the Messiah? O God, not me. I couldn’t be that much for You, could I?
As they contemplated in this manner, the old monks began to treat each other with extraordinary respect on the off chance that one among them might be the Messiah. And on the off, off chance that each monk himself might be the Messiah, they began to treat themselves with extraordinary respect.
Because the forest in which it was situated was beautiful, it so happened that people still occasionally came to visit the monastery to picnic on its tiny lawn, to wander along some of its paths, even now and then to go into the dilapidated chapel to meditate.
As they did so, without even being conscious of it, they sensed this aura of extraordinary respect that now began to surround the five old monks and seemed to radiate out from them and permeate the atmosphere of the place. There was something strangely attractive, even compelling, about it.
Hardly knowing why, they began to come back to the monastery more frequently to picnic, to play, to pray. They began to bring their friends to show them this special place. And their friends brought their friends.
Then it happened that some of the younger men who came to visit the monastery started to talk more and more with the old monks. After a while one asked if he could join them. Then another. And another.
Within a few years the monastery had once again become a thriving order and, thanks to the rabbi’s gift, a vibrant center of light and spirituality. (1)
The transforming power of attention
Meditation (like all prayer) is ultimately about relationship. The simple practice teaches us to pay open, receptive attention. And this quality of attention can transform how we see each other, how we relate to each other. As we learn to be truly present to one another, communion and community grows and deepens
The French philosopher Simone Weil echoes teachers of prayer throughout the centuries when she says, ‘Absolutely unmixed attention is prayer.’ (2)
Attention opens a space of opportunity. In the act of pure attention, we can come home to the present moment. We can meet ourselves and each other in the light of God’s presence. Attention is both openness-to and connection-with.
Expecting to find Christ
Reading the words of St. Teresa of Calcutta and those who knew her, you quickly get a sense of how she went about her work.
Carrying the expectation that each person’s face would be the ‘disguise’ of Christ, she came to everyone in a spirit of deep reverence. She expected to find the face of Love looking back at her. And in this expectation, she was set free to be a place of love for that person.
Seeing with the eyes of love
The way of meditation is to say our prayer word, to follow our breath, in a spirit of simple, open expectancy. We cannot know what the next year, the next hour, or even the next minute of our life might bring. What we can always know is that we are here, right now, with this task, with this person. We can be awake, right now. To meditate is to practice wakefulness.
If we can learn to come home to the present moment with open-hearted wakeful attention, then somehow, beyond our understanding, love is set free in us. The old monks in the story began to treat each other with deep respect on the off chance that one among them might be the Messiah. And on the off, off chance that each monk himself might be the Messiah, they began to treat themselves with deep respect.
If we carry the expectation of encountering Christ, it’s not unlikely that we will find Christ’s face shining in the face of the person before us.
Standing in front of our bathroom mirror one day, we might just glimpse the light of Christ shining in our own face.
This blog is based on one of the teachings given in a recent online meditation group gathering. You are warmly welcome to join one of our future gatherings.