„De curând, retrăgându-mă la casa mea, hotărât, pe cât îmi va sta în putință, să nu-mi mai pese de nimic, afară de a petrece în tihnă, eu cu mine însumi, puținul ce-mi rămâne de trăit, mi s-a părut că nu-i pot face minții mele dar mai de preț decât a o lăsa să trândăvească în voie, să stea la taifas cu sine, domolindu-se și bizuindu-se pe ea însăși. Nădăjduiam c-o va putea face mai lesne de-aci înainte, căci devenise între timp mai așezată și mai coaptă. Când colo, găsesc că leneveala face mintea mereu schimbătoare, și că, dimpotrivă, bidiviul scăpat din frâu se-avântă mai abitir decât încălecat, plăsmuindu-mi de-a valma atâtea năluciri și atâtea arătări năstrușnice fără de șir și noimă, încât, pentru a le cerceta pe îndelete nerozia și ciudățenia, am început să le aștern în scris, nădăjduind să-l fac cu timpul a se rușina de ele.”
On Sunday’s „Reliable Sources,” Jonathan Rauch placed Trump’s recent statements in the context of information warfare. Trump is running a „classic Russian-style disinfo campaign,” known as the „firehose of falsehood,” which is when you „push out as many different stories and conspiracy theories and lies and half-truths as you possibly can,” Rauch said. „The goal here is to confuse people, and he’s doing very well at that. This is a classic propaganda tactic.”>> Craig Mazin, the creator of HBO’s „Chernobyl,” reacted to my segment with Rauch by reprising one of the most memorable lines from his series: „The real danger is that if we hear enough lies, then we no longer recognize the truth at all.”
Chers frères et sœurs, Dans les deux dernières catéchèses, nous avons parlé de la figure de Saint Pierre. A présent, nous voulons, dans la mesure où les sources nous le permettent, connaître d’un peu plus près également les onze autres Apôtres. C’est pourquoi nous parlons aujourd’hui du frère de Simon Pierre, Saint André, qui était lui aussi l’un des Douze.
La première caractéristique qui frappe chez André est son nom: il n’est pas juif, comme on pouvait s’y attendre, mais grec, signe non négligeable d’une certaine ouverture culturelle de sa famille. Nous sommes en Galilée, où la langue et la culture grecques sont assez présentes. Dans les listes des Douze, André occupe la deuxième place, comme dans Matthieu (10, 1-4) et dans Luc (6, 13-16), ou bien la quatrième place comme dans Marc (3, 13-18) et dans les Actes (1, 13-14).
Quoi qu’il en soit, il jouissait certainement d’un grand prestige au sein des premières communautés chrétiennes. Le lien de sang entre Pierre et André, ainsi que l’appel commun qui leur est adressé par Jésus, apparaissent explicitement dans les Evangiles. On y lit: „Comme il [Jésus] marchait au bord du lac de Galilée, il vit deux frères, Simon, appelé Pierre, et son frère André, qui jetaient leurs filets dans le lac: c’était des pêcheurs. Jésus leur dit: „Venez derrière moi, et je vous ferai pêcheurs d’hommes”” (Mt 4, 18-19; Mc 1, 16-17).
Dans le quatrième Évangile, nous trouvons un autre détail important: dans un premier temps, André était le disciple de Jean Baptiste; et cela nous montre que c’était un homme qui cherchait, qui partageait l’espérance d’Israël, qui voulait connaître de plus près la Parole du Seigneur, la réalité du Seigneur présent.
C’était vraiment un homme de Foi et d’Espérance; et il entendit Jean Baptiste un jour proclamer que Jésus était l'”Agneau de Dieu” (Jn 1, 36); il se mit alors en marche et, avec un autre disciple qui n’est pas nommé, il suivit Jésus, Celui qui était appelé par Jean „Agneau de Dieu”.
L’évangéliste rapporte: ils „virent où il demeurait, et ils restèrent auprès de lui ce jour-là” (Jn 1, 37-39). André put donc profiter de précieux moments d’intimité avec Jésus. Le récit se poursuit par une annotation significative: „André, le frère de Simon-Pierre, était l’un des deux disciples qui avaient entendu Jean Baptiste et qui avaient suivi Jésus. Il trouve d’abord son frère Simon et lui dit: „Nous avons trouvé le Messie (autrement dit: Le Christ)”.
André amena son frère à Jésus” (Jn 1, 40-43), démontrant immédiatement un esprit apostolique peu commun. André fut donc le premier des Apôtres à être appelé à suivre Jésus. C’est précisément sur cette base que la Liturgie de l’Eglise byzantine l’honore par l’appellation de Protóklitos, qui signifie précisément „premier appelé”. Et il est certain que c’est également en raison du rapport fraternel entre Pierre et André que l’Eglise de Rome et l’Eglise de Constantinople se sentent de manière particulière des Eglises-sœurs.
Pour souligner cette relation, mon Prédécesseur, le Pape Paul VI, restitua en 1964 les nobles reliques de Saint André, conservées jusqu’alors dans la Basilique vaticane, à l’Évêque métropolite Orthodoxe de la ville de Patras en Grèce, où selon la tradition, l’Apôtre fut Crucifié. Les traditions évangéliques rappellent particulièrement le nom d’André en trois autres occasions, qui nous font connaître un peu plus cet homme.
La première est celle de la multiplication des pains en Galilée. En cette circonstance, ce fut André qui signala à Jésus la présence d’un enfant avec cinq pains d’orge et deux poissons, „bien peu de chose” – remarqua-t-il – pour toutes les personnes réunies en ce lieu (cf. Jn 6, 8-9).
Le réalisme d’André en cette occasion mérite d’être souligné: il remarqua l’enfant – il avait donc déjà posé la question: „Mais qu’est-ce que cela pour tant de monde!” (ibid.) -, et il se rendit compte de l’insuffisance de ses maigres réserves. Jésus sut toutefois les faire suffire pour la multitude de personnes venues l’écouter.
La deuxième occasion fut à Jérusalem. En sortant de la ville, un disciple fit remarquer à Jésus le spectacle des murs puissants qui soutenaient le Temple. La réponse du Maître fut surprenante: il lui dit que de ces murs, il ne serait pas resté pierre sur pierre.
André l’interrogea alors, avec Pierre, Jacques et Jean: „Dis-nous quand cela arrivera, dis-nous quel sera le signe que tout cela va finir” (Mc 13, 1-4). Pour répondre à cette question, Jésus prononça un discours important sur la destruction de Jérusalem et sur la fin du monde, en invitant ses disciples à lire avec attention les signes des temps et à rester toujours vigilants. Nous pouvons déduire de l’épisode que nous ne devons pas craindre de poser des questions à Jésus, mais que dans le même temps, nous devons être prêts à accueillir les enseignements, même surprenants et difficiles, qu’Il nous offre.
Dans les Évangiles, enfin, une troisième initiative d’André est rapportée. Le cadre est encore Jérusalem, peu avant la Passion. Pour la Fête de Pâques – raconte Jean – quelques Grecs étaient eux aussi venus dans la ville sainte, probablement des prosélytes ou des hommes craignant Dieu, venus pour adorer le Dieu d’Israël en la Fête de la Pâque. André et Philippe, les deux Apôtres aux noms grecs, servent d’interprètes et de médiateurs à ce petit groupe de Grecs auprès de Jésus.
La réponse du Seigneur à leur question apparaît – comme souvent dans l’Évangile de Jean – énigmatique, mais précisément ainsi, elle se révèle riche de signification. Jésus dit aux deux disciples et, par leur intermédiaire, au monde grec: „L’heure est venue pour le Fils de l’homme d’être glorifié. Amen, amen, je vous le dis: si le grain de blé tombé en terre ne meurt pas, il reste seul; mais s’il meurt, il donne beaucoup de fruit” (Jn 12, 23-24).
Que signifient ces paroles dans ce contexte? Jésus veut dire: Oui, ma rencontre avec les Grecs aura lieu, mais pas comme un simple et bref entretien entre moi et quelques personnes, poussées avant tout par la curiosité. Avec ma mort, comparable à la chute en terre d’un grain de blé, viendra l’heure de ma glorification. De ma mort sur la Croix proviendra la grande fécondité: le „grain de blé mort” – symbole de ma Crucifixion – deviendra dans la Résurrection Pain de Vie pour le monde; elle sera Lumière pour les peuples et les cultures. Oui, la rencontre avec l’âme grecque, avec le monde grec, se réalisera à ce niveau auquel fait allusion l’épisode du grain de blé qui attire à lui les forces de la Terre et du Ciel et qui devient pain. En d’autres termes, Jésus prophétise l’Église des Grecs, l’Église des païens, l’Église du monde comme fruit de sa Pâque.
Des traditions très antiques voient André, qui a transmis aux Grecs cette parole, non seulement comme l’interprète de plusieurs Grecs lors de la rencontre avec Jésus que nous venons de rappeler, mais elles le considèrent comme l’apôtre des Grecs dans les années qui suivirent la Pentecôte; elles nous font savoir qu’au cours du reste de sa vie il fut l’annonciateur et l’interprète de Jésus dans le monde grec.
Pierre, son frère, de Jérusalem en passant par Antioche, parvint à Rome pour y exercer sa mission universelle; André fut en revanche l’Apôtre du monde grec: ils apparaissent ainsi de véritables frères dans la vie comme dans la mort – une fraternité qui s’exprime symboliquement dans la relation spéciale des Sièges de Rome et de Constantinople, des Églises véritablement sœurs.
Une tradition successive, comme nous l’avons mentionné, raconte la mort d’André à Patras, où il subit lui aussi le supplice de la Crucifixion.
Cependant, au moment suprême, de manière semblable à son frère Pierre, il demanda à être placé sur une Croix différente de celle de Jésus. Dans son cas, il s’agit d’une Croix décussée, c’est-à-dire dont le croisement transversal est incliné, qui fut donc appelée „Croix de saint André”.
Voilà ce que l’Apôtre aurait dit à cette occasion, selon un antique récit (début du VI siècle) intitulé Passion d’André:
„Je te salue, ô Croix, inaugurée au moyen du Corps du Christ et qui as été ornée de ses membres, comme par des perles précieuses. Avant que le Seigneur ne monte sur toi, tu inspirais une crainte terrestre. A présent, en revanche, dotée d’un Amour Céleste, tu es reçue comme un don. Les croyants savent, à ton égard, combien de joie tu possèdes, combien de présents tu prépares. Avec assurance et rempli de joie, je viens donc à toi, pour que toi aussi, tu me reçoives exultant comme le disciple de celui qui fut suspendu à toi…
O Croix bienheureuse, qui reçus la majesté et la beauté des membres du Seigneur!… Prends-moi et porte-moi loin des hommes et rends-moi à mon Maître, afin que par ton intermédiaire me reçoive Celui qui, par toi, m’a racheté.Je te salue, ô Croix; oui, en vérité, je te salue!”. Comme on le voit, il y a là une très profonde spiritualité Chrétienne, qui voit dans la Croix non pas tant un instrument de torture, mais plutôt le moyen incomparable d’une pleine assimilation au Rédempteur, au grain de blé tombé en terre.
Nous devons en tirer une leçon très importante: nos croix acquièrent de la valeur si elles sont considérées et accueillies comme une partie de la Croix du Christ, si elles sont touchées par l’éclat de sa Lumière. Ce n’est que par cette Croix que nos souffrances sont aussi ennoblies et acquièrent leur sens véritable.
Que l’Apôtre André nous enseigne donc à suivre Jésus avec promptitude (cf. Mt 4, 20; Mc 1, 18), à parler avec enthousiasme de Lui à ceux que nous rencontrons, et surtout à cultiver avec Lui une relation véritablement familière, bien conscients que ce n’est qu’en Lui que nous pouvons trouver le sens ultime de notre vie et de notre mort.
Pema Chödrön: We are experts at escalation, adding more kerosene to the fire. To de-escalate the cycle of suffering takes courage, because the urge to do what you always do—scream, cry, hit, whatever—is like a magnet. It’s pulling you down like the undertow. To hold your ground and be nonaggressive takes courage. Doing that doesn’t have to be called Buddhism. This is also what Martin Luther King taught. We are talking about the ideal of a beloved community. Nobody is healed until everyone is healed.
Jack Kornfield: Even though we’re talking very personally about what we’re doing when we’re talking to someone in pain, or when we’re driving or standing in line at the ticket counter, there is a very important political dimension to our experience. We need to deal not only with the aggression we see all around us in the world, but also with fear. Particularly since 9/11, we see fear of the other so clearly.
When we see the other person stop the car and come toward us, underneath our aggression, there is a fear about whether we can tolerate their anger. It is necessary to make friends with fear. What is our response going to be to the fact that the world is uncertain, and that sometimes bad and painful things happen? Are we going to be aggressive in a collective way, or is there a kind of wisdom that we can bring to the world?
Thich Nhat Hanh talks about how when the boats carrying Vietnamese refugees encountered storms or pirates, if everybody panicked, all would be lost. But if even one person could stay calm on the boat, that was enough. It showed the way for everybody else.
There’s a tremendous political task, a courage that’s asked of us in these times, like Martin Luther King would ask of us, a courage not to be reactive, both in the political sense and in the personal, although I’m not sure you ever separate them.
Michael Krasny: When King marched through Cicero, Illinois, he said he had never seen such hatred, unmasked and naked. How does one work with compassion and wisdom in the face of hatred like that or the hatred of suicide bombers?
Pema Chödrön: Well, what did Martin Luther King do?
Michael Krasny: Turned the other cheek.
Pema Chödrön: He did more than that. He resisted the hatred, went against it. He wanted everyone to be cured of the disease of hatred—the victims of the disease and those who had the disease. The whole idea was that you were going to get kicked in the head; you were going to be called names. You kept in mind that these things that were usually going to trigger and provoke you were a kind of illness, and the only way to cure the illness was not to retaliate.
Jack Kornfield: And yet it’s not passive. Gandhi said if he had to choose between passivity, which he equated with cowardice, and violence, he would choose violence. What he chose, what King chose—and what we’re called on to choose in this time, personally or collectively—was to be present with a lot of courage. King said to his adversaries, “We will wear you down by our capacity to suffer, to face suffering, and still not stop, still march, still tell the truth, still do what’s necessary to make the change.” Not being reactive is not being passive. It’s not a kind of stupidity, holding back or being disinterested, removing oneself from the world. Real equanimity isn’t indifference. It’s the capacity to be present with your whole being and not add fuel to the fire.
Găsesc la Augustin, în cartea I a Confesiunilor, o critică subtilă, dar solidă, a cutumelor societății în care a crescut autorul. Precum se știe, în Antichitatea târzie (și după aceea, până hăt încoace, spre calul Bălan sau chiar mai recent), școlarii erau educați cu metode rudimentare.Când a început să meargă și el în acolo unde […]
De peste un an (dacă memoria nu mă înșală) se varsă multă cerneală în dezbaterea privitoare la„Tatăl nostru”.
„S-a apucat Papa să strice Biblia”, comentează îmbufnat unii protestanți, socotind că schimbarea din Tatăl nostru ar deforma grav textul original al rugăciunii Tatăl nostru.
Acesta (v. 13 din Matei 6, n.n.) nu pune din punct de vedere semantic nici cea mai mică problemă de înțelegere (singurul sens care poate fi pus în discuție este al termenului ispită, dar nu asta contează în discuția de față), așa că traducerea lui n-avea de ce să fie modificată. Cuvânt cu cuvânt, exact asta a spus Iisus – „și nu ne duce pe noi în ispită / încercare” – și nu încape, din punct de vedere gramatical-semantic, nicio interpretare. E o propoziție la fel de simplă ca „Ana are mere”.
Ca întotdeauna, există niște drăcușori subtili ale căror codițe îmbârligate se ițesc dintre detaliile acestei probleme de exegeză biblică.
E destul de sigur că Isus nu a spus textual μὴ εἰσενέγκῃς ἡμᾶς εἰς πειρασμόν (adică textul grec tradus în română prin „nu ne duce pe noi în ispită”).
Isus trebuie să fi vorbit în iudeo-aramaică sau într-o formă de ebraică mișnaică (ebraica pe care o întâlnim în Mișna și în alte scrieri rabinice din primele secole creștine).
Ebraica, după cum știe cine s-a apucat să buchisească pe textul veterotestamentar, are anumite forme verbale care transmit un anumit înțeles.
De pildă, există în ebraică o formă cauzativă, care se cheamă hifil. Nu vă speriați, explic imediat ce este această gânganie gramaticală.
Dacă luăm verbul bo’ („a merge”) și îl punem la hifil, adăugându-i consoane și vocale după o paradigmă anume, el își schimbă forma și capătă valoare cauzativă, însemnând „a face (pe cineva) să meargă”. Două exemple, mai jos.
În Geneza 7:1, Dumnezeu îi spune lui Noe: „Mergi/intră în arcă…” (ebr. ḇōʼʼel-hattēḇa).
Mai înainte, în Geneza 6:19, Dumnezeu îi spusese lui Noe ― pardon de literalism ― „fă să meargă în arcă (ebr. tāḇiʼ ʼel-hattēḇa)” ființe vii, câte o pereche din fiecare. Pe românește zicem „ia în arcă”, fiindcă avem verbul „a lua” care corespunde formei verbale „hifilizate” din ebraică.
Așadar, de la „mergi” (ḇōʼ), am ajuns să zicem „fă să meargă” (tāḇiʼ), prin această magie a infixării specifice limbilor semitice.
Știm cu relativă siguranță că în spatele grecescului μὴ εἰσενέγκῃς (lit. „nu duce”) se află ceva de tipul ואל תביאני, secvență pe care o întâlnim într-un psalm de la Qumran sau într-o rugăciune din Talmudul babilonian.
Să vedem mai întâi rugăciunea de la Qumran (11Q5 Psalmi a).
זכורני ואל תש̇כחני ואל תביֿאניֿ בקש̇ות ממניֿ
„Adu-ți aminte de mine, nu mă da uitării și nu mă duce în necazuri care sunt prea mari pentru mine.”
Putem traduce, fără risc de sminteală teologică, „nu mă da uitării și nu mă lăsaîn necazuri care sunt prea mari pentru mine”.
Rugăciunea din Talmud (Ber. 60b) are aceeași formă „nu mă duce” (hifil – ואל תביאני )
„Nu mă duce sub puterea păcatului, a nelegiuirii, a încercării sau a dezonoarei”
ואל תביאני לידי חטא ולא לידי עון ולא לידי נסיון ולא לידי בזיון
Sensul acestei cereri (după cum îl găsim tradus în Marcus Jastrow. A Dictionary of the Targumim, the Talmud Babli and Yerushalmi, and the Midrashic Literature) este: „suffer me not to come within the power of sin, iniquity, or temptation”, adică „nu îngădui să ajung sub puterea păcatului, a nelegiuirii etc.”
Ar fi și culmea să credem că Dumnezeu „ne duce sub puterea păcatului și a nelegiuirii”.
În rugăciunea Tatăl nostru avem același tip de construcție în spatele textului grec care a ajuns la noi.
Așadar, fie că păstrăm „nu ne duce pe noi în ispită” (cu riscul ca cititorul mai slab de vârtute să înțeleagă greșit, dacă e lăsat în regim „autocefal”), fie dăm direct valoarea „permisivă” în traducere („nu îngădui să ajungem în ispită/încercare”), nu greșim.
Profit de ocaziune să postez aici pagina cu textul rugăciunii domnești în varianta EDCR, care ar trebui să apară la începutul anului viitor. Precum vedeți, ne-ar plăcea mult ca textul biblic să fie pe o singură coloană, cu referințele biblice în interiorul paginii.
Father, let your hope arise in our hearts! Lift our eyes up to see that you alone are where our hope comes from. Help us to shake off the anxiety, discouragements, and distractions that have filled this year. May we pause to remember that we have hope in you. […]
„When he heard that John had been arrested, he withdrew to Galilee. He left Nazareth and went to live in Capernaum by the sea, in the region of Zebulun and Naphtali, that what had been said through Isaiah the prophet might be fulfilled:
Land of Zebulun and land of Naphtali, the way to the sea, beyond the Jordan, Galilee of the Gentiles, the people who sit in darkness have seen a great light, on those dwelling in a land overshadowed by death light has arisen.
From that time on Jesus began to preach and say, „Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is close at hand.” (Matt. 4:12-17)
Advent is the liturgical season that celebrates the theme of divine light. This great light, incarnated in Jesus, confronts any kind of darkness, illusion, ignorance.
If you reflect for a moment on the natural cycles of life, our world is always coming to an end. The world of the womb comes to an end at birth; the world of infancy comes to an end at about age three; childhood comes to an end at adolescence; adolescence at young adulthood; young adulthood at the middle-age crisis; then come old age, senility, and death. Life is a process.
The experience of growing up or the decline of physical energy forces us to let go of each period of life as we pass through it. Thus physical life is always giving way to further development. It should be no surprise, therefore, that Jesus invites us to let the privatized worlds of our emotional attachments, preconceived ideas, and prepackaged values come to an end.
One of the messages of Advent, especially the theme of the end of the world, is not so much about the end of the world nor even about physical death which is the end of the present world for each of us–as about all the worlds that come to an end in the natural and spiritual evolution of life.
Thus, every time we move to a new level of faith, the previous world that we lived in with all its relationships comes to an end. This is what John the Baptist and later Jesus meant when they began their ministries with the word, „Repent.” The message they meant to convey was, „It’s the end of your world!” Naturally, we do not like to hear such news; we don’t like change. We say, „Get rid of this man!”
The process of conversion begins with genuine openness to change: openness to the possibility that just as natural life evolves, so too the spiritual life evolves. Our psychological world is the result of natural growth, events over which we had no control in early childhood, and grace. Grace is the presence and action of Christ in our lives inviting us to let go of where we are now and to be open to the new values that are born every time we penetrate to a new understanding of the Gospel.
Moreover, Jesus calls us to repent not just once; it is an invitation that keeps recurring. In the liturgy it recurs several times a year, especially during Advent and Lent. It may also come at other times through circumstances: disappointments, personal tragedy, or the bursting into consciousness of some compulsion or secret motive that we were not aware of.
A crisis in our lives is not a reason to run away; it is the voice of Christ inviting us to accept more of the divine light. More of the divine light means more of what the divine light reveals, which is divine life. And the more divine life we receive, the more we perceive that divine life is pure love.
Whenever we accept the invitation to let go of our present level of relating to Christ for a new one, it may feel scary A comfortable relationship with Christ–our own little world of reading, prayer, devotions, or ministry–is good. But just as the life process moves on day by day, so the grace of Christ relentlessly calls us beyond our limitations and fears into new worlds.
Like Abraham, the classical paradigm of faith, Jesus asks us to leave land, family, culture, peer group, religious education everything that we might cling to in order to establish an identity or to avoid feeling lonely All of this Christ gently but firmly calls us to leave behind saying, „Go forth from your father’s house and country and come into the land that I will show you.”
The call to contemplative prayer is a call into the unknown. It is not a call to nowhere, but it is nowhere that we can imagine. Each time we consent to an enhancement of faith, our world changes and all our relationships have to be adjusted to the new perspective that has been given to us.
Our relationship to ourselves, to Jesus Christ, to our neighbor, to the Church– even to God himself–all change. It is the end of the world we have previously known and lived in. Sometimes the Spirit deliberately shatters those worlds. If we have depended upon them to go to God, it may feel as if we have lost God. We may have doubts about God’s very existence.
It is not the God of faith we are doubting, but only the God of our limited concepts or dependencies; this god never existed anyway Pure faith is the purification of the human props in our relationship to God. As these are relinquished, we relate more directly to the divine presence, even though it may feel like the end of our spiritual life.
And so the second part of Jesus’ message is important. If you repent and are willing to change, or willing to let God change you, the kingdom of God is close. In fact, you have it; it is within you and you can begin to enjoy it. The kingdom of God belongs to those who have let go of their possessive attitude toward everything including God. God is pure gift; we cannot possess him just for ourselves. We can possess him only by receiving him and sharing him with others.„
This chapter is taken from the book Awakenings by Fr. Thomas Keating
Michael Krasny: Is being in the present with someone, then, the source of all compassion?
Pema Chödrön: What we need to do is drop the fixed ideas about the person we’re talking to. One way to do that is simply to start asking questions, and then we will see that a person’s soft spot is easy to find. I’m sure you find that happens in interviews all the time.
You might have someone who’s a real hardass, but if you are able to get them on to certain topics, the mask comes off, and suddenly you’re talking human-to-human. That’s the now we’re talking about. It’s basically a now without preconceptions of who someone is, what they’re like, or what you have to prove to them. Now is dropping the agenda and just being completely curious about someone.
Michael Krasny: It’s what you call heart-to-heart.
Pema Chödrön: Yes.
Michael Krasny: Yet, we all seem to have a need to protect the heart, to keep it from being vulnerable.
Jack Kornfield: Yes, we do. Yet Rilke says, in a most beautiful line, that ultimately it is upon our vulnerability that we depend. That’s the way to the soft spot, to making a human connection. It is what we would want for the Israelis and the Palestinians, or the Northern Irish Catholics and the Protestants. There has to be a willingness to go to the place of vulnerability, and there are a couple of things we can say about how we avoid getting there and what we can do about that.
For one thing, we have difficulty making a human connection because we don’t trust our heart. We don’t trust that our heart has the capacity to open to the sorrows as well as the beauty of the world.
We’ve been hurt many times, and along with that we’ve been taught that we can’t tolerate the world. One of the great Buddhist teachings—it’s a type of medicine, you might say—is to remind ourselves, and others, that we all have a great capacity of heart. We have within us buddha nature, the capacity to hold all the sorrows and joys of the world. An aspect of our great openness is our ability to tolerate suffering.
Everybody has their own burden. Everybody has their own measure of sorrow. Relatively speaking, some might carry an enormous burden, but everybody has a fair measure. It’s just part of the human condition. When you speak of the first noble truth, you acknowledge that this is how our human incarnation is.
When you sit with someone, you can see that they too have their measure of sorrows, just as you do. If you can share with them how you’ve struggled with your own sorrows, and how you’ve worked with them, it softens the conversation and shares the vulnerability.
It makes connection possible. It’s not a matter of being platitudinous or idealistic about this. The heart opens and closes, and there may be times, very sensibly, when you need to back off and protect yourself, as you say. You have to include yourself in compassion, not just everybody else.
We get in trouble if the circle of compassion leaves out one person, “Moi!” as Miss Piggy would say. Once having included yourself in the compassion, the fundamental practice is to witness somebody else’s suffering.
Pema Chödrön and Jack Kornfield talk “The Wondrous Path of Difficulties”
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