[This went out as a Friday Letter to my church, but I thought I'd repost it here for my other friends.]
My Brothers and Sisters in Christ,
26 December, also known as Boxing Day, holds a special place in the life of clergy and their families. With all professional obligations of the holiday discharged, we are free to soak up whatever atmosphere of festivity remains. If we are particularly brave (or particularly foolish, depending on your opinion of the matter) we can partake of the many after-Christmas [sic] sales. This is helpful, as I, at least, often fail to complete the requisite shopping and shipping before the magical date of 25 December.
So it was that Jieun and I found ourselves contending with a myriad others for space in the parking garage at the Bellevue Mall this past Monday. Traffic within was no less crowded, yet we managed to acquire several gifts (at reduced prices I might add) before fleeing the premises. We whiled away the afternoon in downtown Seattle before making our way to Town Hall, an historic meeting room that has become my favorite Seattle venue for concerts.
We'd purchased tickets in advance, but they were only general admission, and here general admission looked a lot like arriving late to board a Southwest Airlines flight. We found seats just a few rows back from the stage, but all the way around at the side. The horn players were mostly hidden from view, but we had a privileged line-of-sight to the drummer and pianist at work.
Grace Episcopal Cathedral in San Francisco began life as Grace Chapel in the gold rush year of 1849. It was rebuilt twice over the years as the city became more prosperous and more populous, and the third church was grand enough to be casually referred to as Grace Cathedral until it burnt down in the fire caused by the earthquake of 1906. Work on the current structure began in 1928 and was completed in 1964.
As part of its grand opening year, the new Grace Cathedral atop Nob Hill was to host many celebrations, ceremonies, and cultural events. Among these was a sacred concert—a body of music composed by Duke Ellington. Ellington had had a religious upbringing (I'm quoting the concert bulletin here) and intended to compose spiritual music for much of his life. He drew inspiration not only from his childhood but also from the civil rights movement, saying, "Every time God's children have thrown away fear in pursuit of honesty—trying to communicate, understood or not—miracles have happened."
Earshot Jazz in Seattle has been putting on annual concerts made up of Ellington's sacred work for the past 23 years. On a whim, following an email sent at the last minute, Jieun and I ended up at this year's performance, sitting due South of a stage facing East and packed full of a twelve piece jazz orchestra, a twelve voice choir, and a pair of soloists. Thank God we did.
They opened with In the beginning God. I assumed the title had been bereft of its punctuation and the verse shortened merely for logistical reasons. I was wrong. Ellington meant to leave that comma out, and he found enough theology in those four words that the three that usually followed had to wait their turn. The lyric is amazingly simple:
In the beginning God.
In the beginning God.
In the beginning God.
No heaven.
No earth.
No nothing.
In the beginning God.
The power of these words is evident just written on the page. When sung they transcend.
The soloist was listed as a baritone in the program, but if he was a baritone I'm glad Ellington didn't write a bass part. If the soloist and James Earl Jones had a conversation I'm pretty sure an earthquake would result from the sympathetic resonance. Throw Barry White in and it's armageddon for sure.
That original sacred concert in Grace Cathedral began with In the Beginning God and ended with David Danced Before the Lord with All His Might, a piece the Seattle Repertory Jazz Orchestra arrived at after intermission. It's really something to hear a full big band—five saxophones, four trombones, four trumpets, piano, drums, and base— really go after a song. Throw in a full choir and you've got something powerful that is seldom heard anymore. Then they brought out the tap-dancer.
I know.
I can't believe I'm going to try to convince you that tap dancing can bring tears to your eyes. Perhaps you know more about dance than I do (not difficult, given how little I know) and will believe me. If not, you'll probably have to see it yourself before you'll credit what I'm saying. All I know is that when that young man in his three piece suit walked out on stage, and stepped forward onto the mic'ed up wooden platform... What happened next was magical. I'll never in my life read that verse again—"David danced before the Lord with all his might"—without thinking of that tap-dancer and knowing the depth of passion that dwelt in that dance.
Music is a language, and Jazz a dialect of that language that I have come to love. I leave you, on this the sixth day of Christmas, with the wisdom of The Duke: "Every man prays in his own language, and there is no language that God does not understand."
Peace,
Ben.
Dear Sergio, This has been an enlightening week; I’m so glad we decided to have this semi-public conversation about minimalism. I feel like I’ve got a better idea of what those internet minimalists are up to and where their struggles match up with my own. I’ve also confirmed my initial suspicion: that minimalism and spirituality are related around profound issues. Issues like simplicity, connection, and intentionality. As we wrap up our week I want to add another issue that I know is a spiritual one and see if you think it plays out in minimalism as well. I’ve flirted with the idea of Sabbath for years now, though never been a true adherent. It’s a religious word, of course, but more and more people are coming to see Sabbath as a human practice rather than merely a religious one. I’ve had this book on my shelf for months now, and I know the author thinks Sabbath practice is for everyone—gentile, Jew, or secular humanist—though I haven’t read it yet. I keep pushing it off, which is probably significant. The reason I love the idea of Sabbath and think it goes with the conversation we’ve been having this week is that it combines several of the major themes of our discussion while adding the notion of time. Sabbath is meant to strengthen our human connections, to lead us towards mindfulness, and to give us an experience of simplicity. It also teaches us about time—about the pace at which we choose to live, and about how quality is as significant as quantity. We can’t always live in Sabbath time, which is why they are traditionally just one day in seven, but that weekly retreat into a different time and space changes the rest of our time and space for the other six days. I’ve had different Sabbath practices over the years, though mostly they’ve been pretty amateur dabbling. I currently have a Facebook and email Sabbath practice most Fridays (I’m cheating today, obviously) which lines right up with the digital vacation idea you pointed up Wednesday. There’s more to Sabbath than not-doing though, or there should be. It really is an exercise in manipulating the human experience of time. My morning coffee reading the past couple weeks has been Slow Time by Waverly Fitzgerald. Though not specifically affiliated with any particular religion, it’s both a spiritual and practical look at our relationship with time. As far as time management books go, this one’s the best (and not coincidentally least ordinary) of those I’ve come across. From what you’ve said, I think that being present in the moment is a product of minimalism. This is another deep concept that many wisdom and religious traditions share. The first breath prayer I ever learned was about presence in time. It was taught to me by the chaplain at summer camp I attended in high school. It’s easy. As you breath in, you say to yourself, “A Time.” As you breath back out, the words are, “To Embrace.” A deep breath—“A time to embrace”. To this day it is the most powerful prayer I know. It never fails to snap me back to the moment, to the present, even if—no, especially if—the present moment isn’t a good one. So here’s to the pursuit of minimalism, spirituality, and a life lived well. There’s much we’ve left unsaid, and perhaps there’s room for a sequel somewhere down the line. I’ve enjoyed this so much, friend. Peace be with you, Ben. • • • • • Dear Ben, What a pleasure it’s been to have this conversation with you over the course of the week. Although I imagined we would find a good deal of common ground between monasticism and minimalism, reading your thoughts certainly opened my eyes to new things. Anyone who’s known me for more than ten minutes, knows that I favor extremes and that I tend to jump headfirst into whatever thing or idea happens to strike my fancy. I’ve made an effort this time around to practice moderation in hopes that this does not become simply another fleeting phase, but rather a lifestyle. Believe me, the temptation to get rid of everything but the clothes I’m wearing is strong and ever present. But realizing that there is something deeper and more meaningful to this than whatever may be the number of my possessions keeps me grounded. Discovering how much ancient and current practices in monasticism and spirituality have in common with minimalism has been reassuring. It’s not that I was looking for validation, but knowing these things makes me think there is something truly worthy, fulfilling and sustainable about this pursuit. While I don’t consider myself a spiritual person, I appreciate the benefits spiritual practices and disciplines. I will be thinking about the things we’ve discussed for some time, and I will likely make them a part of my minimalist approach to life. I’m pleased you have chosen to talk about Sabbath. This is a perfect example of the kind of spiritually-rooted practice even a humanist minimalist can greatly benefit from. I have experienced something powerful about purposefully setting apart a time to withdraw from quotidian life and do (or not do, as the case may be) something that slows us down. What I most look forward to in a Sabbath experience is stillness. It can be the stillness the psalmist refers to, “be still and know…” But as you’ve mentioned, Sabbath mustn’t be limited to Abrahamic expressions of faith. It doesn’t necessarily have to be spiritual at all, right? Some of the best moments of stillness for me came many years ago as I meditated upon the Tao, of which my favorite proverb was (and still is), “the way to do is to be.” Later on, while practicing Shotokan Karate, our sensei exhorted us to find stillness in movement. Curiously enough, while practicing Bikram Yoga, we were instructed to find movement in stillness. I often experience this stillness during mass, or during a particularly moving concert at the symphony. What I haven’t done is to make a regular practice of it. But I’m going to look into the books you’ve mentioned and perhaps pursue that next. In closing I would like to once again quote (you guessed it!) Thoreau, “To be a philosopher is not merely to have subtle thoughts, nor even to found a school, but so to love wisdom as to live according to its dictates, a life of simplicity, independence, magnanimity, and trust.” I wouldn’t call myself a philosopher, but this certainly describes the kind of life I want to live. As I see it, minimalism is not the end, but rather one of the means by which to reach this goal. It’s the means that happens to be working for me at the moment. Thank you and thank you again for taking the time to engage in this dialog. I have rather enjoyed it and I have truly learned more than a few things. Talk to you soon, my friend. Most sincerely, -Sergio.
[Note: This letter is part of a week long email exchange between me and my friend Sergio on the topic of minimalism] Ben, Today we're talking about possessions, and I have a confession to make: I’m obsessed with stuff. Only it's not the kind of obsession you see on TV; you might even say it's the opposite of hoarding. Not a day goes by without me asking myself, or Emily, questions like "do we need to keep this?" and, "when was the last time we used it?" If I lived on my own, my apartment would be perpetually empty, as though it were waiting for its next tenant. But don't worry, it's not serious, just one of the things I like to think about. Something else I like to think about is storage, particularly as it relates to stuff. Did you know that one of the fastest-growing sectors of commercial real estate is the self storage industry? With a collective $20+ billion in annual revenues, the industry is so strong that Wall Street analysts have deemed it "recession resistant." The fact sheet available at the Self Storage Association website has some impressive insights, but the one that I find truly captivating is this: Total self storage rentable space in the US is now 2.22 billion square feet (as of Q4-2009). That figure represents more than 78 square miles of rentable self storage space, under roof – or an area well more than 3 times the size of Manhattan Island. That's three Manhattan Island's worth of stuff that no longer fits in our closets, garages and attics! We have more than enough stuff to support the booming self storage industry, the National Association of Professional Organizers, businesses such as The Container Store (stuff to put your stuff in) and TV shows like Clean Sweep. Of course I haven’t made any new discoveries here, we all know we could use a little bit of spring cleaning. But I’m taken by the sadness there is in all of this. Tom Vanderbilt refers to this sadness in an article on Slate about self storage, these possessions we store away are "mementos we somehow can't live with, and yet can't live without, and exemplify the downside of acquisition.” And then I think about monastic life. I think about men and women who seem perfectly content and fulfilled, while possessing little to nothing at all. I look at online pictures of monastic cells and think of Thoreau’s descriptions of his cabin at Walden. These are all people for whom the concept of self-storage couldn’t be stranger if you made it up. What is the secret? How does monasticism enable people to detach from material things? Would we be happier, more fulfilled, if like monks, our possessions were fewer? Simply, -Sergio. * * *Sergio, We might be the wrong people to talk about the temptation of having too much stuff, as I share your predilection towards getting rid of extraneous things wherever possible. Instead let me say something positive, first personally then monastically, about possessions. I love things. The desk I’m sitting at right now is made from dark stained hardwood, solid throughout, with a hammer-textured surface and a matching hutch with little cubbies. The bag I use most days is soft leather, lined with a cool patterned fabric; it fits my netbook computer and one book perfectly. Last week I bought a beautiful bamboo dish rack and I’ve been enjoying the hell out of doing the dishes ever since. I’m a tactile person by nature, and I love good things. Long ago I took to heart this quote: “ Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful.” William Morris said that, though I only just now looked it up. Whoever said it to me added the line, “…preferably both.”Which leads me to one of my favorite chapters of The Rule of St. Benedict. Besides the obvious stuff (prayers, vows, etc.) Benedict’s Rule contains some wonderful thoughts about things. When it comes to possessions, the saint devotes all 147 words of chapter 33 to saying that monks may not have any possessions at all, not “even their bodies or wills”. Chapter 31, however, is 717 words long, and concerns the Cellarer:“ Let him regard all the utensils of the monastery
and its whole property
as if they were the sacred vessels of the altar.
Let him not think that he may neglect anything.
He should be neither a miser
nor a prodigal and squanderer of the monastery's substance,
but should do all things with measure.”The Cellarer, if it isn’t clear from the text, is that monk who acts as chief purveyor of all foodstuffs to the monastery, and as general steward. In other words, while monks don’t own anything individually, they do own things in common, and those things are precious, no matter how humble.We’ve come to the same point, I believe. Appreciation—even reverence—for good and useful and beautiful things is exclusive of the kind of acquisitive consumerism that leads to the need for 2.22 billion square feet of self-storage. I’ve just tried to say it in a positive way. It’s a fine line and a narrow path; Jesus himself recommends a radical minimalism to his disciples when he sends them out to proclaim the kingdom of God: “He said to them, ‘Take nothing for your journey, no staff, nor bag, nor bread, nor money—not even an extra tunic.’ (Luke 9:3)”Light Journeys,-Ben.
[Note: This letter is part of a week long email exchange between me and my friend Sergio on the topic of minimalism]Sergio, We’ve set today aside to define minimalism and our conversation. I have two over-arching question-concepts that I’m bringing to this conversation. The first is a notion of simplicity that has shaped and defined my spirituality from its beginning. The second is a fascination with monasticism that goes back nearly as far. During my sophomore year of High School the church I was loosely affiliated with got a new priest. On his first Sunday I introduced myself by saying that I A) wanted to officially join the church, B) needed to get baptized ASAP, and C) was going to be a priest when I grew up. I had decided all of these things for myself just a couple months earlier. At the time I figured this would deeply impress this new priest. Having now the benefit of ten years of ordained ministry I realize he probably thought I was nominating myself for the position of first pain-in-the-ass of his tenure. To his credit he took me seriously enough that I didn’t notice otherwise. He showed me to his barely unpacked office and handed me Freedom of Simplicity by Richard Foster, a copy of which still sits on my bookshelf. Like High School itself, the book lost some of its profundity when I went back to it as an adult, but the message has never left me. The lessons for me were two. First, that life is inherently simple. Second, that difficulty is not the opposite of simplicity, but complexity is. Thus, the spiritual life is not necessarily easy, but it is simple. It seems to me that some natural relationship must exist between this idea and the new interest in minimalism. The second question-concept I’ll be bringing to this conversation is monasticism. I’ve been fascinated by monks for all of my ordained life. I’ll be going to The Rule of St. Benedict many times this week. My particular fascination as relates to minimalism is what they call “third order” vows. These are kind of affiliate positions that regular people can take in relationship with monastic communities. You don’t become a monastic yourself, but you live by some kind of rule adapted for life in the modern world. That’s exactly what I’m looking for—have been looking for most of my life since waking to spirituality: a way to bear some of that monastic reality into the world. I’m hoping an engagement with minimalism will yield further insights on how to take another step along that path. I’m looking forward to your thoughts. Have a simple day, friend! -Ben. * * * Ben, While I have only recently started referring to myself as a minimalist, I have always been drawn to orderliness and simplicity. This inclination can oftentimes be easily observed, as in the unusual way a cluttered room alters my mood. Other times it's not as easy to comprehend, as in my aversion to multitasking. Minimalism provides ways for me to have the simpler, more fulfilled life that I want. So, how do we define minimalism? Well, I suppose it depends on whom you ask. A great number of bloggers are currently addressing this question. Some choose to be very specific about the number of things they own (100 items for minimalists, 50 or less for radical minimalists). Others are quitting their day jobs and deliberately living under the poverty line. Some are simplifying to eliminate debt. Another bunch are finding minimalism fashionable. Some just love a good challenge. Whatever form it takes, we all seem to be reacting to what we see as a consumerist culture in which our wants and our needs are terribly out of balance. This, we think, has led us to be unhappy and unfulfilled, continuously seeking to buy or add the next new thing to our already cluttered life. The answer, as we see it, is to live a simpler, unencumbered life. While in his tiny cabin at Walden Pond, Henry David Thoreau conducted a two-year experiment in simple living. "Simplicity, simplicity, simplicity," was his refrain. He exemplified the way in which a life with just the "necessaries" could be not only possible, but also fulfilling. Of course, monks had already been living this way for a very long time. But we must understand Thoreau as a product of the society and environment in which he lived, a culture which he saw as obsessed with work and materialism. Although written over a hundred and fifty years ago, Walden rings true even today. I will probably refer to it more than once as our conversation develops. What I see in monasticism and spirituality are opportunities to meaningfully and intentionally use the space, time and resources that minimalism has made available. Giving stuff away, selling and donating things, reclaiming closet and living spaces are all fun and good. But soon enough you realize that unless you fill these newly emptied spaces with meaning and intention, minimalism can just as easily become another fad. I believe, as you have stated, that life is inherently simple and I am quite fond of the idea that "difficulty is not the opposite of simplicity, but complexity is." I look forward to the new ways in which your knowledge of monasticism will add more meaning to my minimalism. And I hope that whatever little I have to offer in the way of minimalism will help us discover ways in which to make monasticism a part of our daily lives. Kindest regards, -Sergio.
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