5 People I’d like to have lunch with.

06 Wednesday Sep 2017

Posted by michael schinker in Buddhist, Happiness, Jesus Christ, religion

Or, to be more grammatically correct, “with whom I would like to have lunch.” So, now that’s out of the way, here’s the list and why:

The Dalai Lama. I’ve always found him to be such a jolly fellow. Always smiling. Very caring and gentle. I’d probably mention my long-ensuing fascination with the Himalayas and the Buddha’s teachings. I’d mention I’ve seen Seven Years in Tibet several times. I’d ask him to read my post from early 2015 titled “The Pursuit of Happiness,” about the life of Peyangky, a nine-year-old Buddhist monk in Bhutan. I’d like to discuss with him the Bodhisattva’s teachings, and ask how can there be so many similarities with the morals and ethics presented in Bible and yet the purported spiritual outcomes are so different. I’d also ask what good is the cycle of reincarnation if you never know you’re reincarnated? And yes, I’d have to eventually mention that I’d been a fan of the Seattle grunge band Nirvana, and ask if was that wrong.

John Lennon. Man, where do you start? How ‘bout, “We miss you terribly. You left too soon. But you left us with so much — to sing, to think about, to remember that ‘All you need is love, love.’ I really like those glasses. Yoko, not so much.” I’d let him know that I’ve seen Help countless times and it’s still fab.

William Shakespeare. My collection of The Complete Works, I’ll never get through. There may be a comment made hinting about his authorship being in question, now a legitimate field of scholarly inquiry. I’ll mention that I saw Richard Burton portray his best Hamlet at the Lunt-Fontanne Theatre on Broadway. I’d ask if he liked being known in literary history simply as “The Bard,” and if those frilly, starchy Elizabethan collars were terribly uncomfortable.

Abraham Lincoln. I’m not sure if I could actually eat in the presence of this giant figure of Americana. Maybe we would both weep most of the time, for the nation, then and now, and about the bloody Civil War battlefields, where so many gave up their lives for causes so opposed. Barefoot boys shooting at each other with rifles that just weeks before were used to shoot squirrels, holding the line alongside decorated academy trained men smartly uniformed in blue or gray. I’d tell him I actually did weep when I visited his Memorial, overcome with a sense of the awesome weight of his presidential burden, that carved solemn face forever musing his beloved country’s heritage and destiny. Wonder what he’d think if I shamefully confessed that moral principles and incorruptible integrity were apparently no longer valued by our government today? Then I would honor him by reading a stanza penned in 1865 by Walt Whitman lamenting his passing: “O Captain! My Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills; For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding; For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning.”

And lastly, Kim Jong Un. Never really cared for Korean food, so on my side of the table it will be a water and appetizer event. Maybe I’d at least order a side of Mandu, the Korean version of a pot sticker. But since I’m German, I’d be more comfortable just calling them dumplings. First question: “With all due respect, sir. Are you nuts, or just a self-styled Asian Napoleonic megalomaniac?” But wait. There’s really no difference. (Pausing for translation and response, if any.) Next question: “So unlike the millions of devoted followers who literally worship you as The Supreme Leader, you seem to be eating pretty well. Must be all that Chinese take-out you order.” The interview might be headed South from here (pun intended) and besides, I find the man’s presence in the civilized world so creepy, I’d probably have to excuse myself and head for the shower just to try to feel clean again. — Actually at this point I’m hoping to get this posted before Big Kim pushes the blinking red button launching a nuke-loaded ICBM aimed at my backyard.

If you know me at all, you’re probably saying, “What? No Jesus Christ on the short list?” Interestingly, it is He who makes the divine offer to dine together. “Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with that person, and they with me.” (Rev. 3:20) This is both a metaphor describing God’s desire for personal relationships, and a prophetic promise for those who choose to realize that relationship by sharing an actual meal with Him at table. Barry Jones, writing for the Dallas Theological Seminary’s blog, says “I’m becoming increasingly convinced that food is one of God’s love languages. It’s worth noting that at the center of the spiritual lives of God’s people in both the Old and New Testaments, we find a table: the table of Passover and the table of Communion.”

Dining together in ancient times and even in our current day culture conveys the idea of intimate fellowship (Luke 19:5-7; John 13:1-5; Matt. 9:10). Jesus, looking ahead in anticipation of that kind of fellowship with his followers, promised not to partake of the Passover meal again until He dines with them in the Millennial Kingdom (Isaiah 25:6; Mat. 8:11; Mark 14:25; Luke 22:18).

So in this case, my “lunch” will not be a fictional fantasy. Jesus has already booked the reservation. The menu will certainly include fruit from the tree of life and fountains of living water, but most importantly, the breaking of bread in the pleasure of the company of the One who is the Bread of Life. (John 6:35)

Making sense out of a senseless universe

28 Monday Dec 2015

Posted by michael schinker in Happiness, Life and death, religion

≈ 2 Comments

Truth is, some folks can’t. Hopeless victims of desperate circumstance become statistics on suicide, taking themselves out of the game rather than endure another day of mental and emotional anguish. Like funny man Robin Williams. Hangs himself with his own belt. Show’s over folks. Nuthin’ more to see here. One would presume that a guy like him had it all. Family, fame, fortune. Ironically, as is the case with so many comedians like Johnny Carson and Jerry Lewis, happiness was a commodity all the money in the world couldn’t buy. Addictions, depression, broken marriages. It’s what the Smokey Robinson 1971 song is all about. “Just like Pagliacci did/I try to keep my sadness hid/Smiling in the public eye/But in my lonely room I cry/The tears of a clown/When there’s no one around.” It makes me wonder how many people actually “lead lives of quiet desperation . . .” as Thoreau wrote, wondering Why am I here and does it even matter? “. . . and go to the grave with the song still in them.”

The struggle to find and embrace significance is a prominent theme in religion, art, music, literature and everything human because it’s common to us all. It’s what we need in order to fall asleep at night, and to have a reason to get back out of bed every morning. It’s what we need to make it all worthwhile, to keep us out of the closet with a belt.

In our civilization’s ongoing quest for the meaning of life, history shows that we’ve postulated just about every theory possible, from plausible to absurd. Of course the most common efforts for explaining human existence can be found in your basic Religion 101 class along with an elective course in Introductory Philosophy thrown in. Every culture has come up with some kind of rationale to keep us from teetering into the abyss of nihilism, some sort of system with a god or gods or a higher power out there somewhere. Most ancient legends and epic narratives portray mythological deities as more human-like than divine – capricious, contriving, scandalous, fated by their faults and failures. Not much help there.

Today’s most popular options on the Religions of the World Chart have billions of followers. The self-discipline of The Buddha teaches us to meditate our way to enlightenment. Apparently many have not yet located their happy place. Or there’s the ethical politeness of Confucianism, with yin and yang, energy in constant balance, in perfect harmony, separate but equal. Which side of the taijitu are you on? Let’s crack open a couple fortune cookies and find out.

Hinduism keeps us trapped under the law of karma on a continual treadmill cycle of reincarnation. Please, just show me the way out. Remember John Lennon’s lyrics? “Instant Karma’s gonna get you/Gonna knock you right on the head/You better get yourself together/Pretty soon you’re gonna be dead.” Aren’t we all.

Even the Judaeo-Christian God of the Bible doesn’t find it necessary to explain everything. So much is hidden, mysterious, full of paradox and subjective interpretation. Not bashful about voicing complaints to the Lord about the problem of evil and suffering, psalmist King David lamented about the apparent injustices of life, that the wicked seemed to prosper while the righteous endured adversity without cause. Eventually, says the Lord, everyone will get what’s due. But for now, just wait. Have faith. Trust. Believe. I’m in control.

I think science, with all of its benefits to society and advances to be enjoyed, has coincidentally made it harder to exercise that kind of faith. Microscopes and telescopes allow us to see through that curtain of curiosity, inward and outward to worlds unimaginable. Actually, splitting the atom raises more questions than answers. Billions of galaxies spinning in an incredibly vast expanse of space reveal an intelligent designer with an extravagant sense of creativity. But why? What does it matter to me? I have a mortgage to pay and a car that needs a new muffler. By the way, what’s for dinner?

The premise of order and meaning in what we see and cannot see becomes strained, however, when our most well-intentioned spiritual convictions begin to evaporate under intense pressure. Holding on to or defending a belief system becomes especially trying when our most fervent, faith-filled, selfless prayers go unanswered. Or when we hear that a drunk driver crossed the median and plowed into a school bus full of kids returning from church camp. Several dead, dozens injured and scarred for life.

Or when an honest, hard-working man gets fired for something that wasn’t even remotely his fault. The company goes on to post record profits. Keep your resumés updated, people. Or when the poster child for perfect health and fitness drops dead while jogging. I can see the obituary now: Age 32, faithful husband, provider, father of three, gone in a whisper.

What we need is an operator’s manual, a guideline for troubleshooting through all the possible scenarios that interrupt our right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Don’t you wish that there could be an easy way to get explanations for the jack-in-the-box surprises that explode in our faces? Maybe like an Ask Abby column in the newspaper. Just write out a description of your problem. Drop it in the cosmic mailbox, and then wait for the morning news to get your answer. “Dear Desperate and Confused Planet Earth Dweller. Thanks for your letter. Here’s my advice: Leave your spouse. Move to a new town. Reconcile with your mother-in-law. Then all will be well.” Or how about a 1-800 number. “Hello, um, yes. I’d like to order a better life. Yeah, one for my four-year-old girl, the one with leukemia. And could you express ship that, please? We’re running out of time.”

There seems to be enough weeping and gnashing of teeth here in this world even before the doors of heaven close for good. So what’s left? Shaking a fist at the sky? Languishing like Job, a mere pawn in a spiritual game of chess, waiting for the final checkmate to see who wins the tournament?

Isn’t it true that often we find it so much easier to “Praise God from Whom all blessings flow” when the colonoscopy test results are negative, when the bonus shows up on the paycheck, when the college scholarship is a full four-year free ride? For me it becomes a bit more challenging when I’m calling to schedule a root canal, or when I hear about my dear friends’ baby’s death, or when someone I love is struggling to deal with impossible odds against them and I can’t help fix it. Sometimes I want to write a letter back to the New Testament’s James and say, “You know that count it all joy through trials thing? Wow, that’s a tough teaching, brother!” In reality, it’s probably an impossible perspective to learn and live without a proper spiritual frame of mind, without a strong conviction in the goodness of a God Who knows me personally and desires the best for me. Unconditionally.

Last week I faced head-on an inexplicable tragedy that once again leaves me empty for answers to the ever-nagging question of “Why?”

Tyler, a good buddy of mine, came to an untimely, sudden, violent accidental death. When someone we know is diagnosed as terminal, or is old and feeble, we know the end is eventually coming; death is stalking at the door, and we are somewhat emotionally prepared when the plug is pulled. But when a vibrant, active, happy 24-year-old combat vet full of passion for life is gone in seconds, it becomes harder to wrap our heads around. Maybe we can’t. That’s why it’s so vexing. So troubling, so disturbing, and especially so much more painful now during a time reserved for the expression of peace, joy and holiday cheer.

I am deeply grieved at his passing, but I heard something during the funeral eulogy that might help me get through this. Encouraging the bereaved to stay strong through the heartache of this calamity, his pastor quoted from Chapter 5 of Paul’s Letter to the Romans. I like The Message version:

“We [those who are true followers of Christ] continue to shout our praise even when we’re hemmed in with troubles, because we know how troubles can develop passionate patience in us, and how that patience in turn forges the tempered steel of virtue, keeping us alert for whatever God will do next. In alert expectancy such as this, we’re never left feeling shortchanged. Quite the contrary—we can’t round up enough containers to hold everything God generously pours into our lives through the Holy Spirit!”

Several key ideas here to ponder out of many: “ . . . for whatever God will do next.” Reality check: This is God’s universe, and so far He hasn’t consulted with me for my opinion of His agenda. Maybe I need to reread the final five chapters of the Book of Job. “Then the Lord said to Job, ‘Shall he that contendeth with the Almighty instruct him? he that reproveth God, let him answer it.’” (Job 40:1-2) KJV

I may never know all the reasons why life seems at times to unravel into a helpless heap, like a laundry basket full of soiled clothes. Hard to admit it sometimes but I will find myself in a better place when I acknowledge Who is really in control. That being said, as I develop passionate patience I suspect that God and I will continue to have serious conversations regarding my perplexities, my pain and my frustration when I’m hemmed in with troubles. I need to learn how to bear up better in the fiery forge tempering my soul. Instead of shortchanged, I need to see myself abundantly blessed, my containers ready to overflow with enough hope to spill over onto those who are desperate for a reason to carry on through their own heap of troubles.

I’m going to have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year because, in spite of my time of grief and loss concurring hand-in-hand with this season of Comfort and Joy, I choose to hope that all things will ultimately work together for good (Rom. 8:28), and to see that from God’s perspective, nothing in this universe is ever senseless.

The Pursuit of Happiness

24 Saturday Jan 2015

Posted by michael schinker in Buddhist, Happiness

≈ Leave a comment

Today I am writing about Peyangki, a typical carefree nine-year-old boy full of wonder, with a heart for discovery and adventure. He is quite atypical, however, in the sense that he lives on the other side of my world, in a completely different kind of world. I’ll nickname him Pey.

I got a glimpse into the life of Pey and his unique environment one evening last November. Channel surfing, I happened to click on the start of an episode of Independent Lens. Airing weekly on Monday nights on our local PBS channel, the Emmy Award-winning series introduces new documentary films made by independent filmmakers. That particular evening featured a film called Happiness, a 2014 piece written, directed and produced by French-Finnish filmmaker Thomas Balmès. With the Himalayas as a breathtaking backdrop, a dreamy musical score and an amiable main character you immediately want to run up to and hug, I figured this was going to be a cinematic gem. I was hooked to the screen in 30 seconds, and wasn’t disappointed.

Balmés introduces Pey in his remote home village of Laya, in the kingdom of Bhutan, about as far away from the twenty-first century as one can get. The country itself is about the size of Switzerland, tucked away between Tibet and India. The natives are as rugged and weather-beaten as their surroundings. Black-haired, almond-eyed with dark, dusky umber colored skin like well-worn saddle leather, they could probably blend in easily with rustic peasants in the Andes. The longer they age it seems, the more difficult it becomes to distinguish a male from a female face. Pey’s mother is probably 30 years younger than she looks. But the children are all bright and beautiful.

Bhutan’s geography expresses grandeur on a grand scale, with some of the world’s tallest peaks, the bluest skies, and a bleak, almost surreal landscape that can be surprisingly hostile despite its magical, tour book destination appearance. But it’s not Shangri-La. This is Pey’s backyard. It’s primitive, unchanged for hundred of years and the last place in the area to get electricity.

Pey’s father died of a heart attack recently after encountering a bear in the forest, so he lives with his mother and a couple of siblings. With too many mouths to feed, she feels he would be better off at the local Buddhist monastery. She drops him off barefoot and all wrapped up in brown and orange robes into the care of the monks, and rather unceremoniously says, “Good luck.” He just stands there, lost and lonely, separated from family and school chums, but handles it without a tear.

Soon utility workers are setting poles and pulling cable up and down the mountainsides. With electricity comes civilization’s crowning achievement: television. The village is ready to embrace this boon of modernity with open arms, even if it means selling a yak to get enough cash to purchase a set. Pey’s uncle asks him to go along to Thimphu, Bhutan’s largest city, on a mission to buy a second TV. The first one fell off a horse and broke. It takes them three days to walk to the nearest road, with the yak, to an automobile. Pey is exuberant with his first ride, but gets carsick all the way.

While in Thimphu, Pey gets a first-hand, down-and-dirty look at the new world. Cafés, stores, bars, nightclubs, and restaurants. Lights and noise. Browsing tourists and busy locals cramming the roads and sidewalks along with crimson-robed monks, aloof to the business of commercialism. He tries to locate his older sister, who is allegedly “working in an office” with computers, but the managers have never heard of any girl named Choki in that department. Finally she is discovered as a “dancer” at one of the clubs, and tells him she will probably never go back home. The journey is successful otherwise. The TV is bought and brought to the village without damage or incident, and Pey has seen curiosities that range from live fish in an aquarium to store window mannequins to a crippled man dead drunk in the gutter.

This film is a work of art, and therefore responses to it will be subjective. Some intellectually minded observers may see Happiness in the classic genre of progress spoiling the innate innocence of the noble savage. But what about the title itself? Maybe it’s a commentary on the nature of being satisfied, or seeking that lofty spiritual goal of fulfillment in Nirvana. After all, The Buddha says, “Happiness doesn’t depend on what you have or who you are. It solely relies on what you think.” Ironically the lama at Pey’s monastery at one point asks him, “So do you expect TV to make you happy?” Pey’s answer is an enthusiastic “Yes.” So does that mean if he thinks it will make him happy that it will make him happy?

The final scene in the film shows Pey with a few older family members in a darkened room, a tight crop on their faces illuminated by the flickering movement on their new TV screen. They are watching – of all possibilities – a WWE professional wrestling program. The audio is in English, the announcer describing every move made in the ring. They are mesmerized.

I looked at those blank yet crudely beautiful faces – so far away from Starbucks, GAP and fast food drive-throughs – so far removed from what we usually consider important or significant or the kind of lifestyle that we champion as making a worthwhile contribution to modern society. You know, people making a real difference. Staring at my TV I couldn’t help but ask myself, actually out loud, “Does it really matter whether these people live or die?” I know. It sounds cruelly judgmental. Intellectually and culturally superior.

But that is not my point. It’s deeper than that. It’s the question of the hour, of all mankind, for all time. Do we prejudicially esteem achievers and artists and thinkers so much more than the child with dirty hands and a bad haircut subsisting almost by himself on the roof of the world? Personally, I maintain that every life without a doubt has immeasurable value, no matter what. I think that’s the way God sees it. And Pey, in his sublime simplicity, does make a difference, even in the big scheme of things. His life spoke to me, because here I am writing about it. He’s an awesome kid who touched my heart and I won’t soon forget.