Truth | CW Hawes

The Meaning of Christmas

Let me begin by saying, Christmas means different things to different people. So, I suppose, I should have titled this post: The Meaning of Christmas to Me. And you, my dear reader, are completely free to agree or disagree with my thoughts.

At base, Christmas is a Christian holy day that celebrates the birth of the Christ; the one who came to take away the sins of the world.

However, in this largely post-Christian era, Christmas has essentially become a secular holiday devoted to exchanging gifts and having a feast with family and friends.

For myself, even though I no longer believe there was a historical Jesus, I try to steer a middle way between the religious and the secular.

Now you may ask, how the heck can I do that? Isn’t it one or the other? Especially if I don’t even believe there was a Jesus?

For me, the answer is simple. The Christmas story expresses a hope. A hope that humanity can transcend its desire for self-destruction. That we humans can, in fact, become a species that values the other above self. That we can learn to practice the Golden Rule in our thoughts and in our actions. That we can learn to value peace over war, love over hate, freedom over slavery.

Stoicism is my life philosophy of choice. In particular, the Stoicism espoused by Lucius Annaeus Seneca.

Seneca’s Stoicism was pragmatic, not dogmatic. And that put him at odds with Stoics in his own day, and it puts him at odds with many of the Neo-Stoics of today.

For me, Seneca is a philosopher for the 21st century. Even though he lived two millennia ago, he could have just as easily lived today.

“All truth is mine,” he wrote to his friend Lucilius. Seneca was not a dogmatician. His Stoicism fit the practical needs of the Romans of his day, and it fits the needs of those of us who live in the first world of today. The times haven’t changed all that much.

With Seneca, I say, ALL TRUTH IS MINE. I basically follow the Stoic way, but deviate where I need to do so in order to follow the truth (more accurately, what is truth for me).

As a result, I can rejoice in the hope of the Christmas season without being a Christian, or believing that Jesus existed.

Because the truth is — everyone hopes the meaning of Christmas becomes a reality. That weapons of war are turned into tools of peace. That we all turn the other cheek, rather than get offended and strike back. That we forgive others, as we ourselves wish to be forgiven. And that we do to others, as we want them to do to us.

Christmas is our wish to transcend ourselves and become Human 2.0. And who, at heart, doesn’t want to become a better person? Merry Christmas!

Comments are always welcome. And until next time, happy living!

Share This!

We Are The Boss

no masters only you the master is you
wonderful no?

—Ikkyū (trans by Stephen Berg)

The past two weeks we’ve been learning life lessons from Zen poet and monk Ikkyū. Two weeks ago we learned we are happy. Last week we learned we are the truth. This week Ikkyū let’s us know we are the boss. We are the boss of us. No one else is.

Today’s poem is simple. Ikkyū first tells us there are no masters, only us. Last week we were told to put aside the books of the masters because we are the truth — not them, nor their books. Today we see that there are in actuality no masters. Let me repeat that. There are no masters. Only me. Only you.

There is no authority. There’s only me. Only you. There’s no teacher. Only me. Only you.

As Zen master Tetto Giko put it:

The truth is never taken from another.
One carries it always by oneself.
Katsu!

There is no truth outside of us. Katsu! (The traditional cry when one achieves enlightenment.) That’s why there are no masters, because in truth there’s nothing to teach. There are people who think they are masters. But they can’t teach you or me anything, because the truth is already inside us. You and I are the masters. No one made us masters. We’ve always been masters. We just never realized we were. And that’s why we let others be the masters.

We aren’t free because we are always looking for some authority to tell us something, or give us permission. We aren’t free because we don’t realize we are the authority we’re looking for. We’re the master we’re searching for. We are the one to tell us something, to give us permission. We are our own authorities.

Rainer Maria Rilke told the young poet in his first letter to him that we must look deep inside ourselves for the answer. If I want to know if I’m a poet, or a writer, I must find the answer within. No one outside of myself can tell me if I am or not. And that goes with anything, not just writing.

Any authority figure only has authority because we give it to him or her. And it doesn’t matter who that authority figure is. Granted, it may be expedient for me to grant someone temporary authority. But if I grant someone full and complete authority over me, I’ve just made myself a slave.

Ikkyū is telling us we’re the master. Not the slave. We are free. We don’t have to be anyone’s slave: mentally or physically. We don’t have to be in bondage to priests, or ministers, or gurus. We don’t have to be in bondage to governments, or employers. We don’t have to be in bondage to parents, or spouses. We are free. We are the masters.

But with freedom, with being a master, also comes responsibility. And it may be expedient to not always exercise our freedom, to be the master.

Advent is the celebration of God coming to his people to be in them in the New Covenant. In effect, the New Testament writers are saying the same thing as Ikkyū. There are no masters, because I am the master.

If God is for us, who can be against us? And since God is in us, then we ourselves are surely the masters. Truth is in us. Authority is in us. Power is in us.

And that’s why Ikkyū tells us “wonderful no?” Of course it’s wonderful. I’m free from the masters. You’re free from the masters. Because there are no masters. You and I are the masters of ourselves.

May this holiday season be a time of enlightenment for you.

Comments are always welcome, and, until next time, remember — you’re the boss!

Share This!

We’re A Razor

forget what the masters wrote truth’s a razor
each instant sitting here you and I being here

—Ikkyū (trans by Stephen Berg)

Last week Ikkyū told us we are already happy. We don’t experience that happiness because our minds are focused on a whole lot of crap. Stop focusing on the crap—that which has no value in our lives—and we’ll be happy.

This week, with a little help from our Japanese Zen Buddhist monk, we’re taking a look at truth.

Ikkyū detested the conventional. He thrived in an environment that was free, stripped of authority. That was probably why he left the monastery and frequented the tavern and brothel. Life was more honest there.

Forget the Masters! Their dry, dusty tomes contain no truth— for truth’s a razor.

What does Ikkyū mean “truth’s a razor”? Let’s start with, first of all, the razor. Ikkyū is talking about a good old-fashioned straight razor. Basically a knife. A razor is very, very sharp. Razor-sharp is as sharp as it gets. Truth cuts.

Those dusty old tomes of the Masters cut nothing. They make good doorstops or paperweights. They’re dull and thick and perfunctory. The razor cuts. It can cut those old books into scrap paper.

But the razor’s edge can also divide. And it does so with an exceedingly fine line. Truth separates. It forms two camps. However, in Ikkyū’s mind these are not equally valid camps. And this can be seen when the razor is put to work shaving. It cuts away the facial hair. Truth is discerning. It cuts off that which is false. In a sense, that which is not me.

Which brings us to the second line. What are we to make of what Ikkyū is saying here? I think the best way to understand Berg’s rendition is to understand he’s using enjambment.

Let’s re-cast the poem this way:

forget what the masters wrote:
truth’s a razor, each instant sitting here—
you and I being here

In other words, we are the razor. We are the truth. You and I, together, cut off the dead crap of the authority figures. They are not the truth. We are. Which makes us the real masters.

Advent celebrates Immanuel—God with us. But that’s only half the story. Because the whole point of the New Covenant that Immanuel brought with him, was that the law would no longer be an external master—it would be written on our hearts.

That’s something to think about. Forget the masters. Forget the rule makers. You and I being here, we are the razor. We are the truth.

That’s why Ikkyū left the monastery after nine days of being abbot. It was all crap. He told the monks if they wanted to find him, he’d be in the tavern and the brothel. Where the real people were. Where the razors were. Where the truth was. And still is.

Comments are always welcome, and, until the next time, do some truth cutting!

Share This!