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Every evening when the guru sat down to worship, the ashram cat considered himself a welcome participant. But the cat was there to make friends, and his commotion distracted the worshipers (each of them hoping to reach a heightened meditative state and a feeling of oneness with God). Resourcefully, the guru ordered that the cat be tethered to a pole--outside the front door--during evening worship.
After the guru died, the disciples continued to tie the cat to the pole.
This ritual became a habit--the customary routine for everyone at the ashram.
First, tie the cat to the pole, and then proceed into the temple to meditate on God. After several years, the habit hardened into a religious ritual, becoming an integral part of their devotional practice.
In time, no one could meditate until the cat was tied to the pole. Then one day the cat dies. Everyone in the ashram is unnerved, because it has become a considerable religious crisis.
How is it possible to meditate now, without a cat to tie to a pole?!
It is not surprising that the guru's disciples wrote treatises on the religious and liturgical significance of tying a cat to a pole during worship. I expect that there was even some debate as to the proper breed of cat.
At what point does our worship (our desire for God) become routine?
I return to Robert Capon frequently. Mostly, because it resonates.
We live like ill-taught piano students. We are so afraid of the flub that will get us in dutch, we don't hear the music, we only play the right notes.
(In our Sunday paper there was an article about a family wishing to "downsize." "We were spending all of our time taking care of our stuff. And stuff doesn't matter compared to our kids. How can we change our lives drastically?")
Here's my question: what happens when the cat is gone? There is no doubt that we would be unsettled, unraveled, unnerved. I've read books and articles about taking risks--you know, living "without a net"--but it's much easier said than done.
I know this because I was weaned on the mantra, "We've never done it that way before." You can sense that time in your life when you move from your heart (filled with passion, joy, zeal), to doing your best not to ruffle feathers.
When I was thirteen, I participated in a national preaching contest (Yes, it's a long and interesting story. Some day I'll write about it.) The contest was held in San Diego. I was a small town Michigan boy, thrilled to be in exotic California (my first time on an airplane, and my first time to be smitten by a blond haired preacher's daughter). I preached well (as I recall).
Unfortunately, I lost the contest.
Because of flawed theology? No.
Because my presentation was incoherent? No.
I was disqualified because I wore a blue shirt. The judge said (in a sonorous voice) that "a preacher of God's Word must wear a white shirt."
Translation: The rules are simple young man, "First, tie the cat to the pole."
It reminds me of the story of the Sunday School teacher with first graders who were acting up. To calm them she said, "Kids, let's play a game. I'll describe something to you, and you tell me what it is. Okay? It's a furry little animal with a big bushy tail that climbs up trees and stores nuts in the winter." Silence. No one said anything. "Come on," the teacher encouraged, "You're a good Sunday School class, you know the right answer to this question. It's a furry little animal with a big bushy tail that climbs up trees and stores nuts in the winter." One girl raised her hand. "Emily?" "Well teacher," Emily said, "it sounds like a squirrel to me, but I'll say Jesus!"
The preaching contest experience has stayed with me. But to be honest, there's little bit of that judge inside of me. Because there is a fine line between safe (certain) and stuck--which becomes paralysis. It happens when I focus only on the cat. When I see only the cat (the "right notes" or the "right answer" or the "right stuff"), I miss. . .
. . .having my world shaken, . . .opportunity, . . .learning, . . .change, . . .transformation, . . .grace, . . .and wonder. I choose procedure and creed, over journey and faith.Actually, I'm a believer in ritual (or liturgy). Tom Driver (in his book called The Magic of Ritual) says, "to ritualize is to make/utilize a pathway through what would otherwise be unchartered territory." Unchartered, and thus rather scary, I would imagine. But it is easy, through time and usage, however, to see rituals become less of a pathway, and more of a comforting shelter. And thus, comes the likelihood of tension. Tension arose for those in that ashram because the tying of the cat had become such a comforting shelter, a reassuring part of their daily routine, and in the end, their "primary" pathway to God. The cat plays to something in our psyche that requires answers and formulas (or more realistically, tidiness). It makes sense. Because much of my accumulation--comfort, answers, stuff--is predicated on a fear of loss. But what am I afraid of? Fear of not having. Fear of missing out. Fear of being left behind.
I agree with Rev. Lyn Plumb, "When it was suddenly taken away from them, they (the disciples in the ashram) were totally lost and shaken. They were very discomforted, and had yet to realize that there is certainly more than one specific pathway to closeness to their God. It would take time, I would imagine, for them to grasp this, to let go of the old way and consider a new one that could serve them equally as well--and bring that reassurance once again." Sometimes our world is changed. It has been said that when the supports are gone, we can find where our real worth lies. Not exactly what we may have had in mind, but so it is. Sometimes we choose. Sometimes we don't. Either way, we are invited to let go of what we cling to, and hear the music. I am back home on Vashon Island. I worked in my garden today. It is in need of a serious overhaul. It is easy to be derailed by such unsightliness, and the urge to tidy up. Today I choose to let it be, as an invitation to take a deep breath, to take inventory, with no need to come up with any answers because none are required. Note: (1) "The Guru's Cat" story is from The Song of the Bird by Anthony De Mello. The story was adapted and popularized by Elizabeth Gilbert in her book Eat, Pray, Love. (2) The Rev. Lyn Plumb, Beverly, MA If I had influence with the good fairy who is supposed to preside over the christening of all children, I should ask that her gift to each child in the world be a sense of wonder so indestructible that it would last throughout life. Rachel Carson
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