Still Small Voices

I attended a service this Sunday at First Plymouth UCC in Denver.

First, a big thanks to the church staff for all their support. It is a wonderful environment there.

The service was geared towards the high school kids in the congregation to acknowledge the graduating seniors. As such it was a bit louder and rowdier then a typical Sunday service. Particularly loud was the group of about 1 dozen drummers playing for parts of the service. If I had been 17, I would have loved it. Being somewhat more sober then I was at 17, I thought that there was simply no way to hear the small still voice within, no matter what label we apply to it – Buddha Nature or God. The fact that they passed out ear plugs was my first clue.

Tonight, I am going to my first class in Zazen – sitting Zen meditation - at the Houston Chung Tai Zen Center. I have been reading and listening to podcasts on this subject and attempting to practice on a daily basis. The contrast between the two spiritual events could not be greater. The drum music – and the mosh pit that formed at the end of the service – struck me as an exercise in loosing oneself in a group identity. Tonight will be the start of a series of exercises designed to strip away labels and identities to see what is really there.

I was reminded of these verses from the Bible (as always, to be read as metaphor when I quote them)…

The Lord said, "Go out and stand on the mountain in the presence of the Lord,
for the Lord is about to pass by."

Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire.

And after the fire came a gentle whisper. When Elijah heard it, he pulled his cloak over his face and went out and stood at the mouth of the cave.

Then a voice said to him, "What are you doing here, Elijah?"
1 Kings 19:11 through 13

This is a very Zen question posed to Elijah, one that I would have trouble answering now. I can not find that still small spot – by whatever label you might choose to call it – in the noise of a praise service or by loosing myself in the group before the stage. Instead, I must see what is really there, and use that as the seeds of compassion.