Recently, a new café opened near my neighborhood. As of yet, few people have discovered it, and this makes it a quiet place to sit, sip, and peck away at the computer keyboard. With my three young children and their friends running through the house, I'm happy to find a place of relative tranquility where I can read and write.

Two days ago I walked in, stepped up to the counter, and placed my order. Jacob, a young guy with long wavy hair and a goatee, took my order. Making conversation while making my coffee, he asked, "Are you a writer? I am. I was an English lit major in college."

In a flash, I felt a tremendous sense of identity awareness. I inferred from his self-description that he was looking for a point of human connection. He noticed something in my regular behavior in the coffee shop leading him to believe that we shared mutual a interest, character, and persona -- a communal bond between writers.

At first, I almost answered, "Yes." It would create some common ground, a starting point for a conversation. After all, I write almost every day. However, something led me to answer differently. I nuanced my answer, "I write about spirituality, humanity, and societal transformation. What about you?"

In a moment of inner dialogue, I concluded that I am not a writer -- even though I write. My identity is not in writing. To say "I am a writer" is a statement about my being, the inner core of who and what I am. The essence of who and what I am involves more than writing. It entails an intricate set of emotions, experiences, and encounters that combine to create who I am today -- and this will evolve into something different tomorrow.

Everyone deals with deciphering their identity, and normally we internalize a certain character unconsciously depending on the context we find ourselves in. From there we play that role, taking it on as an indicator of who we are. For example, we identify ourselves in terms of relationships. I am a father. I am a daughter. I am husband. I am a grandparent. I am a widow. I am a friend.

We identify ourselves in terms of our vocation. I am a nurse. I am a salesman. I am a farmer. I am a designer. I am an artist.

We identify ourselves in terms of political persuasion. I am a liberal. I am a conservative. I am a socialist. I am a tax-payer. I am an immigrant.

We identify ourselves in terms of our station in life. I am successful. I am poor. I am middle class. I am retired.

We identify ourselves in terms of nationality. I am Irish. I am Australian. I am Brazilian. I am Korean. I am Kenyan. I am Jordanian.

We identify ourselves in terms of our health. I am sick. I am a diabetic. I am happy. I am a cancer survivor. I am an emotional wreck.

We identify ourselves in terms of recreation. I am a gardener. I am a football fan. I am a fisherman. I am a knitter.

We identify ourselves in terms of religion. I am Buddhist. I am Christian. I am a Muslim. I am an atheist.

Our identification markers go on incessantly, and they subdivide endlessly into microscopic fractals. We all attach ourselves to numerous symbols helping to forge this sense of who we are. I am a husband-father-American-football fan-teacher-writer-classical music lover-coffee and tea drinker-former church minister-environmentalist-back pain sufferer.

Or am I?

In our most existential moments, we probe deeper into the question. Pain, suffering, loss, loneliness, depression, grief, overwhelming joy, the glory of nature, tremendous generosity, deep love -- and even an innocent question by a waiter -- can trigger the absorbing question: Who am I -- really? Something of this sort prompted the psalmist to whisper in awe, "What is man that You are mindful of him?"

As beings in God's likeness, we find a clue to our individual and collective identity in one of the most familiar divine disclosures. When Moses questioned the voice at the burning bush, he asked the identity of the one sending him to Egypt. He was looking for some comfort in authority and familiarity. "When I come to the children of Israel and say to them, 'The God of your fathers has sent me to you, and they say to me, 'What is his name?' what shall I say to them?" Without skipping a beat, God replied, "Thus you shall say to the children of Israel, 'I am has sent me to you.'"

A simple revelation filled with complexity. I am -- and that's it. Nothing extra. Perhaps we'd expect more from God. Maybe we suppose God should have said, "I am great. I am powerful. I am creative. I am able to deliver you. I am miraculous." However, God ends it quickly: "I am." Not, "I am this." Not, "I am that." God leaves nothing to simplify or to reduce.

Of course God's revelation is loaded with possibilities. Nonetheless, God allows Moses -- and us -- to see that God is complete simply in being God. And as humanity fashioned in God's likeness, we too are perfect in that being. To wrap up your identity in a label (or set of labels) confines you and that limitation veils your sense of perfection in God and God in you.

So, embrace the context you find yourself in. Accept your motherhood, studying, grandparenting, citizenship, coffee making, music listening, working, and even writing. However, understand that you are more than the aggregate of what you do, think, feel, and say. You are. Period. This week begin each day with the affirmation, "I am." Not "I am this." Not "I am that." Welcome yourself being perfect in being you.
____________________________________________


Parousia is a free Transmillennial® publication of Presence. You can receive Parousia in your inbox each week for free.  Email parousia@presence.tv.  To dialogue about Transformational Living visit the Presence Forums. ©2007, Presence.

At this time of year traditional moralists, anti-capitalists, and religious fundamentalists unite to rage against the materialism of Christmastime. We hear about the gluttony of consumption and worker exploitation juxtaposed against the "real meaning of Christmas." Rarely would such disparate groups of people agree on anything.

Meanwhile, we all might lament the mad dash that Christmas has seemingly become. Stores open at 4am and close at midnight primarily to maximize profits. Advertisers work to create an ethos making people feel "less than" if they do not purchase expensive diamonds at the "correct" jewelers. Children feed at the all-you-can-purchase buffet of catalogs and wish books.

We could point the finger at obvious sources fostering greed and discontentment. Corpulent corporations. Avariciousness advertisers. Maladjusted materialists. I wonder, though, if something else contributes to the mix -- something related directly to the way the Christmas story is usually told that carves an image of a selfish, greedy, insecure, and unstable god.

This god, we're led to believe, loved us so much that he sent forth Jesus to be born of a virgin so that he might redeem the world. In return, this god demands that you must think only specific thoughts about his and Jesus' metaphysical make-up. Also to pay back the "love" that this god gave you, you must engage in certain rituals to appease him, refrain from specific food and drinks that upset him, honor him on a specific day with a restricted group of people, do not say forbidden words, assent to exact formulae composed hundreds of years after Jesus that supposedly condense all truth into succinct propositions, and do everything in your power to ensure all humanity acquiesces to this god.

If you're lucky enough to believe and behave properly, you'll receive a handsome eternal reward of living inside a bejeweled gated community with a golden driveway leading to a silver-lined mansion. However, if you slip up, this god will withdraw his good will and you'll find yourself in perpetual lovelessness.

The god in this telling of the Biblical story comes off as a passive-aggressive bully so starved of affection that he will bribe us into paying attention to him and punish us if we don't. This way of reading the story confuses lust for love. It makes God out to be a self-doubting creature who believes that we are unable to love him without incentive. Moreover, it inculcates humanity with greed for selfish gain as we feign gratitude in hope of winning the heavenly lottery. Subsequently, both God and humanity forfeit their integrity and play the hypocrite.

The internalized version of this story leads us take on these various roles in our own giving and receiving, especially at Christmastime. Instead of flowing solely from the spring of affectionate generosity, our giving emerges from the longing for acknowledgment, acceptance, and approval. Meanwhile, we measure the gifts we receive as a gauge of love.

These attitudes manifest themselves in several ways. Because we want our children to love us, we buy them so much stuff that they can't play with it all. We crave appreciation from our spouse, so we rack up large credit card debts. Yearning for admiration, we put on grand displays signifying to all of our friends and neighbors that we have the "Christmas spirit." We become like the god we created for ourselves: greedy for gratitude. Our greeditude compels us to excess as we subconsciously hope to receive praise, and it drives us to depression when we don't receive the accolades we desperately hunger.

Perhaps we're ready for a fresh reading of the Biblical story, of the birth of Jesus, and of God. One that portrays God as the hero, not as a pathetic antagonist. One that wows us with God's passion, not pettiness. One that inspires us with nobility impelling us to give from our hearts. One that generates authentic gratitude, humility, and joy. One that evokes reciprocal love grounded in mutual respect. One that casts out all fear.

The apostle Paul offers the possibility of seeing an unexpectedly magnanimous God, of encountering a God excelling in generosity and overflowing with love. In Romans 11 he asserts, "For the gifts and calling of God are irrevocable." God's gifts are freely given. Jesus notices that God shines his sun on the grateful and ungrateful alike. God gives because that's what God does. God is generous to the point that he gives himself for our sake and not with ulterior motives designed to induce us into fidelity.

Awakening to the infinite abundance of God's love -- to and for all -- produces genuine gratitude in our hearts. Without greeditude, we can return our thanks freely, and God certainly receives our gift of gratitude. The experience of giving and receiving freely allows us to confirm William Blake's observation that "Gratefulness is heaven itself." When Paul reflected on the copious liberality of God, he sang, "Thanks be to God for his indescribable gift!"

Internalizing this understanding of God causes us to give to and to receive from others unreservedly and gratefully. So, this Christmas (and every day) give generously without the dubious motivation of greeditude, and receive thankfully with impetus of love. Give because you love, not because you're gluttonous for affection. Receive with appreciation because you love, not because you feel obliged or hope to get more somewhere down the line.

When your giving and receiving blossoms out of the selfless ground of love, you will enjoy any gift you give or receive -- even if the gift is the gift of nothing. You'll open to others as you discover that the true gift is the authentic deep connection of love itself.


Parousia is a free Transmillennial publication of Presence. To receive Parousia in your inbox each week click here.

Not to get all humbug on you, but...

It always bums me out a little each year when I see the lighting of the the Christmas trees in New York and DC  Here are these tall, glorious, old trees are cut down so we can look at them for for a month.

It seems like such a waste.

I know the Rockefeller Plaza tree is recycled.  But can't we do something different  A little less destructive?

Ok, you may resume your holiday spirit.

I wrote a review of David Guy's great novel "Jake Fades" on the Presence site.  This is a very readable novel that introduces some concepts of Zen practice.  However, it is much more that that.  It is a human story, filled with emotion, real characters, and true to life situations.  It deals with life's basic stuff: relationships, parents, teachers, sex, death, spiritual practice, food, and so much more.  I hope you'll check out the book.

"Benjamin Franklin famously noted, “In this world, nothing is certain but death and taxes.” With concise dialogue and vibrant story telling, David Guy surveys the theme of life’s transience in his novel, Jake Fades."  If you're interested, you can read the rest of my review here.