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Karma is one of those words used so often in its most basic and popularly understood sense, that we often don’t think to consider it’s deeper applications or, perhaps, even its potential manifestations. The popular understanding of Karma, of course, is something along the lines of whether you do good or ill, it will come back to you. In the West Karma is generally referenced within the context of this present life while in some schools of both Buddhist and Hindu thought, where the transmigration of souls is an accepted doctrine, Karma spans many thousands of incarnations.

It is important for me to say that I am a student of Buddhism and Hinduism and not a scholar in this regard. What I write here represents my current understanding and I fully recognize there may be factual or other errors in my writing due to my unfamiliarity with the wealth of literature available on Eastern thought. Having said that, I have done my best to represent a view on Karma faithful to both the secondary and primary sources with which I am familiar.

My personal interests are in Buddhism. But of course, to understand some central Buddhist doctrines one must become familiar with the essential aspects of Hindu thought; in particular, Vedanta. Buddhism is represented by an incredibly diverse set of ideas, schools, doctrines, and practices heavily influenced by regional cultures and Eastern religions present during Buddhism’s long expansion across Asia. While there is broad agreement on the doctrines of The Four Noble Truths, The Noble Eightfold Path, and related ideas, there exists between Buddhist schools significant disagreement on nearly everything else, including Karma. Buddhism has no central authority. Each school has its own recognized canon. However, there are certain sutras which are almost universally recognized. These are found in what is known as the Pali Canon; the earliest sutras as written in Pali (sutta).

I have found the Pali Canon Sutras present a view of Karma (or as it would be written in Pali, kamma) more expansive and perhaps, less mystical than is popularly understood. Similarly, my study of Zen Buddhism and its almost non-existent canon presents Karma in a relatively broad sense. My understanding of Karma is based, primarily, on these sources.

Karma is consequence. Every action, good, evil, or morally neutral has consequences and impacts, perhaps even in imperceptible ways, everything and everyone around us. Karma, then, is not a “magical” concept wherein our deeds reflect back on us in the form of good or bad fortune. Rather, Karma is the recognition of the interconnectedness of all events and intentions. No event occurs in a vacuum. It is the consequence or result of something that came before. The simple act of turning on the light switch is the result of karmic motion or direction: Edison lived in a prosperous and burgeoning century providing the conditions wherein he could invent a viable light bulb which helped promote the rapid spread of infrastructure etc. Every event since the Big Bang has been the consequence of that which came before. Karma both recognizes and describes this connectedness. As a result it is important for us to develop both mindfulness and wisdom such that we are aware of our place within the Karmic milieu.

I think an incredible example of this view of Karma can be seen in a BBC documentary about adults, born in Germany as part of the plan to develop a so-called master race, and their struggle to come to terms with their origins as the children of SS officers, and women escaping the social shame of unmarried pregnancy or those chosen or encouraged specifically for the purpose of producing offspring:

In particular, the story of Guntram Weber is at once heartbreaking, inspiring, and instructive. Weber was the son of an SS officer responsible for carrying out several murders and atrocities in Poland and he, Weber, carried a significant emotional a psychological burden due to the barbarous and heinous acts of a father he never knew. And indeed, Weber only became aware of his true father’s SS identity much later in life.

Weber travels to Poland to learn more about his father’s crimes. And also to personally visit the daughter of one of his father’s victims: 91 yr. old Jadwiga Polakoski. Weber meets Polakoski at her apartment and, after ensuring she can understand him, apologizes for the actions of his father. Holding his hand, Polakoski responds with a simple “thank you.”

Weber and Polakoski spend time together and Polakoski describes her experience of watching her father being taken by the SS. She speaks of the courage shown by her father as he was led towards what he must have known to be certain death.

At one point Polakoski takes Weber to the shallow mass grave where she, in a horrific and terrible moment, came upon the remains of her murdered father. Polakoski pulls no punches. She is blunt, direct, and honest. She does not shy away from the fact that the consequences of her father’s murder caused her immense pain and longing sadness. This pain and sadness persisted throughout Polakoski’s life. Yet, Polakoski is strong. It is clear that she accepted what happened in her life and despite her pain, she decided to carry on with courage.

Weber was deeply affected by Polakoski’s words. They hurt him. Weber wanted to know the truth and Polakoski was willing to tell him, as straightforward matters of fact, what had occurred. But Polakoski does something else; something remarkable. She, in a beautiful act of compassion, comforts Weber, the son of her father’s killer. She holds his hand. She tells him that what happened was not his fault. Weber, of course, understands this intellectually. But his pain is real and the personal impact of his father’s barbarity is undeniable. Out of this personal pain — both Polakoski’s and Weber’s — emerges an incredible and unexpected relationship defined by forgiveness, kindness and tenderness.

I believe the interaction between Polakoski and Weber is instructive in several ways.

First, we can see how the actions of both Weber’s and Polakoski’s fathers had a direct and lasting impact on their children’s lives. The actions of Weber’s father caused pain and sadness while the courage of Polakoski’s father inspired strength and fortitude.

Second, Polakoski’s choice to carry on without the burden of cancerous and all-consuming hatred and anger demonstrates that even when presented with the most heinous, unjust, and tragic of circumstances, we can find a measure of peace. And, as Polakoski so compassionately showed, it is possible for victims of injustice to extend and promote peace. By so doing, putting an end to the potential cycle of anger and revenge which could consume, define, and overwhelm many generations to come.

Third, the story of Polakoski and Weber reminds us of how our choices and actions will, absolutely and unequivocally, impact the lives of not only our descendants, but also the descendants of our friends, neighbors, and even those whom we may never meet. As such, it is important to remain mindful of the influence of our present actions will impact the future.

Regardless of what we choose to call it or how we may describe it, the presence of a causal relationship between events past, present, and future is undeniable. In my view, this, at least in part, is Karma. Clearly or present actions have immediate and recognizable consequences in the short-term. But our present actions and intentions — be they good or ill — will also resonate long into the future.

Embracing Uncertainty

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As I began my introductory survey course on interpretation of the Hebrew Bible I was intimidated. This was the first time I had approached the Bible from a purely academic or “critical” viewpoint and I couldn’t help but wonder if I, a business management undergraduate with no background or training in ancient languages, history, and culture, had the ability to successfully study a subject so vast and complex as ancient Israelite scripture and religion. As time went on, of course, I became more comfortable and realized that many of my classmates were in a situation similar to mine; feeling intimidated and a bit self-confident.

The course required a paper wherein I was to employ various forms of critical analysis in examining a passage from the Hebrew Bible. I found researching the paper and conceiving its structure and argument to be both challenging and satisfying. When it came time to put things down on paper I discovered that, based on my understanding of the textual, historical, and theological issues at play in the passage I was critically analyzing, several possible textual interpretations emerged; all of which seemed to be equally valid and supported by a confluence of evidence. As such my paper was peppered with phrases like “this may indicate…” or “one possible interpretation…” Upon initially reviewing a draft the TA for the course urged me to commit to a thesis and put a stake in the ground, as it were. This put me in a bit of a quandary as 1) my research seemed to indicate several equally valid theses and 2) as such I felt uncomfortable even marginally committing to one view above another without solid, rather than simply plausible, justification. Ultimately I did identify an interpretation I preferred and put that forth as a well-supported interpretation among several. But the fact remains that even when I read that passage today, I see multiple interpretations and plausible readings. To me, that’s what makes the passage so fascinating! Uncertainty has a certain mystery to it and yet, it also has the potential to make us very uneasy.

My spiritual life is full of uncertainty for similar reasons. I posses a view of metaphysics and ethics; a worldview based on the direct experience of spiritual pursuit. But that view is not strictly defined nor is it static. Indeed, a significant part of my spirituality is to be found in the exploration of uncertainty and the entertainment of new questions in light of additional information and experience. I pursue a spiritual life appropriate for myself and my family and have seen, quite clearly, that other paths and views from different perspectives and traditions have precisely the same pragmatic outcomes as does my chosen spiritual practice. This is to say that while I may not find the metaphysical views of an evangelical Christian or Hindu devotee of Krishna to be *personally* persuasive, there is no question that such views, and the practices they cultivate, are of tremendous pragmatic and practical value to adherents.

For much of my life I did not have this spiritual perspective. I was raised in a religious and spiritual environment where certainty about both history and metaphysics was embraced because these claimed truths supported aspects of a grand and overarching “Plan of Salvation.” For example, the historical reality of Jesus’ resurrection supports the central Christian theology of the Atonement. So, much of my spiritual life was spent exploring and even seeking to justify or support the reality of issues of history and metaphysics. Inasmuch as belief in these claims leads to individuals living moral and reflective lives, I appreciate them even if I don’t necessarily embrace them in a traditional sense. The miracle of the resurrection, in itself, is of absolutely no value. This historical truth-claim is only meaningful because of what it implies: the love, forgiveness, and mercy of God are extended to all.

Today my perspective has flipped. I now focus, primarily, on the *implication* of metaphysical beliefs rather than on the veracity of the belief itself. I find that my uncertainty is, in large part, central to my spiritual life. By questioning, exploring, and considering a multitude of possibilities I have gained insights that would have been difficult to discover were I intent on defending a particular historical or metaphysical claim.

So just as with my first graduate-level paper on Hebrew Bible interpretation, I see many spiritual claims and paths which appear, to me at least, to be viable, plausible, and workable within given cultures and contexts. And, just as I was hesitant to put forth one view as being superior or “true” than the other interpretations, I am likewise hesitant to promote one spiritual view — especially the view I personally prefer (for a myriad of reasons both intellectual and experiential) — as the *correct* or *best* view.

I have a feeling that God may end up being an easier “grader” than was my TA.

Note: It is important to make clear that uncertainty has nothing whatsoever to do with moral relativism. Generally speaking, I reject moral relativism. Embracing uncertainty doesn’t imply that I do not take firm positions on certain moral, religious, or political questions. Discussions or debates on the nature of God or on the meaning of prophecies concerning the coming Mahdi are of little use when seeking to feed the hungry and clothe the naked. Uncertainty on these questions nurtures faith. And faith, properly understood, promotes compassion and charity.

An LDS Exit Narrative Without the Exit

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As I was wrapping up my final terms at Brigham Young University I received word that I had been accepted to Yale Divinity School where I was to pursue the academic study of religion within an environment that both valued and promoted Christian worship, commitment and virtue.  At the time my primary interests were centered on the interplay between theology, religious practice, and the ethics within political society.  The timing of my entry to YDS was fortuitous as it coincided with an emerging personal angst related to my own religious tradition: Mormonism.  In the 2-3 years leading up to beginning my studies at YDS I had been exposed to several alternative views on Mormon history, doctrine, leadership, and theology and found myself in a position with questions not only in regard to Mormonism itself, but also, my own place within the Mormon cultural milieu.

During my time at YDS I went through a significant spiritual transformation.  I recall when I turned in my first paper related to Mormonism for a class on covenant and social ethics within the Hebrew Bible.  I had written on how Mormons consider themselves, in a sense, to be God’s “new Israel”; the reestablishment or restoration of the ancient covenant God made with the Patriarchs.  After returning the graded paper to me, my academic advisor said something along the lines of: “I get the feeling you are holding back; hesitant to explicitly ask questions that challenge your own views, as well as the theological claims made by your Mormon tradition.”  He was right, of course.  I had discussed several issues up to the point where serious probing questions could, and should, have been asked.  But at the time I was, perhaps this isn’t the best way to describe it, afraid to ask certain probing questions.  At that time I had absolutely no desire to be critical of the Church institution or its leadership and this hesitancy made itself clearly manifest in my writing.  My professor had challenged me — not to be critical of my own tradition, its theology, and its leadership just for the sake of being critical — but rather to ask critical and probing questions in an effort to increase understanding.  I decided to take the plunge and see if I could write critically about my own tradition without undermining the tradition itself.

In my next paper I took on race issues within Mormonism as they related to pre-1978 priesthood ordination policies.  In this paper I decided to “take the gloves off”, as it were, and really probe and question without fear of where such questions would lead me.  Such criticism was not completely foreign to me, of course.  I have written elsewhere of how actions of some Church leaders caused me to begin questioning claims of absolute and unquestioned authority as early as 2001, but this was the first time I had both the opportunity and willingness to tackle a difficult issue purely academically, ask critical questions, and draw conclusions even if such conclusions seemed to be at odds with a more traditional understanding of Mormon culture, theology, and practice.  Such an endeavor was an extension of a journey begun many years before.

In the summer of 2007 I had reached a point where some core LDS truth-claims regarding the historicity of the Book of Mormon and the Book of Abraham, as well as issues related to the idea that Mormon faithfulness = willingness to obey Church leadership had caused me to question my faith in ways I had previously thought impossible.  During this time I gave serious consideration to resigning from the LDS Church but every time I sat down to write a resignation letter I simply couldn’t bring myself to do it.  Not because I thought that problems of Book of Mormon historicity etc. could be resolved if I simply studied/prayed harder and more intently.  Quite the opposite.  I realized that while resigning from the LDS Church was an important part of the exit process for many, it just wasn’t the right choice for me.

I had a strong desire to stay connected to both my Mormon heritage and community, regardless of my emerging theological liberal views.  I came to recognize that for me, community, service , and simply the opportunity to worship with others who understood me and whom I understood, sat at the center of my spiritual life — just as it always had.  Some details had chanced, certainly, but my desire to fellowship with my fellow Saints remained (although it took me a good 2 years to realize this).

Because of my own questions and challenges I became keenly interested in the reasons why people resigned from the LDS Church.  In particular, why some felt the need not just to leave the Church but to join “oppositional coalitions” working to counter the activities of the LDS Church.  Eventually I became aware of the work of sociologist David Bromley and was inspired by his work on “new religious movements” to explore the specific phenomenon of the creation of exit or “captivity narratives” by those who left religious groups broadly considered “subversive.”

The details of my research in this area can be found in my recently-published paper: “Ex-Mormon Narratives and Pastoral Apologetics”  Sociologist Ryan Cragun offers up an interesting critique of my paper, “Apostates,” “Anti-Mormons,”, And Other Problems in Seth Payne’s “Ex-Mormon Narratives and Pastoral Apologetics”, which can be found either here or here.  My response to Cragun can be found here.

Looking back I can say that my transition from being a fairly theologically conservative Mormon recognizing the unfettered authority of Church leadership to one who rejects most aspects of literalism and eschews any claim of authority by leadership over the spiritual life of adherents, was a very difficult one.  I am grateful that I had an academic outlet to explore and express my questions and views.  For me, the critical academic study of religion has produced unexpected results.  Rather than reject faith, I embrace and defend it enthusiastically.  Rather than leave the LDS Church, I have been inspired to remain in fellowship with the Saints because regardless of any theological difference of opinion, I find myself being constantly overwhelmed by expressions of love, charity, and compassion and in turn, seek out opportunities to become a conduit of that love and compassion myself.