Summer '72

Note Some pages at front not scanned







l} Order Ecclesiola Room

2) Leave briefcases, books, etc., in Ecclesiola Room

3) Take Trek Journal notebook, pencil, Songbook

4) Assemble in Temple Areas for singing











1) After Lecture an assigned person on each team picks up the team's awe center box, while another person on the team gets his monks bowl.

2) Team moves through buffet line together

3) Team proceeds to a solitary space selected by the team

4) After setting up their altar

5) They proceed with their solitary office (M/C/P)

while they partake of their monks bowls.







1) Upon a sign by the Guru that the solitary is ended,

the team arises, puts away their altar­­

2) and taking their monks bowls to designated collection


3) take discontinuity until the next workshop.


1. I take my TREK JOVRNAL and pencil to my sacred space.
  1. I read the Meditation selection for the day from my


3. I write my response evoked by the voice of my meditative



1. I rise and take the MONK's WALK to the altar.

2. At the altar, I light incense, break bread, dip it in the

cup, and partake.

  1. I return to my sacred space, contemplate my picture,

listen to the music.


1. I list three concerns of the day,
  1. I choose one of the categories of prayer -

Confession, Gratitude, Petition, Intercession -

and one of the concerns:

I write a prayer using the classical form,

3. I say the "Our Father" then go forth to serve.



Summer '72 Week 1 Otto

OTTO: The Idea of the Holy Monday

In the story of the building of the mighty bridge over the estuary of the Ennobucht, the most profound and thorough labour of the intellect, the most assiduous and devoted professional toil, had gone to the construction of the great edifice, making it in all its significance and purposefulness a marvel of human achievement. In spite of endless difficulties and gigantic obstacles, the bridge is at length finished, and stands defying wind and waves. Then there comes a raging cyclone, and building and builder are sweet into the deep. Utter meaninglessness seems to triumph over richest significance, blind 'destiny' seems to stride on its way over prostrate virtue and merit. The narrator tells how he visits the scene of the tragedy and returns again.

When we got to the end of the bridge, there was hardly a breath of wind; high above, the sky showed blue­green, and with an eerie brightness, Behind us, like a great open grave, lay the Ennchucht. The Lord of life and death hovered over the waters in silent majesty. We felt His presence, as one feels one's own hand. And the old man and I knelt down before the open grave and before Him.

Why did they kneel? Why did they feel constrained to do so? One does not kneel before a cyclone or the blind forces of nature, nor even before Omnipotence merely as such. But one does kneel before the wholly uncomprehended Mystery, revealed yet unrevealed, and one's soul is stilled by feeling the way of its working, and therein its justification.

OTTO: The Idea of the Holy Tuesday

Atonement is a sheltering or covering , but a profound form of it. It springs directly from the idea of numinous value or worth and numinous disvalue or unworth as soon as these have been developed. Mere awe, mere need of shelter from the tremendum, has here been elevated to the feeling that man in his 'profaneness' is not worthy to stand in the presence of the holy one, and that his own entire personal unworthiness might defile even holiness itself. This is obviously the case in the vision of the call of Isaiah; and the same note recurs, less emphatically hut quite unmistakably, in the story of the centurion of Capernaum and his words: 'I am not worthy that thou shouldest enter under my roof'. Here we have troth the light thrill of awe before the tremendum of the numen and also, and more especially, the feeling of this unique disvalue or unworth of the profane confronted by the numen, which suggests to the man that even holiness itself may be tainted and tarnished by his presence.

Here, then, comes in the felt necessity and longing for 'atonement', and all the more strongly when the close presence of the numen, intercourse with it, and enduring possession of it, becomes an object of craving, is even desired as the summmum bonum. It amounts to a longing to transcend this sundering unworthiness,



Summer '72 Week 1 Otto

Tuesday continued

given with the self's existence as 'creature' and profane natural being. It is an element in the religious consciousness, which so far from vanishing in the measure in which religion is deepened and heightened, grows on the contrary continually

stronger and more marked. Belonging, as it does, wholly to the non­rational side of religion, it may remain latent while, in the course of religious evolution, the rational side at first unfolds and assumes vigorous and definite form; it may retire for a time behind other elements and apparently die away, but only to return more powerfully and insistently than before. And again it may grow to be the sole, one­sided, exclusive interest, a cry that drowns all other notes, so that the religious consciousness is distorted and disfigured; as may readily happen where through long periods of time the rational aspects of religion have been fostered unduly and at the cost of the non­rational.

OTTO: The Idea of the Holy Wednesday

At its highest point of stress the fascinating becomes the 'overabounding'~ 'exuberant'. While this feeling of the 'over­abounding' is socially characteristic of mysticism, a trace of it survives in all truly felt states of religious beatitude, however restrained and kept within measure by other factors. This is seen most clearly from the psychology of those great experiences ­ of grace, conversion, second birth ­ in which the religious experience appears in its pure intrinsic nature and in heightened activity, so as to he more clearly grasped than in the less typical form of Diety instilled by education. The hard core of such experiences in their Christian form consists of the redemption from guilt and bondage to sin, and we shall have presently to see that this also does not occur without a participation of non­rational elements. But leaving this out of account, what we have here to coins out is the unutterableness of what has been yet genuinely experienced, and how such an experience may pass into blissful excitement, rapture, and exaltation, verging often on the bizarre and the abnormal. This is vouched for by the testimony of one writer:

...For the moment nothing but an ineffable joy­and exaltation remained. It is impossible fully to describe the experience. It was like the effect of some Great orchestra, when all the separate notes have melted into one swelling harmony, that leaves the listener conscious of nothing save that his soul is being wafted upwards and almost bursting with its own emotion.

Yet another testifies:

But I can neither write nor tell of what sort of Exaltation the triumphing in the Spirit is. It can be compared with nought, but that when in the midst of death life is born, and it is like the resurrection of the dead.



Summer '72 Week 1 Otto

OTTO: The Idea of the Holy Thursday

Loving, tender Lord! My mind has from the days of my childhood sought something with an earnest thirst of longing, Lord, and what that is have I not yet perfectly apprehended. Lord, I have now for many a year been in hot pursuit of it, and never yet have I been able to succeed, for I know not aright what it is. And yet it is something that draws my heart and my soul after it, and without which I can never attain to full repose. Lord, I was fain in the earliest days of my childhood to seek it among created things, as I saw others before me do. And the more I sought, the less I found it; and the nearer I went, the further I wandered from it...Now my heart rages for it, for fain would I possess it... Woe is me!...What is this, or how is it fashioned, that plays within me in such hidden wise?



Summer '72 Week II: Kierkegaard

KIERKEGAARD: Training in Christianity Monday

And strangely enough it is precisely this deification of the established order which constitutes the constant rebellion, the permanent revolt against God. It desires, in fact (and, so far as this goes, no blame attaches to it), to be everything, to have the world­evolution a little bit under its thumb, or to guide the development of the race. But the deification of the established order, on the other hand, is the invention of the indolent worldly mind, which would nut itself at rest and imagine that all is sheer security and peace, that now we have reached the highest attainment. And then there comes along a single individual, who has a notion that he ought to be higher than the established order. But no, it is not necessary to say that he had this notion, it might even be possible that he was the 'gadfly' which the established order had need of to keep it from falling asleep, or, what is still worse, from falling into self­deification. Every individual ought to live in fear and trembling, and so too there is no established order which can do without fear and trembling. Fear and trembling signifies that one is in process of becoming, and every individual man, and the race as well, is or should be conscious of being in process of becoming. And fear and trembling signifies that a God exists ­ a fact which no man and no established order dare for an instant forget.

KIERKEGAARD: Training in Christianitv Tuesday

But most people do not, in a deeper sense, 'exist' at all, they have never made themselves existentially familiar with the thought of being incognito, that is, they have never sought to out such a thought into execution. Let us take simple human situations. When I wish to be incognito (whatever might be the reason for it, and whether I have a right to do it, are not questions we need here deal with) should I regard it as a compliment if one were to come up to me and say, 'I recognized you at once'? On the contrary, it is a satire upon me. But perhaps the satire was justified and my incognito a poor one. But now let us think of a man who was able to maintain his incognito: he wills to be incognito; he is willing, it is true, to be recognized, but not directly. In this case there is nothing to hinder him from being recognized directly for what he is, this disguise being in fact his free determination. But here we discover the secret: most people have no notion at all of the superiority by which a man transcends himself; and the superiority which willingly assumes an incognito of such a sort that one seems to be something much lowlier than one is they have no inkling of. Or if they have an inkling of it, they will surely think, 'What madness' What if the incognito were to be so successful that the man actually is taken 'or what he gives himself out to be!' Farther than this men seldom get, it they get so far. They discover here a self­contradiction, which in the service of the Good is really self­abnegation ­ the Good strives with might and main to maintain its incognito, and its incognito is that it is something less than it is. A man chooses then an incognito which makes him seem far lowlier than he is. He has in mind perhaps the Socratic maxim, that in order to will the Good truly, one must avoid the appearance of doing it. The incognito is his free decision. He exerts himself to the utmost, employing all his inventiveness and intrepidity to maintain the incognito. This effort is either successful or unsuccessful. If it is successful then he has, humanly speaking, done himself an injury, he has made everybody think poorly of him. What self­abnegation. And, or, the other hand, what an immense strain upon a man. For he had it in his power every instant to show himself in his real character. What self­abnegation' For what is self­abnegation without freedom? Oh, loftiest height of self­abnegation when the incognito succeeds so well that even if he now were inclined to speak directly, no one would believe him!

KIERKEGAARD: Training in Christianity Wednesday

The decisive mark of Christian suffering is the 'act that it is voluntary, and that it is the possibility of offense for the sufferer, We read of the Apostles that they forsook all to follow Christ. So it was voluntary. Now there is a man in Christendom who is so unfortunate as to lose all that he possesses; he has not given up the least thing, he has lost all. So then the parson valiantly applies himself to study out a consolatory discourse, but due to his much study, or to whatever else it may be, everything is a confused buzz in the brain of his Reverence; to lose all and to give up all become synonymous, he makes losing all agree with the paradigm 'giving up all', notwithstanding that the difference is infinite. For when voluntarily I give up all, choosing danger and adversity, it is not possible to ignore the offense (again peculiarly the category of Christianity, though of course abolished in Christendom) which derives from responsibility (corresponding again to the voluntary) when they say, 'But why will you expose yourself to this and commence such an undertaking, when you could perfectly will leave it alone?' This is specific Christian suffering. It is a whole musical tone deeper than common human suffering. For when I lose all, there is no responsibility, and there is nothing for temptation to lay hold of. But in Christendom they have entirely abolished the voluntary, and by this the possibility of offense as well, forasmuch as the voluntary is also a form of the possibility of temptation. They live in an entirely heathenish way and see no reason why they should not use their wit to deride the voluntary as a ridiculous exaggeration. Unavoidable human sufferings one has simply to put up with once for all, just as in paganism; but they reach them up to be Christian sufferings, preach them into relationship with Christ and the Apostles. I would venture to try the experiment of taking pagan works, without altering anything in them, except to introduce Christ's name in several places ­ and I shall make people believe it is a sermon or a meditation by a parson ­ a sermon, perhaps even a sermon published at the request of many, i.e. of many Christians, for surely we are all of us Christians, the Parson included.

KIERKEGAARD: Training in Christianity Thursday

And now in the case of the God­Man! He is God, but chooses to become the individual man. This, as we have seen, is the profoundest incognito, or the most impenetrable unrecognizableness that is possible; for the contradiction between being God and being an individual man is the greatest possible, the infinitely qualitative contradiction. But this is His will, His free determination, therefore an almightily maintained incognito. Indeed, He has in a certain sense, by suffering Himself to be born, bound Himself once for all; His incognito is so almightily maintained that in a way He is subjected to it, and the reality of His suffering consists in the fact that it is not merely apparent, but that in a sense the assumed incognito has power over Him. Only thus is there in the deepest sense real seriousness in the assertion that He became 'very man', and hence also He experiences the extremes" suffering of feeling Himself forsaken of God, so that at no moment was He beyond suffering, but actually in it, and He encountered the purely human experience that reality is even more terrible than possibility, that He who had freely assumed unrecognizableness yet really suffers as though He were entrapped in unrecognizableness or had entrapped Himself. It is a strange sort of dialectic: that He who almightily... binds Himself, and does it so almightily that He actually feels Himself bound, suffers under the consequences of the fact that He lovingly and freely determined to become an individual man ­ to such a degree was it seriously true that He became a real man; but thus it must be if He were to become the sign of contradiction which reveals the thoughts of the hearts. ­­­It is the imperfection of a man's disguise that he has the arbitrary faculty of annulling it at any instant. A disguise is the more completely serious the more one knows how to restrain this faculty and to make it less and less possible. But the unrecognizableness of the God­Man is an incognito almightily maintained, and the divine seriousness consists precisely in the fact that it is so almightily maintained that He Himself suffers under His unrecognizableness in a purely human way.



Summer '72 Week II: Bonhoeffer

BONHOEFFER: Letters and Papers from Prison Monday

During the last year or so I have come to know and understand more and more the profound this­worldliness of Christianity. The Christian is not a homo religious, but simply a man, as Jesus was a man... I am still discovering right up to this moment, that it is only by living completely in this world that one learns to have faith. One must completely abandon any attempt to make something of oneself, whether it be a saint, or a converted sinner, or a churchman (a so­called priestly type!), a righteous man or an unrighteous one, a sick man or a healthy one. By this­ worldliness I mean living unreservedly in life's duties, problems, successes and failures, experiences and perplexities. In so doing we throw ourselves completely into the arms of God, taking seriously, not our own sufferings, but those of God in the world - watching with Christ in Gethsemane.

BONHOEFFER: Letters and Papers from Prison Tuesday

18 July 1944

I wonder whether any letters have been lost in the raids on Munich. Did you get the one with the two poems? It was just sent out that evening, and it also contained a few introductory remarks on our theological theme. The poem about Christians and pagans contains an idea that you will recognize: "Christians stand by God in his hour of grieving"; that is what distinguishes Christians from pagans. Jesus asked in Gethsemane, "Could you rot watch with me one hour?" That is a reversal of what the religious man expects from God. Man is summoned to share in God's sufferings at the hands of a godless world.

He must therefore really 1ive in the godless world without attempting to gloss over or explain its ungodliness in some religious way or other. He must live a "secular" life, and thereby share in God's sufferings. He may live a "secular" life: i.e. he is freed (as one who has been liberated from, false religious obligation inhibitions­) To be a Christian does not mean to be religious in a particular way, to make something of oneself (a sinner, a penitent, or a saint) on the basis of some method or other, but to be a man ­ not a type of man, but the man that Christ creates in us. It is not the religious act that makes the Christian, but participation in the sufferings of God in the secular life. That is metanoia: not in the first place thinking about one's own needs, problems, sins, and fears, but allowing oneself to be caught up into the way of Jesus Christ, into the messianic event.

BONHOEFFER: Letters and Papers from Prison Wednesday

27 November 1943

...Meanwhile we have had the expected large­scale attack on Borsig. It really is a strange feeling, to see the "Christmas trees," the flares that the leading aircraft drops, coming down right over our heads. The shouting and screaming of the prisoners in their cells was terrible. We had no dead, only injured, and we had finished bandaging them by one o'clock. After that, I was able to drop off at once into a sound sleep. People here talk quite openly about how frightened they were. I don't quite know what to make of it, for fright is surely something to be ashamed of. I have a feeling that it should not be talked about except in the confessional, otherwise it might easily involve a certain amount of exhibitionism; and a fortiori there is no need to play the hero. On the other hand, naive frankness can be quite disarming. But even so, there is a cynical, I might almost say ungodly, frankness, the kind that breaks out in heavy drinking and fornication, and gives the impress ion of chaos. I wonder whether fright is not one of the pudenda, which ought to be concealed; I must think about it further; you have no doubt formed your own ideas on the subject.

The fact that the horrors of war are now coming home to us with such force will no doubt, if we survive, provide us with the necessary basis for making it Possible to reconstruct the life of the nations, both spiritually and materially, on Christian principles. So we must try to keep these experiences in our minds, use them in our work, make them bear fruit, and not just shake them off. Never have we been so plainly conscious of the wrath of God, and that is a sign of his grace: "O that today you would hearken to his voice! Harden not your hearts". The tasks that confront us are immense, but we must prepare ourselves for them now and he ready when they come.

BONHOEFFER: Letters and Papers from Prison Thursday

Who am I? They often tell me

I step from my cell's confinement

calmly, cheerfully, firmly,

like a squire from his country­house.

Who am I? They often tell me

I talk to my warders

freely and friendly and clearly,

as though it were mine to command.

Who am I? They also tell me

I bear the days of misfortune

equably, smilingly, proudlv,

like one accustomed to win.

Am I then really all that which other

men tell of?

Or am I only what I know of myself,

restless and longing and sick, like

a bird in a cage,

struggling for breath, as though ­

hands were compressing my throat,

yearning for colours, for flowers, for

the voices of birds,

thirsting for words of kindness, for


tossing in expectation of great events,

powerlessly trembling for friends

at an infinite distance,

weary and empty at praying, at

thinking, at making,

faint, and ready to say farewell to

it all?

Who am I? This or the other?

Am I one person today, and tomorrow


Am I both at once? A hypocrite

before others,

and before myself a contemptibly

woebegone weakling?

Or is something within me still like

a beaten army,

fleeing in disorder from victory

already achieved?

Who am I? They mock me, these

lonely questions of mine.

Whoever I am, thou knowest, O God,

I am thine.



Summer '72 Week II: Chardin

CHARDIN: The Divine Milieu Monday

We undergo life as much as we undergo death, if not more. Let us try, patiently, to perceive the ocean of forces to which we are subjected and in which our growth is, as it were, steeped. This is a salutary exercise; for the depth and universality of our dependence on so much altogether outside our control all go to make up the embracing intimacy of our communion with the world to which we belong . . . And so, for the first time in my life, perhaps (although I am supposed to meditate every day'), I took the lamp and, leaving the zone of everyday occupations and relationships where everything seems clear, I went down into my inmost self, to the deep abyss . . . I became aware that I was losing contact with myself. At each step

of the descent a new person was disclosed within me of whose name I was no longer sure, and who no longer obeyed me. And when I had to stop my exploration because the path faded from beneath my steps, I found a bottom less abyss at my feet, and out of it came­­arising I know not from where the current which I dare to call my life. What science will ever be able to reveal to man the origin, nature and character of that conscious power to will and to love which constitutes his life? It is certainly not our effort, nor the effort of anyone around us, which set that current in motion. My self is given to me far more than it is formed by me.

CHARDIN: The Divine Milieu Tuesday

To adore . . . that means to lose oneself in the unfathomable, to plunge into the inexhaustible, to find peace in the incorruptible, to be absorbed in defined immensity, to offer oneself to the fire and to the transparency, to annihilate oneself in proportion as one becomes more deliberately conscious of oneself, and to give of one's deepest to that whose depth has no end . . . The more man becomes man, the more will he become prey to a need, a need that is always more explicit, more subtle and more magnificent, the need to adore. . . We shall not seek to escape this joyful uncertainty. But now that we are familiar with the attributes of the divine milieu, we shall turn our attention to the Thing itself which appeared to us in the depth of each being, like a radiant countenance, like a fascinating abyss.

CHARDIN: The Divine Milieu Wednesday

And if any words could translate that permanent and lucid intoxication better than others, perhaps they would be 'passionate indifference'. To have access to the divine mileiu is to have found the one thing needful: him who burns by setting fire to everything that we would love badly or not enough; him who calms by eclipsing with his blaze everything that we would love too much; him who consoles by gathering up everything that has been snatched from our love or has never been given to it. To reach those priceless layers is to experience, with equal truth, that one has need of everything, and that one has need of nothing. Everything is needed because the world will never be large enough to provide our taste for action with the means of grasping God, or our thirst for undergoing with the possibility of being invaded by him. And yet nothing is needed; for as the only reality which can satisfy us lies beyond the transparencies in which it is mirrored, everything that fades away and dies between us will only serve to give reality back to us with greater purity. Everything means both everything and nothing to me; everything is God to me and everything is dust to me: that is what man can say with equal truth, in accord with how the divine ray falls.

CHARDIN: The Divine Milieu Thursday

It could be said that Providence, for those who believe in it, converts evil into good in three principal ways. Sometimes the check we have undergone will divert our activity on to objects, or towards a framework, that are more propitious ­ though still situated on the level of the human ends we are pursuing. That is what happened with Job, whose final happiness was greater than his first. At other times, more often perhaps, the loss which afflicts us will oblige us to turn for the satisfaction of our frustrated desires to less material fields. which neither worm nor rust can corrupt. The lives of the saints are full of these instances in which one can see the man emerging ennobled, tempered and renewed from some ordeal, or even some downfall, which seemed bound to diminish or lay him low for ever. Failure in that case plays for us the part that the elevator plays for an aircraft or the pruning knife for a plant. . . The collapse, even when a moral one, is thus transformed into a success which, however spiritual it may be is, nevertheless, felt experimentally. But there are more difficult cases (the most common ones, in fact) where human wisdom is altogether out of its depth. At every moment we see diminishment, both in us and around us . . . how can these diminishments which are altogether without compensation, wherein we see death at its most deathly, become for us a good? This is where diminishments­­ the most effective way and the way which most surely makes us holy. God, as we have seen, has already transfigured our sufferings by making them serve our conscious fulfillment. In his hands the forces of diminishment have perceptibly become the tool that cuts, carves and polishes within us the stone which is destined to occupy a definite place in the heavenly Jerusalem. But he will do still more, for, as a result of his omnipotence impinging upon our faith, events which show themselves experimentally in our lives as pure loss will become an immediate factor in the union we dream of establishing with him. Uniting oneself means, in every case, migrating, and dying partially in what one loves. But if, as we are sure, this being reduced to nothing in the other must be all the more complete the more we give our attachment to one who is greater than ourselves, then we can set no limits to the tearing up of roots that is involved on our journey into God. . . The progressive breaking down of our self­regard is no doubt a very real foretaste of that leap out of ourselves which must in the end deliver us from the bondage of ourselves into the service of the divine sovereignty . . . There is a further step to take: the one that makes us lose all foothold within ourselves. God must, in some way or other, make room for himself, hollowing us out and emptying us, if he is finally to penetrate into us. . . he must break the molecules of our being so as to recast and remodel us. The function of death is to provide the necessary entrance into our inmost selves. . . What was by nature empty and void, a return to bits and pieces, can, in any human existence, become fullness and unity in God.