The soul can be dangerous!
The soul can be a dangerous thing!One of my favorite movies (I seem to pull it out every couple of years) is The Shawshank Redemption, starring Tim Robbins and Morgan Freeman as two prisoners serving life terms at the Shawshank prison. One particular scene mirrors the beauty and danger of following the yearnings of the soul. Robbins’ character, Andy Dufresne, finds himself in a room where he has control of what goes over the loudspeakers to the whole prison yard. His soul recognizes the opportunity. He locks the guard in the bathroom, turns on the record player, flips the switches for the loudspeakers and sits back as the soprano duet from Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro blankets the prison yard with rich operatic voices. Red, Morgan Freeman’s character, reflects on the experience:
I have no idea to this day what those two Italian ladies were singing about. Truth is, I don't want to know. Some things are best left unsaid. I'd like to think they were singing about something so beautiful, it can't be expressed in words, and makes your heart ache because of it. I tell you, those voices soared higher and farther than anybody in a gray place dares to dream. It was like some beautiful bird flapped into our drab little cage and made those walls dissolve away, and for the briefest of moments, every last man in Shawshank felt free.” (watch the scene at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=718RlaIYBlo)
I may be crazy, but I have made a life of attempting to follow the bread crumbs of that “ache of the heart” to which Red refers. In a prison, the system tries to kill that human ache because it becomes a threat. Prisoners who can’t seem to quell the ache for beauty, for warmth, and for the loving touch start to become dangerous. They ask for too much, expect too much and even take risks to satisfy the yearnings of that soulful ache. They refuse to be anything less than human and treated humanely.We shouldn’t assume that just because we don’t live behind a barbed wire fence that we don’t live in our own constructed prisons. How often do we refuse to let our soul take flight because it might appear irresponsible? How many times have we medicated ourselves with food, drink, drugs and overwork in order to quiet that ache that we feel inside? How often have we dismissed our own truth because it would stick out like a rainbow in a black and white photo?Satisfying the yearnings of the soul is what makes us uniquely human. But, be careful! The soul does not recognize the rules of this world. As Jesus said, “My kingdom is not of this world.” Birds don’t like to be caged. And Andy was not meant for prison.
Remember what Marianne Williamson said in A Return to Love: “It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us.”Shine your light. Let your wings expand. Allow your life to become as big as your soul. But, don’t be naïve. The world is more used to numbing than living...and as long as that is true, the soul can be a dangerous thing.
The Consistency of Soul
I can remember almost word for word the one comment by a member of the church committee that endorsed me for entrance into the ordination path thirty years ago. I had just described my faith journey to the committee: growing up in the Presbyterian church, a year off after high school working in a factory, a short six-month venture into college, three years of bicycle racing, marriage and then, finally, a college degree.Mr. Sparks (not his real name) said, “Brian, we are glad to endorse you as you have proven to be a very capable student, but you are going to have to learn to choose a path and stick to it.”
I don’t remember feeling defensive or ashamed by his comment. If anything I probably walked away chuckling to myself, “He just doesn’t get me.” But, I hardly gave it another thought. I felt good about the choices I had made and the path I had taken to get there. I didn’t feel as if I was wandering all over the map as he had hinted.It’s only in hindsight that I now have the benefit of seeing and naming a consistency that my church friend couldn’t see. If he could have organized it for me I think he would have ended with the same result, but in a different order. His plan for me might have gone: high school diploma, racing bicycles, college education, marriage and then, seminary (or possibly seminary then wedded bliss).What I know now is that early on I had learned to trust the subtle urgings of my soul. I, of course, did not have the language for it over three decades ago. But, it was clear that when a more conventional path did not ring true for me, I chose what felt right for me despite the warnings and protestations of people around me. As I look back over my life I can see a thread of consistency that ties it all together.
I want to make a point of this because it often feels like there are unspoken rules about what it is we should be yearning for; what constitutes success; and the order in which things are supposed to be done. If we were all made the same way, had the same constitution, and arrived at the threshold of adulthood like a perfectly cut out Oreo cookie, then these rules would make sense. But, there are lots of kinds and sizes of cookies in the world and some of them are even half-baked!It took me eleven years to complete bachelor and master’s degrees, reach the National Championships in cycling, marry, and have two children. That’s fairly typical. What wasn’t typical was the order in which I did it. And what I know about the order had to do with following a voice deep within me—what I am calling the soul.Every step of the way I had to make decisions about what would make me feel the most alive, what would satisfy the deepest parts of my Self, and what would provide the most healing for the wounds that I had been carrying.I raced bicycles because I entered adulthood just as a tank-load of repressed anger surfaced for me. Racing was a socially-approved method for releasing my anger! I married young because I wanted the kind of intimate relationships that I had yearned for as a child, but didn’t get. And I have embarked on pilgrimages just as I was feeling that the conventions of life were burying my soul.I suppose I could have gone to college and addressed my anger in counseling. I could have worked through my childhood issues on the therapist’s couch (believe me, I have done that too!). I could have saved a lot of money and bypassed on the pilgrimages in favor of reading self-help books.
But, there is a basic underlying problem with this. It treats the yearnings of our souls as problems to be fixed. It establishes convention as normal and healthy and everything outside of that as abnormal and dysfunctional. It treats each one of us as paint-by-the-numbers personalities rather than abstract, complicated, beautiful characters of art.I believe that the Soul has its own internal consistency. Even the Soul has a path to follow. We just need to learn to listen to Her subtle clues.
God of the Sparrow
I would imagine sometime in the next four months I will be out in the community sharing my Rome to Rumi experience. It’s hard to tell for sure what form that will take—probably a Power Point slide show, maybe a multimedia presentation, likely a few talks and some Q and A. It’s even harder to guess what lessons might emerge from the sharing of my pilgrimage. I can tell you, however, that one message is starting to surface clearly already.I think the best door to enter this will be to introduce you to the lyrics of a hymn that is included in our Presbyterian hymnals. It was written by Javoslav J. Vajda in 1983 (very modern by church standards!) and is titled, “God of the Sparrow”. The first verse reads:
God of the sparrowGod of the whaleGod of the swirling starsHow does the creature say AweHow does the creature say Praise
Depending on how you read these words, you might hear a pre-packaged answer coming, such as “The creature says awe and praise by singing hymns and attending a right-thinking church near his home.” But, it is also possible that the song is meant to leave us hanging at the conclusion of each verse. Each verse ends with a similar question, “How does the creature cry Woe, How does the creature cry Save; How does the creature say Grace, How does the creature say Thanks.” It is possible that the song is not about leading us down a narrow path to the nearest God-approved sanctuary, but may be actually dropping us into the deep, swirling pool of mystery. Had Vajda put the question first and the description of God second then it may have been a closed riddle. But, he ends with the question. Interesting.I write this because my Rome to Rumi pilgrimage taught me something. Being that I was on the bicycle I had the opportunity to wheel my way up to Catholic masses in progress, cycle along the Tyrrhenian Sea abutting the western coastline of Italy, and share meals and tea with Turks where our only communication was kindergarten-level charades. What became obvious to me was that, as I opened myself to the presence of the Sacred, I experienced those spiritual feelings of awe and praise in numerous and unpredictable places.
Worshiping in Saint Padre Pio’s sanctuary in San Giovanni Rotondo pitched my mind and heart to a place of reverence. That same feeling of reverence washed through me as I encountered the first meters of the climb up Mt. Olympus in Greece. I was overcome by a powerful spirit that hit me like a gust of wind as I entered the church of Santa Maria degli Angeli in Rome. Strangely enough the gratitude that I felt after sharing a spontaneous meal with a road crew in Turkey left me feeling like I had shared communion in a sacred space, no less sacred than Rome’s glorious churches.I have heard that some people (mostly dedicated to the Church) don’t understand my flirtations with Rumi and my obvious infatuation with the spirit behind some of the Greek gods. As an ordained Presbyterian minister, there may be some unspoken rule: like I am supposed to be defending the God of John Calvin and promoting our “decently and in order” Presbyterian way of encountering God.
But, this pilgrimage taught me something. It’s not really about which God we pray to. It’s not about which religious tradition is the most authentic and most right. It’s not about who becomes the object of our awe, our praise and our gratitude. What this pilgrimage taught me is that we humans have a need to have our hearts pitched to a place of awe (in a sanctuary or next to the ocean). We all are healthier, happier and more fully human when we open ourselves to the experience of wonder, praise and gratitude (whether praying with the faithful or laughing with the alien stranger). Our souls crave and lust after the divine Presence (whether standing at the threshold of a church or being lost in the rolling, golden hills of Turkey).This pilgrimage was wonderful because, in the end, it wasn’t really about leaving Rome and arriving at Rumi’s Tomb, as if I was a teenager leaving the fold of family in order to wear the cloak of a new identity. No, it was about opening myself up to the wonderful and awe-some presence of God wherever I might meet her on the road of life—for she was there in certain corners of St. Peter’s Basilica holding the shards of history in her paintings; she showed up as I painfully powered my way up switchbacks to the lovely Greek village of Ambelakia where the sunset and I bowed to each other in a mutual blessing; she was there as I prayed in the Blue Mosque among a handful of faithful Muslims; and she was there as I enjoyed a perfect Greek salad while watching hunters return from a successful and bloody wild boar hunt.
The last verse of the hymn reads:
God of the agesGod near at handGod of the loving heartHow do your children say JoyHow do your children say Home
If my pilgrimage taught me anything it is this: live into the question and then trust, that like a rose in bloom, the Sacred Presence will unfold before your very eyes.Enjoy the journey…
A Step Beyond Spirituality
I had a friend share the observation the other day that my first pilgrimage in 2011 spoke a great deal about spirituality, whereas my recent Rome to Rumi pilgrimage focused more on the soul. I hadn’t thought about precisely in those terms, but realized that she was right. I had experienced a shift in the years between my 4,000 mile Western U.S. pilgrimage and the shorter pilgrimage through Italy, Greece and Turkey of this past fall.
I thought about that a little. What had happened? I am deeply engrossed in the rewrite and editing of my book Dying to Live that shares the journey of that first pilgrimage. I reflect in the beginning of the book on the fact that I chose a profession (or did the profession choose me?) that is having to rethink itself. In the Northwest, a growing segment of the population thinks of themselves as being “spiritual but not religious”. In fact, even if you ask many church-goers you will hear them identity more in spiritual terms than in religious terms.My ten-week pilgrimage in 2011 was partly about coming to terms with what it meant to be a religious leader in a time when religious devotion was giving way to spiritual exploration. A lot of that pilgrimage focused on what I was hearing about the dissolving away of our present religious forms. I didn’t have a clear picture of what was emerging, but it was obvious that it had something to do with spirituality even if the term didn’t have any one clear definition.
I left on September 3 this year for Italy for the beginning of my Rome to Rumi pilgrimage. Strangely enough, this pilgrimage mirrored in some ways the 2011 pilgrimage. I chose the Rome to Rumi theme and route to once again wrestle with, reflect upon and write about this movement away from institutional forms of religion in favor of more direct experience of the Sacred, as seen in the Sufi mysticism of Mevlana Rumi. Once again I was flirting with the issue of religion and spirituality.But, my friend was right. My language had changed. I had gone from numerous references to the growing interest in spirituality in 2011 to an exploration of the soul in 2014. I haven’t completely put my finger on what the transition was, but I think I am close.I think the two pilgrimages represent my own evolution in this tremendous transition that many of us, if not all of us, are experiencing. There is an unmistakable transformation taking place where the seams of our religious institutions are splitting in favor of something that is loosely defined as spirituality. I see it. Others see it. We all feel it. And I am experiencing it both as a person dedicated to my own spiritual journey and as a person ordained to professional ministry.
But, spirituality is a general catch-all term for just about anything that has to do with the sacred world, but doesn’t look too much like religion. My exploration of Sufi mysticism and the Soul is where my spirituality begins to take form. One might say that spirituality is to the Soul as music is to rock and roll. Spirituality and music are general categories. The Soul and rock and roll are the specific ways we live out and celebrate those areas of our lives.I had gone from exploring the shift from religion to spirituality in my last pilgrimage to exploring the shift from religion to one particular form of spirituality in my second pilgrimage. The last pilgrimage was more about what we were moving away from. This pilgrimage was more about what we, and me in particular, are moving toward. That it, mystical forms of religion.Still, this pilgrimage had a surprise for me. I thought I was going to Konya, Turkey (site of Rumi’s Tomb) to highlight the language of mysticism and the soul for my readers and followers. In the end, however, the pilgrimage became about the yearnings and the disappointments of my own soul. I had flown over to Europe under the mistaken assumption that I could use this pilgrimage to invite others to take a journey that I thought I had already completed psychologically and spiritually years before. As it turned out I may have had the language, but I had not yet completed the work.My work in the end was finally to commit to something that I had been talking about for years. I had been dating my soul on and off for quite some time. This pilgrimage was about finally standing at the altar and saying, “I do.”
A 'fishy' proverb
A fish can neither survive in a waterfall nor in a dying pond.
This little proverb came to me a week ago as I was introducing the phrase “holy chaos” to you in my post, “The Parable of Rusty Nails”. In that post I spoke of how a little shock to a person or an organization can sometimes be the best catalyst for growth and transformation. I postulated that a little chaos can sometimes be just the thing a person, a family or an organization needs to become healthier.I also knew as I wrote it that I was only telling half of the story. In recent years I have been following a deeply intuitive voice when it comes to making decisions about my personal life and my professional role. This loosely defined, often hidden inner authority, I am calling the voice of the soul. It would be a mistake to say that the soul is always urging us toward a little more chaos in our lives. It is more accurate to say that the soul seeks vitality and a deep intimacy with the world as it is.This little parable about the fish mirrors well the environment that our souls need in order to thrive and grow. I have come to believe that there is a continuum that our soul exists in with constant chaos on one end and complete predictability on the other end. A waterfall represents such a chaotic vitality that a fish cannot survive. On the other end, a dying pond with no inlet and no outlet represents a deadly predictability that will eventually result in a fish kill. Holy chaos can be inserted when not enough vitality is present for an organism to survive. Predictability is the aim when so much vitality is present that an organism eventually dies of exhaustion.
As I have looked back over my professional life it is easy to see how this has played out. I spent about five years working with youth who had been removed from their homes because of criminal activity. In nearly every case, a common thread in the stories of these youth was that they came from very chaotic families and situations—drug use, physical, emotional and sexual abuse, neglect and deprivation. It was important to me to lead them to healthier lives. Because of their family situations I felt like I was trying to insert as much predictability into their lives as I could. They didn’t need more chaos; they needed to know what they could count on day to day in order to have room to make better decisions.I also served four churches as a pastor. Interestingly enough, I also felt it was important to lead them toward a healthier community environment. Of the four churches I served, three of them were closer to the predictability end of the continuum to the point where they were losing their vitality (seen in membership, attendance and giving declines). In each of these three churches I inserted a little “holy chaos” in order to bring some new energy into the congregation. What these churches needed was not more of the same, but something to stir them up in order to bring more oxygen and energy into their environment.
The common thread in all of my work has been to lead people and organizations toward that place for which our soul yearns—a deeply vital, engaged, passionate and intimate relationship with the world. As I have said, I have come to believe that our environment dictates the kinds of yearnings for which our soul cries out. Too much chaos and our souls become exhausted; too little chaos and our souls will die of deprivation. It is sometimes said that Jesus came to comfort the afflicted and to afflict the comfortable. That is, to lessen the chaos in the lives of those who are afflicted and to increase the chaos in the lives of those who are too comfortable.A fish can neither survive in a waterfall nor in a dying pond. Is your soul yearning for some sacred stillness or a little holy chaos? Only you can answer that question.
Dear "Bonnie"
Today’s post comes in the form of a response to a nice supportive note that I received this past week. I think it sheds light on this long journey I have taken to work out my identity in the rapidly changing world of religion and spirituality.Dear "Bonnie",I received your wonderfully supportive note this past week wishing me well “in whatever new things I might choose to do in the future.” I had to smile to myself as I felt your love and support and also recognized that your language exposed my ongoing efforts to communicate what I am really doing.Three years ago you were one of the primary supporters of my last pilgrimage when I set off for a 4,000 mile, ten week pilgrimage through eight western states. In fact, you were the one who predicted that I might just find the love of my life out there on the road. Little did you know—in fact, little did I know—that one of those chance meetings on the road would to turn out to evolve into this relationship that I have been referring to as “my blossoming love”.As you know I have been wrestling with my place in the Church and the culture for many years. Depending which month you ask I may tell you that I have a deep commitment to the Church and her transition in this time of ongoing decline and congregational grief. Other months I may communicate that my true voice is to work with the emerging “spiritual but not religious” community divorcing myself from the frustrations of an institution with too much historical and religious inertia to get it to budge. Back and forth I have gone for years often feeling like I am straddling two different worlds without really belonging fully to either one. One good friend has observed that there has been a homelessness to my soul. He is a wise and honest friend!
It’s ironic, Bonnie, that your family actually mirrors the reality that is emerging for me. It’s not that I will someday figure out a path for the future. I am discovering that I am already on that path. You and some of your Baby Boomer children have told me that if they had lived in the area they would have been coming to any church where I was serving as pastor. That is a reflection of my emerging identity. I am at my core, a bridger. The fact that both you in your 80’s and your nearly 60 year-old children are attracted to my preaching, teaching, and pastoral care tell the real story.It may appear that I am still trying to figure out what I want to do. But, I am coming to realize and accept that I am actually doing it already. My role isn’t to stand completely and firmly in either community, but to act as the bridge between a traditional community that is passing away and an emerging community that is fragile, but full of promise and new life. I have a commitment to both just as a child loves his old fashioned parents and his modern friends.I smiled at your note, Bonnie, because I immediately thought of how Lewis and Clark might have reacted to good wishes for “whatever you choose to do in the future.” I wonder if they too would have smiled and said, “Honey, we are already doing it. We are explorers and adventurers. Our souls thrive on new discoveries. We belong somewhere in that uncertain place between the Old World and the New World.”The truth is, I could not have written this note three years ago. I think you know that. I was grieving over this nagging feeling that I didn’t really belong in either place. I was feeling lost in the space between the religious community that formed and shaped me and my Baby Boomer contemporaries and friends.But, now I am increasingly comfortable with my role and my place. I think this particular struggle is coming to an end. Remember, some people build cities. Other people build bridges. I belong in the latter camp, more like a Lewis and Clark. I may never be completely comfortable in one place. My path may always be in that space between people and between communities. My role might not be to “get there,” but simply to be one of those who steps out on behalf of the Old World to forge a path to the New World.Thanks again for your love and support as I continue to articulate this unfolding and winding journey that Life has rather forcefully invited me into.Your friend…Brian (a pedal pilgrim)
The Parable of Rusty Nails
This week I was browsing through the book section of a local Goodwill store when I came across the autobiography of James Michener, author of Centennial, Hawaii and two dozen other bestselling novels. I only glanced at it, but one small vignette caught my eye. Michener was describing a formative event during his childhood. Apparently there was an apple tree that was falling in its annual yield. In the winter the farmer took eight rusty nails and pounded them into the trunk of the tree. That year and for ten years after the apple tree produced an abundance of apples. When Michener puzzled out loud about the transformation, the farmer told him, “Sometimes an apple tree has to be shocked into remembering who it is.”I was immediately struck by the wisdom and the truth of this farmer. In recent years I have found myself using the term “holy chaos” to describe a certain period and quality in the process of growth and transformation. Sometimes the only way to a healthier place in life is through a period of chaos and uncertainty.
One of my favorite movies—campy though it is—is Stuart Saves His Family, about a self-made self help TV personality who is famous for ending his shows with this affirmation, “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggone it, people like me!” Stuart, played by Al Franken, is the oldest son in an alcoholic family system. While the family is highly dysfunctional (the mother enables the drinking father, the daughter drowns her anger and pain in food, the younger son is following in his father’s footsteps, and Stuart is the rescuer) there is also an unspoken covenant between family members that serves to keep the peace. Each person plays an important role to keep the real problem (the father’s drinking and abuse) from being acknowledged.One would think that everyone would want to live in and enjoy a healthier family environment, but that is not the case. When Stuart refuses to rescue the family one last time (he was asked to lie for them), the family is catapulted into chaos and Stuart becomes the family pariah. At the height of the family tornado the father nearly kills the younger son in a drunken hunting accident. This is what I would call “holy chaos” because it is the storm before the calm, the blowout before the makeup.“Sometimes an apple tree has to be shocked into remembering who it is.”I write this just a little over a week after returning from my seven week, 3,000 kilometer cycling pilgrimage from Rome to Konya, Turkey. I believe that our souls sometimes ache and yearn to stir things up a little. I also believe that if we don’t build a little intentional holy chaos into our lives and our organizations, life will do it for us. If we don’t do the continual work of “remembering who we are” life has a way of reminding us.And I don’t know about you, but rusty nails make me squeamish.
Roots, Vines and Branches
It was less than a week ago that I completed my Rome to Rumi pilgrimage. As I neared Konya an image began forming in my mind that seemed to reflect the nature of this mystical search for God/the Source of Life/Soul. I almost shared it in the days when I was off my bike and just getting to know the city of Konya better. But it felt like it needed a little more ripening before I plucked it from the branches of my busy mind.
I was thinking about the few concerns that have been expressed by some acquaintances about my continual “searching” as if there was a hope that I would find what I was seeking and finally settle down. As I thought about this I was struck by the irony that if a person decides to return to school for a further degree, it is often lauded as ambitious. Yet, there is something about these types of pilgrimages (like the trips to India in the 60’s) that are seen simply as trying to “find oneself.”Three years ago I was faced with the decision of whether it was time to return to school for another graduate degree as I accepted the reality of the erosion of professional ministry. I was 52 years old at the time. After weeks of discussion and reflection with my therapist I came to a decision. To pursue the degree I wanted (a PhD in mythological studies) would require nearly seven years of my life and tens of thousands of dollars. Financially, it did not make sense. But, more than that, we decided that I would benefit as much from my own endeavors to understand the soul of our cultures as I would from a formal degree program.
As I neared Konya this image began to form for me that mirrored this mystical path that seems to have captivated me. It’s an image that is actually very familiar to Sunday morning Christians. Many communion liturgies lift up the words attributed Jesus as he informs his disciples, “I am the vine. You are the branches. Cut off from me you can do nothing.” I actually was thinking of the image of a tree, but this Biblical image will work just fine.It was this image of the vine that revealed why I feel so strongly that this path that I have chosen is not mere navel-gazing. The mystical path is one of seeking, feeling, and living out of the deep connection that exists between all of us. If, as the metaphor suggests, we are the branches, Jesus is the vine, and God might be the roots, then God is not some foreign entity to try to understand, but literally part of us as we are part of God . I don’t need to get a PhD in world religions to understand the spirit that connects all of us; I only need to look deeply within myself to see the image of the One who is reflected in all of us.The branch contains the same DNA as the vine and the roots. In fact, there really is no difference between the root, the vine and the branch. We only establish definitions for the sake of naming and organizing our world.
As I concluded my pilgrimage this was the growing awareness that swept over me. This apparent navel-gazing does not separate me from the people around me, but rather gives me a deeper appreciation and awareness of the forces that shape all of us. My grief may have its own particular form, but becoming an intimate partner with my grief allows me to recognize and connect with the particular expression of your grief. I follow my particular passions not at the expense of others, but in order to connect the deepest part of me with the deepest part of you.Jesus says, “I am the vine. You are the branches.” Interesting. I wonder just where the vine ends and the branch begins. I wonder if we all are closer to God than we think. I wonder if the Source of life is not to be found in faraway places, but right here in the deepest parts of our souls.
Eat the Grapes
With some I get a puzzled and worried look and others an immediate smile and nod of recognition. The question from the former is “Why are you doing this?” That answer will likely come a piece at a time during the pilgrimage and show up in my blog. I have been allowed a little peek into the catalyst behind this “Rome to Rumi” pilgrimage, however.
My pilgrimage destination is Konya, Turkey, the site of the poet, Rumi, and his Tomb. Rumi is a 13th century Sufi, the mystical arm of Islam. Last week I was reading one of his poems and a singular line caught my attention. He was quoting what appeared to be a common Middle Eastern proverb. In his poem Soul Houses he writes, “Eat the grapes. Do not keep talking about the garden. Eat the grapes.” I knew immediately that this proverb mirrored a shift in my spiritual intentions of recent years.Thirty years ago I began studies in the department of religion at the College of Idaho. I followed that a Master of Divinity degree at San Francisco Theological Seminary, part of the Graduate Theological Union, a network of seminaries that cooperate to provide a more ecumenical and broader theological education for their students. Most degrees have room for electives and at SFTS I found that whenever I could choose my own classes I nearly always chose more classes in theology.“Theology” most simply just means the study of God. In the course of my seminary education I studied the Reformed theology of my Presbyterian tradition, of course. I also buttressed that with Latin American liberation theology, Jewish theology following the Holocaust, “death of God” theology that emerged in the 60’s in America, feminist theology, and the thought and philosophy of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Malcolm X.If I could have I would have taken nearly all of my classes in theology. I couldn’t get enough of thinking about and talking about God. I wanted a theology that was consistent with the Biblical witness, honored the reality of history, and was contemporary in scope. This set me on a path of a lifetime of wrestling with the question of God. My sermons were often attempts to understand, define and narrow the character of God down to something we could relate to.
I am not sure exactly when it happened, but as I recall it was about the same time that I began doing hospice work as a bereavement coordinator. In the course of my work I sat with families who were watching loved ones die. I handled the grief of dozens of people who had lost a family to suicide. I met with the survivors of fatal crashes and murders. It was wonderful, sobering work.I had not heard until last week, the proverb, “Eat the grapes. Do not keep talking about the garden. Eat the grapes.” But, I have a feeling the spiritual wisdom of that proverb began working on me over a decade ago. Somewhere in there I simply grew tired of talking about God. At the risk of sounding arrogant I discovered that I wanted to spend my energy being God or channeling God’s presence. When sitting with a suicide survivor it just didn’t seem enough to assure the person of God’s presence. It was really important to me that the person felt God’s presence. I wanted to make sure that the person experienced God right there in that counseling room.
“Eat the grapes,” Rumi writes. I think he is saying that it isn’t enough to just understand life, define life or even to find the meaning of life. It is better to taste life, to feel joy, and even to savor the grief of loss. “Eat the grapes” and drink wine of life and love. Less talking. More living.
Training for Enjoyment
“Man’s chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy him forever.”
Please don’t stop reading now! I know the language is archaic and it has a distinctly religious ring to it. I promise, I am not going to bore you to tears with a sleep-inducing sermonette.This line is the answer to the first question of the Shorter Catechism of the Westminster Confession of Faith first written in 1646. It was adopted as an official confession of the Presbyterian Church (USA) of which I am an ordained member. (Hang in there!)In 1987 I entered a contest to memorize the catechism. There were three prizes: $1500, $1200, and $900. We were also assured that in the event of a tie for first prize each winning contestant would receive the full $1500. That was all I needed to hear. I went for it.I have fond memories of walking around the town of San Anselmo, California carrying my eight month old son in a snuggly on my back while I went through the 107 index cards that had the 107 questions and answers to the catechism. It paid off. I typed it back perfectly for the judges and was awarded the money I needed to finish that semester.Now, over 25 years later I only remember this very first question and answer to the catechism. Both the money and my memory of it are long gone. But, this one line has been working on me, even agitating me, for the last few years.Three years ago, I took a very personal pilgrimage cycling around the Western US, crossing eight states, five mountain ranges, the Nevada desert and over 4,000 miles (watch for the late fall release of my book Dying to Live: A Preacher’s Pilgrimage to Reclaim his Soul.). Throughout the ten week journey I felt like I was pushing through something and trying to break through some unknown, but palpable barrier. One day in Idaho especially reflected this. I rode by a number of hot springs determined that I was going to reach my destination 80 miles out. I reached my destination, but regretted missing the hot springs.
One of my hosts on the trip had asked me, referring back to the rabbit in Alice in Wonderland, “What are you running late for?” I never was able to answer that question, but I did know that the first answer to the Shorter Catechism kept buzzing around my mind like an annoying mosquito in my ears.Friends and family will tell you that I know how to work hard. They will also tell you that I am a neophyte when it comes to purely enjoying myself and life. Translated into the Shorter Catechism, “I know how to glorify God; I have not yet allowed myself to simply enjoy God.”Which brings me to last Sunday. I am training for my upcoming pilgrimage from Rome to Konya, Turkey, a distance of approximately 3,000 kilometers. I have not put the miles in this time to be fully prepared for the daily treks of fifty plus miles with fifty pounds of gear on my bike. From a physical standpoint I am really behind schedule.But, I am not worried. There is a curious thing taking place. On Sunday I felt like I was training my enjoyment muscles as much as I was firming up my calves, quads, hams and butt. I decided that enjoying the ride was probably better training for this ride into mysticism than the logging of the actual miles, the average speed, and the vertical feet I had climbed. This is not easy for me. I raced bicycles competitively in my twenties, formed and coached a college team, and placed second in my division in a mountain bike race just a year ago. As I said, I know how to work hard!Sunday, I felt like I was training for a different sort of pilgrimage experience. This time the goal is not to complete the pilgrimage on schedule (as if there were one). It is not to prove that I can climb mountains or cross deserts. It is not to find the Holy Grail somewhere along the way or at the conclusion of my journey. This time it is to enjoy the journey, follow the pace that my soul desires, and return in six weeks or eight weeks or whenever I damn well feel like it.
“Man’s chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy him forever,” instructs the Shorter Catechism of my faith. This time I won’t be skipping the hot springs. There will be Genoa salamis and Italian pastas to enjoy. There will be Greek beaches and ancient ruins that will call for me to linger and ponder. There will be the famously hospitable people of Turkey with whom to share tea, dinner and broken conversation. Maybe even there will be God, if I can slow down long enough to enjoy Her!
Making Heart Choices
“Our hearts become the instruments we learn to play so well,” writes the late Dan Fogelberg in his song, Nexus.I can remember sitting in a meeting where I was getting feedback on my Christian journey as part of the ordination process. This was all the way back in 1986. The crux of the meeting was that the council supported me, but one member had a bit of advice to offer. He said, “You are going to have to learn to commit to one thing, though, and quit jumping around.” I listened and filed the suggestion away as if planting a seed in my soul to see what might grow out of it.It is true that I have a history of juggling many different things and interests. In college I couldn’t decide between the path of religion or physical education and ended up majoring in both before settling on seminary to further my studies. I have also held a number of different kinds of jobs in my life: primarily ministry, but also YMCA coordinator, juvenile probation officer, hospice counselor, and foster care director.
To the conventional eye it appears that I can’t decide what I am going to be when I grow up. But, to me, I have felt a remarkable consistency in my choices. There is a deep, soulful impulse that drives my choices that is reflected in Fogelberg’s line, “Our hearts become the instruments we learn to play so well.” As I have reflected on my life every choice has been laced with this sense of honoring my heart first and foremost.If the goal of one’s life is to achieve financial security and a retirement free of worries, then yes, it appears that I have not yet committed to one goal and one future, seen by my ever-present movement. It’s not that I don’t yearn for those things too. I do! But, when I must make a choice between honoring what my heart most desires and what my soul yearns for, I will always choose those over the tempting promises of predictability and security (although life has taught me those can be empty promises themselves).I love Fogelberg’s line because in every choice I have made, I have had this feeling that I was learning to play the instrument of my heart, to satisfy its needs, and to find the right notes and rhythm that would make my heart sing. I may never become the expert of any one thing or profession, but I will become the master of my own heart. I will commit to a love affair with my own soul and together we will make beautiful music that heals, that loves, and that embraces the joy and grief of life.
To Doubt or Not to Doubt...
Contemplation
Hopland Freethinkers
Last night after the official launch of my website I had two very close trusted friends suggest that I consider not placing the “Just Another Agnostic Christian Mystic” blog as a first introduction to a public that doesn’t know me well. Their concerns, which are completely valid, are that I may lose some people before I even have them. The term “agnostic” can set off triggers in some people as agnostic and atheist often show up in the same sentence and have a history of visceral, un-thought out reactions.
I pondered their concerns overnight. Their concerns are personal to me since I just interviewed for a half-time position in a church that may be ready to take advantage of my experience in coming to terms with organizational grief and thinking about their future legacy. I was aware that news of my website would leak to the church leaders (especially since I included a handful of them in my initial launch invitation!) and they would read this post that included the misunderstood and scary word, “agnostic.”I woke up this morning and very quickly decided that the blog needed to stay put, but that I would soften the title with the less catchy, but more accurate phrase, “If I Have to Have a Label…” The truth is I don’t actually go around calling myself an agnostic Christian mystic. The point of the blog was to make clear that I resonate more with the values that come out of my Christian tradition (such as compassion, justice, peace, grace, etc.) than I do with any label identifying me. If I have to have a label and if the census requires a short, pithy identifier, then the closest thing I can come up with that would fit on their form is “agnostic Christian mystic":
Agnostic because my faith is informed as much by my doubt and my wrestling with ambiguity as it is with certainty.
Christian because how I live my life is rooted in the Jewish-Christian narrative.
Mystic because, in recent years, I have come to describe my spirituality as one of yearning for, seeking, and relishing the experience of the Sacred and the actual presence of God over rationalistic beliefs and creedal affirmations.
Christine, daughter of faithful church members, who is one of the millions who describes herself as "spiritual but not religious"
I staggered over to the computer in my usual morning stupor prepared to change my title to the softer, “If I Have to Have a Label…” so as not to shock some people too quickly and lose them before I have them. I first opened up my email in order to remind myself of the well-thought out concerns expressed by one of my friends last night. But, just above her email was a new email from another acquaintance who is only now seeing the underbelly of my life and faith. I opened up her email not sure what to expect. In it she wrote, “I love your description of yourself as an agnostic Christian mystic…that is fabulous!”I was immediately reminded of my original experience when I first went public with a tongue-in-cheek “agnostic Christian mystic biker guy” letter to the editor in the Eugene Register Guard. The response tells the story. In the larger community there was an 8 to 1 split in favor of those who were delighted with my creative description over those who were appalled and offended. However, in the church where I was serving at the time it was more evenly split which led to a more difficult discussion since they were paying my salary.
I have lived for most of my adult life feeling caught between these two cultures. There is a whole new dialogue going on in the culture in the area of religion and spirituality. I feel very much a part of that discussion both by virtue of my age and generation and my chosen profession and passion. Yet, when I am in the culture of the Church I feel that I need to shut that part of me off and retreat to the familiar themes, language, and beliefs that have identified the shrinking core of the religiously faithful for the past few decades. I have come to describe it as a sort of spiritual schizophrenia.
I appreciated my friends’ comments. They are rooted in their personal concern for me and their support for seeing me achieve my long term goals and objectives. I, of course, am concerned that I may end up seeing doors closed to pastoral positions before I even get up to the doorstep to knock. But, when the broader community is cheering me on with an 8 to 1 positive/negative ratio, it tells me that the issue is not that I should be softening my language with something more palatable. The issue is that the Church needs to start listening.
I am so thankful for my friends’ comments and concerns. I feel loved and appreciated and now even clearer about my voice, my truth, and my mission.
The title stays just as it is.
This Is How Bali Is
Bail, carving
“We must be in the artistic section of Bali,” I innocently blurted out to our tour guide. He turned around with a puzzled look on his face and corrected me, saying, “This is how Bali is!”
In 2004, my former wife and I took our two teenagers to the small Indonesian island of Bali. We were looking for two things—a place to relax and enjoy a vacation and a way to expose our children to a world completely different from the western values of Europe and America. On this day we were taking our first trip away from the usual tourist towns of Sanur and Kuta. As we entered the first village I was struck by the sheer volume and diversity of artwork lining the streets. I had images of stateside towns such as Santa Fe, New Mexico or Ashland, Oregon, known for their art and theater. I was unprepared to digest the driver’s comment that this is how all of Bali was.
In America, we have become accustomed to our own version of this. It does not surprise us, in fact, we almost expect, to find a McDonald’s, a Subway, and a Starbucks in every town of any substance at all. Disembarking from an airplane in any major city, we are assaulted with the same old cookie-cutter strip malls leased by Best Buy, Ikea, and Petco with a Panda Express squeezed in for the hungry shopper. “This is how America is,” we could tell the curious traveler. The only difference is that I doubt we share this information with pride. It is not the best of who we are, but we are resigned to the fact that big money and big box stores will win out every time over the less efficient, higher priced local retailer. “This is how America is,” we admit with just a touch of embarrassment.
I was stunned by our driver’s correction of my naïve comment. As I delved further I discovered the reality of our driver’s comment about Bali and the arts going together. Every afternoon the people of Bali stop their commerce and activities. Like a Mexican siesta they retreat to their homes on schedule and honor the work of their soul. Some practice dance and music. Others dye batik clothes, make jewelry or paint pictures. Some sculpt religious figurines or throw pots. What everyone does, however, is carve out a portion of their afternoon to express themselves in an artistic way. It is part of what it means to be Balinese.
My understanding is that the Balinese government has educational trade agreements with the governments of the West. The West teaches Bali about science and technology. Bali teaches Westerners about art and culture. I believe it. We spent two weeks there enjoying the a sampling of the hundreds of art galleries and small shops. We participated in religious festivals and parades. We attended Hindu dramas and tribal dances that seemed, literally, otherworldly. It was a disorienting experience—rich and wonderful and overwhelming all at the same time.
I came home slightly shaken by the experience. It seems that so many of us in the West secretly yearn to have more time to play guitar, write that novel, paint with oils, or compose that first song. We complain that there just isn’t enough time. Between work, family, household chores, and errands there are just enough hours left for a good night’s sleep, if even that. We convince ourselves, “Next year I am going to make time to learn to play the guitar or paint with oils.” Next year rolls around and our schedules are just as packed and our lives are just as frantic as the year before. This is just how America is we convince ourselves.
In Bali, every day they seem to have time to paint, dance, sing, and sculpt. Sure, they share family compounds with three and sometimes four generations. They don’t have the convenience of a dishwasher. Plumbing is very primitive. Very few own cars and they can’t afford to have someone else come and fix their roof or clean their bathrooms. But, they paint and dance and sing and sculpt.
We all make choices. America has stuff. Bali has soul.
Just Another Agnostic Christian Mystic
Bike on side of road
In 2007 I was given an unexpected gift. I finally was entering the social networking world and was setting up my Facebook page. Like many forms and applications it was just a matter of filling in the blanks. I was asked to identify myself in certain categories: birth date, gender, hometown and current city. These took no thought whatsoever. It became a little more challenging when it asked for political views. At the time I was personally registered with the Pacific Green party. However, I had voted almost exclusively on the Democratic ticket ever since my vote in 2000 for Ralph Nader resulted in the electoral-college victory of George W. Bush. It took a few hours before I settled on “politics that support compassion and justice.” This allowed me to name the values that informed my politics without feeling boxed in by any particular party affiliation.
Then came the next question. Religious views? Dang!
One would think after an undergraduate degree in religion and a Masters of Divinity degree that I would have this pretty well worked out for myself. But, I knew immediately that this was going to be the most difficult question on the whole profile page. If I followed the lead of the census survey I would have just written in “Christian” and left it at that. But, I literally get tremors when I think of calling myself a Christian in public. In recent years a militant religious right has hijacked the term in the media and I want no part of being associated with a religious label that has come to be perceived as intolerant, rigid, non-thinking, exclusive and homophobic. Quite honestly, I would rather be called an atheist than to be called a Christian if that is what Christian has come to mean.
I thought of distancing myself from this religious right perception by reporting that I was a liberal Christian or a progressive Christian. These terms felt more comfortable, but all it did was push me more to the left on the continuum of Christian beliefs. These terms didn’t resonate with my soul and they still felt too narrow as if I was trying to stuff myself into an undersized casket.
I don’t recall now whether I left that line blank or whether I settled on “progressive Christian” for a time, but what I do know is that I spent the next six months working out a short pithy label that would capture both the depth and the breadth of my constantly evolving religious views. It reminded me of the process I went through in seminary when we students had to write our statements of faith and were given a full nine months to shape them, receive feedback from our peers, and get approval from the ordination committee. That statement of faith was supposed to be the boiled down version of everything we had learned and experienced both up to and including our three years in seminary. This Facebook request for my religious views was akin to the request for a statement of faith. This was no easy task! The only difference is that I felt compelled to come up with a clear, concise label rather than a 1000-word explanation.
In the end, I landed on “agnostic Christian mystic” and have been delightfully surprised at how well this label has both identified me spiritually and given me a religious label to live up to and into. It leaves room for doubt and uncertainty as well as places me in the camp of those for whom the experience of the Sacred is more important than an unquestioned, static belief in God.
The truth is I am still uncomfortable with labels.
I don’t really think of myself or publicly call myself as an agnostic Christian mystic. I am more comfortable with associating myself with the values that emerge from my spiritual identity—values such as compassion, justice, peace, grace, presence, and a joyful heart. But, if the world needs labels and if Facebook needs to put me in a box, I would be willing to say that I am an agnostic Christian mystic. It may be a box, but this box feels less like a casket and more like a roomy RV with keys in the ignition and gas in the tank. I trust that this label is big enough for me, for now, until later…