Connecting with God

First, let me apologize for the current infrequency of my blog postings. I am writing a book on an unrelated topic--if any topic can really be said to be unrelated to God--and lack both time and available brain cells. So, readers who have not given up on me, thank you kindly. And now back to the subject at hand.

I honestly believe that we are all connected with God, all the time. For some reason, though, we don't always feel that connection. Much like a long marriage, the God connection needs an occasional refresher, a reminder of what it's really all about. Unlike a long marriage, of course, there is no danger of the bond deteriorating; God's presence in our life is permanent and unchanging. For our own well-being, though, we need to renew our awareness of it once in a while.

Let us say for argument's sake that God and humans dwell on two separate plains. Our everyday lives take place in the physical sphere, God exists in the realm of the sublime, and the two realities intersect in our consciousness. As miraculous as consciousness is, however, our everyday experience of it can be pretty mundane. We think about money, and job stress, and gossip and arguments and pop culture--and why not? This is the stuff of life. But sometimes we need to rise above the everyday, to that place where consciousness meets the unknowable essence of God. In short, we need transcendence.

In rural Vermont, where my father lives, the roads predate the advent of heavy machinery, and rise and fall naturally with the terrain. If you are driving at a certain speed--not that I recommend it--you are likely to experience that moment at the top of a hill when the car leaves the road and you are momentarily airborne. This is transcendence--or, at least the physical equivalent. It's that slight loss of control that allows you to take flight. Transcendence is a state akin to inspiration, with one key difference: rather than waiting passively for inspiration, you actively seek transcendence.

The path to transcendence is different for every individual, but the activities that I have found most conducive to transcendence fall into three categories: participation in nature, participation in culture, and service to others. Each deserves its own blog entry--and more, but blog entry is what we have--for further discussion. So stay tuned...

Two Boats and a Helicopter

Those of you who sat through Protestant Sunday school for the first few years of existence can skip this paragraph. But if you have not heard the story of the man and the flood, here it is: A man is sitting on his porch as flood waters rise. A woman floats by in a boat, asking if the man needs help. "No, thank you," says the man, "I'm trusting in the Lord." The waters rise higher, sending the man upstairs. A raft full of people floats by his second story window. "Get in," they say, "there's plenty of room." "No thanks," says the man, "I'm trusting in the Lord." The flood waters keep rising, pushing the man up to the roof. A helicopter swoops in, lowering its ladder for the man. "Thanks anyway," shouts the man, "I'm trusting in the Lord." Finally, the man is swept away in the torrent and drowns. At the gates of Heaven, the man asks God, "Why didn't you save me?" "What do you mean?'' replies God, "I sent two boats and a helicopter."

I am reminded of this story because in the nearby town of Oregon City, a tragically familiar drama is playing itself out, with the indictment of a faith healing couple for medical neglect in the death of their fifteen month old daughter. Until 1999, the use of prayer in lieu of medical care could be used as a defense in Oregon courts. This case will be the first real test since the shield law was rescinded. And although I do agree that these cases must be prosecuted, I am torn between empathy for a couple grieving the loss of their child, and utter mystification at their parental choices. What wrong-headed logic could produce this catastrophe?

The idea the "The Lord will provide" (paraphrased from Philippians 4:19, or Genesis 22:14, depending on who you ask) is a thorny one for the faithful. The usual rebuttal, that "God helps those that help themselves," may be apt, but of course it's not biblical (most of us know it from Benjamin Franklin, though versions of the quote date back to Sophocles). There have been those who have taken the concept of the Lord providing to its logical extreme, with predictable results. But mainstream readers of the Bible use the lens of experience to find meaning in these words. Clearly, food must be grown and clothing must be sewn and shelter must be built. These things don't magically appear. Even faith healing families don't stand outside waiting for showers of manna.

So why is medical care different? It seems to me that there are two interrelated aspects that keep faith healing alive. The first is that its efficacy is difficult to disprove (if you don't look at statistics, that is); sometimes sufferers really do get better with no medical intervention, just as those of us who go to doctors are often told to go home and sleep it off. But an even more compelling reason may be that for all it has given us, modern medicine cannot yet cure everything (just ask Chris Rock). The truth is that you can see all the doctors with all the hi-tech equipment in the world and still not be cured. Most of us greet this reality with a shrug of the shoulders--or a visit to the acupuncturist. Still, it's easy to see why one might turn to God when medicine fails you. Perhaps prayer won't work either, but at least you'll get the brownie points for showing God some respect.

The control over one's own body is one of our most important freedoms. Far be it from me to be critical of the decision to forgo medical care; it could very well be that the comfort a believer in faith healing gets from prayer has actual restorative power. But when they inflict this choice on their families, my sympathy evaporates. How can God be testing the faith of an infant? Or do the adults fear judgment by proxy? Let the flood waters wash you away if you wish; but get your children into that boat.

The Meaning of Life (No, Really)

A blog is a pretty short format for delving into complex issues, so I'm just going to cut to the chase. I submit that the meaning of life is:

Happiness.

Or, to state it another way, happiness is meaning. After all, what is happiness for, if not to let us know that we're on the right track? This may seem obvious--most of us devote our lives to the pursuit of happiness, true enough. Yet we focus our efforts on red herrings like wealth, fame, and physical beauty. If all that were enough, last year might have seen Sylvia Plath reading a poem at Kurt Cobain's 40th birthday party. Alas...

So, if these things cannot produce happiness, what can? To answer this question, I have taken an extremely unscientific appraisal of all the happy people I've ever known, and found only one common denominator: to achieve true happiness, you must be a positive force. That is, the world must be better with you than without you.

But wait--there are all sorts of terrible people walking around with big grins on their faces. Why do they get to be happy? Well, the short answer is: they don't. Imagine for a moment that happiness has two components, joy and contentment. Anyone can experience joy, even the wicked. Without contentment, however, there is no true happiness, and there is no contentment in a negative life; the conscience sees to that. What's more, even joy is eroded in a life without contentment. I suppose this is what compels the robber barons of our time to throw $2,000,000 parties and build 100,000 square foot houses. They must continually--and uselessly--up the ante.

If there is a spectrum to what sort of effect each of us has on the world around us--with genocidal maniacs on one end and Nobel Peace Prize winners on the other--most of us bunch up around the middle. On the one hand, your car may pollute the air, but on the other hand you make your dog happy. Things balance out. So push toward the positive, just a little, and reap the rewards. There is nothing random about happiness; nor is there a secret to it. If you have done things you wish you hadn't, mitigate them by doing things you wish you had. Pay it forward, pay it back, and bask in the glow.

Cult or religion?

Growing up in the Bay Area in the 1970's, I was exposed to some things that might have seemed exotic--at the time--to the rest of the country. Still, nothing prepared me for the shock I received one night while visiting the family home of a man my mother was dating. Making our way through the darkened house, my mother's friend flicked on a light, inadvertently waking a young man who had been asleep in the room. Apparently terrified, he sat bolt upright in bed, letting out a blood-curdling scream. My mother whisked me quickly away. That was Ford, she explained, who had just come home from "the Moonies." It would be several years before I saw Ford Greene again, on TV--he had become a crusading anti-cult attorney in the interim. But from the age of seven, this one experience shaped my idea of what it meant to belong to--and to escape--a cult.

Fast forward to the 2008 Republican primaries, and the candidacy of Mitt Romney. It has not escaped me that other Christians are uncomfortable with Mormonism. Yet, I was somewhat surprised to hear a woman on the radio say that she wouldn't vote for a Mormon, because Mormonism is a cult. It was probably pretty naive on my part, but I had looked on Mormonism as being both too old and too mainstream for this designation. Of course, some Christians say the same thing about Islam--much older than Mormonism--and Buddhism, which is older than Christianity itself. In short, cult seems to denote a group that follows any charismatic leader other than your own. And a faith can never outgrow this label, no matter how hard it tries.

Perhaps it is easy for a nonbeliever to dismiss this distinction. After all, if there is no truth to any faith, then they're all on a more or less level playing field. Still, I do believe that there is a difference between current, active cults and religions that may have had cult-like beginnings. Mormonism has had to modernize, officially abandoning such polarizing practices as polygamy; and while they may once have sought to create a separate society, Mormons can now be found in the darndest places--in addition to the usual actors, athletes, politicians and science fiction authors, they include among their numbers hotel magnates, rock stars, civil rights icons, and even Broadway playwrights (well, at least until they get excommunicated...). In short, Mormonism is no longer a cult in my book, because they have assimilated.

The key question, then, in evaluating what is a cult, as opposed to a genuine religion-in-it's-infancy is whether there is a future to be seen. This lets out doomsday cults, like Heaven's Gate, of course, as well as those whose methods prevent them from coexisting with society, like Aum Shinrikyo. But what of Scientology, for instance? It's still pretty new, having been founded within living memory; but as I write, second generation Scientologists like Lisa Marie Presley and Beck are raising their third generation children (and with Lisa Marie's daughter now of age, can a fourth generation be far behind?). Granted, there may be some unsavory or antisocial practices taking place at this point. By keeping the spotlight on these issues, however, organizations who would seek to put an end to Scientology might be inadvertently helping followers to iron out the rough spots, hastening their evolution into just another religion next door.

The Soul of a Minimalist

At a museum once, standing in front of a recreation of a spare modern living room from the 1960's, I overheard a woman comment dryly, "Well, you'd always know where your car keys were." At the time, I probably rolled my eyes; as an art student, this was my general response to my-kid-could-do-that reactions from the hoi polloi. As I thought about it, though, I realized that this dismissive observation had actually touched on one of the tenets of minimalist design: that a pared-down space makes you more aware of the world around you. Yes, you always know where your keys are--and how beautiful that single flower is, how delicious that perfect peach, how sublime that one note on the cello. Without all the clutter, what else is there to do but appreciate things?

Living in a minimalist environment is not really an option for me: I have two young children and am married to an eccentric bibliophile, and I actually like a little disorder. Still, while I may not apply the philosophy to my physical surroundings, it does inform my spiritual life. The ability to connect with God fully and immediately requires a peaceful internal space to which you can retreat when all else is chaos. A mind full of confusion can make it difficult to receive the wisdom--or comfort, or inspiration--that you seek.

It would be perfectly logical to imagine that spiritual minimalism requires a blank slate. After all, the first step to physical minimalism is getting rid of everything you own, right? In theory, perhaps. But nobody actually strips their possessions down to a Noguchi lamp and an Egg chair. The true key to minimalism is storage. You don't throw away all your unopened mail and cleaning supplies and sporting goods, you just find somewhere to stow them away. And so it is with spiritual clutter. It's not possible--or even desirable--to rid ourselves of the experiences we've picked up along the journey. These are the components of a healthy soul. But sometimes you need to put it all into storage, so that you can find a quiet place to be alone with God.

Bad Reputation

Let us consider the Reverend Fred Phelps, who for the last couple of decades has been treating us to signs reading, for instance, "God Hates Fags." It was he who, by picketing Matthew Shepard's funeral, inspired the Angel Action, which was later memorialized in the play and film "The Laramie Project." Mostly, Phelps serves to embarrass other Christians; even those who share his distaste for homosexuality cringe at his vulgarity. My disagreement with Phelps, though, starts even before we get to that one offensive word. Take away those four letters, and you have the root of much of humanity's self-inflicted misery: "God Hates."

Really? God hates?

How would you describe the best person you've ever known? Patient? Fair-minded? Understanding, forgiving, serene? Nobody's perfect, of course, but I have been fortunate enough to know several people whom I would credit with most or all of these qualities. So why do we believe in a God who is petty, violent, jealous, vindictive and insecure? Let's face it, the God of religion can be kind of a jerk. If He were a boyfriend, you'd dump Him. If He were a neighbor, you'd move away. If He were either of your parents, you'd be in therapy forever. A truly dysfunctional relationship.

So how did this happen? How did God get such a bad reputation? As much as I would love to blame this on some clerical conspiracy to control people, I actually believe that the angry God predates faith. Back at the dawn of humanity--when literally nothing was known of the world-- people died for no apparent reason, weather was unpredictable and often fatal, unseen danger lurked everywhere. What better explanation could there be than that there was an all-powerful entity at work, cruelly causing these things to happen? And why not try to placate Him? Try one thing, and the crops fail, so that doesn't please Him. Try the next thing, and you get a bumper crop, so you add that ritual to your repertoire. Pretty soon, you've got yourself a bona fide religion.

By now, we have a much better understanding of the world around us; yet we still believe in a capricious God. This is a shame, because it stands in the way of a healthy spiritual life. How can you have a close, trusting relationship with someone who could turn on you at any moment? I know that for some people, the alternative--that bad things happen randomly, or have circumstances beyond our control--is frighteningly close to nihilism. But here's the upside: if bad things are going to happen (and they are), wouldn't you rather that they weren't God's doing? That way, you can turn to Him for comfort, without reservation.

Tolerance and Tolerability

This seems to have been a breakout week for Anonymous, the deliberately shadowy group targeting Scientology. And while I certainly agree that misdeeds should be unmasked and justice served, I have a slightly queasy feeling at the tone of their campaign. Not that I feel the need to defend the Scientologists--they do that just fine on their own. What concerns me is the state of tolerance in our society. How we deal with Scientology may be a test case for our era, and we cannot fail.

When I talk about tolerance, I'm talking about what people believe, not how they behave. Nobody can be blamed for thinking what they think; but every person is responsible for their own actions. Fortunately, most believers agree, and live in a manner harmonious with society--A.J. Jacobs aside, you don't see many folks out stoning adulterers. Religious leaders, in turn, recognize that their communities can thrive only by deemphasizing the more extreme aspects of their doctrines. And so we get along, hardly minding the abominations and the blasphemy around us.

If even some of the allegations against the Church of Scientology have merit, they should get all the attention they deserve. My intolerance meter is triggered, though, when the criticism spills over into mocking their beliefs. It is not hard to imagine that some may find the science fiction dogma of the CoS snicker-worthy. The virgin birth, burning bush, and human salt pillar of my childhood faith have also raised a few satirical eyebrows along the way (just ask the Gershwin brothers). I am all for sunshine, and if Scientology really is up to no good, then game on. But while we are sharpening our swords, let's be sure that we are going after them for what they do, and not simply who they are.

God Bless the Atheists

For a person who spends so much time thinking about God, I am actually very sympathetic with atheism. The father of my children is an atheist, as was the boyfriend who preceded him, my best friend from childhood, and perhaps the majority of people I've ever known (I'm from San Francisco, so...). In fact, I probably have more in common with your average atheist than I do with the average believer. I admire their rationality, their humanist values, their belief in science, observation, and experience. The only difference between an atheist and myself is that I believe that I have experience of God, and an atheist believes that he or she doesn't.

There is no arguing this point, of course. I cannot convince an atheist of God's existence any more than they could convince me of the reverse. Nor would I want to; after a lifetime of observing the faith habits of others, I have come to the conclusion that personal revelation is the only way to come to any sort of truth. In other words, it is more important that someone be intellectually and spiritually honest with themselves than it is for them to agree with me. Atheism is a valid stance. I diverge with my husband on this question, but I do not worry about his mortal soul. He's entitled to his opinion.

Still, there are a couple of philosophical matters which I have not yet reconciled with the atheist point of view--if all atheists can be thought of as having a single point of view. To wit:

Origins

Frank Lloyd Wright said "I believe in God, only I spell it nature." This is a popular quote with atheists, but I am too jealous to let them have it to themselves. Nature is unquestionably where I perceive the manifestation of God. Like an atheist, I see randomness in nature; but in order for there to be that randomness, there must first be existence. What is the origin of that existence? I am fine with the not knowing here. Scientific discovery is a long process, and I'm not holding my breath. But if we never come up with a better answer than that it's turtles all the way down, I will continue to believe that the beginning was God. And what was before God? This question, truly, unites the unknown with the unknowable. Deep.

Consciousness

You do not have to believe in God to acknowledge the phenomenon of consciousness. For me, though, the two are linked because my experience of God does not occur in the physical realm. I have never seen, heard, or touched God. Yet his presence is as certain to me as any other aspect of my life. This is not unique to me. Music, love, humor, art--all intangible, none concrete; still, people build entire lives around them, yearn for them, die for the loss of them. These things do not feed our bodies or protect our young; why do they exist? This question is the subject of much study, and should continue to be. Understanding who we are is central to human culture. But there may be a limit to what we can understand about consciousness, since consciousness is the very tool with which we understand things. And so I will turn to the unlikeliest of places for my wisdom here, to a poem by Shel Silverstein called "The Loser," which I have loved from childhood. The hero of the poem has literally lost his head, and muses:

"And I can't look for it
'Cause my eyes are in it
And I can't call to it
'Cause my mouth is on it
(Couldn't hear me anyway
'Cause my ears are on it)
Can't even think about it
'Cause my brain is in it."

If God ever had reason to run a series of PSA's, this might be a good tag line. Consciousness: you can't even think about it, 'cause your brain is in it.

More for the godless, and those who love them: How Julia Sweeney became an atheist, on This American Life. Her story is the second half, so you can skip ahead; but the first half is about separation of church and state, which is always interesting.

DIY

The summer following the passing of John Paul II, a World Youth Day took place in Cologne, Germany, at which he had been scheduled to appear. Instead, it morphed into a "Meet the New Pontiff" event for Benedict the 16th. This gave the new pope the opportunity to set the tone for his era--and set it he did, railing against what is clearly the scourge of our time: do it yourself religion. Of course, DIY can have a positive connotation, evoking that can-do spirit that keeps the world turning. But the pope didn't mean it that way. He meant it in a Homer Simpson in his basement, splicing wires together with a hot glue gun sort of a way. Don't try this at home, the pope seemed to be saying. Better leave it to the professionals.

Now, I wouldn't dream of going near the electrical panel, for fear of blacking out the neighborhood; and the closest I get to plumbing is when I switch the shower head from spray to pulse. But I am perfectly capable of handling my own spiritual life, thank you very much. Still, the fact that hierarchical faith organizations have flourished for all these millennia does point to a desire for spiritual guidance. This has led me to wonder: where is the dividing line between seeking assistance and ceding your own authority? As with most matters philosophical, I think there's a range of answers that can coexist. But some factors seem to ring true for all along the spectrum:

1. Beware the guru--Does this sound too obvious? Perhaps, if the word guru brings to mind Jim Jones or the Bhagwan. But there are subtler personalities out there who can nevertheless infringe on our spiritual freedom. Anyone who wants your money is suspect, of course, or who would alienate you from your friends and family. I would add to this list anyone who is too much at the center of their social group, a 'giant personality' with outsized influence. Worst of all, though, is the intellectual bully. Having your beliefs or ideas belittled is spiritual poison. Even if you think the belittler might have a point, consider their motivation (as you head for the door).

2. Eschew the group--This is a tricky one, because if we're interested in something, we want to get together with other people and talk about it. That's great, one on one, or with a small circle of friends. Beyond that, it can be difficult to hold your own. Even if a group does not have an official leader, group dynamics necessitate compromise; what you don't want is to have to compromise your soul. So does that mean you must be completely alone with your beliefs? Not at all. If you want to share, find one or two other like-minded individuals, and start a dialogue. Then, if you still hunger for a larger community, join a group that has spiritual value for you--a yoga class, a book club, a wilderness trek--without compromising your freedom of belief.

3. Embrace diversity--A healthy soul depends on a balanced diet of information and opinion. Christianity may be in my past, but this doesn't mean I've discarded every bit of ethical or philosophical wisdom I gathered from the church; it's just become part of my store of experience, one that I hope will continue to grow. The greater variety of input you can get, secular and religious, left and right, sublime and ridiculous, the more confident you will be in your own beliefs as they evolve. Or, as I once heard a P.E. teacher tell her students: you'll always be healthy if you eat the rainbow.

Good heavens, Miss Sakamoto, you're beautiful!

Super-duper Tuesday is fast approaching, and I am still hoping against hope that Mike Huckabee gets the nomination, so that we can hash out this God v. Science thing once and for all. After famously raising his hand to silently indicate his disbelief in evolution, Huckabee has been a bit prickly on the subject. I actually feel some sympathy for him; reconciling faith with science is a thankless--some might say impossible--task. But I can't help bridling a bit at the conclusion of Huckabee's stock response, which amounts to "I don't believe in science, I believe in God!"

The fact that this argument works--on Huckabee voters, at least--seems to stem in part from a confusion regarding what, exactly, science is. To hear it discussed in evangelical circles, one might be forgiven for drawing the conclusion that science is a sinister cabal. In some ways, this is understandable: long gone are the days of gentleman lepidopterists in their smoking jackets, pinning specimens to velvet-covered cork boards. Amateurs have gone the way of the dodo. The technological requirements of science today necessitate an association with a faceless corporation, a liberal university, or the government. It's an intellectually exclusive world, cloaked in mystery and obscured with jargon. If you were to ask the average person to define science, it is unlikely that they would come up with an answer like "looking at something, and then thinking critically about what you've seen." It just can't be that simple.

But what if it were? What if the teaching of science got all the funding and respect it deserves, and all children were raised to be keen observers of the world around them? One thing that fundamentalists and atheists can secretly share is the belief that proper science education would result in a proportional increase in atheism. Perhaps, but only if you believe that God and religion are interchangeable. Science is never at variance with God; it's science and religion that clash. When you have a natural, independent relationship with God, there is nothing threatening about learning how old the earth is, or at what point humans became human. Discovering the wonders of God's universe should be a sublime experience. Each new bit of information gives us deeper understanding. Why not embrace science for the insight it brings to our spirituality? This is the beautiful, unfathomable, breathtaking existence which God has caused to be. So be it.

From the archives: Step back in time to the magical heyday of Intelligent Design, A.D. 2005. From May, the New Yorker reports on the infamous Dover, Pennsylvania school board; and from July, David Kestenbaum's excellent piece for Morning Edition on why scientists don't like to debate ID proponents (and it's not for fear of being struck by lightning).

Letting go of Hell

A couple of years ago, my husband and I sat with some of his university colleagues in the garden of the hillside house we were renting overlooking Mt. Tabor. Wine may have been consumed. Ignoring the rules of polite conversation, I abruptly turned the subject to spiritual matters. "I believe in God," I announced to nobody in particular, "but not religion."

"That's funny," quipped the man across the table, "I'm exactly the opposite." This elicited a fair amount of laughter from the group--not because of its absurdity, but because of its truth. Somehow, this exchange had captured one of the essential differences between being raised Christian (that would be me) and raised Jewish (the man across the table). I am an ex-Christian, and have never looked back since walking through those heavy wooden church doors for the last time. It's not a part of my ethnicity, nor my DNA--1500 years ago, my ancestors were worshiping yew trees. There is no betrayal in my choice, no scorn, no deep sense of loss. But as he spoke, I instantly became aware of the vast gulf between our spiritual experiences. It's just different. Or so I thought.

What has me remembering this now was that Shalom Auslander's book Beware of God has finally made it to the top of my pile. I have read his New Yorker pieces with great interest, but it wasn't until hearing him on Fresh Air a couple of months ago that I had an epiphany, regarding ex-Christianity vs. ex-Judaism. As it turns out, there is something we have in common, and it's a biggie: nagging doubt. In Auslander's case, it's his inability to purge the God of his childhood; for me, it's the lingering threat of Hell.

Hell is easy to dismiss intellectually--not because it's nonsensical; to the contrary, it makes perfect sense...perfect human sense. It's just the kind of thing we'd dream up, the most brilliant instrument of control ever devised. Descriptions of Hell have human fingerprints all over them. Jonathan Edwards' Hell is fiery; Hieronymous Bosch's is a bad trip; Dante's is downright personal. Every version has a touch of the fabulist about it. There is no reason to regard Hell as anything more than the original Hammer Horror. And yet...

The bad news is that I have not discovered a quick fix for Hell. It takes time, however much time you need to build a strong, close relationship with God (about which more later). It takes as long as you need to feel sure that the God you know is not a God that could allow imperfect people to be punished for eternity, some without even being told the rules. You have to know God well enough to spot the difference between His constancy and the punitive, petty, brutal whims of the God of religion.

So, that's the long-term plan. But in the mean time? If you can't eradicate Hell right off the bat, let it work for you. On your way to putting your trust in God completely, there can be an intermediate phase. Have enough faith in God to believe this: if there is a Hell, God doesn't allow good, well-meaning people to go there. So be a good, well-meaning person. Be the kind of person who wouldn't go to Hell, if there were one. This may sound facile, but it really does work. If you've already got a job or a pastime that makes the world better, then focus on that when doubt creeps in. If not, find something to do that makes the world just a little bit better. Volunteer. Be kind to someone. Bring a treat for your coworkers. Let someone merge. Let Hell fade into the distance.

Required listening: Bishop Carlton Pearson on This American Life. Hearing his story is the first step toward curing yourself of Hell. And it's a pretty great hour of radio, to boot.