Where the Miracles Are

Can I really trust God? I mean REALLY?

The thought runs through my head, but the words keep changing. “Well, that’s not realistic.”  “Nobody can forgive that.” “No point in trying that again.” “That’s how things always turn out.”

What if, instead, it’s the thoughts themselves that block blessing? What if our smart little busy brains are churning out all sorts of roadblocks to God’s deep will—which is kindness, love and joy?

I do not know what is the best outcome in anything. I never know what SHOULD happen. That’s it— That’s all my wisdom. But it’s a lot, because it means I am not second-guessing God. All my clever plans, all my hard-won life experience and cynicism and sorrow, all of it is just thought-trash. Junk. Messy little packages of worry and doubt from my busy brain.

Instead, I can smile, bless my thoughts and let them go. I can say, “That’s just a thought. I don’t know what was or what will be. I do not know what should be.”  

The great Christian scholar Rev. Richard Rohr says this:  

Whenever I think there’s a perfect pattern, further reading and study reveal an exception. Whenever I want to say “only” or “always,” someone or something proves me wrong. My scientist friends have come up with things like “principles of uncertainty” and dark holes. They’re willing to live inside imagined hypotheses and theories. But many religious folks insist on answers that are always true. We love closure, resolution and, clarity, while thinking that we are people of “faith”! How strange that the very word “faith” has come to mean its exact opposite.

People who have really met the Holy are always humble. It’s the people who don’t know who usually pretend that they do. People who’ve had any genuine spiritual experience always know they don’t know. They are utterly humbled before mystery. They are in awe before the abyss of it all, in wonder at eternity and depth, and a Love, which is incomprehensible to the mind. It is a litmus test for authentic God experience, and is — quite sadly — absent from much of our religious conversation today. My belief and comfort is in the depths of Mystery, which should be the very task of religion.  Click here for Rohr’s discussion.

I meditate because I want to relax into the profound reality that is NOT thought. Trusting God means transformation—Not a new version of my busy brain’s plans, not what everybody thinks would be best, given the situation.

God dances to music more exquisite than anything I can imagine. God offers joy so new that I gasp and weep. It’s an opening that rips through what I think is real. Light pours in and drenches us all.

The key is saying “I don’t know.” I have to surrender to God, let myself fall into God and trust the Divine Emptiness—because when I lift away all my little plans and thoughts, all existence opens to God’s possibilities.

And that’s the miracle.

 

 

When the Minister Is a Drunk

The minister betrayed his wife. The scripture misled us. The congregation turned against some members. Again and again we yearn for spiritual elders we can trust.

I am a child of God who hungers to come home. The human lapses—corrupt priests, cruel beliefs, poorly translated scriptures—might smash my belief like cartoon villains with big hammers.

How do I sort it out? I’m no expert. The strict voice from my childhood whispers, “Who do you think you are? Others have studied this more than you. How could you question the scriptures? This church or temple or faith has stood the test of time. Who are you to question? You cannot know anything on your own.”

It is this authoritarian voice that we must face down inside our own heads. Because we feel incompetent to experience God on our own, we grasp at any authority figure to make our choices. But the whole point of God’s universal nature—all is the Divine, God is in every heart, every speck of existence is God—is that God is in us and with us as part of our consciousness itself.

Spiritual authority is really big deal. People have been burned at the stake over this. For more than 1000 years, most faiths taught that none of us can know the divine directly. All of us, they say, need some kind of spiritual authority to teach us.

We complain that a spiritual leader is corrupt. The worried voice in our heads answers that the leader knows more than we do. We complain that power-hungry bishops changed the core meaning of scripture. The worried voice answers that they knew what was best for us, even if they made compromises. We complain that a belief cannot be from God because it is so cruel. The voice answers that we are too puny to question traditional belief and that sometimes God’s purification is necessary.

A well-known Christian leader, Rev. Richard Rohr, argues that we must always stand ready to use our own experience of God, our own experience of goodness itself, to question tradition. In his book on scripture [Yes, And…], Rohr says, “If you are meditating on a Bible text, Hebrew or Christian, and if you see God operating at a lesser level than the best person you know, then that text is not an authentic revelation. ‘God is love’ (1 John 4:16), and no person you meet could possibly be more loving than the Source of love itself. It is as simple as that.  You now have a foundational hermeneutic (interpretive key) for interpreting all of Scripture wisely.” (page 75)

For thousands of years, two other spiritual traditions—Buddhism and Gnosticism—have taught the same thing.

Here’s what Buddha said: “Believe nothing just because a so-called wise person said it. Believe nothing just because a belief is generally held. Believe nothing just because it is said in ancient books. Believe nothing just because it is said to be of divine origin. Believe nothing just because someone else believes it. Believe only what you yourself test and experience to be true.”

Another important tradition, Gnosticism, is a belief “that direct, personal and absolute knowledge of the authentic truths of existence is accessible to human beings, and, moreover, that the attainment of such knowledge must always constitute the supreme achievement of human life.” (Click here for source)  In fact there are some who say that Jesus was a Gnostic. (Click here for source.)

All this means that I give myself permission to be the knower. I do not need approval from a superior. I meditate and listen to whatever direct knowledge comes. I know that my intention is pure. I trust myself and I trust God speaking in my heart.

In many faiths, this idea is dangerous. Many faith organizations control people’s beliefs via spiritual authorities such as ministers, gurus, priests or scriptures. It happens all over the world—in Hinduism, Christianity, Judaism, and Islam, for example.

Certainly not all ministers or priests mislead us or are too small for the job. But when they do, how do we respond?

As children, most of us were taught that even a smart, good person needs teaching from someone who knows better.

It’s actually a trick question. When we yield to a spiritual authority—any authority—what’s really happening is we are giving away responsibility for our spiritual truth and learning to someone else. But we do it because it’s traditional and because it seems easy.

The fatal flaw is that no other person and no piece of writing can carry the weight of our individual spiritual knowing.

Here are six steps to trusting our own spiritual authority:

  1. We seek knowing in our own hearts. We take responsibility for who we are at the very deepest level. Being a true child of the universe means taking 100 percent of the responsibility for what we believe.
  2. We can still refer to a faith tradition, if it helps us. Every faith has meditation and prayer practices for self-knowing. That’s why this website exists—to help Christians learn the ancient practice of meditation.
  3. We can learn more about listening inward. We can meditate and pray more. God speaks in that silence.
  4. If we want to study scripture, we can study the earliest, most original versions available. For example, Christians can look at the Nag Hammadi versions of the gospel. We can study what changes were made in early versions.
  5. We can still talk to our spiritual leader, if we trust him or her. But to be fair, we must always remember that he or she is only another person like us, just another ordinary person, not someone to carry the responsibility instead of us. Even if the leader has studied 50 years, we are the final knowers of what feels true in our deepest hearts.
  6. Finally, we also need to be cautious of cynics who say, “If you’re intelligent, you don’t need religion” or “I don’t need to believe in anything. My thoughts are all just biochemical reactions anyway.” Their experience doesn’t matter because we are the only ones who know what our hearts tell us.

The only authority we can completely trust is the pure, quiet voice inside.

So then when the minister hires a prostitute, what does it really matter? If the scripture’s meaning changes, so what? We can learn. We can study a new meaning.

All of us are children of the universe. All of us are love happening.

I stand firm in my own knowledge of the divine. I hear the whispers in my heart, and I trust the universe to teach me perfectly. There is nothing better than that and there is nothing more than that.

This is where I rest in God. This is where I am whole.

 

[an earlier version of this post was published on http://www.Elephant Journal.com]

 

Burrowing into Darkness

Things seem a shambles. Outside, I question if democracy is worth it. Fire deaths, atrocities, shootings and massive hardship blare from every screen and hit me like gut punches. Inside, in my close life, the confusions, the missteps pile up and tear at me—Friends with harsh diagnoses, addicted family members, uncertainty, confusion. It feels like my heart, and the world’s, is just broken. A shambles.

Things are turning dark. Yet that’s as it should be. I know this about Fall. All the leaves let go. Hollyhock stalks bend and collapse. Pods open, seeds fall. Mist rises as the lake cools. The wind smells of a neighbor’s morning fire. With the leaves down, I can see the lake. The light is both brighter and darker.

Everything has given up. The broken stalks and bright skies have surrendered to change. Leaves jump in the wind and pile up in corners by stones and under bushes. When I meditate, mornings are black.

There is magic ahead. Rebirth doesn’t happen in April, just as conception doesn’t happen in the delivery room. Rebirth requires conception, and that miracle—and I use the word “miracle” on purpose—needs darkness.  In the womb, in the earth, in life, undreamed-of things burst out like those first tiny cells of an embryo—in darkness, in power, in hope.  

I trust the bare trees, the pumpkins, the chill and the darkness. The hummingbirds and robins left weeks ago. Nuthatches and chickadees peer in at me, wondering about suet. The longest night is coming. I think of bonfires, feasts, tombstones and candles. I think of shattered dreams, despair, tears and death.

I trust winter’s silence. It feels right. Seeds burrow into the earth mother. Conception needs utter darkness. I trust what is hidden, the things I cannot comprehend. There are Holy Secrets that come out of the Divine, and I can’t pretend to understand them. Grace is real.

My thoughts don’t work. I think I know what should or should not happen, but I am wrong. The bare trees and dancing leaves have surrendered to the coming darkness. I follow them and trust.

Every year, every century, dark magic happens again—A light in the darkness. Under the bitterness, seeds lie in the earth. One day their cells change. I’m too small and foolish to know exactly when or how, and that’s okay.

What I trust is the darkness itself—the presence, the awareness, the magic, the love. I am a bare tree branch, a fallow field. Emptiness and silence is what I need. I am a seed. I am potential. I burrow in and trust the holy life force. What’s needed is exactly the darkness. I have to be a seed, not knowing, not planning. I have to be the magic of what might come, the possibility of something I do not understand.

Hope happens. New life pops. The wind turns soft. There’s something new that only the universe could have dreamt up.  An exquisite crocus. Fresh grass. An easy breath. New life. Healing.

So I rest in the darkness and trust God. I am a seed and so are you. The light will come, but not in the ways we expect. All we need to know is that Love holds us close. The darkness is safe and right.

 

The Flash Up Ahead

Life hits hard. Death rips away what’s false, and all I can see is clear light. When someone dies, there’s a flash. I realize—again— that only love matters. I gasp as if lightning had sizzled and lit the night.

I remember being young, walking up the stairs of a red brick church with Mom and Dad. The parents of the dead teenager stand next to her coffin, hugging people, talking. Their eyes shine so that it hurts to look. It’s not the tears. It’s the flash, the clear love, that stuns me.

Her death was foolish. Who would sit on a light boat as it was being towed on a trailer? It was nothing, just a second. One bump.

The brilliance in the eyes of this mother and father blinds me. I look away because I’m young. I can’t look because it finds every crack in me. 

When I was young I hadn’t learned that love itself is bigger than happy or tragic, good or bad. It’s bigger than any label or word. It’s everything, like the sky beyond the clouds. It’s awareness itself, love calling to love, God outside of time.

Daily life and thoughts hide the sky, even though we yearn to see it. We want hope, but we don’t know how to find it.

Death’s work is so strange. It tears us open. It rips the clouds away so that the sky beyond, the awareness that is love, is just obvious. Undeniable. The flash, the vision of love, shocks us so completely that, even in our childishness and our denial, we fall to our knees.

When I was young, I didn’t know that being on my knees—knowing that I love and am loved—is the whole reason for life. It doesn’t matter if I’m on my knees to button someone’s coat or kneeling at a funeral.

I wish I could say that meditating taught me this, but it didn’t. Pain, loss and despair taught me, and they were harsh about it.

What meditation taught me was that what I thought was flashing off and on—the love, the light, forever, peace, kindness—shines as a beacon, steady, never flashing, never dimming. In silence as I meditated, I learned to sense the deeper reality that is God. I learned how to see the sky that the clouds hide.

Now, as an old woman, I’m always searching for those flashes, the moments when God is undeniable, when only love exists. Each one is priceless. I gather each one close and roll it in my fingers because I know this is the only thing that matters.

Here’s one when my baby sleeps on my chest and smiles in her sleep. Here’s another when my love holds me close and doesn’t let go. Here’s a tiny white coffin. Here’s a girl skating alone on a lagoon, a toddler singing in the bathtub, my grandmother combing her soft white hair, and a teenager practicing Shakespeare. “As you from crimes would pardon’d be, Let your indulgence set me free.”

What I know now is that in love, there is no time at all. There is no before and after. At this funeral, the brilliance in the parents’ eyes is the exact same instant as when they danced in the living room with that baby girl, when they combed out her snarls and braided her hair, when they daubed baking soda on her chicken pox, when they taught her to parallel park.

Victor Hugo said, “To love another person is to see the face of God.” Yes, it’s a cliché. But above the sentiment is the open sky itself. No storm can touch it.

And so I gather my flashes and smile. This is my life. I look into your eyes, and it’s your life too. You reach for me.

It’s the movement between us that is sacred. It’s our dance, the flash of light on faces, the light of one kind glance, the shape of hands touching that is the divine spark.

I stay on my knees now, knowing there are flashes all around me. This is my holy place. This is how I worship. I gaze into the flashes and never look away.

 

My First Language Is Christian

Our secretary stormed into the office and slammed her textbook on the desk.

“This is so stupid! It doesn’t make sense!” She was just back from French class. At fifty years old, she was learning her first foreign language.

“It’s just a window! A stupid, stupid window!” Her voice shook. 

She said it again, louder.  “Window!”  She pointed at the glass. “Why would anyone say something different? Fenêtre!  What the hell is that about? Why can’t they see that it’s a window?  It’s so easy—Anyone can see that! Why use some stupid other word?”

I look at the window. In my head I remember a dark room’s lovely arched window looking out onto a courtyard throbbing with sun and magenta flowering vines. Khidki in the Hindi language. I think of a small opening in a dark thatched cottage. Fuinneog in the Gaelic language.  A huge plate glass window in a grey cement building. Okno in the Russian language.  

The light itself always shines—in every hut and prison cell. Without end or beginning, outside of time itself, the light is the very fabric of all existence

I know the light and so do you. It runs deeper than breath. Every time it touches me, I recognize it. I remember it. This is the instant of utter awe and joy. It might be the sound of the wind at night or one wildflower growing by a freeway or the smell of your child’s skin.

The opening into the light has thousands of names. Window. Fenêtre. Khidki. Okno. But the eternal light itself—the Divine, the awareness, God—is One. Oneness. The Mystery. The Source. Everything. All.

I say “God” because I speak Christian. As a tiny child sensing beauty and joy, the words of my family and culture were “pray” and “God” and “Christ.” Even though I know other words for the light, such as the Tibetan Dzogchen word Rigpa or the Hindu word Brahman, those words don’t give me goose bumps. 

What my heart knows is something deeper than any one language. My heart sings of the light itself.  The “zing” of existence. Utter joy. Sunrise. Hope.

But when I have to force that vast knowledge into a single word, I choose the words of my childhood because for me they brush my skin like the chords of an old hymn. Those words smell of the lilac bushes where I played with my dolls and my grandmother’s homemade rosewater and glycerin hand lotion. I hear the melody of a hymn on Sunday. Morning has broken like the first morning. 

My sisters sleep around me in our bedroom. At the foot of my bed is a big dormer window facing east. As the sun rises, birds start murmuring and light streams onto my bed.

Other children are waking up at this moment, in other places, in other families. A child waking in a yurt in the Altai mountains of Mongolia says Allah, and a child ringing a bell in a Hindu temple says Vishnu.

I speak Christian. I look at the light and call it God.

–by Jean Gendreau