Some Kind of Wonder-full…

Signposts (Chapter 9)

Where did I go from here? After this death, this giving up of a “label”, of a set of beliefs and way of life I had clung to for so long. From the link between religion and morality, a fear sprang up – and this was compounded by the fears of my family who were aware of my journeys every step up to this point – that I would “go off the rails.” But this did not come true – men and women do not need religion to dictate to them what is right and what is wrong. The Holy Spirit (or our conscience) prompts and guides us at every step.

Moreover, rather than feeling the loss of something (my religion), I felt freed from the chains of fear that had bound me. Somehow, the theology of being weak, but for Christ’s strength, had led to a severe lack of confidence in my own abilities to face the world. Whilst I believe there is a tension here – whilst I believe that the Holy Spirit is at work in all things for the good – I believe that the seeds of the Kingdom of God (or of Dharma) are planted within our hearts, giving us all the resources we need to live life in all its fullness if we but tap into them. The way we “tap into them” is what I am exploring and discovering now.

It is not found in following a set of rules, or relying of the divinity of someone greater than you. It lies it practicing spiritual disciplines that allow these good “seeds” to come to the surface of our personality. What spiritual disciplines? Meditation, stillness and silence. Also, the “electricity” that allows us to tap into, and connect with these “seeds” is that of the Divine Holy Spirit. Some people call this ki, some chi, some prana: I believe they’re all one and the same. The Holy Spirit is the breath of God and, as we learn to be inspired by it, we connect with an energy that is bigger than the individual. We become part of an everlasting creative flow, uniting in oneness with the Divine. The duality between Divine and Human then ceases to exist, so that, in a sense we become Divine, but equally, we become more Human. “The glory of God is man fully alive.” This, I believe is the mystery of Jesus: he learnt how to become one in union with the Divine flow, and so, was both Man and God. That same discovery is open to all of us, though we may not achieve it within a lifetime. It is the journey that counts, however.

How do these ideas play themselves out in my spiritual existence? As once I “explored” within the church, I am – as a natural progression – exploring outside of its boundaries. Putting my hand into the hand of God, stepping out into the darkness of the unknown, the infinite abyss, with a sense of wonder and openess. I have found silence in Quakerism and joined other meditators at the World Community for Christian Mediation. I am exploring the breath, and the experience of mind-body unity (the psycho-physical), through Shorinji Kempo, Ashtanga Yoga and the Alexander Technique.

All are offering their insights. Wisdom is everywhere and I can learn from many, listening to the journeys and experiences of friends and writers (such as Sue Monk Kidd, author of “The Dance of the Dissident Daughter,” who introduced me, or helped me to rediscover the Divine Feminine) alike. The work of the Holy Spirit is not confined to the Bible. God speaks through all things: prophetic pictures and dreams, the lines of poetry and song and Creation itself. There is so much that I do not “know” but I am eager to walk this path and discover the truths behind the mystery of existence. Truths that I perceive may be found in uniting science and religion, the physical and the spiritual. Truths that will be found in the physical body and in quantum physics. Well, these are my inklings as to the next stage. I dare you to join me and find out for yourself!

Signposts (Chapter 8)

I was shaky when I returned to Uni that Autumn. I did not know who I was or what I was rooted in. My identity had been so wrapped up in faith. Now I was uncertain of the one thing that had always been my security and my hope. I was beginning to learn that life is more complex than the neat answers of religion, and, it is all we can do to muddle through and live it.

Going to Hampstead Heath, I cried and poured out my heart to God, asking for assistance in dealing with my forbidden love. I felt an indescribable moment of peace and reassurance; a green light not to hold my heart back any longer. I realised, once and for all, that the Divine is so much bigger than the divides we put between religions. She works, despite religion, not because of it. Losing my religion (a label) was not the same as losing my faith, the everyday experience of the Divine. That could remain the thread that ties me together; I didn’t need the binding rope of religion.

Two things marked the final nails in the coffin of my “Christian” labelled religion.

Firstly, I moved in with a Christian landlady. There, I was bullied and criticised from day 1. Eventually, I could take no more. On handing in my notice, I was called the worst tenant she’d ever had, dirty and a psuedo-Christian. It was the perfect point of attack – that most important part of my armour – and it was therefore the most painful. But, in a sense, it gave me the impetus to walk away and become not a Christian at all.

Secondly, I shared in the sadness of my dear friends, the M’s (who had looked after me during Soul in the City when I was 18), as their eldest son, R., died at the end of a marathon, aged only 27 years old. It was a terrible shock for everyone. The funeral was packed with friends, Christian and non-Christian alike. There, his sister, C., sang a song by Lex Buckley “Heaven Rejoices”. It is difficult to describe the intensity of that moment, but somehow the Spirit of the Lord was very real and very present and everyone felt it. R. was one of the best of men. He did not have a Christian faith, but – like his brothers and sisters – campaigned tirelessly for justice and environment: in all his interactions, he lived out the values of the Kingdom of God. There is no doubt in my mind that, right now, he is with the Divine, in whatever shape or form that may be. I guess I realised, in that moment, that – as glib and cliched as it may sound – it really is all about Love. If the roots in your heart provoke you to act with Love, who cares whether those roots are Christian or Muslim or somewhat indefineable. What matters is how we live our lives. With the flow of Divine Love, or battling against it.

All I “know” intuitively is this:
-There exists Something More than what is visible to the naked eye. It may be called God; it may remain nameless.
-I believe this Something More is something good.

Apart from that, my theology is evolving as I experience that Something More, open to the Truth (and value) in every possibility.

Signposts (Chapter 7)

From Sri Lanka – already in a state of emotional exhaustion – I went on to volunteer at an inclusive Christian community in Northern Ireland: Corrymeela. “Inclusive” meant that all faith groups, political persuasions, genders and sexual orientations were welcomed with open and loving arms. There was no sense that the Christians there were somehow on the moral high ground looking down; rather, everyone was journeying together through the messiness and complexity of life. It was tolerant, open-minded, nonjudgmental. And it was a far cry from what I had previously experienced within the church.

A few months earlier, my love interest had asked me what I thought about homosexuality. I felt very unconfortable. I knew what I had been taught – that it was a sin, that marriage was God’s plan for us and that anything outside of that (including living together partnerships) was not the optimum path. There was the “right” way, which was the “best” way, and then there was everything else. What I had been taught, however, did not resonate with my sense of nonjudgment, of diversity and of moral equity. I didn’t know what to say, so I asked for a 6 month raincheck.

At Corrymeela, I came across a book by Bishop Spong, the Liberal Christian, entitled “Living in Sin.” The scales on my eyes were removed and I began to realise there were two “wings” – as it were – on the religious spectrum. On the right wing, religion – be it Christian or any other – was formed in order to mantain the staus quo: to maintain power in the hands of those at the top: heterosexual males. Inherently, then, religion was always going to be anti-feminist and anti-homosexual. Nonetheless, on the left wing of religious traditions, there lies the mystical path: the Sufi’s, the Desert Fathers, the meditators. The emphasis of the mystics was on personal spiritual experience and inner journey: moreover, unlike right wing religiosity, which creates division and war, the ideas of those on the left wing of their spiritual traditions – meditation, silence, stillness – seemed to converge at a unifying point. Oneness.

During Peace School, we had learnt about the theology of religious options. On the right wing of the spectrum were the “exclusivists”: church centred, believing in salvation through Christ alone and taking the Bible literally as God’s special revelation. In the middle, were the “inclusivists”. They see Christ at work in all faith traditions, believe that salvation – though through Christ – does not require explicit faith in him (think Carl Rahner’s “anonymous Christians”) and perceive special revelation in the Scriptures of other faith traditions. They do not take the Bible literally, and believe God reveals Truth through the power of the Holy Spirit. On the left wing, there is “pluralism”: Jesus is seen as an enlightened man, not divine, and salvation is available through all faith traditions or none. It is the movement from ego-centredness toward God or Zen centredness. The session leader asked us to stand on a line where we thought we were on this spectrum: I was on the borderline of Inclusivist and Pluralist, slowly falling off the edge. Everything came to a head at Corrymeela – physical illness betraying the inner turmoil, the fear and anguish I was feeling. My faith was the central pillar of my existence – for so long it had been my foundations and my anchor – what would happened if the rug was pulled out from beneath my feet. What, after all, was the difference between a liberal Christian and an enlightened Humanist?

Signposts (Chapter 6)

That year, I fell in love with a non-Christian. All my life, my faith, my relationship with the Divine, has been the absolute no. 1 priority. It has been the most important thing in my life. And because I had been taught that dating, loving and eventually marrying a non-Christian was akin to being “unequally yoked”, I had always been adamant that I would not be with someone who didn’t share my faith. Now, however, I was put to the test. I had to choose between what I perceived to be God’s will – my love for God – and my love for another human being.

It was THE most traumatic period of my life; I was ill physically as I felt my heart being torn in two. At church, there was a 24-7 prayer week, and I wrote up a heartfelt letter to God on the wall, crying out for relief. There was a phenomenal response with many anonymous readers telling me I needed to wait unitl he was “saved”. My perception, at the time, was that this was the wisdom of God advising me to let him go. In retrospect, however, I think the content of the responses was inevitable, given the church setting, and that it was more about God’s timing and the work that was being done within my heart.

I left for Sri Lanka that Summer. There, I tryed to let go and surrender to God’s will, whilst crying myself to sleep every night. Staying with a Buddhist family, I was interested in experiencing the Poya Day celebrations at the temple. It was a disappointment: the ritual has lost all its meaning, now – like Christmas in the UK – being an opportunity for traders to make money. Reading a book called “Living Buddha, Living Christ,” (by Thich Naht Hahn) I began to realise there were two forms of Buddhism. This one, where people worshipped and followed the Buddha, an enlightened man. And another one, where the emphasis was on becoming a Buddha and finding that enlightenment for yourself. Likewise, in mainstream Christianity, people worship and follow Jesus, a man who was full of the spirit. Nonetheless, in the Gospel of St Thomas, there is a thread of early Christianity, that is again, about finding enlightenment through your own individual journey, rather than just worshipping the people who managed to obtain it. Jesus is an inspiration, a signpost towards an enlightened way of living…

Signposts (Chapter 5)

One thing that I got heavily involved in at university was a Japanese martial art called Shorinji Kempo. Our gender discussions at Peace School had highlighted to me, a sense of fear and vulnerability when it came to relating to the opposite sex. Combined with a natural fear of conflict, I would find myself silenced (by myself I hasten to add) in intellectual discussions where men were participating, as well as physically backing away when anyone got too close. Shorinji Kempo seemed like a good way of addressing these fears, and learning to stand up for myself instead of running away.

Peace School defined violence as anything which dehumanises, destroys, diminishes or dominates yourself or others. In a bid to “Love my neighbour”, I realised that I had allowed myself to be diminished and bullied. In reality, there is a middle way between commiting and allowing violence – it is the way of Christ and of nonviolence – a way which I shall spend my lifetime trying to understand intellectually and experientially.

Shorinji Kempo was founded after WW2 in chaotic circumstances. Many people in Japan were abusing their power and destroying others. The founder realised that it was the values of a person that set them apart, not their religion or politics. Perhaps this is why one can find more similarities between fundamentalist Christians and Muslims, than between fundamentalist and liberal Christians. Wanting to create people who would use good values to influence and improve society, the founder began to teach Zen Buddhism/Taoist philosophy. Adding Zazen meditation and physical self-defence techniques into the mix, he created a practical martial art.

At Kempo, I met a number of people that seemed to be full of light, despite not being “Christian” or traditionally religious. Being brought up in the church, I think I had absorbed a misconception that people outside of the Church were somehow lacking in something and hadn’t thought about spiritual matters. Of course, there are some people where that is apparent, but I met many people at Kempo who were deep thinkers and had experience of the spiritual dimension (whether or whether not, they would call it that). There was definitely no lack apparent to me: the values of the Kingdom of God, or Dharma, were alive in their hearts.

I have always had an interest in Buddhism. In fact, had my ancestors no t converted in order to obtain an education, I would, at least culturally, be Buddhist. Over the years, I have spend a lot of time studying the links between the two faith traditions as well as being inspired (to take full responsibility for my own spiritual journey) by Herman Hesse’s classic, “Siddhartha.” Shorinji Kempo, philosophically, was therefore a natural progression of this interest… (to be continued)

Signposts (Chapter 4)

After a summer of preparation, September saw me leave home for the first time and embark on the university rollercoaster. Fully appreciating my own vulnerability, I was incredibly conscious of the danger of “falling into the wrong group”, of drugs and of “falling off the rails” spiritually. With that in mind, I chose to return home monthly to get some clarity. I planned to attend a Mennonite Church, the only one in England, after being enthused by the Canadian Mennonite “Anti-commercial Christmas” campaign. The Mennonites, of the Anabaptist tradition, seemed to me to be much more liberal than churches I had previously attended, with an emphasis on peace and justice issues. Here, there were true activists living out their values: fair trade, ecology, campaigning against the arms trade and sharing community. I have a tremendous amount of respect for them, and although I do not attend Sunday church there anymore, I still feel very much part of a community, ready to help out in times of need.

As the church was faraway, however, my attendance became irregular and intermittent. I therefore decided to find spiritual nourishment in the charismatic Anglican church round the corner. There, I enjoyed the music and worship – just feeling God’s presence in song. I began to help out with the children’s work, but was disturbed by their trying to convert Muslim children. Peace School had introduced me to the idea of Universalism: the salvation of the whole earth, not just those individuals who have “prayed the prayer.” The idea matched my experience of a God who is Love, and, incidentally, was also backed by a heroine of mine, Florence Nightingale.

That year, the grandchild of my grandfather’s servant in Sri Lanka – a boy of 18 who I have loved with all my heart, played and grown up with – committed suicide. The anguish and pain I felt at the time was beyond oblivion; the tears kept running for days and days. Up until that point, I had always thought that if you loved someone enough, it would conquer all problems. But I realised that we cannot carry the burden to love on own shoulders alone; we have to be part of a network of “lovers”. Having been brought up to think that there was no afterlife for non-Christians, I was terribly anxious that Saman was not with God in some way, shape or form; But, in my grief, I was gifted with a sense of deep peace about this. Somehow, I felt that, at long last, his weary spirit was at rest and I knew that God was much bigger than my imagination… (to be continued)

Signposts (Chapter 3)

Someone once prophesized that they felt “peace” to be a very important tenet of my life. I started exploring this, wondering if I was called to be a peacemaker (like Abigail) in some way, shape or form. Hence, after leaving work – on my 22nd birthday – I embarked on a year long course called Peace School. It consisted of a 10-day residential Summer School and 3 weekends throughout the year. Around 15 of us took part in this shared learning process: all different ages and denominations. The main idea was to learn about the biblical concept of “shalom”, meaning more than the absence of war, but a kind of wholeness. Fundamentally, we wanted to explore how we could make this vision and the Kingdom of God a seamless part of our day-to-day existence. We mulled over Kingdom values – such as play and nonviolence – as well themes like ecology and gender.

The course, and its participants, made a deep impression on me (and left abiding friendships). It opened up the floor to be able to ask difficult questions, without fear of judgement or criticism. It opened my eyes to a new reality: the left-wing of the church that is more interested in love, in making the world a better place and in mystery than judging people for their sexual orientation and life choices. I realised that there was a new way to practice my faith: a way that resonated more deeply than ever. For example, influenced by the group, I became a vegetarian in order to limit the harm (and violence) I perpetrate on our fellow creatures.

After Peace School, I went on a silent Christian retreat for a week. I was a crossroads in my life, and seeking God out felt important. In the silence, I sensed a deep peace. But breaking it, I kept hearing the creature from Lord of the Rings saying, “my precious, precious.” Discussing this with the Spiritual Director, I realised how hard I had been trying to please God – to be perfect – when all I needed was “to be” and know that God is Love. To sense my own value – irrespective of what I’d done, whether acts of kindness or achievements – was an incredible healing, and though there is still scar tissue there, it is better than ever before… (to be continued)

Signposts (Chapter 1)

My faith in the existence of Something More, a deeper reality invisible to the physical eye, has never wavered. In religious circles this thing is called God, however I feel that such language can constrict and box in something that is a deep mystery, particularly with its connotations of maleness. Apart from a brief period during my teens, I have always known a deep inner joy (even in pain) which I know intuitively is the Spirit of this God. Nonetheless, my understanding of theology has changed dramatically over the years. It has been a journey, and I hope that I will never reach my final destination. For there, there is certainty, and with it, fundamentalism. No room to grow, to evolve and be open to new insights. This essay is the story of my journey so far, and the “signposts” along the way.

In hospital, as a newborn baby, I laughed. Though it cannot be proved, this suggests to me that I had a deep sense of joy, even then. We all have such spiritual experiences: of bubbling up with joy when you see the sunset or a deep peace during the storms of life. It is only after our experience that we seek out a theological framework to give it meaning.

For me, this was the Christian religion which I was born into. Notice I say “religion”, to denote something that is largely cultural and inherited. A “faith” is something entirely different: an inner journey. A path not trodden in churches and synagogues, but in quiet moments of prayer and reflection.

Though I was always a philosophical child, given to musing on my own existence, my first “faith” signpost came when I was 9 years old. I was tidying my bedroom when I came across some old Bible notes from Sunday School. Flicking through, I reached the back page: it said that if I prayed a prayer accepting Jesus’ death and resurrection –my sinfulness and his forgiveness- I could become a Christian. I was shocked, as I’d thought I was a Christian. Nonetheless, with an open heart and the desire for a deeper experience of the Divine, I prayed “the prayer”.

Nothing happened immediately, but in the months that followed, I felt a deep bubbling joy within me, which I believe was the Holy Spirit. There was a sermon about fireworks around that time. The minister said we should not be like rockets that just whizzed up and disappeared; feeling dizzy with love and joy, I was worried that he was talking to me.

So, listening to the song we’d learnt in Sunday School, I decided to “read my Bible, pray every day and grow, grow, grow…” Till my 15th year, I did this everyday before going to bed and I met with such wonderful characters as Corrie ten Boom and Eric Liddell. Growing up in the Baptist church, listening to the testimonies of drug addicts who had been saved, lives turned upside-down, I’d begun to feel that the “growing up in a Christian home” testimony – like being a businessman, rather than a missionary – was the lowest ranking one, but these heroes shared in my background.

Sunday School was a disappointment. Once we were shown a picture of a staircase entitled the steps to becoming a Christian. The top step was “becoming a Christian”, but I was already there. What was I supposed to do next? Listening to a radio phone in, a man said that Christians were in “limbo”. After they’re “saved”, they sit around waiting for heaven. What was the point in that!

But then, just as I needed it, I was given a new shot of insight: “A Heart Like His” by Rebecca Manley Pippert was a book about King David, his raw, exuberant, authentic relationship with God. It inspired me to discover the joy of pouring my heart out to God, exactly how and where I was, in deep honesty, knowing that His presence was with me. A deep certainty. David had a wife, Abigail, who was a peacemaker. I wanted to be like her.

Fragments of this time. Prayers answered and not. I prayed that the world would return to Jane Austen times: it did not. I prayed that I’d become scatty, like Belinda in Mallory Towers: I did! I heard the words “pure joy” and “freedom” reverberate around my head. And I felt the Divine presence walk with me, as I struggled out of shyness.

Then, at 15, I suddenly realised the Cross no longer made sense. I had outgrown my old and childish interpretation. I began to wonder whether -belonging to a Christian family, going to a Christian school- I had been “brainwashed”. I wasn’t saying it was all wrong; I just wanted to examine it from – as my dad would say- “first principles”. So I threw everything out the window, stopped going to church and talking to God. At the end of a few months, I felt empty and void: the joy that I had almost taken for granted had left. I talked for hours with my dad, asking questions, seeking truth; he was wise and humble enough to share his own struggles, not giving me glib answers.

Did I get answers? No, not entirely. But I saw a film of Jesus on the Cross with the Titanic music playing in the background: it tugged at my emotions. Gently away from a “heady” faith. Right then, I didn’t need intellectual knowledge about theology, but heart knowledge about God’s love. I found this – amidst the music – in the charismatic church. The questions were left hanging, and I knew that what I needed to know, when I needed to know it, would be revealed in perfect time.

I stayed at this church a few years, beginning to get involved in the children’s work. It was such a joy. But I left feeling deeply hurt and exploited by the Children’s Coordinator. The final straw was inviting 50% Christians and 50% Non-Christians to my 18th birthday (thinking subtle evangelism): unfortunately none of the Christians talked to my Non-Christian friends. Moreover, I felt inadequate because I had not been gifted with speaking in tongues. The church felt flashy and fake; I was ready for something less polished… (to be continued)