My spiritual journey has
been anything but linear. I was raised
with a heavy-handed approach to Christianity that was judgmental, blatantly
patriarchal and frankly a bit terrifying.
Out of well-intentioned
concern for our immortal souls my mother would cart my little brother and me to
the tiny country church near our home in the forested foothills of Washington
State. Entering the little white church,
we walked between two rows of wooden, red-velvet covered pews – about ten on
each side. At the front of the church on
the wall just behind the pulpit was a many times larger-than-life painting of
Jesus Christ nailed to the cross with a crown of thorns pressed into his
bloodied head. It seemed to me an odd
backdrop while singing upbeat tunes like, “This little light of mine” and “This
is the day that the Lord has made and I will rejoice and be glad …”, etc.
The preacher did his
preaching from a podium on the left side of the red-carpeted stage just beneath
the bloodied Christ. He was an aging
thin, slightly stooped white man. Long,
sparse ribbons of gray hair hung from his mostly bald, pink and brown mottled head. When he really got going with one of his
hell-fire sermons spit would fly from his mouth and his large Adam’s apple
would leap up and down. Suffice it to
say, I did not find him to be a comforting childhood figure.
Once, when I was perhaps 8
or 9, he was giving some talk about the end of times. In something of a rapturous state he looked
out at us in his small flock and declared the glories of heaven to come. He said that, “One of the rewards for us ‘chosen
ones’ was to be able to watch the ‘unsaved’ gnash their teeth in hell for
eternity.” Even better, once in heaven,
every time God came by we would all fall down on our faces on streets of gold
and praise him. Seated on the red velvet
pew, I looked up at my Mom beside me and whispered, “Mom! Mom, if that’s heaven I don’t want to
go.” Her head whipped around, her eyes bored
into me and the color drained from her face.
Poor Mama.
A few years after this
things turned very, very dark in my family.
Addiction, abuse and mental illness seized our lives. Damaged and devastated I became very angry,
especially at God, and did my best to shut the Spirit door. But the quiet knocking never really
stopped.
In my early twenties I
allowed my heart to open again to the longing to connect with source, with the
creator. I did not walk the Christian
path. I studied Native American
philosophies, goddess mythologies, and Buddhist practices. All of this felt right and good and aligned
with the powerful love of Nature I’d had since my earliest memories. However, some in my family accused me of
being satanic, and in fact, I was at times terrified that this was all just the
Devil trying to lead me into damnation.
However, the pull of genuine
spirituality was stronger than the fear of hell and I continued to study and
reflect and find my own, more authentic relationship with God, whatever he or
she may be.
Through all of this, across
the span of nearly thirty years now, I have lived with a sense of uneasiness
about the whole Jesus thing and about the bible. I long ago reached the point where I believe
all the spiritual faiths and philosophies are pathways toward the same
fundamental truth that we are spiritual beings in a physical embodiment and
that the chief purpose of this life is finding, exploring and developing our
spiritual selves. However, I was just
too put off by the fundamentalism and judgmentalism of the Christian religion
to sit with its teachings.
I am only very recently beginning
to be able to reintegrate this powerful body of learning and insight into my
own spiritual path. Nearly a year ago,
when my life as I knew it blew up a very kind someone gave me a little
devotional book called, “Jesus Calling.” It was a pretty little brown leather-bound
thing but the title made me uncomfortable.
Nonetheless, I was at a very low and hurt place and I was grateful for
any kindness. I opened the little book
to that day’s reading and it seemed tailor-made for me right at that
moment. The message was not about
judgment or sin; it was about the sheer peace of being intensely present and
sensing the I Am, that deep part of
ourselves that feels the connection to Spirit.
Over this past year, like
many of us when we’re facing extreme challenges, I have been much more immersed
in and committed to my spiritual practice.
I have met and counseled with many preachers and teachers of various
faiths, including Christians, who, while promoting the teachings of Jesus, were
far from judgmental or fear-mongering. I
rejoined my old Unity Community, which often uses examples from the bible in
the original Aramaic language; offering me new ways of looking at biblical
passages and stories.
This past year has also been
a time of deep reflection, looking within myself and trying to make sense of
why things went so wildly off the course I had planned. Much of it was well beyond my control, but I
have tried to be very honest with myself about the pieces I was responsible
for. The most glaring and somewhat
humiliating realization was how ego-activated I had been. If I had been just concerned with doing good
work and less concerned about being credited for that work I would have given
the attackers less ammunition with which to build their allegations. Over these many months, I have thought a lot
about, read a lot about and reflected a lot on ego. I have realized that when I am acting from a
place of ego, I am usually trying to mask an insecurity, am separating myself
and trying to feel superior. When ego is
running my show I am not coming from a place of love or awareness of
Spirit.
Just a few weeks ago I
attended a well-known, mostly African American Christian center in Portland because
I have a special friendship with the pastor and his wife. Although I was still a bit uncomfortable with
the deeply Christian message and symbolism, my heart was open to the underlying
power. The congregation was colorful not
only in their skin tones but also through their voices in song and enthusiastic
shouts of “Amen!” and “Come on!”
Although the little white church of my childhood did not have the
incredible musicians and tremendous, soulful rhythm of these worshippers, it
had taught me many of the old gospel songs and I had a great time, once again,
singing those old tunes.
The sermon was well-delivered,
lively and funny. Its main message was
the question, “What does Jesus mean to you?”
I was somewhat stunned to realize I had an answer, something of a reconciliation
no less. Right now, at this place in my
development, Jesus to me represents the example of a human being living purely
from the I Am rather than from ego, living
empowered, despite human frailties, guided by Spirit. As an example of how to be attacked without
being hardened, of how to come from a place of faith and love to rise up again,
there really is something to this Jesus-thing.
For the time being that’s my
answer. What about you? What does Jesus mean to you?
(P.S. I love you Mama! You walk your talk with your spirituality
more genuinely than anyone I know.)
By Cylvia Hayes
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