Some form of spirituality, it seems to me, is the basis of all our lives, whether we choose to accept this fact or not. I begin to wonder also whether wandering away for a time from the tradition of our birth may be a natural part of spiritual growth, that it is OK if that happens. It is a thing not just confined to Christianity, which is the basis of my tradition for this life. In fact I have heard Hindu parents complaining that their young people are just not as interested these days. I would imagine that there are some Moslem parents who say the same thing. Going walkabout may be vital and perhaps the opportunity God-given.
Certainly wandering away into the darkness has been that way for me. At the age of 18 or 19, somewhere around then, I became convinced that there was an invisible neon sign floating just above me which read: convert me. Whenever I sat down for lunch at university, or so it seemed, the seat opposite me would suddenly be occupied (do you mind if I sit here, followed by: are you interested in talking about Jesus) and because I was interested in him and my place in his life (I still am), I would say yes. And so , for a couple of years, a steady stream of hopeful Christians ,included members of some strange cults, would take me in hand, feed me, water me and attempt to have me join their flock. Inevitably, this led to tears.
Mine.
I can still remember one particular and pivotal episode. A new Christian, presumably born again, when faced with my apparent stubbornness, reluctance and continual questioning, and my instinct that the core messages in the Bible, particularly the New Testament, lay beyond the text itself, finally cut to the chase. Do you accept that the Bible is the word of God? Well yes. At the time I was studied foreign languages and linguistics and I was acutely aware of the nuances within words. I was aware that the Bible came in different flavours. Which was the correct one? I was coming to a belief that perhaps it had not been written by a single person, sitting at a table, with God dictating over his shoulder. My uncertainty finally got to him.
Do you accept that the Bible is the word of God?
Yes.
Do you accept that the Bible is the only true word of God?
While I hadn’t studied comparative religion (I would love to do so now), I was aware of the Bhagavad Gita and the Koran, not to mention Buddhism and Shinto. Could all those Moslems, Hindus, Buddhists and Sufis be wrong? That meant that the majority of the people living on the planet were on a hiding to nothing, already riding on the down-bound train to Hell. Satan would need to take on more staff. I couldn’t buy into it.
I am not sure.
He tried one last time.
Will you join us?
Now I was really feeling uncomfortable.
Um, I don’t think so.
Then you are damned.
Suddenly I had become a jackal in their flock. Being a teenager, my reaction was one of shock. The concept that the God of Love could be so mean, so exclusive, was too much. Ok, I decided for myself, if that is the price, if that is what it means to be a Christian, then I want no part of it. And I walked out into the darkness.
But I couldn’t stay away. I kept circling back to the manger, but wasn’t able to settle for any length of time. Somehow the Low Anglican worship of my childhood no longer met awareness, a need within me. I would turn up for communion on a Sunday, last a couple of weeks, then leave and not return. In some way I felt no connection, as if something was missing.
I worked my way through the denominations. Roman Catholicism? Far too patriarchal and rigid for a flower child. The God of Love seemed to me, at the time to have been replaced by the God of Blind Acceptance. Methodism? Too …dry. Fundamentalism? Too sensationaliiiiiiiiiist. My snobby Anglican upbringing and contemplative leanings had trouble with Rock around the Altar. So, for years, I wandered in and out of a series of differently-decorated cloisters.
All that experimentation was leading me to believe that everybody seemed to have a piece of the puzzle but not all of it, and yet a number of them seemed to me to be holding up their piece and claiming it was the whole jigsaw.
Because there were some Very Big Questions to which I needed answers.
Who was God anyway? The kindly, bearded, elderly gent on a throne seemed to me to be a case of us making God in our own image.
What was Heaven anyway? Frankly, the thought of spending Eternity (assuming I made it) sitting on a cloud, singing hymns seemed some how…boring. And was Hell really staffed by imps with forked tails and pitchforks? I began to wonder if it wasn’t a medieval plot to teach simple peasants the difference and keep them fronting up with their tithes.
Who was Jesus Christ? Did he really exist? There seemed to be doubt on the matter. Studying Existentialist literature and the Theatre of the Absurd at university did not help me avoid coming to a derision.
Why was he called Jesus Christ when he was known as Jesus of Nazareth? What was the significance of the Christ? I sensed a mystery. And I wasn’t getting any answers…
Can somebody please explain the Trinity to me? I was told that it was the Great Mystery of Christianity. Nobody could explain it, I was told. It just was.
Will somebody please help explain the Creation? Adam, Eve, a snake and an apple? Was it really like that? And where did Darwin fit in? My fundamentalist friends (while they lasted) seemed to have that one sorted.
Revelations and the Second Coming?
Original Sin? Are we really born to fail/fall? Are we naturally bad? That one really concerned me.
And the Cross. Always the Cross. What was it about the Cross that fascinated me? It was as if, in looking at it, I was listening to voices in another room, behind a wall. I could hear them talking, but not decode the content.
The list grew.
And so, for years, I wandered.
In and out.
Backwards and forwards.
The way back began some years before my marriage broke up, when I needed to straighten things out. I found myself trying to gather up the fragments of who I was, to see my life in a wider context. I began a journey into my Maori roots.
At the age of 52 I had begun to turn my face back for home.
Now I was on my own, without home or permanent job (my choice) and pretty much at the mercy of my own decisions and the attendant consequences. Now I needed Faith on a daily and regular basis, rather than it being on-demand.
And bit by bit as I have begun listening, as I began to open myself up to Divine Will, to allow more space for listening and learning, to move God back to the centre of my room, a few of those answers have begun to come, I was able to hear and understand the odd word coming through the wall. They did not come in a trumpet-heralded fanfare. They are not revelations, rather glimmerings. They came slowly, painfully and had to be worked for.
They still do.
But the journey has been fascinating, taking me into Maori spirituality, Native American belief and Christian mysticism, to name a few.
More and more I come to a belief system which no doubt would make me intensely unwelcome at the manger of my fundamentalist acquaintance of all those years ago.
That all the Great Faiths have much in common and much to offer.
That God is beyond knowing (although it is a human thing to attempt to repackage, brand and market him). Therefore no one can with certainty say which of the many paths up the mountain is the correct one.
That we observe God from within the tradition into which we are born and, consciously and/or unconsciously our interaction occurs within that framework. Our journey is therefore a spiral which extends both up and down.
And in treading that spiral, we can find our way home.
