Reclaiming the Divine

It’s relatively unpopular to openly discuss one’s spiritual or religious beliefs these days; lest one be read as socially conservative, and out of sync with the repressive potential of some religious paradigms. Yet, I am convinced that reclaiming our shared divine inheritance has the potential to transform our lives, and power direly needed social change. At the most basic level, reclaiming the Divine in all of us requires drawing a clear distinction between exclusionary religions that are egocentric, and a spiritual model that is rooted in the principles of interconnectedness and no-self.

The former traditions, the most obvious being the Abrahamic religions, are hotbeds of conflict precisely because they have come to disavow the Divine power and goodness that is intrinsic to all beings and things in the universe. They form static identities with hard boundaries that compel the rest of us to reckon with the material effects of our imposed outsider status: We are the “Children of God,” the chosen few, and you are not. The source of their certitude, the veracity of their claim, is anchored in a transcendental figure with whom only they are acquainted, and from whom only they receive revelation. This is a convenient turn of events indeed. Others are thus made to live in the shadow of such an exclusive relationship.

By withholding Divinity, by claiming that some are “chosen” and others are damned, such traditions disavow the reality of the interconnectedness of all beings with Divine Being, and the inter-being of earthly beings with each other. If we can agree that Being as such is the Source, if we can agree that all that is comes from, and is infused with, the divine creativity of the Source, then no special relationship to the Source can really be claimed. Well, choseness can be claimed, and surely it is, but it cannot be proved to the satisfaction of all parties involved.

What we can be sure of is that we are all here, we all are, and must find a way to live together. Thinking “we” rather “me,” seeing “you” in “me,” moves against our atomistic existence and the Western insistence upon the rights bearing individual. We move toward a notion of collectivity, toward a notion of responsibility for others and for the environment in which we live. We inter-are with the earth, and with each other. Our ability to flourish is contingent upon the happiness and flourishing of all that lives in and around us. For example, to the extent that the earth lives, so do we. This should be obvious: without food we cannot live. If we ruin the environment that enables food to grow we perish along with it. I have no illusions about the arrogant pretensions of some to create synthetic food-stuffs (read: processed food) meant to replace the divine nutrients that sustain us. However, incidences of various cancers, immune diseases, arthritis, kidney disease and other ailments continue to be linked to synthetic foods and the chemicals used to bolster meat production and preserve vegetables and fruit. In short, the “replacements” and additives are killing life rather than sustaining it. (GMOs are equally problematic, but I’d digress to much if I got into it now.)

The spiritual model I have in mind does not propose a God that is anthropomorphic or separate from you and I. Quite the contrary. The “God” I have in mind (if it can be called that) is dispersed energetic light radiating through all things as all things, sowing the seed of Divinity in each of us as its Being exceeds our own. In reclaiming the Divine we re-member, that is, put back together, our awareness of the Divine inside of us.

Such remembrance has had enormous implications for how I move through the world, how I relate to other sentient beings, and how I engage with the natural environment. I no longer feel so separate and alienated from everything around me, and as such, I no longer regard human being as a form of being meant to instrumentalize everything to my own ends. My impulse is to think connection, integration, affinity, and cooperation. As a spiritual practice, my reclamation of the Divine is a living-belief system: it is alive, active, mutable and an open-ended way of being in my daily life. Being open to my own potential to touch the Divine in me has transformed my life from one of intense suffering, addiction, and fear to a life of joy, understanding, peacefulness and courage. I invite you to come along on the path toward the Divine, toward that which is majestic, formless, and noble in you. From our internal, personal transformations we can effect a change much grander, one that may bring a suffering world back to the basic goodness already within itself.

Epistemology, or How You Know That?

Epistemology is the branch of western philosophy concerned with the nature of knowledge, or, more precisely, how we come to make knowledge claims. Much of my intellectual career – in and out of academe – has been preoccupied with epistemic questions. Since I was a kid (Or, so the story goes. I have no first hand recollection of many of these examples.) I questioned the truthfulness of the things adults told me. While this was a somewhat endearing and cute trait in a very young child, it began to border on annoying and downright insolence as I got older.

My “how do you know?” tick persisted well into my adolescent years and effectively pushed me out of the church my family attended for over 25 years. Many of my family members still attended Sunday services, but I couldn’t stomach the “because God said so” rationale. (Luckily my mother humored my skepticism and didn’t make me go against my will.) My faith in a Christian God grew thin in proportion to my growing secularity. In retrospect, I was a thirteen year old having a crisis of faith and erred on the side of agnosticism to settle the score. I figured I just couldn’t be sure. It certainly didn’t help to be inundated with the flatfooted positivism and hard empiricism found in the middle school version of the natural and social sciences. If I couldn’t “prove” the existence of God, or my special relationship to the “Children of Israel” (because, as far as my church was concerned, Black folks were just as chosen as Moses, Aaron and their kin), then there was no sense in walking around thinking and acting as if I was really a child of God.

Fast forward four years.

By the end of my senior  year of high school my mother and my step-father were separated. She, my brother, and I moved to a small apartment in San Leandro, and I was gearing up to head back east for college. I was pretty sure I was some kinda queer, but all I had to go on was a few high school crushes and a rich fantasy life. My suspected gayness made me even more suspicious of Christianity. I often heard the colloquial homophobic saying, “God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve,” ringing in my ears. Hmmm. None of this made any sense. Why make humans gay if they’re going to be damned?

Now, one could argue that God didn’t make humans gay at all. Gayness, the argument would go, was the effect of either being possessed by evil or electing to act out evil deeds in spite of both, my biological imperative towards heterosexuality, and my moral duty to comply with God’s plan for women. In short, my being gay didn’t have anything to do with God, thanks to the reality of human volition. It was direct evidence of my sinfulness, my alliance with the dark angels, my weakness and collusion with evil.

A logical retort to this argument was often voiced in the religion courses I’d eventually enroll in as an undergraduate. If God is omnipotent and omniscient, how on earth (or heaven for that matter), could there be evil in the world? Ah, yes! The good old theodicy question. I’d wrestle with this one for a while until I realized the answer to the problem of evil could not be sufficiently answered within a Christian framework.

The anti-gay Christians (who, by the way, have come out of the woodwork lately to uphold the righteousness of God via the ballot box in California) would maintain that my gayness was a choice, not a biological predisposition. And, if it was a biological predisposition, it was clearly a flaw or bio-error that must have an antidote scientists just hadn’t discovered yet. However, I was certain my attraction to women wasn’t a choice. How did I know this? Because to chose a difficult, unpopular and despised path simply makes no sense. Why chose to suffer? I would much rather have the love and happiness of my family greet me than their disdain. Being gay was a surefire way to be banished from the clan, or at least openly marginalized if allowed to stay within its ranks. In the face of this very real possibility, I came to terms with my love for women.

How did I know? Because I experienced it daily, and it was a desire, a love, an appreciation I couldn’t deny. It was, and is, real. My reality didn’t square with the Christian narrative, its description of who, and what, I was supposed to be. And, in my heart of hearts, I knew I wasn’t a bad person. I knew I wasn’t running around with a demon festering inside me, compelling me to fall in love with beautiful and smart women. In fact, I grew to understand that the love I experienced between women was so far removed from “evil” that the Christians clearly had it all wrong.

My life as a queer woman delivered the death knell to Christianity in my life. I reasoned thus: the holy book was written by men (yes, men – divine revelation be damned), and as such, reflected the social and cultural mores of their time. It was a biased text, riddled with the ideological and political preoccupations of those who pulled the gospel through a series of translations: Hebrew, Aramaic, Greek, Latin, Old English, etc. (I mean really, the damn things says, “King James Version” on the side. If it’s a version, then surely there’s some human tampering involved, no?) What the bible came to represent in my world, particularly after studying the religious history of African Americans, was the textual evidence of the very human desire to find meaning in an otherwise meaningless world. What I began to see in all the Abrahamic traditions (Judaism, Islam and Christianity), was an effort to explain the persistence of chaos, contingency and danger, as well as the reality of joy.

There was nothing otherworldly about it, as far as I was concerned. We were firmly on the terrain of culture, more specifically, literature masquerading as Religious Truth.

The tragedy here was that I implicated all religions in this brazen meaning-making enterprise and eliminated the possibility that there was something grander than we humans in the universe. Spirit was a fiction, just as much as the Easter Bunny or Santa Clause. My foray into Marxism didn’t help much in this regard either. Suffering was certainly real and could be historicized if you cared enough to contextualize this mess we call the contemporary world. Explaining suffering and injustice by way of a transcendental edict was – in my mind – just cause for a beat down. There was no God out there who said colored folks the world over should be subordinate to white folks. Clearly white folks said that. And there was no God out there who said gay folks shouldn’t be allowed to be happy and openly gay. Clearly straight folks said that. Marxism gave me tools for confronting injustice and the rampant disavowal of basic human worth.

But, eventually, its usefulness wore thin. My intractable tendency toward questioning, seeking, if you will, forced me to confront the limitations of Marxism as well. (It seemed Marxist theory contained the seed of its own revolution! Okay, bad joke.) What I found by my fourth year of graduate school was an emptiness inside me, and a yearning for meaning, purpose and community (or, perhaps, communion) with more than my “comrades” in the struggle. I wanted closeness with the natural world around me: my cat, my plants, the eucalyptus trees beyond my front door. I wanted to feel at home in the world instead of feeling the alienation I theorized. I didn’t want to feel the reification – my own “thingification” – and instrumentality within “the capitalist system.”

I felt vacuous, and ultimately useless. This budding nihilism dangerously meshed with all the pain and fear I felt as a child and I began to play recklessly with my life. Nothing felt good during these years, so I chose to self-medicate. Somewhere in my dissociation I  think I detested my discontent and my desire for a more meaningful and deeply interconnected life because I knew, without “knowing,” that such communion was the real order of the universe. I also knew that the intimacy I craved required work, serious spiritual work and commitment, but I didn’t know what that would or should look like.

However, the “what” and “how” of my journey (what should I do, and how should I do it?) are now the least of my worries. I’ve been told the universe will take care of the details. It was the knowing/not knowing dyad that plagued me for so long and threatened to undo my life. My reliance upon flawed epistemological training was also part of the problem. I didn’t trust that I could know anything intuitively; that I could know something as big as the arc of my life’s work on a hunch, a feeling, a sense.

But this seems to be true for me today: how I come to know things ranges from simple empirical observation to complex intutive recognition. An answer will always follow the questions I ask. My job is to be open to the possibility that the source of the information I seek may be highly unusual or ordinary and mundane.

How I know is no longer the issue. The fact of knowing is now the gift.

I’m Pointing At You, But Pointing At Me

One of my lojong cards reads: Don’t talk about injured limbs.

That’s it. Well, that’s it for the ‘slogan’ side. On the commentary side the card instructs us to avoid maligning others, particularly when they’re already down (eh-hem, which would be waiting in ambush), but to generally avoid talking shit about – and to – other people because it’s a jackass thing to do.

The card doesn’t say it’s a jackass thing to do, that’s my opinion. The teachings would say, much more eloquently and without the explicatives, that when we negatively assess others we’re really talking about ourselves.

How so, you ask?

Simple: there’s really only one of us here. If you buy this argument (which you should), then you’ll agree that there’s a bit of me in you and vice versa. Typically what we despise most in our adversaries and loved ones alike, are those parts of ourselves we’d rather not embrace, recognize or work on.

So, as I replay the argument my (ex?) girlfriend and I had on thanksgiving, knowing that she was really talking about herself makes me feel a bit better. She’s pointing the finger at me to get to herself. The same, of course, can be said of me.

This is the major insight. No one gets off the hook. We are both embattled; we’ve been bruised and abused for many years and in many ways. Often, when we feel assaulted (and I’m using the universal ‘we’ here), we are not only responding to the current infraction, but to a host of past hurts that are knowingly or unknowingly, rekindled by our current situation. The response I had to her was both about her and about so many other people. I like to think about this in terms of the palimpsest, or that writing pad we used to play with as kids that was carbon on the bottom with a film on the top. When I’d write or draw on it I could see the image I made, but when I lifted the film the image would disappear. Here’s the important part: though the image disappeared on the surface layer, the inscription itself remained just below the film.* Our lives are just like those pads. Everything makes an impression, even if we can’t see the lines on the surface.

Every now and then something triggers the old impressions, reminds us of something from the past or hurts us in a similar way. There were patterns in my relationship that fell into both of our old grooves, old patterns which were often ways of protecting ourselves against past assaults. The argument we had was just as much about my old hurts and her old hurts, as it was about the new ones we inflicted on each other. What we weren’t attentive to in the moment was that all of the finger pointing kept us from accounting for how our behavior toward each other revealed more about who we are, what we’ve been through, and where we need to grow, than it revealed about the other person. As I pointed out and screamed about her “injured limbs” I was really pointing at my own.

*For all my Freudian friends out there, you’ll remember Freud’s writing about the mystic writing pad. This is exactly what he had in mind.