Dances with God — a Journey of Faith
By: Marilyn Flower
Tags: Spirituality, Faith, Religion, Mysticism, God

I grew up with Judaism Lite. I say lite because, as an Air Force family, we moved a lot. We joined a synagogue for the five years we lived outside of Abilene, Texas, but that was about it.

We went to synagogue with relatives during our annual summer vacation in Cleveland and during the three months we lived in Florida.

Despite the lite, I grew up imbued with a strong concept of the Judeo-Christian Judgemental Father God. He’s woven into the fabric of our culture, and perhaps His essence seems to be infused in our tap water. He’s that inescapable.

What I learned about that God growing up:

You don’t want to mess with this God. He’s rather narcissistic and takes everything personally. He has to come first or no dessert for you. He can’t go to sleep until you’ve said your prayers out loud. To him.

He’s superstitious, so don’t step on a crack, or He’ll break your mother’s back. Gotta mind your P’s and Q’s around God — whatever those are. He’s awake 24/7 cause someone, somewhere, didn’t say their prayers, and He’s always watching — way more than Santa, who hibernates a good part of the year.

Did I mention, He has a short fuse and angers easily? He punishes every infraction, mostly with bad weather. So when I sneak an extra cookie from the cookie jar, a tornado flattens a town in rural Alabama. Or if I blame my Sister for the mess in our bedroom, watch out. An earthquake topples buildings in Mexico City.

While I am exaggerating, I grew up feeling that God not only was hard to please, but there was no redemption. No path back through forgiveness.

That was Jesus’ department.

Jesus was all about forgiveness. But the catch-22 was, you had to take him on as your Lord and Savior, or at least be a Christian to qualify for those blessings.

Now it so happened that I grew up loving and coveting everything about Christmas — the lights, the trees, the nativity story, the hymns and carols, and the delicious excitement of the build-up to Christmas.

Chanukah, even though it lasted eight days, did not hold a candle to Christmas. It was a second-place holiday, fanning the flames of my Christmas envy.

Fortunately, my family did not pressure me. When I married an ex-Catholic seminarian, they didn’t bat an eye. They rejoiced with us and at some point started the grandchildren clock ticking.

I spent my young adulthood basically ignoring God and religion as “the opiate of the masses” while protesting the Vietnam War, marching for peace and justice.

Something unnameable my way comes.

But when my life got complicated and rocky, I began to sense a Presence, an Energy, a Something outside of myself, keeping a distant but loving eye on me.

I described it to my therapist as the sense of a gentle breeze on my cheek. That Breeze Presence grew in my consciousness while I joined a Unitarian Universalist Church.

The church had humanitarian values but no dogma. How refreshing! A good percent of the congregation were devout atheists. They honored the sacredness of all life while out hiking in nature. My husband worshiped at that Parthenon.

Once I landed in a twelve-step program, I needed a closer connection with a power greater than myself. I was encouraged to explore a personal relationship with the God of my understanding.

Metaphysics made sense.

One day I mused out loud that I wanted a metaphysical church with a gospel beat. Hearing this, a friend said, it’s right over there, and if you hurry, you can make the noon service!

That’s how I landed at the East Bay Church of Religious Science. There I learned about New Thought and the convergence of spirituality and quantum physics.

As a predominantly black church, these life-changing ideas were sung, clapped, and danced to the rockingest, soulfullest tunes and beats — everything from traditional Spirituals, to Sam Cooke, to contemporary gospel with substituting Spirit for Jesus.

I came to appreciate how vital faith and spiritual music were and are for staying strong in the face of the worst abuses we can inflict on our fellow humans. I witnessed first hand how the music of India Arie shores up teenagers when life punches them in the gut.

Now, I stand back and appreciate where I’ve been spiritually as well as where I’m going. I love that God or Spirit is a vast, unknowable Mystery.

This time of year, I blanket my faith in all the Advent, Solstice, and Christmas trappings I can. But rather than a blessed virgin giving birth to a Baby God, I envision the Light of Spirit gestating in the dark, fertile soil of our consciousness to be born in all of us.

I‘m currently exploring mysticism.

It turns out, all faiths have a mystical aspect. In Judaism, it’s the Kabbalah. I’ve just re-discovered the learned Rabbi Abraham Heschel, a mystic who wrote about the awe and wonder of his faith while marching beside Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr for civil and human rights.

Mathew Fox got me into the writings of Meister Eckhart, Telliard de Chardin, Thick Nat Hahn, and others. The words of mystical Sufi poets Rumi and Hafiz capture my heart. That’s why I’m about to explore native Middle Eastern spirituality thanks to the works of Neal Douglass-Klotz.

As best as I understand it, mysticism is not a set of beliefs. Rather it’s about directly experiencing the Presence (Spirit, God, Divine Intelligence, the Undescribable Infinite that answers to many names).

I believe the Universe is Spirit made manifest, all of life, individual facets of the One Life Force. It’s nigh on impossible to not make contact. I’d have to be out of touch with myself as well — which does happen.

My intention is to go deeper into the magic of the mystery. Not just by reading tracts, but by slowing down, opening myself up, and inviting the Shimmering Presence to dances of intimacy. Looking forward to waltzes of wonder, tangos of trust, and foxtrots of fierce and fearless faith.