Breakup Blues

I've been thinking about it on and off for months. But it's finally time to do the deed. I'm breaking up with my church.

It's a huge weight off my shoulders, now that I've made the decision. But it's also tough to let go. The church was a safe place that became a dead end. I won't miss the majority of the people there, but there were a few that were really special to me. Yes it's possible that we could stay in touch, but I kind of doubt that's going to happen. We were all so busy that even after being friends for two years we only found time to see each other at church events. You know how it is. People always say that they'll stay in touch, but it rarely happens.

It took me close to two years to get up the nerve to walk into a church in the first place. I had all sorts of baggage holding me back. I had always identified as a Jewish agnostic. Finding Christian faith due to a miraculously answered prayer unexpectedly plunged me into an identity crisis. I was afraid of the unknown. I was afraid of what people would think of me. I walked into that church, and when the pastor's wife kindly welcomed me, I burst into tears.

The first year was like being in religious kindergarten. Everything was new and fascinating. I studied the Bible, which was not at all what I expected it to be. I attended services. I got to know the congregation and made friends. Ken and I were baptized.

During the second year, I started to feel more at home at the church. I started volunteering in the nursery, and sang with my friends' musical group. I knew lots of peoples' names by then. Ken and I got married at that church, and our "church family" came to witness our vows. Good times, all.

I had some niggling concerns, which I wrote about on this blog. I'm too lazy to go look up all the posts and link to them, but if you want to see them just look up anything labelled "church" and "spirituality". Anyway, these little things started to add up.

I could not take the Bible as literally as the church as a whole did. I couldn't accept certain things without asking questions. One time I attended a Bible study, and was seriously scolded for criticizing the teaching. I never went back again. There was also the matter of homosexuality. I will never be convinced that loving, committed relationships are wrong, regardless of the gender identities of the people involved.

There were also style differences. You might remember the time that my music group got in trouble after leading a service because we were "almost dancing!" Exuberance was frowned upon by the majority of the congregation. I don't get that at all. How can true worship be anything but unrestrained?

And finally there was just a sense I had of being judged all the time. The people at church were well-intentioned, but everyone was always checking themselves and others against a strict yardstick for attendance, behaviour, dress, choice of words, choice of music, etc. I was always worried about what to wear to church. I didn't make the jokes that popped into my head. I realized at a certain point that things were never going to get any more comfortable.

It's like a relationship. When you make a new friend, for a while you're on your best behaviour. Then you start to relax a little, but you're still on your guard. Eventually, you get to the point when both of you just relax and you realize you don't have to try anymore. You can just be. You can hang out sometimes and not talk, because there's nothing to prove. You can rest and recharge from the friendship.

This church is never going to be relaxing. There's always an undercurrent of fear and reservation running underneath all the good intentions. It's draining to have to try so hard there. I try hard at work all week. Sometimes I have to try hard, really hard, with my family. If I'm taking time for my spiritual nourishment, it has to be able to support me when I need it.

I realized that I would never be able to just be myself at church. I'd always have to try. And on top of everything else in my life, it's just too much. So I'm letting it go.

There may be some other church out there, in this big city, where I might fit in. Someplace liberal and honest, where it's OK to think critically.

But for right now, I'm enjoying taking some Sundays for myself. I started reading spiritual books again, and I find I'm getting a lot more out of private contemplation and prayer than I was by trying to stay awake through the boring, repetitive sermons at church.

I am grateful to my church and the people in it for all that they offered to me: a warm welcome, learning, and a unique experience of community. I will never forget my church. Partly because I got married there. Partly because I still have to walk past it on my way to work every morning! But it's time to move on to my next phase. I'm pretty sure that's what God wants for me.

Full of Should

How do you know if something is good or bad?

There are easy answers. Chocolate cake is good. Getting your tooth drilled for a filling is bad. But then again, chocolate cake isn't so good if you're diabetic. And getting your tooth drilled is a blessing compared to having it rot painfully because you have no access to dental care.

In the past I would have said, in theory, that there are some things at the ends of the spectrum that are purely good or purely bad. For example, love is all good, and violence is all bad. Right? Except, even pure love is bad when it's unrequited. If you love someone who doesn't care for you, your suffering is bottomless. And violence has a place in protecting the helpless from bullies. So where do we draw the line?

Is there anything that's all good or all bad?

I don't think so anymore. I've always been a Shades of Grey person, but I held on to the idea that this earthly plane did have some examples of 100% goodness and pure evil. I can't maintain that belief anymore. Everything I look at has two sides to it. For example, even the worst abuses I've suffered in my life have contributed to making me who I am today, and I like who I am. Even though those experiences seemed 100% bad when they were happening, at this point I wouldn't chose to time travel back and undo them.

I've been thinking about this in connection with the beliefs of organized religion. What's really got me hooked is the idea of an idol. According to Merriam-Webster's online dictionary, an idol is

1 : a representation or symbol of an object of worship; broadly : a false god

Boiling it down to essentials, I understand it to mean that anytime we worship a Thing instead of God him/her/itself, we are worshipping an idol. An obvious example: if I decide my pot scrubber has supernatural powers and I start bowing before it and making sacrifices (burning a few cookies would probably do nicely) to win its favour, I am worshipping an idol.

Speaking more broadly, I have heard it said and I agree that church itself can become an idol. If I believe that I can only access God in a certain building, dressed a certain way and reciting a script in the form of accepted prayers, then I am worshipping an idol just as much as when I was kissing the counter my pot scrubber sits on.

Idolatry tries to limit God. It says "we know how God works, and therefore you have to follow our recipe if you want to get in contact with him". God, by any definition, is not limited. If he wants to get a message to you while you're wandering around your apartment wearing dirty underwear, listening to industrial goth rock, then He will do it.*

*This particular scenario is not one of my personal experiences.

The same people who like to hold forth on the right and proper way to connect with God are often the same people who figure they know what's Right and Wrong. Purely right, and purely wrong, to be clear. And they're more than willing to boss you around in that regard, for your own good, of course.

Much as I appreciate their intentions, I don't buy their theology. Anytime we figure we've got it all nailed down, that we know the rules, that's when we start believing we have some control over God. And we just don't. Not even a little.

The best way to connect with God, in my admittedly limited experience, is to be fully present in This Moment, because that's where He is.

If you're with someone, you can't love them in the past. You can't love them in the future. Saying "I loved you last week" or "I'll get around to loving you by St. Patrick's day" is useless. You can only love them right now, in this very instant. God is one of the someones that applies to.

You also can't be truly intimate with someone if you're always worried about the rules. If you're fearful: What if I said the wrong thing? What if I'm wearing the wrong clothes? Does my breath smell? Some folks approach God like they're going on a terrifying first date. It's really silly, because if you actually really believe that God is omniscient, you'd know that He's not just with you on Sundays at church. He's always there. He sees you at your worst no matter how hard you try to hide.

(On a tangent, it bugs me every time I hear someone end a prayer like they're hanging up the God Phone. "God, I can haz cheezeburger? KTHXBAI!" It's like they believe He stops listening when the official prayer is over. That makes no sense to me.)

Anyway, what's my point? My point is that we can be trapped by rules and formulas. And while there is a place for the majesty of ritual in spiritual life, there is also so much more beyond the rituals. If we are approaching God with a fear of doing or saying the wrong thing, we're already doing the wrong thing, by feeling fearful.

That was my best effort at putting a huge, tangled thought ball into a linear format. Did I make any sense?

Theology vs. Big Puffy Hearts

I have been asked by friends and family to explain my church. What does it mean to be Baptist? What does my church believe? Why did I choose it?

Here is a dictionary definition of "Baptist". Basically all it means in any reliable way is: a Christian who belongs to an organized church that believes in the power of voluntary baptism as a means of confirming or affirming one's faith. (This is as opposed to other denominations that baptize infants, who obviously don't have a choice in the matter.)

Other than that, it's a free-for-all. There is no centralized authority of The Baptist Church, like the Catholic Pope, so individual churches can more or less make up their own doctrines. This has resulted in a huge range of Baptist churches, from the southern U.S., where they tend to be very fundamentalist and conservative, to the northern parts of the continent where you will find Baptists who are actively questioning the attitude of Christianity towards those of the homosexual persuasion.

What does my church believe? Oddly enough, it's sometimes hard to tell. My church contains a very wide variety of congregants, from the elderly white folks who've been there since the days when God Himself was young, to young immigrants from every corner of the world, who are struggling to learn English and have incredibly cute little kids (some of whom I chum around with in Babyland).

Everyone is always on their best behaviour on Sunday mornings, but if you get someone on their own, and if they find out that you're like-minded, they'll let down their guard and you'll find out what they're really all about. This young man listens to hip-hop music that contains Foul Language. That older lady believes she can communicate with her loved ones who have passed on. Then of course you find some that are exactly the same outside of church as in. They never swear and they only listen to Christian Inspirational music (which mainly seems to be in the genre of New Country). Hey, to each his or her own.

Even the pastors aren't exactly the same. The older one is dreamy and mild. The younger one is shouty and likes to do a bit of pulpit-thumping during his sermons.

The first day I went to that church was the same day the Gay Pride parade was taking place downtown. Ken and I agreed if there was any gay-bashing talk in the service we would get right up and walk out. There was none. The festivities were very delicately not mentioned at all. So, we stayed.

I felt from the very beginning that we were meant to go to this particular church. I can't quantify it. It felt homey and right. The congregation there is peopled with genuine sweethearts. They really pull together and love one another, as much as is possible for fallible humans.

The church seems to have a need for our particular talents. I fell right into my nursery shifts, and couldn't be happier doing it. Same goes for participating in the band. Ken has been working the sound system, which he happens to have been trained for in college. He was able to step in and take over when another volunteer retired. Who else would do these things if not us? We both feel called to do this work at the church. We're pretty sure it's a God Thing. It's always best to say Yes to God.

However, the theology of our church is not exactly in line with what I personally believe. Since that first day, the younger pastor has come out with a few statements in opposition to gay marriage. Additionally, there were two sermons within the past month warning of the dangers of consulting psychics and mediums. If I'm even somewhat psychic (although I don't read palms for a living), what does that say about me? I'm a tool of the devil?

Both pastors are aware that Ken and I have experiences that go beyond the usual five senses. We told them that right at the get-go, when we were all getting to know each other. How does that work with their vigorously enthusiastic warnings against the Dark Side?

Getting back to the issue of gay marriage: I promised a lesbian woman I know, when I became a Christian, that I would never become a homo-hater. And I stand by that promise. I could explain the beliefs which underlie that in detail, but I don't want to bore my readers to death. Suffice it to say that a) I don't believe that every word in the Bible was written directly as if by God's own hand and b) I believe the message of love that J.C. brought to the earth is the underlying point of what it does (or should) mean to be a Christian, and therefore anything in the Bible that doesn't focus on replacing hate or indifference with love is really beside the point.

What if the younger pastor knew this? Would he want to kick me out of the church?

According to my own theology, it's OK for me to be there because I'm there for love. I love the people, and I love God and I'm there to show it. How much does it matter that we differ on these points, and others?

I'm putting money into the collection plate. It's not going toward a fund to buy guns to shoot gay people, but it is paying the salary of the homophobic pastor. Who incidentally is otherwise a very pleasant and caring man. He thinks he's doing the right thing.

Sometimes I think maybe I'm there because it gives me a chance to effect change from within. I won't change anyone's opinion if I only ever hang out with people who agree with me. Maybe the time will come to stand up and speak out, and maybe I'll have the courage to do so. God has plans for me, and I'm there being prepared.

Sometimes I think maybe I'm there because I've always been prone to zip up my lips and agree with people just to keep the peace. Maybe it's like when I was living at my parents' house and I shut up and stayed in my room until I was 23 instead of mouthing off or moving out because I was comfortable, scared, safe, and lazy.

Sometimes I think maybe I'm there because love is the only thing that matters. That I'll never find a church that agrees with me 100% on every point. That the point is to get together with people; real, fallible, flawed people; and to love them, my brothers and sisters, with all of my heart and soul.

After all, He did say "Love your enemies". Are they my enemies? Does it matter?

Seismic Activity

I've been praying almost every day. When I don't have anything in particular I want to speak to God about, I pray this prayer. (Authorship has traditionally been attributed to St. Francis of Assisi, although recent research shows that this is probably not true.) No matter who wrote it, it puts into words what I need to work.

"Let me not seek so much seek to be consoled as to console."

In other words, help me pick my chin up off the floor, give me a kindly whack upside the head when I'm feeling sorry for myself, and fill my heart to overflowing with grace, so that I have enough to spare for others.

Historically, I have been attached to the role of "victim". Given my childhood, it was somewhat justified. But I'm 36 now. It's really time to get over all that old crap. I have struggled for years with an inability to truly, at all levels, let those old pains go. But since I've been praying to God, in Jesus' name, for help, I've been doing a lot better. It was something I couldn't do alone, but with spiritual assistance I'm taking baby steps.

I'm genuinely feeling more inclined to be forgiving and helpful, rather than resentful and protective of my time. It feels good. It feels adult, mature. When I can be in the headspace of caring for others instead of dwelling on perceived injustices, I feel much happier. It's a contented, calm happiness, not like the Happy you crash from when that Fun Thing you were doing is finished. It's peaceful. It's great.

Lord, make me an instrument of your love and peace. Amen.

The flip side of this experience is even more difficult to articulate, because I'm accustomed to believing that people who think like this are crazy. Except now I'm thinking crazy. Get to the point, Spark. OK, so what I really believe is that I am getting to know the personality of that entity referred to as Satan.

I don't necessarily picture a red dude with pointy ears and a tail, and a beard made of steel wool. It's more a sense of a negative force that exists, with all the characteristics traditionally attributed to The Enemy. It's sneaky. It's deceptive. It can disguise itself as goodness or pleasure. It comes in the night, or whenever you're overstressed and tired, to undermine your confidence. It tells you your negative feelings are justified, and that you should hold onto them for dear life, because to let them go would be to compromise your integrity.

One of my new Christian friends recently gave me a book, and signed the front cover with something like "Look out for Satan! He wants to steal everything good from us." 49% of my brain said "She's nuts! What's all this Satan nonsense?" 51% of my brain (and growing) said "Yes! It's true! I feel his cold, pointy claws hooking into me when I'm weak, and once he's got a hold on me he'll drag me down as far as I'll let him."

I don't have a clear, logical thesis on any of these matters. These are fuzzy thought-feelings that percolate through my brain as the days go by, shaping me, changing me. How much sense does it make to you?

Public Devotion

On November 1st I attended a Christian worship/song-and-dance performance with around 14,000 other people at Toronto's large domed stadium.

A non-church-going but somewhat-Christian (and also somewhat New-Age) friend accompanied me. Thank goodness for her. I found the experience overwhelming on several levels, but my friend was there at my side like a life preserver. She's a teddy bear. When I felt like it was all getting too much I'd lean up against her comforting arm which was wrapped inside a comforting fuzzy sweater, and she'd look over at me and giggle in her lovely way.

To start with, I am not a lover of crowds. There are many events which I outright avoid simply because of the crowds.

I assure you, this place was CROWDED.

Our seats were on the field, right in the middle. The tickets had mostly been sold in blocks, one block to each church, so people were sitting with members of their congregations. The whole point of the concert was to bring together Christians from all over Toronto and the surrounding area, so there were people from all denominations and all backgrounds. The show of solidarity was good to see.

One consequence of the seating arrangement was that differences in church cultures and congregations were easy to spot. My friend and I were seated in row 16, with four more rows dedicated to my church behind us. Starting from row 15 was another church, with a completely different character. The average age of my church is, I'm guessing, at least 50. The average age of the church in front of us was less than 30.

My friend and I were seated directly behind a posse of energetic teenagers. As soon as the music started, those kids were up out of their seats, grooving with the rhythm and raising their hands to the heavens. Meanwhile, my church, for the most part, sat quietly with their hands folded in their laps. I looked over at my friend. Neither of us could see anything from a seated position behind the dance squad, so we stood up too. And, since we were up, we danced. I wouldn't have felt comfortable being the first one to stand up, but the teenagers went first and thereby "gave us permission".

Much as I do feel a strong desire to show devotion to the loving God who is with me when I pray, it's not easy to make that connection in an unfamiliar, loud, public place. I sang along with the worship songs and copied the movements of the teenagers, but for the most part I felt that I was going through the motions. There were points at which I felt my heart was touched, and I looked over several times to find my friend weeping with her head bowed in devotion, but it was just too alien an environment for me to fully "go there".

The concert had officially started at 6:30 pm.  Around 8:30 pm, I started getting really hungry. I had eaten dinner at 4:30 pm because we arrived early to find our seats. I waited for an intermission, but despite the fact that the programme was divided into "Act 1" and "Act 2", there was no break. I got hungrier and hungrier. I wondered if I should leave my seat and go all the way back up through the stands to find a hot dog or something. But I've heard a lot lately regarding the benefits of fasting with prayer, so I decided I'd just stay put.

Of course, since my blood sugar was low, I felt my passion for dancing along with the teenagers ebbing away. The heat wasn't on in the stadium, and I become more and more conscious of the cold. I thought: this is good. I never stop to think about how hard it is to be cold and hungry. Experiencing this will make me more sympathetic to the suffering of less fortunate people.

Actually, it mostly just made me cranky.

By the time the grand finale was done at 10:00 pm, I was ready to eat my chair.  But it wasn't as simple as rushing out the door and finding the closest food vendor.  There were over 14,000 people in that stadium, and remember, I was in the middle of the field, up near the front.  People funneled up the stairs and out the exits at a snail's pace.  It was 10:45 pm before we finally made it outside.

My friend headed off to the train station.  I went straight to the nearest Harvey's (a Canadian burger franchise).  Of course there was already a giant line-up.  I got into the line directly behind a couple in their early 20's who had obviously just come from the same concert.  Up past my bedtime, cold, and hypoglycemic, I was feeling less than patient.  You can imagine how tolerant I felt when three friends of the young couple casually slipped into the line ahead of me without the slightest acknowledgement that they were butting in.

At that moment, my thoughts were decidedly un-Christian.

I debated voicing my outrage, but by then I was so low on energy that I couldn't summon the oomph to tell all five of them off.  I waited another 20 minutes as the line inched forward.  

By the time I got home around midnight, I was completely wiped out.  The next day, my first thought was that attending the concert hadn't been worth the trouble.  However, I did gain something from it.  My curiosity was satisfied.  And there were a few choice moments when I felt in touch with the awe of worship.

I will always remember one woman, standing a few rows ahead of me, in the darkened stadium, in a lull between musical numbers.  She stretched her arms out, waaay out, tilted her head back, and shouted from her guts:  "Yes, Lord!  Thank you!  Thank you, Jesus!"  

Her voice echoed across the enormous space, spontaneous, raw, and beautiful.  I broke out in gooseflesh from head to toe.  In that moment, I witnessed something unrehearsed and real.  That's what I went for.  

Maybe it was worth it after all.

Authority

The primary issue that had my brain (and my guts) twisted into knots for the past month was the question of whose authority to trust regarding matters of the spirit.

Frankly, I would love to find one earthly source to feed all my otherwordly needs; to answer all the hard questions; and to take the onus off of my own notably fallible judgement.  

In the past, I've searched high and low among New Age self-proclaimed gurus (and one Buddhist monk), hoping to find someone who actually lives up to their claim of having all the answers.  No luck there.  I had a very specific spiritual problem to solve,  i.e. my tendency to pick up other peoples' feelings and take them on as my own, so it was easy to tell what worked and what didn't.  None of these people, even those whose theories were very convincing, were able to give me practical tools to change my situation.  After several years of consecutive disappointments, I stopped expecting to find anyone who could help.

As you know (or if you don't, read the post I linked to above), I finally found someone who could help me, in the person/God who goes by the name of Jesus.  One answered prayer led to another and another, and now my days of feeling overwhelmed by psychic bombardments are just a fading memory of a nightmare.  It wasn't about faith to begin with: my first prayer was almost sarcastic, with just a sliver of hope, and I still got an answer.  I can't prove it to anyone else, but in my personal world it's a repeatable experiment with consistent results, proving that Jesus really does exist.

Will I ever get used to making that statement?  34 years of turning my nose up at Christianity do not fall away in an instant.  But how can I argue with what I personally know and have experienced to be a fact?

The Bible is another matter entirely.  Just because I believe in Jesus doesn't mean that I automatically accept everything else that comes along with any of the major Christian combo deals.  It's supposed to be pretty much a given that if you call yourself a Christian you're going to put some amount of faith in the Bible, but how much?

It appears that no two people on the planet, even including those who claim to take the Bible as the inerrant word of God, can agree exactly on a complete interpretation of scripture.  Every human who reads it has their own bias.  Not to mention that there are over 50 complete modern English translations of the original scriptures before we even get to divisions on the basis of personal opinion.

Unless you're someone who was born into a particular denomination and 100% accepts your church's interpretation of scripture from when you're first able to understand Sunday school until the day you die, your personal opinion is going to colour the way you read the Bible. Therefore, any person who disagrees even in a small way with the tradition they grew up with, or who converts to Christianity as an adult, makes choices about the way in which they approach scripture.

There is a very convincing argument which I have read from more than one source, critiquing the New Age movement and encouraging people to pick one faith and submit to its authority.  It goes something like this:  The New Age movement treats the world's spiritual traditions like an all-you-can-eat buffet.  New Agers pick and choose among the elements of each tradition that they find beautiful, attractive, comforting, and non-threatening.  This approach, the argument goes, will always result in a faith that cannot result in personal growth, because by definition it will never take you out of your comfort zone.

If you really want to grow beyond the limits of your own small soul, you have to submit to a greater authority and trust it to guide you through deep waters to a greater truth, the argument concludes.  

The bottom line seems to be: don't trust your own preferences, because they will limit you.  You have to set your judgements aside and follow a tradition that has accumulated wisdom for years equalling many times the span of your brief life.

But which one?  I mean, you have to choose to begin with.  And if you're choosing, you're still exercising your own judgement and preferences.  

This is where everything starts to get circular and confusing.  

Even within the first few weeks of my education in Christian theology, I ran into disagreements between interpretations of scripture.  I was listening to some podcasts from this source , and also taking verbal instruction from a pastor at my local church.  Which one of them should I trust?

Honestly, there are things that rub me the wrong way within both views.  So let's say, for argument's sake, that I went ahead and picked one of them to be My Trusted Authority.  If someone were to ask me why I picked that source as Correct In All Things, I wouldn't want to say "well I just picked one at random because you have to give yourself over to something greater".  I'd want to give some compelling arguments based in fact and logic to show that this was a basically trustworthy source.  The subtext of this is:  I have good judgement!  Therefore I made a good choice!

But let's say that there are some points upon which I disagree with My Trusted Authority.  I could put my own views on a shelf and try to force my mind to accept the view of the Authority.  If someone were to ask me why I was ditching the beliefs I'd held strongly for all of my life in order to embrace the theology of the Authority, I'd have to answer "I don't have all the answers, and I believe that one must give oneself over to a wiser tradition in order to grow spiritually".  The subtext of this is:  My judgement is flawed!  Therefore I must be protected from making bad choices!

Let's review.  I've made one choice, and someone has asked me two questions regarding that choice.  The answer to the first question ends up being "A" (I have good judgement).  The answer to the second question ends up being "Not A" (I have bad judgement). 

Can I tell you how many hours of sleep I lost going through these arguments over and over in my mind trying to find some way of breaking through the impossibility?

In the end what it comes down to is this:  I can't find any way of half-trusting myself.  Either I believe that my judgement is basically good and I check in with myself to see if things feel right before I believe them, or I distrust myself entirely and let myself be led.  If I trust my judgement even a wee little bit, I'm going to end up questioning things.  You can't have A and Not A at the same time.

And considering that I wasn't born into a Christian faith that I could accept unquestioningly for the duration of my life, exercising no judgement at all is not an option.  Not that I find that to be a problem.  I hated thinking that I had to force myself to throw my own feelings and opinions into the garbage when it came to controversial topics.  Before I'd had enough time to puzzle it all through, I thought that might be what God wanted.  

My judgement might not be perfect every time, but it's been good enough to get me this far.  I'm going to keep counting on it as much as I always have.

I do believe that there's a lot to the Bible.  The past 20 years have unearthed quite a lot of archeological evidence that supports the historical points in some of the scriptures.  And, when it's interpreted through the eyes of love, the wisdom contained in the Bible does come to life.  Oddly enough, I find that I enjoy reading the Bible, even when I find the content leaves me with questions.  

I came this far in my journey, hugely outside my comfort zone, without accepting any human authority as fundamentally superior to my own.  Sure, lots of people have more education, or do more good works, etc.  I can learn from them.  But the only person I'm willing to surrender to completely is Jesus.  I reserve the right to disagree with anyone else.

I realize this post leaves many questions hanging, but it's long enough.  Tune in next time, when I plan to get more specific regarding the disagreements which trouble me most, and hopefully answer any questions you good folks leave in the comments.

Shields Down

I used to have a Blogging Persona. Sparkling Red, born into the blogging world in October of 2007. She stood at a remove from the world, using that distance to find humour within anger or fear, and beauty within sorrow.

After Jesus came along and found me, and lifted me up to himself, I changed. At first I had trouble writing because my basic assumptions about reality were in flux, and I wasn't even sure who I was anymore. How can you write about "I" when you don't even know who that "I" is?

But now things are settling down, and I still find myself reluctant to return to this blog.

I can't be the old Spark anymore. I no longer stand at such a remove from the world, claiming observer status. Living like that allowed me a measure of protection, and also left me feeling alienated.

Now that I've set my intention to engage lovingly with real people in the real world, my heart has grown. I'm less likely to escape into ironic humour, and more likely to get genuinely emotional as I let myself be impacted by life. It's not that I feel this approach is unwelcome in Blogland, where there are no outsiders. But I'm more vulnerable now that I've dropped my shields. It's one thing to share my new self with trusted family and friends. It's quite another thing to put it out on the internet for anyone to see.

Also, I find myself preoccupied with some very controversial issues at the moment. Nothing I wish to share with a limitless audience. I'm not sure what would be gained by spouting my opinions on these matters, because peoples' minds aren't generally changed by words, but by personal experience.

So that is why again and again, I think about writing for this blog, and come up with question marks.

And yet, here I am!

Feelin' Good

Folks, I'm happy to report: I'm feeling really good today. Even though this week was stressful at work, even after the temp fiasco, even though the weather forecast calls for thunderstorms today, I feel surprisingly steady and optimistic.

I have noticed significant changes in myself within the past two weeks. Ever since I recovered from my mini-freak-out, I feel that I've been moving from strength to strength. And it's coming from a very unexpected source.

Keep in mind that while I am immersing myself in Christian writings, podcasts, TV shows, and prayer, there is still a large and active portion of skepticism in my mind. I spent 35 years doubting and questioning. That doesn't go away overnight. I'll always be the type of person to examine and test every concept before I accept it. And I'm really used to dismissing anything related to religion as a bunch of hot air.

So even though I'm reading, listening, or watching, my inner skeptic sits back with its feet up, making its presence known. Sometimes I stop and ask myself: Am I really doing this? Do I really believe? Are these feelings just wishful thinking? I'm incapable of swallowing new ideas hook, line, and sinker, even if I wanted to.

Despite this mistrust, I find that the material is having an impact on me. I feel stronger, more confident, peaceful, and centered.

I might make fun of the Bible while I read it, or pay imperfect attention to it because Ken has the TV on and it's distracting my attention, but when I put that book down, I'm always amazed by how good I feel. I don't especially enjoy reading it the way I enjoy my regular books. I don't know how the feeling of contentment sneaks up on my while I'm reading. It only takes a couple of passages and I'll feel the effect. I have to say: it seems there really is something there beyond the words and the paper. It's certainly not something that I expected or even hoped for.

It's very weird.

The same thing happens with other material. I get something out of it that my intellectual mind wants to reject. It's beyond my rational understanding.

Prayer is even more powerful. I might not find the words of certain prayers to be aesthetically pleasing, or expressive of my own particular feelings, but reciting them, especially aloud, draws feelings into my heart, seemingly out of the blue.

My rational mind balks at the illogic, but my heart welcomes these new feelings. I have a significantly increased ability to deal with stress, and I'm much more likely to speak my mind with confidence. Hey, it works! I can't argue with that logic.

Temporarily Out of Service

As usual, my department is understaffed. I have availed myself of the services of a temp agency to fill the gaps.

This temp agency has always provided me with decent service. Around half the time they send someone who's truly excellent. The other half of the time they send someone who'll get the job done. All the temps they've sent have been professional and friendly. I have great faith in this company.

Since a couple of weeks ago I've had a temp on a long-term assignment. She's doing easy stuff that anyone with office experience could walk in and do, like alphabetical filing and answering the phones. She was doing a pretty good job too, until she got sick.

Yesterday I came in to find: no temp. The temp agency had left a message on my voice mail stating that my temp was sick and wouldn't be in. This confused me.

YOU ARE A TEMP AGENCY.

JUST SEND ANOTHER TEMP!

They have an infinite supply of these smiling, efficient ladies at their disposal. When I did call them back, they offered to send someone else over right away, if I wanted. Of course I wanted! That's why I hired the temp in the first place! Duh. I sincerely feel that a replacement should have been dispatched automatically.

Maybe that's not their protocol... Whatever.

That day turned out to be quiet, so I told them not to bother, but that if our regular temp was still sick by the next day, they definitely needed to send someone, because mid-week is our busiest time.

I walked in this morning to find my staff in a frenzy of busy-ness and NO TEMP. What?!

Yesterday I was willing to let slide, but today I was steaming mad! I had left very clear instructions, which they had not followed. I called the temp agency rep with barely restrained fury.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," said the rep, "I didn't understand. I thought you meant you only needed someone if Temp was going to be off for the rest of the week." Yeah. What part of "tomorrow is the busiest day of our week so we'll definitely need someone" was ambiguous?

Grrrrr!

In the end they sent Temp2, who saved our butts for the rest of the day. I guess I can forgive the agency for the screw-up. But I'll be keeping my eye on that rep if I ever deal with her again. Trust me, in future I will make sure that everying is painfully clear.

Church

Last Sunday, for the first time ever in my life, I went to church. As I've explained, this is a Big Deal. I'm not even 100% sure whether or not I'm ready to write about it, but what the heck. So far all my leaps of faith have landed encouragingly.

Strictly speaking, I did go to church once before, two Sundays ago. I had gone online and found an appealing website, stating that this church welcomed everyone in the community, of all cultures, and offered "lively musical worship". I expected that I might have to try out a few different congregations before one clicked for me, but this seemed like a good place to start.

The website noted that the Sunday service started at 11:00 am. Ken decided that he would come with me. So up we got on Sunday morning, dressed ourselves respectably, and arrived at the church around 10:50 am.

A Korean language service was already in progress, so we tip-toed around the foyer, picking up booklets from a wire spinner and generally being nosy. As the minutes passed and 11:00 grew closer, I started to wonder why no one else was gathering for the 11:00 am English service.

Answer: There wasn't one.

These people really need to update their website. Their completely English website.

*sigh*

So we hopped back in the car and went downtown for brunch, a walk in the sun, and raspberry gelato in Little Italy. After that I didn't feel so bad.

Next time I picked out a promising church, Ken ran a reconnaissance mission. He actually stopped in and spoke to one of the pastors. Pretty darn nice of him, considering that this whole Christianity thing is my obsession, not his. He didn't want me to be disappointed.

He brought home a glowing report of a beautiful, brand-new church building, and a friendly, genuinely sweet pastor. I was psyched.

This past Sunday, ten minutes before the service was schedule to start, we ran out the door, sweating in our proper clothes and dodging the raindrops which were just starting to fall. We live just a few blocks away from this church, well within walking distance. We sprinted most of the way there, so fearful were we of being tardy and receiving disapproving stares.

We needn't have worried. People were drifting in and getting settled in the padded pews for a good ten minutes after we pulled up at the door. A white-haired man greeted us and passed us a leaflet. We picked a strategic spot to one side, perfect for a quick getaway if things got dicey. Don't ask me what we were afraid of - it was just the unknown, I guess.

It was all good. We sang songs, the lyrics projected onto a screen overhead. The service was inspiring. It was based on the story of Exodus, which I am familiar with from my family's Jewish Passover services. That went a long way towards making me feel at home.

I found out that the pastors like to be addressed informally, by their first names. Anyone present is invited to take communion, not only those who have been baptized. It's a very friendly church. Apparently there's usually a Tea Social after the service, but it's been suspended for the summer months. Anyway, we were stopped by several people on our way out who just wanted to introduce themselves, welcome us, and encourage us to come back.

All in all it was a heart-warming experience. Coming from me, this is shocking. I'd never in a million years have predicted that I'd turn into a church-goer. But there it is. I'm already looking forward to next Sunday.

The Big Deal

Not long ago I was talking with someone I know about my exploration of Christianity (I hesitate to call it a conversion at this point), and she put to me the following question:

"You explored Buddhism and New Age spirituality without feeling uncomfortable. What is it in Christianity that's so different? Why are you so uncomfortable with this option? What's the big deal?"

In what follows, I attempt to unpack a coherent answer to this question. It's not easy, but I feel it's important to put this out in the public realm.

All my life I've been sheltered from anti-semitism. I've never experienced direct discrimination on account of my cultural background. Maybe a little insensitivity here and there, but nothing serious compared to how things used to be, in the not-so-distant past.

My grandfather remembers going to the Toronto beaches, where signs were posted that read: No Dogs and No Jews Allowed. A great-aunt was fired from her job because her father wouldn't let her work on the Sabbath. Just a few generations back it was difficult to get jobs, or get into certain schools and clubs, based on one's Jewish background. But that's ancient history! It has no bearing whatsoever on my life today!

Or does it?

All through my childhood and young-adulthood, the memories of anti-semitism that my relatives experienced were repeated to me over and over, until they were indelibly carved on my memory. My mother tried to prepare me for any discrimination I might be exposed to by warning me about all the anti-semites "out there" and conjuring up things they might say or do to hurt me. I was always made aware of any news item noting that a synagogue had been defaced, or gravestones tipped over in a Jewish cemetary. You could say that some of my relatives live on high alert for signs of trouble.

The reason for this is understandable. The Holocaust was not so long ago, and directly affected my family . I have heard it said that it takes seven generations to heal such a grievous wound, and as the daughter of a Holocaust survivor I can attest that this seems like a reasonable estimate.

I can never let my passport expire. I was told over and over by my mother that you have to be ready to flee at any time, because you never know when Nazis are going to show up and start killing Jews again. They could be amassing in underground cells as I write this, drafting plans for computer-controlled killing chambers and ever more efficient means of tracking who has a trace of Jewish DNA in their genes. I know that this isn't realistic, but still. I don't like letting my hand hang over the edge of the mattress at night even though I don't officially believe in monsters under the bed, and I will always keep my passport up to date, just in case.

Of course I could continue to go further back in history and never find an end to the tales of Jewish hardship. My great-grandparents came to Canada to escape the pogroms in Eastern Europe, for example. You get the point.

What it all adds up to for me is a small and quiet but determined paranoia. Overtly secular situations don't bug me, and that's where I've spent the majority of my time, so no problem. However, anytime I'm in a designated Christian environment, I've felt that I don't belong and that I might be forcefully rejected if anyone finds out that I'm a Jew.

(Also, if I find myself in an officially Jewish environment outside of my family circle, I feel that I might be forcefully rejected if anyone finds out how unfaithful I've been to the Jewish religion. I can't win!)

What it adds up to for a large part of my family is a fierce feeling of indebtedness to Jewish traditions. "We" (meaning people who lived and died before I was born) FOUGHT for our traditions. Millions of Jews died for these traditions. (That's the thinking, even though many of the Jews who died in the Holocaust were completely secular and assimilated.) There's a feeling that we must honour the memory of the dead, and justify the sufferings of the past, by keeping Jewish culture alive. If not, we're as guilty of killing our culture as the Nazis were.

Wow. That's some heavy guilt, isn't it?

As a teenager, I had an ongoing argument with my mom about my identity. I didn't want to identify as Jewish. She continually told me that I had no choice. My argument was that I don't practice the religion, and I don't believe there's a measurable genetic distinction between Jews and non-Jews, so if I don't want to call myself a Jew, I don't have to. Her argument was that the Nazis would have called me a Jew, because of my ancestry, and therefore I didn't have a choice but to accept that label.

Notice how she wanted to let the Nazis determine my identity. They do keep popping up to scare us, just like the monsters under the bed.

Back to my point: it's no small thing for me to face the question of my spiritual and/or religious and/or cultural identity. I don't believe I'll ever be able to untangle the question of how much I identify as Jewish. And it's not a light matter to switch my identity to Christian. I was raised in a pervasive atmosphere of keeping one's guard up around gentiles, because they can turn on you at any time. Gentiles are/were/can be The Enemy. Am I going to become one of Them?

(I'm not saying that this is rational. I only had one Jewish friend, growing up and presently. All the rest identified as Christian, or at least they celebrated Christmas. They certainly weren't The Enemy. I never promised that this would make sense.)

In Orthodox Judaism, if a member of the family leaves the Jewish faith, the rest of the family mourns for them as if they were dead, and then never speaks of them again. The convert has died, in the eyes of their family. My extended family wouldn't go that far, but it would be very bad if they knew.

All my parents (step and bio) know, and my sister, but I don't intend to tell anyone else, for now. Maybe not ever. I just don't know if it would be worth the hurt and confusion it would cause.

So there you have it. It's a very big deal, and no wonder I'm having an identity crisis. Do people from other backgrounds have similar conundrums? I'm curious to know how much you can relate.

Mixing it up

In the comments to Testimony, the following was feedback from Karen.

And for me, someone who was raised Catholic, I find it amazing that you would find Jesus as a source of comfort or relief from what my religion considers a "pagan" sort of spirituality...

...Basically, Catholics are taught that psychic spirituality is bad and exploration in to that world is a form of false worship. You have found a way to mesh Jesus with the psychic portion of yourself - or Jesus has found a way to do that through you.

Food for thought, that. Because after I gave up on Buddhism, the next stop on my seeker's journey was the wild and whacky world of New Age spiritualism. The practices and theories I explored included everything from traditional paganism to idea that aliens have been pivotal in human evolution and are watching us even now.

(For the record, I was never a convert to the alien theory. However, it did make for some very interesting reading.)

I gravitated towards New Age people and books because they were the only resource I had to help me define and describe the psychic experiences that sometimes took over my life. Before New Age gave me a language to describe these occurrences, I felt like I imagine Helen Keller might have felt before her teacher taught her to communicate. I kept bumping up against these inscrutable experiences and emotions, which sometimes felt good, but more often bruised me, and I had no idea what they were, or how to cope with them. New Age at least got me started along the path to understanding.

I enrolled in a school for "psychospiritual development". I started out with just a couple of evening courses: meditation 101, and energy healing. I soon signed on for a whole raft of courses, including a 2-year part-time psychotherapy course.

Freaky things happened at that school. One thing I learned is that if you focus on psychic experiences, if you go looking for them and invite them, they will happen more often. I could give a dozen examples, but this one stands out:

We did an exercise in which the class was split into two halves. Half the students put on blindfolds. The blindfolded students each sat down in a chair facing another, empty chair. The other half of the class was asked to wander the room until a signal from the teacher, and then they each sat in the closest empty chair, in an approximation of random partner selection.

Only the blindfolded people were to speak in this exercise. The sighted partner was to give their hand to the blindfolded partner, and then the blind partner was to attempt a verbal description of the sighted person's life, based only on the psychic impressions they got from that person's hand. This was on the 6th evening of the course, so none of us knew each other very well, and even if we had, it's surprising how hard it is to identify someone from just their hand if you haven't been studying everyone's hands ahead of time.

I was blindfolded first. I got a random hand to hold, and literally had no idea who was sitting across from me. I couldn't even determine the gender. I felt like an idiot. I was supposed to say something. So I just let my mind wander and started talking. I described a house that I saw in my mind's eye. It was pretty specific. A living room with big windows and a skylight, with a pass-through opening onto a kitchen. There was no ceiling per se - both rooms opened up to a peaked roof made of wooden beams. The kitchen had sliding glass doors opening onto a wooden deck and then a forest behind that. (Keep in mind that most people in the class were from Toronto. No forests here! I figured I must just be daydreaming.)

I kept on going, blah blah, describing a dog, a spouse, hobbies. At one point I felt the hand start to shake slightly. The minutes ticked by. I was like, damn, this is foolish! I'm making an ass of myself. Finally the teacher said we could stop and take the blindfolds off.

I finally laid eyes on my grinning partner, a 30-something woman. I asked her how I did, and asked her why I had felt her hand shaking. Her reply:

"I was laughing because you were so bang-on that it was ridiculous. It's like you've been to my house. You also described my marriage and my dog. The only thing that you didn't get exactly right was that I don't knit - I do embroidery." She lived outside the city, which I hadn't known, and drove over an hour to get to the school each week. We re-hashed the reading, and she confirmed almost every detail that had come out of my mouth. I was completely unnerved by this result, but there it was.

I learned a lot about myself at that school. The interpersonal skills I got from the psychotherapy course come in handy just about every day of my life. And it was good to be able to discuss my psychic happenings with people who could relate. But I never felt that it was enough, in and of itself, to make that all-important connection to a truly loving and supportive higher power.

There were times when we created rituals, bringing symbolic objects from our lives and acting out the gestures of letting go, or accepting, or opening to new possibilities. We also invited in the spirit of this or the goddess of that, asking for help or guidance. I gave these things an honest effort, as much as I've ever given to anything. And while I did feel that I received some otherworldly guidance now and then, I never attained that feeling of being contained and filled by love that I so longed for.

What I've come to believe is that while clairvoyance and God are both roughly categorized as "spiritual" in the sense that both are intangibles, obviously there are many magnitudes of difference between the two. If God is a diamond, psychic experiences are clay. In my experience, Jesus and ESP are not mutually exclusive, nor necessarily working at cross purposes.

Phenomena of the human energy field and beyond are just one little step up from the material world. I'm betting that someday we'll be able to measure these fields, and they will become as un-mysterious as magnetic forces and gravity. In themselves, these phenomena do not constitute a complete spiritual picture. Every seeker must go further, to find whatever key fits the lock on their soul. Some people may be able to make a connection with the Powers That Be through Wicca or Druid practices, but not I.

For whatever odd reasons which may or may not ever be revealed to me, Jesus is my key.

And that is my clumsy attempt at articulating how this confusing mess of concepts all fits together in my head. It's not an airtight construction, and is ever flexible to accommodate new information and experiences as they arrive. If I get any more epiphanies, I promise I'll let you know.

Peanut Butter and the Buddha

The only other time I seriously considered converting, it was to Buddhism.

For six months, I went to study with a Japanese Buddhist monk every Sunday. He lived in a small house which doubled as a temple. The living room and dining room areas had been converted into a simple space for meditation and services.

The sub-type of Buddhism was "Nichiren". There are many types of Buddhism, from Zen, which is more of a philosophy than a religion, to types that worship the Buddha as a god. The Nichiren that I learned was mostly focused on clearing one's mind, however there was a large Buddha statue on the alter and we made offerings to him every day.

First, the monk would lead me in chanting and meditation. I was his only new student at the time. I was not yet allowed in the regular services, in case I screwed up the rituals, so I ended up having one-on-one lessons. Yup, just me and the monk. Sometimes it got intense.

I always had a hard time meditating. I tended to drop off to sleep, and then wake with a start as I started to fall over sideways. The monk had his eyes closed, so I don't think he noticed. Lucky for me I wasn't in Japan, where the teachers march between rows of students with a stick, whacking anyone who's looking dozy.

After we completed our practice, we would retire to the kitchen. He made green tea for us and always put out a plate of adorable little Japanese cakes. Before we ate, we had to offer one to the Buddha, by placing it on his plate on the alter. One time I brought some peanut-butter cookies that my mom had baked. I was especially pleased to offer a peanut-butter cookie to the Buddha on behalf of my mom. I told her about it later and she approved.

Funny things stick with me from those lessons, eight years ago. For example, I know you had to remove your shoes and then enter the temple area with the correct foot first, but I can't recall if it's the left or the right.

The monk always offered me a verbal lesson as we drank tea in the kitchen, but all I remember is my shock when I found out he used to be a professional mountain climber/climbing guide in the Himalayas before becoming a monk in Canada. He pronounced it "Himalayers". I gained a new respect for him that day.

I remember the units of cosmic time measurement referred to in the Nichiren teachings. Wikipedia offers an alternate definition , but this is how I was taught to define a kalpa . If you built a castle a hundred miles long, a hundred miles wide, and a hundred miles high; filled it to the brim with poppy seeds; and then removed one poppy seed every hundred thousand years; a kalpa is the length of time it would take to empty the castle.

Buddhism was interesting, and I genuinely desired to attain enlightenment, but somehow it just didn't click for me. I was a rotten meditator, always falling asleep or getting distracted. I found the philosophy gave me a helpful perspective on life, but there wasn't enough of a focus on love to suit my personal taste.

As I got to know the monk, I increasingly saw how he worked to maintain an aura of mystery, but he was really just a regular guy. Once, when the clocks changed for daylight savings time, I showed up an hour early and he answered the door in a grey track suit instead of his usual imposing, black kimono. Another time he bragged to me about how harshly he'd berated one of his advanced students for a supposed disrespect. My perception was that he was just stroking his own ego. I wouldn't have minded him being just a regular guy - it was his efforts to fake me out and impress me that made me cynical.

And so, I gave up going to the temple. I don't regret the experience.

I find there are a lot of valuable truths in the areas where Eastern and Western religions meet and overlap. I've been reading books by Christian authors who express sentiments that would be equally at home in the tradition of Zen Buddhism. It's neat to see how it all fits together.

Testimony

Until now, I had resisted writing about my spiritual experiences for fear of losing my beloved readers. Any of you who missed my last post would be well advised to check it out and read through the comments to see how I've come to be writing about it now.

This post will probably be the one that separates the leavers from the stayers. Because this is where you can either decide that I'm crazy, deluded, and even straight-up lying, or you can take my word for it that some really nutty stuff has happened to me and I'm giving you my honest truth.

A long time ago, I wrote a post about my tendency to pick up other peoples' repressed emotions. Here's how it seems to work, based on my admittedly unscientific experiences over the course of my lifetime.

If someone is feeling an emotion, and expressing it outwardly, that's a no-brainer. Everyone can see what they're feeling.

Second scenario: someone is feeling an emotion without expressing it outwardly, but they are aware of the feeling. They allow the feeling and don't judge themselves for it. For example, you missed your bus, you're frustrated, and you know you're frustrated. You accept your reaction without judging yourself. You allow the feeling to exist in your consciousness until it naturally dissipates. In New-Age speak they call this "owning your emotions". If you own your emotions, I won't feel them. You will.

However, if someone is feeling an emotion and is either not really aware of it or is aware but judging themselves for it, that's when things get messy. For example, you miss your bus and you're frustrated. But instead of just stewing for a few minutes, you tell yourself immediately that everything is fine and go back to reading the morning paper. You press your lips together, tap your food, and refuse to admit that missing the bus really bugged you, because you think you should be above that feeling. You have disowned your emotion.

Another reason why people inadvertently disown their feelings is that they're too busy to pay attention to themselves. If your baby is crying and you're also feeling upset, you'll probably attend to the baby and push your own feelings down as much as you're able to.

Picture your emotions as a bowl of pudding. Say you want to repress them. Picture your options for repression as a hand. Each finger represents one dimension in which you are trying to push down your emotions. You aren't expressing the feeling physically; you're not thinking about it; you're pushing it out of your heart; and you're not expressing it in words.

You push your hand down onto the pudding. But the pudding (emotion) is real and it doesn't just disappear. It has to go somewhere. What happens is the pudding will surge out between your fingers. The spaces between your fingers represent the dimension of yourself that you're not in control of. If you're like the vast majority of people, you're not conscious of and/or cannot control your aura. That's where the emotion will find expression.

Once the emotion is in your aura, if you and I are in close enough proximity for our auras to overlap, there's a chance that I'll pick up on it.

Has anyone decided that I'm crazy yet? I'm trying to lay this out as logically as possible...

Personally I believe that many people pick up on energetic traces from others, but they're not aware of it. If you're an introvert, this could be one reason why people exhaust you. I happen to be sensitive enough that I couldn't maintain my ignorance, but it took a lot to convince me that this was what was happening.

If you're with me this far, let's go to the next step. What types of feelings do people usually repress? All the shadow stuff. Anger, Sadness, Fear, and all their myriad variations. Some really uptight people also repress their joy, but mostly what gets squished out into our shared public places is a lot of horrible crap. And I am vulnerable to picking it up and feeling it, like a psychic version of Sponge Bob Square Pants.

All my life I've struggled with the burden of feeling other peoples' crap. It was MUCH worse when I didn't realize what was happening.

Once I gained awareness, I had the advantage of understanding what was occurring, but I couldn't find a way of protecting myself from the effects. Being around people was constantly draining and exhausting. Sometimes the stuff I picked up made me feel physically ill. Even standing next to someone on the subway, if their aura overlapped with mine, was enough for me to feel their anxiety churn in the pit of my stomach, or their frustration could turn me into an angerball for the rest of the day.

I tried to protect myself. I tried crystals and Buddhist meditation. I tried psychotherapy and drumming and yoga. I tried visualizing white light, blue light, gold light, and grounding rods. I tried Reiki, which actually made things worse by increasing my sensitivity without adding any protective measures. I tried mantras. I tried prayer to "the powers that be", even though I wasn't sure who that might be. Nothing worked.

Honestly, it was like having an invisible disability. Everyday life was always hard, unless I was completely alone, and I didn't want to have to be alone so much.

One day, at work, just a few months ago, I had a confrontation with a customer. He was trying to be polite, but I wished that he would straight-up yell at me because I was getting all his desperation and feeling it sink right in through my abdomen. By the time I got back to my office I was feeling too overwhelmed to focus on my work. Again. In desperation, and I can't tell you where the impulse came from, I prayed to Jesus for help.

In an instant, the bad feeling vanished like it was never there, and I felt totally calm and centered. This, to me, given all my years of suffering and helplessness, was nothing less than a miracle.

Since then, I have been praying to Jesus for help throughout each day. My life has changed, and I get the feeling I've only just begun on this path. I have much more energy, physically, mentally, and emotionally. I'm able to cope with people, even crowds, as long as I continually check in with my spiritual connection. I can support my mom without feeling drained. And I'm not limiting my social engagements so rigidly as I did when I had limited coping abilities.

My connection with the light of Jesus Christ's love is not a passing whim. It's not optional. It's essential for my survival. I didn't go looking for Him; He came to me, for which I am ever grateful. Every day I receive multiple proofs that He's got my back and is always there when I call for him. Sometimes I even get a warning that something intense is coming up, but that's another story for another day.

And that's how it all started.

The Beginning.

An Unexpected Dilemma

Dear All of You,

If you had predicted this situation to me a year ago, I would have laughed in your face. But here it is. I am "getting religion", as they say. I'm having trouble believing it myself.

The story behind this starts last summer, proceeds in baby steps, and is complicated. Perhaps I'll tell it another time.

My dilemma at this point is: what am I going to do about this blog? The purpose I had in mind when I started it was to write about whatever I found interesting, funny, or moving in my own life in a way that would cause others to share my feelings and also be entertained into the bargain. If I wanted to write just for me, I'd still be writing in my journal.

Thing is, as time goes on my spiritual experiences are beginning to permeate every corner of my life. I pray many times throughout the day. When I wake up, my first conscious thoughts are directed to setting a spiritual intention for the rest of the day. My last thoughts before falling asleep are thanks and a recommitment for the day to come. Slowly but surely my perspective has changed so that I'm seeing everything through a new lens.

So, if I continued to write by the same criteria as before, i.e. whatever resonates with me most in a day is what I share, this would turn into a blog about my spiritual journey. Two points:

1) I'm not sure if my current audience is interested in hearing about this. It's very moving but not so much humorous. I'm less inclined to make Seinfeldian observations and more inclined to being touched emotionally. Remember the animated "Grinch Who Stole Christmas"? The part where his heart grows three sizes? That's me right now.

2) I'm not sure if I'm ready to share my experience so publicly, even from behind the shield of anonymity. I'm in the middle of navigating some vulnerable territory here, and I would be leaving myself open to being a target. There are strongly opinionated individuals from both camps who would not take kindly to the idea of a born Jew communing with the spirit of Jesus. I'm having enough trouble managing my own ambivalence without inviting strangers to add fuel to the fire.

On the other hand, I would very much miss the support of all my blog buddies if I stopped writing entirely. Maybe I just need to take a break? Maybe I should call this the last entry of this blog and start a new one when I'm ready?

????????

I appeal to you for feedback and suggestions.

Lots of Love,
Spark.

Quiet Comforts

My life lately has been pretty darn good. I'm grateful for all I have, and can't make any personal complaints. However, a lot of people I care about are going through tough times. They're suffering, confused, and exhausted. They're also brave, awesome, and inspirational. To the best of my ability, I want to be there to give them support and cheer them on.

I feel their pain. It makes me more serious, quieter. I don't shrug it all off as soon as I leave them. I think of them, pray for them. I have been very aware of the bittersweet quality of life. I try to keep my blog posts on the light side, but sometimes the heaviness is pressing and needs attention.

I have been craving the comfort of peace and quiet. When the demands of the world get overwhelming, I need time to myself to collect my thoughts and get centered. Even input that's usually a welcome break, like TV or radio, is intrusive.

One of my favourite simple treats is to take myself and a book out for dinner at a clean, homey, not-too-busy restaurant. Like my favourite soup noodle joint.



Can you imagine yourself sitting there, listening to Korean soft rock, pouring yourself another tea from the hot-water spigot embedded in the table? It's soothing.

I took myself on a solo date to a bagel bakery, where you can get a sandwich on a bagel that came out of the oven only an hour or so ago. It's a big space with high ceilings and generous windows that allow natural light all the way to the back. When I went in, there was an old guy at one table, reading a newspaper and enjoying his sandwich. There was a young couple with a little boy grabbing a quick bite. A middle-aged woman was sipping coffee and working her way through a crossword puzzle.

I got myself egg-salad on a Montreal-style bagel, and settled in with my book. It was a superior sandwich, not on account of the taste (which was fine) but because none of the egg salad fell out into my lap. Egg salad always squishes out of sandwiches. I don't know how they managed to create non-squishy egg salad, but my hat is off to them.

My New Habit

I have a new habit. A year ago, I would have laughed if you had suggested to me that I would be doing what I do.

Let me stretch out the suspense for a few beats...

*DRUMROLL*

Christian evangelistic television shows. Yup. No one's more surprised than me. I don't even keep up a shield of irony while I'm watching. My Jewish grandmothers would cry if they knew.

I used to watch the news every morning. I still do, but I keep the TV on for over an hour while I do my stretching and exercises, and the news stories start to repeat themselves after the first 30 minutes. I flipped around looking for something else to watch, but there's not much choice in the 7:00am to 9:00am timeslot.

I stumbled across the evangelists by accident, and thought I'd watch for a bit of a joke. I've always been suspicious of organized religion, for multiple reasons. I'm not capable of believing anything without asking questions, no matter how good the payoff sounds. And generally I'm not comfortable with pressure to conform.

I do have spiritual beliefs, but they are hard-won and ever-changing as I progress through life and accumulate wisdom. I come from a Jewish background. I have explored New Age territory. I studied weekly with a Buddhist monk (Nichiren Buddhism from Japan) for six months. Christianity is a new one for me.

I quite like these preachers and missionaries. They are charismatic and sincere, positive and caring. Joyce Meyer exhorts me to recite positive affirmations every day. Bill and Gwen Prankard tell inspiring stories about bringing food and clothing to needy tribal peoples living in Russia above the Arctic Circle.

They're not perfect. I don't swallow everything they say unquestioningly. But it's nice to switch over to them after hearing about the latest shootings, traffic problems, increase in gas prices, etc. A little inspiration in the morning goes a long way towards getting me through my day. I'm a pragmatist by nature, so if it works for me, then I'll stick with it. It's very weird, but good.