Leaving Prayer

Aug 6, 2023 | Mothers and Daughters, Spirituality

I grew up in a very strong faith tradition with a clear understanding of prayer—its purpose, its subject, its Object, its how-to’s, its requirement, and my obligation.

But when I left the church (and religion), I left prayer, as well.

Admittedly, it was a harder goodbye.

*****

One of my daughters traversed a season of struggle that stretched us both beyond capacity or reason, sometimes beyond hope. There were more than a few times in which I couldn’t decide if I should call her therapist, my therapist, or just hide under the covers and let her do the same. At its very worst, I wrestled with what felt like the real possibility of losing her altogether. At its very best (which wasn’t “best” at all), I was exhausted, drained, and worn thin. I won’t keep you in suspense: she is an amazing young woman—wise, delightful, aware of pain and grief’s inevitability, able to offer profound empathy and compassion to others (and herself); she astounds me. But before this “happy ending,” there was one particular night . . .

I sat on the edge of my bed and sobbed, excruciatingly aware of how isolated and alone I felt as a single mom, more afraid than I’d ever been, and shockingly clear that I had no sway or will or power when it came to the mind and heart of my precious girl. Through tears that shook me to my core, I remember saying to myself, “I wish I still believed in prayer.” In that singular moment, I acknowledged that it was no longer a comfort at my disposal. “How convenient,” I thought, “to hand all this off, to believe that in surrendering, in turning it over to God, that ‘all things will work together for good.’”

I wanted to pray, but knew that it would be disingenuous, not to mention little more than a desperate wish, a frantic grasping at anything to ease my pain—futile in lessening hers. I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t. I didn’t.

Despite a darkness that nearly consumed, I could do nothing but breathe (and even that, in faltering, ragged ways), unaware that perhaps my very exhale was what allowed a spark to catch, an ember to smolder, my hope to flicker, my desire to ignite. I finally fell asleep, barely trusting that it would endure, that it was enough.

Some might say, including myself, I was stubborn to not pray that night, to not summon any possible source of supernatural aid. I can’t tell you why my resistance was so resolute, my awareness so visceral. Any other night, I might have sublimated every emotion, dissociated, shut down. I might have flung myself on some altar of repentance, made promises I couldn’t keep, begged for a miracle. Instead, for reasons that still defy me, I walked through that “valley of the shadow of death” feeling everything, present to all of it, and sheltering a desire within that somehow survived.

Now, more than a decade later and with the perspective that time always brings, I have realized that in not praying, in not seeking some kind of divine respite or answer or fix, it was my desire to which I clung, believed in, and allowed. Though in the moment, it felt faltering and unreliable, I can see now that it was actually blazing, intense, and undaunted. It was (and is) a full and unrestrained expression of everything within me. More than enough.

*****

Most of us are profoundly ambivalent about the word “desire,” let alone its impact—thanks in large part to the story of Eve (as its been told). We have been taught that a woman’s desire is dangerous and to blame for the downfall of all humanity. We have been convinced that pursuing it only upsets the apple cart, cannot be trusted, leads to disaster, and that succumbing to it will end with eternal flames. It’s no wonder that prayer is promoted and preferred!

Desire is dangerous—in the very best of ways. It takes courage. And faith. There is no promise of the outcome we long for. No guarantee. Just sheer determination, firm belief, and an endless trust in what blazes within us in the deepest and most persistent of ways. It’s a testimony to the know-that-we-know-that-we-know voice within—worthy of being fanned into flame, an inferno, a wildfire.

Unlike prayer—where words, emotions, longings, and hopes are offered to a divine listener, desire is entity in and of itself. It is both object and subject. It is raw, visceral, and embodied. It is not something done and then forgotten, uttered and then released. It stays. It simmers. It clarifies. It blazes. As it should. As it must. As we deserve.  

*****

That night at the edge of my bed, wracked with worry, and at the end of my rope, I couldn’t yet see that everything I felt was my desire. I couldn’t yet recognize that it was a sacred roar, a holy bonfire, a veritable volcano on my daughter’s behalf. I couldn’t yet know that it’s conflagration would hardly destroy, but strengthen and sustain.

I wonder if I would have done anything differently, been different, had I been able to see, recognize, and know my desire as sacred expression, as catalyst, as everything. I wonder if I would have asked my daughter honest questions about her desire. I wonder if I would have made ample space for her to rage and scream and blaze. I wonder if we would we have had heated conversations about injustice and anger and God that were politely avoided because no “acceptable” answers sufficed. I wonder if we would have demanded a different world—where our fiery hearts and deepest desires were honored and affirmed.

I cannot know, of course. But now, unlike then, I do know that acknowledging my desire, allowing it, and certainly feeling and expressing it—nothing withheld, no restraint, wild, untamed, and passionate—is what emboldens and empowers me in ways I couldn’t have imagined or hoped.  

In her book Untamed, Glennon Doyle says this:

If women [and men] trusted and claimed their desires, the world as we know it would crumble. Perhaps that is precisely what needs to happen…Maybe Eve was never meant to be our warning. Maybe she was meant to be our model. Own your wanting. Eat the apple. Let it burn.

Amen!

There are days and times when I still feel a lingering ache for prayer’s comfort and solace. But less and less. I don’t need to be soothed, but enflamed. I don’t need to surrender, but rise up. I don’t need to seek answers, but take action. And my desire is what compels all of this and then some. Endlessly burning. One might even say “without ceasing.”

 

[I wrote a version of this post back in 2021. I trust it still speaks today in rewritten form. It is definitely still an expression of my heart . . . and yes, my desire.]

Redefining “Sacred”

Jul 23, 2023 | My sort-of Sermons, Spirituality

A few years back, my oldest daughter told me about a podcast she’d discovered called Harry Potter and the Sacred Text. Hosted by Vanessa Zoltan and Casper Ter Kuile, each episode analyzed a single chapter from one of the books using poignant themes like loneliness, compassion, advocacy, etc. They were determined to show that you can treat secular things as if they are sacred.

From June 2016 through March 2021, the two of them read, interpreted, and exegeted every chapter of every book. They offered creative ways to look at the text, invited easy-to-apply practices (marginalia, florilegia, PaRDeS, lectio divina, to name only a few), and helped us become better people along the way. Then, in April 2021, Vanessa started over, this time with a new cohost and a commitment to “re-examine the whole Harry Potter series again from the beginning with even more rigor, demonstrating that loving a text responsibly means acknowledging the places where it falls short.” [Source] (Oh, how I love this last phrase . . . and could not possibly agree more!)

I wish I could say I have listened to every episode vs. only the first season. I have meant to go back and pick up where I left off, but it still has not happened.1 Nevertheless, Zoltan and Ter Kuile’s beautiful sacredizing of what most would consider secular has kept me in its grip . . . its embrace, really.

I grew up with the not-to-be-questioned belief that only one Text was to be called sacred; only one Text was worthy (and demanding) of my time, attention, devotion, and obedience. Whether because I am an oldest child or an Enneagram 3, perfection and excellence and proving myself were paramount where this Text was concerned. I read it, over and over again. I underlined. I copied whole sections into organized notebooks. I memorized. I undoubtedly read more books about it than the Text itself had pages. And I did everything in my power to live according to its teachings. Honestly: it was exhausting! I’d like to say that I did become a better person along the way, but not without cost.

What is the cost of viewing the sacred as something nearly unattainable but requiring our endless pursuit? What is the cost of determining one’s worthiness through a lens of self-sacrifice, sin, and the pursuit of perfection? What is the cost of believing the sacred to be something transcendent as opposed to a way of being that honors the everyday and the ordinary? I’m still counting those costs, to be sure: undoing them, deconstructing them, healing them.

It took me decades to even obliquely consider the possibility that the sacred was mine to define and discern, to experience and express, let alone be discovered outside the narrow and prescriptive path I’d been committed to walking. But once I began to see other ways of understanding the sacred, I couldn’t un-see. Thankfully.

It’s helpful to acknowledge the most common definition of “sacred:” The Oxford dictionary says it means being connected with God (or the gods) or dedicated to a religious purpose and so deserving veneration. Synonyms are holy, hallowed, consecrated, sanctified, revered. It assumes “religious” rather than secular and it usually embodies the laws or doctrines of a religion.

It’s no wonder this eludes our grasp, even our experience!

I prefer Vanessa Zoltan’s definition, instead:

“[The sacred is] something that you are in an intentional relationship with that gets you better at loving.”

This is worth reading again. (Go ahead: I’ll wait for you.)

It’s also worth pondering.

What are the things (people, activities, habits) with which you are in intentional relationship? Do they get you better at loving? What memories do you have of the sacred that expanded your way of being in the world, that invited you to more compassion (for self and others), that increased your capacity to love? If you were to adopt this distinct definition of “sacred,” with what might you choose to be in relationship?

These questions open up whole worlds of worship, really; vast realms of awe and wonder; room to move and explore and broaden our understanding and experience of the sacred. Which, it seems to me, is the very point of any kind of spirituality: more, deeper, wider, open, inclusive, expansive.

Sadly, we’ve been plagued for centuries by smaller and smaller allowances of the same. Denominations. Doctrines. Dogma. Smaller still, are the ways in which these very things now segment us from one another; they create us/them divisions with increasingly loud agendas: how we vote and for whom, who is allowed rights or even considered “sacred” in the first place, how much freedom particular people (women, specifically) have to make choices for themselves. . . .

As the collective mind narrows, it’s not all that surprising that we struggle to find the sacred in much of anything. We desperately need a new understanding, a new way forward, and for sure, anything that helps us get better at loving. Even if it’s Harry Potter . . . or Jane Eyre.

In 2021, Vanessa Zoltan wrote a book called Praying with Jane Eyre: Reflections on Reading as Sacred Practice. She used many of the same premises applied to the Harry Potter podcast, but this time with a literary classic (that I happen to love). Within it she says this:

Sacredness is an act, not a thing. If I can decide that Jane Eyre is sacred, that means it is the actions I take that will make it so. The decision to treat Jane as sacred is an important first step, surely, but that is all the decision was—one step. The ritual, the engagement with the thing, is what makes the thing sacred. . . . The text did not determine the sacredness; the actions and actors did, the questions you asked of the text and the way you returned to it.

That’s worth reading again. (Go ahead: I’ll wait for you.)

Ascribing sacredness to something is not from “on high” or only reserved for chosen texts, people, or even deities. Instead, our decisions, our choices, our actions and engagement are what make it so.

And because this is the case, it opens us up to profound levels of possibility and grace. When the sacred is not a “thing,” but something we do—not a noun, rather, a verb—then nearly anything can qualify. Yes, reading a text. But also walking in nature, baking cookies, playing with your kids, writing for self and/or others, rearranging furniture, meditating, doing water aerobics, even watching a movie.

I’ve re-watched You’ve Got Mail many, many times. But it represents so much more to me than just a movie now, because I’ve made it more meaningful. I have very specific rituals for when and how to watch (always alone, always with a tub of Pralines and Cream Häagen-Dazs ice cream). It’s not an “Oh, what shall we watch?” kind of movie; it’s an “I’m feeling lost and alone, and I need everything I’ve got to bring me out of this slump” kind of movie. Certain lines are inscribed on my heart, like mantras. Characters are totems of how I want to be—or not be—in the world. While for most people it’s just another rom-com, for me, You’ve Got Mail is sacred. ~ Casper Ter Kuile, The Power of Ritual: Turning Everyday Activities into Soulful Practices

In other words (and said yet again), we get to decide what we deem sacred, what we will read and ponder and reflect on again and again, where we will find meaning (and what ice cream flavor best compliments such), and the endless ways in which all of this and then some invites us to become a better person along the way; to get better at loving.

Honestly, I could write about this topic for a very long time (and, of course, in many ways, I have been). But for now, let me make one last point. Better said, let Vanessa Zoltan make one last point—again from Praying with Jane Eyre:

My thesis in this experiment was not that Jane Eyre was sacred in and of itself but that if I treated something as sacred, it could be sacred. My trust was in my ability to treat something as sacred and for it to teach me if I did so.

Mmmmm. This feels like perfect prayer and benediction, yes?

May we act and engage in ways that treat things (and certainly each other) as sacred, because they are.

Spirituality sans God

Jun 17, 2023 | Spirituality

Last weekend I received an email that began with these words from John O’Donohue:

There is a place in you where you have never been wounded . . . where there’s a seamlessness in you, and where there is a confidence and tranquility in you. 

The intention of prayer and spirituality and love is now and again to visit that inner kind of sanctuary.

Initially, all I did was breathe in the first portion: I am not wounded. I am seamless. I am confident and tranquil. But as the week has worn on, the last sentence has repeatedly taken my breath away: The intention of . . . spirituality . . . is now and again to visit that inner kind of sanctuary.

My paraphrase?

The intention of spirituality is to experience and know oneself as whole, unbroken, strong, and at peace.

No mention of God. At all.

 

I totally get it. And I completely agree! It echoes the claim of “spiritual, but not religious.” It affirms the definition of spirituality itself: “noun: spirituality; the quality of being concerned with the human spirit or soul as opposed to material or physical things.” [Oxford] I have no argument with any of this.

Here’s what’s taken me aback:

As I’ve sat with his words, mulled them over in pages of journaling, even found myself repeating them with clients in past days, I’ve felt an inner dissonance—a nagging (and surprising) tension between what O’Donohue affirms and what I was taught. I thought I’d gotten over all that! Despite my now-decades of deconstruction, the book I’ve written, the ongoing conversations I have about every bit of this, my unswerving belief in our sovereignty and agency and beauty and strength, there are, apparently, theological tender hooks that still have me in their grip.

Admittedly, this is WAY too simplistic (and more caustic/critical than I mean for it to be), but I grew up hearing, learning, and sadly incorporating that I am wounded. I am broken. And I do not, cannot, know wholeness or confidence or tranquility apart from God. That’s why I need God. I am NOT saying that it’s impossible to be healed and made whole through a belief in and commitment to God; that confidence and tranquility aren’t to be found in the divine. I AM saying and asserting how surprised I am that I am surprised (!) by the idea that I could be the very object of, location of, and intention of spirituality itself.

Again, I already KNOW this—intellectually and objectively. No matter my rational awareness, it does not negate the part of me, unbidden and unwanted, that argues, that resists, that whispers-if-not-shouts that spirituality can’t possibly be self-focused. It doesn’t matter that I don’t actually believe this to be true. The subconscious messaging persists. And it does matter: seeing and naming every bit of this.

“Centuries ago, the people mediating between supplicants and God were priests. Now, in our secular culture, we turn to parents, critics, partners, bosses, even strangers on Instagram. We are easy to shame, eager to prove our worthiness, to see validation from some power outside ourselves.” ~ Elise Loehnen, On Our Best Behavior: The Seven Deadly Sins and the Price Women Pay to Be Good

  • It helps me understand, at least in part, why I have struggled to see myself as worthy, good, and sovereign; you and me both have ingested just the opposite, sometimes completely unawares.
  • It helps me understand why, upon questioning-if-not-leaving the church and its doctrine/dogma, I struggle to find a way of believing-and-being that doesn’t feel like a slippery slope “backwards.”
  • It helps me understand why I sometimes feel a sort-of magnetic pull toward the pursuit of something (or someone) outside of myself vs. an honoring of what’s within.

“We are so fixated on an authority ‘out there,’ we’re missing the miracles inside, all the moments that illuminate our connection to something bigger within ourselves.” ~ Elise Loehnen

  • And it helps me understand why it seems that a window has been thrown open in a musty and dark room; I am breathing in the freshest air, gasping even, as I read these words yet again:

There is a place in you where you have never been wounded . . . where there’s a seamlessness in you, and where there is a confidence and tranquility in you. 

The intention of prayer and spirituality and love is now and again to visit that inner kind of sanctuary.

My reason for writing about this is not to convince you of anything. Nor am I making a case for spirituality in and of itself. I am articulating, yet again, just how deeply we have been influenced by a system of beliefs that, by their very definition, require a god and in such, have the overwhelming tendency to lessen/weaken our sense of self. It is as though being strong, whole, and complete and having a relationship with the divine are mutually exclusive. *sigh*

The irony is not lost on me. I have been writing about and talking about all of this and then some for a very long time—retelling the ancient, sacred stories of women so they are (and we are) seen and honored as strong, whole, and complete; not made to blame for the downfall of humanity, silenced or shamed—whether by God, the over-culture, and/or most-certainly ourselves. Nor have I ever been confused: my endless passion for this reimagining and rewriting has always been on my own behalf; an expression of my need, my desire, my hope. It’s become my spirituality (sans God), in so many ways. And still, in spite of all this, I am acutely aware, especially this week, of the places and ways in which there is always more healing to know, more grace to inhale.

This is the way of things, isn’t it? We inevitably pursue and (hopefully) find what we most want, what we most need, what deep-within matters most.

When we’re awake and aware, we recognize the messages everywhere that heal the messages within.

One could say that this is God. I wouldn’t necessary disagree. But at least for now, I’m going to say that all of this is (and always has been) of my own, inherent inner sanctuary—calling me home to myself: whole, unbroken, strong, and at peace.

May it be so.

Mystery and Magic

Mar 9, 2023 | Spirituality

We can never know with any degree of certainty all the ways in which our choices, our life, has rippled far, far beyond us and into an interconnected world that is wide beyond comprehension. Wider still when we consider the lives of others (known and unknown) and the ways in which their choices have influenced and impacted us. It defies definition. It’s beyond our ability to fully comprehend or grasp.

Mystery.
Magic.

These two words—mystery and magic—captivate me. To allow for them, to anticipate and expect them, invites me into imagination; into a belief in things that are beyond me, my understanding, my efforting, and my control. One might even say they require faith.

The poet, W.B. Yeats, said this:

The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.

This feels like perfect intention and hope: having the “sense” to see a world full of magic (and mystery).

It is my intention and hope.

As I’ve reflected on this for the past few days, I’ve felt the near-demand of competency and perfection show up in full force. Surely there is a plan or process or 3-step succession I can employ that will ensure mystery and magic.

And this? The part of me that already wants to control?

Deep breath.

Mystery and magic will not be tamed.

So, this leaves me with a choice:

Will I demand exhausting certainty and proficiency (of myself and everything/everyone else), or will I loosen my clenched fists, take another deep breath, and *just* trust? 

As is true with most things of value and worth, this is easier said than done.

I spent large swaths of my life certain that if I could just get everything in order—my thoughts, my emotions, my desires, my weight, my money, my marriage, my work, and yes, even my house—then I would feel safe, at peace, and whole. This is, of course, what our capitalistic culture promulgates and promotes. And it is, at least in part, what my former belief system promised (along with “reasons and proofs”). Everything hinged on my efforting, my competency, my perfection, and yet again, my control.

Fewer absolutes and more “Maybe.” Fewer answers and more curiosity. Less order and more that is random and strange and serendipitous. Less pressure, no more “perfect,” and lots more possibility. 

Mystery.
Magic.

Seemingly Random Things

Feb 23, 2023 | Spirituality

My oldest daughter lives about 9.5 hours away; a reasonable road-trip. So, in preparation for my most recent trek her way, I prepared! I downloaded an audio book in advance, along with a couple podcasts that I’ve been meaning to listen to. I couldn’t have anticipated the way in which these (and one more event besides) weaved themselves into something else entirely.

Four (seemingly) random things I now see as completely interconnected.

Thing #1:
I listened to Celeste Ng’s newest book, Our Missing Hearts. I knew I couldn’t go wrong with this choice, given how much I loved Everything I Never Told You and Little Fires Everywhere. Plus I’d recently heard her on a podcast and was intrigued by her perspective, her wisdom, her heart.

I won’t spoil the story for you, but suffice it to say it is profoundly thought-provoking. It solidified so many of my opinions/fears about our hyper-patriotic culture, about “leadership”-through-fear, about how easy (and understandably self-protective) it is to look the other way instead of stepping toward justice. And all of this through a plot that primarily involves an 11-year-old boy.

Thing #2:
About an hour into my return trip, I finished the book and switched over to the 2022 Podcast of the Year: Roe V. Wade by Slow Burn. Only 4 episodes long (unless you subscribe and get all the bonus content), it doesn’t talk at all about the recent repeal of this ruling; rather, it tells the powerful (and mostly unknown) stories of individual women and cases, their trials, the unbelievable legal battles, and the convergence of forces that enabled this legislation to be passed in the first place.

It’s well worth listening to. It was a reminder of how easily women, their bodies, and their agency/will is disregarded AND how important it is—ongoing and always—to hear and honor women’s stories, both individually and collectively.

Thing #3:
I listened to a second podcast from the New York Times called 1619 that tells of how slavery has transformed America.

Again, SO worth listening to. It was a glaring and heartbreaking acknowledgement of how much I take for granted, how much I actually do not know, and how excruciating our history is—not to mention the ways in which every bit of this continues to be perpetuated.

Thing #4:

Just a day or so after my road trip, news was released that Stephen tWitch Boss had died by suicide.

Both of my daughters texted me when they heard the news, given that years and years ago we were obsessed by So You Think You Can Dance—when he won and then the years that followed in which he came back as a mentor and most recently a judge.

This has me reeling and deeply cognizant of the following: 1) we never know what other people are actually experiencing and feeling, no matter how things look on the outside; and 2) the cultural belief-and-demand that success, fame, money, and more will make us happy is a complete lie.

OK. So, how do these things connect to one another? You’ve probably already spotted the common thread, but let me gather it all together by saying this: unless we remain awake and aware, so much passes us by that remains unnoticed, unnamed, and unhealed.

And this: forces always conspire to invite us more deeply into our own story and all that is ours to learn, embrace, and transform both within and without.

An event occurs. An email arrives. A strong, even unexpected emotion thrums in your chest. A conversation takes place. There’s a book you read, a podcast you listen to, a news story you hear, a song that lingers and haunts. All of it seems random in the moment, but when you look beneath / behind / within, you will glimpse what’s weaving them all together . . . and all on your behalf.

These threads, these glimmers, these connections ARE the sacred: endless and infinite ways in which seemingly disparate aspects of our life are really one big, beautiful story that waits for us to see it as such, that holds its breath in anticipation of us stepping into it, that longs for us to live with complete trust in its truth.

Whew! This feels like a big claim: the (seemingly) random events and experiences in our lives are evidence of the sacred, the presence of the sacred, the activity of the sacred—and all on our behalf. 

So, my invitation in all of this? Be curious about the myriad and (seemingly) random ways in which the sacred shows up for you. You don’t have to go searching for it, preparing yourself for it, or working your fingers to the bone to deserve it. Gift. Grace. Surprise. Serendipity. And (seemingly) random.

Mmmm. May it be so, yes? 

About Rest

Feb 3, 2023 | Spirituality, Women's Wisdom

In her book, Rest is Resistance: A Manifesto, Tricia Hersey says this:

“Rest is radical because it disrupts the lie that we are not doing enough. It shouts: ‘No, that is a lie. I am enough. I am worthy now and always because I am here.’”

It’s easier said than done . . . resting, disrupting the lie, believing that we are enough.

It’s the polar opposite of what the world promotes and pushes. It flies in the face of capitalism and hustle culture. It is radical. And it’s what I hunger for. Not just in terms of time, but deep within.

I’m asking myself some questions toward rest’s end. I hope they will serve you, as well:

  • Where do I feel the opposite of rest? What causes such, who causes such, and why do I persist in any of it? No shame. No pressure. Just awareness. (And rest.)
  • How might I choose rest as state-of-mind and way-of-being instead of succumbing to what others expect? WAY easier said than done, but it feels critical to growth and wholeness.
  • What are ways of being, practices, and rhythms that will call me home to myself, that give me permission to rest? No efforting. No harshness. Just curiosity and grace.

I fully intend to repeat Tricia Hersey’s words, again and again, “I am enough. I am worthy now and always because I am here.”

Deep breath.

Rest.

May it be so.

*****

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