We read about the God who lives inside of us. I've always thought of that, intellectually, as some kind of co-creative spark that each creature uniquely possesses. I'm coming to see that literally some kind of different spirit or being lives in my being--in lock down along with childhood feelings both of sorrow and glory. Wordsworth wrote: "those first affections,/Those shadowy recollections,/Which, be they what they may,/Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,/Are yet a master-light of all our seeing."
He's saying that some higher being inhabited us more fully when we were children and as adults, we have a harder time grabbing on to that innate connection. To my absolute amazement, every time I unlock a childhood feeling, bring it into the light of day, I am closer to
that indwelling Spirit or God or the Big Dude, call it what you will.
We're on a journey as "spiritual beings in a physical world" says Teilhard de Chardin. Before we were conditioned and shaped by our parents and our culture, we were instinctively drawn to whatever life presented--laughter, clouds, a loving touch, a butterfly. We knew that life was amazing! In my own case, I learned to NOT be amazed, to stifle my amazement and joy. I learned, in fact, to be afraid. I learned to be quiet and to try to please authority figures. By age 5, I had very little wonder left in me. Mine is not an unusual situation. Many, many humans have far worse experiences in childhood to wipe out those "shadowy recollections" and even those "trailing clouds of glory" that Wordsworth speaks of.
Many of us learned that the God of our families and even our schools or churches was a harsh, punishing God who would separate those sheep from those unacceptable goats, who would see our slightest sin, who might strike us dead if we doubted or questioned authority. This was the God of my mother, for sure. He was a weapon used to scare us into the behavior required of the moment. How do we recover from that false idol and begin to open ourselves to our own spiritual nature lost in the rules and judgments of family and culture?
I'm learning that every time I free a feeling that has been on lock down for decades, I experience a bit more of my connection with the Divine. I feel the fear of my 13-year-old self white knuckling it through church services as I'm sitting in church today. I feel the horror of my 5-year-old self rejected and shamed for being injured on the playground as I'm dancing with friends. Don't feel. Don't be so excited. Don't be happy. Be afraid. Be. Afraid.
How do we know, much less love, a God that seems to have been a perpetrator of pain and fear or, at least, seemed to be at the command of such perpetrators. I think of watching a priest beat a third grader with a switch in front of a room full of 8-year-olds. I remember trying not to move a muscle, trying to be invisible, trying not to ever be noticed by God or any of his representatives.
And so it was for many human children. It doesn't have to be once we're adults. We can heal. That divine spark, all but extinguished, burns a little higher every time we remember a squashed feeling and let it live. God lives, for me, in all those locked up places--in enthusiasm, spontaneity, joy. In my unbridled 3-year-old self, arms outstretched, running and leaping into Uncle Phil's arms where he sat in a speedboat. That "running toward" is the diving spark that's coming back to me.
He's saying that some higher being inhabited us more fully when we were children and as adults, we have a harder time grabbing on to that innate connection. To my absolute amazement, every time I unlock a childhood feeling, bring it into the light of day, I am closer to
that indwelling Spirit or God or the Big Dude, call it what you will.
We're on a journey as "spiritual beings in a physical world" says Teilhard de Chardin. Before we were conditioned and shaped by our parents and our culture, we were instinctively drawn to whatever life presented--laughter, clouds, a loving touch, a butterfly. We knew that life was amazing! In my own case, I learned to NOT be amazed, to stifle my amazement and joy. I learned, in fact, to be afraid. I learned to be quiet and to try to please authority figures. By age 5, I had very little wonder left in me. Mine is not an unusual situation. Many, many humans have far worse experiences in childhood to wipe out those "shadowy recollections" and even those "trailing clouds of glory" that Wordsworth speaks of.
Many of us learned that the God of our families and even our schools or churches was a harsh, punishing God who would separate those sheep from those unacceptable goats, who would see our slightest sin, who might strike us dead if we doubted or questioned authority. This was the God of my mother, for sure. He was a weapon used to scare us into the behavior required of the moment. How do we recover from that false idol and begin to open ourselves to our own spiritual nature lost in the rules and judgments of family and culture?
I'm learning that every time I free a feeling that has been on lock down for decades, I experience a bit more of my connection with the Divine. I feel the fear of my 13-year-old self white knuckling it through church services as I'm sitting in church today. I feel the horror of my 5-year-old self rejected and shamed for being injured on the playground as I'm dancing with friends. Don't feel. Don't be so excited. Don't be happy. Be afraid. Be. Afraid.
How do we know, much less love, a God that seems to have been a perpetrator of pain and fear or, at least, seemed to be at the command of such perpetrators. I think of watching a priest beat a third grader with a switch in front of a room full of 8-year-olds. I remember trying not to move a muscle, trying to be invisible, trying not to ever be noticed by God or any of his representatives.
And so it was for many human children. It doesn't have to be once we're adults. We can heal. That divine spark, all but extinguished, burns a little higher every time we remember a squashed feeling and let it live. God lives, for me, in all those locked up places--in enthusiasm, spontaneity, joy. In my unbridled 3-year-old self, arms outstretched, running and leaping into Uncle Phil's arms where he sat in a speedboat. That "running toward" is the diving spark that's coming back to me.
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