Desire

I had a lovely dinner Saturday evening at the Tucson home of Pat and Don Williams. In addition to fixing some great tamales (a “Tucson tradition”), they invited seven friends to liven the conversation. And the crowd didn’t disappoint.

Over the course of four hours, I spoke with everyone, either individually or in small groups. While they were all interested in my journey, they were equally eager to share their own.

Ethnically and demographically, the group was homogenous—all white and over 50. But theologically, there was considerable diversity. One referred to herself as a former “spiritualist” who currently participates in an Edgar Cayce study group. Another, raised Catholic, now calls himself an atheist—though he attends a Unitarian church “for community.” Sandy and Glenn, founders of “The Shyann Kindness Project” (www.Shyannkindness.org), are active in a non-denominational Christ-centered church. Sandy’s mother, visiting from New Jersey, is a devout Catholic who relies on daily mass and devotion to nourish her relationship with God.

Three of the guests disclosed visions that defied explanation; Pat described numerous “coincidences” she believes were divinely inspired rather than serendipitous.

I’m finding that such unexplainable occurrences aren’t uncommon. And while I was moved by each of the stories, I was even more intrigued by the way each guest welcomed the invitation to talk.

As much as people yearn for connection to the Divine, they likewise desire communion with other seekers. If Saturday’s gathering was any indication, people are hungry to share their spiritual journeys. Rather than resist my questions, they welcome them. And that includes increasing numbers of complete strangers.

Another take-away from the evening. The tangible consequence of faith—for each of the guests—was service. Caring for others is integral to their lives. Even the atheist was deeply concerned about “doing the right thing.” A quote on Don and Pat’s refrigerator captured a collective attitude: “Activism is the rent I pay for living on this planet.” These folks didn’t just talk about God—they lived the relationship.

“We have all come to the same place,” writes Hafiz. “We all sit in God's classroom. Now, the only thing left for us to do, my dear, is to stop throwing spitballs for awhile.”

I felt myself in God’s classroom Saturday. And while I’ve barely begun to touch upon the evening’s depth, a palpable energy emerged simply from the sharing of our stories. No spitballs here—just much to learn from each other.

(Gallup, NM)