Grace

Driving through Montana, it’s impossible not to appreciate the Divine touch. It’s stunningly beautiful here—especially if you like tall green trees and crystal clear water.

Amid the awesome splendor between Glacier National Park and Flathead Lake, however, I found myself feeling literally throttled by a nearly 20-mile stretch of billboards “advertising” the Ten Commandments. Many of the images were gruesome; the ominous specter brought to mind a conversation earlier in the week.

Carol grew up in the rural south. Recalling the Baptist tent revivals and Sunday School lessons of her youth, she described how preachers and teachers imparted the “fear of God.” Fortunately, her father—who was well-versed in scripture and not reluctant to take issue with anyone who would damn his daughter to a fiery afterlife—managed to mitigate some of the damage. But more than 60 years later, the fear-based image of God retains its visceral impact.

The “fear of God” is an expression familiar to just about everyone who has set foot in a church. I’m pleasantly surprised that this was its first use by anyone with whom I’ve spoken on the trip. I hope that’s because people of all faiths are moving away from such frightening notions of the Divine—though the billboards argue otherwise.

I wonder what kind of faith is nurtured by fear and intimidation? How long does such an approach provide spiritual sustenance? What lingering damage might it cause, both consciously and unconsciously, to those such as Carol who endured it during their most innocent, formative years?

Do true believers really fear God? Wouldn’t we be much better off—and more secure in both our self-image and faith—with the love of God as a starting point?

Even the caveat “God loves you” (which frequently follows the fear-based threats) loses steam in a context rooted in command and castigation. If we were to truly abide in the love of God, would there be a need for the threatening billboards? While I’m not a Biblical scholar, I do recall Jesus himself whittling the commandments down to just two. And those two—that we simply love God and love our neighbor as ourselves—seem inviting, reasonable, and unlikely to scar anyone.

Another friend with whom I visited in Tahoe City spoke of “original grace”—as opposed to “original sin”—as the inheritance of all humans at birth. While Clare emphasized that the concept was not hers, she also attested to the difference it had made in her own spiritual self-perception. Such a self-understanding begs another question: How much healthier would we be if we perceived ourselves as born of grace rather than sin? And in the image of a loving God, rather than a Deity to be feared?

A question we must inevitably ask ourselves: Upon what ground do we choose to stand? Will we be rooted in the language of sin or grace? In the energy of fear or love?

In his poetic translation of Lao Tsu’s Tao Te Ching, Stephen Mitchell writes:

“The Tao gives birth to all beings,

nourishes them, maintains them,

cares for them, comforts them, protects them,

takes them back to itself,

creating without possessing,

acting without expecting,

guiding without interfering.”

This, I believe, is a lovely description of the grace with which we’re gifted at birth. And if “The Tao” were changed to “God,” it would be an equally inviting notion of the Source from which we emanate.

If we embrace that perception of the Divine, what could we possibly fear?

(Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming)