Bali III

(Last of three parts)

Immanence

On January 25, six members of our group traveled to a viewpoint overlooking Mount Batur in central Bali. The scene reminded me of Crater Lake in Oregon and Mount St. Helen’s in Washington. As with Crater Lake, the large body of water created by Batur’s ancient eruptions is stunning. And like Mt. St. Helen’s, the volcano remains active. Relatively recent mud and lava flows border working roads and hundreds of homes. But villagers—clearly reconciled to the threat—continue to reside in harm’s way.

The vivid co-mingling of beauty and danger underscored life’s random and precarious nature. How could I have lived these 57 years in such safe and comfortable surroundings, while people here were destined to enter (and likely exit) this world in less-than-enviable conditions atop an active volcano?

There is no rational answer. And yet, we can’t stop asking ourselves such questions. It’s the same with God.

Theologians routinely characterize God as simultaneously immanent (meaning near and implying accessible) and transcendent (meaning not near and suggesting beyond or outside us). This paradoxical depiction underscores the fact that God cannot be known intellectually. Yet, for believers, the Divine is visible and vibrant—evident through nature, metaphor, ritual, prayer, relationship. In other words, through the heart, spirit, and senses, not the mind.

In the 21st chapter of the Tao Te Ching, Lao Tsu might well be alluding to God when he explains “the Tao” this way:

The Tao is ungraspable….

Since before times and space were,

the Tao is.

It is beyond is and is not.

How do I know this is true?

I look inside myself and see.

If one accepts the premise of God, it’s easy enough to concede both immanence and transcendence. But we can only know by looking inside ourselves.

Bali not only invites, but encourages its visitors to look inside. For those who do, the island’s gift is a vivid taste of Divine immanence.

During one of our morning sessions, David Patten suggested that there are four basic perceptions of the Divine. One, that the Divine does not exist on this plane—that you have to die to encounter God. Two, that the Divine is accessible through a narrow path—but that an intermediary (such as a priest, rabbi, or other spiritual guide) has to lead you there. Three, that the Divine is readily available to anyone—but only in certain places. And four, that the Divine is everywhere—a state of awareness (and life) David called “the golden age.”

Many people I know consider this the golden age. My friend, Steve, who was part of the Mount Batur contingent, is among them. But as he so eloquently observed, “Living in the golden age is not experiencing an ongoing cosmic orgasm!” On the contrary, it’s more along the lines of French novelist Marcel Proust’s observation that the real voyage of discovery is about having new eyes—the kind that remain open to the world’s encompassing wonder.

In his new book, The Rebirthing of God, contemporary scholar and poet John Philip Newell paraphrases the fourteenth-century Christian mystic, Julian of Norwich. According to Newell, Julian says that we “are not just made by God, we are made of God.” At every turn—through its gorgeous landscapes, gentle people, and countless public displays of both sacred art and sincere gratitude—Bali reminds visitors of their divine nature. How, I wonder, would the widespread embrace of such self-understanding transform our interactions and stewardship of the earth?

Anyone insisting on indisputable proof of God is destined to be disappointed. But those who remain open to the miracle of creation are apt to realize a great truth (as conspicuous in America as it is in Bali): all that really matters is that we live fully and joyfully, with gratitude and grace.

As I look back on my 17 days in Bali and 10 months on the road in America, finding God has been the easiest part. Finding myself—and, like the Balinese, bringing my purest energy to the “temple” of daily life—that’s the real challenge. And a journey that will continue until my parting breath.

During our final morning together, David Patten offered this encouraging reminder:

Each morning we waken anew. But we often cling to what we were the day before instead. We stand on the ashes of giants. We’re the living embodiment of everything and everyone that has come before us. And we’re supported in every new endeavor by everything that has passed before. Bali’s invitation is to live in the present—and to bring ourselves to each day as an offering.

Later that day, I enjoyed the last of my six massages. As I was about to leave, Tini (the incomparable masseuse) asked, “When are you coming back?” Not will you return—but when will you return?

There’s a subtle yet significant implication to her question. Once you’ve experienced the Divine’s abiding presence both within and around you, why would you not continue returning, over and again, until, finally, you remain there forever? In other words, when you’ve reached the golden age, is there any turning back?

In the end, that’s the ultimate lure—of Bali, of America, of God. When you’ve had a pleasant taste, you can’t help coming back for more…

(Hammond, LA)