Integration

During my first four months on the road—when I haven’t been visiting friends—I’ve gravitated to scenic areas with few people and plenty of room to roam. I suppose that’s a nod to what I keep hearing: that Divinity is often more accessible in nature.

While hiking in the Grand Tetons, I met Mike, Heidi, and their four children (ages 12-20), from Lansing, Michigan. “We’re Lutherans,” Mike confessed. “So we believe in a God of mercy.”

I jokingly asked what he’d done lately to warrant mercy. But he took me seriously, admitting to some struggles in his faith. He had a hard time when a son was diagnosed with diabetes three years ago. These days, he can’t seem to reconcile why God would allow his “only son” to be crucified, when he (Mike) would do whatever he could to prevent harm to any of his children. Despite the questions, however, he said God was a source of “peace and serenity”—feelings that were heightened in places like this.

“But it’s like I have two lives,” he reflected. “A ‘regular life’ with all my responsibilities—which is full of distractions—and a ‘spiritual life,’ which is much more tranquil.” Two days later, a woman I met while kayaking on Yellowstone Lake made a similar observation.

“Maybe we’re focused on the wrong things,” I suggested to Mike. “Theologians say it’s impossible to know the mind of God. Wouldn’t we be better off trying to integrate those two lives—and emanating the love we feel when we’re connected to the Divine?”

“Let me know when you’ve figured that out,” Mike laughed.

If, by the end of my travels, I do figure it out, I’m not sure it would do Mike any good. Everyone’s journey is unique. If what I learn and share can be of some benefit, great. But that’s not my expectation. What I do hope is to remind others of their divine origin—and invite them to embrace and enjoy their own spiritual quest.

My exploration process—whether reading, conversing, or just wandering in the woods—is to distill what I see and hear and feel into nourishment that helps me live in alignment. In recent weeks, I’ve been reflecting on a passage from Chapter 56 of Lao Tsu’s Tao Te Ching (translated by Stephen Mitchell):

“Close your mouth,

block off your senses,

blunt your sharpness,

untie your knots,

soften your glare,

settle your dust.

This is the primal identity.”

The more I consider those words, the more deeply they resonate. The intentional act of closing my mouth, blocking off my senses, blunting my sharpness, untying my knots, softening my glare, and settling my dust puts me in a much keener state of receptivity. I’m more conscious of my spiritual essence—and better able to marry the sacred with the secular.

The goal—as both Mike and I concluded—would be to so integrate our regular and spiritual lives that they are virtually indistinguishable. But that’s no small task—even when the daily demands are minimal. Getting there may require a letting go of previously fixed notions—some unlearning on our part.

“God speaks to each of us as he makes us,” writes Rilke, “then walks with us silently out of the night. These are the words we dimly hear: You sent out beyond your recall, go to the limits of your longing. Embody me.”

What would I hope to embody?

My short answer is influenced by the vast number of people who’ve had near-death experiences, all of whom characterize the Divine force in just two words: “Unconditional Love.” To embody God—to fully integrate our regular and spiritual lives—is, quite simply, to love unconditionally. All the time.

I just wish that were as easy to do as it is to recognize…

(Grand Marais, MN)

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)

Faith

Following an extended stay in Portland, I’m finally back in the RV—which, after another $2,000 in repairs, made the 450-mile trip to north Idaho without mishap.

An originally planned eight-day pit stop turned into three-weeks of grandfathering due to a recent knee injury suffered by my daughter, Kate. With two boys under three and limited mobility after surgery, she needed considerable help around the house, and I was happy to oblige.

It was wonderful to visit my children, grandchildren, and the few friends I was able to sandwich between shifts at Kate’s. But I was glad to hit the road again on July 28—especially because I had company. My youngest daughter, Christine, and her daughter, (my granddaughter), Georgia, Kate’s older son (and my older grandson), Ryker, and Susanne all joined me for a week at one of our favorite summer destinations: “Camp Hatfield” on Lake Pend Oreille.

While the extra time in Portland didn’t lend itself to writing, it did allow me to reflect on the first leg of my journey. Favorite places: Bryce Canyon National Park and Santa Fe. Greatest pleasure: traveling from Denver to Salt Lake with my college roommate and re-connecting with friends in Arizona, Colorado, Utah, and California. Biggest surprise: how quickly I adjusted to traveling light; the only possession I even remotely missed was my reading chair. What I’ll do differently the rest of the way: stay longer in fewer places.

Months before setting out, I was asked, “Is there any place God isn’t?” I’ve yet to find it. Throughout the west, I sensed a deep spirituality and desire for connection. But I also encountered a bit of resistance to the name, “God.” For some, the word inhibits rather than opens a path to the Divine. Others long for language that more effectively captures the encompassing nature of the Infinite Mystery from which we emerged and to which we’ll return. While many fervent believers look to scripture for certainty, other equally earnest seekers shun dogmatic answers to existential questions—embracing a Transcendent Spirit that is evident in countless ways and accessible here and now.

Addressing the wish for assurances about God over tea in her Southeast Portland yard, Pamela Williams-Gifford said calmly, “I don’t need to know.” That, I thought, is the epitome of faith. Further, she added, “I think ‘church’ is anywhere you can be authentic and engaged with others.”

My friend, Jackie, made a similar point during a speculative discussion about the after-life. “It doesn’t really matter!” she said emphatically. “The value of a person’s life is determined not by what they believe but by what they do. All we know for sure is that we’re here now—and you should live a life of integrity that has a positive impact on your family, your community, and the planet.”

Faith takes many forms. Who’s to say that one person’s notion of God is more accurate than another’s? The most effective witness, as Jackie stresses, is through our daily lives. In that light, a focus on what we do know can be a bridge between people for whom doctrine might otherwise stand in the way. Aspiring to a noble life and keeping both our hearts and minds open to what we don’t know certainly can’t hurt.

RV parking instructions at Camp Hatfield--straight from the top!

(Sandpoint, ID)

Connections

While driving up the California coast, I spent two nights at a campground in Marina, just north of Monterey.  Upon arrival, I was greeted by a Dutch couple in the adjacent site; their RV bore a large colorful mural that marked it as a rental. After exchanging pleasantries, the man sheepishly asked if I could use some toilet paper.

“Sure,” I laughed, expecting a few rolls. But out he came out with an unopened pack of 18. They had been traveling for two weeks, he explained, and had to return the vehicle to San Francisco the next morning—so they wouldn’t need the extra stock.

I suggested that he keep a couple rolls, just in case, then accepted the rest. Before I had even found a place to store the bounty, he was back with food. “We ordered pizza,” he shrugged, “and we would just have to throw this out.”

This time I said yes to a pair of chicken breasts, four hamburgers, and 24 eggs. I had the chicken for dinner and went to bed early.

I saw them again the next morning as they were preparing to leave. “How was your pizza?” I asked.

“It never came,” he said. “We waited two hours. Every time we called, they said it would be 10 minutes. But the guy never showed up.”

“Oh, no!” I moaned. “What did you eat?”

He shrugged. “We had some pop tarts in the freezer...”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I blurted. “I could have given your food back!”

He shrugged. “We didn’t think it would be right. Besides, it’ll make a good story when we get home.”

Intrigued by their equanimity, I told them about my journey. Without hesitancy or defensiveness, they said they didn’t believe in God. She made reference to karma, and spoke of her work as a nurse in a psychiatric institution—describing scenes in which patients of different faiths argued nearly to blows over the merits of their respective religions. His moral code was shaped by an innate sense of right and wrong; basically, his choices were governed by the feelings associated with his actions.

I was struck by their sincerity, kindness, and integrity. In that sense, they’re highly representative of the people I’ve encountered these past 11 weeks. No matter what they believe, most folks are inherently goodhearted.

“My husband and I recently toured the southwest,” wrote Pamela Williams-Gifford in response to a previous blog. “Naturally I expected to be, and was, inspired by the landscape. (But) what surprised me were the overwhelmingly consistent HUMAN connections we made. Across the board, at gas pumps, in diners, at motel registration desks, and scenic lookouts, we made connections at the heart level. I was shattered by the landscape, but I was humbled by human souls.”

Pamela eloquently captures the great gift of my travels thus far. I, too, have been impressed by the “heart level” connections—and am likewise humbled by the intrinsic goodness of the “human souls” making their way through this world we share. When we get away from what the media presents as “news” and tune into the higher aspirations of our hearts, the connections can be pretty amazing. Clearly, I’m not the only one noticing.

(Coburg, OR)