Invitation

Still early in the hunt for America’s most heavenly cinnamon bun, I wandered into a bakery and sweets shop on Route 66 in Kingman, Arizona last week. Unfortunately, my hopes were immediately dashed by a bare bakery case.

The two young girls tending the counter said the baker had walked out three weeks earlier and hadn’t been replaced. They were down to candy and ice cream—neither of which appealed at the time. Reacting to my exaggerated disappointment, they said the local buns weren’t that good anyway. A lone customer, seated nearby, volunteered that his favorite came from a bakery in Bishop, California. Ironically, I had driven by the place two weeks earlier—but didn’t stop because I had just eaten breakfast.

The girls were gregarious, as was the fellow. Buoyed by their curiosity, I shared the more significant purpose of my journey, and asked where they thought I might find God. The younger girl suggested that her grandmother probably knew—since she once had a near-death experience. The other girl shrugged. When I looked at the man, he put a hand to his heart and said, “Right here.”

His response reminded me of a conversation several months ago with my friend, Terry Amato. After enduring cancer for several years, Terry died in March. In the course of what turned out to be our final visit, Terry—fully aware that his days were numbered—pointed beside him and said, “God is right here.”

As part of a recent group activity, I was invited to hold a small candle, stand in front of a mirror, and acknowledge God’s presence within myself. Rationally, I’ve never had a problem with that concept. Nor have I had trouble seeing God in other people—a perception that has only been reinforced during my travels. Theologically, the belief is widely embraced. When asked why the kingdom of God can’t be seen, Jesus is said to have replied, “The kingdom of God is in you.” (Luke 17:20-21) Even Catholic dogma refers to the body as a “temple of the Holy Spirit.” So the recognition of God’s inner presence is—in many faiths—meant to be taken literally, not figuratively.

But it’s one thing to acknowledge the notion intellectually. As the exercise revealed, it’s entirely different to purposely envision the Divine within. Once I was able to get out of my head, I slowly began to feel a connection. I’m sure the candle helped. In the end, all I could do was bow. It was a nice feeling. But no explanation can do it justice.

What I will say is that I came away from the experience with a strong sense of its implications. If we were truly conscious of a Divine presence within ourselves—and by extension, in others and throughout creation—how quickly would that awareness transform the world? How much more attentively would we care for ourselves? How much more thoughtfully would we treat each other? How much more consciously would we steward the environment?

Is such dramatic transformation possible? I don’t know. But at this point I give it better odds than finding a decent cinnamon bun in Kingman! We certainly have enough mirrors. And candles.

I invite you to give it a try.

PS. The best cinnamon bun so far was at the Alabama Hills Bakery and Café in Lone Pine, California. The waitress added a second one for free—which made it even better! And it was just as good warmed up the next day.

(Apache Junction, AZ)

Names

“Out of all the words I have heard in my time, ‘God’ is in my view the one most grievously abused by humans; the one most deserving of a careful unsaying.” (David James Duncan, God Laughs and Plays)

I met Eva Soltes in Joshua Tree, California. “How do you define ‘God’?” she asked—echoing a question I hear often and surfacing one of the most difficult challenges of my journey.

“I don’t usually talk about ‘God,’” said Eva. “I can relate to ‘Creativity,’ to ‘Creation,’ to ‘Life,’ to ‘Life force,’ and to ‘Nature.’ It’s all the things we’re born into and surround us in the world.”

Eva brings to light the intrinsically futile attempt to capture a reality that transcends words. “The word God,” writes Eckart Tolle in The Power of Now, “has become a closed concept. The moment the word is uttered, a mental image is created, no longer, perhaps, of an old man with a white beard, but still a mental representation of someone or something outside you, and yes, almost inevitably a male someone or something… Neither God nor Being or any other word can define or explain the ineffable reality behind the word… So the only important question is whether the word is a help or a hindrance in enabling you to experience that toward which it points.”

Language is limited; God is not. That’s hard for us to reconcile—perhaps because we’re not entirely comfortable with mystery. So we continue struggling for ways to adequately convey our experience of the Divine.

Duncan calls God the “fathomless but beautiful Mystery Who creates the universe in you and me, and sustains it and us every instant, and always shall.” Martin Buber comes at it from a slightly different angle. “When two people relate to each other authentically and humanly,” he writes, “God is the electricity that surges between them.”

If forced to answer Eva’s question today, I’d describe God as an essence beyond knowing that is the source of all being, manifest in countless ways and forms. But here’s the rub. The path to God—by whatever name you use—isn’t intellectual. It’s experiential. We don’t come to understanding through our minds, but rather through our hearts and senses. So a better question might be, “What does God feel like?” Some words used to characterize the feeling of God by people with whom I’ve spoken: peace, tranquility, oneness, connection, comfort, joy, love, and resonance.

“In the end,” writes Krista Tippett in Speaking of Faith, “the reality of God is most powerfully expressed not in ideas and proclamations but in presence.”

If one were to accept that conclusion, the key to finding God would be to simply remain present and open. Unfortunately, in a world so full of distraction, that takes some doing!

(Sedona, AZ)

Reverence

Last week I had the privilege of studying with four fascinating teachers, each of whom followed a spiritual course with which I had little prior knowledge: Druidic, Native African, Native American, and Sufi. While I enjoyed learning about certain customs and practices associated with the respective traditions, I was literally mesmerized by the way the teachers carried themselves.

While each was firmly rooted in his or her chosen path, they shared an intense respect for and connection with the natural world. As the Sufi put it (and the others inferred), “Wherever you look, there is God.” The way they walked made that conviction clear. Each moved gently, gracefully, and with profound reverence. Even though their feet never left the ground, they appeared to hover slightly above.

Witnessing such deep reverence brought to mind a visceral reaction I had while watching a man bow before an altar several months earlier—a gesture I’ve seen in many churches. I wonder why we don’t approach each other with similar awe?

“Life is miraculous,” writes Anthony De Mello, “and anyone who stops taking it for granted will see it at once.”

My four teachers take nothing for granted. Consequently, they experience miracles daily. Their gentle gaits honor the presence of God in all creation. Even if I fail to remember anything they said, I’ll never forget the way they walked. I hope someday to move likewise.

(Kingman, Arizona)

Intersections

“Another name for God is surprise.”  (Brother David Steindl-Rast)

The dictionary defines “intersection” as a “crossroad,” an “overlapping,” a “common point” or “set of common elements.”

I anticipate many intersections on this journey—both figuratively and literally.

Each morning, I enjoy reading from several books. Today I was struck by the intersections.

I came across David Steindl-Rast’s observation in Mark Nepo’s Book of Awakening. Nepo goes on to characterize God as “the chance to know Oneness.” The term “oneness”—or variations such as “connection with all things”—is a way several of the people with whom I’ve already spoken have described the effect of their personal encounters with God.

Eckhart Tolle, in The Power of Now, suggests that God (“the Unmanifested”) can be found in silence and space. “The Unmanifested,” he writes, “is present in this world as silence. That is why it has been said that nothing in this world is so like God as silence. All you have to do is pay attention to it.” He continues: “…it also pervades the entire physical universe as space—from within and without. This is just as easy to miss as silence. Everybody pays attention to the things in space, but who pays attention to space itself?”

According to Rainer Maria Rilke, God is to be discovered in quiet and shadow. “Of all who move through the quiet houses,” he writes in his Book of Hours, a collection of love poems to God,

“you are the quietest. We become so accustomed to you, we no longer look up when your shadow falls over the book we are reading and makes it glow. For all things sing you: at times we just hear them more clearly.”

What to make of it all? Richard Rohr offers this, in Falling Upward:

“In the beginning you tend to think that God really cares about your exact posture, the exact day of the week for public prayer, the authorship and wordings of your prayers, and other such things. Once your life has become a constant communion, you know that all the techniques, formulas, sacraments, and practices were just a dress rehearsal for the real thing—life itself—which can actually become a constant intentional prayer. Your conscious and loving existence gives glory to God.”

The lessons for me at this morning’s intersection: Pay attention. Listen closely. Savor the quiet, the stillness. Be surprised…

(Lone Pine, CA)