Wonder

Last month, I wrote about “Grace”—sharing the experience of a friend who was introduced to the “fear of God” at an early age. I recently received an interesting response from a former colleague.

“I was brought up Presbyterian,” Cathryn wrote,

and I, too, had difficulty with the “fear of God” thing. I had one friend in grade school whose father actually used to say, “I’m going to beat the fear of God into you.” However, my best friend’s father was a strict Southern Methodist minister and theology professor at Willamette University. I remember having a lovely conversation with him about this concept years ago. Despite his strictness, his theory was this: Somewhere along the line, things were “mis-translated.” Instead of “Fear,” it should have been “Awe”—a loose synonym, he admitted. He reminded me of the trembling wonder I have felt at points in my life (the birth of my son, watching a sunrise over the Taj Mahal, Arches National Park in Utah). He said THAT was the “fear of God” he wanted people to feel and remember. I like that explanation way better.

I like it better, too. The trembling evoked by wonder is far more appealing than the quivering caused by fear. Such respectful awe is also more conducive to establishing connection and sustaining a relationship—with the Divine and each other.

As I travel, I’ve been toying with a set of spiritual compass points to correlate with geographic North, South, East, and West. “Wonder” is my symbolic West (the other three—Gratitude, Empathy, and Humility—will be the subject of future reflections).

As I re-calibrate each morning, I try to cultivate wonder in two forms: primarily, as the pure awe Cathryn associates with unforgettable events and places; secondarily as amazement or curiosity (rather than anger) about things I don’t understand or appreciate. This second kind of wonder lowers my blood pressure considerably. I just wish I were able to practice it more often when something (or someone) gets under my skin!

I’m reminded of the advice offered by William Makepeace Thackeray.  “The world is a looking glass,” he observed, “and gives back to every man the reflection of his own face. Frown at it, and it in turn will look sourly upon you; laugh at it and with it, and it is a jolly, kind companion.”

When I look through a lens of wonder, the world truly is wonder-full. And I can’t help but perceive evidence of a force far beyond the scope of my imagination.

What do you see when observing the world through a lens of wonder? I’d love to hear your reflections!

(Burr Ridge, IL)

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)