selections from MY SPIRITUAL
AUTOBIOGRAPHY
presented to my Education for Ministry group, September 12, 2001
June 12, 1980. I am seven years old. My Mom writes:
Last fall Joshua came to me in the kitchen and said, “I’ve got it figured out!”
“What do you have figured out?”
“God is a circle! You know, a circle has no end and God has no end – so God is a circle.”
“Joshua! I think that’s a wonderful idea!”
“Do you think I’ll be famous?”
It reminded me of the time when he was three and in pre-school. It was Easter and 1976. He must have heard a lot of Jesus, crucifixion, and patriotism – freedom.
I was paying bills at the dining room table in Delaware.
Suddenly:
“Do you think freedom makes God die?”
Shock! Where did that come from? What processes were going on in that 3-year-old mind that would put those abstract concepts together?
I can’t remember what my answer was, but I’ve always felt it was simply, “Yes.”
Most of the rest of my presentation will be in my own words, as recorded at the time. August 11, 1982. I am nine years old. This is the first spiritual experience I remember. It was a hot day, and I was cooling off in front of the fan. Accompanying the writing are drawings, which I will describe as I go.
I was lying in front of the fan in this position: [arms outstretched, right leg bent]. My mind began to drift. In the eye of my mind, I saw: [an image of a figure in the same position, superimposed on a cross]. Then, a flashing light appeared in front of the familiar scene.
What was it?
It’s so hard.
The boy with the colored bracelet
Walks along dimly-lit paths
Of pine needles and moss.
He digs his hands into his pockets,
Tuning in to nature’s chirping crickets.
Now he knows that somebody put him here.
And it’s moments like this renewal of faith
That bring the world together.
Once again he realizes
That he is not a spectator –
But a participant.
A participant who has a hard time
Stepping back and seeing himself
As a piece in a puzzle.
Before now, he’d always been the one
Trying to put the puzzle together.
There’d always been a missing piece –
Himself.
Chuckling at his own naïveté –
He opens up the box
To a new puzzle.
i know it’s time to close all thought and open to a feeling and meditate on love and life and both and i know it’s really hard sometimes to think that i could possibly be appreciated and loved for who i really am and i know it’s even harder sometimes to stare at the snowy sky and feel the whipping wind on my frail cheeks and have faith that someone created all that is now and all that is gone and all that’s to come and everything under the sun and even me with all my particulars so now i invoke you LORD GOD to enter my mind in whatever form you wish and give to me your thoughts on the state of my life in whatever form they may assume …
because i’m in love with a feeling so rare and so exquisite like pure indigo and only you in all your glory can radiate that feeling …
February 26, 1990. High school graduation is approaching. As part of an application for a scholarship from the Masons, I am asked to write a brief essay about myself.
At a young age, I came to the realization that I could create. I could write stories, and through those stories gain acceptance. Later I moved on to songwriting, though my basic knowledge of music theory was mostly self-taught. Over a year ago, I began writing at least one poem every day. Not all of them show quality, but they keep me practicing my writing skills.
Whenever I hear a favorite tune or poem, I am certain that it is a higher form of expression than normal thought. A simple chord progression means as much to me as a good poem. I teach myself favorite songs on the piano, and when I can finally play them straight through, they give me greater satisfaction than mere listening. But still, I delight in hearing them, singing along, harmonizing, feeling and making use of my incredible urge to create.
In much the same way, I take pleasure in the knowledge that I have made a difference in someone’s life. Most of the time I consider myself a bystander. Often, I feel separated, apart from all my peers. But then, there are always those moments when I feel the oneness. When I console a crying friend, when I breeze through a jazz band solo, when I tell a joke and later hear it repeated – that is when I know I am here for a reason; that I am not just a viewer in a world-sized movie theatre.
Maybe I’ll be a professional songwriter. Maybe I’ll be a high school guidance counselor. But whatever I do, I know I’ll fit in somewhere. Poets, articulators of reason, were created to create.
Take this gift that I spent a week
Preparing – take it, live it all
And leave it in the end.
Take this gift that I planned for you
And take advantage, take for granted,
Leave it in the end.
Take this gift and organize it
Slice it, dice it, redefine it
Make it like your own, and then
Leave it in the end.
Take this gift and realize it
Keep a solid grip and prize it
Take this gift and take me, too
Take this gift from me to you
And leave it in the end.
Take this gift and keep in touch
Don’t forget I’m sitting here,
As wrapped up as you may become
Within this gift from year to year –
And leave it in the end.
Just don’t leave me, my friend.
It’s a New Year’s party like none on
earth,
And everyone who’s anyone’s invited.
It’s a class reunion of life since birth,
And everyone who’s anyone’s invited.
Don’t bother to bring the champagne;
The host is providing.
No need for a guest list;
It tends toward dividing.
Who do you remember?
They’ll all be there!
So don’t despair …
It’s a wining and dining with all your
friends,
And everyone who’s anyone’s invited.
It’s a perfect elite independent of trends,
And everyone who’s anyone’s invited.
For everybody who’s anybody
Is everyone, don’t you think?
And everybody who’s anybody
Will form every human link.
Your sole invitation is love forever,
And that can’t be too hard.
And everyone who’s anyone
Will hold a membership card!
March 20, 1992. My friend S. spontaneously takes my arm as we walk down the hall. I am suddenly self-conscious as I imagine that “the one” may be nearby.
She made my elbow sin,
The way she took it to her side.
She forced my eyes to be averted,
Scanning blue, blue, blue room.
Admirable architecture!
Never mind the hand peeking
Naked from my elbow,
Exposed as I began to sweat.
For what if She is here?
If She in all her imagination
Saw my elbow sinning here,
Saw my childish whims.
For all drink of the flesh
Of even the hand –
Ignore the lip or breast!
The hand is symbolism
Such as water,
Such as the number three.
She made my elbow sin,
Presuming just as I had done,
Not sinning in action,
But rather offending the memory
Of she I may never meet.
June 5, 1992.
Is every song a fantasy,
Or is there some reality
To every lyric on the tongue
Of everyone in love and young?
The timeless walks along the beach,
The hopeless loves just out of reach,
The “I’ll love you until I die” –
How can it all be one great lie?
Common inspirations blend
To form the old downtempo trend.
And what’s in common must exist
To many, if not the entire list
Of humans touched by certain others –
And then, touched back. And if these lovers
Daily stroll the streets of town
And hear their stories counted down
With fervor on the radio,
Then who am I to say that no
Sane person ever fell in love?
And if I rhymed “above” or “glove”
And threw in melody and chords
And then, if I were really bored,
Recorded it and advertised,
Would this new song be publicized?
Or would it sit and gather dust
And rot away my stock of trust
That every human feels this way,
If not just once, then every day?
No, I believe if millions know
That love can live and breathe and grow
And see its time and someday die,
Still spreading itself from eye to eye,
There must be someone other than me
Who fails to see the dignity
In surrendering all imperfections
Without mistrust or quick objection.
Romantic cynics are hard to find,
But must exist outside my mind
And even live nearby – so there!
I won’t give in to cynics’ despair!
To pluck from the sky and transcribe,
line by line,
The most aimless harmonies of the Divine!
God’s half-sleeping mind conjures up countless airs
That, upon their rejection, escape down His stairs.
They drop from the Kingdom as crumbs from a table
And drift through the heavens, and minds that are able
May reach up and swipe them each, one at a time,
And notate and sing them, and add to them rhyme.
And thus, compositions that strayed from the flock
Were taken and written by Mozart and Bach.
Imagine then, friends, in the Kingdom, how awed
We will be by the music that was fit for God!
Plastic Easter
Suppressing the self is a game often
played
In new situations, when one must make an impression.
Unfortunately smashed, the self
Cannot afford to let slide a nuance …
But it does, nonetheless.
Like rock, the kid is hard.
Like candy? Knock first. Check around.
Okay, I guess. Sheepish, silly, stupid.
Crack open the egg and eat
Whatever may be inside.
Be it nigger, be it faggot,
Take and swallow it and smile.
Risk a nod. Crack the head of the host
And taste honey.
Propel praise! From every corner of
heaven
Fly angels and saints divine!
Free to be servants we are,
And we float to our favorite form
Of wishing repentance. Save me, we cry!
Pretaped synthesizer,
Lyrical clichés,
A congregational audience. Clap for the worshippers.
Slip the pastor a twenty. Put on your brand-new bonnet,
Go home and eat turkey and chocolate.
Guilt comes a little too late
From the reckoning point of view
Self-doubt followed by self-hate
Seems to bring me back to you.
You may or may not exist,
But you brighten my stressed-out mood.
Your concept keeps me going;
Your teachings are my food.
I was walked past the church tonight.
Funny … it had never struck me quite this much
As a symbol set apart;
As a living, breathing presence with a say in all matters.
I say I was walked because my feet took me there,
Not on my own, but through some greater force.
I was propelled past God and back.
So why write of my long-lasting, mundane
depression?
I’d much rather write of my latest surrender –
A little more complete than the last one.
July 17, 1994, after a Compline service at Saint Mark’s.
Ah, Holy Jesus!
What convoluted mazes
Separate me from Thee.
Ah, Holy Jesus!
What terrible suspensions
Lurk in temporal distractions from Thee!
Ah, Holy Jesus.
If only I could bridge
All the barriers in my mind
In a conviction to find Thee.
Ah, Holy Jesus!
How many days in number
Between my face and Yours?
Between Your wounds and mine?
Between those hands and these?
Between my words and Thine?
Ah, Holy Jesus!
I record the doubting times
Just as well as certainties
(Few and far between are these).
I attempt to redefine
Every mode of confusion
In the convoluted mazes of my mind.
Between my words and Thine,
There are pages upon pages through time.
Ah, Holy Jesus …
“The pain of your past entices,” she
said.
“It calls me to love you
Through who you have been.
I’m learning your virtues and vices,” she said.
“But now that I love you,
Don’t dwell on your pain.
“Allow me to hold you in hurting.
Allow me to kiss you in joy.
But your past is your past and not mine,” she said.
“Now move on with me.”
And she hugged me.
You have tamed me, my rose.
You have tamed me into happiness,
Into blithe romantic misadventures
That always end in a kiss.
You have tamed me into listening,
Into knowing deep within my heart
Exactly what love is.
I sit closer to your mind
Each time I venture into your garden.
You have picked me out from others.
All my faults you’re quick to pardon.
You have tamed me, my rose.
You have tamed me into patience,
Into mild acceptance of aloneness;
Loneliness never lasts.
You have tamed me into faithfulness,
Understanding that life has a future,
Not just an exciting past.
I am responsible for my rose;
Killing caterpillar-ghosts is my urge.
Except for a few of those haunting worms
From which butterflies emerge.
How do I focus on you, Lord?
How do I drop the statistics and snippets of songs,
Regretted past actions and various wrongs
And point my face upward to you?
Right now, I feel only like kneeling.
But if I look down, I’ll see footprints to follow,
Reminding me that my intentions are hollow,
Well-thought, but devoid of you.
After all, you see through.
But if I raise my face to the overcast
sky
And await your grace, I’ll just wish I could cry
For my frivolous habits and self-centered goals,
And I’ll doubt once again in refillable holes.
I’ll retreat to routine and accomplish so little!
Only you know how I can get.
I’ll look up and feel further regret.
So all that remains is inside.
Whether it’s strict meditation (no hope of success)
Or more rumination (redundant, I guess),
In myself I will find no peace.
I’m helpless, to say the least.
So focus me, Lord! Remind me whom I serve
And promise me more than I truly deserve.
You’ve done it before, as I’m finding.
Sometimes, I just need some reminding.
You say that I am.
That’s your definition.
If you’d listen to me,
There would be no fathers and sons,
No kingdoms and kings.
You say that I am.
That’s your proclamation.
You have no words
To describe what you call a king,
A Son of God.
If only you’d hear me!
You stop up your ears
With insecure fears –
You wall yourselves in.
You do it to block out sin,
But the only sin
Comes from within.
You say that I am.
It’s as good as a yes.
So onward we’ll press
With the whip
And the thorns
And the trial.
August 11, 1998. After some dental surgery, I toy with the idea of proposing to C.
I’ve a sort of half-crown in my mouth,
A half-ring in the mail,
A half-cat half-there, bouncing like fresh hail.
I’ve a sort of half-mind to propose,
To lay everything out,
To make a full, complete promise with only half-doubt.
My half-crown kinda aches,
My half-cat often shakes when I approach,
Like I’m a half-man or a ghost,
So I’ve a sort of half-mind to smile.
’Cause it won’t be long
’Til my half-crown is full,
And my half-ring has a stone,
And my half-cat settles down,
And my half-mind is settled,
And my promise is laid out completely,
Even if my half-doubt
Hangs around
For a half-year or more
’Til I think I’m half-nuts
And ’til life half-sucks,
But if it sucks only half,
I can squeak out a half-laugh
Under a waning half-moon,
’Cause I know that pretty soon,
My half-crown will be full,
And my mind made up!
April 1, 1999. C. and I are planning our wedding and going through Christian Initiation classes. As an assignment, we are each asked to write our own Credo.
I believe I am created.
The spiritual force of Word
Breathes ruach upon me
And knits my bones together.
Every physicality and nuance,
Every emotion and every memory,
Continually flows in creative bliss from the Creator.
I believe there is a point in the fourth
dimension
That welcomes the Word.
The Word breathes into a man
Who breathes as we do.
Sometimes we hear his voice,
See his shadow,
Catch a glimpse of his eyes.
We are joyful only when he is present.
We present ourselves to him
That we may be made joyful.
Crypts and tombs are his dwelling-place,
Yet they are too small to contain him.
When Wisdom enters the tomb,
It uncovers the folly of the crypt.
Lights pours forth into every shadow
And the sting is finally stung.
He radiates in the underworld
By digging beneath it,
Bearing it on his back,
And lifting it up!
Judgment will come,
From us, from God,
From the fruit of the co-creation,
But forgiveness flows perpetually.
We know not the mysteries,
But our hands do their work.
I believe in the Force:
The Creator’s Force, working through the Word.
The Force is the Sustainer,
Causing surreal hours,
Turning strangers to temporary comrades,
Turning lovers to brain-exploders.
We are all capsules capsized,
Adrift and baptized in holy waters.
All our sins are forgiven
Even as they are exacted.
Even as we commit them,
Holy waters swallow them.
But there is also an unrevealed reality,
A Resurrection just out of human grasping,
Yet right here among us,
The center and perimeter of the Creation.
The Kingdom of God is at hand.
Make it so.
And God wove a melody line,
A simple, seven-note theme
Which He proceeded to sing
As He weeded His garden
And Satan came along
And loused up the melody
And sang two clashing notes
And thus created dissonance
And God said, “Hey!
That could really be beautiful.”
And He allowed the dissonance
And created resolution.
Every day I draw a line
And every morning there’s a rain
And I have to start the painstaking
Process with my chalk again.
I draw a circle to shut them out,
The heretics I wish to flout.
But Jesus uses the rain to win;
He erases the circle and draws us in.
The rain pelts my body into shock;
I cry in pain and drop my chalk.
I pick it up and go to chuck it,
But then I see Jesus with the bucket.
When you eat, eat like this.
Never mind the meal; all food nourishes.
When you drink, drink like this.
Never mind the wine; I prefer it,
But don’t drink wine if you don’t like it.
That’s not what I’m talking about.
Sometimes it’s like I’m talking to a
child:
Tiny vocabulary, barely comprehending
The slightest thing I say.
It’s like I’m talking to a hyperactive child:
No attention span, much aggressive energy
To pour into his play.
And play is important,
But I need this moment to show you
What I am talking about.
When you eat, eat like this.
No, never mind the position of your hands
Or the choice to genuflect
Or cross yourself –
Work that out on your own. Rather,
When you eat and drink,
Eat and drink together.
That’s what I’m talking about.
August 28, 2001.
If God is omniscient, then He knows everything we’re going to do before we do it. Therefore, we cannot do anything He didn’t know we were going to do, so we have no free will.
On the other hand, in order for us to truly have free will, God cannot always know how we’re going to react. This would mean that God is not omniscient.
So two of our most cherished doctrines—free will and the omniscience of God—are incompatible. Even if you throw in C.S. Lewis’s wonderful explanations of God being outside of time and experiencing every moment in an instant, there is still a reality somewhere in which God decides to create us and decides just how much freedom to give us.
My current thought is that God could be omniscient but chooses to abdicate that omniscience in order to give us room to grow. A parent who controls every aspect of his child’s life becomes the parent of a stunted child. Jesus said God wants us to have “life abundant”—and so we are given freedom.
Does God give us absolute freedom? And if we have absolute freedom, how many chances do we have to ask for forgiveness for our sins? Jesus would have us forgive each other to infinity—can we expect any less of God?
Another writing from the same day:
If I’m truly honest with myself, I have to admit at least a sliver of doubt in something recorded somewhere in the Bible. And if just once I allow that part of the Bible may not be directly inspired by God, then I have to start calling the whole thing into question. I’ve been going through that process for years, and I’ve decided (at least for the time being) that the Bible is a history of people’s varied understandings of God. I can feel free, therefore, to disagree with any part of it that sounds wrong to me, because I am merely disagreeing with a long-deceased fellow human being.
The danger in this is that I may simply pick and choose the parts of the Bible that “sound nice” and “work for me,” and throw the rest out, creating for myself an easygoing theology that never challenges me. This is not what I want to do, but it’s a charge easily leveled at anyone who asserts that “not all Scripture is created equal.”
But what I want goes far beyond a critical analysis of how each bit of Scripture fits in with my personal experience to date. I want Truth. Jesus said, “I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life”—or, at least, somebody saw fit to put those words into his mouth—and I believe that. If I want Truth, then I want to know more about Christ, and if the Bible gets in my way from time to time, then, from time to time, the Bible must stand aside. The Bible is a guide, but it is not a road map. Human beings make much clearer road maps.
September 11, 2001.
I don’t want to write about what happened today. Read about it in your history books. Know that the 21st century began today. There is nothing but white space out ahead of us.
I have known what it is to feel the weight of centuries crushing me. But today, I stand atop centuries of nothingness and feel that I’m going to fall off, arms and legs flailing as I plummet onto the streets of New York City.
Does freedom make God die?