Transformations, in Spite of Myself
I don't know if I've mentioned it, but I've been about every denomination in the book over my lifetime search for the "right" religion for me. My joking phrase is that I'm a "Catholuthermethbuddhian." I do find it interesting that I've always sought to be "something". I also have been a member of a rather well-known 12-step program for the last 30 years (well, I guess that blows my cover) and for several years I tried to use that program as my "church" of sorts. I know many people who attend that program and have found peace and the spiritual food they need to make it through this life. I have the fullest respect for their choice, and probably a fair amount of envy, too. I attend the program regularly to this day, and will continue to do so, but I am being led on another journey.
Even though I know that my "12-step program" does not depend on a religion to keep me alive, there is something in my spirit that has always longed for a greater understanding of Christianity, a wanting to get into the fray of it, if you will, if only to decide, "It's not for me."
Lately, I have been drawn to yet another denomination in the many choices one has as a Protestant. I can't quite explain why this journey feels different than the others. It may have to do with the fact that I'm growing older (such a lovely euphemism for "aging"), or that the loss of my best friend of 33 years, followed by the passing of my mother-in-law a few days later, followed by the death of one of my closest friends and colleagues, a 39-year old surrogate kid brother killed in hit-and-run motorcycle accident three months later, shook me to the roots of my being. Grief, sadness, these are emotions I spent years avoiding as an alcoholic. I had my fair share of disappointments over the years, but these deaths, for some reason, took me down, even more than the loss of my parents.
I've always been attracted to Buddhism, and spent six years as a chanting Buddhist at one point in my sobriety. At the time of all these deaths, I was doing quite a bit of studying of Tibetan Buddhism and working hard on "meditation." When these deaths occurred, not all the measured breathing, and awareness and being in the moment, did one bit of good. Well, maybe they helped me from walking into an oncoming bus, but not much else.
I needed to feel that my suffering was understood. It was not enough to accept that suffering is part of life and temporal. I needed a God to cry to, to scream at, to question and to push back at me. I didn't find what I was looking for exactly.
Instead, I ended up in Ghana on a project, making a fundraising video for a non-profit organization that is building a permanent clinic in a remote area of the country. I volunteered, half hoping that "getting away" would ease some of the grief. Big surprise. It only intensified it. And here is why.
I went to a place of grief, of illness, of death, of struggle, of poverty, and encountered something I was completely unprepared to accept: love, compassion, sweetness, sharing, laughter, and patience. Is Ghana perfect? No. Are the people all this one clump of happy poor people who are sick but are jumping around joyful all the time? No. What I encountered was a faith in God, a faith so strong that it hit me like a hurricane force wind. And where I saw it most was in the eyes of the children. You can't fabricate faith in the eyes of a child. You can't make a child's eyes be filled with love, with joy, with trust, unless that child has experienced those emotions.
There was plenty of fear there for the kids. Here we came with all our medicines and our machines and our needles and our drugs and we lined them up like cattle and said, "Now this is going to make you feel better., while we pricked and poked them with needles, and looked in their mouths and listened to their hearts with instruments they'd never seen. The kids cried, and they were scared, and some were taken away by their parents because it was all so overwhelming for them. But I saw life, community, giving, generosity, dignity in these people. I also saw anger when we had to leave because our generator had broken down and there was nothing we could do. But I never saw violence. Not once.
So how does any of this relate to a faith journey? Well, it happened on Maundy Thursday. I happened to go to the service being held at St. Theresa's Catholic Church in Bibiani that evening, not for any devote reason. It was mainly out of curiosity. I watched the priest wash the feet of 12 "disciples"--12 field hands from the local cocoa fields who feet were sorely need of tending. I watched the priest get on his knees and wash their feet. And I saw their faces, and I felt their reverence, and I was humbled.
I don't know where all of this is taking me. I do know that it has changed me. It's easy to go to a third world country and come back grateful for what we have. I think, rather, I came back grateful for what they have. And for what they've taught me.
One last thought. The greatest gift I've received from my Buddhist studies is how to get quiet with myself and meditate. I will be doing that for the next two days, so there will be no blog till Monday.
It is in the quiet that sometimes, if I listen very carefully, I can hear God whispering back.
In the meantime, I wish you Peace and all good things...Cristina
Even though I know that my "12-step program" does not depend on a religion to keep me alive, there is something in my spirit that has always longed for a greater understanding of Christianity, a wanting to get into the fray of it, if you will, if only to decide, "It's not for me."
Lately, I have been drawn to yet another denomination in the many choices one has as a Protestant. I can't quite explain why this journey feels different than the others. It may have to do with the fact that I'm growing older (such a lovely euphemism for "aging"), or that the loss of my best friend of 33 years, followed by the passing of my mother-in-law a few days later, followed by the death of one of my closest friends and colleagues, a 39-year old surrogate kid brother killed in hit-and-run motorcycle accident three months later, shook me to the roots of my being. Grief, sadness, these are emotions I spent years avoiding as an alcoholic. I had my fair share of disappointments over the years, but these deaths, for some reason, took me down, even more than the loss of my parents.
I've always been attracted to Buddhism, and spent six years as a chanting Buddhist at one point in my sobriety. At the time of all these deaths, I was doing quite a bit of studying of Tibetan Buddhism and working hard on "meditation." When these deaths occurred, not all the measured breathing, and awareness and being in the moment, did one bit of good. Well, maybe they helped me from walking into an oncoming bus, but not much else.
I needed to feel that my suffering was understood. It was not enough to accept that suffering is part of life and temporal. I needed a God to cry to, to scream at, to question and to push back at me. I didn't find what I was looking for exactly.
Instead, I ended up in Ghana on a project, making a fundraising video for a non-profit organization that is building a permanent clinic in a remote area of the country. I volunteered, half hoping that "getting away" would ease some of the grief. Big surprise. It only intensified it. And here is why.
I went to a place of grief, of illness, of death, of struggle, of poverty, and encountered something I was completely unprepared to accept: love, compassion, sweetness, sharing, laughter, and patience. Is Ghana perfect? No. Are the people all this one clump of happy poor people who are sick but are jumping around joyful all the time? No. What I encountered was a faith in God, a faith so strong that it hit me like a hurricane force wind. And where I saw it most was in the eyes of the children. You can't fabricate faith in the eyes of a child. You can't make a child's eyes be filled with love, with joy, with trust, unless that child has experienced those emotions.
There was plenty of fear there for the kids. Here we came with all our medicines and our machines and our needles and our drugs and we lined them up like cattle and said, "Now this is going to make you feel better., while we pricked and poked them with needles, and looked in their mouths and listened to their hearts with instruments they'd never seen. The kids cried, and they were scared, and some were taken away by their parents because it was all so overwhelming for them. But I saw life, community, giving, generosity, dignity in these people. I also saw anger when we had to leave because our generator had broken down and there was nothing we could do. But I never saw violence. Not once.
So how does any of this relate to a faith journey? Well, it happened on Maundy Thursday. I happened to go to the service being held at St. Theresa's Catholic Church in Bibiani that evening, not for any devote reason. It was mainly out of curiosity. I watched the priest wash the feet of 12 "disciples"--12 field hands from the local cocoa fields who feet were sorely need of tending. I watched the priest get on his knees and wash their feet. And I saw their faces, and I felt their reverence, and I was humbled.
I don't know where all of this is taking me. I do know that it has changed me. It's easy to go to a third world country and come back grateful for what we have. I think, rather, I came back grateful for what they have. And for what they've taught me.
One last thought. The greatest gift I've received from my Buddhist studies is how to get quiet with myself and meditate. I will be doing that for the next two days, so there will be no blog till Monday.
It is in the quiet that sometimes, if I listen very carefully, I can hear God whispering back.
In the meantime, I wish you Peace and all good things...Cristina
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