I’d like to start this review with reassurances to my Mormon friends and relatives that I did not choose to read this because I have any interest in trying to discredit your faith. Rather, I chose to read it as one of many stories of spiritual journeys. These have included Mary Karr’s journey through alcoholism to Christianity, Sara Miles’ journey from atheist to Christian, Lauren Winner’s journey from orthodox Judaism to Christianity and later, through divorce and doubt and back to faith, and Rachel Held Evans’ journey through doubt and back to faith. In comparison to those, Martha Beck’s journey might be considered more extreme…but I still found she had a lot to offer. If anyone else has favorite stories of faith journeys, please share!
I had already read Beck’s book Expecting Adam, in which Beck has some pretty remarkable experiences while pregnant with her son, so I wasn’t surprised that this book also featured some stories in which she experiences a sense of the divine (what I would call God) in spine-tingling “no way!” kinds of ways. The way she writes about these experiences is quite beautiful and comforting, and completely believable, at least to me.
I can understand why this book was controversial among Mormons and even Beck’s own family. It seems that her spiritual journey was propelled in large part by the return of repressed memories regarding abuse by her father, who was a well-regarded Mormon church historian/academician; it stands to reason that if her allegations are true, it would likely be easier for her family and church community to write her off than to accept her story at face value. I tend to believe her story, but true or not, it’s clear that she experienced a lot of healing from her journey and from leaving the faith of her family. She was able to feel joy and have a sense of peace and truth in a way she hadn’t been able to before she had the experiences recounted in the book.
The theme that unifies of all the faith journeys I have read about thus far is that spirituality is a very personal thing. What resonates with one person will not resonate with another, and yet it’s not that the one person’s experience is right and the other wrong. I think organized religion (all varieties!) often fails to recognize this truth—and this leads to all sorts of problems, even though a lot of good things go on along with the problems. Based on the (admittedly limited) reading I’ve done recently about journeys of faith, some people’s experiences lead them to farther in to organized religions; while some are led farther out. I don’t think either path is wrong; they are just different.
All in all, an interesting book. If you’re Mormon, it will probably make you mad, although you might also find it simply interesting.
Some quotes I liked:
The only conviction I embrace absolutely is this: whatever I believe, I may be wrong.
People who have had near-death experience sometimes say they not only relived all their mortal interactions with others but also felt every impact they had on those around them, as if they themselves were both object and subject of their behavior. If that’s how things work, it’s more than enough to satisfy my longing for justice and my anger at those who do violence.
Picture these experiences [those that occurred during events described in Expecting Adam] combined, boiled down into their most concentrated elements of pure joy, then multiplied by trillions and injected into every one of your cells. That might begin to help you imagine what I felt when the sense of Something Bigger emerged in the hurricane’s eye of my life, surrounded by events that were otherwise completely devastating.
If Adam was some sort of radio operator and I was just the broadcasting tower, no wonder the frequencies had all gone silent when he checked out and pulled the plug. It didn’t occur to me, not yet, that there was another radio operator in there—let’s call it my true self—who might do an adequate job on her own.
I wondered idly if the name Milky Way reflected the ancient Chinese belief that the vast creator goddess Nu-ah formed the constellation by accident, when she was nursing the first human and her uncovered breast sprayed white droplets across the sky. At the time I heard the myth, I thought that the whole concept of a woman spraying milk was as weird and fictional as “vast creator goddess.” Now I could do it my own self, anytime I wanted to, often when I didn’t. I wondered what other supposed impossibilities were only figments of my limited imagination.
One of the books I’d been reading—a Buddhist description of an Islamic text—described every spiritual quest as having three stages: the camel, the lion, and the child. “In the camel stages of awakening,” the author said, “we make ourselves available to the spirit through humility, prayer, repetition, and manual labor.” In a Zen monastery, this might mean submitting to the famous two-step “chop wood, carry water.” A Catholic…might volunteer to serve the poor and the sick.
Zen appealed to me with all its sparseness, Chinese Buddhism because of its emphasis on erasing delusion, as opposed to adding knowledge.
It felt as though the part of me doing the slamming [closing mind off from connection with divine energy in universe during meditation] was the very same part that longed so desperately for communion with God.
What if God felt about me the way I felt about my own children, about this tiny person I held in my arms? What if the force that ruled the universe adored me this much, accepted me without reservation, would protect me no matter what the cost?
[As] my mind contemplate[ed] the idea of a loving God, my heart [was] unable to feel it. It was like being able to chew but not swallow.
[Experience of God during a surgery] We were best friends sharing a joke: “Oh, my God, can you believe I thought all that crap was real?” “Yeah, you were totally buying it for a couple of decades there.” Gales of laughter, from both of us. “Remember how I was always thinking, ‘Oh, no, there’s pain everywhere and we’re all gonna die, we’re as doomed as doomed can be . . .’ ” More laughter, bubbling over, filling the universe. “Kid, you were freaking out!” “God, I know!” God. I know.
Though they were not described in words, the things I would need to remember were as clear as if this Being of Light had written them down in bullet points, memo-style, like this:
1. I am here. Always. I am always right here.
2. The way we are now, this being together, being one, is not the way you are supposed to feel after you die. It is the way you are meant to experience life.
3. The one place you can find me is the one place you have been afraid to go: your own heart.
4. It will not be easy for you to go there.
5. I will be here. Always. I will always be right here.
[These days, I meditate. I enjoy the silence.] In the silence, I feel a gentle, infinite peace, as sweet as the feeling the Light brought with it, and always available…I don’t really care whether it comes from a higher power or from the working of my meditation-primed brain. Whatever its source, connecting with it makes life feel like a gorgeous unfolding miracle instead of a doomed Sisyphean struggle. It’s strange to look back now at a time when silence was my worst enemy—though of course, that was a different sort of silence. Silence comes in two varieties: one that nourishes and comforts; another that chokes, smothers, and isolates. Solitary confinement is the worst kind of imprisonment we can inflict on fellow humans, and if you are forced to keep silent about some dark secret, you live in solitary confinement. Without the bridge of communication connecting you to other human beings, you can’t share your burdens, can’t receive comfort, can’t confirm that you still belong. Silence is the abyss that separates you from hope. The silence I kept in the weeks after my flashbacks began was this second kind, as malignant as cancer. I’d enforced my own silence to avoid interfering with other people’s connection to God. Now I know that it had exactly the opposite effect.
The truth I needed to be free was simply the reality of my own life: This is what I think. This is what I feel. This is what happened to me. To know these small truths was to know myself; to speak them was to connect with my real self, other human beings, and God.
Later I would recall the text where I’d read about the camel, the phase of a spiritual quest that eventually gives way to the lion. The quotation goes like this: “When we have discovered the heart’s capacity to face any situation, the joys and sorrows of existence as they are, we awaken to freedom. Then the golden lion speaks with a roar. Out of the mouth of the lion comes the undaunted voice of truth, the liberation of the unbounded heart.” …I’d left the persona of the camelish acolyte whose highest good is to subordinate all personal initiative to an established religious tradition. Knowing my own truth made me responsible for choosing a course of action based on that truth, even if it meant breaking with traditions and institutions.
I remember the laughter I felt during my moments with the White Light, the hilarious joyful, bubbling jollity. It seems to me at this moment that laughing is a serious thing, that it connects us with truth and love and God. The Light couldn’t have cared less about being mocked or about how loudly people laugh; that would be like the air blaming the leaves for sparkling in the wind.
The only thing scarier than telling my secrets would be keeping them. When the “sensitive information” you carry is your own history, going mute to protect the system doesn’t keep you from being destroyed; it just means that you destroy yourself. “What profiteth it a man,” Jesus said, “if he should gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?” For a long time I felt as though my soul was lost, hidden even from my own understanding, to protect me from the consequences of openness in a culture that demanded my silence. Now that I know what it feels like to be whole, my worst fear is not death, but a return to that soulless existence.
…for the past several years, it seems I get everything I pray for, too. It has something to do with the way I’ve learned to pray, which is more about listening than demanding. Every day, if I can still my body and mind enough to hear Silence, I notice that my heart is yearning toward certain things, avoiding others. It’s when I voice this deep yearning that my prayers are answered. And nothing else I might ask for really matters.
My God is more amorphous, more of a universal constant, like gravity or magnetism. This constant doesn’t pick favorites; it simply flows into any opening we make for it.
I believe that the line between good and evil doesn’t separate human beings into different categories; it runs through every one of us, and every moment is a choice: heal or destroy.
The Stream, he said, was the ubiquitous power of God that flowed through every being, sentient and nonsentient. To become a Leaf was to ride the current without struggling, to sense the inclination of a benevolent reality and surrender to it, moment by moment. Sometimes, the Stream carried me into things anyone would call spiritual practice: prayer, meditation, introspection, good works. But at other times, the current of the Stream picked up the pace, splashed me into whitewater.
No matter how difficult and painful it may be, nothing sounds as good to the soul as the truth.
It wasn’t slavery, but it was a powerful form of bondage: the belief that God had ordained a pattern of secrets and silence, that religious authority always trumped one’s individual sense of right and wrong, that the evidence of the senses must bow to the demands of orthodoxy, no matter how insane. It was a kind of institutionalized madness, and its shackles were all the more confining for existing almost entirely in the human mind.
One thing we had both come to believe was that each person’s path to God is unique, that we all follow a slightly different trajectory as Leaves in the great Stream, and that each human being’s operating instructions are therefore different.
The word religion comes from the Latin re-ligos, meaning “to tie together again.” On a grand scale, I think this means the reconnection of all souls, all spirits, all the bits of divine creation that briefly imagine they—we—are separate and alone.
In the last stage the lion gives way to the child, to an original innocence. This is the Child of the Spirit for whom all things are new. For this divine child there is wonder, ease, and a playful heart. The child is at home in the reality of the present, able to enjoy, to respond, to forgive, and to share the blessings of being alive.
All faiths form around the same priceless thing: the Stream, the Silence, the Light.
Over and over, I groped past the shallow scrims of intellectualism and perfectionism to find something deeper and truer beyond them. Love, I discovered, is the only thing human beings do that really matters a damn. Happiness, like beauty, is its own excuse for being.
Don’t ‘network’ into meaningless relationships with colleagues who bore you; find the people who can make you laugh all night, who turn on the lights in your heart and mind. Do whatever work feeds your true self, even if it’s not a safe bet, even if it looks like a crazy risk, even if everyone in your life tells you you’re wrong or bad or crazy.”
We all make the same trip. We believe without question almost everything we learn as children, stumble into the many potholes and pitfalls that mar any human endeavor, stagger around blindly in pain and outrage, then slowly remember to pay attention, to listen for the Silence, look for the Light, feel the tenderness that brings both vulnerability to wounds and communion with the force that heals them. Don’t worry about losing your way, I tell my clients. If you do, pain will remind you to find your path again. Joy will let you know when you are back on it.
I am free, and always have been; free to accept my own reality, free to trust my perceptions, free to believe what makes me feel sane even if others call me crazy, free to disagree even if it means great loss, free to seek the way home until I find it. All the great religions I have studied, including Mormonism, hold that this irrevocable soul-deep liberty is the key to the end of suffering and the beginning of joy. The Buddha said that just as you can recognize seawater because it always tastes of salt, you can recognize enlightenment because it always tastes of freedom.
Any spiritual practice is ultimately just a way of stripping off the illusions we have learned from other flawed mortals, letting go of whatever holds us back, opening ourselves completely to what comes next. It feels like a terrible risk, to be so vulnerable, to disobey the rules, to end up losing the things and people we love.
the worst pain, fear, and torment I’ve ever experienced has only deepened my ability to experience joy. I feel this even when I’m hurting, because while pain and pleasure are mutually exclusive, pain and joy are not.
The more I tune in to the source of my own being (and every religion I’ve studied has helped me find ways), the more anger, sorrow, and fear seem confined to the shallows of my personality, while my true self—and yours, and that of every being—is like a sea whose depths are always tranquil, however troubled the surface may become. Pain reminds me to return to the deep, calm, gentle sea, so that I find myself crying because I’m happy, and because I’m sad, but never because I’m in despair. Once you’re sure that God is waiting in the acceptance of every true thing, even pain, I’m not sure despair is even possible.
“The roads are different,” wrote the Sufi poet Rumi, “but the goal is one. When people reach the goal, all those who yelled at each other along the road, ‘You are wrong!’ or ‘You are a blasphemer!’ forget all possible differences.
Maybe, though, we’ll arrive at a place and time (or something beyond space and time) where we’ll sit around laughing and swapping stories about the messes we made during our respective treks through the blind maze of mortality. We’ll toast Muhammad, wave to the Buddha, high-five Jesus, Mary, and Rabbi Hillel, scratch the twelve opossums behind their ears. Then I plan to sit back to watch the flower fire, knowing that I’m home and I’m safe and it’s okay to go to sleep .