Separating Religion from Spiritualism; Superstition from Wisdom
“But that’s how it’s always been done.” —most people, probably.
I come from an interesting lineage. I wasn’t raised Christian—initially—but I was raised by Christians. A Southern Baptist and a Roman Catholic, to be exact. I was raised in the diametrically oppositional world of magical forests filled with inquisitive woodland creatures, and one of country clubs and patent leather shoes. When Emily Post’s “Etiquette” wasn’t proverbially crowning my head, I wore a quite literal nimbus of brambles and leaves and webs. I was roped into Sunday School (and Hebrew School on occasion) by well-meaning friends who were concerned for my soul and enjoyed participating in performative acts of saving and grace. I was confused—I hadn’t been raised without morals or ethics, without compassion or empathy, yet I was treated as though I was sorely lacking, while all around me were people who could quote verses and had memorized the order of books in the Old Testament, and New, who couldn’t seem to actually be kind without incessant prompting every Sunday morning.
No one seemed to understand that I had a direct relationship with whom they called Christ, that was full of reciprocity and mirth and understanding. I learned early on not to share such stories. I learned early on not to ask so many questions. My time in the Church amounted to less than a decade—it was an impactful time of my most formative years, though surely not in the ways anticipated. My lived experience of communing with animals and angels, tree spirits and saints, passed loved ones and Yeshua himself seemed completely normal to me, and absurd at best (dangerous at worst) to others. I learned to keep things to myself. I learned to be quiet. I learned to seek through books and meanderings and by observing.
Over the years I found myself in makeshift covens with others who were lonely and seeking companionship with likeminded outcasts. I found myself in yoga classes and eventually in teacher trainings to learn how to be in my body. I found myself at darshans and satsangs and eventually in an ashram to learn how to soften my thoughts and quiet my tumultuous mind. To live in community and be of service to others. I found myself at the feet of gurus and lamas and Rinpoches and witches and reiki masters and murshid(a)s, prostrating myself to their wisdom as I continued seeking answers and grace. I found myself in dojangs and gyms cultivating physical strength and confidence. I found myself at drum circles and sound baths and guided visualizations and prayer circles searching for wholeness. I found myself in religious bookstores, new age shoppes, botanicas, curios and odditoriums looking for comfort. I found myself at death beds and birth beds witnessing mysteries unfold as thresholds were crossed. Years and years of seeking and searching and stumbling—fumbling ever onward in a never ending desire for self discovery. For understanding. For sanctuary.
Here’s what I learned.
Religion isn’t everything. And religion isn’t all that bad—structure, support, community, commonality are all things humans innately crave, especially while contemplating Mysteries.
Spirituality isn’t a cop out. Except for when it is. Humans also crave wildness and flow and an ineffableness that simply can’t be contained in a building or a book or within dogmatic laws.
