Last week, my women's discussion group talked about spirituality. As is our practice, the topic was selected by the evening's hostess, who had just returned from a trip to Peru led by a shaman and was trying to hold on to the intense spirituality she felt during her journey. For most of the evening, I listened quietly to the rest of the group discussing the efforts they have made to find a spiritual community or to bring spirituality into their lives. I enjoyed hearing about everyone's experiences, but felt disconnected from the discussion and had little to contribute myself.
Eventually, though, the group pushed me to speak. Reluctantly, I explained that I do not seek out spirituality on any kind of conscious or deliberate level. I added that I feel most "spiritual" when I am doing something active outside in a beautiful place. At those moments, I feel connected to all the elements, and most alive within myself. Rock climbing, in particular, produces a feeling of one-ness with my mind, my body, and the world around me.
But, as I also told the group, despite my rather un-spiritual nature, I do feel deeply connected to Judaism. The Hebrew portions of the religious service, particularly the singing and chanting, give me a powerful sense of connection to my people and my roots. Yet the English readings leave me cold, and fail to spark any sense of faith or spirituality in my heart. That is, the ancient Hebrew, which I can read but for the most part cannot understand, is like a gossamer thread linking me inseverably to all who have uttered these words over the last five or six millennia. In English, whether translated from the Hebrew or added in the modern era, the words drop like lead on my ears and heart, full of paeans to God's awesome power and generous protection.
Mostly this is because I don't really believe in God. Or more accurately, because the concept of "God" gives me no comfort or guidance. Instead, I believe above all that we each are responsible for our decisions and actions, that things don't "happen for a reason," but rather simply happen for reasons we may or may not understand, and we are left to react and respond to those happenings as best we can.
At the group meeting, some of the women suggested that I reconceptualize God, or try to perceive God in all that surrounds me. But while I revel in the beauty of nature and the unpredictability of the elements, and while I never cease to be enthralled by the ever-shifting majesty of the Colorado sky, I don't associate these wonders with divine workmanship. These phenomena exist, they are perhaps beyond my understanding, and I am fortunate to perceive and experience them. Attributing them to "God" neither alters my perception nor heightens my experience.
I suppose there is something essential missing in me, preventing me from experiencing religious reverence and feeling the powerful force of a divine spirit. Probably, I would be a better person if I could experience a spiritual awakening from yoga, rather than simply enjoying the benefits of strength and flexibility that yoga brings to my corporeal self. Perhaps I would feel a greater fulfillment in life if I could open my heart and mind to religious guidance, whether from rabbi, shaman, guru, or some other spiritual leader.
But the idea that God -- whatever he, she, or it may be -- is watching over me offers no solace. Maybe I resist the notion of God because so much evil has been perpetrated in this world in God's name. Maybe I reject prayerful religiosity because I see so much hypocrisy shrouded in prayer. I do believe deeply in tradition, family, and culture, and I recognize many phenomena in life that I cannot explain through logic or science. And I support wholeheartedly those who adhere to any doctrine or faith that guides them to treat others with respect and kindness, to help those who are less fortunate, and to pursue peace and goodwill among all people.
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