Heads up

Panic

I've been a mess lately.  Last night, I had a panic attack.  I wrote the following to make sense of all of it.  It may just become a chapter in my book.

Panic

On the morning of our third anniversary, my wife goes to class, trying to finish up her degree.  That will be followed by another shift at Starbucks.

I’m supposed to be heading off to work for the first time since shaking a particularly nasty viral infection, but instead, I lay in bed having a panic attack.

Having a panic attack is like having all of you – the whole of you – shoved into one of those little plastic balls that hamsters like to run around in, then being kicked around a soccer field by both amateur and professional athletes alike.  All the while, they’re shouting and whispering a million and one impossible questions at you, demanding answers like some medieval tribunal, and your life hangs in the balance.  Your mind goes away to faraway places – dark places that a mind should never go to.  You just want to go away, you want to disappear.  Your pulse races, your breathing shudders, and tears begin to burst forth through the cracks around your eyes.

I think it was probably a mild one, too.  My wife has suffered panic attacks in the past, bad ones.  I’ve done battle with clinical depression in the past and tangled with maybe one or two anxiety attacks, but I’d yet faced the unforgiving monster of panic until the wee hours of that morning.

Trembling, I woke up my lovely wife and she held me.  She held me through the pain and the tears, all the while whispering love – love that quieted the distant shots on the soccer field.  We go through it together.  Having recently survived her own bout with chronic panic, she gives me one of her tranquilizers and, while stroking my sleep-matted hair, coddles me to sleep, whispering reassurance and love all the way.

***

Life is a hard thing.  Just when we think we have it figured out, it shoves us into a hamster ball and kicks the shit out of us.  We battle insecure perceptions of ourselves and others, not to mention the ravenous, unforgiving world system, always hungrily battling to assimilate every bit of residue of humanity and individuality that we have.

We must fight back.  We cannot give up.

But how?  And then, perhaps the most ubiquitous and existential of questions, why?

I’ve always thought that the realm of Spirit is similar to ours, but with significant differences.  In America, we thrive on results.  The dollar is the bottom line, and how can I market it is the bottom dollar.  We’re enamored of results and numbers, graphs and pie charts.  The more colorful they are, the better.

I actually know ministries that tout their “number of souls saved.”  And they’re serious about it.

Seriously?

My father has lived a hard fought philosophy.  To boil it down, suppose all of your life, every fork in the road and turn of chance leads you to truly, deeply affect the life of one person.  What if that is the sole purpose of your life?

Oh, and by the way, you may never know about the effect you had on that person.  You could try figuring out your life until the day you die and not get it until later.  

I buy that.  I buy all the feel-good, ethereal stuff.  I think when you get quiet in nature, meditate, and practice the art of listening, you can hear those quiet truths and proverbs bubbling in every brook, blowing through every tree.  I believe in the small things, and the ineffable worth of every human soul.  You may be the only side of the Divine that somebody may ever see.  You may be the difference one person has been hoping for.

So, perhaps I have been tainted by this culture when I say that I also still believe in making a difference.  A big difference.  Every person is programmed to make some kind of difference.  Every person has a role to play in the stage of history.  Everything from scooping poop to shaping the course of the nation and the world.

I’ve always felt the capacity in me to do great things.  I’m not talking about the ethereal great things where you have to look for the meaning in order to find it.  Great things that you hear about in the newspaper.  I don’t want it for the notoriety or the fame.  I want to make a difference for the sake of making a difference. 

I want someone to ask me, “When was the last time you went to work?” and have me reply “I haven’t worked in twenty years!”  Not because, ya know, I haven’t worked a job in twenty years, but because I’ve been enjoying myself so much that it hasn’t seemed like work.

Sometimes, the ethereal stuff, like making a difference in only one life, sounds like an excuse to me.  It sounds like a reason not to try.  It sounds like all the reasons you give yourself why you can’t or won’t instead of all the reasons you can and will.

I was talking about all this with Jeff at Starbucks the other night.  Jeff likes cappuccinos.  Very, very dry cappuccinos.  When it’s fall, I’m all about the pumpkin spice.  Sipping our drinks, it’s the first time we’ve chatted in quite some time.  Life had gotten us both busy – life had gotten in the way.  We stepped back in the spotlight and swapped stories.

“Remember that time in the mall parking lot,” I said.  “That time when you spoke about the ache we all feel?”

He nodded over his mocha infused foam.

“You said that if we’re honest with ourselves, nothing seems to fill it,” I said.  “Not even God.  Not love, not altruism.”

“Yeah,” he said.

“That’s where I’ve been living lately,” I said.  “The altruism isn’t enough anymore.  It’s not that I don’t care.  It’s that it’s just not enough.”

“I don’t buy it,” he said.

“Wait- what?”

“I don’t buy it,” he repeated, swallowing the foamy cappuccino as if to punctuate his thought. “It doesn’t ring true to Jason.”

I sat there, dumbfounded.  I felt defensive, and naked.  Jeff was like my brother.  He’d lived in Texas his entire life.  I started out in Tennessee.  We met up at church years prior, shortly after my move to the Lone Star state when I was still a teenager.  At this point of my life, it felt like I’d lived four or five lives as different people.  Jeff has accompanied me for at least three of them.  The man was like my brother.  The man was closer than a brother.

It’s hard being this transparent, this vulnerable to another person.  It’s something we all strive for in family and with friends, in marriage and in relationships.  What the hell did he mean that my ramblings didn’t ring true to Jason?

He spoke of the man he’d known for years.  The man who used to believe in unconditional love.  The man who used to believe in people, in God.  The man who wanted to make a difference.  I still believe in all those things, I just don’t give them sole credence over my life anymore.  I don’t ground the whole of who I am on any one particular idea anymore.

I want to make a difference.

The words echo in my brain and take root on the parched cracks of my already shaken heart.

“You want to make a difference,” he repeats.  “Not for the fame or the money, but for the sake of making a difference.”

It’s turn to nod my head as I sip the frothy pumpkin from my cup.  He continues on for a while and speaks of things that remind me of what Aunt May tells Peter Parker in Spider-Man 2.  Something about balance and keeping steady, about giving up something now for what you want later.

***

I’ve never read much Ayn Rand.  My wife loves her.  As a layman ignorant to most of her work, and knowing only what bits and pieces my wife has exposed me to, it sounds like her philosophy is something I could get into.  It talks about how altruism and caring for other at the expense of yourself will not bring you happiness in the end.  It seems to back up the phrase, “Religion is the opium of the people,” and the mass delusion that happens when you get a bunch of people to believe in selflessness leads to the fertile ground for less scrupulous folks to take advantage of. 

I don’t know about all that.  Frankly, I’m not smart enough for it.  But I do believe that you have to have a balance.  You have to have moderation.  Yet, don’t be so moderate in your moderation that you never take extreme measures.  Don’t be so extreme in your measures that you never know the prudence of restraint.

If everybody were truly selfless and giving, it would create an infinity relationship of giving and receiving.  Everybody would be taken care of by everybody else, and you wouldn’t have to worry about yourself and what you’re losing, because you’d just as quickly get stuff from somebody else taking care of you.

History, especially political history, has shown that it just doesn’t work.  It doesn’t mean we’re doomed as a species or that we should stop dreaming.  It just means that trial and error is a good format, and that we should keep trying to see what works.

Maybe Captain Kirk was right and we are meant to fight and scratch our way to the top – to kick ourselves out of paradise.

We do have a hole in us.  The churches, especially the earnest, post-modern ones, contend that it is a God shaped hole.  The socialist government says it’s a hole in the shape of your fellow man, and it can be filled through the form of volunteerism. 

I’m beginning to wonder if it can be filled at all.  But maybe that’s the point.  Maybe we need that hole to keep us going.  Maybe the hole is pleomorphic – maybe it takes many different shapes depending on who we are and where we’re going at the time.  Maybe it’s a compass of sorts, part of the God net, a diving rod of the soul, something that lets us know when we’re pointed in a good direction, something that warns us when we’re not.

Maybe we should all embrace the hole, shout into it, and listen for the ensuing echo.  It may hold the answers we’re looking for. 

Echoes and whisper always do.

Feeling depressed and in need of advice

And, it begins...

Introduction

When I began writing this book, I started with the idea of simply putting my spiritual memoirs to paper.  Specifically, I wanted to talk about my journey into and out of Christianity.  Many people these days seem increasingly disillusioned with religion.  I hail from the bastion of modern, Western (read: American) Christianity, and would readily place myself in the category of folks who see religion as more of a hurt than a help.  I’ve written many blogs and personal journals about both the beauties and dangers of religion, and this was to be one final attempt to purge my soul and perhaps inspire discussion on the future of the Christian church, what it’s gotten wrong, and what it’s gotten right. 

It soon ballooned into something so much more.

If I’m going to talk about spirituality, it must encompass more than just religion.  Religion, while beautiful in its innate form of reaching out to the Unreachable, in attempting to know the Unknowable, and explain the Unexplainable, one may find it a very rigid thing, the cause of much distress and destruction.

I, certainly, have found it to be so.

Spirituality, then, is a much broader term.  More and more, I hear people describing themselves as spiritual, but not religious.  This certainly applies to me. 

So, if I’m going to speak of spirituality, I must touch on more than my exploits in the Christian religion, but I must also touch on all of the other experiences I’ve had that fall more into the realm of Spirit.

These experiences will include the paranormal, psychic phenomena, near death experiences, and the possibility of afterlife and reincarnation.  I will speak of these things as though they are normal and indigenous to the human experience, and not as though they are wild inventions of a primitive and uneducated species.  They have been personal experiences for me, and I suspect for some of you, as well.  Know that I do have a healthy respect for science and all that it reveals.  While I will touch on the contentious relationship between religion and science, it was not always so, nor should it stay that way.  I find the realms of Science and Spirit to be inherently complementary.

My intent is not to speak on anything with absolute certainty, as that kind of engendered arrogance, as I have found, generally causes much damage.  Once you’ve finished this book, you’ll understand why my new motto is, “Doubt is my faith. Uncertainty, my religion.”  I can no longer afford to be that sure of anything.

I find much beauty in that!

I am honored that you are reading my book.  I extend an invitation.  Join me as I recount the sometimes boring, sometimes harrowing journey of my spiritual life.  I have a feeling that my story is your story, that my hopes are your hopes, and that my pains are your pains.

I will challenge you at times to let go of preconceived ideas in the hopes of inspiring creative dialogue and thoughtful discussion.  Many of us have claimed to have the answers, but seldom do these promises hold true.  Instead, I believe that each of us holds a beautiful piece to an altogether larger tapestry.  Not until we come together in the spirit of understanding can we hope to put the pieces together and begin to understand the larger picture.

Here are my credentials.  I have no doctorate.  I have no degree.  My credentials are experience.  I was born not only into Christianity, but into a rich heritage of spirituality on both sides of my family.  The legacy of spiritual insight and sensitivity hailing both from my paternal and maternal lines are staggering.  I lived  the Christian dream my whole life, culminating in being ordained and becoming a post-modern Christian pastor of a Christian rock band.  As you’ll find out through the course of the book, I eventually left the ministry and the Christian church altogether in a sort of self-imposed spiritual exile.  At the moment of this writing, I’m working toward a degree in nursing and work in the cancer ward of a major pediatric hospital.  I enjoy helping people, and found healthcare to be a much more practical way of helping people where they hurt than traditional Christian ministry.  I am also an aspiring professional writer, which is why you’re now holding this book in your hands. 

When I started asking questions of my religion my eyes were opened, and things really started to shake and change.  I’m willing to bet they’re questions you’ve thought of, if not asked yourself.

Come with me, and together, we’ll find the answers. 

Be sure to bring your piece of tapestry along.

1

I wish that I could really tell you

All the things that happened to me

And all that I have seen

                                Genesis, Keep It Dark                                   

Welcome to my story.  I hope you find pieces of yourself as you examine my piece of the tapestry.  This chapter will include many ideas that at first glance may not seem to fit, but will give you a sense of what has made me who I am.  Many of the topics mentioned will be covered more in depth later in the book.  With that, engage warp engines.

                When I was a kid, I had a habit of sleepwalking.  Sometimes, I had no memory of it.  I would fall asleep in one place, usually unbeknownst to me, and wake up in another.  Other times, I would have memory of the event.  I would be looking out at the world and see the actions I was taking, yet I had no control over what I was doing.  One time, when I was maybe four or five, I remember getting out of bed, and walking into the living room where my parents were still up watching television.  I stood in front of my dad, who was sitting on the couch, and proceeded to pee on the floor in front of him.  I then nonchalantly walked back to bed and went back to sleep.  When I woke up, I remembered doing the crime, but I pleaded insanity.  Luckily, the judge ruled in my favor due to prior history.

                I remember another time when I fell asleep as my parents watched a popular televangelist.  I tried to pay attention, knowing that my eternal soul not only hung in the balance, but that these teachings could perhaps make my lot in life that much easier and perhaps even enviable to my fellow man.  Next thing I know, I have foggy memories of walking to the bathroom, peeing in the toilet (really, what is it with the peeing?), then pointing to the light in my bedroom while trying to put together a coherent sentence.  Then, I woke up as my parents were tucking me into bed and laughing at my latest sleep walking shenanigans.

                I’m sure there’s an ironic connection between Christian televangelists and the zombie-like state of sleepwalking, but I can’t quite put my finger on it right now…

                The aforementioned televangelist became a staple in my home.  His tapes lined our bookshelves, his books lay on the floor of our den, and his television show brightened the otherwise sacred screen of our television every day.  On weekdays, his show took on a rustic, homey appearance, with he and his occasional guests sitting in a cozy study with a fireplace behind him as he expounded the truths of Scripture, as he saw it, while Sundays would showcase one-hour excerpts from his worldwide crusades.

                I was born very close to the Gemini/Cancer cusp on June the 18^th, 1983 at Oak Ridge Hospital in Tennessee.  Oak Ridge, the atomic city.  Yes, the ol’ atom bomb was engineered in my very home town. 

                I’m still not sure whether I should be proud of that.

                Memories are a funny thing.  Cognitive scientists say that long term memories don’t begin to really gel and stick in our heads until at least our second or third years.  I have memories from my first and second years, but they are more snapshots than anything coherent. 

                Me, sitting in a high chair, circa late 1984.  This is the beginning of my fear of heights, I think.  The space around me looks like a modest apartment; at least, that’s what I’ll piece together later.  I can see my mother tooling around in the kitchen, which seems an impossibly far distance away.  The most annoying thing is an unbearably loud noise.  It sounds like they’re tearing the whole damn complex apart outside.  Later, I’d figure out that it was most likely construction.  The smell of my mother’s cooking fills the air.  This must also be the beginning of my love affair with food.

                Me, running through the darkened light of our apartment, circa 1985-1986.  I think the darkness results more from my cloudy memory than anything else.  Who the hell is chasing me?  My brother.  You gotta love big brothers.  I trip, fall, and the tip of my chin meets the sharpened edge of Mr. Stereo Cabinet.

                Me, sitting in the ER getting my chin stitched up.  Ma says I didn’t even cry.

                The scar is barely visible now.

                Me, shrouded in darkness, circa 1983.  A comforting, rhythmic hum filling my ears as I become smaller, more innocent, until suddenly – memory.  Real, human memory.

                That last one I want to talk about further.

                There is a popular mythological idea that both children and the elderly  are closer to eternity than the rest of us in the middle.

                Okay, back the truck up.  Just what is eternity?  I’ll give you my two cents.  Perhaps eternity is that space of time beyond the present, made to encompass both the past, present, and future.  We seem to be locked into the present, however annoying that may be.  The present seems to be the  way we experience time, life, love, and death.  Some believe time to be linear, forever marching in one direction, from one end to the other.  In this way, time becomes finite and manageable.  It becomes understandable.

                I, however, prefer to think of time like ripples in a pond.  I believe it to be cyclical, simultaneously dipping into the past while stretching out into the future.  What was will be again.

                I digress.  Perhaps we are closer to all that Is, to eternity, when we are children.  It’s as if all we are and time itself dilates or stretches so that our memories of that Other Place are more vivid.  We’re more aware of All That Is, and so we carry that experience into our lives.  Life has a way of shaping us, making us forget, and I think part of our journey requires that at some point we remember, and apply that knowledge to our lives from that point on.

                When I was young, maybe four or five years old, I had this memory which didn’t make sense in a literal way, but in an experiential way. Today, I call it the memory of being brought to earth from the Great Elsewhere, if not the memory of being born.

                Perhaps the rhythmic hum was the beat of my mother’s heart.  Perhaps it was the sound of the Great Other as it bore me to this plane of reality.  I felt fully known, fully comforted, and fully loved.  I was Kal-El in his Kryptonian spaceship as it traveled to earth.

                I’m Superman.  You’re Superman, too!  Or Superwoman.  Whichever the case may be.

                This is heady stuff, and I feel a bit crazy for speaking of it with you.  But you’re getting to know me now.  This is my part of the tapestry.

                In the fall of 2008, my spiritual revolution had reached a fever pitch.  I had divorced Christianity some three or four years prior, and had continued rebuilding my spirituality brick by brick.

                When you divorce American Christianity and you’re rebuilding your spirituality, eventually you must tackle the doctrines of death and the afterlife.  Just what about hell?  What about heaven?  How ‘bout them angels and demons? 

                As I had ventured farther from the theoretical and further into the experiential, I figured, “Who better to ask about death than the people who say they’ve been there?”  So began my research into near-death experiences.

                I read hundreds of near-death experiences from people of all spiritual persuasions and various walks of life.  Many books have been written on the subject.  I was surprised to find that even a small, albeit legitimate branch of science had been devoted to the subject, called Survivalism.  The idea is that consciousness is more than the rhythm and hum of our neurons, and perhaps it can survive outside the brain and body.

                One common thread of near-death experiencers is called the Great Void or the Void Experience.  Sometimes preceded by a realization of being outside their body, a person would find themselves in a boundless void, filled with impenetrable blackness.  It wasn’t a scary place, it simply was.  Here, they would often have a life review (ever heard of life flashing before the eyes of the dying?), and they would be given the choice of whether to stay in eternity or return to their life on earth.  After these very important decisions were weighed, the ever ubiquitous Light would appear, and their journey would continue for a time.

                This brings us to my memory of the Great Void.

                Me, circa 1985.  I’m sitting next to the apartment pool with my mother and my brother.  Suddenly, I’m in the water, floating face down.  There may have been some frantic thrashing involved, though at the time, I felt incredibly peaceful.  I remember seeing out of my peripheral vision the sides of the pool, distorted through the clear, blue chlorinated water.  What struck me as odd, even at the tender age of two, is that the bottom of the pool was missing.  I found myself staring into a great, deep blackness.  I wasn’t afraid of the blackness, but I felt as if I was about to begin tumbling into it, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

                At that time, my mother snatched me from the water. A few coughs and gags later, and I was happily returned to the world of toddlerdom.

On second thought