Church of the Churchless

I abandon all hope in my book shelves

It's the only line from Dante's Divine Comedy that I know: "Abandon all hope, you who enter here." (one of various translations of what's inscribed on the gate of hell)

For me, it's what I feel nowadays when I peruse the spiritual, mystical, metaphysical, and religious volumes in my book collection.

I used to read these books voraciously, devouring them for insights into the Meaning of It All. I went through phases where I'd study a single subject for weeks or months.

Sant Mat. Rumi. Meister Eckhart. Other medieval Christian mystics. The "desert fathers." Zen. Taoism. Plotinus. Emerson. To name a few.

This morning I looked for an inspirational book to read before I meditated. My eyes ran up and down the shelves. I didn't feel inspired by any of them. At least, not in the way I used to be.

I feel this is a positive sign. Of what, I don't know. Let's just call it a positive sign that doesn't point in any particular direction.

Which is why I see it as positive. Every spiritual/religious book I've ever read, including the three that I've written myself, contains ideas that I don't agree with.

These discordances are like off-key musical notes, or stumbles in a dance. I used to be able to ignore them and enjoy the quasi-harmony of the rest of the composition. But now I look at a title and remember, "There's some ridiculous stuff in there."

Of course, what's ridiculous to me might strike you as perfectly reasonable. But I'm not you. All I can be is me.

Who, like you, is someone unique – when it comes to seeking an understanding of what life is about. This uniqueness makes it impossible to find a suit of spiritual clothes that will fit anyone perfectly. Each of us needs to do at least some mixing and matching, and maybe even sewing from scratch.

An example: I find Buddhism appealing, by and large. However, lurking in almost every Buddhist book are dogmas that turn me off.

Such as the need for a guru or master. It always surprises me when I'm reading along, enjoying a Buddhist discussion of how truth can only be found within through direct experience, and then the author adds that this can only happen if you submit yourself to another person.

Daisetz Teitaro (D.T.) Suzuki in "The Zen Koan as a Means of Attaining Enlightenment."

That the Zen experience takes place at all as such, and is formulated finally as a system of Zen intuitions, is principally due to the master's guiding, however enigmatical it may seem; for without it the experience itself is impossible.

Julia Lawless and Judith Allan in "Beyond Words: Dzogchen Made Simple."

The teacher is considered more important than the Buddha, Dharma, or Sangha, for without the teacher there would be no Buddha or access to the lineage of Buddhas, no Dharma, no teachings, and no Sangha, or community of practitioners, for these cannot exist in isolation without the master. The teacher in fact is the Buddha, Dharma and Sangha and the gateway to realization.

Clang! Stumble! Disharmonies. These words just don't ring true to me anymore.

I'll never find a perfect book. Or a perfect teacher, guru, or master. And this realization feels perfectly fine to me.

A critique of Ken Wilber and “Integral Spirituality”

I've got to keep my churchless credibility intact. I don't want to sound like I've become a Ken Wilber groupie after speaking favorably about his "Integral Spirituality" in some recent posts – here, here, and here.

So now that I've finished the book, and visited (or re-visited) some web sites that criticize Wilber's Integral "theory of everything," I'll share what I don't like about Wilber's take on reality.

Main objection: his complex theories about how everything in existence fits together strike me as much more reflective of the inside of Ken Wilber's head than of how the universe really works.

That might explain why too much Wilberian reading leaves me with a metaphorical headache. I find his writings hugely interesting and provocative, but taken as a whole they seem disconnected from the living, breathing world.

Given that the Integral Approach purports to have discovered the links between subjective and objective reality, spirituality and science, metaphysics and physics, and other seeming opposites, the discordant feeling I get from his writings is an intuitive clue that something is wrong in Wilberland.

Last night I gave a presentation on Taoism to a community college Comparative Religion class. I read some excerpts from the introduction to Eva Wong's "Lieh-Tzu" (a great book).

She talks about the three main traditional Taoist writings in a fashion that I could never apply to Wilber's prose.

Thus, while the Lao-tzu is the voice of serious wisdom and the Chuang-tzu is the voice of crazy wisdom, the Lieh-tzu is the voice of humorous wisdom.

The philosophy in the Lao-tzu comes from above us; we can admire it and hope to follow it, but it is hard to reach. The philosophy in the Chuang-tzu comes from a world that is very different from our own; we may try to grasp it, but it is too elusive to catch. The philosophy in the Lieh-tzu comes from where we are. It speaks to us at our level and talks about experiences we can relate to and understand.

When I read Wilber, I don't feel like his writing is serious, crazy, or humorous. Nor does it reflect a lofty, elusive, or everyday perspective.

It's abstract, conceptual, intellectual. Even though Wilber tries to mix in attempts at poetic mysticism, inevitably it comes off sounding fake to me. Here's a long-winded example from the final chapter.

Throw the circle as wide as you can, find a view from 50,000 feet, be inclusive using an integral pluralism and not just a pluralism (which soon fractures, fragments, and falls apart, leaving only the ego to rule), extend your compassionate embrace to the men and women doing the extraordinarily wonderful work in all of those fields and disciplines (covered by the 8 methodologies), reach out and bring their phenomenal worlds into the map of your own world, stretch your mind until it touches infinity and begins to radiate with the brilliance of the overmind, expand the beating of your heart to unleash its inherent desire to love every single thing and person and event in the entire Kosmos, so that you love all the way to infinity and all the way back, smiling when you actually, finally, amazingly see the radiant Face of God in the 2^nd –person (or the ultimate Thou as infinite love, arising then as the ultimate We), even as your own Original Face is God in the 1^st -person (or the ultimate I-I as this moment's pure nondual Witnessing-Emptiness), knowing too that the entire manifest universe – the Great Holarchy of beings all the way up, all the way down – is God in the 3^rd –Person (or the ultimate It as the entire Kosmos): I and Thou and We and It, all brought together in the radiant contours of the simple Suchness of this and every moment, as you feel into the texture of the Kosmos and find your very Self in every warp and woof of a universe now arising as the radiance of the Spirit that can never be denied, any more than you can deny the awareness of this page, knowing, too, that Spirit and the awareness of this page are one and the same, and certainly not-two, so that you realize – with the great sages East and West, Lao Tzu to Asanga to Shankara to Paul to Augustine to Parmenides to Plotinus to Descartes to Schelling to Teresa and Lady Tsogyal – the ultimate secret of the spiritual world, namely, that fully enlightened and ever-present divine awareness is not hard to attain but impossible to avoid.

Whew. Wilber's editor should be ashamed of letting that single sentence into the book. Stream of consciousness writing is a poor substitute for a genuinely elevated vision.

Or at least, a vision that sounds elevated to me. Such as Lao Tzu's considerably briefer description of ultimate reality.

Know That which is beyond all beginnings
and you will know everything here and now

Know everything in this moment
and you will know the Eternal Tao

I think this is what Wilber is trying to say. But Lao Tzu shows you can say it simply, not complexly.

There's a lot not to like in Wilber's Integral Vision, as summarized in the run-on sentence above. I've written an essay about what he gets wrong about Plotinus, one of the "sages" he cites as supporting his integral philosophy.

Actually, Plotinus doesn't. Nor does Lao Tzu, in my opinion. Or Teresa, Augustine, Descartes, Parmenides , or almost all of the other people he mentions.

Wilber has a notoriously shallow understanding of the sources he cites in his books.

He implies to the reader that scholars share his take on a certain domain of human knowledge, but this frequently isn't true. So how is it possible to integrate the world's wisdom in many different areas when you don't really understand those separate domains of knowledge?

Again, what rubbed me most the wrong way in "Integral Spirituality" is that Wilber's description of the ideal spiritual practitioner sounds remarkably like…prepare for no big surprise…Ken Wilber.

Often people say that Wilber wants to be a guru, with all that this entails (fawning followers, unquestioning loyalty, and so on). I don't know if that's true, but his book does nothing to dispel that impression.

It's filled with mentions of his other writings, his Integral Institute, his efforts to show how other spiritual leaders/authors lack the all-encompassing vision of How-Things-Really-Are that Wilber possesses.

Now, part of me – maybe all of me – wishes that Ken Wilber possesses the keys to the universe that he believes he has. Because he and I are similar in many ways: long-time meditators, with an intellectual bent. I like his thesis that thinking about the cosmos (or Kosmos) is a significant aspect of spiritual practice, since I do a lot of that.

Indeed, perusing his Integral Life Practice Matrix, it sure seems like I should be enlightened by now. I'm doing a bunch of the core things that Wilber says lead to integral understanding.

Weightlifting. T'ai Chi. Qi Gong. Yoga. Reading & Study. Taking Multiple Perspectives. Centering Prayer. Therapy (well, I'm married to a psychotherapist, so maybe that counts).

But you know, somehow I suspect that I can keep on doing these things for the rest of my life, including studying more Ken Wilber books, and I'm still going to be clueless about the nature of the cosmos.

Though Lao Tzu offers me a bit of hope.

To rule the state, have a known plan
To win a battle, have an unknown plan
To gain the universe, have no plan at all

I enjoyed "Integral Spirituality." There's a lot of food for thought in the 300 or so pages. However, I liked various pieces of the book much more than the whole Integral Vision. That leaves me lukewarm, if not cold.

In this month's issue of Scientific American there's an article about how the accelerating universe is wiping out traces of its own origins. Eventually the big bang is going to be a mystery to future civilizations. The article ends with:

Most important, although we are certainly fortunate to live at a time when the observational pillars of the big bang are all detectable, we can easily envisage that other fundamental aspects of the universe are unobservable today.

What have we already lost? Rather than being self-satisfied, we should feel humble. Perhaps someday we will find that our current careful and apparently complete understanding of the universe is seriously wanting.

Ken Wilber, are you listening?

Here's some Wilber-critiquing web sites that I found today. Some of the ideas in this post were stimulated by the generally thoughtful writings available on these links.

"Ken Wilber is losing it," Michel Bauwens
Integral World (home page)
"Telling the Story As If It Were True," Frank Visser
"The Wild West Wilber Report," Frank Visser
"Critique of Ken Wilber," David Christopher Lane
"Critiques of Ken Wilber"
"The Age of Wilberius," Geoffrey Falk
"Norman Einstein: The Dis-Integration of Ken Wilber," Geoffrey Falk
"A Critique of Ken Wilber's Integral Method," M. Alan Kazlev
" Bald Ambition," Jeff Meyerhoff
"The Intersubjective Meditator," Andrew P. Smith

(Just noticed that all of the critiquers, and Wilber himself, are men. Is believing that you've uncovered the secrets of the spiritual universe, or that you're capable of criticizing the uncoverer, a male thing? Seemingly.)

There’s nothing wrong with me (or you)

Last Sunday a friend loaned me a copy of "There Is Nothing Wrong With You" by Cheri Huber. The title appealed to me instantly, since it's so obviously right.

I mean, most of the time it's crystal clear to me that I'm absolutely fine. It's other people who are all screwed up, the way they don't behave like I want them to.

Problem is, they feel the same. So the conventional wisdom is that the world is made up of six billion humans chanting a mantra of "I'm right and you're wrong."

This certainly seems to be the foundation of religion (and politics). But Huber, a Zen practitioner who melds Buddhist and self-help philosophy, has a different slant on rightness and wrongness.

Her book's subtitle, in the new edition, is "going beyond self-hate." She sees self-hate as the root of the sense of wrongness that permeates most people's everyday lives.

Trying to STOP, FIX, or CHANGE is part of the self-hating process. Just stay with the experience and REALLY GET IT. That this is sad, it's not wrong, it's just hard, it's hard to be a being. How can we not feel compassion?

Of course, ego will jump right in there and say, "Enough of this sadness. Let's DO something about it." That DO-ality will flip us right back into the bottom of the pot. I imagine a big stew pot of self-hate, and you just about crawl up to the top of the pot when you run into something that flips you right back in.

Usually this "something" is: trying to change what you are experiencing. Criticizing yourself, judging somebody else, thinking you need to change something, fix something, DO something—

And you are right back in the bottom of the pot of self hate. Again…

(My edition of "There Is Nothing Wrong With You" is typeset in a handwritten fashion, with an informal style. Usually I'm not a big fan of CAPS and cutesy layouts, but it works in this book – though the format looks a bit strange when quoted as I did above.)

There's a lot of simple wisdom in the easy-to-read pages that I whipped through in a couple of morning pre-meditation reading sessions. Such as:

I am not here to become an acceptable person. I am here to accept the person I am.

It may be true that you make sacrifices, but that doesn't make you good; it just means that you make sacrifices.

It may be true that you are accepting, but that doesn't make you good; it just means you are accepting.

It may be true that you are responsible, but that doesn't make you good; it just means you are responsible.

It may be true that you meditate, but that doesn't make you good; it just means that you meditate.

We label these behaviors good and then continue to do them in order to support self-hate. Perhaps doing in order to be good is what keeps you from realizing that you are already good.

Insightful.

Those last two lines made me think about my motivations during a long period of true-believing religiosity. I really enjoyed feeling that I was on the right spiritual path, because left to my own devices obviously I'd wander off and get lost, screw-up that I am.

So, yes, self-hate (or at least self-mistrust) kept me reading the books, attending the services, sticking to the straight and narrow, fearing to question. Oh my god, what would happen if I followed my own instincts? Well, Huber says:

All of life's conflicts are between letting go or holding on. Opening into the present or clinging to the past. Expansion or contraction.

…Life is very short. We do not have time to be frightened. We do not have the luxury of allowing fear and hate to run our lives. THIS IS IT!

…We cling to our belief that there is something wrong because that's how we maintain our position at the center of the universe.

Suffering provides our identity. Identity is maintained in struggle, in dissatisfaction, in trying to fix what's wrong. So we are constantly looking for what is wrong, constantly creating new crises so we can rise to the occasion.

To ego, that's survival. It is very important that something be wrong so we can continue to survive it.

I'd think: Oh no! There was a smidgen of meat in the food that I ate! I've broken my vegetarian vow! I should have checked more carefully – interrogated the cook, inspected every bite before I swallowed it, something!

As the familiar Zen story goes, I was the monk who watched his colleague carry a beautiful woman across a stream (a no-no for these monastic guys) and stewed about it for miles afterward. Until he said, "Why did you pick her up? You know we're not supposed to touch women."

The response: "I left the woman back on the stream bank. You're still carrying her. Who is the biggest vow-breaker?"

My wife and I have been taking dance lessons for a couple of years. They've attuned me to the difference between moving to patterns, versus moving freely.

Not that the two are separate and distinct. They're related. Because I can be leading a series of moves, a pattern, that is clear in my own mind. I know what is supposed to happen.

But Laurel doesn't, either because I haven't led the move correctly (usually the case) or because she doesn't know how to follow the lead.

Either way, when I have the Oops sensation that things aren't going as planned, I've got choices.

I can either try to force my partner to do what she darn well should be doing because I intended it, which can lead to stopping the dance and having a discussion (or argument) on the ballroom floor, or I can adjust myself to her movement.

Change my plan in accord with reality – which almost always is the preferred option.

It isn't that I'm right and she's wrong, or the reverse. Something simply is going on, and we both need to flow with it. I like what Huber says here:

What would maintain egocentricity? How would you know who you are?

It is only the illusion of a separate self who could believe that it is possible to make mistakes. Because, in fact, there isn't anything going on other that what is.

It is only in some imaginary parallel universe where this could happen, or this could happen, that we get that kind of alternative: what happened – what should have happened

As far as I know, it is only when we hold the notion that something happened this way, but it should have happened that way that we can say, "Well, I had this experience, but that is the one I was supposed to have.

I don't think so.

…We have a choice.

We can live our lives trying to conform to some nebulous standard or we can live our lives seeing how everything works.

When we step back and look at it that way, it is obvious that the attitude of fascination is the only intelligent one to bring to anything.

Spiritual reading list -- new and improved

I'm an avid reader of spiritual books. Not the overly religious kind, but the edgy variety – mystical and meditational writings that stretch my psyche's understanding of what reality is all about.

Last year Ron Gardner sent me a marvelous recommended spiritual reading list that I shared in a blog post. Now Ron has emailed me a new and improved list, "improved" naturally being in the eye of the list-maker, as likes and dislikes in any literary arena are necessarily personal.

However, just as there are classics in other genres, so also in esoteric spiritual writings. No one will agree with the placement of all of Ron's "highly recommended" selections, but I'm hugely impressed with the thoughtful care that has gone into the making of his list.

Thank you, Ron, for this gift. For many years, if not a lifetime, it'll help keep UPS trucks coming to my home with offerings from Amazon.

If you like, comment away on the list. Additions are especially welcome. Click below to read Ron's recommendations.

“Wholly Spirit” searches for a plausible God

Kudos to Grey Austin. Not only has he written a thoughtful, readable book about his search for a universal ultimacy that makes more sense than the personalized Christian God, but he's evolved a terrific white beard.

I've been thinking of letting mine grow out a bit. Not to Austin's Father Christmas length, but he's inspired me. Both beardly and spiritually.

I'm a sucker for self-published books that are carefully written/edited and present a unique perspective. "Wholly Spirit" fills the bill on both counts. (So does mine, in my not-humble opinion.)

Austin's book has an unvarnished honest feel to it. He's shared musings about the nature of the universe, God, and what life is all about that were composed over a number of years. I enjoyed seeing how his thinking (and feeling) changed from a fairly traditional Christian perspective to a scientifically founded Taoist-friendly outlook.

Which is pretty darn close to how I see things too. Like Austin, I used to have a much more anthropomorphic conception of divinity than I do now. But unlike him, my "God" was mediated to me by a living guru rather than Jesus.

Nonetheless, Austin's transition in understanding from God as Person to God as Nature mirrors my own in many ways. He says:

Thinking about God has been a problem for me for some time. I grew up picturing God as a being – not necessarily an old man in a robe and beard, but an entity somehow separate and other than "His" Creation, which is to say, the universe and its inhabitants.

I gradually came to believe that God could not choose to act on some individual's or nation's behalf or at their behest if such action would disrupt the flow of natural events. Still, I had the lingering sense that "with God all things are possible."

If God were not a separate being, with what or whom could I have a relationship and to what or whom could I pray? And what did prayer mean if God could not reach down a finger and stir the pot for my benefit or respond to even my most altruistic requests?

As those in my church continued to use anthropomorphic terms for God, I began to translate all that I heard into more naturalistic terms; but that was wearisome and could almost make me feel that I didn't belong. I also didn't have the natural processes sorted out enough to make some of the connections between anthropomorphism and naturalism with any degree of confidence.

Now I see that I was empowering God to act in the physical world and at the same time doubting that God could. This wasn't God's problem; it was mine. Now I suggest that "God" is the expression of faith that we use to give meaning to the natural world rather than creator of or active agent in the world.

With respect to prayer, I have come to recognize that I can be grateful and express my gratitude without being grateful to a "Someone." I can express affirmation, aspiration, regret, and even awe without the necessity of addressing it to an Other.

Another excerpt from Austin's book can be read here. "Wholly Spirit" doesn't appear to be available from the usual online book sellers, but I got a copy quickly and easily from the book's distributor.

Austin ends up with a "theology" or cosmology of Cosmic Wholeness: "I found that all is one and I am one with all."

That sounds New Agey, yet Austin is anything but. He's committed to melding the best of rationality and science with the best of intuition and mysticism.

The process that is consistent throughout the physical, organic, human, and inner realms might be thought of as intelligent energy, communicating and facilitating healing and wholeness at all levels of reality. The classical example of this model is the Buddha for whom there was no God figure, who taught reliance on human qualities as a way of life, and who counseled accepting things just as they are.

Finding my Way in the Bodhi Tree Bookstore

A few years ago I made my first pilgrimage to Hollywood's Bodhi Tree Bookstore, one of the wonders of the metaphysical book-selling world. I went again yesterday, leaving my month-old granddaughter and her mother (my daughter) cooling their heels in a neighboring restaurant.

Wise place to wait. Slower the service, the better. When I enter the Bodhi Tree Bookstore, I'm not going to be emerging for quite a while.

Wandering through the store's sections is a voyage of spiritual self-discovery. The patrons, me included, appear darn serious as they browse the shelves. After all, we're not looking for a book on how to restore a '57 Chevy, or plant a raised bed garden.

No, the entire Bodhi Tree content, by and large, is Big Questions of Life stuff: the nature of reality, what happens when we die, whether God exists, and if so, in what fashion.

Sure, there are smiles in the aisles—I loved how a red-headed coolly-clad young woman at the checkout counter responded to a "love your tattoos" from a person behind her with a flirtatious toss of her head and a finger pointing behind her ear: "you probably missed this one; see, it matches!"

Hollywood. I love ya.

But mostly I encountered intense gazes as I brushed by fellow shoppers. What I found most interesting about my 45 minutes or so in the store was how my emotional reaction to various sections governed my steps.

I've got a somewhat deserved reputation as an intellectual. However, when it comes to spirituality, religion, and mysticism, gut reactions serve as my compass, not my thoughts. In this regard, I'm typical. Mostly we feel our way through life, then rationalize the direction we've taken with logical-sounding reasons.

In the Bodhi Tree Bookstore, I was guided by gut, not gray matter. My first stop always is the Martial Arts, Buddhism, and Taoism corner. That's where I feel most comfortable.

Even here, though, there are more friendly and less friendly shelves. I did my best to find a book to buy in the general Buddhism section. However, I'd already bought the titles that appealed to me—the ones with a skeptical "kill the Buddha" theme.

I'd flip through some pages of a potential purchase and see a bunch of Sanskrit terms and references to this or that sutra. Ooh, too religious my gut would tell me. Back on the shelf it'd go.

I had to turn back to the Zen section before finding a couple of books that screamed (or at least strongly murmured) take me home: "Opening the Hand of Thought," by Kosho Uchiyama and "No Beginning, No End," by Jakusho Kwong. (In finding these Amazon links, I see that every reader review of these books has been 5 stars; other people clearly like them as much as I expect I will).

Zen has a way of laughing at its own pretensions that resonates with me. General Buddhism is just too damn serious. Ditto with most of Indian philosophy, the section that adjoins the Buddhist and Taoist shelves. I used to spend a lot of time there, but my gut won't let me tarry long with Indian mystics now.

Taoist sages, though, are more appealing. I found a couple of Thomas Cleary translations of Chinese classics, "The Spirit of Tao" and "The Book of Balance and Harmony." (Again, two 5-star reviews; my Bodhi Tree purchases batted 1.000 with Amazon reader reviews—though one Cleary book was review less.)

There's no other way to buy a book but with the guidance of your gut. You read the title, glance at the front and back covers, peruse the table of contents, flip through a few sample pages. In a few seconds it either speaks to you, or it doesn't.

Same with the spiritual, philosophical, mystical, and religious paths that books are written about. They either give you a come-hither look or a "no way, Jose" brush off. We like to think that we choose our Way for solid reasons, but almost always that isn't the case.

Generally we follow one path rather than another simply because it appeals to us. Is falling in love with a person any different? We can give reasons for our attraction, but they aren't the real cause of our infatuation. That's a mystery, even to the lovers.

So I brought home four books. Many others were inspected and rejected. Countless others, not even considered.

It comes down to the gut. Trust it. When buying a book. When embracing a philosophy of life. Each of us knows a lot more than we're able to tell ourselves in thought-sounds.

And what we know will be ours, not anyone else's. It'll be our little (or big) secret. Significant to us, not truly sharable with others.

I stood beside red-haired tattoo girl as she asked for some items that were stored behind the Bodhi Tree Bookstore checkout counter.

"Give me three copies of The Secret DVD," she said. "No, make that two."

I felt like telling her, "If you'd like some advice, may I suggest making it zero? Because in my opinion you're about to spend $60 on a bunch of bullshit."

But I kept my mouth shut. Because what I wanted to say would have been just that: my opinion. Like Alice's Restaurant, you can get almost anything you want, philosophically, at the Bodhi Tree. As with life. Different gettings for different folks, that's how the menu works.

The clerk reached back and picked up the DVDs. "Great Mother's Day presents," he told red-haired tattoo girl. "They can change someone's life." "I hope so," she replied.

She glanced over at me with another big smile. Irresistible. I smiled back. The Secret wasn't my Bodhi Tree shopping choice. But I'm me. She's she. Maybe that's all I needed to learn from my visit to the bookstore.

I still bought the four books though.

Be your own book

It's hard enough to simply haul myself around some days. Yet I'm still spry enough to have little trouble managing these garage crawlspace stairs. (After all, I just took twenty years off of my life).

But pushing a heavy box of books up the stairs and through the narrow opening, that's an extra energetic load. I just repeated the job a dozen times, putting back stored books that had to be removed when our garage got some earthquake strengthening.

The light at the top of the stairs came to seem more than metaphorical. After a few trips up and down, I began to feel more than a little resentment toward my previously dearly beloved books, several hundred of which fell into the spiritual/religious/philosophical genres.

They were damn heavy, that's for sure. Yet what had I gained from reading all that poundage?

About a year and a half ago I wrote about becoming my favorite book. I've still been buying books, yet not with the same oh, yeah, this could be it! expectancy.

Like lots of other people, I've had the implicit expectation that reading or hearing certain words would unlock a treasure trove of understanding—the Open, Sesame fantasy. Indeed, sometimes it'd seem like the door would open a crack.

Before it'd shut again.

Words aren't reality. Echoing Magritte, I know this is not a blog post. Not really. Eight English letters don't begin to capture whatever the hell it is I'm doing at the moment.

At the same time, words are part and parcel of my current awareness. So words are reality. Just not as real to me as the thoughts that precede my keyboard tapping, or the intuitions that precede the thoughts.

More and more, I'm realizing that what I'm looking for in spiritual books I already have, just as what I write about I already know (but need to form into a sense that can be shared with others). Like I said before about my flash of insight in a bookstore:

Then the flash of insight hit me. What I was looking for was a spiritual book that exactly expressed everything that I already hold to be true. In short, I wanted to read about me. My beliefs, my approach to fathoming the meaning of life, my meditation practice, my God-philosophy.

I wasn't searching for fresh truth. I wanted a validation of what is already true for me. I wasn't trying to find answers to the big questions of life. I hoped to find that someone else had dealt with the questions in the same way as I am.

I still do this, but to a lesser extent. Most mornings now my pre-meditation reading starts off with the sports section. I don't try to fill my head with someone else's spiritual thoughts before I try to clear my head of my own.

I've been accused of thinking too much, often by me. In my defense, allow me to point out how many culprits contributed to my recent straining up the stairs.

Books published by Radha Soami Satsang Beas filled up several boxes. This supposedly is a path of love, not of thinking, but the RSSB gurus and disciples definitely love to talk about their thoughts about love.

Similarly, Buddhism advises that the dharma raft doesn't need to be carried after having crossed to the other shore. I have to assume that lots of Buddhists are still paddling. And writing about it. Voluminously.

Ditto with Sufis, mystical Christians, and everyone else who wrote the books now reposing in the crawl space.

Other books I'll probably always keep close at hand. These tend to be writings that pull the rug out from under themselves, urging me in one way or another not to read them. Like Emerson's essay on self-reliance.

Familiar as the voice of the mind is to each, the highest merit we ascribe to Moses, Plato and Milton is that they set at naught books and traditions, and spoke not what men, but what they thought.

A man should learn to detect and watch that gleam of light which flashes across his mind from within, more than the lustre of the firmament of bards and sages.

Yet he dismisses without notice his thought, because it is his. In every work of genius we recognize our own rejected thoughts; they come back to us with a certain alienated majesty.

And also, in my case, with some huffing and puffing.

J.R. Puri commits plagiarism in a RSSB book

The tables have been turned. David Lane (a.k.a. the Neural Surfer) has documented how Paul Twitchell , the founder of Eckankar, massively plagiarized from books published by Radha Soami Satsang Beas (notably Julian Johnson’s “Path of the Masters”).

But I've discovered that at least one Radha Soami Satsang Beas (RSSB) author is guilty of his own plagiarizing. A few days ago I was reading along in a book that I’d gotten myself for Christmas, “Meister Eckhart: Mystic as Theologian” by Robert K.C. Forman.

On page 102 I came to a quotation from W.T. Stace. It seemed awfully familiar.

Suppose that, after having got rid of all sensations, one should go on to exclude from consciousness all sensuous images, and then all abstract thoughts, reasoning processes, volitions, and other particular mental contents, what would there then be left of consciousness?

There would be no mental content whatever but rather a complete emptiness, vacuum, void. One would suppose a priori that consciousness would then entirely lapse and one would fall asleep or become unconscious.

But the introvertive mystics—thousands of them all over the world—unanimously assert that they have attained to this complete vacuum of particular mental contents, but that what then happens is quite different from a lapse into unconsciousness.

On the contrary, what emerges is a state of pure consciousness—“pure” in the sense that it is not the consciousness of any empirical content. It has no content except itself.

It was familiar because I’d quoted almost the exact same passage in my first book, “God’s Whisper, Creation’s Thunder.” I’d found it in J.R. Puri’s “Guru Nanak: His Mystic Teachings,” published by RSSB (page 59).

Having eliminated all sensations, the mystic next excludes from consciousness all sensuous images, and then all abstract thoughts, reasoning, processes, volitions, and particular mental contents. One may ask, what then would be left of consciousness?

In the absence of any mental content whatsoever, there would be a complete emptiness, a void, a vacuum. One would suppose a priori that consciousness would then entirely lapse and one would fall asleep or become unconscious.

But the introvertive mystics unanimously assert—and there are thousands of them all over the world—that they have attained to a complete vacuum of particular mental contents, and what then emerges is a state of pure consciousness.

It is pure in the sense that it is not the consciousness of any empirical content. It has no content except itself.

So, who is the plagiarizer? Obviously, J.R. Puri. W.T. Stace’s “Mysticism and Philosophy” was published in 1960. “Guru Nanak” was published in 1982. Shame on you, Mr. Puri!

Yet you couldn't even plagiarize competently, adding an extra comma between "reasoning" and "processes" that confused me every time I read the passage.

I can’t stand plagiarism. I’ve written three books and have gone to considerable lengths to give credit where credit is due, quotation wise. I’m not the most organized author. Sometimes I’d include a quote in a draft, then fail to footnote it on the spot because I figured I’d never forget the source.

But I would. Then I’d have to spend a lot of time searching through my library, looking for the quoted passage. My commitment to crediting quotes is so deep, I almost always mention the author’s name in association with a quotation, rather than simply including a numbered footnote.

What was Puri thinking? I try to imagine him working on his book. He’s a long-time disciple of a RSSB guru who emphasized “honest living.” Yet he copies almost verbatim from Stace’s book, giving Stace absolutely no credit for ideas that Puri implied were his own.

When I used to give talks on behalf of RSSB I’d occasionally cite the passage from Puri’s book. I liked it a lot. I still do, but now I know that whoever else Puri was, he was a plagiarist. Apparently he lacked sufficient mystical understanding of his own and needed to borrow from Stace.

I found much of W.T. Stace’s book online, courtesy of Dave Woodward. The material plagiarized by Puri is in the “Introvertive Mysticism” section (Puri also shamelessly copied that title, along with some other prefatory language).

Now I can’t help but wonder how much unattributed copying is present in other RSSB books. I’ve written one myself (“Life is Fair”) and can say that my book is clean. However, who knows about the many other titles published by Radha Soami Satsang Beas?

For a long time I thought that these books had more credibility than most other mystical literature. Increasingly I’m thinking differently, especially after coming across this plagiarism. Again, I find it difficult to understand how someone with so many years of meditation and spiritual devotion under his belt could so easily steal another writer’s words.

Yet at the same time I also find it easy to understand.

Organized religions like Radha Soami Satsang Beas emphasize outward rather than inward spirituality, notwithstanding the lip service paid to direct mystical experience. Most RSSB initiates simply go through the motions, like the vast majority of other religious believers.

Such as J.R. Puri. I don’t know if he is still alive. If he is, I’d like to learn how he explains his plagiarism. Which is, whatever the reason, inexcusable.

Astoundingly, the book jacket of “Guru Nanak” says about Puri:

The author has also lucidly brought forth the close relationship that exists between the mystic experience and ethics as well as religion, drawing on his rich background in Western philosophy. The mystic experience has been shown to be the cause as also the effect of ethical living.

It seems that plagiarism also is the effect of mystical experience. Or at least the ability to write about mysticism. Also astounding is the fact that Puri spent a lot of time in academia, which puts much emphasis on crediting your sources.

Prof. J.R. Puri was head of the Department of Philosophy, Punjabi University, Patiaia from 1969 to 1976. Earlier, he was head of the post-graduate Department of Philosophy, Mahendra College, Patiaia for more than a decade. After his retirement as a teacher of philosophy for more than thirty-five years, his present interest centers mainly on the study and practice of mysticism.

Well, when that was written I think Puri needed a lot more practice. Not at plagiarizing—he was already expert at that. But at the ethics that supposedly accompanies mystic experience.

[12/30 update: Here's a scan of the pages in question. Several commenters to this post have claimed that the mention of Stace on page 58 somehow absolves the plagiarism on page 59. That's ridiculous.

Puri mentions both Walter Stace and Rudolf Otto on page 58. And he gives no indication on page 59 that the third paragraph is cribbed directly from Stace's book. Puri simply changed a few words. Yet he gives no credit to Stace. As I noted in a comment of my own, according to the Indiana University Campus Writing Program, this is a textbook case of plagiarism.

Am I making too much of this? Maybe. But what I find as interesting as the plagiarism is the reaction of some Puri defenders. In my opinion, they aren't looking at the facts clearly. Which is precisely my objection to the True Believer mind: it sees things that aren't there, and it is blind to things that are there.]

Recommended spiritual reading lists

What books turn you on spiritually? I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours—your list. Heck, I’ll even expose myself first.

But before I do, I’ve got to thank Ron Gardner. He emailed me last month, saying:

I'm a long-time serious student of the Perennial Philosophy, and I want to commend you on "Return to the One." I derived both intellectual enjoyment and spiritual inspiration from reading it, and I plan on placing the book on the Recommended Spiritual Reading List that I'm in the process of putting together.

Well, that intrigued me. Both the praise of my book and Ron’s reading list. I asked him to send it to me when he was finished with it. Of course, a recommended reading list could never be finished by an avid reader, not until the final title was pried from his or her dead hands.

There’s always one more book.

So here’s Ron’s Recommended Spiritual Reading List as it stood in October.
Download spiritual_reading_list.doc

I came up with my own list by asking myself a simple question: what books do I frequently turn to for inspiration? Not for information. Or intellectual stimulation. Or entertainment.

Rather, for uplift when I feel down. For getting centered again when I’m off kilter. For that burst of “Oh, yeah! Right on!” when I hear in someone else’s words what I should be speaking to myself, but am too lazy or irresolute to attend to my own inner voice.

Here’s my list. Bowing to tradition, I came up with ten books. That’s how many fingers are about to type out the titles. Seems fitting. They’re in the order I thought of them.
[Next day update: Must have grown another finger overnight. Had to add a D.T. Suzuki book to the end of the list.]

The Supreme Doctrine, by Hubert Benoit
Open Mind, Open Heart, by Thomas Keating
The Cloud of Unknowing, by Anonymous
Meister Eckhart: Selected Writings, trans. by Oliver Davies
Zen Buddhism and Psychoanalysis, by Erich Fromm, D.T. Suzuki, Richard DeMartino
Talks With Ramana Maharshi, by Ramana
The Wisdom of Insecurity, by Alan Watts
The Book of Chuang Tzu, trans. by Martin Palmer
Taoist Meditation, by Thomas Cleary
The Tao of Zen, by Ray Grigg
The Zen Koan as a Means of Attaining Enlightenment, by D.T. Suzuki

If anyone wants to share his or her own favorite spiritual books, comment away. I’m always eager to help keep Amazon afloat. And I know others would be interested in your recommendations also.

God vs. Science: guess who wins?

Science kicked ass in TIME magazine’s “God vs. Science” cover story debate. Atheist biologist Richard Dawkins pretty much blew Christian geneticist Francis Collins out of the theological water.

The article points out that Dawkins is riding the quest of an atheist/agnostic literary wave, each of which I’ve read, or am reading. And can heartily recommend. Cited are Sam Harris’ The End of Faith and Letter to a Christian Nation, Dawkin’s The God Delusion, and Daniel Dennett’s Breaking the Spell.

Some other titles mentioned, each of which provides support to the religious skeptic, are Marc Hauser’s Moral Minds, Lewis Wolpert’s Six Impossible Things Before Breakfast, and Victor Stenger’s God: The Failed Hypothesis.

Reading the debate between Dawkins and Collins, it’s easy to see why authors have no trouble poking religiosity full of holes. Whenever Collins was backed into a corner, all he could do was stammer out some platitude that had nothing behind it but blind faith. For example:

Many of us think these qualities [of altruism] may come from God—especially since justice and morality are two of the attributes we most readily identify with God.

Well, it’s nice that many of you think that way. Many of you also believe the Earth was created a few thousand years ago and that fossils were planted by the Devil to throw people off the scent of God.

It’s also nice to observe such a marvelous example of circular thinking. Believers posit a God who has some positive anthropomorphic moral qualities. Then when people manifest those human qualities, this is taken as evidence that they come from God.

Such faulty reasoning would be laughable if it weren’t practiced by billions of believers. Some of whom fly airplanes full of other people into buildings because of their deluded faith. That makes religious belief unfunny.

Another example of Collins’ empty arguments:

Faith is not the opposite of reason. Faith rests squarely upon reason, but with the added component of revelation.

Good try, Dr. Collins. Problem is, once you add revelation to reason, you no longer have reason. Those who believe that the Bible or Koran is the revealed word of God shut off their rational faculties.

Dawkins tells the story of the American geologist Kurt Wise who earned two advanced degrees in geology and paleontology at Harvard. Then he found that he couldn’t stand the conflict between his religion and his science.

He took a bible and went right through it, literally cutting out every verse that would have to go if the scientific world-view were true.

There was little left. Wise decided that he would accept the Bible and throw out his dreams and hopes in science. Dawkins says that he finds this terribly sad. So do I. This statement by Wise is pathetic:

Although there are scientific reasons for accepting a young earth, I am a young-age creationist because that is my understanding of the Scripture. As I shared with my professors years ago when I was in college, if all the evidence in the universe turns against creationism, I would be the first to admit it, but I would still be a creationist because that is what the Word of God seems to indicate. Here I must stand.

On exceedingly shaky ground, Dr. Wise. Along with Francis Collins and everyone else who elevates faith above facts.

Reality has a way of winning out in the end. Richard Dawkins won the TIME magazine debate, but religion will bounce back on other fronts.

Temporarily. A thousand years from now, I’m quite sure, our 21st century belief in imaginary gods will seem as quaint as the Greek’s embrace of their own divine pantheon. Zeus in various guises will remain alive and kicking until reality finally knocks him dead.

[Note: I originally said "Ten thousand years from now" above. Someone on a Yahoo discussion group said that I was 90% off on my time line estimate and I agree with them. Let's be optimistic and hope that religion as we know it will be dead and gone by 3006, not 13,006.]

When the gods stopped speaking to us

About three thousand years ago the divine voices shut up.

Until then, says Julian Jaynes, humans habitually heard messages from the gods. However, those communications merely were being transmitted from one side of the brain to the other and were mistakenly construed as coming from an outside source.

Religion as we know it arose as a reaction to the silence. After the breakdown of the bicameral mind, people became consciously aware of the interior mental space that previously was the province of the gods. A replacement was needed. Jaynes says:

This breakdown resulted in many practices we would now call religious which were efforts to return to the lost voices of the gods, e.g., prayer, religious worship, and particularly the many types of divination I have described, which are new ways of making decisions by supposedly returning to the directions of gods by simple analogy.

Jaynes’ book, “The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind,” isn’t the easiest reading—as you can surmise from the wonderfully elusive title. My dentist is a big fan of the book. He talked me into buying it during a one-sided dental chair conversation in which my end of the dialogue was necessarily guttural.

I’d started reading Origin but had given it up as being too mystifying for even my mystiferious mind until my previous post about our inner ventriloquists impelled me to pull it from the bookshelf again.

Now I was more motivated to dig into it, as I thought it might shed some light on the voices that I hear in my own head. Which, I know, come from me. But it didn’t seem to be much of a stretch to imagine what it would be like to sense that the thoughts that I speak to myself were coming from an external source.

This, Jaynes argues semi-convincingly, still occurs with schizophrenics. And also with normal people from time to time. I remember being awakened from a nap by a “Brian!” that sure sounded like it came from someone standing by the bed. Jaynes, a Princeton psychologist who died in 1997, gives many other examples of what he calls vestiges of the bicameral mind in the modern world.

Could be. His theory is controversial. It continues to be promulgated through the Julian Jaynes Society. They have links to many articles related to the theory by Jaynes and others (which only are available to society members, however).

What I like most about the book is how it reminds us that what we’re aware of is a small fraction of our mental landscape. (When Jaynes speaks of “consciousness” he usually seems to be referring to what I’d call “self-awareness.”)

Consciousness is a much smaller part of our mental life than we are conscious of, because we cannot be conscious of what we are not conscious of. How simple that is to say; how difficult to appreciate! It is like asking a flashlight in a dark room to search around for something that does not have any light shining upon it.

The flashlight, since there is light in whatever direction it turns, would have to conclude that there is light everywhere. And so consciousness can seem to pervade all mentality when actually it does not.

Absolutely. My afternoon started with two frustrating phone calls to IBM/Lenovo tech support. The new ThinkPad that I’d gotten to replace my wife’s out-of-date Emachines laptop wouldn’t display the correct resolution (1280 X 800) no matter what I did.

During my first all-too-conscious call I was instructed step by step in how to download and install proper video card and BIOS software that, for some inexplicable reason, was missing from the ThinkPad. Holding the phone in one hand, typing with one finger of the other, doing my best to not screw up the computer more than it was already—I was uncomfortably self-aware.

After engaging in additional recommended unsuccessful efforts to get the screen to look like it should, via a follow-up call I succeeded in getting IBM to send a technician out tomorrow morning to either fix the damn computer or give me a new one (my purchase of an extended service contract now looks like a wise decision).

I then was eager to embrace an alternative aspect of reality.

Cleaning the gutters. We’ve had a dry Oregon fall but several inches of rain are forecast over the coming week. I strapped on my Stihl backpack blower, clambered up a ladder, and proceeded to blow out half a year’s worth of oak leaves, pine needles, and other debris.

This involved getting as close as I could to the edge of the roof and directing the tip of the blower tube along the open gutter. It was fun. A lot more fun, at least, than talking to tech support. Even when I got to the two-story parts of our house.

Charlie, the voice that ventriloquismistically speaks inside my head much of the time, was pleasingly silent. My attention was focused on not falling off the roof and getting the gutters squeaky clean. Charlie was nowhere to be found. Nor, in a sense, was I.

I was simply doing what I was doing, not thinking “this is what I need to do” while I was doing it. That would have been duplicative. And distracting. Occasionally I caught myself ruminating about something or other. Like, how later I might write on this blog about not ruminating while cleaning the gutters.

Oops! That’s what I was just doing, I’d say to myself. Charlie was down, but not out.

Jaynes reminds us that those voices we hear inside our heads—who are us—aren’t necessary much (or most) of the time. They’re doppelgangers, extraneous hangers on. Just as the religious voices outside of our heads are. Which, if Jaynes’ theory holds water, are the same as the inner voices.

Here’s how Jaynes describes the condition of the ancients prior to the breakdown of the bicameral mind:

In driving a car, I am not sitting like a back-seat driver directing myself, but rather find myself committed and engaged with little consciousness. In fact my consciousness will usually be involved in something else, in a conversation with you if you happen to be my passenger, or in thinking about the origin of consciousness perhaps.

My hand, foot, and head behavior, however, are almost in a different world. In touching something, I am touched; in turning my head, the world turns to me; in seeing, I am related to a world I immediately obey in the sense of driving on the road and not on the sidewalk.

And I am not conscious of any of this. And certainly not logical about it. I am caught up, unconsciously enthralled, if you will, in a total interacting reciprocity of stimulation that may be constantly threatening or comforting, appealing or repelling, responding to the changes in traffic and particular aspects of it with trepidation or confidence, trust or distrust, while my consciousness is still off on other topics.

Now simply subtract that consciousness and you have what a bicameral man would be like. The world would happen to him and his action would be an inextricable part of that happening with no consciousness whatever.

And now let some brand-new situation occur, an accident up ahead, a blocked road, a flat tire, a stalled engine, and behold, our bicameral man would not do what you or I would do, that is, quickly and efficiently swivel our consciousness over to the matter and narratize out what to do.

He would have to wait for his bicameral voice which with the stored-up admonitory wisdom of his life would tell him nonconsciously what to do.

Interesting. The bicameral man sounds a lot like Lao Tzu’s Taoist sage.

A truly good man is not aware of his goodness,
And is therefore good.
A foolish man tries to be good,
And is therefore not good.

A truly good man does nothing,
Yet leaves nothing undone.
A foolish man is always doing,
Yet much remains to be done.

Taoism's Secret of the Golden Flower

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if what we were looking for in life is what we are? After we strip away what we are not, that is. This is the central message of “The Secret of the Golden Flower,” a delightfully simple book that could take a lifetime to grasp.

Thomas Cleary translated this classic Taoist guide to meditation. In his introduction he says:

The golden flower symbolizes the quintessence of the paths of Buddhism and Taoism. Gold stands for light, the light of the mind itself; the flower represents the blossoming, or opening up, of the light of the mind.

…This manual contains a number of helpful meditation techniques, but its central method is deeper than a form of meditation. Using neither idea nor image, it is a process of getting right to the root source of awareness itself. The aim of this exercise is to free the mind from arbitrary and unnecessary limitations imposed upon it by habitual fixation on its own contents.

…The essential practice of the golden flower requires no apparatus, no philosophical or religious dogma, no special paraphernalia or ritual. It is practiced in the course of daily life. It is near at hand, being in the mind itself, yet it involves no imagery or thought. It is remote only in the sense that it is a use of attention generally unfamiliar to the mind habituated by imagination and thinking.

Every religion is based on conjectures about the nature of God, soul, morality, salvation, heaven, and such. Yet the nature of the mind that is conjecturing about all this stuff rarely is given much thought.

Not that it is possible to understand that nature by thinking about thoughts. But at least this leads to the humble realization that we don’t really know where the contents of the mind come from, nor how much faith should be placed in them—especially when it comes to abstractions that have no evident connection to material reality.

The Secret of the Golden Flower suggests that before we start making bold pronouncements about God, we should give some attention to the mind that is prone to making bold pronouncements about things it doesn’t have a clue about.

Here are some passages from the book:

Naturalness is called the Way. The Way has no name or form; it is just the essence, just the primal spirit.

Turning the light around is not turning around the light of one body, but turning around the very energy of Creation.

If you can look back again and again into the source of mind, whatever you are doing, not sticking to any image of person or self at all, then this is “turning the light around wherever you are.” This is the finest practice.

Deliberate meditation is the light of consciousness; let go, and it is then the light of essence. A hairsbreadth’s difference is as that of a thousand miles, so discernment is necessary.

The Way is present before our eyes, yet what is before our eyes is hard to understand. People like the unusual and enjoy the new; they miss what is right in front of their eyes and do not know where the Way is. The Way is the immediate presence.

If you read “The Secret of the Golden Flower,” be sure not to skip Cleary’s extensive notes on virtually every passage. His deep knowledge of Zen and Taoism clarifies what would be murky to an average reader like me.

Cleary also offers an Afterword where he speaks about how he has applied golden flower principles in his own spiritual practice and further explicates the meaning of this profound churchless text.

This teaching calls itself a “special transmission outside of doctrine,” free from attachment to dogma and form, based on direct perception of the essence of mind and recovery of its inherent potential.

…For practical purposes, a distinction is made in the golden flower teaching between the “original spirit” and the “conscious spirit.” The original spirit is the formless essence of awareness; it is unconditioned and transcends culture and history. The conscious spirit is the mind-set of feelings, thoughts, and attitudes, conditioned by personal and cultural history, bound by habit to specific forms.

…Intuition belongs to the original spirit; intellect belongs to the conscious spirit. The essence of Taoism is to refine the conscious spirit to reunite it with the original spirit.

In doing so, you’ll be saying goodbye to religion, which can’t exist without dogma, theology, concepts, emotions, commandments, and other artificial creations of the human mind.

Trust your intuition. When the original spirit calls, put down your holy book and attend to its wordless message. You’ll never be able to tell anyone else what you heard. But the smile on your face will speak volumes.

Churchless books and sites to explore

One of my most enjoyable blogging benefits is learning what inspires Church of the Churchless visitors. Amazon benefits also, because I’ve bought quite a few books after hearing about them from an email or post comment.

Here are some titles that have come to my attention recently. I’ll also throw in several web sites that either are related to authors of those books, or stand alone as interesting sites to explore.

The Secret of the Golden Flower. Amazon delivered this Taoist/Buddhist meditation guide yesterday. I’m already about half way through this short book. I like it.

The Mind and the Way: Buddhist Reflections on Life. Looks interesting. But struck me as similar to other Buddhist books in my library. Will probably hold off on getting this title until my backlog of unfinished books clears up.

Collision With the Infinite: A Life Beyond the Personal Self. A lot of people clearly resonate with the author, Suzanne Segal. I’ve read Bernadette Roberts’ “no-self” books, so decided to pass on this one for the time being, as it struck me as Roberts-like.

Emptiness Dancing. The title alone drew me in. This book by Adyashanti is on its way to me from an Amazon-associated seller. I have a feeling I’m going to like it.

Spiritual Humanism. This web site describes Möller de la Rouvière’s philosophy and his book, “Spirituality Without God.” Yes, I’m reading his book too. My big spiritual bet is that when I die and reach the Pearly Gates, there will be a heaven entrance exam that covers material from my metaphysical and philosophical readings.

Christianity Meme. Any web site that calls Christianity “a mind virus that controls human behavior to facilitate its own survival” has to get a thumbs-up.

U.G. Krishnamurti. Not to be confused with J. Krishnamurti, this web site describes U.G. as a “spiritual terrorist” whose message is a “grenade in the brain.” Sounds good. Otherwise, I don’t know much about him yet.

Distributed unconsciousness. Doesn’t have quite the same ring to it as “God,” “Tao,” or “Brahman,” but it seems to be billed as a modern way of describing the ultimate. Who knew? And who knew about WikiReason? I didn’t, until I was led to this site.

The Natural Taoist. Another WikiReason site that I found via the previous link. Based on a quick look, it appears worth a closer reading. I consider myself a Taoist. And natural.

“God Laughs and Plays” but doesn’t go to church

I figured that I’d enjoy a book subtitled “Churchless Sermons in Response to the Preachments of the Fundamentalist Right.” And I did.

“God Laughs and Plays” is David James Duncan’s paean to fly-fishing rather than pew-sitting, to practicing Christian love rather than judgmental hatred, to finding inspiration in God’s natural creation rather than the artificial human dogma found in misnamed “holy” books.

A talented writer like Duncan best speaks for himself. So I’ll shut up and let him do the saying. Here’s some passages that I especially liked:

Intense spiritual feelings were frequent visitors during my boyhood, but they did not come from churchgoing or from bargaining with God through prayer. The connection I felt to the Creator came, unmediated, from Creation itself.

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Following intuition and love with all the sincerity and attentiveness I could muster, I consciously chose a life spent in the company of rivers, wilderness, Wisdom literature, like-minded friends, and quiet contemplation. And as it’s turned out, this life—though dirt-poor in church pews—has enriched me with a sense of the holy, and left me far more grateful than I can say.

-----------------------
God is Unlimited. Thought and language are limited.

God is the fathomless but beautiful Mystery Who creates the universe and you and me, and sustains it and us every instant, and always shall. The instant we define this fathomless Mystery It is no longer fathomless. To define is to limit. The greater a person’s confidence in their definition of God, the more sure I feel that their worship of “Him” has become the worship of their own definition. I don’t point this out to insult the fundamentalists’ or anyone else’s God. I point it out to honor the fathomless Mystery.

-----------------------
If you’ve got yourself a little faith community and feel some love and mercy bubbling up in it, why mess with that? Why “structure” it? Why “enchurch” it? Why not just live it and be thankful?

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To judge by the conservation voting records of those the Christian Right supports in Congress, however, the majority of fundamentalists see Mother Earth as a trampoline upon which we must stomp, the harder we stomp the more proud of us God will be, for Earth is fleeting, and only here to launch us toward heaven, so why not blow mountains up and dump them as rubble on top of streams, and why not support, from the pulpits of our so-called houses of God, so-called conservative candidates who conserve nothing but corporate profits reaped through our Armageddon-aimed Earth-stomping agenda?

We nonfundamentalist students of the Bible can think of many reasons not to practice such a “faith”—the words, example, and Person of Jesus chief among them.

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Needing church—which I have to admit I define as “two or less gathered in His Name”…

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A second thing that attracted me to Jesus at age seven: His father was allegedly God; and God had made the world and trees and rivers and stars and mountains and birds and clouds and sunlight and raspberries and animals and snowflakes and wildflowers and wilderness; and even though nobody could prove any of this like, scientifically, I loved the world God had allegedly made so much that it seemed like a good idea to love God, too.

Trouble was, I didn’t. Loving Creation made sense to me the same way that loving, say, Peanut M & M’s made sense. You tossed a handful of Peanut M & M’s in your mouth, crunched down, your tastebuds fired off, and without even trying, Yum! Love! Gratitude! Piece o’ cake. Loving the Invisible God Who’d created Creation, on the other hand, felt more like trying to love the unknown and invisible people who worked at the Peanut M & M’s factory.

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As for my having left institutional religion behind without bitterness: how in the Name of the Lover of field lilies, the poor, the prostituted, and His own murderers, could I be bitter about having traded self-righteousness, pharisaism, judgmentalism, and church pews for sunlit river banks and rising fish and moonrises over Rocky Mountain ridges and the path of intuition and salmon runs and great literature and world Wisdom traditions and abiding friendships and the incessant following of the sweet scent of love?

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I consider the infinite wilds to be the divine manuscript. I hold these wilds to be the only unbowdlerized copy we have of the Book that gives and sustains life.

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The word “mysticism” still means little to me as an experiencer, since everything I experience continues to simply be what it is. But as the beneficiary of certain inner experiences that have guided my life, and as a writer in love with a world in which much of what is visible is abused and much of what is life-giving is unseen, my respect for the word “mysticism” grows if only because, by definition, it shepherds us toward realms in which “what is” is much more than physical.

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If we are ever to rise to new levels of consciousness or to the Beauty that is Truth, we’ve got to describe our perceptions as consciousness truly perceives them. I therefore confess my lifelong love for a wilderness found outside myself, till once in a while I encounter it within.

It’s a wilderness entered, it seems, through agendaless alertness at work, rest, or play in the presence of language, rivers, mountains, music, plants, creatures, rocks, moon, sun, dust, pollen grains, dots, spheres, galaxies, grains of sand, stars, every sort of athletic ball, cells, DNA, molecules, atomic particles, and immaterial forces.

It’s a wilderness that occasionally “inside-outs” me, leading to a Teilhardinian burning and Leopoldian harmony that leave my mind wondrous happy but far, far behind. It’s a wilderness my trusty dog, Reason, will never succeed in sniffing out or chomping up, yet a wilderness I’ve been so long and grandly assailed by that I’ve lost all but comic interest in the dog’s endless hounding and suspect that even he begins to enjoy himself when the wilderness flips us inside itself.

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If I stake my life on one field, one wild force, one sentence issuing from Sinai it is this one: There is no goal beyond love.

One last quote. Concerning the title. From Meister Eckhart, the medieval mystic theologian whose teachings were so truthful he was accused of heresy by the Pope.

Truly! Truly! By God! By God! Be as sure of it as you are that God lives: at the least good deed done here in this world, the least bit of good will, the least good desire, all the saints in heaven and on earth rejoice, and together with the angels their joy is such that all the joy in this world can’t be compared. But the joy of them all together amounts to as little as a bean when compared to the joy of God over good deeds. For truly, God laughs and plays.