As I read books and articles by others on the path of inquiry and self-understanding, I am often struck by how often they begin with an autobiographical note; and how often that note concerns their authors’ early experiences with religion. A perfect example of what I mean would be Laurie Fisher Huck’s article ‘Goodbye God‘ in Tricycle Magazine, July 2022. She begins:
I first met God when I entered grade one at Holy Rosary, a Catholic elementary school, where the classes were so packed we had to crawl over one another to get to our seats. Towering black-robed nuns patrolled the aisles with rulers ready to smack naughty hands, and priests, who were known to be next to God, bestowed their blessings upon our little bowed heads. Obsequiousness was paid off in holy cards.
I didn’t. As I have written elsewhere, I was brought up as the child of a single parent by a mother who quite explicitly taught me to steer clear of anyone who would try and convert me to one faith or another. She was adamant that I should grow up to make up my own mind about spiritual things.
Of course, once I went to prep school there were such things as assemblies, where among other things we had to memorise and repeat together the Lord’s Prayer, but that was about it. We had a weekly lesson entitled “Scripture”, but as far as I can remember it consisted of little but child-friendly presentations of Bible stories such as the life of Moses, and other accounts of Old Testament heroes. It made rather less impression on me than did reading Charles Kingsley’s accounts of Theseus and Jason the Argonaut in The Heroes, in the lovely dark blue leatherette-bound edition I had once received as a birthday present.
All this is merely a preamble to saying that when I came to investigate spirituality seriously for the first time in my late teens and early twenties, I had no religious upbringing to build on, or to overcome. But I am an Englishman: there is an osmotic cultural wash over all my thoughts, over even the way I experience things. When I encounter Buddhist or Vedantist teachings there is still a slight shock of the unfamiliar, and even now a tendency to translate terms and concepts – Rigpa, say, or Ishvara – into some sort of Western expression or framework.
The problem doesn’t arise, though, with Christian theology and mystical writing. I can pick up Cynthia Bourgeault or Richard Rohr and read them like a native – however alien some of their assumptions may be to me these days – something I still can’t do even with Westerners who have since become thoroughly embedded in Buddhist life and culture, like Daishin Morgan or Pema Chödrön.
Why is this? Certainly I have the greatest respect for Eastern thought, especially for philosophical Taoism, and much of Mahayana Buddhism, but somehow reading it usually fails to awake in me the kind of instant recognition I get from reading Christian mysticism, that sometimes strikes with the force of, say, the opening bars of a Bach fugue.
Uncomfortable though I am with much academic philosophy, it is often with great relief that I turn to philosophers like Benedictus Spinoza (a Portuguese Jew living in 17th century Holland), or AC Grayling in our own time. The more I continue with my own quiet practice of open awareness, the deeper my sympathy with (broadly!) mystical philosophers like Spinoza, Martin Heidegger or Paul Tillich.
But I am no more a philosopher myself than I am a teacher of nonduality. I am simply someone who spends time sitting quietly and writing about it. No, that is faux naïf. Of course I read, and think; but I have no formal qualifications or standing. All I can do is share a few things that have struck me as significant, or insights into matters that have been troubling me and have suddenly come clear. Perhaps the truth is really no more than that having begun blogging twenty years ago, I seem unable to give it up!
An Open Ground 