Religious Humility

All religions have good in them.

Unfortunately, they can also cause a lot of harm and suffering. History, both ancient and recent, is a witness to this fact.

Like anything else, religion is a mixed bag. It has both light and dark in it. But I don't think the dark is a necessary part of religion. And perhaps by understanding it better, we can avoid becoming part of the dark ourselves.

The Good

Here's some of the good that I see in religion. Religion can give us ...

1. A conduit to a spiritual connection with something greater than ourselves.
2. A social structure that offers us a sense of community and belonging.
3. A philosophical structure for understanding the world, including a sense of our place in it and our duty.
4. A set of ethics, a moral code that enables us to bring light into the world, both for ourselves and for others around us.
5. A sense of purpose in life.

I'm sure there are other benefits we could list, but this seems like a good starting point. So we can get a lot of value from religion, including some very practical (non-spiritual) benefits.

The Bad

So what is the dark side?

I think the dark side of religion is all about arrogance. Arrogance breeds conflict, self-righteousness, insular communities, shaming, shunning, and many other things. Of all of the children of arrogance, conflict is perhaps the darkest. Let's look at these two things a bit closer.

Arrogance - religion can make people so sure of themselves that everyone who disagrees with them is, at best, misguided and, at worst, an enemy of God. This can lead people to think they are special or chosen. While that can have some psychological benefit, it is also quite dangerous. It leads them to draw lines separating themselves from others. Individuals and organizations tend to draw boundaries around themselves. You are then either in or out. You are for us or against us. And once the battle lines are drawn, the conflict begins.

There's no official declaration of war, of course. The conflict begins with subtlety. We speak out against other points of view. We denigrate other people and organizations that disagree with us. We engage in social and psychological warfare. And in extreme cases, we engage in physical violence. We make the Other into the Enemy.

At the root of it all is arrogance. We begin the conflict by believing we know something that others don't. And even if we desire to share that knowledge with them, there is still the potential for us to engage in conflict. Sometimes it's as simple as feeling superior. But it can be much more heinous than that.

Not that all people will engage in conflict, but we're all susceptible to it in some form. And given enough people in a given religious tradition, we're bound to find some in positions of power who are predisposed to fight. In an environment in which faith has become rigid, we're going to have conflict.

Rigidity of faith seems to come about because we codify our creed. We write it down, and it becomes inflexible. Our faith, which probably began as a beautiful, fluid motion, full of life and excitement, begins to fossilize. And in the soil of certainty, nourished by a codified creed, our faith ossifies into a rigid, cold, lifeless structure, giving us no room for further learning or growth.

The Solution

The antidote to arrogance, of course, is humility. And humility is a necessary ingredient of true faith. Faith isn't knowledge. Faith isn't certainty. In fact, it's somewhat the opposite. Faith is powerful because it seeks knowledge, but it's even more powerful because it falls short. At the root of faith is uncertainty. And because we don't know with certainty the things we believe on a spiritual level (or perhaps on any level), we have room to grow, and room to allow others to grow.

This humility is fundamental in good science as well as good religion. And in any discipline that seeks truth. We should always be willing to re-examine our assumptions, test our theories, and discover new truth. In this kind of environment, truth tends to win eventually.

I think individual and organizational humility is the key to avoiding the conflict that gives religion a bad name. Rather than tearing down someone else's faith, perhaps we can each become the change we want to see in the world by dismantling our own arrogance. This is true whether we believe in a Higher Power or not. The lack of such a belief is also a type of faith.

As we introduce humility into our hearts, we will naturally allow each person, including ourselves, the freedom to find their own path. That freedom, devoid of the chains of certainty, leads to a beautiful state of peace, both internally and externally.

Gandhi, The Final Chapter

I recently finished reading Gandhi's autobiography. It took me a while, but it was well worth it. Here are some of his thoughts.

My uniform experience has convinced me that there is no other God than Truth. And if every page of these chapters does not proclaim to the reader that the only means for the realization of Truth is Ahimsa, I shall deem all my labour in writing these chapters to have been in vain.

Ahimsa is the Sanskrit term used by Gandhi to describe his philosophy of non-violence.

... a perfect vision of Truth can only follow a complete realization of Ahimsa.

To see the universal and all-pervading Spirit of Truth face to face one must be able to love the meanest of creation as oneself. And a man who aspires after that cannot afford to keep out of any field of life. That is why my devotion to Truth has drawn me into the field of politics; and I can say without the slightest hesitation, and yet in all humility, that those who say that religion has nothing to do with politics do not know what religion means.

... To conquer the subtle passions seems to me to be harder far than the physical conquest of the world by the force of arms. ... So long as a man does not of his own free will put himself last among his fellow creatures, there is no salvation for him. Ahimsa is the farthest limit of humility.

In bidding farewell to the reader, for the time being at any rate, I ask him to join with me in prayer to the God of Truth that He may grant me the boon of Ahimsa in mind, word, and deed.

Gandhi was one of the most amazing men I've ever come to know. Though I don't know him well, reading his autobiography has given me a glimpse into the man's soul and it has been humbling. I would like to be a man as pure in heart as I believe Gandhi to have been. God bless the man. He did a great deal of good, but did not seek the praise of the world or rich compensation for the work he did. He sought for truth. And in that, I feel a sense of kinship to him because that has become my primary quest in life too.

Men Without Chests

Several years ago, I read C.S. Lewis's "The Abolition of Man" and realized pretty quickly that it was way over my head. I thought I was a reasonably intelligent guy, but that book was humbling to read. I plowed through it anyway and, although I understood parts of his argument, I couldn't explain it to someone else. I know because I tried once. It didn't work. Last week, I picked it up again and read the first chapter entitled "Men Without Chests" and it was really gratifying to find that I was able to understand much more of it. The Latin, Greek, etc. he uses may always throw me off, but I have a much clearer picture in my mind of what he was trying to say. I still don't think I can explain it clearly, but I'm going to try the first chapter here. I sometimes wish I could spend a few years getting an education in the Classics and Liberal Arts. I can't imagine going back for more formal education, but I never want to stop learning. Some of the most important ideas in life are outside the major I chose.

The Abolition of Man is a defense of absolutism and attempts to make the case that relativistic theory ultimately destroys the humanity of men. Lewis begins the book by discussing a passage in an English textbook for young boys. The passage tells a story of Coleridge at a waterfall speaking with two tourists. One described the waterfall as "sublime" and the other as "pretty". Coleridge agreed with the first assessment, but was disgusted by the second. The authors of the textbook then make the claim that in describing the scene, the two individuals were not so much describing the waterfall as they were their own feelings upon viewing it and the implication is made that those feelings are not important or, if important, are at most only relatively valid. When I read Lewis' description of the passage, I originally didn't see much to complain about, but Lewis rips the authors apart for what he sees as the pernicious end of this line of thinking.

There are two issues here that Lewis attacks. The first is 1) the relativity of value and the second is 2) the undesirability or unimportance of emotion. The first idea is a step down the path toward total relativism. The authors of the textbook are implying that an object or an idea can not actually BE something of value. Its only value lies in the emotional response of people experiencing it. The second issue is the implication that these emotions are unimportant or undesirable. This idea is again implied in another passage from the textbook debunking a piece of slick propaganda in an attempt to protect young boys from making foolish decisions based on emotion. The debunking is done by demonizing the emotional response, which can often be duped by propaganda.

Relative Value

In dealing with the first issue, Lewis claims that objects, events, etc. have value independently. He also claims that there is a proper emotional response for such values in objects or events. The waterfall, he says, really IS sublime, not simply because an observer recognized it as sublime, but because it has objective value of its own. When the viewer recognized and acknowledged it as sublime, he did so because he felt feelings of veneration and humility upon viewing it, those feelings being the appropriate response to the sublimity of the waterfall. Lewis cites Aristotle and others who claimed that a proper education consists in training young people to feel the proper emotion fitting to objects or events. The proper emotional response on seeing a violent crime, let's say murder, for example, might consist of horror, revulsion, and a desire to bring the criminal to justice. A morbid fascination or excitement is a twisted, improper response.

Lewis deals more with the relativistic issue in two later chapters, so I won't dwell on it too much here. In the second chapter (I read it again earlier this week), he shows that an attempt to walk the middle ground between absolutism and radical relativism is unworkable. Those two paradigms are, he claims, at least self consistent, but an attempt at compromise, as the textbook authors seem to be doing, is laden with paradoxes. In his third chapter, my memory tells me that, having established that there are only two self-consistent theories, he makes the case that the radical relativistic scenario takes the humanity out of men. But I haven't gotten that far yet. What really struck me on reading the first chapter again was how Lewis deals with the second issue - something I totally missed the first time I read it.

Unimportant Emotions

Lewis states that we are, by nature, made up of three basic parts. First, we are intelligence, represented by the head, with the power to reason. Second, we are emotion, or, I would also say, spirit or a power of will. These passions are thought to reside in the chest or the heart and should rightly be subservient to reason as the chest is below the head. Third, we are material creatures with physical appetites and passions. These appetites may be thought to center in the stomach. Lewis claims that the emotions are critical in governing the physical part of our nature because reason is incapable of doing it. Reason may, with practice, learn to govern emotions, but it is emotion that can govern the physical appetites.

Since emotion is seen as being centered in the chest, the evisceration of emotion by teaching young people that emotions are relative, unimportant, etc., is to surgically remove the "chest" of a man and leave him powerless to govern the baser instincts. I say "man" because Lewis talks about men and also because men are more likely than women to try to eliminate their emotions. Without emotion, we become, in a sense, mere animals, driven by our passions and instincts with our reason firmly intact, but unable to properly govern those drives.

By eliminating emotion, we may smugly think we're too smart to let someone use our emotions against us (again, think propaganda), but we also become cynical. I've fallen into that trap before, seeking to eliminate emotion rather than let those emotions govern me. The correct path, Lewis argues, is not the elimination of emotion, but learning to rein it in and guide it in the right direction. When made the servant of reason, those emotions empower us rather than enslave us. This path, by the way, also inoculates against propaganda and other forms of deception, but tearing out the chest is less work.

After reading the first chapter again, it occurred to me that, like our mind and body, maybe our emotions need exercise. When I listen to beautiful music, my emotions are swayed by the tune, the lyrics, and the beat. I read a book recently called "Dear John" that tugged at my heart and although not all of those emotions were pleasant, it seemed to me, as I was experiencing it, to be a healthy exercise to have them tugged in different directions.

Rather than tearing out our chests, perhaps, to be true men, we need to nurture proper emotion, train ourselves to feel the emotion fitting to an event or idea, and seek to govern emotion rather than eliminate it. In Lewis' words, "For every one pupil who needs to be guarded from a weak excess of sensibility [or emotion] there are three who need to be awakened from the slumber of cold vulgarity. The task of the modern educator is not to cut down jungles but to irrigate deserts."

Men Without Chests. Lewis noted the widespread deformity in his day. It's a continuing epidemic today. Welcome to the Brave New World. Let's buck the trend.

The Idiot

I just finished reading Dostoyevsky's 'The Idiot'. I enjoyed a lot of it; Dostoyevsky has a way of pulling you in to another person's mind. I love how he describes unnatural states of mind like dream sequences or temporary madness. He has some fascinating descriptions of death and executions, which he seems to dwell on in some of his works because of an experience he had being condemned to death for 'political' crimes at a fairly young age. At the last minute, he was reprieved, but the experience left a big impression on him - go figure - that is seen in some of his writing.

Anyway, a lot of cool ideas, a lot of interesting philosophical discussions, but I started to get bored with the themes after a while. It seemed like the book could have been half as long and served its purpose well. If you decide to read it and you stop halfway through, read the Cliff Notes version and you won't have missed much, in my opinion.

The main theme of the book is the depiction of a truly honest, good man. The hero of the story, Prince Muishkin (or Myshkin), is a man who cares nothing about gossip, status, wealth, or anything that typical societies value. He cares about people. He cares about their feelings. He cares about their happiness. And he cares about ideas. He's extremely intelligent, but has epilepsy and as his fits are coming on, he starts to act like an idiot. But that isn't really the reason for the title. He is given the title of 'idiot' because, in the eyes of the world, his simplicity, altruism, apathy for social forms and sincere expressions make him seem stupid. And if you were a slave to the social norms of 19th century Russia, he would have seemed like an idiot to you. Perhaps some of us, being slaves to 21st century social norms, would consider good men and women around us to be idiots for similar reasons ...

The first half of the book really makes the hero shine and seems to present the theme that a good, simple man can triumph in spite of his ignorance and/or apathy for 'the way things are done.' The theme seems to be that a good man will succeed because of virtue and the strength of his kindness, graciousness, sincerity, humility, etc.

The second half of the book (roughly) takes a bit of a turn. I think Dostoyevsky was trying to make the case that in the end, such a virtuous man will ultimately be exploited by others and fail because he is fundamentally at odds with his society. Sort of like the idea that in an unjust society, the only proper place for a just man is prison. There is something to that idea, but in general, I had a hard time swallowing the theme because of his portrayal of the circumstances and I got bored with the repetitions of his arguments to that effect. Muishkin ultimately fails, not because he is too good, but because he focuses on some of the wrong things. He fails because, in his simplicity, he remains ignorant of certain facts and refuses to see the importance of at least recognizing certain social constructs whether or not he chooses to adopt them himself. He also continually forgives others without considering that it may be wise to be cautious to avoid being exploited repeatedly. In the end, Muishkin ends badly, but I think Dostoyevsky's hero was ill formed. The truly good man does not have to be willfully ignorant of certain evils. The good man simply has to choose the good when faced with evil. The hero is created well in the first half of the book, but I much prefer Dostoyevsky's heroes in Brothers Karamazov.

I'm glad I read the book, but for the sake of posterity, I think a student would be better off reading 'Brothers Karamazov' and 'Crime and Punishment' and leaving 'The Idiot' alone. With those first two works, you get all of Dostoyevsky's brilliance, his amazing descriptions of strange mental states, his philosophy (though more fully developed in Karamazov), and a host of characters, both good and evil, that encompass almost everything 'The Idiot' can offer. There is, however, no other character quite like Prince Muishkin. If you haven't read it, you might try reading the first part just to get a taste of how Dostoyevsky viewed the ideal good man ... at least at one point in his life. It's definitely an interesting and worthy character sketch, but I'm glad he changed his mind later. I think Alyosha Karamazov is a much more worthy hero.

The Reluctant Leader

For the last two years, I have been reluctantly acting in a management role at work. I accepted the responsibility because I felt that if I didn't, I wouldn't be able to do the kind of work I wanted to do. My preferred field of research is somewhat narrow and, while I was working with a colleague who had similar interests for several years, when he left, I realized that if I didn't set up my own camp, I would be sucked up into someone else's and would be re-directed toward research that I don't enjoy.


George Washington, one of my heroes and another reluctant leader

From the beginning of this new role, I have often felt overwhelmed, just trying to keep my head above water. I also found that by sacrificing my time doing technical work, I saved the work I loved, but I could no longer do it myself ... at least for the most part. There have been times when I have wanted to run away.

I took a business trip a couple weeks ago with a colleague who is much older, more experienced, and through a strange twist of fate is now working for me, though he should probably be my boss. He's not interested in that, by the way, but I would prefer that arrangement. He's semi-retired, he's walked in my shoes and for some reason, he has taken it upon himself to help me. We enjoy working together, so I'm really grateful that he is willing to share his experience and wisdom with me. He's really a great guy.

On this trip, he helped me gain a new perspective on things. While traveling and over meals, he offered me his story of being dragged into management kicking and screaming. In many ways, we have had similar experiences, though there are definitely differences. He helped me to see a new way of looking at things that may make my business more successful and he has helped me to see a new way of looking at my duties that brings out the joy in them.

I have always enjoyed teaching and have, for many years, considered a career in teaching. Talking with my colleague, I came to see how I can teach AND lead in my current job at the same time. I can get the joy of both with the extra freedom of being my own boss - which, in my company, I basically am. How did I get so lucky? God must really be looking out for me.

For many years, I have avoided leadership in any form. Although I enjoy getting my way and being the center of attention, I have weaknesses that make such leadership positions dangerous for me. I am naturally arrogant and self-centered and I see a threat to my well-being and my character by being looked up to as an example or in giving guidance or direction. With the help of C.S. Lewis ("Mere Christianity") and Ezra T. Benson ("Beware of Pride"), I have seen the nature and ugliness of pride and I have studiously avoided anything that tends to increase that vice in me. This has included leadership. In recent years, it seems the fates are conspiring against my plan and have thrown leadership at me in my professional employment, in my church, and in my home. I have grown a lot and although I'm still very susceptible to pride, I seem to be able to manage the pride better right now. I don't know if that will last, so I still feel guarded.

Driving to work one morning last week, I realized that the things that make my work difficult as a manager are the very things that can teach me how to lead in other areas of my life. I believe they are the things that are designed to stretch me most right now and help me become more like God. Leadership with humility can make positive differences in the lives of those who look to those leaders. Although I'm still not always sure I want to be a leader, with the help of my friend and colleague, my wife, and God, I'm starting to see that this is exactly what I need right now in order to grow and become the man I need to be.

The Art of Unlearning

I've been studying neuroscience recently and I believe one of the foundational aspects of how our brain works is its ability to establish correlations. At a very basic level, one of the ways we learn seems to be the establishment of a connection between two or more objects, attributes, events, ideas, etc. Biologically, the synapses, or connections between neurons, are strengthened or weakened based on several mechanisms. The neuroscience community calls this elastic phenomenon 'synaptic plasticity' and it is believed to be an important mechanism by which we learn.

Pavlov's dogs are a good example of this phenomenon. Through repeated experiences, they learned that there was a correlation between the ringing of a bell and feeding time. In their minds, they correlated these two events over time such that one event (the ringing of the bell) would trigger physiological reactions (e.g. salivation) that indicated they expected the second event.

This seems to be why we often require repeated exposure to ideas in order to learn them. The synaptic plasticity doesn't occur with a single exposure to two ideas; it evolves over time as those experiences are repeated. Learning by repetition works really well for my kids and I think that's pretty universal.

So I got to thinking about the idea of 'unlearning' and I think it's a bit harder to do than learning. If learning is, at least in part, fundamentally the establishment of correlations, then one way to unlearn something is to break correlations, but that's not exactly a straightforward thing to do.

Suppose I have been building correlations all my life that connect a certain habit to various stimuli. Let's say I like to smoke. Every time I smoke a cigarette, I'm experiencing new visual, auditory, and olfactory stimuli. These stimuli can become correlated in my brain with the stimuli associated with smoking. Over time, a certain image, sound, or smell or even the thought of one of those stimuli can trigger the thought of smoking. If I have made it a habit, then my brain tends to reinforce the action with random sensory inputs that are correlated with the experience of smoking.

In the case of nicotine and other drugs, they actually modulate certain neuro-chemical processes in the brain by blocking or enhancing the reception of neurotransmitters, which makes them even more addictive than an ordinary, less brain-invasive habit. But the concept is the same. Habits and thought patterns can be triggered by association with other ideas and sensory inputs to the brain. Breaking a habit or unlearning a correlation is a lot harder than creating a habit or establishing a correlation.

Instead of associating ideas, to unlearn something, we have to disassociate them, which requires breaking correlations that have been embedded in the mind. I've found many times that I've had to unlearn things I had come to believe as a child or a young man. Some associations were formulated at school, some at home, and some who knows where. I imagine most people face this at one time or another.

I'm not sure I have a good formula for unlearning, but just as correlations are built with repeated associations, perhaps we can decorrelate ideas by thinking about one of the ideas and actively suppressing the other idea. If we repeatedly expose ourselves to cases where one idea is present and the other is suppressed, perhaps the brain will respond by weakening synaptic connections that were previously strengthened and over time, we won't automatically think of the second idea when presented with the first.

This seems like a really important skill to learn. Some people seem to become more closed-minded as they age leaving an unmalleable mind in a 70 year old. Keeping our minds open and flexible requires regular exercise, which requires the humility to admit that we'll always have a lot to learn. I think we also have to find joy in the learning process and be willing to undertake the effort to unlearn ideas we previously cherished when we find them incompatible with truth. In the words of the great Yoda, "[we] must unlearn what [we] have learned."

More on David Hume - Correlation vs. Causality

Another aspect of David Hume's philosophy (see my first post on David Hume here) was a study of psychological association and the laws by which rational concepts are created from sensory experiences. These associations between ideas or events may be classified as "correlation" and "causality." When two events occur close to one another in space and time, the mind tends to "associate" those events, building up an ensemble of data that reflects correlation between those two events. This means when one of the events occurs, we learn to expect the other to occur nearby and close to the same time. We might even train ourselves or others to respond to the expectation of an event by creating another event that is correlated with the first. An example of this is Pavlov's experiment with dogs. He correlated the ringing of a bell with the presentation of food in the dogs' routine. At some point, the dogs would expect food when they heard the ringing of a bell and Pavlov was able to "measure" this effect by the dogs' salivating. But such an effect doesn't need to be manufactured. It may often occur naturally.

Now, the intuitive leap we often make next seems to be a product of an innate desire to establish causality between two events. Nothing in the external world seems to say that one event must necessarily cause another ... and yet, that is what we seem to be psychologically wired to explore. It's hard to say whether the dogs made that intuitive leap in thinking that the bell caused the food to appear, but we as humans certainly tend to do so. When we see events that occur together, we may rightly conclude that those two events are correlated. But we often jump to the conclusion that one event must necessarily have caused the other. And usually we determine which event is the cause of the other by which occurs first in time. This leads to some pretty silly conclusions sometimes.

Here's a ridiculous example. I may observe that the air becomes cooler as the sky becomes colorful near the end of the day. In my mind, I may justifiably correlate these two events. If I'm not observing enough data or paying attention to some of the important aspects of the sky, I may also determine that the colorful sky causes the air to become cooler. What I have missed in my jump from correlation to causality is the presence of an underlying cause driving both correlated events. The sun's rays refracting off the air and water in the atmosphere at an oblique angle cause the colors. The oblique angle condition occurs as the sun is setting, without whose heat, the air becomes cooler. The setting of the sun is the cause of both events. The relationship between the two events is a function of the sun's effects.

A common cause for two correlated events is one possibility. Or perhaps the two events are related causally, but through a sequence of events and with multiple events driving the sequence. There are probably many other conditions that could account for two events being correlated without being directly causally related. It's interesting though that we seem to be eager to establish causality even at the risk of drawing ridiculous conclusions. Something in our nature seems to yearn to understand our surroundings. Maybe we want to feel comfortable or safe in some knowledge of what to expect from our environment. The danger is that we become complacent or lazy in our half knowledge and draw conclusions that the data doesn't support just to feel good about ourselves. I'd rather cling to truth even if it forces me to acknowledge myself an idiot than delude myself with half-truths to make myself feel better.

Be cautious about what you think you know. The beginning of wisdom is skepticism about one's own knowledge. The great philosophers of the ages, beginning with Socrates I believe, recognized this principle and encouraged intellectual humility in their disciples by challenging their preconceptions and prejudices. Maybe they knew something that we, in our modern arrogance, have forgotten.

The Effortless Way

My move away from the Mormon church was more experiential than intellectual, so it has been difficult for me to explain my reasons for the change. In this post, I will explore one of the concepts that may have played a role. At some point in my new spiritual practice, I began to see that my old model of living life wasn't as effective as the new model I found.

Mormon theology teaches a nice balance between grace and works. In the words of the Book of Mormon Prophet Nephi, "it is by grace that we are saved, after all we can do" (2 Nephi 25:23). Although grace is an important part of that teaching, when compared to Martin Luther's epiphany about grace, motivated by scriptures like Ephesians 2:8-9, "by grace are ye saved through faith ... not of works, lest any man should boast," it's clear that the LDS doctrine emphasizes works more than some other Christian, particularly Protestant, denominations. Because of this, I'll emphasize the insufficiency of the effort-based model. But I'll touch on grace a little bit too.

I recognized many years ago that overcoming pride was not something I could do through thinking about it. If I tried, I would only get stuck in a battle I couldn't win. Because I would be fighting myself. To be humble, I couldn't think my way into it. I couldn't get there through effort. I had to just be humble. I can't give you a formula for being humble. All I know is that it isn't through force of will that humility is realized.

Through meditation, I learned that this was true for many different aspects of life, not just pride. With Mormonism's focus on works, and being raised in American society, much of my religious and secular upbringing focused on effort. I came to believe that I could become anything I wanted if I just worked hard enough. While there is an element of truth in this idea, I have found this effort-based mental model to be expensive and ineffective.

Some years ago, I found great insight and healing through meditation. Part of this was learning to let go. Of everything. And as I began to let go - of preconceptions, judgments, presumed knowledge, etc, I found I could look at myself objectively and pierce the fog of mystery surrounding the core of who I am. I was able to penetrate the illusions I had built up about myself for years and, looking deeply without judging the experience, emotion, thought, memory, or whatever I was experiencing, I began to see the essence of the thing more clearly. And as I began to see, the thing I focused on began to lose its power and dissolve.

No effort. No force of will. No struggle to convince myself. Just a natural, simple, relatively effortless process of cleansing and healing.

Not that it was easy. It took courage to face my demons; and patience to let them show themselves in their own time. But though it wasn't easy, it was almost the opposite of effort. It was kind of like lining myself up with the flow of a river. It took a little work on my part, but it was mostly just me letting go and allowing the river carry me.

This process worked with pride, fear, shame, sorrow, loneliness, and more. All sorts of negative emotions and memories that got in the way of my spiritual progress. But also seemingly positive feelings like desire and attachment. We tend to think of these as happy because there's an element of excitement and potential growth in them. But hidden behind the excitement is a clinging and, sometimes, a fear of loss. I came to see these more clearly also and learned to let go of them.

Through meditation, I was able to achieve a deeper level of healing and more profound spiritual growth than what I found through decades of effort and solicitation of God's grace. So while I appreciate my religious upbringing, I believe the worldview I inherited is somehow lacking. I think I've found something better. And it doesn't rely on tradition, ritual, doctrine, creed, scripture, authority, or even God.

As a Mormon, I had been taught that the key to my salvation was in Jesus Christ. And maybe that's true. I mean no disrespect to the Christian religion, but I now believe that the key to my salvation was never "out there." It wasn't in any other person or external thing. My salvation was inside of me. And when I looked inward, deeply, I found it. No more looking outside (e.g. grace) for someone else to fix what's wrong with me. I had the power inside myself all along.

My conception of God, at least in the sense of an anthropomorphic being, may not have been involved in my healing process, but it is possible that God did play a role. I don't know who or what God is exactly. Perhaps God is that beautiful flow of life I sometimes sense inside of me. Maybe God is a part of me. Or I am a part of Him. Maybe God is the ocean I referred to in a recent blog post. And maybe He was just waiting for me to bring my attention inward sufficiently to unmask Him. To remove the shroud I had woven over the years that kept Him hidden from me.

No amount of effort from me or grace from God seemed able to remove the shroud. It was a part of me. I couldn't tear it off anymore than I could tear off a wound and expect it to be healed. It wasn't until a deep part of me recognized the shroud for what it was that it began to remove itself. The shroud was my ego. And as I began to transform, I came to see that this ego (a collection of memories, thoughts, feelings, etc), which I had always taken to be my self or my personality, was only an illusion. And through my awareness of it, it began to dissolve. I think this is what the Buddha meant when he talked about "no self".

My recent spiritual experiences have given me a deeper peace than I have ever known. And with fewer complications from my ego, my life, while still busy, has been simpler and more fulfilling in recent years than it had ever been before. I think I may now understand what Jesus meant when He said, "my yoke is easy, and my burden is light" (Matthew 11:30). I think the good life is an effortless one. Not lazy. Just effortless.

Paradoxically, the "effortless way" is not found without work. It takes practice to enter into a state of flow. There's a story that illustrates this beautifully.

Chuang Tzu tells a story about a butcher who became exceptional in his craft. After years of practice, he achieved a mastery of his profession in which all method dissolved and, when carving an ox, he intuitively felt his way through the animal, finding the spaces between the joints and cleaving the ox with very little effort. So efficient was he at finding these empty spaces that he said he had not sharpened his knife in 19 years. There was no need since the blade only ever encountered emptiness.

As a master butcher, he exerted very little effort in his craft, but he had studied and practiced for years before reaching that point. Whether the story is true is not important. The principle it teaches is that of alignment with the Tao, or the 'way.' Alignment with life or the universe. Alignment with what is. A unified state of being. Being in the flow. It takes practice to get there, but when we do, things become so much easier. Life is like the butcher's cleaving. Through alignment with reality, we become aware of the spaces through which we can exert a little influence to create significant change.

I've experienced that alignment at various times. I knew it through Mormonism. But I have found a more effective way to achieve it in meditation. As a result, I have experienced this 'flow' a number of times in the last few years. In this state, it seems like the entire universe conspires to bless me. Everything goes well. Even the things that don't seem desirable turn out to be beneficial.

Though I've only tasted this alignment a few times, I believe it is possible to feel it regularly. And the good life, or the effortless state, can become our daily experience.

Beginner's Mind

We have a tendency to become accustomed to our reality so that what is familiar to us becomes trite and boring. What we are familiar with is easier to ignore than something new and exotic. New surroundings grab our attention and draw us in. It's one of the things I enjoy about travel.

But every thing has beauty, regardless of whether we have seen it before. Our acclimatization to our reality does not have to lead to a devaluation. When we become used to something, we think we know it. And we see it through the lens of the mental model we have constructed. But actually, we cease to see it for what it is and only perceive the model of it that we have created in our minds.

We think we understand it, but we only know it at a snapshot in time and probably only at a surface level. We close ourselves off to the depth and dynamic nature of the thing, and it loses some of its magic.

We do this with relationships too. We think we know someone so we stop paying attention to who they really are. Instead, when we interact with them, we're really interacting with the reflection of them that we hold in our minds. I have often wondered why it is harder to treat the people who are close to us with the patience and kindness that we often show to strangers. I think this is part of the answer. Familiarity leads us to devalue the thing and abstract it away from reality. This phenomenon has led to aphorisms like "familiarity breeds contempt" (we devalue the familiar) and "absence makes the heart grow fonder" (spending time apart can make things less familiar, and the reunion feels more fresh).

There is a concept in Buddhism called Beginner's Mind. The idea is to let go of preconceptions and bring to every moment the simple curiosity of a child. Everything is new. Everything has something to teach us. We accept our inability to truly know anything, so we drop all preconceptions, and we enter into each moment afresh, letting it fill us and teach us. When we do that, we begin to see through the facades and illusions we have created (our static mental models), and we begin to touch the depth of reality in every moment.

Not all mental models are bad. Some are quite useful. They can help us make sense of things and make decisions based on limited information. The problem comes when we take those models too seriously. If we mistake them for reality, we're living an illusory life. We can use them as tools while always being willing to question them. And we can drop them whenever possible so we can see reality fresh.

Some mental models are less useful. My pride, fueled by fear and a feeling of insignificance, generates mental models of my world with me at the center. These models are a powerful mix of truth and lies that keep me from experiencing the fullness of reality. Pride is a tightening and a closing off. Humility is a release and an opening to what is. To be humble, I've learned I just need to stay open. When I do, I can drop the ego-generated mental models and, like a child, view my world with eyes of wonder. I think maybe this is what Jesus meant when he said, "Except ye ... become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven." (Matt 18:3). Maybe we just need to stay open, living every moment like a child with eyes wide open.

The Wisdom of Uncertainty

From the time I was a child, I was led to believe that knowledge is power. Knowledge of things as they are, an understanding of truth, are to be sought for a number of reasons. And there is truth in that. But somehow, I missed the counterbalance to that lesson.

It took many years of experiences that sometimes knocked on my beliefs and my worldview to come to understand the limitations of knowledge. A study of philosophy helped. I began to see that knowledge, if it exists, is very rare. Much more rare than I had previously supposed. I began to see that certainty, far from being the power I had once imagined it to be, was very often a weakness.

There is great wisdom in uncertainty.

I had been taught that faith was powerful. And developing faith could eventually lead to knowledge ... certainty, which ultimately destroys the faith that built toward certainty.

I still believe faith is powerful. Not because it approaches knowledge, but because it falls short of it. Faith is powerful because it understands its limitations. It avoids certainty.

I used to think doubt was the opposite of faith.

Then I learned that faith's opposite was closer to fear.

I think both of those are true in some sense, but a few years ago, I came to the realization that the opposite of faith was more like certainty.

Faith is powerful. It recognizes the wisdom of uncertainty. And it fully embraces its lack of certainty, its lack of knowledge, and enjoys the humility that comes from not knowing.

Faith is powerful.

And uncertainty is the beginning of wisdom.

What do you think? What does faith mean to you? Is the opposite of faith doubt? Is it fear? Is it certainty? Is it something else?

Do you think certainty is a strength? Is it potentially a weakness? Can it be both?

Etty Hillesum

I recently discovered the life of a Dutch Jewish woman, Etty Hillesum, who was killed at Auschwitz in 1943 at the age of 29. Her life seems to have been one of self-discovery and spiritual awakening at a time when the dark side of human nature seemed as if it might completely blanket the world in its shadow. I'm reading her diary and although I'm only about 1/3 the way through, I've already come across a wealth of spiritual and psychological insights, and I'm excited to read the rest.

Etty Hillesum in 1939

This morning, I read a snippet from her diary that I'd like to share. It's beautiful in its simplicity and humility. I'm in awe of people who, living through such darkness, can shine a light inside themselves and sidestep the urge to hate. The text below came directly from her diary as part of a single paragraph. I have added paragraph breaks to enhance readability, but the text is otherwise unchanged.

"What is it in human beings that makes them want to destroy others?" Jan asked bitterly. 

I said, "Human beings, you say, but remember that you're one yourself." And strangely enough he seemed to acquiesce, grumpy, gruff old Jan. "The rottenness of others is in us, too," I continued to preach at him. "I see no other solution, I really see no other solution than to turn inward and to root out all the rottenness there. I no longer believe that we can change anything in the world until we have first changed ourselves. And that seems to me the only lesson to be learned from this war. That we must look into ourselves and nowhere else." 

And Jan, who so unexpectedly agreed with everything I said, was approachable and interested and no longer proffered any of his hard-boiled social theories. Instead he said, "Yes, it's too easy to turn your hatred loose on the outside, to live for nothing but the moment of revenge. We must try to do without that." 

We stood there in the cold waiting for the tram, Jan with his great purple chilblained hands and his toothache. Our professors are in prison, another of Jan's friends has been killed, and there are so many other sorrows, but all we said to each other was, "It is too easy to feel vindictive." 

That really was the bright spot of today.

From "An Interrupted Life" by Etty Hillesum

Truth vs. Relationships

I was thinking this morning about the petty arguments we get into sometimes. I was thinking about the advice I've heard now and then - something about "it's more important to be happy than to be right." There are a lot of variations on that theme, but the basic idea is that you recognize when you're in the middle of such an argument that even if you're right, pushing the point may damage the relationship between the two people arguing, negatively affecting the happiness of both. The implication seems to be that we should sacrifice truth for the welfare of relationships. I've never quite been able to swallow that implication because I care too much about truth. G.E. Moore claimed that the greatest ethic goods were personal relationships and aesthetic appreciation ... followed by truth. But as much as I value relationships and beauty, I'm going to disagree with Moore's rankings.

It's not that the truth is unimportant. Maybe the issue is a minor one and the truth really doesn't matter that much, but no matter how big or small, truth is important. Ceasing to argue about something does not mean you don't care about the truth, but rather, you don't care whether the other person recognizes the truth. A simple debate where the participants are respectful, not argumentative, can be a really healthy thing and can help both sides get a little closer to the truth if they approach the debate with humility. But an argument usually means that both sides are becoming passionate enough about the debate that things become contentious. That kind of environment isn't usually conducive to learning new truth and it can also damage the relationship. So stepping away from an argument doesn't mean you care less about the truth, but that you care less about convincing someone else of the truth (or of obtaining it yourself) than you care about the health of the relationship. Let things cool down; and chances are, there will be another opportunity to have a healthy debate and get a little better acquainted with truth.

Epistemology and the Tongue of Angels

Episteme is a Greek word (ἐπιστήμη) meaning "knowledge". Epistemological studies have to do with what knowledge is, how we come to know it, and how we know that we know it. It is a philosophical construct for examining truth and our access to it as humans.

Part of the problem of knowledge is in the question: 'What is knowable?' One solution that has worked pretty well for philosophers since before the time of Socrates is: "Nothing." Since the sources we have for obtaining knowledge (e.g. our senses, intuition) are flawed, maybe nothing is knowable. Our senses can be deceived, our intuition can't claim any absolute authority, our ability to reason can be corrupted by infirmity of the body and mind and even if it's not, there's no guarantee that our mind is capable of reasoning correctly. We can all see the exact same event and interpret that event very differently; while some of our conflicting perspectives could be simultaneously true, it seems unlikely that the wide range of conflicting opinions of various events could all be true. A lot of us are interpreting things incorrectly. Maybe all of us are. Maybe we're simply incapable of understanding anything. I often feel like my own vision is obscured ... as if I "see through a glass, darkly" (1 Corinthians 13:12). I think there's a lot of truth in this skeptical position, but I refuse to be completely skeptical. The answer to the question, for me, is not "nothing." But it's pretty close.

Some of the best modes of obtaining knowledge/truth that I have discovered are found in science, philosophy, and religion. I think any field of study offers us potential truth. But each of these fields has problems. Science and philosophy rely on methods of inquiry that are probably sound, but the actors are all humans. The interpretations of data and conclusions are drawn by humans who may have biases, prejudices, or who can't see or reason clearly for some other reason. Both fields have a great track record of seeking truth carefully and methodically, but the diversity of conflicting views in both fields tells me that neither can be perfect. There is bad science and bad philosophy.

And bad religion. Religion is potentially a clear conduit to truth. In its truest form, religion is an attempt to connect humanity with divinity. If this divinity (God) has access to truth in a pure form, then perhaps a connection with God will enable us to find truth without the corruption of our own imperfect perceptions. So how do we connect with the source of truth?

Religion seems to offer a couple of options. The first obvious one is to 1) work through intermediaries like prophets, priests, ministers, rabbis, etc. Some person, who is authorized or simply better connected with God than we, can speak to us on behalf of God. Well, now we're back to the same problem presented to us by science and philosophy. If these intermediaries are humans, they are fallible. And if we believe these people are authorized to speak for God, we still need to be careful about what we accept as truth because they can make mistakes. And of course, how do you know they speak for God? If it comes to that, how do you know there is a God?

Another option religion offers is something called 2) scripture. These are words recorded by the intermediaries described above. This has the benefit of allowing the intermediaries to carefully craft their words to be as close to truth as possible without the problems associated with public speaking in which they sometimes spout off whatever pops into their heads at the time (which could be a good or a bad thing). But it's still potentially fallible because it came from fallible humans. And its ability to convey truth is subject to the reader's imperfect ability to interpret what is written.

A third option religion offers is a method or methods of 3) connecting directly with God. You have to take a leap of faith to accept the possibility that such a method could be valid in order to conduct an experiment to find out if it works. This includes accepting the possibility that God even exists in order to conduct the experiment. If successful, we may come to a belief that there is such a being since we connected with something. Such a connection usually involves some preparation and may include prayer, meditation, or other method to quiet the soul. If this works and you actually do connect with God, it is usually thought that He communicates directly with the soul. If you have that kind of experience, it can offer a foundation for relying on the two previous methods. But even with this method, most of us don't "think" with our soul. The truth we attain must eventually become available to the mind and thus becomes subject to our own interpretations through our reason.

It seems to me to be really hard to find pure truth, but I'm not a complete skeptic. I believe that truth exists independent of us and that it can be attained. But I think it's wise to be aware of the problems with these mechanisms and to be careful with how we go about our journey of obtaining truth. In studying these problems, it has become clear to me that there is no one infallible source of truth ... and that's what makes the search interesting. If we could correctly interpret what God says when He speaks to us, that would be perfect. But I think it's helpful to rely on many different methods including the three religious methods I described and compare their results.

When using the religious methods, if there is a conflict with what I feel God wants me to do and what I have been taught by some religious authority, I examine both carefully and try to weigh the competing demands by what I know from those and other sources in various cases. I don't pretend to know God perfectly, but as I have come to know Him better, I have come to rely more and more on those impressions that come to me during the quiet times. When I feel confident in those impressions and my interpretations of them, I rely completely on that source. I believe God is the only infallible source of truth and His words constitute the ultimate epistemological authority for me.

Many years ago, a man named Brigham Young, the President of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints at the time, pointed out the problem of relying too much on religious authorities. He said:

"... how do you know that I may not yet do wrong? How do you know but I will bring in false doctrine and teach the people lies that they may be damned?... if I were to preach false doctrine here, it would not be an hour after the people got out, before it would begin to fly from one to another, and they would remark, 'I do not quite like that! It does not look exactly right!' ... It would not sit well on the mind, for you are seeking after the things of God" (Brigham Young, Journal of Discourses, vol. 14, p. 205)

This man, Brigham, who claimed to be a prophet, seems to indicate that there is a possibility that he might teach things that aren't true. But if he did, he had faith that the people would recognize it as false because they themselves are seeking guidance directly from God on matters of truth. I'm not sure I share his faith; I think we're often too quick to believe anything our leaders tell us. But Brigham recognized the importance of balance in how we place trust in sources of truth. We should be careful not to endow any one source with ultimate epistemological authority. Doing so makes us closed-minded, intellectually lazy, and dogmatic. If anyone deserves such a trust from us, it is God. I believe that the only sure, final epistemological authority is God Himself. But the fact that He doesn't speak on every subject tells me that there's value in not making it too easy for us. The intellectual struggle of analyzing multiple sources of truth can help us grow and may even be the way God intends for us to become more like Him.

Portrait of Brigham Young

A Book of Mormon prophet named Nephi taught a concept that he called the "tongue of angels." He writes,

"after ye [have] received the Holy Ghost ye [can] speak with the tongue of angels ... Angels speak by the power of the Holy Ghost; wherefore, they speak the words of Christ." (2 Nephi 32:2)

He claims that we can speak the words of Christ when we receive the Holy Ghost, which according to other scriptures is God's mechanism for communicating with our souls. It sounds like that source of inspiration can enable us to speak the words of God.

Another scripture teaches of those who speak what the Holy Ghost gives them,

"whatsoever they shall speak when moved upon by the Holy Ghost shall be scripture, shall be the will of the Lord, ... the mind of the Lord, ... the word of the Lord, ... the voice of the Lord, and the power of God unto salvation." (D&C 68:4)

I believe God authorizes men and women to lead and guide others. With or without that authority, men and women can be inspired by God to bless others with wisdom and knowledge. The authority by itself is not sufficient. But when so inspired, the words that those people speak become as good as scripture to those who hear them because the words come from God. And it is up to the hearer to determine for him/herself whether those words come from God or from man. If from God, the hearer can rely on those words as an epistemological foundation, as valid as if they came from God Himself.

A person who speaks with the tongue of angels once isn't guaranteed to do so every time ... nor should we assume that any authority they may have from God takes away their freedom to make mistakes. Authority doesn't grant us any gift by itself. Many in authority never figure that out. Some assume that their authority is all-sufficient and thereby abuse their authority, never putting any power behind it. Unfortunately, I have seen authority abused in this and other ways all too often. Thankfully, I have also seen authority used well and hope to see that more often in the future. Regardless of what others are doing, when someone speaks with the tongue of angels, I believe you can recognize it if you know how to speak with God yourself. And when that happens, the person who speaks can be a really big blessing to those who are listening.

If you don't know what it feels like to "hear" God's voice, spend some time quietly trying to get to know God. And if you do know what it feels like, don't get too cocky. Just because you have some of God's truth doesn't mean you have it all. Finding truth is the quest of a lifetime ... and will probably take much longer than that. Humility isn't just a good idea; it's essential if we're going to obtain new truth as we go through life. And that's my goal.

Some of My Spiritual Experiences

I wrote the following a few months ago in response to a request from my youngest daughter. She was working on a project for her youth program at church, and she asked family members to share stories of personal faith experiences. This is my attempt to capture some of the spiritual experiences I have had up to this point in my life.

Childhood

When I was really young, I used to sometimes sit by myself and sort of zone out. I'd think about anything and nothing. I remember one time sitting in the car by myself while it was parked at our house. I was in the passenger seat, waiting for my mom to drive me somewhere. I remember staring out the window, letting my thoughts go wherever they wanted, when I saw little dots of light racing around my field of view. I realize now that what I saw was the shadow of blood cells in my eyes projected onto my retina while staring at the blue sky (yes, I am a geek). But at the time, it seemed so magical. Like I could see into a special, hidden world. And I remember feeling a connection to something. I often felt peaceful when I was alone with my thoughts, but I couldn't really explain why I felt that way or what it was that I was doing that caused me to feel that way.

A simulation of the 'blue sky' effect I talk about above

Look closely ... white dots are moving through the blue background

Teenage Years

When I was a teenager, I had some powerful spiritual experiences that were very formative for me. One of these happened at a youth camp called Especially for Youth (EFY). I think this was the summer I was 16 years old.

The whole week had been amazing. I remember during check-in, I gave up my room twice because each time I got to my room, my roommate-to-be had a friend with him, and they wanted to room together. So both times, the pair of friends asked me if I would mind swapping rooms. I was in Indianapolis. I knew almost no one there. I had nowhere I needed to be, so I said sure. Both times.

I could have felt exasperated the second time it happened, but somehow, I just laughed and went with the flow. Each time, we had to go to the registration desk to swap keys so they had a record of where everyone was. The second time I did it, the people at the desk laughed when they saw me. But I didn't mind. I laughed too.

That initial experience was indicative of the entire week. Somehow, I had an incredibly good attitude about everything that week. I had no prior attachments molding my behavior. I was out on my own, with none of my friends around. And everything was new. Like I was a brand-new baby. I could choose whatever I wanted. I could choose where I went, who I talked with, and what my attitude would be. And I talked with everyone and had a really fun time. This feeling of having no attachments, no prior history, and total freedom to choose my response was incredibly liberating. And it gave me a lot of confidence that I could be whatever I wanted to be. All I had to do was let go.

When I got to my third room, I met my roommate, who, thankfully, let me stay, and I started to get to know the other guys in my group. There were about 20 or 30 boys in our group, and we were led by a counselor who was pretty animated and fun. We had a great time. We played and laughed and flirted with girls. Every night, we'd hang out in a lounge area at the end of our hall. I remember we entertained each other with something called "helping hands" where two people would make up one character. One person would be the character's body and face, and the other would be the character's arms. In another 'game', we drew upside-down faces on our chins and, propping ourselves upside down with a hat covering the upper part of our faces, we'd mess around, telling jokes and stupid stories, and generally acting like idiots. Watching someone's upside-down chin-face try to frown to simulate a smile, then break into laughter that looked like the weirdest scowl I'd ever seen, was hilarious. We laughed a lot in that lounge. In fact, I don't think I had ever laughed that hard in my life up to that point. A lot of this stuff was instigated by our counselor, but we all got into it. We ended up doing a skit at the talent show later in the week, recreating some of the stupid stuff we had done as a group in that lounge. It was a crazy fun week. And we grew really close as a group.

At the end of the week, all 20 or 30 of us were sitting in a small classroom, listening to a devotional given by our counselor. It was the lead-in to what was supposed to be the spiritual highlight of the week -- a testimony meeting. I don't have any memory of what our counselor said. But I do remember sort of sinking into myself and, looking around, I watched the world around me change. I seemed to be listening to an inner voice that week. A voice that had always been there, but that was largely drowned out by my fears and insecurities. When I found the courage to be completely and authentically myself, the voice became clear, and I listened to the voice and accepted it without question or doubt. Now, at the end of this magical week, I found myself transforming in a deeply profound way. And the world itself was transforming. Or perhaps I was beginning to see it clearly for the first time in my life.

There was a subtle shift in the air. Or in the way the air looked. Like I could see ripples in the air that were distorting my vision. But those ripples had always been there. I had just never seen them before. Now that I could see them, I could sort of see through them. And the world seemed more clear. And vibrant. And alive.

I looked around at my friends. I hadn't known any of them before the week started. But we had had some great times. And I considered them friends. And as I looked at them, it seemed to me that I could see into their hearts. Or their souls. I kind of saw through them. I know this all sounds mystical and magical. And probably unbelievable. But it's what I experienced. Maybe I was deluded. But it seemed to be one of the most real things I had ever felt. There were three of the boys in particular whose hearts/souls stood out to me. As I looked at them, I got the distinct impression that I knew them. Not from the week at EFY. But before. Before any of us had been born.

I raised my hand and asked if I could say something. I told the group a little of what I had just seen. And I told them that I had the distinct impression that some of us knew each other before this life. I mentioned the three boys by name who had stood out to me. I don't know why I had the courage to say what I did. Normally, I would have balked at the idea of saying something so bold and outlandish. But I was listening to that inner voice that week and somehow, I felt no fear. I just said what I felt I should say.

When the devotional ended, I went to a drinking fountain in the hall to get some water. When I looked up, those three boys were standing there. Each one of them told me they had felt the same thing. Whether they felt that way before I said anything, after I said something, or simply felt pressured into saying they felt it, I don't know. But I took it as a confirmation of what I had felt.

I had many other spiritual experiences in my later teenage years. These experiences made me feel connected to something larger than myself. Magical experiences that took me out of myself and, at the same time, made me feel more truly myself than any other time in my life. Some of these experiences made me want to laugh and shout. They filled me with energy and excitement. I felt a fire inside me that seemed to make everything beautiful and joyful. Other times, the experiences were peaceful and calming. They made me want to just sit quietly and soak it all in. But they always connected me to something. Something big and beautiful. Something loving and accepting.

One of these experiences led me to decide to attend college at Brigham Young University (BYU). The decision was based on a feeling I had during a campus visit in my senior year of high school. A feeling that I was coming home. I felt like BYU was the right place for me. And so I went.

Young Adulthood

And BYU was a great place for me. I grew into adulthood there and really began to find myself. I had some wonderfully supportive people around me, and I learned a lot. About myself. About my future profession. And about my religion. And after graduation, I took those lessons with me and continued to learn about all three of those areas of my life. In fact, I have never stopped learning about them.

In the middle of my education at BYU, I went on a mission for the LDS church in Germany. Serving a mission was one of the hardest things I have ever done. It was painful at times - physically, emotionally, and spiritually. I was physically ill quite a lot. At one point, I thought I would be sent home because of my illness. But with some help from my parents, my Mission President, and my companions, I worked through the illness well enough to continue my mission for two full years.

During those years, I had some awesome spiritual experiences. One that stands out in my mind happened during a really rough time near the beginning of my mission. I had been in Germany almost four months, and I knew my companion was going home soon. I was feeling pretty overwhelmed because a lot of older missionaries were going home, and a lot of new missionaries were coming. The mission's cohort was becoming younger and younger. And even though I had only been there for four months, I felt like I was going to become a senior companion to someone younger than me and possibly train someone brand new.

It turned out I was right. On both counts. And it was hard taking on that much responsibility with so little experience. But even before it happened, and before I knew for sure that it would happen, I felt really inadequate about the possibility. I spoke the language pretty well, better than most my age, but not well enough to train someone. I didn't even feel competent to be the leader in a companionship, having someone else rely on my language skills and my knowledge of missionary work to guide the work we would do. But I felt strongly that it was coming, so I struggled with my feelings of inadequacy.

One night, I was feeling particularly despondent. I don't know if something specific happened that day that prompted my feeling. It's very likely. But whatever it was, what I remember most vividly was the despair I felt and the hopelessness that seemed to envelop me. I knelt down next to my bed and began to pray. I poured my heart out to God and told Him how weak and hopeless I felt. I asked Him for help. I don't remember what else I said. At some point, in the middle of my prayer, I felt this intense release. Like the tension that had been building in me had suddenly found an outlet and, like a dam breaking, the pressure was gone almost instantly.

Into my heart poured a light that was so incredibly peaceful and relaxing. I seem to remember kneeling there and suddenly feeling every muscle in my body instantly relax. I seemed to hear a voice that calmed me deeply, but I don't remember if there were any words to the voice or what it might have said. And, though I felt nothing physical, I could have sworn there was a hand on my shoulder, like an angel was there, giving me strength.

I have come to believe that sometimes, we simply slide into a spiritual connection. Other times, we unknowingly fight it until we're so overwhelmed that we crack, like I did that night in Germany. We protect ourselves from connection by building a cocoon around ourselves. Most often, I think this comes about by fear, though maybe there are other motivations that cause us to try to protect ourselves. But when we do, the world begins to bear down on that cocoon until we reach a point of desperation and we finally crack. Then the light begins to pour in and we find what we were looking for, but were unknowingly avoiding. Connection.

We sometimes have powerful spiritual experiences as we're pushed to the limits of our endurance. But I find it much more enjoyable to slide into that connection voluntarily. Humility and vulnerability go a long way here. We have to move beyond our own egos in order to experience that connection in a deep and fulfilling way.

Mature Adulthood

As I grew older in adulthood, having married and become a father, I found my spiritual experiences coming less frequently. I could sometimes feel a connection to something during quiet times while reading scriptures or praying. But the weight of the world bore down on me and seemed to drive away the magic. I think this came from the stress of providing financially for a family and trying to give my wife and kids the best of me. I was often stretched thin and, burdened by stress and fear, I found myself longing for the connection I had often felt when I was younger. Church, which had previously been something of a catalyst for those experiences, more often felt like a burden than an asset. And though I clung to it for many years, I eventually came to see that what had once helped me find so much connection to God was now limiting me.

I didn't fully realize this until I found my connection again. But when I found it in the spring of 2014, it felt like coming home. And I learned to let go of what was holding me back.

Experiencing the connection felt very familiar, but it was facilitated by a different method than I was used to. And the fact that this method was so powerful caused me to question many things I had previously held inviolate. The method was centered around meditation, but I realize now that it was very similar to what I had experienced during my most powerful prayers. And it was similar to what I had experienced as a young child during quiet times of reflection. A new world began to open up to me where even the most ordinary things could be infused with life, luster, and beauty. The whole world seemed to be teeming with life and light and love. And love seemed to be at the foundation of it all. But the oddest thing of all was that I experienced all of this without any reference to God, or any calling upon a Deity.

The process of accepting this new method for experiencing a spiritual connection was long and challenging. It involved transitioning away from the church, which was probably the most difficult part. But as I did when I was young, I found my inner voice. And I found the courage to follow it. And in doing so, I found the strength to explore my new landscape. And I found greater clarity than I had ever found before in my life. I think that clarity was facilitated by a rare authenticity and sincerity. Something I have experienced to a large degree at various times, like that week at EFY, but probably not quite as fully as I experienced it a few years ago as a fully grown man.

It's difficult to pinpoint a specific spiritual experience during this time of exploration because my life became a string of powerful experiences, one day after another. No single day stands out among the rest. But on a typical day, I would enter into a state of calm reflection until my mind became completely placid, like the waters of a calm lake. I would feel a deep connection to something beautiful and expansive. Something that seemed to have infinite love and patience. And as I connected with it, which happened consistently and reliably, some of that love and patience distilled into me, and I became more and more like the thing I was connecting with. Days would go by where it seemed my patience was infinite. Nothing could rattle me. I was at peace with myself and the world around me. And I felt a love inside of me that started with me (I accepted and loved myself just as I was) and gradually extended to encompass everything around me. And this love, which I seemed to be swimming in, also became a powerful source of healing for me, both physically and spiritually.

Like many things in life, my spiritual practice peaked, then fell off again as the stress of life began to crowd out my time of meditation and reflection. And as the practice fell away, old habitual thought patterns began to reassert themselves, and I lost some of the spiritual high I had achieved.

Then, about a year or two after my transition, I took a business trip during which I had a lot of opportunities to reflect. As I meditated that week, I began to lean into some uncomfortable feelings and emotions. The feeling that stands out most in my mind is loneliness. I began to see that I was terribly alone. Being away from my family, I was naturally missing them, but there was something more than that. I had once been connected to something incredible, and I had lost much of that connection. As I leaned into the feeling of loneliness and separateness, opening myself to the sensations and sorrow associated with those feelings, I found that connection re-established in a very powerful way. It was almost instantaneous. As if my vulnerability had been the key that unlocked the door separating me from this loving, expansive something. And my soul expanded like it hadn't done in several months. Maybe a year. It felt like whatever was out there was right there, always within reach, accessible anytime I woke up and realized who I really was and how I related to the world. When I began to breathe in the love that was all around me, I became connected to that love. And I remembered that love was my true home. My origin. The essence of my being. And I came home.

I have since cycled at least once more through a spiritual high and low. And I'm happy to say the lows are getting higher over time. I feel like I have no idea where I am headed, but I'm very happy about where my path has been taking me. I don't know where it will take me next, but I feel a deep sense of faith and trust that the path is good. And though I can't see very far ahead, I feel like I'll know where to step if I just pay attention.

Based on my recent experiences, I think maybe that's the essence of spirituality. Attention. Awareness. Consciousness. Built upon a foundation of love and compassion. And all of that leads to connection.

Love is central to it all. And I think maybe it's who we really are. If God is love (1 John 4:8,16), and we are children of God, then ... maybe we are love. And if love is all around us, then we're all deeply connected. Much more deeply, I now believe, than I had ever supposed as a child or a young man. If we are all made of love and we're all surrounded by love, then we're all swimming in the same stuff. And it's the same primordial stuff that makes us who we are. So we're all connected. And that connection, which already exists, seems to be the only thing the soul really craves.

So we already have everything we need (connection). We already are everything we need to be (love). All we need to do is wake up and see it.