Earth and Fire

Pondering the human condition

As religious participation has declined over the past few decades in America, it has become more fashionable for people to describe themselves as being “spiritual but not religious.”

Even in the absence of a religious discipline, many are still inclined to believe in a higher power or purpose. If not a belief, then a desire to connect with some ethereal vibes — things that are intangible yet real.

Love. Tranquility. Gratitude. Hope.

People often find different forms of discipline they might describe as spiritual. Yoga, or meditative practices, or a commitment to being out in nature. People might read a variety of spiritual texts, drawing from different religious sources to enrich their own sense of humanity. 

The benefit of organized religion (sidestepping the question of which one is true) is that it offers a coherent interpretation of the cosmos. Religion is a way to structure a spirituality. With religion, an individual seeker is rooted in tradition, and surrounded by a community of believers who offer both social and spiritual support. 

A theological tradition can be especially helpful in making sense of death and suffering — realities that are harder to cope with if the universe is a random and meaningless expanse. 

In my life I’ve gone through different phases of religiosity. I grew up attending Protestant Christian churches, took on an agnostic worldview by my early twenties, and then converted to Catholicism in my late twenties. Now I’m in my late thirties and I guess I would call myself a non-practicing Catholic convert.

I understand the skepticism of organized religion. Human beings are fallible and so are religious institutions. Religious doctrine can be a little weird if you think about it too hard. The line between “symbolism” and “literal truth” gets fuzzy in some places, although it’s more diplomatic to leave that topic alone. 

Ronald Rolheiser once wrote a great definition of spirituality:

Long before we do anything explicitly religious at all, we have to do something about the fire that burns within us. What we do with that fire, how we channel it, is our spirituality. Spirituality is about what we do with our unrest, about what we do with that incurable desire, the madness that comes from the gods, within us. It is more about whether or not we can sleep at night than about whether or not we go to church.

At the end of the day, the universe is a mystery. God is a mystery. Which leaves all of us more or less in the same situation. 

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Even as my religious discipline has waned, I still find myself reflecting on certain scenes from the Bible. Here’s one of them: 

God tells Jeremiah to go to the potter’s house and watch what he does. 

The potter is spinning clay, trying to make a vessel, but the vessel keeps getting ruined. No matter. The clay is still good. The potter continues shaping it anew. 

I appreciate this scene because it speaks to the regenerative nature of the human spirit. 

We are never finally formed.

We are always changing.

Yes, there is something stable about who we are as individuals, but within our circumstances, within the contours of our personalities, there are always things to learn, ways to start anew.

Whatever happens, even a failure or a tragedy, we start from where we are, and we go from there.

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God takes a somewhat serious tone with Jeremiah, reminding him that nations can be destroyed just as easily as they can be built up. 

Ominous, but obviously true — even if you don’t believe there is a bearded man up in the sky calling the shots. 

In an age of scientific progress, we have the luxury of sometimes forgetting we are biological creatures living in a natural world we do not control.

Of course we know we are vulnerable to accidents and natural disasters and drought and whatnot, but in our daily routines we live in temperature controlled enclosed spaces with running water, plumbing, electricity, and plentiful amounts of food we don’t need to harvest ourselves.

In times of tragedy or upheaval, we are reminded more acutely of the fact that, despite our technological advancements, we are still walking around in the wilderness. 

Nothing is guaranteed. 

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Anthony de Mello writes, 

You know, all mystics — Catholic, Christian, non-Christian, no matter what their theology, no matter what their religion — are unanimous in one thing: that all is well, all is well. Though everything is a mess, all is well. 

A fitting paradox. 

The ebbs and flows of life are unpredictable except for knowing there will be ebbs and flows. Ups and downs. Hope and despair. 

We can try to cultivate interior resilience, we can embrace healthy spiritual habits, but we can’t control the turbulence of life any more than we can control the chapter of history into which we are born.

We don’t own the intangible factors that make life meaningful.

And that’s okay.

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