There are those of subtle graces. They might work on an assembly line in Dearborn, MI, putting hubcaps on Ford’s best, or collect tolls near Rockford, IL, and they are happy because the spirit is with them. I am not one of them. Clearly, the simple life is not enough for me. I drink coffee for the buzz, love the mellow glow of a couple of IPA’s, and would enjoy the nerve-soothing reach of cigarettes to this day if I were sure they would not kill me. I have thus convinced myself that I need some sort of magical boost or charm to get out of myself and in touch with the spiritual. No simple carpenter I, although Joseph did go to Jerusalem each year for Passover, but that was then The Law.
So it was that I went to Medjugorje twice, on a religious tour of Italy and of the Holy Land, and hope to live long enough to see Lourdes and Fatima - and, good Lord, perhaps see a few angels besides. And so it was that I had hoped to go to Asbury U in Wilmore, KY this weekend to see the Christian revival that had started there nearly three weeks ago. Unfortunately, the need to see something special had brought 50,000 other people from around the world to this town of 6,000. Understandably and equally unfortunately, because of the crushing crowd, the Revival was terminated as of yesterday (Ash Wednesday). The stories are now proliferating of healings and renewed faith, but those stories are like the miracles in the Bible: not forgotten but left nonetheless to a receding past. The tales of God’s greatness are not touching my fingers like the wounds of Christ. Blessed are those who believe with faith alone, but we of more earth-bound faith would sure like to see a cripple walk, if not a sea part.
I have read that many Christian sects believe that, with the Word in the Bible, miracles are no longer performed because they are no longer necessary. Miracles were done, after all, not for the vanity of God, who has no need for vanity, but to bring those of clay feet closer to Him. Miracles, however, continue to happen, and I don’t mean just those ‘miracles’ like your lazy son getting into the state university. No, people are still healed in ways that are not explainable, saved in impossible circumstances, brought together in remarkable ways, and compelled into professions with unerring direction and predestined zeal. Many of us know this and want to experience this. We know it happens to other people, so why not us?
It is why those like me set out on pilgrimages and attend revivals. We already believe, just like my body already has all the chemicals it needs, but we want more – we want a boost. We want the Holy Spirit to overwhelm us and change our lives to one of constant religious and spiritual fervor. We want unerring direction and a divine hand pushing us along the way with limitless energy. We want our purpose told to us and the light to shine upon our path.
We are the revivalist junkies, and fortunately for us, God is gracious enough to give us a taste now and then. Unlike what the pusher sells, that taste is good for us and costs nothing, but it is still only a tease. We are allowed to see that glory and miracles still abound, but usually just out of reach for us.
There is a joke about what a man would do just to stand in a certain woman’s, er, let’s call it refuse, and that is who we revivalist junkies are for the Holy Spirit. Almost. And that is the problem: it is this “almost” that restrains us. Would we live on locusts and honey in the desert, give up the sensual pleasures of life, freeze in the winter and bake in the summer as John the Baptist did, as well as the Desert Fathers of long ago? Or do we want instant Zen, God in a pill, glory in a certain church or place and time? Yes, we want the thrill, but what, besides money, are we willing to give or give up for it? After all, that is what is demanded of us by all the great religious leaders. You want to be a sports star? Start running. You want to live in ecstasy? Start fasting – from everything.
There is a film I want to see if I can convince anyone else to go with me: “Jesus Revolution,” staring Kelsey Grammar (We did go last night. Yes, it has some standard Hollywood drama and love stories, but it is very uplifting spiritually. I highly recommend you see this with a religious group or someone you love). This takes place in the late 60’s – early 70’s during the Jesus Freak era. Grammar plays a staid, standard preacher who is losing his parishioners due to boredom. In the age of TV and TV dinners, church just isn’t interesting enough. Enter a seeking young man and a hippie preacher turned on to Jesus. His group plays guitar, dances, experiences ecstasy in public, and I imagine much more. They come to Grammar’s church and it is revived. But for how long does the buzz last?
It is an Era I know well, dedicating an entire chapter to a hippie-turned-Jesus Freak in my book Dream Weaver. It begins with a man who picks me up from where I had been stranded in Winslow, Arizona, while hitchhiking. I had been on the point of collapse, and his generosity, I felt at the time, had saved my life. Once in the car, and after sodas and sandwiches, he told me his story of sin and redemption, inviting me to join his religious group in Texas. I declined, and perhaps I should feel bad about that, but I have to wonder: did his zeal continue? When the first God buzz wore off, as all buzzes do, did he still persist? When the spirit called to give up all for Christ, did he still follow that command? Or would we now find him counting his social security checks while fretting over the community costs at his retirement condo? Is he the pensioner version of our happy auto worker, or is he broken and dissatisfied, jaded and embittered by his youthful attempt at religion? Has he been consumed by the World?
Of that same book, an old friend of mine wrote a scathing review of it in Amazon. Most of the criticisms I believe to be unfounded, but one criticism caused me to take pause. In his opinion, however that might have been formed, I was living a bland, comfortable and sheltered life in the country, having turned my back on adventure and risk. In this he hit a nail: the book had been about searching for a path to heaven, and, like the hippies who would become Jesus Freaks, often in the wrong way. Still, the search was daring, often dangerous, and usually sincere. Since then, what risks have I taken? What flights into pure faith have I boarded? The writing of the book had been a sacrifice of sorts, but was I living on locusts and honey? Was my cloak torn with wear from pursuing heaven relentlessly? O have I become the hypothetical Jesus Freak who has succumbed to the comforts and cares of the world? Was I, then, the old and frustrated buzz seeker rather than the inspired pilgrim of yesteryear?
In a few weeks our church will stage its annual retreat. I will play the guitar – again - and all of us will reach as well as we can for ecstasy and experience. It is a time of seeking the buzz, but I can say from many former retreats that the experience often extends far beyond those few days. For many, it stays and grows like a plant reaching for sunshine. The spectacular that occurs to some recedes, but the seed of the plant often remains. The seed is the thrill, the miracle, and time has told me that it can grow in the soil of any soul who is willing to tend it, wherever and whoever they are. It may fall on the auto worker after he experiences the birth of his child or on the toll collector after seeing an extraordinary sunrise on his drive to work. It does not matter what the occupation is or where, but rather, if the internal seed is nourished by regular reflection on the miracle so as to delve into its deeper meaning. The point is to not let the miracle, however large or small, stand alone to wither and die. The environment in which the miracle occurs might be material and ordinary, but the understanding of it as a spiritual insight is something given to us, a grace – which is the true miracle. We each are granted at least one seed in our lives, and it is up to us to bring it to fruition, wherever we may be.
So what of the spiritual toll collector and the retiree now tamed and cradled in his country home or senior condo? And what of the persistent thrill seekers, the hippie who leaves his psychedelics for the Bible or the pilgrim, young or old, who walks on the road to miracles? Of the latter, doomed are those who only live for the wondrous rocks in the stream while they curse the water; but blessed are those who use the rocks – the occasional thrill or miracle or insight – to reach greater depths in the stream. For these, the rocks help them to move farther out from shore, into greater pools where they finally dare to swim. Most blessed are the former, those who can swim from anywhere they stand. They are far from being failures; rather, they are the salt of the earth who live lives of quiet prayer. But we must not exclude the miracle seekers. As long as they recognize the blessedness of the life-giving water around them, their seeds will still grow; they, too, will be given a share in the wisdom, in the inspiration, and perhaps even in the blaze of eternal glory, the final gift from the “I Am” that is worth all their mad searching and desires.
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