What’s it going to take for me to actually “Let Go and Let God”? First, I need to believe. Let’s see, that’s a bit more complicated than you might imagine. I mean, I’m “confirmed” in the Presbyterian church, whatever that means. I’m sure I was baptized. And I’m not clear on this holy trinity thing.
It is Jesus I have a problem with. I think the trinity is Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Father, that’s God with a capital G. Holy Ghost, that’s the miracles, burning bush, and Elijah and stuff. But The Son, well, he said things I don’t really agree with, starting with “My way or the highway.” I paraphrase.
Okay, I talk to my Al-Anon sponsor about God and Jesus a lot. He assures me that I don’t have to comprehend Jesus. I just need to know he was God’s answer. Proof. Something about how he wouldn’t destroy the world again, like he did with Noah and stuff. And if you believe in the other two, well, The Son will catch up eventually. Okay, but no.
God.
Hard to fathom. Right? I mean, that’s the point. God. Gosh. Golly gee. And, wait old white dude in flowing robes, kind eyes, and gray hair and long beard? Nope. Not my god. Mine is a bit different. I’m sure I’m a mishmash of unofficial spiritual paths all warped together in my mind. Let’s start with Jung. The Collective Unconscious. It goes something like this: as singular human beings we are still tethered to the mothership of the collective unconscious. When we die we go back to the collective unconscious. When we’re born we emerge from the collective unconscious.
Here’s the proof. Men can stand around a campfire for hours. Staring longingly into the embers or flames, depending on the hour, and contemplate… What exactly? Well, I would argue it’s God. It’s our collective unconscious connection with all of humanity. The pull, the fascination, the comfort we get from watching campfires, alone or in groups, is some molecular receiver picking up particles and waves from the collective unconscious. Fire was the human safety net. Fire was a gift from the gods. Prometheus still suffers for the sin of fire.
If we die, we flow back into the universal collective unconscious, not heaven. This is in my movie, anyway. There will be no “John” or “Mom” when I exit this mortal coil I am made of. And this connection is on-going. You don’t have to do anything. You can ignore the signals. You can escape your spiritual journey with drugs (stimulants, intoxicants, and downers). You can fight against your own concepts of God, or Jesus, or the burning bush.
My experience of the bible and church has always been suspect. Even as I’ve gotten a lot out of going to church services, I don’t think we are getting a message from God via our preachers sermon. Even if I love my last preacher, who retired a few years ago and is not taking temporary substitute assignments in Hawaii and the mountains of Colorado. He’s a man of God, for sure. He’s also a man who believes in a universal god. The one that doesn’t deny the Earth Magic of the Native American Indians. The same god who recognizes Jews as faithful even if they don’t buy the Jesus myths. And it’s okay to question God and Jesus and even my Al-Anon friend.
God is incomprehensible. I hear that a lot. So is the collective unconscious. Jung had a lot of knowledge, he was a student of Freud, and he evolved into a bit of a mystic. As he spiraled up and off this planet he was talking about Alchemy. But the real alchemy happens in a person’s soul when they awaken to whatever God they want to awaken to.
While I’m spinning this tale away from focus on my son, part of his problem is he does not believe in god or God or GOD. He does believe in his Nana. He’s got her mark tattooed across his back, like a girlfriend’s name. Nana. My mom. She provided the love that their mom was/is incapable of. This is not about her either.
So, god.
How do so many awful things keep happening in the world. Does God not have his fist on the tiller? How is global warming allowed to happen? Or famine? War?
As a young boy, my first experience of really really asking God for a favor came up short. I remember it well. I got my mom and dad to take me to a movie together. It was a movie about a failing marriage being saved by the church and the faith of the two parents. Happy endings all around. As the lights came up in the theater, a person of faith announced at the front of the theater, if you wanted to accept Jesus Christ as your personal savior, they were here to talk to you.
I remember the theater was freezing. Late Summer in Texas. My mom and dad waited outside as I raised my hand and waited for a missionary. I’m not sure the system had any idea what to do with an eight-year-old boy. “I am ready,” I said. “Please.”
Needless to say, Jesus, God, and the YoungLife counselors did not keep my parents from getting a divorce. My dad did not stop drinking. My life completely fell apart, despite more full willingness and prayers to the baby Jesus and his dad. My dad was spiraling into an abyss he would never pull out of. He divorced my mom. Married another drinker. And poof, within a few more years, was dead at 54.
Um, thanks God. Or Jesus.
I do think I saw Elijah one time on magic mushrooms with my friend JB. More than once, actually. But the one I remember quite clearly, was seeing the blue magnetic light, lightning, electricity, arc, and sparks coming from a double AA battery. JB and I hovered together in the dim dawn of a long and musical trip. He saw it too. I think even the cat, beloved Peter, was watching us go melty-eyed around the battery.
A few hours later we went to Gus’s for our closing ceremony, or breakfast at the Counter Diner. The coffee tasted great but was not going to keep us from collapse and coma an hour later as our physical bodies dropped out of orbit and into a heavy slumber.
“We saw that, right?” I asked.
From that moment on, I think my belief in God was stronger than ever. At least the mystery of the physical world. The elements. Particles. Electricity. Peter the cat staring at the fire with the look of joy and deep understanding. Sure, that was just the mushrooms, but what about the blue flames? We both saw them.
It doesn’t matter how you arrive at your spiritual awakening. It does matter that you have one. As my wife tries to protect herself from the sobriety of the 12-step program, she throws doubt on her support of the path forward for our son. She and her husband are much more interested in psychiatrists. “How many psychiatrists are on staff?” And, “How long has this psychiatrist been with the rehab center?”
Wrong questions for wrong-headed parents trying to make sense of our wrong-headed 23-year-old.
Back to God.
How can this be happening? How is a good and smart boy falling so far through the cracks of care and love that he’s shuffling around my house as if he’s already dead? I pray for my son. I ask the sweet baby Jesus to enter his heart and wake him up. We know how this is going to go, right?
It’s as if prayers are coming from both sides. Like someone might also be praying their malfunctions are not revealed in the treatment of our son’s malfunctions. (Makes me chuckle just a bit.) But there’s nothing funny about these days. The poetry is blacked out. I water my lawn, whispering the serenity prayer to myself as I hover outside the windows of my son’s bedroom.
Please God, give him the strength.
We use the slogans in our texts with the recovery coach. “All Is Well.”
Well, Jesus, that’s bullshit and you know it.
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