Author: krinvan

Krin Van Tatenhove is a writer, visual artist, and spiritual adventurer. His 40 years of professional writing experience have led to countless articles and 17 books. You can freely download most of his work—including art collaborations—by visiting krinvan.com. Currently, he is the fiction editor at Story Sanctum publishing. He is married, has four children, and lives with his wife and disabled adult son in San Antonio, Texas.

The Overview Effect

(Nationalism, religion, political ideologies, greed, and naked power grabs continue to fracture the human race, pitting us against each with tragic consequences. It leads me to share this chapter from my 2014 book entitled Invitation to The Overview, downloadable for free at this link.)

In my childhood family, what we called the “space race” was personal. I grew up in the 1960s in southern California, my father in charge of financial controls for the Apollo module. He consorted with famous astronauts and legends like Werner Von Braun. When it came time for “take your son to work day,” I got a chance to scramble through a mock-up of that small cone-shaped capsule designed to withstand both fiery reentries and violent splashdowns in the oceans of earth.

I remember the excitement in our home when a Saturn V was ready to launch a new mission from Cape Canaveral. Dad would rouse us from bed like we were about to embark on a dream vacation. He would lead us into the family living room where an early generation color TV sat on its throne. There we could see the rocket, aimed for the cosmos, steam billowing from beneath, its tip crowned with the Apollo. Dad would stalk around that screen with more intensity than a Brazilian soccer fan, the clock announcing T minus 4 hours, then 3, then 1, then the final dramatic countdown and that glorious, thunderous liftoff into the sky.

In retrospect, I know that our efforts to reach that lifeless chunk of rock were as motivated by competition as they were by scientific wonder. It was an expression of US pride, an extension of the longstanding Cold War. No Russian was going to conquer the moon before us! I’m also sadly aware of the military agendas that attended our forays into space, resulting in Strangelovian plans years later to deploy a “near space” defense system. Our land and sub-based nukes were apparently not enough, even though they represented enough doomsday power to demolish every major city on earth. We thought we needed missiles in orbit, polluting space with hardware and cancerous hatred. Thank God that plan never came to fruition.

Still, when Neil Armstrong took his immortal first step onto the lunar surface, it was a moment of wonder, a celebration of the imagination and possibilities of humankind. It taught us about our potential.

But there is an even more enduring lesson from our ventures into the beyond. It is called the The Overview Effect, a term first coined by Frank White, who explored them in his 1987 book, The Overview Effect — Space Exploration and Human Evolution in 1987. It is that moment when we turn and see our planet suspended in the vastness of space. For everyone who experiences it, this vantage point is life changing. It transforms their perspectives on Earth and humankind’s place upon it.

Here are some quotes from astronauts about their overview.

When we look down at the earth from space, we see this amazing, indescribably beautiful planet. It looks like a living, breathing organism. But it also, at the same time, looks extremely fragile. – Ron Garan, USA

Before I flew I was already aware of how small and vulnerable our planet is; but only when I saw it from space, in all its ineffable beauty and fragility, did I realize that humankind’s most urgent task is to cherish and preserve it for future generations. – Sigmund Jähn, German Democratic Republic

For those who have seen the Earth from space, and for the hundreds and perhaps thousands more who will, the experience most certainly changes your perspective. The things that we share in our world are far more valuable than those which divide us. – Donald Williams, USA

My first view – a panorama of brilliant deep blue ocean, shot with shades of green and gray and white – was of atolls and clouds. Close to the window I could see that this Pacific scene in motion was rimmed by the great curved limb of the Earth. It had a thin halo of blue held close, and beyond, black space. I held my breath, but something was missing – I felt strangely unfulfilled. Here was a tremendous visual spectacle, but viewed in silence. There was no grand musical accompaniment; no triumphant, inspired sonata or symphony. Each one of us must write the music of this sphere for ourselves. – Charles Walker, USA

Looking outward to the blackness of space, sprinkled with the glory of a universe of lights, I saw majesty – but no welcome. Below was a welcoming planet. There, contained in the thin, moving, incredibly fragile shell of the biosphere is everything that is dear to you, all the human drama and comedy. That’s where life is; that’s where all the good stuff is. – Loren Acton, USA

The Earth was small, light blue, and so touchingly alone, our home that must be defended like a holy relic. The Earth was absolutely round. I believe I never knew what the word round meant until I saw Earth from space. – Aleksei Leonov, USSR

The sun truly comes up like thunder and sets just as fast. Each sunrise and sunset lasts only a few seconds. But in that time you see at least eight different bands of color come and go, from a brilliant red to the brightest and deepest blue. And you see sixteen sunrises and sixteen sunsets every day you’re in space. No sunrise or sunset is ever the same. – Joseph Allen, USA

The Earth reminded us of a Christmas tree ornament hanging in the blackness of space. As we got farther and farther away it diminished in size. Finally it shrank to the size of a marble, the most beautiful marble you can imagine. That beautiful, warm, living object looked so fragile, so delicate, that if you touched it with a finger it would crumble and fall apart. Seeing this has to change a man, has to make a man appreciate the creation of God and the love of God. – James Irwin, USA

Suddenly, from behind the rim of the moon, in long, slow-motion moments of immense majesty, there emerges a sparkling blue and white jewel, a light, delicate sky-blue sphere laced with slowly swirling veils of white, rising gradually like a small pearl in a thick sea of black mystery. It takes more than a moment to fully realize this is Earth…home. My view of our planet was a glimpse of divinity. – Edgar Mitchell, USA

A Chinese tale tells of some men sent to harm a young girl who, upon seeing her beauty, become her protectors rather than her violators. That’s how I felt seeing the Earth for the first time. I could not help but love and cherish her. – Taylor Wang, China/USA

What if, like these astronauts, we internalized this overview, tucking it like a pearl of great price into our hearts and minds? What if it caused us to have a fundamental, life-changing paradigm shift? What if national boundaries remained for governmental purposes, but we saw them from the global vantage point of our human family? What if the current conflicts that divide us were eclipsed by our critical need to create planetary tolerance, to galvanize our collective will and protect this pale blue vessel sailing in space?

This leads me to the primary questions of this book. Is your religion, your faith tradition, or your life philosophy contributing to these universal causes? Is it compelling you to find unity, commonality, and peaceful dialogue with others, no matter how alien their faith or lifestyle seems to you? Or is it promoting exclusivity and privilege, erecting walls, fueling ancient hostilities? Is it setting you apart?

As you answer these questions for yourself, consider the glimpses of Universalism in section three—visions shared from the hearts, minds, and souls of human beings who looked beyond the veil of conventionality. The Overview was—and still is—central to their existence. We need more of their breed.

by Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

The More You Pause, the More You Will Progress

27 seconds. That’s how long the average person stands before a work of art in a museum. Similar to our addictive scrolling through social media, we hurriedly shift to the next image, the next sensation.

27 seconds to experience creations that artists crafted painstakingly with their hearts and souls.

Years ago, I trained to be an educational tour guide at the fabulous Getty Museum in Los Angeles. My personal mission was to slow people down and challenge them to immerse themselves more fully. I even developed a packet that focused on four paintings, asking questions that required thorough concentration and written responses. People told me later that those four images burned vividly in their memories. They carried them away in deeper vaults of consciousness.

The truest test of a teacher’s advice is how we model it in our own lives. I confess that over the years, especially in the busy itineraries of my travels, I too often let my attention skip like a rock rather than sink into the fathoms.

That’s why I sorely needed a placard I saw on a recent trip to Portugal. It hangs in the Capela dos Ossos (Chapel of Bones), Evora, Portugal, a building that stands as an overwhelming memento mori. Franciscan monks decorated it with skulls and other bones of 5,000 people exhumed from local cemeteries in the 1500s. Here are the words on that wall (exactly as printed), attributed to António da Ascenção, a local parish priest of the time.

Where are you going in such a hurry, traveller?
Stop…do not proceed any further.
You have no greater concern,
Then this one: that on which you focus your sight.

Recall how many have passed from this world,
Reflect on your similar end,
There is good reason to reflect
If only all did the same.

Ponder, you so influenced by fate,
Among the many concerns of the world,
So little do you reflect on death;

If by chance you glance at this place,
Stop … For the sake of your journey,
The more you pause, the more you will progress.

Perhaps these truths hit me harder because my firstborn son, Pieter, was recently diagnosed with Stage Four melanoma at age 41. Or perhaps it’s because of tending to my aged parents in their final days. Or maybe it’s simply my own advancing years. As poet Andrew Marvel famously said, but at my back I always hear/Time’s winged chariot hurrying near.

Whatever the antecedent, the admonition in Evora caused me to slow down and savor our moments in Portugal, a trip I shared with my precious wife, Donna. Experiences like these.

  • Standing on the cliffs of Cabo da Roca, the westernmost point of Europe. It was cloudy, a stiff wind in my face, the sea angry with whitecaps. I felt in my bones what courage it would have taken for a 15th century mariner to set sail into that vast unknown, what they called the Dark Ocean, most likely the end of the world. I looked down at the rocks below and a tinge of vertigo sparked up my spine.
  • Sitting in the Catedral of Evora as their mellifluous choir practiced, letting my eyes drift slowly over the splendor of the chancel, the altar, the stained-glass windows, and the vaulted ceiling with its elaborate paintings. It was ethereal.
  • Pausing in the park of the Palace de Pena in Sintra as an incoming storm violently swayed the tops of fifty-foot cypress trees. The rushing wind drew me upwards towards the clouds, and the trees seemed as sentient as Tolkien’s Ents.
  • Conversing with an Uber driver who grew up in the country near Serra da Estrela, the highest mountain range in Continental Portugal. His English was good, and he wanted to practice, so he told me about one of his favorite local recipes: stewed pork cheeks. He waxed eloquent about the texture of the meat, then said, “In fact, I bought some last night, and I can’t wait to cook them.” “So,” I replied, “it’s fresh in your mind and in your refrigerator.” His eyes met mine in the rear-view mirror and we both laughed from our bellies.
  • Listening to a tram conductor in Lisbon’s Alfama describe the operation of his vehicle. He showed us various brakes, the motor under the floorboard, and a container of sand used to sift onto the tracks for better traction. When he finished, I said, “Driving this trolley is an art!” He clearly appreciated my words, because he stood straighter, smiled broadly, and proudly said, “Yes, it truly is!”
  • Hanging out near dusk with hundreds of alfacinhas (residents of Lisbon) where the old stone ship ramp descends into the Tagus River along the Praca do Comercio, Lisbon’s great harbor-facing plaza. Children laughed. Lovers kissed. An old man drew on his cigarette as a young woman played her guitar, the lilting notes lifting into the sky where gulls wheeled in the twilight. A public place to enjoy not only your city, but the company of other human beings, a phenomenon too rare in the US.

More than 27 seconds. Much, much more. And a lesson that I hope will continue to live not only in my life, but also in yours. Let it guide you into the fullness of experiences surrounding you this very moment.

The more you pause, the more you will progress.

by Tags: , , , , Leave a comment

Chase Your Dreams!

(I met Darci Tretter and her sister, Emily, at Lokahi, the communal living compound on the island of Maui. Both of them grew up in a loving family that taught traditional Christian values and practices. When those values no longer spoke personal truth to them, they had the courage to follow their own stars. In many ways, the following words from Darci encapsulate the call to freedom at the heart of my book, The Smile on a Dog: Retrieving a Faith That Matters, remastered and downloadable here for FREE).

My life today is a unique fairy tale, quite different than I imagined when I was a child. Sitting here on my back deck overlooking the Pacific Ocean at sunset, coconut trees waving in the breeze and the sound of children giggling and playing, is a dream come true. A dream I didn’t even know I had.

I grew up with loving parents in a wonderful home, but I felt a lot of anxiety as a kid. Anxiety about school, church, and the soccer games in which I competed. We lived in a sweet little neighborhood, and I spent a lot of time outdoors. I felt a strong connection with the wooded area behind our house, so I spent hours by a babbling brook that had a mysterious, magical appeal. It sparkled with a sense of freedom that matched the freedom within me. A sense of freedom that over time grew dull and dim, eventually stuffed so far away that I had forgotten it existed.

So, at 25 years old, I walked away from my life as I knew it. I left my job as a social worker living in the city. I sold most of my belongings and drove out West. Something was calling me, something I could no longer ignore. It was the call of freedom.

From where I sit now, decades away from that enchanted little girl in the woods, I believe our society has evolved (or devolved) to diminish freedom. Imagine if we all followed the deepest calling of our souls. Would we allow ourselves to be cooped up in an office all day? Or sit in rush hour traffic? Or spend only two days a week with our families and the rest working? I have come to realize that the conventional trajectory of so many folks might have an allure of freedom, but in reality, it’s a life chained to materialism and starved for fulfillment. Fancy cars, designer clothes, and that condo on the beach sparkle with illusory joy, but do they bring us any closer to love, truth, or our deepest selves?

Finding the courage to step outside of the norm was the biggest obstacle between me and my dreams. This was something I had never done before. Even though I always wanted to shine my true colors, I was afraid of what others might think. I played it small and quiet to avoid judgment, but I had a mediocre life, feeling safe but empty. I believe the first breakthrough happened for me when I ended an uneventful relationship. This was something I held on to for so long, thinking it would change, but it finally fell loose, leaving me light and free.

This had a domino effect; I suddenly had ample time to focus on myself. I dove heart first into books, practices, and events that fed my soul. Then, when I moved to the West Coast, I began to find my soul family. I traveled around to music festivals and gatherings that had a common theme of spiritual growth and self-development. Eventually, I made an impromptu trip to Maui, where I landed in a small, intentional community focused on spiritual development using sacred plant medicines.

During the five years I lived there, I went deep into physical cleansing and emotional healing. I woke before the sun to practice kundalini yoga. I fasted on coconuts and cleansed my liver. I sat in ceremonies with ancient-plant teachers to illuminate the truth within my soul and clear my spiritual lens. Something inside me merged with the natural elements around me. I became highly sensitive and intuitive. Perhaps I had always carried these gifts, but they had gone undeveloped. I was able to manifest anything I desired into my reality: financial wealth, a beautiful home by the sea, vibrant health, and eventually my partner with whom I now have three beautiful children.

I believe we all have the capacity to make our wildest dreams come true. It takes courage to step beyond our edges and trust that life will meet us there. It requires shucking off the baggage we carry and freeing ourselves from inhibition.

The freedom we chased as children is our birthright. We simply need to claim it!

by Tags: , , , , Leave a comment

The Gifts of Our Earth

(I met Brad Dodson and his family while pastoring a large church in Fort Worth, Texas. We had a natural affinity and spent many hours discussing faith, our families, our hopes for the future. Brad’s grandfather was a lumberman in the East Texas pine forests, passing on his love for the natural world to his grandson. Brad shares this passion with us, an excerpt from my book The Smile on a Dog: Retrieving a Faith That Matters, remastered and downloadable for FREE here).

I have hunted, fished, hiked, climbed, skied, paddled, and camped across the years. Nature has been a constant element in my life.

I have also been blessed with companions who pursued these adventures alongside me. One, a childhood friend, became my primary partner each year during late summer and early fall as we hunted migrating doves. We spent countless afternoons sitting below majestic live oak trees, waiting for the birds to come. They would arrive, and we would strive for our limits. But regardless of the outcome, we never missed our true aim: spending time outdoors with someone you appreciate. The smell of the grass, the sound of the retrievers as they bring back the birds, the feel of the last sunlight on our cheeks—it is all etched in my memory. So is the sound of my friend’s voice and the smile across his lips and eyes as he also delighted in those days.

My friend died unexpectedly in our late 30s. As I grieved for him, I found I had no desire to spend time outdoors without him. Instead, I turned my life towards work and remained that way for six years. My father would also leave us during that time. Each year grew more frustrating than the last and I began to question life in ways both large and small.

I became active in my church and found some purpose there, but something was always missing. At a weekend youth retreat one spring in the country, I was standing outside cooking hotdogs and burgers. Suddenly, I heard the call of a male turkey. Almost immediately, a second tom joined him vocally. I went inside, got a few of the kids, and brought them outside. I called the two turkeys to our cabin, feeling alive in a way I hadn’t for years.

Shortly after that, I went to a river to try fishing again. In a dark pool that fed into a small waterfall below a canopy of trees, a rainbow trout took my presentation. The pull of the line as it darted across the pool gave me a smile. It was my first rainbow trout. When I held that fish in my hands, preparing to let it go back into the water, it transformed me. Its muscular energy and desire to swim away were powerful. It was the most alive thing I had ever felt. I fished the remainder of that evening and all the next day, slowly letting my grief dissolve. In the years since, I have not stopped. I have traveled and camped across thousands of remote miles in pursuit of trout.

Fly fishing brought me back to nature. It did more than that; it brought me back to God. Although I was active in my church, I had become numb to what God has created for us on this planet, its flora and fauna that surround us every day. I had neglected to notice the beauty. That fish and those turkeys brought it back into focus and renewed my perspective.

I have come to appreciate that the natural world is God’s earthly gift to us. I have experienced this in so many ways. Watching geese skim the water in flight, then settle next to me as I wade-fished a fog-covered river in early morning North Carolina. Having a beaver swim between my legs while casting in the waters of Wyoming. Sharing five minutes with my wife in the Sea of Cortez as hundreds of dolphins chasing tuna swam past our kayak. Or simply standing outside my workplace and delighting as a juvenile mockingbird imitated my whistled tunes. These and many other experiences have shown me repeatedly how wonderful God’s love is to have created such beauty, song, light, and motion for us to enjoy.

As a young boy, I watched a lone wolf with my grandfather early one winter morning. “That may be the last wolf you will ever see,” he said. Many years later, sitting around a fire with a dear friend next to our raft in Western Alaska, we watched in silent awe as a lone wolf loped casually down the rocky beach just across the river from us. He paid us no mind. In that place, so remote and seldom visited, we were simply part of the environment. We could hear his call many hours later.

As with all the moments I have had in nature since that first trout, I smiled and thanked God for the gift.

by Tags: , , , , Leave a comment

Test Every Truth!

(Heiwa No Bushi is a Buddhist-Christian monk. He has degrees in philosophy and theology and received classical training in both Mahayana and Zen Buddhism. He places his teachings under the moniker “BodhiChristo” which means “enlightened Christ,” an amalgam of the two rich streams of Buddhism and Christianity. Here he gives some reflections on this journey, an excerpt from my book The Smile on a Dog: Retrieving a Faith That Matters, remastered and downloadable for FREE here).

This is my story, but I believe it reflects all our stories.

I grew up in south Florida, essentially a preacher’s kid because my grandmother was heavily involved in both the southern and primitive Baptist movements. She was so devoted that when people within her circles wanted to erect a building, she loaned them the money.

By the time I was six years old, my grandmother had become a minister in that church, but she struggled constantly against patriarchy. The congregation was so misogynistic that they wouldn’t allow her to be a regular preacher. However, she was a very clever bird. She decided that every time they gave her an opportunity to fill the pulpit, she would use her grandson to introduce her. It was a way of deflecting all the attention from her, and the result was that I became a phenomenal, entertaining bit of Sunday mornings! People came to hear my grandmother because this young boy really knew how “to lay it out there.”

All that time I worked with my grandmother, I saw the inconsistency between her church life and her home life. At church she was outwardly “righteous,” but at home she would speak in ways normally prohibited. I thought it was hypocritical, but she quoted the Apostle Paul from I Corinthians: “I have become all things to all people so that by all possible means I might save some.”

As grandma’s ministry grew, I began to feel a calling to attend seminary. I received my training and then, in my early 20s, I traveled overseas with the military. It was a time of hands-on experience, what I call “tacit education.” It challenged me to look at the deeper and wider aspects of life on our planet. I encountered many other faiths, not only seeing their beautiful richness, but their many parallels, especially the “golden rule.”

In my experiences as a Christian, I had not encountered a real moral teaching about how to treat our planet, especially “lesser creatures.” As a lover of the earth, I found a much greater connection to creation through other religions, especially Buddhism and its tremendous emphasis on caring for all living things. Jainism also intrigued me. It insisted on not naming “God,” believing there is no particular god outside of ourselves.

These religions lifted up a type of humanity that many circles of Christianity seemed to usurp and ignore. They spoke volumes of higher learning to me, and it seemed to me that Christianity did not stand up in the court of reality. For instance, where in Christian scripture was the insistence on an intimate relationship with all living things that I found so beautiful in Buddhism?

Then I thought of the parable Jesus told of seeking out the one lost lamb. He was saying to the majority, “You hold on tight, I’m going to get the one that matters.” This began to bring out what I call the “more mature” interpretation of Christ that I am trying to live out today.

In my teachings, I emphasize that there are three types of knowledge.

  • Explicit knowledge that comes to us from textbooks, manuals, Sunday school lessons taught as literal. This is a form of cultural programming, even indoctrination.
  • Codified knowledge which is the design of the society around us—from traffic signs to laws to the licenses we need to practice our professions. All this is meant to make sure that we follow the rules and remain in compliance with the status quo.
  • Tacit knowledge which we gain firsthand in the laboratories of our own lives. It can’t just be told to us; we must experience it and adapt it to reality of our own understandings.

The bottom line is that we must test any truth for ourselves! Examine it in the light of our minds, hearts, consciences, and personal experience. I feel religious institutions, especially the Christian church, should be some of the most unregulated organizations in our society. They should always call us to the high adventure of exploring a fuller spiritual life.

On this adventure, I remain a lifelong learner, carrying on something my grandmother taught me long ago. “Go beyond what educational systems teach you,” she said.

Take on the world. Tacitly hold it, experience it, live it and understand it!

by Tags: , , , , Leave a comment

Sky Church

(Steve Nootenboom comes closest to a Renaissance person of anyone I know. He is a filmmaker, painter, master carpenter, sailor, rock climber, and hang glider. I first met him when he and his family visited a church I pastored in north Los Angeles County. We soon became lifelong friends. I have always admired his dedication to a simple, nomadic way of life. With very few possessions to tie them down, he and his wife travel in a bus whose interior Steve designed to be amazingly livable. Our conversations about art, creativity, and the spiritual life can last for hours. I asked him to share his amazing perspective on how hang gliding has become a spiritual discipline for him. This is one of the stories from my book The Smile on a Dog: Retrieving a Faith That Matters, remastered and downloadable for free at this link.)

In 1977, I had my first hang gliding flight. I will never forget the moment my feet left the ground and I felt completely free of the earth and its cares. I was hooked!

Every time I launch my glider, I get the same sensation as that first time I flew. I feel so connected to God when I am flying that I have nicknamed the sport “Sky Church.” I tell people that I have to fly up in the sky to find God.

Hang-gliding requires intense focus in the moment—shutting out cares, events, worries, and the 10,000 things mentioned in Taoism. When you are flying, you are looking for the invisible, such as hot air rising in “thermals.” Some of the indications of a thermal are the smell of sage brush rising in the desert air, or the smell of French fries when you’re over a city. When you get in a thermal, you circle around in that tube of ascending hot air and it can send you soaring at up to 5,000 feet per minute. You also keep your eyes on those local pilots, the birds. They know right where to go!

My glider is about 70 pounds, and I can easily carry it on my shoulders. My flights average about two and a half hours. Some have been at 18,000 feet with a small oxygen tank tied to my harness. I have soared for over six hours at a time, crossing more than 150 miles of bleak desert with no motor, simply searching for and trusting the lift of air currents.

The concentration required for these flights focuses and clears my mind. I can hear instructions from God about what to do in business or my marriage, and I get strong impressions of what the future holds outside my scope of knowledge.

Here is an example of Creation speaking to me during a flight.

I was traveling through Montana with my hang glider tied on my truck top. I found a high ridge facing the prevailing wind. I launched and soared for about two hours down the wooded backbone of this beautiful slope. I found myself getting very low and finally began to sink in a canyon with no way out. My first instinct was terror. Then something I believe to be God cut through my fearful thoughts and I felt hope and peace in spite of seeing myself crashing into giant pine trees. Just then, a red-tailed hawk came strafing under my wing and I knew I needed to follow him. I followed him into a deeper part of the canyon where all logic would say DON’T GO! At the end of that box canyon, the hawk started to circle, a clear indication of a thermal. He and I did a sky dance together, around and around, until I was 1,000 feet safely above the ridge again.

I continue to attend my “Sky Church,” sometimes as much as twice a week. After every flight, I feel rejuvenated with a clear perspective and a new direction. I have often said to non-pilots that a two-hour flight hanging in the Presence is equivalent to a two-week vacation. Although I find similar connections to God in prayer and meditation, there is still something special for me about soaring above my troubles below. It certainly takes faith in your glider, your abilities, and God to just run off a mountain with some Dacron and aluminum strapped to your back.

But I am a believer that faith honors God, and God always honors faith.

by Tags: , , , , Leave a comment

Bodhisattva of the Earth

(I met Joedy Yglesias while training to become a Texas Master Naturalist. He calls himself a Bodhisattva of the Earth, someone whose compassion extends to every living creature. It is his calling. Here he recounts the journey of how he came to this place in his life, an excerpt from my book The Smile on a Dog: Retrieving a Faith That Matters, downloadable for free at this link.)

My parents raised me as Catholic during the ’70s and ’80s, a time when Chicano Americans were having an existential identity crisis. For those of us on the left, it meant consolidating our power, supporting La Raza or the United Farm Workers. For conservatives, it meant identifying more with their Spanish colonial roots and ignoring the indigenous aspect. The Catholic church and the government had always done a good job of separating us from those roots, which led to internalized racism. For my own parents, who wanted to make things easier for their children, it meant giving their children English names. This was part of the American Dream as they saw it.

 I was quite involved in our local parish church. I taught catechism and sang in the choir, all the while trying to deal with my gay identity. I eventually thought I might join the priesthood as a way of circumventing that issue, essentially shutting it down.

Then, one day while visiting Austin, Texas, I saw a poster advertising a group called Shaman’s Circle, hosted by gay activist Toby Johnson. Toby had an earlier association with Joseph Campbell, having spent time with him in northern California. He had been a Roman Catholic priest but gave up his ordination and dedicated his life to focusing on gay spirituality. Like Campbell, Toby understood religion as myth and metaphor, and he introduced me to a much wider awareness of my spiritual journey.

I attended their shaman drumming circles and discovered that it was all white men. I approached them with the idea that even though I couldn’t afford their retreats, I could join them as a worker and bring a different ethnic perspective to their group. It was a great experience! Toby took me under his wing like a spiritual father, teaching me some of the primary truths from Campbell, like the journey of “the hero with a thousand faces.”

I came to understand how important my indigenous heritage was to me. I discovered that many of my relatives had practiced indigenous rituals in the past, but they hid it because the culture considered it pagan. The more I delved into it, the more I developed my own unique spirituality as someone who is half Native American.

Toby convinced me that the priesthood wasn’t right for me, so I joined the Navy. I loved the adventure. I saw it as a challenge to participate in the military from the inside, showing how the LGBTQ community could bring honor to the institution. I was still practicing my Catholic faith, operating as the lay leader on ships, but after I returned to America from one deployment, I saw a Unitarian Church flying the rainbow flag. I visited their fellowship, and it blew my mind how they welcomed the spiritual writings and traditions of so many faiths. I began to attend there on a regular basis.

After a final deployment to Iraq, I returned to live in San Antonio, Texas, suffering from PTSD. To get my head clear, I began to visit a number of Texas State Parks—camping, volunteering, and eventually receiving my certification as a Texas Master Naturalist.

I believe that the universe opens up to us at just the right time. While touring Seminole Canyon State Park, I saw, for the first time, the ancient pictographs for which the park is famous. When I looked at them, I instantly had a connection. I intuitively understood what they were really communicating, an awareness that amazed our “expert” tour guide.

As I spent more time outdoors, everything seemed to fall into place. Even the snakes, tarantulas, and vinegaroons emerged when I was there. I felt a deep connection and kinship with my indigenous roots, especially in the Trans-Pecos desert region of southwest Texas. I knew I was home. Our natural resources are under attack through neglect and development, and although I know I can’t fully stop it, my presence can help preserve the spiritual magic of nature for others. My ancestors call me here, and every time I go into the canyons, I sing a prayer song of the Lakota Sioux to let the spirits know I am present.

Tunkasila wamayanka yo
Le miye ca tehiya nawajin welo
Unci Maka nawecijin na
Wowah’wala wan yuha wauwelo.

Grandfather look at me
This is me standing in a hard way
I defend Grandmother Earth
and I come humbly with these ways

by Tags: , , , , Leave a comment

The Mystery

I recently gathered with some folks to discuss the concepts outlined in Neighborhood Church, Transforming Your Congregation into a Powerhouse for Mission, a book I coauthored with Rob Mueller. I crafted this video to set the stage for that conversation. Here is its text as well as a link to view the short film online.

We can’t be sure, but it seems that what we call religion is a uniquely human response to life. We are steeped in this mystery of our existence. We glimpse it in the eyes of a newborn child, we hear it in the intricate trills of a songbird, we view it in the unfolding of a flower, we sense its majesty while standing beneath the Milky Way as light from distant stars and galaxies that has traveled millions of light years reaches our eyes.

Thousands of years ago, a shepherd turned king named David, wrote these immortal words, addressed to his tribal God called Yahweh. “When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars that you have established; what are humans that you are mindful of them?”

And there it is. That word. Mindful. No matter what faith we practice, billions of us across this fragile planet have sought to make sense of the mystery, to become more mindful of this presence we have called God, the Tao, Great Spirit, Holy of Holies. We have written what we consider sacred texts. We have crafted creeds and confessions whose truth we insist upon. We have fashioned elaborate houses of worship and filled them with statues, icons, and relics. We have devised sacraments to be practiced only by those adhere to our given version of the truth.

But aren’t love and unity among all people, all tribes, all faiths the most precious responses to the big questions of life? As we consider how many different communities of faith gather on the face of this earth to wrestle with the mystery, think of this. What if each of them was primarily concerned with expanding their love for all people, not just their own clans? What if they sought out partnerships in their communities that promote the common good for every child born of a human mother and father? What if justice and mercy were what motivated them, not self-preservation?

There are many proven ways to become more mindful of this higher purpose. And today we will look at a few of them together.

by Leave a comment

Long Goodbyes

Years ago, a national magazine published my article entitled A Medal for Two, a glimpse into living with our intellectually disabled son, Kristoffer. It began with a quote from Pearl Buck, a diamond of wisdom forged by caring for her mentally disabled daughter. Buck said this.

There must be acceptance and the knowledge that sorrow fully accepted brings its own gifts. For there is an alchemy in sorrow. It can be transmuted into wisdom, which, if it does not bring joy, can yet bring happiness.

Those words drilled into me, and the older I get, I see how acceptance does indeed have alchemical power, especially with events that elicit grief, sorrow, or regret. This transformation is necessary if we are to maximize our happiness and fulfillment.

But, as Hamlet said in his famous soliloquy, “ay, there’s the rub. Certain painful experiences are reluctant to relinquish their hold. They require long goodbyes as they recede further on the horizon. I spoke about this in a recent post entitled Those Wounds That Keep on Wounding.

I have some hopes for all of us. In the midst of these prolonged farewells, I hope we come to understand the wisdom they impart. I hope these gradual widenings of awareness reveal new insights and power for living.

Here are some examples of what I am still learning to accept.

Acceptance of past mistakes: We’ve all made errors, and sometimes the memories of those choices still hurt. Learning self-care includes extending grace to these earlier versions of our selves. As writer Stewart O’Nan says, “You can’t relive your life, skipping the awful parts, without losing what made it worthwhile. You have to accept it as a whole…” The wisdom that arises from this is a greater capacity to love both ourselves and others, despite every human flaw. We certainly need more of this ability in our fractured world!

Acceptance of limited relationships: How often have we longed for deeper connections in key relationships? There is nothing wrong with our desire for intimacy, but sometimes clear limitations keep us from breaking through. Our personality types, our worldviews, our emotional intelligence quotients, our cultural and racial backgrounds—all these can form barriers. It’s especially painful when we hit these walls in our families, even marriages. We see the differences and we want to assign blame, either to ourselves or others. We want to exert more control. But the real wisdom lies in a deeper awareness, summed up by writer Abhijit Naskar: “Acceptance is simply love in practice. When you love, you accept, when you lack love, you judge.” This kind of love enables long goodbyes to our expectations of others, our images of who we want them to be. It clears our vision for a beautiful refocusing of who they are in the present.

Acceptance of unrealized dreams: Motivational and self-help writers share a similar mantra. Our dreams, they say, will only die if we give up on them. Can you hear Steven Tyler belting out dream on, dream until your dreams come true? But what if we’re clinging to desires that are unrealistic and self-limiting? What if there will be no room for the next amazing chapter of our lives until we release them? We’ve been taught that hanging on tenaciously to our dreams is an emblem of strength, but sometimes it is far stronger to let go. The surprise is that often we discover new dreams that are truly in our reach!

In her book The Child That Never Grew, published in 1950, Buck shared her journey with her daughter Carol. It was a vulnerable “coming out” at a time when children with intellectual disabilities were often kept hidden, considered shameful to the family. Buck told how she found a home for Carol at the Vineland Training School in New Jersey, and though Carol would come home occasionally, she always returned to the institution for long-term care.

I cannot presume, I can only imagine what it was like when Buck said goodbye to Carol each time she dropped her off. She would look in the eyes of her precious child, seeing the obvious limitations, feeling once again that sorrow that was slowly being transmuted into acceptance, even happiness.

I often feel the same as I look into the eyes of Kristoffer.

It’s a long goodbye to the old sorrows and an embracing of the beautiful human being God has given us.

by Leave a comment

Annapalooza: A Suicide Re-envisioned

This is a true story. The family gave me permission, but I still changed their names to protect anonymity. My reason for sharing this will become clear by the end.

Bill was a member of a church I served, and I had grown close to him and his blended family. He had a daughter from his first marriage named Anna. One weekend, Anna stayed at his home for a scheduled custody visit. Early in the morning, a daughter by his current marriage found her stepsister hanging in the backyard, already dead for hours.

Adding another layer of damage to this inconceivable tragedy was the story of Anna’s final days. Her mother belongs to the Jehovah’s Witnesses. While invading her daughter’s privacy, she discovered that Anna had texted her boyfriend some explicit images. Her mother’s discipline included dragging Anna in front of the male elders and shaming her in public. That shame was one of the triggers for her suicide.

The so-called memorial service at the Kingdom Hall was no source of comfort. Bill said it was cold and impersonal, and that one of the church’s members intentionally whispered within his earshot, “The sins of the father are visited upon the child.”

Let the brutality of that comment sink in for a moment.

Suffering a bottomless grief no parent can even describe, Bill came to my office with his current wife, wondering if we could offer an alternative service at our church. I readily agreed, as did the elders of our congregation.

Anna was a student at a local charter high school specializing in creative arts. A talented artist in her own right, she had an array of friends who created in multimedia. I suggested that we open our sanctuary as a space to celebrate her life, letting others say goodbye to her with their own artistic flairs.

And so it happened, an event I dubbed Annapalooza. Friends, teachers, and administrators from the school packed our pews. For over two hours, they took turns sharing poems, paintings, videos, and songs. Some simply stood and gave short eulogies. Each one illuminated an aspect of Anna’s short life, and the uniqueness of this special young woman rose up palpably in our midst.

I simply acted as a host, offering prayers, my love for the family, and a short benediction. We had no illusions. We knew this tragedy would cast a lifelong shadow, but as we cried and laughed and began to process our collective grief, we hoped that we were reframing, even re-envisioning that pain at its outset.

So…why am I sharing this?

Because the degrading of those who are different or make mistakes continues in too many religious quarters. Even when people say, “we love the sinner but hate the sin,” the message is loud and clear. Your behavior or lifestyle falls outside the boundary of what we deem acceptable. We have judged you.

Gay and trans people will readily attest to this attempt at shaming. So can those who suffer from various addictive diseases. But the lifestyle judgers now go far beyond those favorite targets. They are now including politics, race awareness, even a person’s reading habits.

And let’s be clear. This venom is not just endemic to conservative American Christianity. It has been a poison spewed by many world religions and political movements. It is written into our history books, and this demonization of “the other” seems to be on the rise.

Today, I no longer align myself with any particular faith. As I look back on my 32 years spent laboring within organized Christianity, I—like many of my friends—can clearly see its institutional limitations and errors.

But when it comes to events like Annapalooza, I can say this with absolute certainty. There are communities of faith that practice grace and love, that stand with those on the margin, that labor for unity and inclusion. I blessedly found such a group early in my own life. That experience led me to say this in my book, Invitation to The Overview: “Giving people the space to connect to their own spiritual meanings without the pressure of conformity is a priceless gift. This is the real meaning of sanctuary.”

We offered that sanctuary to Anna and her family, and in the years since, I have seen what it meant for them.

Grace, which I define as a powerful, often unmerited offering of love and service for the healing of our world, is still a compelling message of my former faith. When I recall Annapalooza—a memory I will take to my grave—I know the clear difference this grace can make.

by 2 Comments