My first sermon

My father, the minister of the Unitarian Church in Horsham (that’s in the UK), asked me for an inspiration for the theme of a service some months back. I offered him a dilemma I was facing at the time, that of spiritual pursuits versus spiritual practices. Before I knew it, I was in the order of service for the Sunday that I was to be in Horsham, giving a homily. Here is what I said:

I have a confession to make. I am an addict. I am an addict of spiritual pursuits. (I can’t imagine where I got this from!) In my brief time upon this earth, I have stood under waterfalls with hands pressed together in inarticulate prayer, sat cross-legged while chanting “namyo horen gye-tu,” done yogic sun salutations until my back spasmed, fasted many holy months of Ramadan both with a Jewish friend and with my Muslim compatriots in Egypt, attended a pagan goddess worship dance circle, and been baptized a Coptic Orthodox Christian, with all its attendant fasting and genuflecting and communion-ing. I also, on occasion, have been known to haunt Unitarian sanctuaries.

Mostly, I read a lot. I devour books on how to pray. How to meditate. Essays on the meaning of it all. Articles on our inherent divinity. Analyses of new physics. Studies of psychology. (Did you know that a recent study showed that more “positive” neurotransmitters are released when people think about helping others—altruism—then when they think of getting what they desire?) Journals of saints pouring out their hearts to God in prayer. Oh, how they move me. And make me think. If only I could achieve their state of devotion, submission, unity, with God! I must get another book that shows me how to do that!

Today will most likely be like most other days. I will think about what is important in life, and even talk about it. My soul will long for solitude and a moment, minutes, hours, to listen to what the universe has to say. I will keep thinking. Keep talking. Tour the shops, open doors with a broad smile for elderly people and teenagers with bare midriffs and babies, give a pound to a busker or drunkard, pick up litter on the way home through the park, write a meaningful letter to a friend, make an organic, vegetarian meal. Tuck myself in bed with the writings of someone who has touched more than once what I want to immerse myself in. And try to tell myself that today was a good day. A "meaningful day."

Of course, I wouldn’t have “felt like” meditating. Or praying. How boring! The spiritual pursuit du jour is unappetizing! Or worse, how terrifying: What if, if I really try, I still don’t reach enlightenment? Then what hope will this world hold for me?

I shared all this with my spiritual advisor in Egypt, a Coptic priest. About half way through my outpouring, he held his hands up and shook his head.

“Stop,” he smiled and chuckled. “You are very clever. I see this. So what? Intellectual growth is fine. So is emotional growth. Both are useful. But if you want to grow spiritually, pray. Pray even when, and especially when, you don’t feel like it. Don’t be deceived by your feelings. Praying is a spiritual practice. So you have to practice. That’s all.”

My orthodox Christian priest was beginning to sound very Zen. Or like a personal fitness trainer.

Anthony de Mello, whose writings are my favorite diversion these days, writes:

A Hindu priest once had a dispute with a philosopher who claimed that the final barrier to God was the word "God," the concept of God. The priest was quite shocked by this, but the philosopher said, "The horse you use to travel to a house is not the means by which you enter the house. You use the concept to get there; then you dismount, you go beyond it."

Ah. I have a name for my addiction! I am a concept jockey! I have been riding many horses, breathtakingly jumping from horse to horse, mistaking my agility and exhilaration as spiritual depth.

A few years ago, a friend of mine heard the Dali Lama speak. The thing the great teacher said that struck him the most was this: “Whatever religion you are, whatever spiritual path you follow, do it seriously.”

Yesterday, I spent the better part of 2 hours just sitting in a church in Brighton, waiting for a moment of the priest’s time while he patiently attended to the flurry of questions posed by a pending bride and her entourage. I have come to treasure these moments of waiting, of bureaucratic inefficiency at the bank, of delayed buses and planes and metros, of friends without concepts of time, because it gives me a chance to be silent, surrendering, doing nothing, and then, maybe then, just for a moment, my mind will empty itself. Yesterday, finally having nothing “better” to do, I talked to God for over an hour in the stiff pew and then with the soft priest for a half an hour more.

After he held his hands to my head and blessed me in Arabic and we said our goodbye, of course I went shopping. But something, somehow, saved me from buying anything. I think it was my soul. And I think it thanked me for dismounting that day, to give it a chance to catch up. To give it a chance to lead my horse.