Spiritual Rebel

by Sarah Bowen

  As he handed me one to take home, I somehow muttered, “Thanks,” and left quickly. I apparently was not going to get the answers I desperately wanted. Walking further north to Central Park, I sat with my unwanted gift on the grass. I don’t remember how long I sat there, but somehow, eventually, I made it back to my apartment.

  I remember feeling numb.

  The void I ignored for years was now a gigantic abyss. As an addict, I knew how to deal with that numbness. And it worked. Or so I thought. Until it didn’t.

  Raw and lonely, I felt separated from others, drowning in grief. Even functioning felt impossible. It’s hard to keep everything together when you are hollow inside. Soon, Lyme disease reared its ugly head—a curse that began to ravage my body—as addiction continued its work on my mind.

  Eventually, I decided life had become unmanageable. At the end of my rope, I sought help. Doctors, massage therapists, and a kick-ass acupuncturist helped reduce my pain level as well as increase my stamina. With the help of strangers, I started a spiritual recovery. The Seven Deadlies were evicted without notice. I experienced the power of 12-step fellowship. And, finally, I began to look deeply into religious questions.

  Because the word God kept coming up. And I felt about God a bit like I did about Darth Vader. So as a self-identified nerd, I headed to my favorite religious institution: the library. After months of pouring over books about the world’s great spiritual traditions, I got myself all twisted up. Eventually, my friend Dianne asked me directly, “Hey, Sarah, can you make trees?”

  I looked at her as if she had three heads and replied, “Of course not.” Her answer—“Well, someone or something can”—gave me the foundation for a workable spirituality. I realized that nailing down precisely what I believed wasn’t the point. I just needed to understand there was a Force working in the world—and it wasn’t me alone. The seeker’s path started to unfold in front of me, step by small step. Soon, I became positively addicted to spirituality.

  And here’s where the story gets unusually freaky.

  Somehow I found myself enrolled in what I coyly refer to as Serenity School. Of course, it’s not called Serenity School by the people who founded it. Instead, it’s described as an interfaith seminary. But when I say the word seminary to people, they often roll their eyes and get a glazed-over look. Suddenly, they’re playing videos in their head of everything they hate about religion, and inserting me into scenes. Let me assure you that I did not go to a school like that.*

  Instead, I spent time in a community of wildly diverse students from innumerable paths: from an Ifa priestess who did amazing blessings over water, to an Orthodox Jewish woman who refrained from holding the microphone on Saturdays (and requested the song “Jesus Freak” for our graduation party). There were more than a few Christians. And to my delight, I also met Pagans, Wiccans, Humanists, agnostics, and more than one atheist. In the classroom I uncovered a boatload of other recovering addicts as well as a handful of massage therapists, lightworkers, talented intuitives, and yoga teachers. My academic advisor was a Sufi. It would be an understatement to say it blew my mind.

  In the One Spirit Interfaith Seminary program, founder Diane Berke and the diverse staff gently encouraged me to embrace all religious paths as valid and worthy of exploration. Instead of subscribing to any specific dogma or creed, we were asked simply to agree to a community code of ethics. Some of us were entrenched in a specific path already, but many of us were free agents who were in for quite a ride. My classmate Shelly observed, “It’s a good thing that our eyes open slowly. Otherwise, our heads would blow off.”

  Together, my class spent month after month learning each other’s spiritual traditions as well as some new ones I had never heard of. Digging in, I began to jettison some of the bullshit I had clung to about religion. First, I realized it was okay to question what I had been taught: A spiritual path is about asking questions, not seeking certainty through answers. Next, I embraced the meditative, contemplative, and mystical experiences that are at the heart of what we call interspirituality.** As the program continued, new roomies appeared at my apartment: Meaning, Purpose, Kindness, Courage, and Authenticity. Grudgingly, I let in Forgiveness, Equanimity, and Love. (Admittedly, they might even be our best housemates.) Gratefully, I tossed out most of my fossil-filled baggage to make room for everyone.

  Uncovering wisdom in each new sacred text, I glimpsed the archetypes behind my childhood heroes. Soon my bookshelves overflowed with cosmic and earthly words: Yogananda and Zukav were now placed after Yoda.***

  In every activity, I looked for a sacred angle. In every conversation, I swapped spiritual aha! moments. Narrowly escaping that lightspeed crash fueled by illness, stress, addiction, and overwork, I reached back to a belief in the Force to recover my hope.

  Now I’m a fierce advocate for Hope. I suppose I was from childhood, fueled by the tiny holographic Princess Leia pleading, “Help me Obi-Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope.” Since then, the word has burrowed deep into my heart, but my pain made it hard to access and I became hopeless. But I have recovered it, inspired by my childhood princess—or more accurately the human behind her, Carrie Fisher. When I was six, Leia taught me I could grow up to run as fast as and fight as hard as any boy—even when wearing a dress. As I aged, my connection to the woman behind the role grew: first as I battled addiction, and then as I fought the stigma attached to depression and hypomania (which I refer to as having occasional strong fluctuations in my Force). Through Carrie, what’s known as the divine feminine appeared, encouraging me to finally voice my sexual identity (i.e., I had a crush on both Han Solo and Leia). At Carrie’s death in late 2016, my higher purpose showed itself: To be a tireless advocate for the hope that our spiritual and religious beliefs need not separate us, but can offer us richer, more diverse connections and community.

  So throughout this book, I offer you my services as an interspiritual tour guide. Even though each of us must discover our own path, and no one can choose it for us, I do have some imaginative ideas you might like to try out on your journey. As a result, this book is not an instruction manual with perfect directions to enlightenment. It does not suggest adherence to any specific belief system. Nor is it a scholarly treatise on the optimal way to reach Nirvana. You will never hear me claim that one belief system is better than another, or that any practice is more sacred than any other.

  Instead, Spiritual Rebel is a field guide for exploring your spirituality. Through its pages, you will be invited to clarify the beliefs that are personally meaningful to you and to redefine outdated concepts to which you might be clinging. You’ll also have the opportunity to explore creative mix-and-match practices, along with some new ways to experience connection. Above all else, you’ll be encouraged to express your unique style of spiritual freedom.

  NOTES

  * Seminary owes its heritage to the Latin word seminarium, which means plant nursery or, more metaphorically, breeding grounds, where attendees are being grown into their roles, so to speak. Serenity derives from the Latin serēnus, meaning clear or unclouded sky (or mind, in my case).

  ** The word interspirituality was coined by spiritual teacher Wayne Teasdale. Describing a spiritual perspective rather than a specific path, interspirituality recognizes that beneath theological beliefs and rituals there is a deeper, shared unity of experience underlying them all: the common values of peace, compassionate service, and love for all of creation. By bringing an open mind, generous spirit, and warm heart to our search, we can find expression through myriad wisdom traditions. Interspirituality’s roots draw from a wide range of teachings, including those by Baha’u’llah (founder of the Bahá’í faith), Indian mystic Ramakrishna, Trappist monk Thomas Merton, and Father Bede Griffiths, among others. Interspirituality shares many ideas with perennialism and universalism.

  *** Indian yogi, guru, and author Paramahansa Yogananda introduced Kriya Yoga (an Eastern spirituality based on breathwork, mantras, and meditation) to the U.S. startin
g in the 1920s. Founding the Self-Realization Fellowship, he first spread the tradition along the West Coast. His wildly popular 1946 book Autobiography of a Yogi has sold over four million copies. Anecdotally, I feel compelled to add that Apple Inc. cofounder Steve Jobs reread it annually. Self-realization states that we already possess an inner knowing of who we are and of God. The key is direct experience (through meditation) rather than the learning of beliefs.

  Gary Zukav’s first book, The Dancing Wu Li Masters: An Overview of the New Physics, is a stellar example of how science and spirituality are not in opposition. Ten years later, in 1989, he wrote his No. 1 New York Times bestseller The Seat of the Soul. It stayed on the list for three years. It’s Oprah’s favorite book (other than the Bible, she claims). Underlying Zukav’s books is the philosophy that power comes from within, not bestowed from outside. Further, for each of us to cultivate our authentic power, we must develop our emotional awareness, hone our intuition, make responsible choices, and trust in the Universe.

  Are you a spiritual rebel?

  If you’ve read this far, I’m 99.99 percent sure you are.

  But it can’t hurt to check.

  * * *

  Defining spiritual rebel is a bit like describing the rules of Fight Club. The first rule of Fight Club is you do not talk about Fight Club. Similarly, many of us have hidden our rebelliousness at one point or another: You do not speak about spirituality—and don’t even think about voicing the word religion. (If you are among the lucky ones who have been freely verbose since you popped out of the womb, keep reading anyway.) Apostate. Heretic. Dissident. Divergent. Rabble Rouser. Inciter. Instigator. Troublemaker. Some of us have heard those words, and not in the kindest tones. Others have been pummeled with the word Unbeliever. More than a few of us have experienced the pain of being pushed out of a community they once felt loved by when the edges of their beliefs started to expand. As a result, we can be cautious about belief statements or creeds, preferring a do-it-yourself attitude towards our spirituality.

  According to a 2018 Pew Research Center study, only 39 percent of U.S. adults consider themselves “highly religious.” Until recently, Pew (and other folks) categorized those of us who couldn’t neatly check a box for a mainstream religion into categories like none, nothing in particular, or unaffiliated. Yet the researchers were missing a key point: Many who didn’t fit easily into the surveys were becoming increasingly spiritual. Our definition of religion is expanding. We’re looking for new ways of connecting—with a deeper perspective and a higher purpose. We’re redefining what sacred, spiritual, and religious mean for us. Drawing on activities that come from multiple faith traditions, we may do yoga in the morning, meditate in the afternoon, hit a popup Shabbat some Friday nights, gather in community the following Sunday morning, and teach our kids about the awesome power of the Cosmos. We may spend summer weekends roaming through festivals, and we most likely resist being tied to any particular building or specific location. We’re as likely to say May the odds be ever in your favor or May the Force be with you or Namaste as we are to say goodbye; our language is increasingly fluid and multicultural rather than tied to a rigid formula. Of course, some of us may do none of these things, practicing a spiritual path that is undefinable—even to us. Or we may be part of something that’s super meaningful to us, but which others criticize.

  We are experiencing a significant period of spiritual freedom of choice. Postmodern spiritual paths, fueled by our growing technological connections, appear from near and far—including seemingly odd places.

  In 2001, more than 70,000 people embraced the Force of Star Wars, identifying religiously as Jedi in a census taken by the Australian Board of Statistics. Another 390,127 Jedi showed up on the U.K.’s 2001 census. While there has been some speculation on how many of these census takers are answering “seriously,” the 2017 documentary American Jedi shines a light on just how real Jediism can be for some of its followers, chronicling three people using the path to heal the emotional wounds of rape, marital infidelity, and youthful indiscretions. Going beyond sheer fandom, these members of an American Jedi Order are incredibly serious about their practice of an applied religious philosophy inspired by Star Wars. While many people may not consider their mythology to be on par with the Buddha, Krishna, Muhammad, or Jesus (or myriad other spiritual all-stars), a Jedi might ask people to dig further. The value of a myth is not in how true it is, but in how deeply one connects with it. And how it affects our lives.

  Likewise, Jediism isn’t the only spiritual path that has its roots in modern film and fiction. Two graduates from Harvard Divinity School, Casper ter Kuile and Vanessa Zoltan, made headlines in 2017 when their podcast “Harry Potter and the Sacred Text” catapulted up the iTunes chart to the No. 2 podcast in America. It’s now a robust program with satellite groups, live shows, and pilgrimages. Exploring central themes through the book characters and story, Casper, Vanessa, and their growing team engage in traditional forms of sacred reading seeking to unearth the hidden gifts within “even the most mundane sentences.” Underlying the program is a simple probing question: What if we read the books we love as if they were sacred texts? And just like that, the third-century Christian practice of Lectio Divina has been modernized.

  But let’s not stop there. The Church of the Latter-Day Dude, a self-described “open-source religion,” borrows heavily from Taoism and claims 450,000 Dudeist priests worldwide. Followers can glean wisdom from The Dude De Ching, a modern translation of The Tao Te Ching. Based on the age-old wisdom of Lao Tzu, it is supported by quotes from the movie The Big Lebowski.

  Whether these movements are “valid” religions or pure absurdity isn’t the question. Although spiritual rebels hold strongly to our individuality, these alternative spiritual communities are flourishing. Operating outside traditional religious institutions, they still have something in common with how religions originally evolved: the search for meaning with the support of a community.

  For many of us, that search is sparked after doing self-work and self-care. Not surprisingly, the wellness market is growing in leaps and bounds. According to the Global Wellness Institute, the world now spends $3.7 trillion a year. From wellness tourism and spa visits, to healthy eating, fitness, and weight loss, we collectively spend oodles of money. On ourselves.

  After we commit to our own wellness, deepening our perspective can lead to impactful choices that ripple out beyond our individual lives. Increasingly, I’ve found that looking at each decision in my life through a spiritual lens means my search for meaning succeeds in going beyond self-centeredness.

  How I spend my money matters: From choosing a This Bar Saves Lives snack bar with my tea, to donating a portion of this book’s proceeds to charity:water, small changes that rebel against my “normal” way of consuming and handling money can go a long way in connecting me to others and to something greater than myself.

  And how I allocate my time is important: Is my time all about me? Or am I engaging in actions that help sustain people, the planet, and its creatures? Do I support my friends with depth or am I just mindlessly clicking likes and dropping emojis on my social feeds? Does my spirituality extend beyond seeking my own blissful highs to helping those drowning in devastating lows? Because if I constrain my spirituality to being about me, I rob us all of the richness we can experience when united for a higher purpose. Wellness means I am okay. Spirituality leads to We are okay.

  This is not a guilt trip. We need both. And we need each other. So come, all you who are spiritual-but-not-religious, solidly secular, spiritual innovators, heathens, spiritually woke, religion resisters, spiritual-but-not-affiliated, pagans, agnostics, 12-steppers, comfortably communitied, and diversely devout. And of course, you Jedis, Dudeists, Potterheads, and wellness buffs, too. You belong.

  Whether you were raised atheist, rejected the religion of your birth, fell deeply in love with the spiritual path of your neighbor, or reframed and reclaimed the sacred through new perspectives, we ha
ve a place for you, too. Because if you resist being pigeon-holed, limited, or even defined, you are indeed spiritually rebellious.

  Although we each may tread a unique and profoundly personal path, if you reject what does not feel authentic to your own experience of spirituality, you are decidedly a spiritual rebel.

  A unicorn among sheep

  All the beasts obeyed Noah

  when he admitted them to the ark.

  All but the unicorn.

  Confident of its strength,

  the unicorn boasted,

  “I shall swim.”

  UKRANIAN FOLKTALE

  * * *

  My eight-year-old friend Teddy is a spunky, pint-sized example of an emerging spiritual rebel. She and her classmates were given whiteboards to explore what they wanted to do in their futures. Sadly, I want to be rich and I want to be a pop star were the prevalent wishes. But not for Teddy. Her response? I will discover a unicorn.

  I had to bite my tongue to keep from offering to help her set up a GoFundMe account for the endeavor. Just what is it about these magical creatures that captures our collective imagination? From references in the ancient Hebrew scriptures to the cool million John D. Rockefeller Jr. paid for the medieval Unicorn Tapestries to the trendy Unstable Unicorns strategic card game, we have been fascinated with unicorns since the Bronze Age.

  Rare, wild, and full of potential, this creature exists gracefully just barely beyond human sight. Often appearing in stories to guide humans at critical junctures, their backs never see human riders or, God forbid, a saddle. And so it occurs to me that the unicorn may be our postmodern version of glimpsing the divine. We want to believe in the unseen, the untouchable, the mystical. Desiring so strongly to be unique, we adopt the unicorn as our exclusive luxe icon, fearing being demoted to something ordinary.