Table of Contents


John Wesley. I was so lucky to grow up in the Methodist Church. In small-town north Florida in the early 1950s I was going to grow up in some church, and Methodism was the brilliant choice my wisdom made. John Wesley may have been some kind of firebrand in his time, but the First Methodist Church in Marianna Florida was like oatmeal: bland and harmless. I did get offended by the miserable fantasy of hell, but I can hardly complain. It was probably some visiting preacher at a revival. I got dragged to a few of those. I don't think I ever heard a fire and brimstone from the pulpit of that church, praise god.

Child abuse. Making me go to some dreary tent revival was the closest my parents ever got to that. I got no cause to complain. Vacation Bible school, on the other hand, was a hoot. I looked forward to it. All I can remember is craft projects and some singing. Singing was always the best part of church. I was a dedicated alto until my voice broke and I could sing bass, sorta. My favorite craft project was stained glass windows. Poster board with cutouts for jewel tone cellophane. I was channeling El Greco, tall skinny windows reminiscent of Toledo. Only I never saw any of that art for another twenty years.

Nickel cokes. I didn't actually do any growing there, except the inevitable kind, aka aging. I did enjoy junior choir, and there was a nickel coke machine in the fellowship hall. Nickel cokes, in the old style small bottles that were all scratched up on the outside from decades of use, thousands of refills, most definitely tasted better than any other kind of coke.

Methodist gothic. The First Methodist Church was a place of wonder and mystery. I found a secret passage that led from the Sunday school building to behind the pulpit. I got into the passage through a door in the back of a closet; I think it was a way for the choir to sneak around behind the preacher without going through the congregation. The passage was dusty and neglected. Walking through it made me think that people must've been shorter back then. I found another secret passage: steep stairs, covered with dust, leading down to the dirt floor under the sanctuary. There were fire-blackened wooden pillars down there still holding up the church. I wondered, did they get burned in the Battle of Marianna? It was a nasty battle; nobody liked it except the slaves who got liberated. Nah, the Episcopal church was the one that got burned in that battle. The burned pillars remain a mystery.

Hell. The only other thing I can recall from my days as a Methodist was being really, really scared of going to hell. That's one helluva dubious burden to lay on a kid, jeez. Speaking of whom, I expect he'd agree.

Declaration of independence. When I was 14, we moved to Nairobi and started attending a Methodist church there. Church on Sunday morning had always been a done deal: you went to church unless you were sick. I summoned my courage and made my announcement: I'm not going to church anymore, and I'm not wearing underwear. Then I waited for the explosion. They said OK, sure. I think they figured that was the kind of teenage rebellion they could live with.

The Angel. My declaration of independence freed me up to start considering spiritual matters more seriously. Soon after that I found myself gobstruck and humbled in the face of Rilke's First Duino Elegy, contemplating the Angel: Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels' hierarchies? and even if one of them pressed me suddenly against his heart: I would be consumed in that overwhelming existence. For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror, which we are still just able to endure, and we are so awed because it serenely disdains to annihilate us. Every angel is terrifying.

Plunder. Since then I've given religions a wide berth, but I've cheerfully plundered their ancient wisdom. I steal wisdom wherever I find it. When I majored in comparative mythology, the Anchor Bible was one of my key resources.

Wisdom. Throughout my life I've steadily gotten more serious about making progress with love. To make progress I start by surrendering to my wisdom and following its guidance. A key part of making progress is dealing with all the bad habits, traumas, and cultural distortions I've picked up along the way. Religions and charismatic leaders are among the hurdles to overcome, TH included. In 2006 my wisdom made itself known and said no, I don't need more teaching. I need to be my own teacher, my own authority.