CHAPTER EIGHT

A Mystic in Middletown

I was sleeping soundly in my bed when I was suddenly awakened by a clear and deliberate voice. There was no chitchat leading up to it, no social introductions. There were only the words from someone I could neither see nor feel—spoken once and with unmistakable purpose: “You must read Steiner.”

I sat bolt upright. No one was in the room. I'm sure that, had Jacquie been awake, she would have heard nothing. But I know, without a doubt, that the command was not my imagination.

I also knew immediately that the voice was referring to Rudolf Steiner, an early twentieth-century Christian mystic I'd been introduced to six years earlier as an undergraduate at Goddard College. But I was hardly about to run out and purchase his books. After all, I was four years into ministry in Muncie, Indiana, with a loving family, and life should have been at its fullest.

Yet, I was sick with despair and couldn't talk about it with anyone. The ministry had, by this time, lost its shining promise. Buried under endless committee meetings, hospital visits, sermons, and Sunday school lessons, my time seemed to be owned by everyone else.

Occasionally, the world would crack open in a flourish of light—especially when I was away from my work.

There was the time I came to pick up Sean at school. He was in the second grade then, and he came running across the schoolyard, dressed in blue, his backpack bobbing up and down, as it hung from his shoulders. It was a bright day, and the sunlight glistened atop his shock of brilliant, blond hair. He was lit up like an angel.

It was his smile that caught me. When Sean smiled, it was like bringing a spotlight into the room; everything would start to glow. It was the smile of childhood innocence, the sheer delight of discovery. To see that took my breath away. I was awestruck at the depth of love I felt for him.

I wanted so much to catch that instant of wonder, to bask in the delight of that unbridled joy. Instead, I found myself groping blindly in the dark. Frequently, I would get up in the middle of the night, unable to sleep, haunted by something I couldn't name. While Jacquie slept, I would silently dress and walk the streets of our neighborhood, asking myself over and over, “What am I doing? Why is my life such a waste?” The walking would bring no answers. Finally, exhausted, I would make my way home and slump back into bed.

The silent ache was made all the more impossible for having touched the brightness of that other world. I knew it was there. I had seen it and touched its glory. For a brief moment, I had been to the mountaintop and been wrapped in the stunning elegance and beauty of something beyond description. Where was that world now?

In shock, I wandered aimlessly, hungry for nourishment of the soul. There was no name for the void I felt. I can't go on like this, I thought to myself.

THE MASK OF COMPETENCE

I'm often asked why the spiritual journey is so difficult. If we're called to mingle with the life springing from other dimensions, why are those dimensions not more accessible? Are depression and despair prerequisites for sacred insight?

One of the reasons for the difficulty is that truth has a nasty habit of getting in the way. By this, I don't mean the truth of the Bible, or the truth of religion, or absolute truth, or even the truth of God. Rather, it's the truth about who we are that is the most unsettling.

That's because it challenges our carefully cultivated mask of competence.

By most accounts, I was a great success in the pastorate. It was fairly easy to manipulate the applause meter in my favor. The rewards included personal praise, financial compensation, increased responsibility, and a nice big office, to name a few.

When the rewards for performance increased sufficiently, it became all too easy to back away from whatever was risky or innovative and to fall back instead on sure-success formulas. Every word, every gesture, every step was measured by its potential for approval. Gradually, I no longer approached the world with openness and spontaneity, but from the programmed image of the “competent pastor.” This image was a caricature. At times, I felt as if my face would crack in two from wearing a perpetual smile.

Having reveled in the presence of a being whose light penetrated to my soul, having lived and felt the “no accident” nature of existence and, hence, the perfection of this world, I was lost when that experience faded.

I couldn't know it then, but that very hunger would begin, gradually, to overtake my old fake-it-till-you-make-it strategies. It wasn't a conscious decision on my part. There was no heroism involved. There was just no choice. The loss and desperation were simply too great to ignore.

THE INTERNAL MELODRAMA

I'm not alone in carefully crafting a presentable persona. The business of being human is steeped in the art of deception. Breath mints, Wonderbras, flashy resumes, hair coloring, makeovers, tailored suits, Rolex watches, little red sports cars, bathrooms with bidets are all designed to hide the truth about us. And those are just the surface qualities.

There are deeper issues. They are little lies we tell ourselves about how generous we are, how good-natured, how loving, how loyal, trustworthy, and true. Each of us carries around an adoring internal audience that cheers and coos when we score points that, if others could only see, would surely make them insanely jealous of us. Those are the bright lies.

Then there are the dark ones. These are the ones that are the hardest to break through. These are the lies that come from our chorus of internal detractors.

“You'll never be good enough.”

“Who do you think you are, anyway?”

“You really screwed that up!”

“How could you be so stupid?”

The dark critics are so hard to silence, because we secretly treasure them. Despite our protests, they provide us an indispensable service. They shield us from having to confront our unique destiny.

Though we scarcely realize it, we're far more terrified of our genius than we are of our darkness. To embrace fully our deepest calling requires sacrifices and courage that few of us can muster. So the dark voices inside keep us from having to try. That's why we love them.

But the dark voices don't own the truth. Neither does the internal audience of praise. Each of these is but one more piece in the mosaic of the false image we show to the world.

To speak in our own true voice is our deepest calling. Because it requires the shattering of all that we have crafted so diligently and yet so falsely, we turn away from it at every opportunity. To live honestly costs so much, because it means turning a deaf ear to the voices that would call us to more socially acceptable and profitable pursuits.

That's one reason why the spiritual journey is so difficult. As one's true calling wrestles with the false image, the disorientation of the dark night sets in.

It would take years to shatter my pastoral persona. In the end, it turned out to be the healthiest thing that could happen to me.

FALSE IDOLS

False images are as old as the Bible. Ask any number of people in the West what standard they live by, and a majority will swear by the Ten Commandments. Ask those same people to name those commandments, and you'll be greeted with embarrassed confusion.

Though few could recite it, one commandment that is relevant to our discussion is, “You shall not make for yourself an idol, whether in the form of anything that is in heaven above, or that is on the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth. You shall not bow down to them or worship them.”41 Now, we all know that this is the one that's easy to keep. Gone are the days when idols of wood or stone had any hold on our imaginations. To give special power to a lifeless, miniature statue would be ridiculous. We've come a long way from ancient superstitions, and this prohibition against idol worship clearly doesn't apply to our modern sensibilities.

But what if the idol cited here is equated with the false mask we show the world? Could we then say so glibly that we don't worship false idols? What if the deepest reading of this law isn't so concerned with offending God, but instead with offending our truest self, which is the highest gift from the creator?

If this is a possible interpretation, then making contact with the sacred must, at some point, mean the shattering of the false image. The journey toward wholeness means that there is “nothing that is covered up that will not be uncovered, and nothing secret that will not become known.”42 That's why Jesus said: “You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid. No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lamp stand, and it gives light to the whole house. In the same way let your light shine before others.”43

When we hear children singing, “This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine,” we smile, because it's so darned cute. But if we understood the profound implications of these words, it would make us shudder. Us, revealed? Finding ourselves naked before the world is our ultimate nightmare.

Yet, to be true to our core essence, to live in the utterly unique manner for which we were created, means that we must inevitably disappoint the expectations that others have for our lives. It means that all the lies we've strung together to craft our false image to gain acceptance, approval, and love must be unraveled.

A SIMPLE KINDNESS

The year was 1975. I was a new student at Goddard College. Goddard was an exotic place in those days, a haven for hippies, subterranean politics, and experimental lifestyles. The sexual revolution was in full bloom, and so were feminism, environmentalism, the drug culture, vegetarianism, radical politics, and more. The wild freedom was reflected in a campus landscape dotted with naked bodies working in the organic fields or lounging nonchalantly by the dormitory doors. Whimsical architecture could be seen everywhere in buildings often designed by the students. The buildings delighted the eye but were often less than successful at keeping out rain.

Shortly before matriculating at Goddard, I had gone through a Christian conversion experience. With my fresh new faith, I was excited to know that I was, once and for all, “right with God.” My cheeks freshly scrubbed with holiness, I looked to the future with the greatest of confidence, knowing, without a doubt, that I was clearly on the winning team.

A more ridiculous clash of lifestyles could not be imagined. When I set foot on the Goddard campus, I was no longer surrounded by people who told me what to think or how to act like a good Christian. The sights and sounds of this strange new school set off an inner cacophony.

One day, while walking along one of Goddard's tree-lined paths, I found myself plodding along behind Jim Nolfi. Jim looked like a mountain man, with thick bushy hair, a beard that birds could nest in, and the OshKosh overalls that, most of the time, he wore without a shirt—or, as far as anyone could tell, underwear.

But, he was my professor, so I held him in great esteem. In many ways, he was brilliant. To my surprise, he invited me to walk with him.

There are times in life when the simplest act can communicate the most precious kindness. Jim's invitation probably meant very little to him, but to me it was like a hand reaching down to a man sinking beneath the waves. At that time, I was very shy. When I was speaking with strangers, words were difficult to come by. But Jim had a disarming way about him, probably because he really cared about his students.

To Jim, I confided that I had been having a struggle bringing my theology together with the campus life all around me.

Jim listened with keen attention. He then began to tell me about his wife, Ann, who had been on a spiritual journey of her own.

It had begun with a serious illness that had put her in a coma for weeks. Around her hospital bed, blinking machines measured everything that modern science could monitor. There was talk among the physicians that she might not make it.

In the early morning, the night shift was gathered at the nurses’ station. Their muffled chatter was all that broke the silence.

Suddenly, Ann saw a great light enter her room. As it drew near to the foot of her bed, she woke up, as if for the first time. No words were exchanged, as the brightness enveloped her body. She could feel a vibrant new energy coursing through every cell, as rapid healing processes were unleashed.

No sooner had the light finished its work than Ann rose from her bed and quietly disconnected the wires tethering her to the myriad machines. Strangely, this act didn't trigger any alarms.

Slipping into her robe hanging in the closet, Ann began strolling through the halls. Through one door she noticed another woman who was also comatose. Mucus was draining from her nose; her skin was pale and gray. There seemed to be little life force still in her.

As Ann slinked into the room, she felt like she was floating. Drawing close to the woman, she leaned over the steel bed rail and whispered in the woman's ear, “I've got some extra energy. You want some?”

Ann then touched the patient's hand. The woman's eyes fluttered open. There was a smile.

The next thing they knew, these two patients began strolling through the hallway, arm in arm, giggling and laughing out loud. When they came to the nurses’ station, pandemonium broke out. Not one, but two hopeless cases had virtually risen from the dead!

Jim explained that this experience had put his wife on a journey to understand what had happened. She too had come from a Christian faith, but had had trouble finding a home church where she could talk about her experience openly. In a tradition that had retreated into the intellect, there was little room left for the miraculous.

He explained to me that the best explanations she found were the writings of a twentieth-century mystic named Rudolf Steiner. Also a deeply committed Christian, it was Steiner who began to explain the mystical side of Jesus’ work.

When Jim invited me to dinner with his wife, I was captivated by what she said. Still, I wasn't quite ready to integrate the radical ideas of Rudolf Steiner into my own shaky theology.

Only years later, when I heard that voice speaking in the middle of the night, could I begin to take in the wonder of the mystical tradition. When I heard that voice, I recognized that it was time to embark on a new leg of my journey. But, at the same time, I was skeptical enough to laugh.

After all, we were living in Muncie, Indiana. The town had been the focus of several famous sociological efforts called the Middletown Studies. Muncie was chosen for this research, because the authors felt it represented the very middle of American life—not just geographically, but morally, economically, spiritually, and socially. The thinking, apparently, was that if they could characterize the nature of existence in Muncie, then they could extend their graphs equally in opposite directions and capture all of American life. Being in the exact middle, Muncie residents began to think of themselves as representative of the American way. If you wanted to tap the essence of Americana, then, like a pilgrimage to Mecca, a trek to Muncie, Indiana, would be in order.

Muncieites not only reveled in this vaunted status of being in the middle, but it became their duty to preserve this cultural icon of mediocrity. It's still one of the few places in the continental United States that has chosen not to go on daylight savings time. As more than one person has remarked, “They're so conservative in Muncie, they won't even change the time!”

So when a voice came to me in the middle of the night, telling me to read Steiner, in ordinary, mediocre, middle-of-the-road Muncie, Indiana, I had to laugh.

I knew full well from my conversations with Jim and Ann Nolfl that reading Steiner would take me into the far reaches of theological inquiry and well beyond the fully extended graphs of the Middletown Studies.

I thought to myself, Yeah, right. Where am I ever going to find a copy of Steiner?

PORNO IN THE SEMINARY BOOKSTORE

Several weeks later, I went back to my alma mater, Princeton Theological Seminary, for some continuing education. I attended several lectures and heard a few renowned preachers trumpeting from the pulpit, who then gave workshops on how we could sound just like them. None of it touched me.

Restless and fidgety, I decided to take a tour of the seminary bookstore. I was walking past one of the shelves, when a book practically reached out and grabbed me. Only the binding was visible, but, even so, it stopped me dead in my tracks. The title was A Steiner Primer.

It was like discovering Playboy in a church parlor. Pulling it off the shelf, I could feel it burning in my hands. My only thought was how I could buy this thing without anyone seeing me. Some part of me expected this contraband to draw a crowd. I rehearsed lies about how I was doing research and that I didn't really believe any of these things.

To my surprise, not so much as an eyebrow was raised. I carried it back to my dorm room in a brown paper bag, hoping I wouldn't run into any of my clergy friends.

I stopped going to classes or lectures. The rest of my time there, I spent reading.

Reading Steiner was a relief. Finally, here was somebody coming from a Christian perspective who not only took the mystical tradition seriously, but also tried to interpret it for the modern world. It was like finding pure gold.

Steiner insisted that nothing he said was to be taken on faith. There was no doctrine to believe in, no endless monologues on morality. Everything he wrote about came as a result of his own experiences. Instead of accepting the fact that we're incapable of peering into spiritual realms, Steiner urged his students to go see for themselves; then he even told them how.

He constructed maps of hidden dimensions and delineated the invisible energy fields of the body. For Steiner, soul and spirit were as real as the physical body and just as crucial to understand. He laid out stages of human evolution that reached back into prehistory and claimed that he received his information from a great spiritual library that he called the Akashic Records. At the center of that evolution was the person of Jesus, who brought about a monumental transformation of human consciousness.

Needless to say, this was all new to me. Though I had no way of verifying what he said, I was captivated by the possibilities. I wanted more than anything to catch a glimpse of the vista that was an integral part of his daily life.

The problem was that I still lived in Muncie, and I was still a Presbyterian pastor. Reading Steiner aggravated the split all the more. I had to keep up appearances, if for no other reason than to support my family. It was like living in a straitjacket.

And so I continued to shuffle through the streets of my neighborhood in the wee hours of the morning, wondering what I was doing with my life. The pull between my inner and outer worlds was becoming excruciating.

Over time, I read—or attempted to read—ten or twelve of Steiner's books, hoping that they would lead me to what I was seeking. But his style was so confusing, and his ideas so out of my reach, that I finally gave up. I wanted to see for myself. To my disappointment, reading Steiner—as exciting and invigorating as it was—didn't get me any closer to the kingdom of heaven.

So the tension was ratcheted up even more. How does anyone continue to function, when the very essence of what they hold dear must be denied? Perhaps someone with more courage would have simply walked away and started a new, more authentic life. But I couldn't.

My search would last many years. At every step of the way, I had the feeling that my mystical experiences were the essence of what Jesus had spoken of as the kingdom of heaven. Yet, it was difficult for me to make the connections.

As a result, I found myself looking for answers far outside the Christian tradition. It was heartbreaking to suspect that the very theology that was my heritage and birthright seemed to be so lacking in insight regarding the words of its own founder.