As a child I didn’t give much thought to God, even though my Father was a Methodist Minister . I looked at the gentle face of Jesus found in most Caucasian churches. Handsome, long hair, white – Never much thought to question how they knew what he looked like in spite of the geographical area from where he came.
Through my teens, I became more radical – smoking pot as I cleaned the sanctuary, bringing friends in for a safe place to drink beer, using the lounge as a place to make out. God got short shift in those times. But, had you ask me I would have given you numerous answers about God, never questioning if they were the legitimate truth.
My twenties and thirties were spent trying to find God. Rebelling against him. Questioned his sex, his size, where he hung out. And I was angry, rejecting Christianity. I prayed to the Yoda of Star Wars, understanding the Force. Those were years of exploration – Buddhism, Paganism, Wiccan, the paths of the People. But still, I was searching to define God. And still angry. I worked hard at trying to find some kind of meaning or purpose to my life.
A few years back, I almost lost my life. Some organs shut down and most of my intestines were removed. I was in a medically induced coma for three weeks and for two or three weeks it looked like I wasn’t going to make it. I woke finding many memories of the past year or so were gone and I had lost the ability to move – at all.
Lying in bed for three weeks in the hospital, then three months more in a rehab while learning how to move and walk, I had a lot of time to think. Mostly of my anger toward people, life . . . God was simply gone. And then I came to understand that God had a purpose for me (hence the living), even though I didn’t know what it was. Even though it might be about me but for someone else I might never see or know.
Lately another dawning is occurring. I have come to understand the arrogance of my attempts to define God. Who am I to presume knowledge of the Creator? It was God who created me. Those pictures of Jesus, some artist’s rendering of what Jesus should look like were presumptuous. Those pieces of art from the Renaissance were attempts at finding God, as he was understood to be. People had to create a God of their understanding.
So as I walk through fields and feel the wind’s breath upon my cheeks I realize if I shut up and get out of the way, God will let me know who he is – I need not look anymore. It is humbling but necessary piece in spiritual growth. I’m looking forward to the day I can hear what God wants and needs of me. . . . until I can hear the Truth and the Word.