The
Eyes of a Child
By the Rev. Lowell E. Grisham One
of the gifts of childhood is a natural sense of intimacy
with God. Most of us can remember times when God seemed
very close and real. And then we grow up. We learn a lot
of things, and for many of us, the notion of God becomes
more problematic. Then, many of us go through a long process
of exploration that
sometimes leads right back to where we started in the first place -- a natural
sense of intimacy with God -- but now we understand more. My
grandfather's house was across the street from the Methodist
parsonage and church. There was something about that place
that made God seem very real and very close. Maybe it was
the experience of unqualified love from my grandfather.
Maybe it was that spiritual openness that seems to accompany
going away from the everyday familiar. I can remember walking
down the sidewalk in that holy place and thinking, "God
is watching me walk down this sidewalk. And God can see
the
cracks in the broken concrete that I'm seeing. I hope God is enjoying being
outside with me as much as I'm enjoying it. I'll bet God
enjoys it even more
than I do." One
day I was sitting in a tree in front of my grandfather's
house. My attention was drawn to the bark -- how deep and
complex it was. It looked like pictures of the Grand Canyon
taken from an airplane. All at once, I began to see more
deeply than I could ever imagine. I saw every crack and
ravine in the bark. I was awed
by the complexity of subtle colors, various shades of brown and black. I never
knew brown and black could be so elaborate. Then
my consciousness expanded. I was looking deeply into the
tree bark, seeing it almost on a molecular level. At the
same time, I was aware of the whole tree -- every branch,
every twig, each leaf, the complex veins on the leaf--
and the feeling of life connecting the ground with the
roots through the trunk and into the leaves. I was aware
of a squirrel playing above. I
can still remember the particular blue of the sky, the
location of the birds flying by, the half-open kitchen
shade of our neighbor Mrs. Moss. All the while my most
focused concentration was still within the beautiful composition
of the tree bark, just inches beyond my nose. At
some point I lost all consciousness of time. I lost a sense
of myself as being separate from the all. "I" seemed
to dissolve into this amazing fullness of life and color
and connectedness. I
don't know how long it lasted, but at some point I remember
thinking, "This must be a little of what God sees
if God is everywhere at once." And as I thought that
thought, my consciousness shrank back to its "normal" size,
and I was looking at a plain patch of bark on a plain old
tree. Still a tingling afterglow shimmered within. I've
savored that childhood experience. I believe it was a hint,
a peek into
the deeper reality of life. I
believe every human being has these experiences of something deeper than the
ordinary. When I've shared my story about being in my
grandfather's tree with other people, usually they'll come up with similar
events from their own memories. For many, it's a little like remembering a
dream. Our fact-based, materialistic culture doesn't value such brushes with
the infinite, and so we tend to dismiss those experiences as odd or strange,
and they fall out of consciousness. It's important to remember and record,
value and reflect upon these glimpses into another way of being in the world.
They are the stepping stones of
spiritual experience and a touch of the mystical dimension to which every great
religion witnesses. When
in your past have you had that tingling sensation of an
altered state
of consciousness? Have you ever looked at something and seen it explode with
life in a new way? Have you ever listened to something with your whole being,
hearing depths that you ordinarily would miss? Have you ever felt deep awe,
or a thankful wonder? Have you ever been so absorbed by the experience of the
moment, that time stood still? Have you ever been so engrossed in something
that you disappeared, your sense of being a separate identity seemingly melting
into the experience of the whole? When have you felt truly wondrously alive? These
are moments to treasure. They give us glimpses into another
reality, the spiritual dimensions that subtle minds have
described through centuries of mystical literature. In
our generation, even the scientific and psychological community
has shown respect and interest in the reality of the "unitive" experience
and in the healthy fruits of contemplation. (Gerald May's
study "Will and Spirit" is an excellent study
of the connections between psychology and spirituality.) Give
yourself some time to reflect on those moments in your
life when something different seemed to break through into
your consciousness. What might you learn from those moments? Share your stories with others. You'll soon be recalling
more, and you'll be talking about things that really matter,
deep and simple at the same time. Sometimes
it helps to foster a more childlike attitude of alert openness.
When we were children, we didn't have so many definitions
to limit our experience to the "boxes" of our
expectations. We were more open to the unknown. Many wise
people will cultivate a beginners mind as an intentional
way of being more awake to the beauty, joy and wonder of
creation, more open to the possibility of real intimacy
with God. Try
that today. Be alert. Aware. Open. Listen and see. Feel
the sensations. Be fully present. See if the quality of
your ordinary consciousness doesn't tingle with a deeper
sense of aliveness. And be ready in a moment to surrender
to the wonder of being grasped by something deeper. Copyright ©2004
Lowell Grisham
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