Desires & Detours

Think of something that you've desired all your life. Not chocolate cake, not another pair of black boots, but something big; something that's been a significant preoccupation, a serious time-suck, and has always eluded your grasp. Okay, now what if that flame of desire was extinguished? What if you were suddenly aware that the desire was either gone, or had diminished to the point where it had no allure?

That's what's going on for me. One of my most cherished desires has gone completely flaccid. Very odd, and completely disorienting. I'm not sure what to do with myself. I'm so accustomed to co-existing with this desire that I have to keep reminding myself that it's gone. I still can't feature what my life is going to be like without it. I hate to admit this, but without my desires, I'm not even sure who I am. Can I really be so shallow? Have I really been defining myself by what I want? Gad - how pathetic is that? But after looking at this from every angle, that's exactly what I come up with: I am the product of my passions. No wonder my life has been one disappointment after another. The moment a goal is realized, the emptiness opens a little wider. I'd imagine that wealthy and wildly successful people must have a rough time, since their emptiness opens up so much wider than the rest of ours.

Clearly, the big problem with desire is that as soon as we get what we want, we immediately want something else. Desire infers that we are incomplete, and that our fulfillment rests in something that we don't have. A tension is created when we desire, and it generally increases until the desire is met. Then there is the brief moment of satisfaction, and then we either want more of the same, or something else entirely. Desire turns us into flaming narcissists. Like gorged ticks, we become addicted to the pleasure of satiation. It's a terrible way to live, when you think about it.

Osho says that every desire, whether fulfilled or denied, is a door to hell. He recommends that we watch the process of desire closely, and see where it leads us. Once we see and experience desire as misery, we'll be free of it. It simply ripens, drops, withers, and rots. How cool is that? Oh, to be freed from bondage to the things that make us miserable. Sign me up! Take my desires, every last one of them, and the horse they rode in on.

If only it was so easy. And what about the desire for enlightenment? A few weeks ago I told Big Daddy (no, not God - the guru Nithyananda) that I wanted to Self-realize in this lifetime, and he told me that I would. How can he be so sure? I mean, doesn't the fact that I desire it sort of preclude my getting it? The desire acts as a catapult, hurling my enlightenment off into the future, forever out of reach. The only place that awakening can happen is here, in this future-less and desire-free moment.

Well, one life-long, heart-felt, radically-cherished desire crossed off my list; 7,347 to go. What would it be like to desire nothing? To be so ensconced in the experience of the present moment that you completely forget to desire anything? Desire yanks us out of the present, which is the place where everything happens, and promises happiness in a future event. So we spend a lifetime accumulating events and objects, completely missing the present moment from which they emanated. Omg! You mean to tell me that desire is nothing more than a detour? It's like we pull right up to the present moment, idle at the gate for a moment, then drive off because we think we've got the wrong address. Just think of the empires that have been built upon this simple error! Capitalism is what happens when a bunch of people get off at the wrong exit.

The presence of desire is an indicator that we're about to come into a greater Presence. The stronger the desire, the more profound the Presence. If we can find the wherewithal to deny the desire and remain alert, the gate will open to us. What gate, you ask? I think it must be the gate to the present moment. So does this mean that if I do a U-turn and follow my desires back to their point of origin, I'll come face to face with the present moment, the ground zero of being, and the threshold to the divine? It's worth a shot.

Above: Before I started doing the text drawings, I was painting abstract gates. This one is Gate 508, mixed media on paper, 2008.

My Man Nithyananda

In my last post I gave an account of my meeting with a guru. His name is Nithyananda, and he's an enlightened Master from the south of India. The post, as well as the encounter, reeked with cynicism toward this guru-guy, as I was mildly put off by the marketing and general fanfare that accompanied his teaching and darshan, or energy transmission. In short, while I'm skeptical of the guru tradition and its flawed system of transmission, I tried to keep an open mind to whatever wisdom and energy that Nithyananda may have had for me.

A week later, I'm deeply humbled to report that he has touched me in a profound way. It would be premature for me to define the subtle shifts and realizations of the last week. When I've tried to do so, they've evaporated into a fine mist, and I've sometimes wondered if it's all in my mind. But that's the interesting thing - the shifts are decidedly not in my mind, thus my difficulty in pinpointing them. They're also not in the form of experiences, like some of the energetic movements that can happen when there's some big stuff happening internally. No, this is none of that.

So all I can say is what it's not. It's not dramatic, I don't look any different, and I didn't even have a particularly good week. Lots of work-related crap that I had to deal with, and some other life hassles that kept me running and irritable. But it didn't matter. Whatever Nithyananda's gift was, it wasn't affected in any way by my external life experiences. Clarity - pure clarity. That's the best I can do for now.

The highlight of my week was when I realized that I don't have to stop being cynical. In fact, I don't have to stop being anything. Whatever, whoever I am, with my mountains of flaws and rolling hills of imperfection, is totally acceptable. Not that I'd ever stop trying to improve myself, but it doesn't matter whether I do or not. Whatever I am - good, bad, or ugly - is completely irrelevant, so I'm going to be getting rid of a few shelves of self-improvement books. The fact that I'm supremely cynical of Nithyananda and his shtick doesn't matter: he still touched me deeply. Am I planning to become a devotee? Heck no. Will I go see him again? Nah, I'm good. I don't have much need for a guru. I just got very lucky and was at the right place at the right time to receive something from him, but if I now started chasing him around the world, I'd have missed the point.

See, that is the point. It's not the guru who touches us, it's the energy behind the guru. It wasn't Jesus who touched so many lives, it was the energy, or holy spirit, that came through Jesus. It wasn't Siddhartha Gautama who showed people the way, but the energy which he embodied as the Buddha. Why do people miss this? All these great teachers are avatars, or people through whom the energy of God has descended. And for what purpose? So that we can worship them? Well, if you want to, but you'll have missed the point. The successful guru is the one who instills in us the wisdom that we don't need a guru. The corrupt guru is the one who encourages (or demands) dependence on him/her for enlightenment.

So no, I'm not all doe-eyed over Nithyananda. I doubt I'll even watch his videos, even though there are hundreds of free recordings on YouTube. I'm grateful for my physical contact with him, and grateful too for the cynical mind that questions his authority. Without it I'd undoubtedly find myself in spiritual traction, like a cosmic junkie trying to get another fix of his energy. One of the points where Nithya and I disagree is where he repeatedly tells his followers to turn off their minds and to trust in the process which he initiates. I don't believe that it's necessary to turn off the mind; in fact, I don't recommend it. The mind is all too often seen as the enemy, when in fact it can be the grounding element in our spiritual seeking. If not for my mind, I'd be head over heels in love with Nithya. I'd have spent every last dollar on his books and overpriced necklaces last weekend. And instead of drinking coffee and writing on my blog this morning, I'd be packing my bags to move to his ashram in India. So God bless my mind, and the cynicism that oozes therein.

I told you that I was going to be posting some of Nithya's teachings, but I don't feel like it. Just go to Rodney Stevens' blog, and you'll find all the nuggets of clarity that you can digest. The wisdom that I received from Nithyananda is the fact that I don't need anything, including him, to awaken into pure consciousness.

Touched by a Guru

I spent all of yesterday and yesternight with Paramahamsa Nithyananda, the enlightened Master, inspirational teacher, and beloved guru. Some friends invited me to join them, a most generous gesture, and an opportunity which I'd never otherwise have had the fortune to experience, mostly because it requires a fortune to experience it. But for the fact that they paid for my ticket, I'd have had to pass. But I'm pleased to report that meeting a guru is now something I can cross off my must-do list. I still haven't completely digested the experience, as it was twelve hours of intense meditation and teaching. So you might say that it's still unfolding for me, and only time will determine whether there are any fruits to bear from the encounter.

Of course I've been teased endlessly for going to see Swamiji, or for "doing" the guru, as it was so delicately put. Why is it that as soon as you mention the word guru, people think of sex? It's pretty sad that the timeless tradition of teacher/student has been reduced to the sexual cliche. All my friends - and I mean every last one of them - seemed to think that I was going to be drugged with opium, dragged into Nithyananda's den, seduced and ravished within an inch of my life, then given laced Kool-Aid to revive me. I'm a little disappointed to report that nothing unseemly happened. Nithyananda and the boys were perfect gentlemen and consummate businessmen, and besides, I'm not much into turbans. No, someone would have had to tie me down and lobotomize me before I entered his 'inner circle', or he mine.

Having clarified my position on gurus and copulation, I'll now offer my impressions of the man and the experience. Nithyananda is from the south of India, therefore his sensibilities are quite different than ours in the West. The showmanship, the affected facial expressions, and the much-rehearsed spontaneity was cloying for my New England-bred taste. You may remember that I was raised Methodist, and Methodists do not clap. Methodists do not emote either; in fact, there is absolutely no need for a box of Kleenex to be within one hundred yards of a Methodist church. Methodists do not shriek nonverbal epithets, nor do they hum loudly like insects, and Methodists definitely do not shake from head to toe in the effort to awaken their kundalini. We were invited to do all of the above and more at Nithyananda's day-long course, and at times its tenor was positively Pentecostal, minus the "amen's" and "hallelujah's".

Nithyananda (the man, not the God) is a truly magnetic figure. It's not difficult to understand why people are so drawn to him. I was prepared not to like him; I had my cynical comments lined up and was ready to pounce at the first opportunity. His theatrics are indeed off-putting if you're coming at him cold, that is, without the adulation. But I gotta tell you, this guy has an undeniable presence. (Note the lower-case "p"). There's no mistaking it when he's in the room. He has charisma, charm, intelligence, supreme wit, confidence, and he's cute as a button. What's not to like? He speaks with authority, and if he'd gone into sales and marketing (which, in a sense, he did), he'd have made a bundle. Honestly? I sorta fell in love with the guy. He has a way of speaking to a crowd that's so personal, it seems like he's talking to you. And he wisely leaves all the marketing to his devotees, so as not to taint the essence of his message, I'm sure.

And trust me, there was some egregious marketing going on. Lots of stuff for sale, which could be either signed, wiped, or slapped by Nithyananda at the end of the day. Necklaces, books, CDs, and sign-up sheets for long retreats, both here and abroad, which guaranteed Realization. There were many speakers who testified about these books and retreats, and masterful persuasion techniques which lubricated many a wallet. I found this to be mildly repulsive. But, as I said, Nithyananda had no part in it; he wasn't even present during these testimonials, nor did he take part in any exchange of currency that I noted. A wise move on his part, and one which I respect. He's unquestionably the driving force behind the machine, yet gives the impression of being far removed from the fuel that keeps it running.

But my observations thus far miss the point. Hey, enlightened blokes have to pay the bills just like the rest of us, huh? To dwell on his profits would be small-minded of me, when clearly Nithyananda's got a lot more goin' on than immeasurable wealth. His teachings are based in nonduality, and are mostly sound, from what I could tell. (I had a problem with some of his teachings, but more on that in a minute). He inspires and ignites, and at various times during the day I felt openings at my heart and solar plexus. Not exactly the goods for a ripping testimonial, but I'm working on beefing it up a little. Most significant for me was the overwhelming sense of being "in love", without an object on which to place my surging emotions. Clearly, this would be the moment when the devotee would drape her affections on the guru, but I'm far too cynical for that. So my open-hearted love remained object free, a nondescript blob of tender awareness that ached with love for most anything that crossed my path. A throbbing blob of love isn't exactly what I had in mind when I signed up, but it's a respectable door prize, and hopefully the precursor to greater openings.

The teachings that I had trouble with were straight-up evangelical Christianity with an orange turban plopped on its head. The fact that it was Halloween was convenient, but it didn't fool ol' Madge. It goes like this: everything that happens to us is our responsibility. I accept that, but I bristle at the thin distinction between responsibility and blame. What is the difference? Where do we draw the dividing line? Nithyananda stated unequivocally that if you are ill, you are responsible for your illness. Is that not the same as saying that you are to blame for your illness? It's prickly territory, and I sure wouldn't want to be the one to tell a parent that their infant daughter is responsible for her terminal illness. According to Nithyananda and his evangelical counterparts, all of our malignant misfortunes are manifestations of our spiritual shortcomings, and it's our responsibility to change those things which burden our lives. [Upload audio of fingers on chalkboard]. Please note that I'm not throwing Nithya overboard for these rank observations; I simply do my Pavlovian squirm and move on. But duly noted the fact that Christian evangelicals do not have a corner on the market when it comes to blanket statements of responsibility, guilt, and redemption.

At the end of the evening there was a long, blindfolded meditation. (I cynically noted that its length was proportionate to the number of books sold. We'd been told earlier in the day that any books purchased should be left on a back table, where they 'd be signed by Nithya, and could be picked up at the end of the day. Which, I noted, meant that he'd have to sign them at a time when we were engrossed in another activity. After all, it's not very comely to see one's beloved guru sweating in the corner like a trained chimp, dashing off his coveted autograph in well over a hundred books. I wasn't sure how they'd pull this off, but my guess was that it would take place during the final meditation session. I was correct. I did some quick math when I should've been meditating, and came up with a fifty minute meditation. It was forty-seven minutes). When the meditation was complete (and the books signed), we were instructed to remove our blindfolds, open our eyes, and receive our darshan. This was the climax of the evening, when the Master physically touches his disciples and passes his energy on to them (known in Sanskrit as shaktipat). He also asks us to express our deepest desire, and, if the testimonials were correct, that desire would be fulfilled. Guaranteed. Now, I don't know what other people asked for, but I knew what I wanted. No, not a Red Ryder carbine-action 200-shot range model air rifle with a compass in the stock; I wanted enlightenment. And if it's true that physical contact with an enlightened Master can activate awakening, then I wasn't about to miss the rare opportunity. So I stood in the long line with everyone else and awaited my darshan, making a great effort to whitewash my cynicism, which clings to me like stains to a tub. Did he smell my cynicism when I asked for enlightenment? Did its foul odor taint my request? Could he tell that I wasn't a devotee, and that he'd never see my mug again? Hard to tell, but he was kind, hugged me, assured me that "it" would happen, and I was sent on my merry, unenlightened way.

This morning I feel silly and disappointed. Actually, I feel silly because I'm disappointed. Did I really hope to arrive back here in Bushwick in the form of Pure Consciousness? Apparently so. Looks like I'd better get that rent check in the mail. But hey - for the record, I just want to say that Nithyananda's great. I like him. I don't doubt that he's an enlightened, Self-realized Master, whatever that is. He's a powerful guru-dude, and except for a few points where we disagree, I have respect for him and his comrades. I'm honored to have been in his Presence (note the capital "P"), and humbled to have been touched by a guru. But even more touching, and deeply humbling as well, is the fact that two great people, friends for whom I have profound respect and gratitude, wanted to share this experience with me and invited me as their guest. Makes my heart all gooey just to think of it, and if my floating blob of love ever decides to come in for a landing, it will be on the two of them.

Thus endeth this long-ass monologue of Madge-ananda, the unenlightened and guru-less devotee from the wilds of Bushwick. In the next few days I'll be posting some excerpts from Nithyananda's teachings, just to show how profound they are, and to counterbalance the cynicism that undoubtedly oozes from the present post. Happy November, y'all.

Gurus, Saints, & Cynics

This Halloween I'm going to be sitting with Nithyananda. He's an enlightened master from India, and apparently has quite a large following. Some friends are coming from out of town to an all-day retreat in Queens, and have invited me to join them. This will be my very first guru sighting, so I'm all aflutter, and not quite sure what to expect.

Actually, this will be my second guru sighting. I stood in a very long line in Manhattan a few years back to see Amma, the hugging saint. The auditorium was completely packed with her devotees, and the entire production was hyper-organized, right down to the omnipresent boxes of Kleenex. I'd heard so much about the power of her hugs that I wanted to experience one myself, so I took a number and awaited my turn. She was perched in pink on an elevated stage amidst numerous screens and veils, and as I inched closer, my heart raced in anticipation of the coveted power hug. It started to feel like that scene in "A Christmas Story", when Ralphie's waiting in line to tell Santa what he wants for Christmas. The closer he gets to Santa, the thinner the kindness, and the more he's pushed around by Santa's helpers, who don't even pretend to be polite. That's how it was as I approached the throne of the great saint. One elf grabbed my shoulder, another yanked an arm, my knees were deftly bent, and I was pushed down toward Amma's lap as her great arm swooped up and around my neck, pulling me toward her in an impressive half nelson. I was then jerked from her grip, straightened, turned by numerous hands and swept along toward stage right, where something soft was poked into one palm, and a piece of candy in the other.

I regret to report that I felt no surge of energy, no wave of divine love; if anything, I was acutely embarrassed that my curiosity propelled me to be a momentary player in such a bizarre spectacle. But during the whole antiseptic procedure, which lasted all of a minute, I managed to get a closer look at Amma. It happened as I was peeled from her hug: I was inches from her face and I looked into her eyes, and what I saw there haunts me to this day. Her face was smiling, but her eyes were not. I saw in them pain, deep and unmistakable. It broke my heart and I so wanted to reach down and give her a hug, but clearly that wasn't about to happen, not if her efficient elves had anything to say about it. When I finally got back to my seat and opened my hand, there in my palm sat a crushed rose petal, which made me weep for Amma, the hugging saint.

But hey, what do I know, huh? She may be the happiest saint that ever walked the planet, and I the sorriest cynic. So I sincerely apologize if I've offended any of her devotees, and I should add here that she has my deep respect for the truly amazing work that she does in impoverished parts of the world. I just can't hear her name now without remembering those expressionless eyes, and wondering who the woman is, behind the smiling mask and pink veils.

So yeah, you might say I'm a bit of a cynic when it comes to this guru/saint stuff. I'm not against any of it per se, but I'm of the not-so-humble opinion that "the guru is in you", as the great spiritual teacher Yogani* so beautifully expresses it. Blind loyalty to a guru leads to cult-like behavior, and if a guru's teachings conflict with one's deep intuition, then it's the guru who should be suspect. As a friend nicely put it, I'm neither running to nor from Nithyananda; I'm simply keeping an open mind when I go to see him, and who knows? Maybe this is what I need to finally break through the layers of delusion and fully penetrate the ego. I've heard that Nithyananda embodies a great energy, and many lives have been transformed from receiving his darshan, or transmission of energy. While I'm not counting on ripping into pure consciousness and attaining Self-awareness, I've held off on a few purchases, just in case. Like, I really need a new hair dryer, since mine smells like a toaster every time I use it. I also need a haircut, thanks to the busted hair fryer, and I've been meaning to renew my subscription to the New Yorker ever since it ran out this summer. But I think I'll wait and see how things go on Saturday, because if Consciousness should use this occasion to burst through and shine forth, I'll no longer have use for such vanities.

Have a radiant Halloween.

* Yogani's teachings have been profound influence in my spiritual growth. A veritable encyclopedia of information regarding meditation, tantra, kundalini, and much more. www.advancedyogapractices.com

Above: A scene from "A Christmas Story", when Santa and his evil elves scare the bejeezus out of Ralphie.

My Date with a God

Dude. Check this guy out. Total stud muffin, right? Can you guess who he is? No, silly, he's not my new match from eHarmony. I'm framing him for a client, and as soon as he pulled it out of the folder I knew who this guy was. Give up? I'll give you a hint: he has destructive behavioral tendencies. You might say he's a pretty straightforward kinda guy, not into playing head games, and tends to get right to the point. If you ignore him, he goes for the jugular. A little lacking in social skills, and bad table etiquette (note the blood around the mouth). Okay, okay, I'll tell you: he's my man Bhairava.

Yup, that's right. Bhairava, the destructive and wrathful aspect of Shiva. Bhairava, the ego-buster. Bhairava, who is the subject of a recent text drawing (Vijnana Bhairava Tantra, which I completed over the summer). Bhairava, who apparently has a big crush on me because he keeps making these unexpected visits and scaring the crap out of my ego. Bhairava, the God of tough love. He maintains a zero tolerance policy toward my sweet little ego, and ruthlessly shreds it to pulp on an ongoing basis.

The piece is framed and leaning against my wall, waiting to be picked up. I notice that my ego's been acting strange with Bhairava around, sulking around with its tail between its legs and giving the painting a mighty wide berth. I'm used to my ego struttin' around like a cowboy in heat, so it's sorta nice to see it cower and quake for a change. It tried to get me to turn Bhairava so that he faces the wall, but I refused. Nope, sorry, my dear ego; you've finally met your match, and it looks like he's not going away, so you might as well get used to him.

This is an unusual image; I've never seen a life-size portrait of Bhairava. The bulging eyes, dark skin, and skull caps identify him. Bhairava can see in every direction at once, and his gaze penetrates the dense, dark energy of egoic desire. Hence his recurring presence in my life. Well, I've been wanting to meet an interesting guy, so I guess I found him. That third eye is going to take some getting used to, and I'm not sure about those oversized gold hoops, but I've had to put up with worse. I just hope he doesn't snore.

Vanity, Vanity

Vanity of vanities, saieth the Preacher; Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.
- Ecclesiastes 1:2

I've been experiencing the truth in these words of late; indeed, all appears to be vanity. I feel like an empty shell: a hollowed-out husk of the female human species, with scattered attempts at oral and visual hygiene. (Fresh breath, nice hair, clean underwear). I figure just because I'm feeling existentially bankrupt, that's no reason to make the people around me suffer. I do what I can, and leave the rest at the altar of good intentions.

Why am I feeling so bereft? Jeez, I don't know, but it's like no one's home. The perky gal who once boarded here has departed, the chambers have been vacated, and the corridors echo with an unsettling silence. I feel like a gutted blob of flesh, with an assortment of bones to prop it up for various occasions. "Going through the motions" is how I'd best describe my days, and I seem to do it well, as there have been no comments on my odd behavior. Which is a good thing, as I'd have a hard time explaining the source of my self-resignation.

As a kid I loved playing with my Barbies. Omg, give me a Barbie, a Ken, and a Skipper and I was lost in untold reveries. My flights of imagination kept me entertained for the better part of my preteen years, as I downloaded my adolescent dramas and fantasies into these flesh-colored lumps of plastic with cinched waists and movable parts. But like all teenage girls, I eventually got bored with it. The stories became transparent, real life started to get more interesting, and the Barbie-based fantasies were jettisoned.

That's how I feel now, looking at the patent transparency of my ego-centered life. The things that once fanned the flames of my passion have become vain enterprises. Creativity, ideas about art, spirituality, meditation - all of it feels utterly flat. Even the idea of "me" is a yawner. I'm tired of it. I don't want to defend an "I" anymore. I've always been so fully invested in this absurd notion of an "I", and it now feels as silly as the tooth fairy. At least she pays cash. What have I ever gotten from this ephemeral "I"? Has my clinging to it brought me any lasting benefits? A quick glance at my history reveals that my personal 'achievements' have been thinly veiled ego boosts, while any true advancements have been decidedly out of "my" control. It's as though the evolution and progress of Madge has happened in spite of, rather than as a result of, her earnest efforts. Hmmm ... one would almost think that it might be better to get her out of the way, if one was introspective.

But back to "me". Rather, back to the echo chamber that used to be "me". What's a working stiff to do? Actually, I think the fact that I'm working so much has something to do with all of this. This forty hour work week has worn me down to a nub. I have no defenses. Worse, I have no discernible need for such. I'm a sitting duck for anyone who'd care to take a shot, and fortunately for me, the line is short. I have no enemies that I know of, and am too wasted to carry a grudge. So maybe all of this is a good thing. Maybe in order to come to the end of "me", I had to exhaust all cherished notions of myself, and in so doing realize that there's no one to defend. What a concept! Nothing to defend, no one to bolster, nothing to fortify.

No one to defend.
Nothing to gain.
All is empty; all is vanity.


Above: Vanity: Ecclesiastes, Chapters 1-2, from the Bhagavad Gita, Chapter 1. This is a work in progress; the Barbie mug was added for my amusement, and will be removed upon completion. She's kind of cute though, you have to admit.

The Sin of Evangelical Christianity

I just watched 'Jesus Camp', a chilling documentary about evangelical Christianity and its considerable persuasion in American politics. I started watching it last night, and got so upset that I had to turn it off, so I finished watching it tonight. Having participated in the evangelical scene for many years, it affects me deeply to witness the scare tactics that are used "in the name of the Lord". It's utterly heartbreaking to see these little kids bawling their eyes out, lifting their tiny arms unto heaven and begging Jesus to forgive them for their sins. What could a kid that age possibly have to confess? They're too young to have engaged in lewd conduct; too innocent to have done much more than stolen a cookie. Armed robbery, perhaps? Adultery? I mean, what have the Christian leaders conjured up in the kids' minds to make them weep with such grief and repentance?

Herein lies the crux of religion: manipulation through self-styled guilt. The evangelists have an easy job - all they need to do is plant the seeds of guilt by suggesting that the believer has an undisclosed sin that's separating them from God, and BOOM! the sin manifests in the believer's mind. Ah, sweet suffering. The mind has infinite capacity for self-sabotage, and it is upon this solid rock that the empires of religion have been built, over and over again. Not just Christianity, in all its myriad flavors of guilt and redemption, but every religion ever invented. Guilt without beginning and end; guilt simply for the fact that you were born. That cookie you stole from your bunkmate at Jesus Camp? Eternal hell and damnation, kid. Imagine telling this to a bunch of kids on summer vacation! Imagine watching them quake with fear until the tears stream down their faces, and then fall to their knees in repentance! And for what?? A stolen chocolate chip cookie? A frog stuffed down some girl's shirt? This is the stuff that summer camp is made of, you nimwits! Let kids be kids - the guilt will catch up with them soon enough.

When I was into the evangelical Christian scene in Southern California, I attended a series of churches, including Calvary Chapel Costa Mesa of the Chuck Smith fame. Massive church, with a full auditorium for three services each Sunday morning, a Bible study every Sunday night, and an intimate prayer group during the week. And this was all free will, folks. I was in my twenties, so there was no parental persuasion involved. I walked the walk, talked the talk, and my life was fully dedicated to Jesus. If I had difficult stuff going on in my life, it was assumed that my suffering was the result of some sin lurking below the radar ( or "pray-dar"); I was outside of God's will. Confess the sin, get right with God, and the suffering would end. As I write these words I feel myself heating up with indignation. Imagine the nerve to speak for God! And then there was the "name it and claim it" pastors like Robert Schuller of Crystal Cathedral, who taught that God wants to bless us with perfect health and shower us with material wealth. If you're seriously ill, or if you can't seem to manifest that shiny black Porsche, it's your own damn fault, and you'd better get right with God. Pure blasphemy! Not a trace of Jesus' message to be found in this spin of the New Testament.

In addition to watching 'Jesus Camp', I'm reading 'Leaving Fundamentalism', a collection of essays edited by a good friend of mine, Gary Dann. He and I were friends during this period of my life, and it was he who first introduced me to the notion that fundamental Christianity is based in fear and ignorance. Gary and I met at Trinity Law School in Southern California, where he was studying in earnest, while I worked in the library and took a few night classes in Christian apologetics. He has long since left fundamentalism, but remains a Christian*. I on the other hand have abandoned Christianity altogether, as it no longer has any relevance or credibility in my life. See, the ironic thing about fundamentalism is that it undermines itself by painting Christianity in broad strokes: either you accept Jesus as your Lord and Savior, or you're going to hell. I don't accept that Jesus is the only path to God, and furthermore find the notion of hell to be completely preposterous, therefore by their own rules, hell is exactly where I'm bound. Since I have but two options, namely, black or white, I was obliged (and eager) to discard the whole freakin', freakish thing. The evangelicals spuriously adopt Jesus' teaching in Matthew 12:30, which states that "if you're not with me, you're against me", and use it to silence those who would otherwise speak out against their self-serving interpretations of holy scripture. I am not in any way against Christians, but I vehemently oppose the notion that theirs is the exclusive path to God.

Far from living a life of misery in my separation from Christ, I am free of the twisted mind games that tortured my soul for the first thirty years of my life. The Spirit that lives in me was set free the moment I broke free from the tethers of Christianity, and has since remained anonymous, defying description of any sort. I experience it as a subtle energy, which is variously called Shakti, Holy Spirit, chi, kundalini, and so on. This energy has a Presence that looms large in my consciousness, showing up in my creative work as a serpentine line that winds and loops around the canvas. I've steered clear of any organized spiritual groups, as I have an aversion to the definitions that they tend to attach to God and Spirit. But recently I've found my path in advaita, or non-duality, and have discovered that I Am That which I seek. Imagine a spirituality where you're not presumed guilty! Where your inherent divine nature is a given, and where it is your birthright to awaken into your true identity! (Pass the Kleenex, please).

Why am I taking to the pulpit with this seething diatribe? I'm just so riled up after watching 'Jesus Camp', and angry that I've been silent about the fact that the evangelicals have messed up countless lives with their narrow interpretations of the Bible. Maybe it's time for me to speak my mind and weather the consequences. Spiritual manipulation is a wretched thing, and if I believed in hell, then there would surely be a designated place therein where the Bible thumping evangelists, who claim to be the mouthpiece for God, would be toasting their holy marshmallows for all of eternity.

Do I hear amen?

Above: A gripping scene from 'Jesus Camp'.

* G. Elijah Dann received his PhD in philosophy from the University of Waterloo and the doctorat en theologie from the Universite de Strasbourg. He is currently Visiting Research Fellow for the Centre for Studies in Religion and Culture at the University of Victoria.