Embodying Soul: A Return to Wholeness
Section 3: Chapter 20—Vasoconstriction
Dear reader: The more I distance I get from the stories in this book, and the book itself, the more I see my entire life as a process of repeated contraction and expansion. An inhale followed by an exhale. A reaching outward for knowledge, a turning back inward.
This one, with the title “Vasoconstriction”, is definitely about a time of contraction, and seeking knowledge outside of myself—in the form of religion, and in the person of my husband.
Chapter 20: Vasoconstriction
At this point in my life, I began to think about religion as a shell game, imagining a magician, draped in a black cape, placing a single pea under one of three shells, then shuffling them and asking us to choose the shell with the pea underneath. We select a shell with no certainty that a pea will be under it. If the shells are religions, the pea is the “right” religion, and God is the magician, how is it possible to be certain about any choice of religion? I feared for my soul.
Since leaving Fargo, I’d avoided church and God except for my nightly prayer, hoping that if I just got small and quiet enough perhaps I could sneak into heaven through the eye of the needle on a technicality. But now I began to focus on my religious beliefs as a natural consequence of guilt, boredom, and disillusionment. Todd and I were living in sin, to both our parents’ consternation. Neither of us had jobs to keep us busy, and we were broke. And many of my beliefs about how to be successful in life — work hard, tell the truth, trust authority figures — had shattered. I now had many bottled-up questions about God and assumed Todd could handle these with ease.
Todd’s religious upbringing had been the antithesis of mine. He had gone through catechism in the Catholic Church, been confirmed in the Lutheran Church, and graduated from a Christian high school. So I saw him as a knowledgeable religious insider whom I could trust.
On a Sunday afternoon at our favorite brewery, two beers in and a third on its way, I decided this was as good a time as any to get answers to my questions.
“Does God really know our thoughts?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied.
“Is it a sin if you just think something?” I inquired.
“Yes,” he confirmed.
“Is there no other way into the Kingdom of Heaven than through Jesus?” I asked.
“No,” he answered.
“What happens to people in remote areas of the world who never hear of Christianity or Jesus or have their own faith? Will they go to hell?” I inquired.
“Yes,” he replied. “That’s what missionaries are for, though, to convert them.”
I tried to digest this information, but questions kept piling up. What if we are the ones who are wrong? I thought. What if they are saying similar things about us? Could all of human existence and the afterlife in eternity really just boil down to the luck of the draw of where you are born, what ultimately enriches your life — which shell you choose?
I was seeking hope and security, but instead I grew increasingly agitated by his arrogance and confidence as more and more questions arose within me. It wasn’t fair. Why was he deserving of security and not me? So I kept asking.
Finally — maybe it was the beer, maybe it was the fact that his unflappability had never been authentic — he cracked and, in a tone that mixed frustration and relief, confessed, “Dammit, Keri, this is just what I’ve been taught.”
“But don’t you want to learn more?” I pressed further into this tiny window of vulnerability.
He sighed and replied, “Keri, I’ve had religion forced on me for so many years I don’t even want to think about it, much less talk about it.”
“But aren’t you scared?” I asked.
“No,” he assured me.
“Why not?” I pressed.
“I just believe like a child,” he said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
He expounded, “I believe in God with the innocence and trust of a child. Having faith means being submissive and meek before God, not challenging him and his every word.”
I stared, dumbfounded. Submissive and meek? If we “believed like a child,” wouldn’t we be exploring spirituality and God like a child with curiosity? I wondered.
I was not satisfied with our conversation, nor was Curiosa. But I didn’t know where to turn next. For the time being, I decided, it couldn’t hurt to try it Todd’s way. He seemed to have no sleepless nights tossing and turning over whether he’d already committed the unforgivable sin by mistake somehow, like I did.
“It’s about time you got on God’s good side, young lady. Just repeat after me, ‘No god but God. No way but One,’” Guilt agreed. “Obedience will prove your worthiness, and your life will be filled with blessings.”
“I don’t know about that,” I answered, as I watched Curiosa wane before my eyes.
I hoped that Christianity was, in fact, the right religion as I pointed to that shell.
***
Initially, at least, my new meek and submissive approach to life seemed to do the trick. Soon we both landed good-paying jobs with creative outlets and regular raises. A year later, having been legally married in a church in my hometown, we had plans to start a family. And we were sampling a few churches in Portland. I sat in their pews with a smile on my face, posing as a good, obedient, Christian woman — until one day at work when a co-worker and friend talked to me about Buddhism and I realized just how flimsy my posturing was.
Joe greeted me at my work cubicle. He was someone I admired. I loved listening to his easy laugh, the sweet way he talked about his wife, and his intelligence and wisdom, which I regularly tapped into. We chatted easily for several minutes, until the conversation veered dangerously outside the lines.
“Keri, do you know much about Buddhism?” he asked.
“No . . .” I replied, uneasily.
Everyone knew Joe was a Buddhist, but it didn’t come up often. “Tread carefully,” Fear warned.
“Buddhists are sinners,” Guilt reminded me. “Buddhism is the wrong shell.”
“Would you like to learn a little about it over lunch sometime?” Joe asked.
“Teamwork, y’all!” Fear said, rallying my emotions before rushing to release a stream of adrenaline through my veins. Shame slithered atop my shoulders.
Guilt played tapes that talked about the sin of questioning God. But Curiosa salivated, waiting for me to decide.
Back then I didn’t know the first thing about Buddhism, and I fully accepted that Christianity was a flawed system. There I was, at the doorway of my journey of spiritual discovery, several years before I actually embarked on it. But at this point in my life fear of the unknown proved stronger than the pull of my curiosity. Wearing Christianity like a loosened tie around my neck still seemed safer than taking it off.
“No, I don’t think so,” I whispered, tightening that tie up around my throat. “I am a Christian, and I believe like a child.”
“Oh, okay,” Joe said, raising his eyebrows for just a moment before shrugging and walking back to his cubicle.
My heart rate slowed down. My color returned to normal.
“Good work, team. That was a close one!” Fear said, giving congratulatory pats on the back. Guilt smirked at Curiosa, both knowing her influence was waning.
If there had been an on/off switch allowing me to put an end to my uncomfortable feelings and simply accept everything I was told as the truth, I wonder whether I would have flipped it. Certainly, the feeling of not belonging, of being an outsider and questioner, caused me pain, but we are not computers that come equipped with on/off switches. While we can temporarily suppress our curiosity, our imagination, and our questions, we cannot ignore them forever and expect to live an authentic and fulfilling life. It is, ultimately, our capacity for creativity, curiosity, and endless growth and expansion that makes human life challenging and wonderous.
After my encounter with Joe, though, my view of the shell game changed slightly. Knowing someone personally who chose a different shell, a human being with whom I laughed, shared lunch, and occasionally debated, got me wondering if there was not one pea but many, which later made me wonder whether there was no black-caped magician trying to trick us, only ourselves.
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