It’s mid-July 2017, 2am, and 30 degrees Fahrenheit, outside the freezing cold, unheated apartment that I’ve rented. At 11,000+ feet, my stomach churns and my head throbs with altitude sickness, as a neighbor’s dog barks incessantly outside my window, intent on keeping me awake all night, even if I could have slept. I’m in the Andean mountains, in Cusco, Peru, half wondering what the heck I’m actually doing here. The other half of me knows, and knows well, why I’m here: I’m here to dive deeper into the shamanic spiritual teachings of Peru, and this is my next stop in that journey.
To say that I’m an ‘eclectic spiritual thinker’ would only scratch the surface of who I am. I was born and raised in a traditional Hindu household, in a Jewish neighborhood in the city of Pittsburgh, within the overall Christian backdrop of the United States. Learning about and successfully navigating all of that, alone, might result in an eclectic and/or syncretic spiritual worldview. Yet, my story is even more complex. As a teen, I fell in love with Buddhism, and read anything and everything that I could about it. Subsequently, in my early 20’s, I studied Arabic and Islam, and had the opportunity to live and work in the Middle East as a diplomat. As a late 20-something, I then stumbled across Unitarian Universalism, and found it so meaningful that I have, at present, been serving the UU faith as an ordained minister for nearly twenty years.
As my journey within Unitarian Universalism took root, my ongoing growth was shaped by a variety of spiritual teachers and mentors, including a shaman in the Lakota tradition and a healer who was a student of the Toltec elder Don Miguel Ruiz. In addition, co-synchronous with my time in Peru exploring shamanic teachings and practices, I was serving a joint Unitarian Universalist (UU) and United Church of Christ (UCC) congregation – one in which Judeo-Christian scripture was read on most Sundays. While the word ‘eclectic’ accurately describes my spiritual journey, it doesn’t by itself capture the depth of meaning that these varied spiritual experiences have held for me.
To some, the spiritual tapestry of my life journey can be confusing. One of my spiritual teachers has lovingly hassled me for years, wondering why I don’t just ‘commit’ to the path in which he teaches and practices. Clearly, I’ve found the path that he is on meaningful enough that I return to him, time and again, for counsel, feedback, and support. Why not commit and go deeper – much deeper – into that one path, and just that path? This question has typically been followed by a mini-homily enthusiastically bringing alive what spiritual commitment has looked and felt like to him, and how he doggedly pursued every opportunity to go deeper down his one specific path. This line of conversation has, for years, evoked shame in me, because I wasn’t really sure why I couldn’t ‘commit’ to this one particular path in the way that he wanted me to. Surely, there must be some hesitation, uncertainty, or fear of commitment deep inside me that was keeping me from doing what someone who I profoundly trusted was repeatedly urging me to do. The self-judgment that would arise in response to these conversations would always be far worse than the episodic nagging I had to endure. It did not occur to me until years later that the answer might simply be that such a path, of singular depth, is not mine.
A crucial turning point for me was encountering a spiritual talk given by Elizabeth Gilbert (author of Eat Pray Love), entitled “Flight of the Hummingbird: The Curiosity Driven Life,” originally delivered as part of Oprah Winfrey’s Super Soul Sessions. In this talk, Gilbert describes her passion for writing, and how, at an earlier stage in her life, she had encouraged an audience of listeners to find their individual passion and then run deep with it, just as she had. Gilbert subsequently received a letter from one of the attendees, who shared with her how demoralizing her words had been. This attendee said that if she had a specific passion to run with that she’d already be doing just that, but such wasn’t her experience of life. Her experience of life was something – dare I say – more ‘eclectic.’ She had many different interests that had at various points in time captured her attention. This letter pushed Gilbert to reflect on how some people might experience and learn about life in ways that are quite different from her own. What she came to realize, she says, is that some human beings are like ‘jackhammers’ who discover what their passion is and then pound away enthusiastically, driving deeper and deeper into that one thing. This was her experience with writing. There are other people, she realized, who experience life and learn in a very different way, and she dubbed these folks ‘hummingbirds.’ Unlike jackhammers, hummingbirds are not driven by a singular passion but instead by curiosity. Hummingbirds fly fast and energetically, visiting many places in search of that which will nourish and sustain. In living this way, hummingbirds are, Gilbert says, ‘cross-fertilizers,’ helping bring disparate ideas, experiences, and people together in new and deeper ways. Both the jackhammer and the hummingbird bring value and meaning to the human experience.
Yet, when it comes to our spiritual lives, there is an obvious danger with this particular path – the path of the hummingbird. One can flit and fly about so rapidly that the possibility of spiritual depth and authenticity can be lost. Even as I identify with Gilbert’s hummingbird metaphor, I have had to stifle and manage, over decades, my internal reactions towards the way in which others, at times, superficially encounter Hinduism, Buddhism, and other religious traditions. What does it mean when someone is wearing a t-shirt with the image of a Hindu god on it – something that, out of respect, some observant Hindus might not do? What does it mean when I’m attending a church service and a Tibetan Buddhist singing bowl, a sacred object used for the purposes of individual and communal meditation, is used as a gong to silence attendees on a Sunday morning? What does it mean when someone purchases and puts up a Native American dream catcher, as a novelty or work of art, without any ongoing spiritual relationship to the Native American traditions? Even as I, myself, am some version of ‘eclectic,’ situations like these have haunted me, pushing me to reflect deeply on questions of privilege: who has the privilege to ‘dabble’ in the spiritual traditions of others and from where does that privilege arise? The reality is that any of us might, at times, engage superficially with the religious symbols, traditions, and stories of others. If a hummingbird flits from one experience to the next, how do I, and/or others like me, know whether we are relating to a spiritual tradition from a space of authenticity or superficiality?
In my hummingbird-style life, I have spent years learning about and personally engaging in the spiritual practices of Hinduism, Buddhism, Christianity, and shamanic, indigenous spiritualities. While my personal spiritual focus has not been singular, neither has it been dabbling. Indeed, the intellectual study of religions has always been a part of my spiritual exploration, however, my path has never been confined to just that. There is a difference between being a scholar of a religion and being a practitioner of it; a practitioner seeks to learn from and live inside a spiritual tradition. To that end, I have engaged in dialogue and accountable relationship with spiritual leaders and teachers who have tutored and guided me on the various spiritual paths that I have explored and continue exploring. My learning and practice has not been in isolation – an accountability of one – but rather in community with others who are inside the traditions that I am exploring. In doing so, I have had to navigate and move beyond what can be, at times, a sense of individualistic privilege and intellectual self-sufficiency within Unitarian Universalism: an entitlement to learning about the sacred heritage, teachings, and practices of others – apart from those who are inside those traditions – taking from those traditions, borrowing from them, whatever one wants. I don’t unilaterally claim aspects of another’s religion, or the mantle of it, without ongoing accountable, communal relationship with those who are living within that tradition.
One example of this, in my life, has been my evolving relationship with Christianity. Despite growing up in a nation in which Christianity is the dominant religion – woven finely into the U.S.’ social and cultural context – it was only in seminary, at Harvard Divinity School, that I had the opportunity to study the Jewish and Christian scriptures. I did so, however, very much convinced that my future spiritual path would remain embedded in Eastern spiritualities and humanism. Some years after seminary, however, as my husband and I were traveling in Italy and we were in the process of waiting for what would become the adoption of our son, I found myself drawn over and over again to the iconography and stories of the mother Mary. I found myself entering into deep and profound prayer at her altars, sinking to my knees, asking one of the most important mothers in religious history to see my heart and know how deeply I was holding the prayer for parenthood. I surprised myself. This all just spontaneously happened and, in a way, this experience began opening my heart to the Christian tradition – the religion of India’s colonizers and oppressors – in a way that I would never, ever have imagined.
This bourgeoning openness, some years later, led me to feel comfortable in applying to be the senior minister of the congregation that I was serving in 2017. This congregation had a dual Unitarian Universalist (UU) and United Church of Christ (UCC) heritage, and while, on one hand, that diversity of faith was exciting, it was also an intimidating reality for someone who was not raised in the Christian faith. As I was offered and stepped into this call, I found myself once again experiencing Christianity in new and exciting ways. My congregation contained many knowledgeable and devout liberal Christians, and I intentionally pursued dialogue with many of them, learning in the process what progressive Christianity means to them. I also found myself in ongoing relationship with other clergy who were serving joint UU and UCC congregations, exploring with them what it might mean and look like to be fully living and honoring both a pluralistic and a Christian faith tradition. This deepening led me to pursue ministerial recognition within the United Church of Christ – a big deal for me, because throughout that process I had to authentically represent how my ministry honored the faith and beliefs of the UCC. Some time after being granted standing in the UCC, I decided to undergo adult baptism, honoring the deep symbolism of this ritual and my love of Jesus’ ethical teachings. I spent almost a year reflecting on and discussing the possibility of adult baptism with close friends and other ministers before undertaking it; it was not something I entered into lightly. As these events illustrate, over time my relationship with Christianity developed and deepened, grounded in both community and accountability.
Yet, Christianity is one piece of my eclectic and syncretic spiritual journey, it is not the only piece. Is it not possible that I could be having an authentic spiritual encounter with Christianity (or any other tradition) without it actually leading me anywhere meaningful..? How do I know whether an authentic encounter is actually moving me towards spiritual depth, ‘cross-fertilization’ (as Gilbert puts it), and/or new possibilities and growth? The test of this, for me, is whether or not my spiritual questions are evolving alongside the experiences that I am having. If I’m stuck asking the same spiritual questions in the same way over many years, then clearly eclecticism might not be getting me anywhere. However, such has never been my experience. Quite the opposite, as the poet Robert Frost famously describes it, ‘way has led on to way.’
My ability to spiritually connect with the mother Mary didn’t come out of nowhere. Behind it was a long personal history of my relationship to the divine feminine within Hinduism, the religion that I was born into. Saraswati, Hindu goddess of music, art, and speech, has been an important figure to me for decades as a diplomat, teacher, and minister – professions deeply connected to the artistry of the word. Kali, the Hindu goddess of fierce protection and courageous action, also embodies qualities that I have sought to draw on in my ministry. These goddesses have been foci for meditation and prayer, and my relationship with them has been a channel through which I express some basic longings: the desire to be a good human being, to be of service to others, and to do what is right. This pre-existing grounding in the Hindu divine feminine made it possible for me to develop a spiritual relationship with Mary as the longing for parenthood became a major focus in my life. As I evolved, my relationship with the divine/sacred feminine also evolved.
My subsequent experiences with Peruvian shamanism jumpstarted new depths of relationship with the sacred feminine. Being in relationship with Pachamama, the indigenous Peruvian mother-of-all-that-is, my spiritual questions grew both broader and more profound: how do I more fully recognize every human being as my spiritual sibling and all that exists as my living kin? As my relationship with the divine feminine has evolved and deepened, so have the spiritual questions that I am working with. Like the hummingbird, I have not remained static: my spiritual experiences have been building, ever more deeply, on one another.
At the end of my two-week sojourn in Peru, I’ve grown used to the freezing, nighttime mid-July temperatures, and my initial experiences of altitude sickness have faded away. I’ve adapted, as have the spiritual questions that brought me here. I didn’t really know what to expect – I just trusted that learning and growth would happen and that the right experiences would find me. After all, hummingbirds don’t leave their nest with a GPS in hand. They set out knowing – trusting – that there is vital nourishment out there, somewhere, waiting to be found. Such has it always been with me. May it also be so for you, my sibling hummingbirds.
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