I belong to a religion that has no dogma, no canon, and no religious authorities. I can not tell you its name, but I can describe it.
I was born into a family that had very little in the way of religious experience. My mother was born a Jew, but converted to Episcopalianism because, as she said, “that’s where all her friends were on Sunday.” Her mother was happy, because she was a big believer in assimilation, and she dearly wanted to be able to join the yacht club (which kept out Jews at the time).
My father’s parents were another story. They belonged to a Northern Baptist church, and they were founding members of the congregation. Later on, when I asked my father about it, he said he didn’t think his father was all that into religion, but his mother sure was.
When we would visit them on the weekends, we’d (me and my siblings) have to go to church, which we all found to be a boring and meaningless experience. At some point, my grandparents stopped insisting on it. It was wonderful to have a whole day to play in!
Only once did we try, as a family, to find religion. This happened after the girl next door (I think she and I were 8 at the time), asked what religion we were. When told we didn’t do anything, she was shocked, and told us we should go to church. We went to ask our parents why we didn’t go to church, and they said that we should try it out. I think we went three times, at most, and let it be, after that.
At an early age, I found that religious stories seemed very unlikely, and the notion of a god didn’t make much sense. So, when our assignment in English class was to write a paper about existentialism, I wrote the paper, and concluded that I was an atheist. We were in England at the time, and were attending a school where we had to go to a Church of England religious service every morning. That’s what happens in a country with a state-sponsored religion.
I was very proud that, as an American, I earned the highest mark in the class for that paper. Of course, the master wrote in his comments that he thought I was too young to make such a decision. I haven’t looked back, since.
However, not too long after that, while I was still in high school, I started gaining an interest in mysticism. I wanted to have these out-of-body experiences, and the sense of becoming “one with the universe,” and other experiences of that ilk.
I read Carlos Castaneda and Herman Hesse and “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.” I experimented with mushrooms (but not LSD). However, when I did get what I wanted, it didn’t come from any of that. It came from a place I never expected—something I had been enjoying all my life, but had no clue of its power.
I’m a musician—trumpet, flugelhorn, djembe, recorder, dijeridu, and a few more (but not the shawm), and I love dance. What I found was a workshop that could reliably deliver this numinous experience, and there was no bullshit attached to it. No claims about a god. No teachings. It was mystical experience, pure and simple.
And it’s amazing how simple it is. The key: listen to each other. Pay attention. There is no need to hog the center of attention. If you do that, you’ll find the center is elsewhere and you are lost. Give, give, give. If you give space to others, you will get all the space you need. If you try to take space for yourself, there is no space for anyone.
I started dancing, and danced for years. I had some amazing experiences that were better than any hallucination. I was transported around the world, maybe even the universe, all while staying physically on one dance floor.
After a car accident, which hurt my back, I couldn’t dance. I started playing with the band, and when I got healthy enough to dance, I stayed with the band, anyway. The music is all improvisational. The only thing we have to go on is the structure the leader is giving to the dancers. The dancers interpret the instructions however they want, influenced by the music. The musicians see the dancers move, and we pick up what they are “saying” as if it were a score.
We build a movement vocabulary for the dancers throughout the first half of the workshop. Or rather, they build it for themselves. It’s always different. Every week, different. Once the movement vocabulary has been established, we move into increasingly complex structures that usually culminate with the most amazing choreography you’ve ever seen. It’s stunning, and it feels so complete, because at the time it happens, everyone in the room it totally in tune with everyone else. We really are “one.”
Of course, that kind of intensity can’t last, and these moments usually last between five and ten minutes. Afterwords, we have a final structure that allows people to cool down from that intensity, and prepares them for reentry into the real world.
That’s my religion! It is numinous and real at the same time. It brings people together literally, metaphorically, and spiritually. It teaches us skills that are useful in the real world—skills with respect to interacting with people, and improvisation. Skills that can be used in business, on the playground, in Congress…. even fluther!
Unfortunately, it only exists in one city on the earth, and I can’t tell you where it happens or what its name is. If you find it on your own, consider yourself lucky.