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It struck me recently that God speaks to me at His strongest when I am in fear, flight and fight. When every sense of my reptilian brain is shrieking at me, it is those moments when His hand presses on me and firmly orders, “Observe.”

Not to do anything. Simply to observe. To watch, listen and see what unfolds. Trouble is, when I’m in ‘limbic lunacy’ that’s the last thing I want to do. Instead I long to operate at warp speed to push through what confronts me, or download (mainline) every article, book, and research paper I possibly can to seduce my rational frontal-lobe into taking over. I don’t have any objections to discovering a few remaining band-aids on my soul. It’s just that, done my way, I’d rip ’em off and move on. God’s way is more gentle. Requires my patience.  

The SAP observed recently that my personality throws me into everything I do at a million miles an hour. He earns his SA stripes well, that pastor. As the Big T often reminds me, faith is not slam it down espresso.

No surprise then, that after my limbic lunacy around the SAP’s public proclaimation of an upcoming river baptism, I became sick. Temperature. Aches that pinned me to the bed. Eyeballs that refused to focus. Symptoms that made it very hard to operate at warp speed and read rational research.

So (possibly with a fair amount of eye-rolling at God) I observed. Watched, listened, stayed present. Prayed. Floated on the idea of river submersion. Faced up to the reality that, without it, I would always be able to say I was ‘Christian-ish.’ And the ‘-ish’ suffix would give me a huge amount of latitude. Wriggle-room.

Wriggle-room is seductive. Just enough to shimmy around those tight spots that pinch at me.

Which made me a coward. And, boy, that conclusion riled me. Well, f*&k that, God and Jesus. You want me to own this, do you? Well, let me just show you how I can step up and own this.

Ah. That’s the problem with a Lord who knows what’s in my heart before I unravel it. The steps He takes to guide me to an outcome are, well, smart-alecky. A clever prod at pride to switch off fight and flight.

Which means, in less than a week, I will be at the river. Getting Lipton’d.

It struck me the other day just how lucky I have been to have read runes, aligned chakras, meditated, theta-healed and visited psychics. I was certainly seeking something to put my faith in, but the biggest surprise has been how all my new age investigation prepared me perfectly for Jesus and the New Testament.

1) I was tired of it being all about me

I’ve blogged before about how exhausting new age ‘thought creates’ ended up being. I could repeat ‘I create with ease’ mantras until I was blue in the face, but it struck me as particularly hit and miss. Some days it would flow, other days ‘ease’ seemed as remote as the moon. I’d be stuck asking, ‘If God (Spirit/Universe) created us as such magnificent, perfect beings (for one thing New Age teaches, is we are all perfect) how come I’m not finding this a little easier?’ And then, just to confuse things, despite me being perfect just as I am, paying for another chakra clearing, or past-life regression, would help me be just that little bit more perfect.

I found aspiring to the new age ‘everything is awesome’ thought-creates vision tiring. Plus I’ve never been that good at naval-gazing for extended periods. I was sick of all this ‘self’ I was supposed to aspire to.

New Testament is fabulous because it’s not about me being anything other than flawed. How amazing. I get to happily hang out with all my failings and bless them. Jesus gets to be the sinless, perfect one. I get to be the lost soul who merely says, “Hey, here I am. I trust you to fix me up.” And He does. I’m still figuring out the nuts and bolts of the how (see justification and sanctification) but grace works in mysterious ways, I’ve decided. You just need to keep your eyes open for it. Which leads me to:

2) New age is all about signs. Which today makes my conversations with God & Jesus highly translatable

Read a pack of Angel cards, and one instruction tells you that if you spot a feather on the floor, that’s because your angels are nearby working their magic. Other New Age/ gnostic writings refer to three as a sacred number – so if you see/read/hear something three times, that’s God (Spirit/Universe) trying to get a message through. The SAP may only sneeze over spotting a feather, but there are plenty of other ‘God moments’ – as he calls them – that come through signs, dreams and repetition.

So new-age has prepared me for a very personable, relatable conversation with God and Jesus. I figure it’s meant to be personal or else that temple curtain wouldn’t have ripped during the crucifixion. The three of us go running each morning. I pay attention to what pops up after I’ve been praying for guidance. The answers come, without fail. The difference now, compared to my sign-seeking, new-age self, is both infinite and infinitesimal. Now I trust the answers, whilst before I wanted to, but my own self (doubt, ego) kept getting in the way.

3) Non-attachment helps with the right attachment

Prior to curing my Christian hangover, the closest I came to flow and true presence was on the yoga mat. I am lucky: I naturally do not tend towards a mind that is, as a monk once described to me, like ‘a mad monkey stung by a scorpion’. Yoga poses and striving towards non-attachment help keep that mad monkey sedated. Trouble is, we are born relational beings. We love, laugh, dance, dramatise, wound, weep and worry. A non-attached life gets a little devoid of colour. There’s a balance between non-attached emptiness, living in glorious Technicolour and not allowing yourself to be buffeted by any small scorpion sting.

Non-attachment does help quieten the ego. Which gave me a fairly good place to start from when it came to meeting Jesus and God again. Becoming humble is a sign of inner strength, not – as we are quick to mistake in our self-led life – weakness. Bowing my head to accept, quite humbly, that I am less, makes me more. It takes some serious strength to pack away your self and admit, “I am so utterly flawed, but, but, YOU, God, think I’m worth saving – and there’s nothing I can do to make myself worthy of that.” Yoga’s path of non-attachment helped me move more easily towards the empty-handed humbleness required of a relationship with God.

4) State of Grace

Christianity is the only religion that offers the ‘reward’ upfront. Grace. No boxes to tick, diets to follow, or self to flagellate. Jesus did all the hard yards. Our job is to get on with living gracefully. Yoga gave me glimpses of what I thought was ‘grace’ – the silenced mad monkey, a shining peacefulness – until a forthright Christian woman asked what I meant by glimpses. “But you’ve got it already,” she reminded me. There are no mere glimpses of grace on this Christian journey. It surrounds and astounds — you just need to keep accepting it. And one thing yoga is especially good at teaching is acceptance.

5) Comparative ease

Finally, at the risk of offending UHT Christians (those who have been working at this for a long, longer life than I), new age prepared me well because, once I got past hangovers and stereotypes, Christianity is far less difficult than new age. A bit like my slogan around Apple, ‘it just works.’  No gimmicks. No need to book in for a past-life regression and multiple ongoing appointments. Just accept you are more flawed than you can imagine, more loved than you can imagine, and get on with the business of grace. Plug and Play.

So if it’s so easy, how come it’s got such a poor reputation?

I’m cognisant that church and religion has sent many fleeing to the new-age hills. Been there, done that, bought the crystals myself. While pastors, vicars, minsters and priests play a key role in creating positive church experiences, I’ve reached the conclusion that it’s even simpler than that.

Christians need to create positive Christian experiences. Put away the sin and grace barometers. Be flawed. Be real. Live and breathe grace every day, not just Sunday within some ‘hallowed walls’. God shoved me to a church that suited me, gave me a SAP on the end of a phone, and surrounded me with plenty of ‘real’ Christians. He knew I’d never have listened any other way. Amazing grace, indeed.

So the SAP nailed a proclamation to the church doors today. Known in the trade as The Great Commission, it read: Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you. And surely I will be with you always, to the very end of the age. (Matthew 28:19-20)

Actually, no. This is 21st Century evangelism after all. No nails on wood here (well, unless, you know, we’re talking about those nails). It was more of a digital nail. Driven through a Facebook Group Post. The gist being: ‘Summer’s here. Daylight saving. And if you fancy the other sort of saving, get yourself to the Wonie River because the water’s warm and I’m going to host an outdoor baptism in a few weeks. Bit of preaching. BBQ. Music. BYO swimmers and sunscreen.’ 

I have to admit, it stopped me in my tracks. All important, deadline-driven work fled my mind. I think I pushed back my wheelie-chair so fast from the desk I burnt rubber on the carpet. And not in the rush to grab my swimmers and towel.

I always loved hearing about John the Baptist at school. Struck me as a cool job, hanging out in the water all day. Eating honey and locusts not as much. Yet something about submersion always fascinated me as a child, and not through any push from my parents. My father is a non-swimmer and my mum hated getting her face wet, even in the shower. So perhaps it was John in RE who sparked my gaining a BSAC Dive Leader qualification?

Yet today? Adult immersion baptism is a long way from the vicar dribbling water on my head during my May 1972 Christening. It had little relevance to me then because I can’t remember a thing about it, or even what it meant. Adult immersion means a conscious-choice. Matthew records the words above as the final explicit instructions of Jesus before he ascended to heaven. It’s part of the SAP’s ultimate job description:

• Teach the gospel
• Introduce people to Jesus (make disciples)
• Baptise them
• Help and teach them to follow the words of Jesus

So, if I look at this a bit like a sales funnel (sorry, SAP, old habits), then I’ve been introduced, taught some, and helped. One more step needed. Into a river.

Honestly, my limbic brain has been in fight and flight overdrive all afternoon. Prayers for guidance consisted of mainly, “Really?” and then, “Really, really?” as my brain and heart stuttered. One kind friend gently told me that the water would still be warm in six months, and this was not a race. Very true. But having been chased by the hound of heaven, there is an air of impatience when God talks to me. A strong sense of: He chased me down long enough, He loves me dearly, but there’s work to be done so, please hurry up and get with the program.

God still has a massive sense of humour though. Only yesterday I mentioned that perhaps inspiration was a bit dry when it came to these blog posts. Be careful what you wish for, Phil!

As has been the pattern on this journey, the Big T delivered his usual brand of evangelism. After reading the Facebook post I thrust at him, his initial response was, ‘Holy F*#^, Phil’. Then he commented I was wearing socks.

Socks? I’m asking for supportive husband advice and he refers to my socks? Then the light dawns. When we first met, I wore Reeboks. It became our relationship metaphor for my fear of emotional dependence. Fight or flight. Run away fast. Survival.

“This is your decision alone,” he tells me. “But you’ve thrown out those Reeboks. And I know this step for you is a big as the one you took when you chose to marry me. I think you know you’ll do it, deep down. Doesn’t matter how much research you do to figure it out. But, you being you, will need some time for it to settle in your heart.”

My Mom always described Big T as the perfect man for me. Tonight he gave another example of how perfect.

So too did God. In the middle of limbic lunacy, I sat on the bed, grabbed my Bible, closed my eyes and repeated that eloquent prayer: “Really? Really really?” And flung open the pages.

To Acts 22:16. The first seven words leapt out as if printed superbold and underlined: And now what are you waiting for? Get up, be baptized and wash your sins away, calling on his name.

Of all the pages, of all the books in the world…. where are those runes and angel cards, eh?!

At least I could use one of the best songs by The Boss in illustration.

Chill, I’m not referring to a sexual hall pass (before the SAP chokes on his chai and starts spluttering about the sixth commandment). Following a discussion with hubby Big T about thinking lady’s crumpet (TLC) Kevin McCloud, it started me thinking about boundaries.

Faced with a Star Wars movie night with the kids, and the realisation that the TLC was in town, I did ponder on Facebook about whether I should stay home or go into the city to find Mr. McCloud. I used the hashtag ‘hall pass’. After some funny comments from my thinking lady friends, there was a short comment from the Big T: “No Hall Pass”

Which is the husbandly equivalent of ‘don’t push your luck.’ Whilst feminists may get upset about Biblical references to ‘obeying husbands’, I find great delight (as a somewhat feisty woman) in a husband who gives me immense amounts of lassitude but, on rare and specific occasions, says, “Nope. You, woman, are mine!” That’s when my ‘thinking lady crumpet’ side gets all overcome and fluttery and swoons in a far more ‘Georgette Heyer-type’ way.

Toddlers need boundaries. Me too. But I do have a hall pass. The best bit is, I’m married to him.

So, anyway, back to hall passes and the SAP. In regards to my getting rid of Christian and religious hangovers, he doesn’t give them out either.  Believe me, I tried. Certain teachings I have serious issues with. Tough. Deal. Grow. No hall passes.

Like the Kingdom of Heaven. 1 Corinthians 15: 51-53: But let me reveal to you a wonderful secret. We will not all die, but we will all be transformed! It will happen in a moment, in the blink of an eye, when the last trumpet is blown. For when the trumpet sounds, those who have died will be raised to live forever. And we who are living will also be transformed. For our dying bodies must be transformed into bodies that will never die; our mortal bodies must be transformed into immortal bodies.

Thing is, this immortal glory only comes if you’ve chosen Jesus and God. Bit of a slap on the face on this journey when your Mother has died and you know she certainly hadn’t made that choice whilst living.  So she is, umm, where? 4 letters. Rhymes with bell?

Really? In my utter teenage rebellion I may have told her to go there. Yet if you believe you choose the life you live (as I do), then my Mum chose a hard road. She may not have embraced the J-man, but, God, she did the best she could with the tools at her disposal. If you are never told the path you can choose, how can you be ‘punished’ for not choosing it? Where were those Christian evangelists as, alone and heart-broken, she reached for the Temazepam?

Keller writes that hell is the freely chosen, eternal skid row of the universe. If you read my earlier blogs, you will perhaps understand the eternal skid row my Mum had chosen in life. Denial. Marriage and relationship breakdowns that ‘came out the blue’ because confronting how you really felt (or feared) was not the ‘done thing’ back then. Today I wonder if my Mum had a SAP, would life have been different? I suspect so.

But you play the hands you are dealt. Whether she brought up a resilient child intentionally or as an accident of circumstance, who knows? But denial is how I see my Mum’s hell. And my mind warred with what she did not know. How could I dream of her resurrection body if denial was her modus operandi?

The SAP will teach that without acceptance of Jesus, then there is no resurrection in our lives. However, he allows it comes down to awareness: “An Afghani goat herder who’s never seen a Bible or heard about Jesus will be judged differently though – the way I understand it is that God judges people based on what they know.”

I know denial was my Mum’s crutch in life. Not necessarily healthy, but if you are never taught differently then you work with what you know.  As I grappled with the teachings of Jesus, of that image of my Mum on the eternal skid row of denial, I was visited by yet another lucid dream:

A cafeteria. Sitting opposite my Mum, surrounded by others drinking tea, eating scones and taking about everything but nothing. Empty conversation that has always frustrated the f–k out of me. ‘Please, please,’ I implore silently. ‘Say something that means something.’

I realised I sat in my Mum’s version of hell. Denial. The same banality over and over and over.

And in this lucid dream my heart wept a little because my past five months have shown what more there can be. That there is beauty beyond the eternal skid row we create.

I was reminded of Robin Williams in ‘What Dreams May Come‘, who descends into hell to rescue his wife. Unpacking Jesus in my life, I have prayed that the dead and dying who do not yet know Him may have some of my grace, freely given. My own version of a hall pass. If I have been wrapped in grace from accepting Jesus, then can I ‘pay it forward’ so less fortunate can take some of the same love and protection?

In this lucid dream, as I looked at my Mum across the table, the SAP appeared behind her. Given Mum died almost two years before I ever picked up the phone, this was out of kilter. What was the SAP doing here? “Why don’t we pray?” he asked. I remember looking at him, somewhat baffled. “Get up,” he urged me. “Come round here and put your hands on her shoulders.”

Wide awake I’ve been a bit bemused by the ‘laying hands on’ stuff – blame the British stiff upper lip. Laying on of hands is used in Christianity as both a symbolic and formal method of invoking the Holy Spirit. And now I was dreaming it. Lucidly.

Okaaay. So there, in this dream, up I get and wander around the long trestle table, in what can only be described as a retirement home cafeteria. Mum looks up. “Hello, Philly,” she says quite complacently. “I’m just having a cup of tea.” Then in this bizarre lucid dream I introduce her to the SAP. I place one hand upon my Mother’s shoulder. Now what?

I hear the SAP praying, but for the life of me I cannot recall the words now. His hand rises to touch my shoulder. And in that split-second before final contact I know. During the lucid dream, I remember tensing every fibre in my body.

Then the circuit connects. Have you ever seen the opening seconds of the X-Men movie credits, when the ‘mutation’ flies through an organ’s vessels, all its energy snapping and synapses firing? That. Firing through my body, out my hand and into the next circuit connection. Hi Mom.

Then the bit that astounds me. As the SAP prays in this lucid dream, as my hands touch my Mom’s shoulder, precisely in that moment of the SAP’s hand connecting with my shoulder, and the synapses firing, I fly awake. G-force shocked, my eyes fly open. Jolted, pushed, shaken and stirred out of lucid dreaming into the now. Present. A gift, even.

Hi Mom. There you are. Enjoy that resurrection body. I’m glad you made it off skid row.

This possibly doesn’t gel with the SAPs biblical teachings. But you know what? On this one, I’m grabbing the hall pass. With both hands. Because you seriously cannot dream this stuff up.

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

Hamlet (1.5.167-8), Hamlet to Horatio

Until recently, I’d read very little of the most read, most influential book of all time. The Bible has affected the world for centuries in innumerable ways. Look in art, literature, philosophy, government, philanthropy, education, social justice and humanitarianism – seek and you will find its influence there.

Take these common phrases: “a drop in the bucket”, “the handwriting was on the wall’, the “straight and narrow”, even “out of the mouths of babes”.  Not Shakespeare. The Bible. Even though Shakespeare does have more than 1200 references to Scripture in his works.

Having tonight re-watched Star Wars, I was reminded of the biblical allegories around us. Without The Bible, there would be no Narnia or Lord of The Rings. Alcoholics Anonymous and Harvard University found their roots in The Bible – with Harvard (not AA, that I’m aware of) delivering notable alumni such as Bill Gates, Matt Damon, Mark Zuckerberg and Franklin D Roosevelt. All from Puritans settling Boston and making plans for the establishment of a college to train ministers of the gospel. I wonder how the Puritans are feeling about Facebook today?

And as for music? Well, I feel a bit sorry for Christian Rock Bands. Obviously lots of biblical references, but the whole attraction of rock is because it’s meant to be rebellious. Think of The Rolling Stone’s Sympathy For The Devil. Catchy.

Yet it can work. Look at Bono, who threads biblical references throughout U2 lyrics. And if he’s not taking inspiration from the written word, his faith weaves throughout their music.

U2 flowed into my consciousness in the 80s and never really left, accompanying me through teenage angst and out the other side. Live Aid. Camping (umm.. trespassing) in a farmer’s field in Cork, Ireland, before the ZooTV live show. Fuelled by the irish greats Guinness and Tullamore Dew. An accident waiting to happen.

Perhaps that’s why I’m finding their latest ‘Songs of Innocence‘ album especially poignant, given my recent wanderings back to faith. Such as this line, from ‘Song For Someone’: “I’m a long way from your hill of Calvary. And I’m long way from where I was and where I need to be.”

How about you? What song moves your soul? Which lyric makes you wonder, “Why am I really here?” And have you ever had a brush with the law to get into a concert?