i believe in a thing called love
“I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word in reality.”
– Martin Luther King, Jr.
As far back as I can remember, I’ve felt spiritual longing. Even as a young child. And not a spark. Fire.
Growing up in a small town in Southern Indiana, this landed me in the only available outlet: Church. You might guess how that went. There was hellfire and brimstone, shame and blame, wounding and pain. At a tender age, I remember thinking: there is no love here. So I walked away. And went searching for Spirit in other arenas. This led me to yoga-asana, meditation, and studying Eastern Traditions.
Forgive me for the raw honesty, but I had written off Christianity as ignorant, backwards, and shame-based. I didn’t know that spiritual wounds, like physical wounds, leave scar tissue. They bind you and limit you. More on this soon.
For me, healing happened in small miracles.
First, I was visiting an ashram and stopped mid-sentence, mid-step when I saw Jesus next to Ramakrishna as part of Paramhamsa Yogananda’s lineage (see for yourself here). Shocked. Confused. A torrent of questions tumbled out. Once I was placated enough to practice, meditating in that room stirred up old hurt, discomfort, even anger and a bit of betrayal. I had work to do.
Years later, I had a vision during meditation. That same day I saw the image on the cover of a book. A book about spiritual journeys. From a Christian. I put it down. Picked it up. Put it down. Picked it up. I struggled to buy that book… But I did… and I read it… and there was healing.
Next came the sermons of MLK. Love emanates from them. His faith is the source. Even though I felt it, profoundly and profusely, I could not wrap my head around it. Where was this love coming from? The flavor of Spirit felt different from the truth of Gandhi, the oneness of Siddha yoga, the peace of the Dalai Lama and Thich Nhat Hanh, the piercing presence of Ekhart Tolle and Byron Katie. Curiosity brought out the best in me. (It always does!) And I went digging.
There are years, discoveries, and studies between these stories and Israel. But these moments were clear-cut forks in the road that eventually led me to land in Tel Aviv on October 7, 2023.
The Israel trip was a training to become everyday peacemakers. We would be learning from Muslim clerics, Palestinian Christians, and Jewish historians. We were to hear from bereaved mothers, visit the only female owned brewery in the Middle East, press olives at an organic farm that has been stewarded by a single family through the Ottoman Empire, British Mandate, and formation of Israel.
Instead, we experienced war.
This created a lot of cognitive dissonance. We couldn’t quite believe it. And we embraced a disassociation that allowed us to walk around the city and see things even when we really, probably, (definitely) should not have been out and about.
For example, one afternoon, we were sitting on the steps of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and bells started ringing, sirens started wailing, the iron dome snapped and popped. We looked around, looked at one another, shrugged and carried on. Uncomfortably numb.
This was my fourth time at the Church. I kept going back. Not because of the art, the architecture or even the meaning. I couldn’t stop watching the people.
People weeping and kissing marble slabs. Bowing and prostrating at altars. Crawling into crevices to light candles. Waiting in long lines to squeeze into a small space and have a moment with exposed rock.
There was fervor in their faith.
I watched and wondered: Do they feel the same fervor at home? Do they bring this intensity to their communities? What do they think about what’s happening outside? Is their heart breaking for humanity?
Because if this fervor was lived out, if the same ardour was applied to spiritual principles and drove our everyday actions, it would change the world. Not could. Would.
Resist thinking that I’m judging. This is less about individuals specifically and more about us collectively. When I was in that church, I could not appreciate the art. Feel power from the relics. Or admire the history. I kept thinking: “we’ve got it all wrong”. We’re worshiping places and things… and killing one another to do it.
But closely following the horror of “we’ve got it all wrong” was a gentler whisper, almost an antidote, a signpost from Spirit: “they will know you by your love for one another.”
The reverberation of that quote brought faint hope and steely determination. I found myself holding my heart with that original ache: where is the love?
There is more to say about this, but for now, I’ll wrap up with questions: Would someone know you by your spiritual practice? Is it obvious that some thing is different? Like you've got a trick up your sleeve for accessing peace, love, and clarity?
That’s what I want us to be. A community that is recognizably different. Truth-seekers, peace-makers, love-generators.
May your practice be recognizable,
Alison
PS: I believe the first step to being recognizably different is knowing your nervous system. Get the resources from the workshop here.
