This Beautiful Embodied Life Part 1
It’s no Good Trying to be More Spiritual Than God
Cancer clarifies priorities. It makes me more physical. I used to judge people who bought stuff when they had cancer like my miserly germaphobe cousin, Ursula, a doctor’s wife in Beverly Hills. Ursula banned germs, luxuries, and controversies from her life. At family gatherings, we were not allowed to cough, sneeze, or bring up God. She entertained us with impressive tricks taught to her ersatz child, Conchita, a groomed poodle with pastel bows and embellished collars. Ursula was an avid bargain-hunter and coupon-clipper. For years, a rumor circulated (I found out it was true after she died) about sewing designer labels into bargain basement clothing. When she had leukemia, she abandoned a lifetime of fastidious frugality and plunged into a luxury buying spree. I used to mock her spendthrift ways. I understand them now.
Why do we think that diminishing the material is more spiritual, that truly letting go of control means being more other-worldly? Why do we disparage our physical desires even though illness punctuates their pleasure? Are the spiritual effects of cancer really more noble than the corporeal?
When I started to rebound from my cancer ordeal, I felt an acute appreciation for sensual delights and discovered that pain and pleasure were closely related. Throughout my recovery, the stately, mid-century tree that filled the view behind the garden wall, allowing hills to peek through in the distance, was my steadfast companion. This tree filled up my senses every day. Giving family members, friends, cancer survivors, and strangers were the hands, feet, and hearts of this beautiful embodied life. Now, I admittedly spend too much time on Houzz.com and at Armstrong Nursery. I savor a fruity red blend in the jacuzzi as the sun sets. Breezes and rushing winds in trees—especially aspen groves—beckon me to a higher place. No Zoom session or online experience comes close to the fullness of the physical.
Cancer also makes me more spiritual, more surrendered, trusting, and at peace. I experienced this through time spent in the ICU, emergencies, mounting setbacks, and a total of seven surgeries in ten months. God’s palpable presence, like a cloud that parts for a moment, an epiphany of sorts, confirmed that I was not alone. I realized this is my greatest gift—and need—in this life, and a peacefulness sated my heart, readying me for what lay ahead.
I learned incalculable spiritual lessons. When I was confined to a bed, agency and independence stripped away, I grasped more fully that control is an illusion. I lived one day at a time because I had to. Once I started feeling better, the joy of physicality became intense and almost transcendent. In my rush to recovery, however, I feared losing the benefits of pain, the sharpened sense of appreciation, empathy, and connection. I bumped up against the long-held belief that spirituality diminishes the material, that truly letting go of control means being more other-worldly?
Perhaps elevating the spiritual is a fruit of dualism: separating the spiritual from the physical, a sacred/secular divide. Many people today advocate separating the two especially in the public sphere because they fear the spiritual will taint or create bias and prejudice. But this fear demands that people cut off their spirituality from their lives, shutting off the valve to their values, joy, and meaning in life. In Mere Christianity C.S. Lewis argues against ethereal spirituality:
“there is no good trying to be more spiritual than God. God never meant man to be a purely spiritual creature. That is why He uses material things like bread and wine to put the new life into us. We may think this rather crude and unspiritual. God does not: He invented eating. He likes matter. He invented it” (Book II, Chapter 5).
The apostle John and the patristics—the early Christian theologians— promoted an embodied life as a core belief, emphasizing the incarnation of Christ against Gnosticism—“the Word became flesh and dwelt among us”—the human body as a temple of God, and the physical resurrection of believers, among others. That is not to say that the universe is God, but that the transcendent and personal God comes near and cares for us. Why is this important? The gospel—the good news—is that God is with us—Immanuel— that we don’t need to attain a higher spiritual plane to experience God, but that divine love and grace reach us right in our humanity and brokenness. Christianity is not dualism, but embodied life. In the same way, we are called “to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with [our] God” (Micah 6:8). We offer more than ideas and perspectives; we offer heads, hearts, voices, feet, and hands.
Embodied spirituality relieves us from the pressure to attain a mindset free from striving, attaining, and suffering, in short, it enables us to be earthen vessels. It celebrates our humanity, a celebration that equips and prepares us for the inevitable struggles that crack our pots. Embodied spirituality is investment in the here and now as a preparation for the future.
I have always loved this statement attributed to Martin Luther “If I knew that tomorrow was the end of the world, I would plant an apple tree today.”
Pull out the shovel and get some dirt under your nails today.
Next time I will discuss what’s wrong with the idea that the spiritual world is better than the physical world. If you would like to automatically receive my posts, please subscribe on the home page.