My Rubik's Cube of Religion

“Please describe your spiritual journey for us," an employer once asked me.

Although this is a question that would normally seem out of bounds in hiring interviews, I wasn't surprised when the college dean asked it. The reason? I was applying for a leadership position at a faith-based liberal arts college, and I had already been told this question was coming and that it could be a determining factor in my getting hired.

Nevertheless, it was a tough question to answer. For I have often considered my religious faith as something similar to a metaphorical Rubik's Cube.

I once read that, "The Cube can very well represent the intricate and unpredictable journey of existence, with each color on the Cube symbolizing different aspects of life, relationships, and personal growth. Just as every small cube or "cubie" contributes to the overall harmony of the puzzle, every experience -- whether joyful or challenging -- shapes the broader tapestry of our life. Solving the cube requires patience, perseverance, and methodical problem-solving, reflecting how we as humans navigate setbacks and learn from our mistakes."

Considering myself a fairly bright and sensible guy, however, I had the feeling this was not the kind of convoluted answer my prospective boss might want to hear. After all, this was a college as devoted to its faith stance as to open academic inquiry. That, by the way, is not an easy kind of college to operate (or teach at, sometimes) if it is to stay committed to both.

I knew that the dean just wanted to know if I even had a spiritual life and, if so, what did it look like, and how important was it to me? So, I accepted the challenge, offering up the following.  Not word for word, but essentially.

My spiritual life began when I started considering faith as something personal instead of institutional; As something inside me instead of something out there. I felt that was the only way it would have any real meaning for me, apart from being a routine and ritual of going to church.

My pursuit of this began in 1965, when I was 19 and a freshman at the University of Oklahoma. I was never more open to new inquiries than I was in that first year of college. I felt the world of ideas had just opened up to me. It's the kind of thing that happens to most of us at one time or another.

One person who came to that point was the singer/songwriter Cat Stevens ("Peace Train" and "Moonshadow") when his own spiritual discovery changed his life. While on holiday in Maraskesh in the 1970s, Stevens was intrigued by the sound of the adhān, the Islamic ritual call to prayer, which was explained to him as "music for God.” Stevens said, "I thought, music for God? I'd never heard that before – I'd heard of music for money, music for fame, music for personal power, but music for God!?

Then, one afternoon in 1976, the Grammy-winning Stevens found himself in a desperate spot. He was drowning in the Pacific Ocean, while swimming off Malibu. A strong rip tide caught him and began sweeping him out to sea. He called out to God for help and soon felt himself being pulled back to shore by a small wave.

Wanting to give back to this God who had saved him, Stevens pointed himself toward that religion that sang music for God. That led him to the Qur'an and the religion of Islam. He changed his name to Yusuf Islam.

But that was only one key decision he made. The other was to give up his lucrative music career and instead give his life over to international humanitarian causes by promoting and funding the education of poor children in the Middle East.

In 2004, Yusuf Islam was ultimately awarded the very first "Man of Peace" prize in Rome at a meeting of Nobel Peace Prize laureates. Former Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev, who helped bring down Soviet Communism, awarded him that peace prize in Rome.

Fittingly, Yusuf played and sang his "Peace Train" song that night to a standing ovation in the crowded hall.

Though Yusuf chose a religion other than Christianity, the point is he chose to give his life to his God and to helping others achieve better futures. In doing so, he found a new peace and meaning to his own life.

If my own two sons were seeking a meaningful faith, I would tell them to first give the man Jesus a long look. Because, at its heart, his is a religion of love and forgiveness. Forget the more twisted spins politicians might put on it. But if my boys were to find their answers in another faith tradition, then I would support them in choosing that one instead, or alongside of, Christianity.

In my own case, back in 1965, I felt the need to connect with something larger than myself, and I chose an OU student house of Christian faith for that connection. It worked for a while, but its effect faded. This particular group was focused on social activism rather than spiritual enlightenment. That was important on campuses in the 1960s, and it still is.

I did some work with them, but it was not filling the empty spot I felt inside. This was not the hoped-for oasis in my arid life that felt devoid of God connection I wanted.

So, I continued my search elsewhere, going on into the summer and into my sophomore year of college. One evening I agreed to attend  a meeting of a group of students at house just off campus. Once there, I was curious, because its focus was on establishing a personal relationship with a personal God, rather than just joining the institution of religion in one of the myriad of churches that Oklahoma is known for.

It's a familiar story, but God was presented that night as not Somewhere Out There, but Someone In Here, and that concept seemed to fit what I was seeking: a way of connecting my life to the God of the Universe. That desire seemed to be shared by everyone else that evening, and that group became my new family on campus for the next three years.

This was before the days when your religious stance was automatically viewed as connected to your political party. Had it not been so, I would never have continued with the group. I wasn't that interested in politics. Interesting, though, that this kind of personal attention on Jesus was often more aligned in the 60s with the "Jesus Freaks" movement of the political left. Jesus was seen as a revolutionary, and the 60s were a time of revolution among young people in America.

These were loving, educated fellow students, and their influence propelled me into seminary after graduation, just to learn more about my newfound personal Christian faith. 

Ever since then, I've tried to keep that faith alive, despite it being built on a narrative that sometimes seems just flat hard to believe, and on a connection with a God who sometimes seems distant and outmatched by the challenges I encounter in life. 

Some of those times have caused me to wander away from my active faith, although I always have returned. I have always felt the lyrics from "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing" were written for believers like me. Especially so for the verse, "Prone to wander, Lord I feel it, prone to leave the God I love, here's my heart oh take and seal it, seal it for thy courts above."

And yet, through all the challenges to that personal faith, through all the ups and downs of that relationship, here I am, still acknowledging that I am a believer, I strive to be a better Christian and -- more importantly I believe -- a better person, every day.

That sometimes-pesky doctrinal narrative, although still challenging to me, remains the best documented one of the faith traditions I've studied. 

And then there are those inexplicable times when Divine intervention seems the only plausible reason that I escaped successfully from some very tight spots in life. I’ve searched for other plausible reasons, and I have found none.

One of those escapes  took place in 1999 during the late-night hours in a field of northern Mississippi. I was coming home to Memphis from a casino where I’d been repeating a self- destructive pattern of gambling for several months. Overcome with anger at God and disappointment with myself, I pulled my truck off the country road, turned off the engine and began pounding the wheel and screaming.

"I've tried to overcome this and I've asked for help, God! But there's been none, and you've been silent!"

Then I heard myself utter the question: “What do you want from me?!"

Instantly, and with great clarity, a response came. It was vocal (at least to me), it was calm, and it was unmistakable. There were only three words, but they were enough on that night and beyond.

The voice said simply, "I want you." 

I shuddered and felt my eyes blink. A calm swept over me, my hands stopped shaking, and I sat still for probably 20 minutes, just peering out into the dark fields of kudzu surrounding me. I didn't know how that simple statement helped me, but I do know I felt less alone after that.

So, was that voice from a Baptist God? a Presbyterian God? a Catholic God, a Jewish God? Allah?

I didn't ask. I didn't care. What was important was that the voice was there, and there was no one other than me in this car and in this kudzu field this night. I took it as a sign that God -- and maybe even life itself -- still wanted me. It was a comforting belief.

I restarted  my truck, headed home, and enjoyed a good night's sleep. A couple months later, I met a woman online while nursing my office computer through the Y2K scare at midnight on January 1, 2000. Long story short, Anne has been my stalwart companion, cheerleader, and partner for more than 25 years now. And my former gambling curse? It exists no more.

Times like these are the main reason I'm still a believer, just trying to remain faithful in word and deed another day. I’m stacking up  more good days than bad in that regard.

Some applications of my beliefs have changed, however. I spend a lot of time analyzing what love should look like in different situations. Arch conservatives might call me a liberal because I don't believe Jesus is a warfighter, but I find it hard to translate love into shooting or bombing people. I'd rather try to connect people to love through my stories.

And, although I can understand others who worship differently than me, I also have a problem with showing appreciation by raising my arms and singing praises to God all day long. I've always felt Mom and Dad wouldn't have wanted me to spend my time shouting praises to them, and I have a hunch that God wants more of me than that, as well. 

It’s like He’s saying, “Take this love I’ve given you and go do something grown-up with it. You and I are always good. No need for all the repetitive praise.”

In my writings, I've found a way to connect with people and to hopefully inspire them to vote for love rather than hate. I hope the stories I've told can convey positive lessons about what beauty, love, and tragedy can teach us, if we let them.

Oh, and about that job interview that launched this essay?  I got that faculty position. So, I must have passed muster okay. Then I spent 17 mostly enjoyable years at that school, working alongside some fine colleagues and great students. I still stay in touch with many of them today.

Some of them still even read what I have to say!