Last night, I dreamt that I was in attendance at a very large “open house” at a local church. There was music, lots of flowers and candles, and many members of the church on hand to greet guests from the community. With its massive columns and other classical features, the church itself looked as though it would be more at home in ancient Rome.
(I should pause here to mention that while I was raised Episcopalian, I do not now consider myself to be a Christian. I am more of a universal, interfaith type.)
(And yes, there is a point to this blog entry.)
I filed into the church, curious as to what this new religious presence would offer, and placed a bouquet of periwinkle flowers on one of the altars as a kind of “temple-warming gift.” All around me, though, I heard the church members attempting to comfort grieving guests, reassuring them that their loved ones were now in heaven, with “Jesus the king” — essentially spouting what I considered to be empty, evangelical rhetoric — even though those who were grieving were not “believers.” I don’t know why there were so many mourners from outside the church there at the event, but I finally got fed up with it and stormed out.
One of the “sisters” followed me, wanting to know what was wrong, and I spat out something about their small-mindedness in preaching doctrine to people in pain instead of offering them simple, human comfort. I was hurrying down the steps when I noticed that the sister had caught the arm of another, lesser sister, and instructed her to remove the bouquet I had left. She explained simply that the flowers were “tainted” and had no place on the church altar.
I followed this second woman as she carried my bouquet along the side of the temple, down a long, dark alley, finally coming to a large collection of cleaning supplies, where she dumped the bouquet into the trash. She stood there a moment, looking at the flowers in the garbage, and shook her head sadly.
I came up behind her and asked her why she had thrown them away. It was obvious that she had no idea what had happened on the church steps, nor that the flowers had been my gift.
I talked with her awhile, saying that it was a real shame that some people can only see things one way, without being open to other ideas. Pointing to the flowers, I suggested that it was like proclaiming that there could only be one true flower color in the world. Wouldn’t that be sad? While certainly still beautiful, it would be an unnecessary limit on creation, the wasted potential of God, when there are so many colors and varieties of flowers that simply add more beauty, rather than competing with each other. (In my dream, I explained this much better, by the way.)
The sister began crying, asking how I could possibly forgive her for throwing away the flowers. I started talking about needing to first forgive oneself, and quoted scripture from her own religious tradition — Jesus advising those who would seek to remove a splinter from a neighbor’s eye to first attend to the log in their own.
And that’s when it hit me. The small-mindedness that had begun the entire incident, was mine. I had been the one who had judged the church members and created a scene on the temple steps. Log in my eye, indeed.
I woke up feeling very good about this dream. I think it combines two elements (as well as some minor ones I won’t go into):
1. There is much chaos surrounding the winter holidays, and even now most people assume that everyone else celebrates Christmas. Not Hanukkah, not Yule, not Kwanzaa, but Christmas. And yes, this does irk me a bit. So I’m guessing that’s where the church came in.
2. I had been reflecting last evening on how I criticize myself. We all do, and this self-recrimination often stands in the way of connecting with other people, not to mention throwing obstacles into our own paths. I can judge myself harshly for judging others, and it’s hard to climb up high when you keep beating yourself down.
The dream also echoed Wayne Dyer’s “The Power of Intention,” which I have been reading. Quite a powerful book, actually. I practice compassion daily. And believe me, it is still “practice,” as I often have to remind myself that true compassion begins at home. The only mind I have to change is my own.
So, what’s my point? My point is pointing. When you point your finger at someone else, you have three more fingers pointing right back at you. Sure. But it’s also not so helpful to have all four fingers pointed at yourself, either (or eight, if you happen to be using both hands). Frustration over other people’s narrow-mindedness merely betrays our own, yet it’s not then required to be narrow-minded and judgmental with ourselves about being narrow-minded and judgmental.
Fill your eyes and heart instead with compassion and love, especially when you can’t get your mind around why someone would believe or behave the way they do. Because, wouldn’t it be a shame if we mistook the silly shadows of finger-pointing as the totality of the world, and completely ignored the light?