After posting a few weeks ago about some "God-stuff," I figured now would be a fine time to go over the path I've taken in the past few years that led to these wild beliefs. (I say "wild" becuase, had you asked me two years ago about them, I absolutely would have called them wild.)

I think this story will need to be refined and organized in the future, but you the Sunday Page reader get it (more or less) raw.

Two years ago I was an atheist-leaning agnostic. I skewed towards materialism, assuming nothing existed beyond what we can see and sense—though I was also too lazy to say anything with certainty. I didn't see a point to committing to any ideology (including atheism). I had decided that whole realm of thought—all the possible stories I could believe about how the universe works—didn't matter; they wouldn't affect my experience in the world.

God was inconsequential. No matter what was really going on, I was pretty sure I alone had to handle the problems life threw at me.

That was two years ago. Things are a bit different now.

Sometime in early 2019: I decided I tired of who I was and what I was doing. I was in a rut, and I wasn't getting out of it through my own willpower (or lack thereof).

So I talked to someone, they coached me through some of my shit, I admitted I'm a creative guy who needs to do creative things.

The problem with doing creative things: sometimes your brain is not kind or helpful. "I" (brain) was in my way, so I opened up to advice for aspiring artists.

I was recommended The Artists Way, and along with offering practical tips (like journaling habits and "artist dates"), the author, Julia Cameron talks about a creative...force at play. She goes so far as to call it The Great Creator (and sometimes God)—but graciously allows the reader to call it something else; "spiritual electricity" was a suggestion.

This was my first foray into something "more."

The book was exactly what I needed. It offered a "spiritual path" for making stuff—for allowing "divine" creative juice to flow through you.

The core tenet of this book...I was not a fan of. I was being told to believe in a creative "God" who "wants" me to be creative as well. I didn't like believing in anything.

But this was a solution to a problem I couldn't get over alone.

In reference to my creative efforts, the voice in my head would say, "this isn't worth your time;" "you'll embarrass yourself;" "how audacious of you to think you can do this!"

I tried to out-think this voice, turning to my religion of rationalism, but seemingly-rational arguments are one of this critic's best weapons. It preaches responsibility and pragmatism; advises against sure-failures and protects us from harm. I couldn't debate it. Maybe some people can—people whose critic/ego isn't as over-protective (hyperactive)—but I couldn't. The artist-me was no match for the critic-me.

So when Julia Cameron said that's a perfectly normal phenomenon for artists, and that the solution was God, I figured I'd give it a shot.

The Artists Way is a twelve-week guide. There are many steps on the path to "higher creativity." I don't remember them all, but two stuck with me.

The first was an act of "giving things to God." (This isn't about sacrifice.) Essentially, you "give to God" the things you don't want to (or can't) deal with on your own. If you're having an internal argument and your self-doubt is winning: you just walk away from the conversation and let God handle it, trusting that God is right and the critical voice is paranoid.

At first blush, this can sound like ignoring your problems. That's not it. What you're actually doing is escaping a whirlpool or fear and irrational thinking. "God" is a buouy you use to haul yourself out of the darkness.

Now's a good time to pause and admit: when I started this practice, "God" wasn't "real." To me, "God" was just a mental construct—the embodiment of the idea: I should pursue my "art" no matter what.

Thing is though: it still worked.

At least: it worked better than if I just tried to hold onto that idea. On its own, I could easily forget the idea; I could argue myself out of believing it on a particularly bad day. But by building a character and a story around the idea, it was easier maintain. It was as if the critical-me had more to dismantle and sweep aside before it could rush in with its doom-and-gloom narrative.

The second thing was prayer. Oooh I felt a lot of resistence to prayer. It just seemed...silly. I'm struggling to find another way to say that, b ut I'll try. Sitting down and praying was admitting I took this pracrtice seriously, which my critical brain decided was embarrasing. It sat back and said, "come on, you're too smart to take this seriously. Imagine your smart friends saw this."

But I did it anyway, grumbling and blushing throughout, and here's what I learned: prayer strengthened that idea I wanted to hold onto. If you remember: the whole point of my "spiritual journey" was to better deal with that critical voice in my head. Prayer strengthened my ability to do just that.

I looked at the practice rationally. We tend to think we see the world for how it is—but we filter it. We see what we want to see. Or—we see things that corroborate the story we've been telling ourselves.

I'd been telling one story my whole life—one filled with pitfalls judgement and scarce resources. So, I saw danger in everything—including writing.

By praying, I was reciting a new story. I didn't believe it yet, but just the act of telling it started to chip away at the assumptions I'd been making about the world. I didn't default to, "they'll hate the work and laugh at you," quite as quickly.

That got me writing. I was using faith in some sort of God as a tool to overcome fear and resistence, and it did the trick nicely.

Then I was exposed to a higher-stakes version of a similar process.

I'd often admitted (albeit half-heartedly) to having an "addictive personality." I didn't have one crippling vice; it was more like I jumped from one thing to the next throughout the day. I drank too much coffee, then too much booze; I smoked too much weed; I played too many video games; I scrolled too much on my phone; I listened to too many podcasts...

I was over-indulgent in a dozen ways, and it was a problem.

So I bought The Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous and attended a handful of meetings over Zoom.

Similar to my experience with The Artist's Way, I wasn't all-in from the start—I wasn't really an alcoholic or addict, after all. I felt out of place, but I swallowed the discomfort and stuck around.

And then the message started to sound more familiar. I was reading and hearing stories about a self-sabotoging voice in our heads. I'd become familiar with the voice who said to run from the art I wanted to make. I was getting to know the voice who picked up and said where I should run to.

The lessons from AA formed the second side of the same coin and revealed just how pervasive this unproductive voice was. They also clarified the stakes: this was life or death. (In my case: not impending death; but the life I actually wanted was indeed on the line.)

And moreso than The Artists Way, AA is blunt about the need to commit to faith. Half-measures don't work. In fact, there's a whole chapter about a guy who thinks he can take the lessons while holding onto a purely rational/material view of the situation. I was being called out.

But faith still seemed like something I was "too smart for—" or my brain didn't work in a way that allowed for it.

And then I had a conversation with one guy from the program, and he put it in a way that meant more than all the reading I'd done.

"Faith isn't something you just luck into, and you can't just choose it. Faith comes later—eventually emerging from a long journey of "belief.""

Belief was choosing a new story—despite not knowing with 100% certainty it's objectively true. Faith comes when you no longer have to choose—when you inevitably forget it's just a story and it forms your default assumptions.

And that's where I am now—on that faith journey. I’m reciting the story about what I believe in earnest. Some days I believe it more literally than others, and I think I might be tasting real faith. Some days the critic roars and it's all I can do to say, "maybe there's a small possibility God is an artist."

It's a journey. I've heard it can be an easier journey for some. I've heard some people get "aha" moments where their faith becomes instantly solidified. We'll see where mine goes. I hope to one day say, “I am a man of faith.” I’ll let you know how that goes.

My Story/Prayer:

In the beginning, there was nothing.
And there was God.
I don't know God's name; I don't know God's nature.
But I believe God's intention is to create.

I believe God wanted more to exist than the nothingness that once was everything.
And so I believe God, through one miraculous act of creation, seeded a universe.

I believe this seed was born of God's own energy, and imbued with God's only known intention: to create.
And so from that first day to this day: all that exists does so as part of God. It exists as part of the art God sought to create. And it exists with the purpose to further that act of creation.

I believe I am made from and animated by God's essence and energy. I believe I am one manifestation of God among many.
I believe I am art myself. I believe my experiences in this life are invaluable contributions to the canvas We're building.

I believe I am an instrument of creation. I believe I may channel God’s ability to produce novelty. And I believe it is my mission to contribute as honestly and liberally to this universe as possible.

And so I ask:

God, grant me the bravery to add my contributions to this canvas.
Grant me the patience to manage my fears.
And grant me the compassion to forgive myself when fears win out.
That I may do my part in this insane, divine, cosmic production.

Cheers,
John