Purple Trees

It has often been said, "Never discuss politics or religion." Some politely respect that rule of etiquette, not wanted to step on toes or be stepped on in turn. Those people always find something nice to say, as if haunted by the words of sorely chastened Thumper: "If you can't say somethin' nice, don't say nuttin' at all." Those people are shocked and appalled at on-screen vulgarity, at heaving adolescent bosoms falling out of trendy tops, at anything that might produce the desired effect of "shocked and appalled." Those people look back to when life was simpler, when Donna Reed fixed Alex's dinner every night, when children respected their elders, and when challenge was not personal, but distant, something to be applauded in others, like Olympic athletes or astronauts or medical researchers. Life was meant to be enjoyed like a serene boat ride on a mirror-glass lake. Never discuss politics or religion. Don't rock the boat.

Never discuss politics or religion...I don't think so. I'm not "some". In fact, the minute you tell me not to, not only will I rock the boat, but I will probably sink it and leave all its passengers flailing about in the water.

Hope you can float.

I can't help but laugh, in a bittersweet sort of way. You see, I enjoy the boat. Who doesn't enjoy a leisurely afternoon with friends and family, sipping lemonade and watching the fish jump? The only problem I find with the scenario is this:

I want to play with the fish.

The boat. Everyone has a boat. A boat that collects and carries all that is important in one's life, in the life of their family. As a novice Jungian disciple, I see the boat as an archetype, a symbol, a representation of those familial and cultural rules, beliefs, standards of behavior, mores, etc., which become the construct for the living of one's life. In laymen's terms, the boat is how we are raised. To rock that boat is to question the unquestionable, explore the forbidden, and to become that which shocks and appalls those who raised us, the builders of the boat. To rock the boat is to risk expulsion from the boat, to risk "walking the plank" (in keeping with a nautical analogy).

But let's leave the nautical analogy and change pictures. I guess one might say that I have always had trouble with orthodoxy. With coloring inside the lines. With seeing things "normally."

I was three years old at that preschool in North Hollywood, California. Three years old when my teacher called a conference with my parents. I'm concerned about your daughter, Mr. and Mrs. Xxxxxx. She doesn't have a healthy understanding of reality. You see, when all the other little children - those well-grounded, well-rounded children - draw their trees, they draw green bushes with brown trunks. Mr. and Mrs. Xxxxxx, please understand, I'm truly concerned for young Xxxxxx's welfare. You see, her trees are not green with brown trunks.

Mr. and Mrs. Xxxxxx, Xxxxxx's trees are, well, they're...they're purple!

I was three years old when I first stepped outside the box.

Well, sort of. According to my mother, my solution to the problem was to draw stupid little green and brown trees at preschool, and at home, I crafted purple trees to my heart's content.

(By the way, Teacher, I have purple trees in my yard. Go tell Japan that their purple maple trees are all wrong.)

Don't get me wrong. I was a very good kid - obedient to my parents, my teachers, my religion. The all in all of divine wisdom and knowledge. The source of all truth and found of every blessing.

The boat.

The construct.

THE BOX.

The day I stepped out of the box was the day I would never be welcome there again. For when one steps out of the box to dance with danger, one will never fit back into the box. And try as I might, I will never fit in the box again.

As I grew older, and went through my paces in my temple seminary (through whom I was ordained for a short time, before my "exploration" got the best of me), I couldn't help but wonder: Does God, who we say so adamantly is perfect love, draw people into His kingdom through fear? Tormented by this question, I finally, in a moment of sheer madness, began my explorations. Knowing how dangerous it was, I did the unthinkable:

I studied the Bible.

I did not go to my local bookstore and buy books on comparative eschatology (long Greek word for the study of "end times" or "last things"). I did not consult great theologians or teachers for their interpretation of Scripture.

I did learn about life and customs in biblical times. I did study historical texts. I did trust that God would teach me what I needed to know, that He didn't depend on a person to communicate truth to me. Most importantly, by stepping out of the box of my comfort and my childhood, I started to explore other boxes, and I found that the other boxes contained nothing fearful, but only expanded learning:

From the Jews I found freedom in worship.

From the Catholics I came to know a God who was sovereign, in control and
trustworthy.

From the Buddhists, I learned to not quibble over nothing: "Unity in essentials, liberty in non-essentials, charity (love) in all things."

I entered this nebulous zone of spiritual pioneering afraid, but curious enough to sustain me through my fear. What fear? Fear of rejection, fear of persecution for daring to question the accepted theology, fear of being all wrong and taking this journey out of the box for nothing. Out of the box there was no one to talk with, no one to share my discoveries with, no one to tell me I was still okay.

My fears were accurate. People who once thought me learned and loyal to the box rejected me as a heretic. Temple services, once the joy of my life, seemed flat and shallow, and trusted friends looked on me with distrust and even disdain. But as I continued my uncharted journey into the Word of God, none of that mattered. What I found was so incredible that nothing the box-dwellers said or thought would ever matter to me again. Not only did I find peace for my fears and answers to my questions, I found others who had stepped outside the box also.

Living in a box, no matter how beautiful, no matter how comfortable, goes against the essence of human nature. We are born to live in freedom, and any box - any system of belief or code of living that is placed upon us by someone else - destroys our humanity. As offspring of a phenomenal Creator, we ourselves are creative. We are spiritual creatures, designed to live in a spiritual world. The box is temporal, and while in it, we will never know the fullness of what is meant for us. It limits our creativity to what is deemed as acceptable and right. (Remember my unacceptable purple trees?) Most tragic, no, most insulting of all, is that the box takes over the free act of thought and reason that God gave to each of us.

Those who discover spiritual wholeness threaten those in the box, for we no longer need the box. And when we no longer need the box, it loses its power.

And what is it that I learned? What was the answer I found to my first question? No, God does not motivate through fear. And while I could write volumes about theology and Biblical interpretation, the most important thing I learned was to live by using the intelligence and freedom of thought endowed to each of us by our Creator. I will never be defined by a box again.

Interestingly enough, my steps have led back to my original box. I worship every Friday as part of the tradition I was bequeathed by my parents. This time it is different. I definitely do not fit in the box, but I no longer feel confined to it. And I am able to help my fellow worshipers peek over the sides from time to time.

Some of them are starting to salivate.

Now, if you'll excuse me...my purple trees need mulching.