Embodied Transformation

Transformation must be embodied to be real. Any sort of change that is limited only to our minds is unlikely to make any actual difference in the world.

                    

It is perhaps sad but nonetheless true that many, if not most, of us have suffered some sort of bodily trauma in our lives. We carry the remnants of these traumas with us in our bodies—the memories are felt at least as much in our limbs and chests and necks and backs as they are in our minds. And yet we seem to think that we can transform our lives by merely changing our attitude.

Surely our minds and heart must be open in order to be transformed. But just as surely our bodies must practice opening to transformational healing. This practice embraces singing and dancing and playing, running and rolling and ambling, stretching and reaching. If we wish to transform our woundedness, we must find ways to dance with it, and we must let our bodies lead the way.

In the book of Exodus, after the Israelites have escaped Pharaoh's army and crossed the Red Sea, we are told that "Miriam the prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a tambourine in her hand; and all the women followed her with tambourines and dances. And Miriam called to them: Sing to God." And the people sang, and they danced.

The Israelites carried with them the many bodily wounds and indignities they had suffered in Egypt. And they began the process of transformation with singing and dancing. It was just the beginning of their journey, to be sure. But Miriam knew that, if they were to have any chance of healing, any chance of transforming their suffering, that the change had to start with their bodies and not just their minds.

Shifting from Identity to Solidarity

In order to transform we must be willing to give up our culture of identity and move toward a culture of solidarity. There is a tendency to belong to groups based on how closely those groups mirror our own beliefs and backgrounds. As a result, those groups have little potential for transforming themselves, the individuals who belong to them or the larger world.

Mere “believing and belonging” in religion (or in any sphere of human activity) tend to lead us toward like-minded people and groups that look and think much as we do. A commitment to real transformation, on the other hand, tends to lead us toward diverse groups of people who most likely look, think and believe differently than we do. The transformation that takes place in and through such groups enables us to see those who seem radically different from ourselves to be like-hearted and united with us and all the world in an essential way.

When people first discover a religious community that feels like home to them, they might believe that their religious journey is done. But such a religious community is at best a starting place or home base from which the transformational journey might begin. This journey leads us toward a culture of solidarity—a culture of “acting with” rather than “believing in” or “belonging to.”

Transformation and Loss

Transformation requires loss. Transformative change simply cannot occur unless something is left behind, whether it’s an old way of relating to the world or beloved friends or a hometown or a cherished home. But leaving the old things behind does not mean closing our hearts to them—such a thing isn’t really possible, even though it might seem more desirable than experiencing loss.

What’s required is not only a turning away from something and a turning toward something else but also a willingness to feel both in their entirety and to be truly changed by the experience. We grieve not so much to “get over” something but rather to let ourselves be softened by the experience. For it is through our softness that we are transformed.

Writing about the experience of the death of a loved one, Anne Lamott said: “It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly—that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp.”

So it is with any big loss: Either we learn to dance with the limp or we stop dancing altogether. And it is only through this kind of dancing that we are transformed.

Transformation and First Steps

In a journey of religious transformation, the first step is never a wrong step. It may be uninformed or misguided or unfortunate or even ridiculous. But it is never wrong. The step after the first step is more telling as it may indicate a particular direction that lends itself to some sort of evaluation or consideration.

Jazz great Miles Davis is quoted as having said, "It’s not the note you play that’s the wrong note – it’s the note you play afterwards that makes it right or wrong."

But even those next notes or next steps, although they may be wrong-minded or ill-considered, are not actually wrong in themselves because there’s always another note or step yet to come. It’s possible to construct a melody that doesn’t make sense for quite some time until you come upon a note—sometimes the note—that makes sense of all that came before it.

So it is with the journey of transformation.  When we take that first step, we cannot possibly know where it will lead us. In fact, the more we think about that first step, the less likely we are to take any step at all and instead remain mired exactly where we are.

Take a step. Take it boldly and with joy. You may later regret that first step, but at least you will have started the journey and you will have done so in a spirit that will sustain you.

What We Do Not Transform, We Transmit

As I have said before, transformation is only possible when we are willing to shine a light in the shadowy places of our world, our communities and our own psyches. It is in these places that we will find unexamined and sometimes unnamed fears, desires, prejudices, disappointments, and losses, both great and small.

These darker places can be rich and fertile ground for transformation. In fact, we might think of them as points of opportunity for us to both co-create and transform the world we inhabit.

But, in order to be of any use to us or others, these places of darkness must first be seen. Otherwise, our individual and collective shadow sides will be passed along from person to person, generation to generation, forever.

Certainly, we see such patterns within families. A hidden or unspoken shame or secret has a ripple effect that reaches out from person to person and parent to child in waves that seem never to end--unless they are recognized and somehow transformed.

This phenomenon occurs not just in families but also in congregations, communities, countries and civilizations: what we do not transform, we transmit.

The work of religious transformation, then, begins with identifying those things that dwell in darkness, seeing them clearly, and working to transform them. Otherwise, religious communities simply transmit the same fears, prejudices and disappointments that they inherited from previous generations and from the larger culture from which they sprang.

For this reason, if no other, it is vitally important that transformation be at the center of our actions and aspirations. Transformation of self, community and world cannot happen in isolation and it cannot happen by accident.

If religion is that which binds us together, then we have a choice: we can either be bound together by those things that remain in darkness, or we can be bound together in our efforts to transform those shadowy things as we work toward reconciliation, healing and wholeness.

There’s a very old story that, when God created the world, he left one corner unfinished and in darkness. It is in this corner that evil spirits, ill winds, and all manner of catastrophes dwell. Our task is to deal with this unfinished corner of creation, to transform it and to bring it to completion.

The Role of Reluctance in Transformation

It’s one thing to talk about transformation, and it’s another to actually transform. For those of us who have lives that are fairly comfortable—and even for many of us whose lives are terribly uncomfortable—it is challenging to do something different and risky, even when we know that it is the right thing to do both for us and for our world.

In some ways, our reluctance to change is hard-wired. Unless we’re being chased by something, we’re likely to stay camped out exactly where we are, doing the same things that have fed and sheltered our families and loved ones quite well up to this point.

In addition, our cultural institutions—especially including our religious institutions—are organized in such a way that meaningful transformation is unlikely to take place at all, or only at a very slow pace.

This reluctance on both the personal and institutional levels is where we have to start because that’s where we are. It is useful to notice this reluctance and consider whether it is worthwhile to overcome it or not, to consider whether or not we are willing to pay the cost of discomfort in order to co-create something better than the status quo.

I’ve been feeling a great deal of reluctance in recent weeks as I prepare for some major changes in my life. After having lived in the same community for my entire adult life—30 years—and after having worked the

same comfortable and secure job for 20 years, I will be uprooting myself and my family to begin a new ministry somewhere as yet to be determined.

These changes are both terrifying and full of great promise. I have worked like crazy for the last three or four years to get to this place. And now that I’m here I’m feeling that familiar reluctance about as strongly as I ever have. And it is exactly in this place that much of the challenge of transformation lies.

As a minister, I will ask people to work to transform their own lives, their religious communities and their world. If I am to have any hope of succeeding, I must begin with my own life. And I must begin with this particular moment of reluctance—because this is where transformation occurs.

Moment by moment, each of us has the opportunity to try to keep things just as they are (which is, in the end a futile endeavor) or to work to become an agent of transformation (which is almost always risky and uncomfortable).

Of course, things aren’t as either/or as I am depicting them. There are moments of comfortable perching even in the wildest flights of transformation. And there are certain risks that must be taken just to remain in the nest.

However, I have chosen to fly. I invite you to do likewise. Just beyond our reluctance to change is something greater than we can now imagine.

Shining a Light

According to the Gospel of Thomas (a collection of sayings attributed to Jesus), “If you bring forth

what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you,

what you do not bring forth will destroy you.”

This is a challenging piece of scripture, and it cuts both ways. It suggests that transformation is possible only when we bring forth those aspects of ourselves (and, by extension, our culture and society) that usually remain hidden. It also suggests that destruction is the inevitable result of our failure to attend to this task.

The first step in bringing forth what is within us is to shine a light to see what’s in there. Those things that are hidden may be positive in nature—hidden talents, inner beauty, and any of a number of manifestations of the divine. Or those hidden things may be negative—false assumptions, bigoted beliefs, dangerous fears and blind hatreds.

Part of the work we do as a religious community is to find ways to illuminate those things that dwell

in shadow, both one the personal level and in our larger society. We do this sacred work together because there is always more hidden than can be held by one person alone. And we do this work together because many of those hidden things are, in fact, not unique to us, but are universal issues and concerns.

This work of illumination is often difficult. Not only does it reveal things we’d rather not acknowledge, but it also brings to light our own responsibility for changing things that need to be changed. In other words, this work reveals that things are messed up (hardly surprising, but still difficult) and that we have the power to do something about them (which can be both heartening and frightening).

Anytime we delve below the surface, we find discomforting truths. And we find unimagined resources. Marianne Williamson suggests that “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.”

Bringing forth what is within us is challenging on multiple levels, then. However, if we are willing to engage in this work together, however challenging it might be, we are opening ourselves up to the possibility of transformation.

Make no mistake: this is holy work. Hard work, to be sure, but work that just might save us.