Since I had brain surgery in August and was diagnosed with incurable brain cancer, there’s one question I have been asked more than any other: does my prognosis change my religious views or my relationship with God?

 

Short answer: no. But the full answer is a bit more complex. I grew up with an atheist humanist Unitarian Universalist mother and a proudly atheist father deeply suspicious of organized religion. When my sister Heather and I were young, our mother took us to the Unitarian Universalist Church of Arlington, Virginia. I remember mostly being bored, and also embarrassed when my mom was performing  interpretative dance in the church service. But I also remember looking out the windows and seeing sunlight filter through the trees outside. I loved that, and it still comforts me when I am in the sanctuary. My wife Betsy is now a member of the church, and I occasionally go to services.

 

Our time in the 70s and 80s at this church came to an end when, at a New Year’s Eve party hosted by the minister at the time (who is no longer there), he scolded me at dinner, in front of all of the guests, for not eating my broccoli. I was 10 at the time. My mother had been growing more frustrated with the church before the broccoli incident, for reasons I do not recall. But she wasn’t going to stand for the minister bullying her son at a party. That and some other factors led to us leaving the church.

Proselytizing has never been an effective strategy to sway me. In grade school, when we had to recite the Pledge of Allegiance, I stayed silent during the “under God” part. Born a rebel I suppose. 

After high school, I attended Mary Washington College (ahem, University now), where I was buffeted by two countervailing forces: my own growing interest in the life, teachings, and works of Jesus Christ, and the numerous, seemingly omnipresent proselytizers of the campus Intervarsity Christian Fellowship (ICF). Every day, when I sat down to eat in the dining hall, a member of this group sat with me, uninvited, and made a show of friendship. But with an agenda. 

“Do you believe in God?” 

“I don’t want to discuss that.” 

“Why not?” 

“It’s not your business.” 

Or I’d just say “no,” which emboldened them to ask me why. I tried various strategies, but nothing made them stop questioning me and asking me to join their church. I wondered if this group is called “Intervarsity” because converting students to their faith was a varsity sport. On top of all this, several ICF members told me that my Jewish friends were going to Hell if they did not convert. Sometimes they told them this to their face. I was appalled.

Not only was I proselytized to by ICF members relentlessly, but the college administration joined in the effort. During my first semester, the college library had a massive display in the entrance titled “Why You Should Be a Christian.” Subtle. I’ll point out here that Mary Washington was, at the time at least, a state school. Separation of Church and State? Not much in evidence at Mary Washington when I attended. During my second semester, my dorm hosted a Christian minister. He lived with us for a few days, speaking individually to residents and giving group talks about Christianity. To say it was oppressive is an understatement. I transferred to the College of William & Mary after my freshman year. The aggressive proselytization was a significant factor in my decision to leave.

After college, I moved to Boston, sharing a small (but very cheap!) apartment with my cousin and good friend Clint. I found a job at a truly dysfunctional nonprofit (a story for another time!), Around this time I began reading books about the lives of Jesus and his disciples, by Nikos Kazantzakis and Par Lagerkvist. I loved these books deeply. They are nuanced, passionate, and full of empathy and thoughts about how we should live our lives and treat each other. This, to me, is the point of religion. In contrast to my Mary Washington experience, in Boston people saw me reading The Last Temptation of Christ while riding the T to work, and… left me alone. These books had a profound impact on my thinking not just about Jesus, but about poverty and hunger. About what we owe each other. When I tried out some church services later in life, I found all of these ideas conspicuously absent. I heard nothing about mercy and compassion, nothing about alleviating the suffering of people in poverty. Nothing about economic or social justice.

In college at William and Mary, I discovered sacred Renaissance mass settings by Josquin Desprez, Johannes Ockeghem, Nicholas Gombert, and others. They awed and moved me deeply. I found certain mass sections especially powerful, regardless of the composer. For example: 

Kyrie Eleison, Christe Eleison, Kyrie Eleison (“Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy, Lord have mercy”)

Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis, dona nobis pacem (“Lamb of God, who taketh away the sins of the world, have mercy on us, Grant Us Peace”)

Now to be clear, I still did not consider myself a Christian. But at Mary Washington, I had taken a sociology course called Social Problems, which opened my eyes to the widespread economic disparity and suffering in America (and around the world). It resonated with a wellspring of compassion and desire for justice that I had not fully recognized I had within me. Mercy and peace: I yearn for these in our world.

/On the other end of the spectrum, the Credo portion of the mass largely leaves me cold:

“Credo in unum Deum. Patren omnipotentem. Fractoren celi et terrae, Visiblilium immium et invisibilium” (“I believe in one God, the Father almighty, Maker of heaven and earth, and of all things visible and invisible.” I don’t know Latin, but my creed would be “I believe in zero Gods”) Besides I don’t find the number of Gods to be all that interesting.

A Sei Voci’s recording of Josquin’s mass settings are raw, vital, and gorgeous. I especially love the Agnus Dei from the L’Homme Arme masses.

Around when Betsy and I got married at the First Presbyterian Church of Arlington (VA), I even got baptized. I know — it surprises me too! But it had no meaning for me, and I found services cold and devoid of everything I found compelling about Jesus and His story. We left the church, tried a few other faith homes, and eventually settled at the Unitarian Universalist Church of Arlington (yes, the one where I was shamed over broccoli!). I attended services and participated in some activities like covenant groups. Both of our children went through RE at UUCA. It has certainly played an important role in all of our lives.

I identify with the values of UUCA. I wholeheartedly ascribe to the eight principles of Unitarian Universalism (copied from https://www.uucsr.org/beliefs/?gad_source=1&gad_campaignid=22762627610&gbraid=0AAAAACm6MfO1PULzK8iqd1fiHgoIdk_ek&gclid=Cj0KCQiAubrJBhCbARIsAHIdxD_pMV3WBMRh5zIqIHx2_g5G_DeUJbi-odTf68tEcryrCaxHdMSmLgsaAqHNEALw_wcB):

1. “The inherent worth and dignity of every person.
2. Justice, equity, and compassion in human relations.
3. Acceptance of one another and encouragement to spiritual growth in our congregations.
4. A free and responsible search for truth and meaning.
5. The right of conscience and the use of the democratic process within our congregation and in society at large.
6. The goal of world community with peace, liberty, and justice for all.
7. Respect for the interdependent web of all existence of which we are a part.
8. Journeying toward spiritual wholeness by working to build a diverse multicultural Beloved Community by our actions that accountably dismantle racism and other oppressions in ourselves and our institutions.”

One aspect of Unitarian Universalism that causes confusion and some snickering is the lack of a belief (or disbelief) in a specific God. Some jokingly refer to it as the Church of To Whom It May Concern. But this lack of a proscribed deism is a huge part of its appeal to me. It is what makes the church truly welcoming to all.

As appealing as all of this is to me, over many years of going to services (and some recent years of not going very often), I have realized that I find much more spiritual meaning in music and nature than in organized church services.

None of these experiences over my 52-year life instilled in me a deep and abiding faith in the Christian God, the idea that Jesus Christ is His son, or the miracles like the resurrection (though I find music depicting the resurrection very moving). I find musical depictions of the resurrection (in the Sanctus portion of the traditional Masss setting) powerful, not out of a sense of awe at the Christian miracle of the resurrection, but because composers who set this to music are so deeply moved and inspired by the idea that they compose incredible music. For me it is really the idea of rebirth that is moving: the bright light of a new beginning after a dark period. It’s about Spring, renewal, and hope. This affects me even though I have never really believed the story about the stone rolling away from the tomb after three days and Jesus Christ being resurrected. Who knows, maybe that is what happened! But it has never convinced me. But the resurrection choruses from Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis, Bach’s B Minor Mass, and many other renditions are emotionally powerful portrayals of light and new beginnings emerging from the dark.

So after all that, no, brain surgery, a brain cancer diagnosis, and a terrifying prognosis of my long-term survival chances — none of this has changed my feelings or views on religion one iota.

Not that I am devoid of spirituality. I find spiritual meaning in nature, music, kindness, and kinship. I still listen to Josquin and others, and commune in nature. I find beauty and love in acts of compassion. And I would be remiss if I did not recount some musical experiences that did, at least for a moment, make me believe that there is something more. God? The Force? Something else? I don’t know.

I will recount one such experience. In 1996,  my good friend George found out that Nikolaus Harnoncourt and the Chamber orchestra of Europe (COE) were going to perform all nine Beethoven symphonies at Carnegie Hall in New York City over the course of a week. We jumped at the opportunity and immediately booked tickets and a hotel in Stamford, Connecticut. George and I discovered Harnoncourt when we shared an apartment at William and Mary (where he transferred at the same time, from Virginia Tech). We ordered a lot of CDs from Columbia House Records and BMG Music. In one pivotal decision, George decided to order the Harnoncourt COE Beethoven symphony cycle instead of the Herbert von Karajan Berlin Philharmonic cycle. Karajan had been George’s favorite until he learned of his complicity with the Nazi party during World War II. So he ordered the Harnoncourt cycle. When it arrived, we immediately listened to the iconic 5th symphony. Our jaws dropped. This was revolutionary music making! We had never heard Beethoven like this before. It turned out that Harnoncourt revolutionized the performance practice of pretty much all the music he touched: he made it new, and vital. So no way we were going to miss these Carnegie Hall concerts!

Every concert was a monumental musical experience worthy of its own blog post, but I will focus on the performance of Beethoven’s sixth symphony — the “Pastorale.” The “Pastorale” captures musical ideas and feelings Beethoven had on his many walks through the woods, one of his favorite activities (hey me too!). He jotted out a program to guide listeners in what is being depicted in each of the five movements:

1. Awakening of joyful feelings on arrival in the country
2. Scene at the brook
3. Merrymaking of the country folk
4. Thunderstorm
5. Feelings of happiness and gratitude after the storm

The first three movements are rustic and genial, featuring lilting melodies in the strings and woodwinds. The thunderstorm depicted in the fourth movement is a mighty, earth shaking explosion! Especially in person, in the acoustically perfect Carnegie Hall, with the mighty COE. It is genuinely scary at times. So the final movement truly inspires feelings of happiness and gratitude after the storm. In a “making of the symphonies” video of rehearsal excerpts (well worth watching!), Harnoncourt tells his orchestra that the finale is like a child’s prayer at night, full of innocence and love. At one point he tells the orchestra, “Now sleep, little elephant.” The COE followed its terrifying thunderstorm with the quietest, most heartfelt, loving prayer. I have never heard strings so soft, gentle, and beautiful. After the last quiet notes played, and the orchestra fell silent.The entire audience at Carnegie Hall was stunned, George and me included. Nobody clapped for 10 seconds, because we did not want to disturb the heavenly peace of that finale. George and I were emotionally overcome, unable to speak for 30 minutes. We walked to a coffee shop and finally found our words. We both independently felt like something spiritual happened in that concert. The music had revealed the face of God. I still remember how I felt, and I am eternally grateful to have been there.

Now I don’t know what God this music revealed the face of. Harnoncourt’s interpretation of Beethoven’s “Pastorale” symphony did not point the way to becoming a Baptist or Presbyterian or anything else in particular. But it called to mind Yoda’s words to Luke Skywalker in the Empire Strikes Back about the force: 

“For my ally is the Force, and a powerful ally it is. Life creates it, makes it grow. Its energy surrounds us and binds us. Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter. You must feel the Force around you; here, between you, me, the tree, the rock, everywhere, yes. Even between the land and the ship.” https://genius.com/George-lucas-yoda-quotes-annotated

We are all interconnected, and spirituality, or the Force, or life energy, or whatever you want to call it, binds us together. At Carnegie Hall, the life energy of Nikolaus Harnoncourt, the Chamber Orchestra of Europe, and Beethoven’s luminous Symphony Number 6 illuminated that connection, reminding us we were all one, sharing a communal experience.

Why are we here? What are our responsibilities to ourselves and to each other? How do we live a good life, a life with meaning? What good can we do in our time on Earth? What will be our legacy? To me these are the most urgent questions, the ones that motivate me to seek meaning, connection, and beauty in the world around me. I have found that I find the most insight into these questions not in a church, but in music, nature, advocacy, volunteer service, and random acts of kindness. That is my religion, and my surgery and diagnosis only reinforced that truth. May it ever be so. And may the Force be with you, always.