What Is Spirituality? Part III: A Spirituality that Liberates
I once attended the biennial conference Facing Race, a gargantuan convening of activists, nonprofit professionals, artists, journalists, academics, politicians, and anyone with a self-perceived stake in movements for racial justice. I noticed from the off that the sacred was named and honored throughout. Especially speakers who were Black or Indigenous appealed to their spiritual orientation to the universe in their visions for collective liberation. People closest to the wound with the biggest stake in its healing grounded themselves in language most would describe as spiritual or even religious.
In November, I attended a conference in Canada that opened and closed with local Native elders leading a predominantly white crowd in ritual and prayer. At a secular conference, they bore no qualms in calling it a prayer. If it had been a Presbyterian minister leading us, eyes closed and heads bowed, white liberal hackles would've been raised, I reckon, but we respected and appreciated the spiritual leadership of Indigenous tradition. Why the difference? White guilt and timidity, probably. But a more precious gem may also dwell here.
Indigeneity is diverse, of course, but it’s also true that for many Indigenous traditions, identities of politics, race, and spirituality exist together; the venn diagram is nearly just a circle. It would be disingenuous for many Native activists to articulate a vision for political progress while suppressing the wisdom of their religious tradition, which is wrapped up in racialization. And while, statistically, most Black folks who are religious in the US are Christian, which was the religion enforced by white supremacist captors in the transatlantic slave trade, this Christianity centers liberation. Black Christianity is not the empire asserting dominion over the world. Black Jesus, as James Cone’s writing taught me, is god of the oppressed.
We on the political Left can and should embrace the wisdom of Black and Indigenous spiritualities, if they aren’t already ours, because of the core characteristics animating both: a spirituality for liberation, of kinship to each other and the world, of the interconnectedness of everything, and of solidarity with the outcast. But those of us who are white ought not appropriate Black and Indigenous wisdom. Instead, we must knit together something new with something old of our own.
PRE-CHRISTIAN WISDOM
When I left Christianity, consequences awaited me. Most of them are positive. I no longer live in shame for my sexuality nor fret about people’s afterlife situation, for example. But I did lose things. I lost some intergenerational community. I lack ritual. I and my loved ones suffered from losing the virtuous aspects of discipline, influencing my descent into alcoholism. But these losses pale in comparison to what my ancestors left behind in their allegiance to Christian empire and assimilation into whiteness.
Much has been written about the invention of race and the lie of whiteness, which I will not adequately summarize here. Don’t take my word for it, but suffice it to say for now that race was conceived for the purposes of justifying genocide, slavery, land theft, economic exploitation, and class domination. As Ta-Nehisis Coates says, “race is the child of racism, not the father.” The people who initially described themselves as white were European-descended Christians differentiating themselves from non-Christian Indigenous people wherever they were found in order to steal their land and labor. Christianity, of course, was born in North Africa before the idea of whiteness, but since the latter’s invention, the timelines of Christianity and whiteness have become inseparably entangled. They are the twin heads of the hydra of human domination with the sharpest teeth, hooked and venomous, and regenerating like sharks’.
In Sacred Earth, Sacred Soul, John Philip Newell seeks to differentiate Celtic Christianity from imperial Christianity, the latter of which embraced the wisdom and traditions of the people indigenous to the British Isles enduring for centuries before the arrival of Christian evangelists. These “pre-Christian” ethics celebrated the inherent divinity of what we would call nature, but which doesn’t exist as separate from humanity. These traditions welcomed the cycles of life through ritual. They preserved wisdom through storytelling. They honored their ancestors. For the most part, all this was suppressed by imperialist Christianity, deemed pagan (then a pejorative) and unholy. Their wisdom was sacrificed at the feet of economic domination, but what was wise about it is immortal.
I have ventured into the realm of racism and white supremacy in an article on spirituality (feeling sweaty?). But I am convinced that because the damage of Christian empire is interrelated with the harms of white supremacy, our collective healing from these systems resides in the reclamation of the wisdom of our pre-Christian and, for those of us who are white, our pre-white ancestors. A healing from white supremacy and religious trauma awaits us on the other side of these systems’ decay, even if a new Christianity reemerges from the compost. By recultivating and evolving ancient traditions and wisdom, we might find a spirituality that liberates and heals.
WOKE AWARENESS
A premise of this writing is that misinterpretation of terms risks disconnection and regress. Few words exemplify this more than woke, which has mutated to the brink of irrelevance now that the likes of Sean Hannity have used it as a racist dog whistle. But we ought not forget its intent. To be woke is to be conscious of structural oppression, specifically the ways in which culture, laws, institutions, and individuals dehumanize and disadvantage Black people in particular, and how structural racism pervades every aspect of society. Woke people see how anti-Blackness is also wrapped up in the oppression of others, such as trans or disabled people, and indeed that the liberated world we envision benefits the same people responsible for inventing and weaponizing whiteness. Woke folks simply pay attention to the world as it is.
This attention is synonymous with awareness, a core characteristic of spirituality, especially that which is inspired by Buddhist thought. Certainly not all spiritual people are politically conscious, and not all woke people perceive themselves as spiritual: my understanding of spirituality includes palm readers who never vote and activists who scorn the supernatural. In fact, the rapid rise of mindfulness and the yoga industry in popular culture seems overrepresented by crunchy white women. Even still, these awarenesses are linked, I argue. Spirituality is investigative and curious. It wants to see the world and, at its best, when it discovers injustice, it cares to upend it. Awareness precedes collective action and is integral to the work that comes first: our individual transformation (see The Inner Work of Racial Justice).
In order to end white supremacy, we have to notice it, which starts in our bodies and hearts where the narratives of dominant culture sink their talons. In order to achieve something like racial justice, reparations must be paid to Black people, which starts with seeing and acknowledging the harm that was inflicted and taking accountability for non-repetition of that harm, all of which takes place initially within ourselves (if you want to read something brilliant on racial repair, start here). It starts with bringing compassionate awareness to the lies we have believed in order for healing to commence.
THE LEFT IS LOSING
Peculiar how it is religious conviction that animates the political Right, and is understandably maligned by the Left accordingly, but ideologies akin to religion also inspire the activists whose visions will save us, as I described above. I don’t subscribe to a binary understanding of politics that barricades America into just two warring factions, nor do I think these militaristic metaphors help us. That said, the Right is winning. They are better organizers, in part because they have successfully wedded their political agenda with what they see as god’s will. The American Republican party can achieve such galvanization of disparate types of people - duping working-class white people into thinking they have more in common with Donald Trump than they do with their Black coworkers - because they weaponize the twins, whiteness and Christian empire.
In my home state, the Governor has signed no fewer than six anti-LGBTQIA+ bills into law in recent months. Gov. Bill Lee is actually a family friend, a former missionary with my parents. Because I used to be just like him, I know that his politics and his religion constitute one conviction, one driving force that pervades how he sees everything. I loathe his politics, but I still sympathize with his orientation toward government. If you really did believe that certain people are going to a literal burning hell, you would govern accordingly. My spirituality leads me to believe that capitalism is evil, and if I were Governor, I would govern accordingly.
The danger of the Right is not that its leaders infuse their political conviction with their spirituality, it’s that the policies that ensue proliferate oppression and the destruction of the planet for the economic and social benefit of the so-called 1% (and the Democrats are only marginally less terrible). I am not suggesting that we embrace the theocratic strategies of the Right, but we should be honest about why they’re successful and reflect on whether our sometimes antagonistic relationship with the sacred is helping the cause.
What we might hope for, instead, is a spirituality that liberates, one that might also blend our organizing with our spiritual “why”. If a spirituality that liberates could unify people, it would surely be in solidarity with those who are oppressed and struggling to survive. It would probably look a lot like Indigenous tradition, which perceives both human and non-human creation as relations (please read Becoming Kin). It wouldn’t necessarily replace any outright religion, but it would root out those religions’ dogmatism and hegemony. It would probably infuse some humility into science, interrogating our notions of “knowing” in service of discovery and awe. A spirituality that liberates would abolish empires of domination and power in all their unreformable manifestations. It would emphasize the interconnectedness of literally everything, including our enemies. It would be fueled by love and cultivate it into justice.
CONCLUSION
Enlightenment has eluded me. My actions and thoughts often disagree with my values. Liberation is a constant process - this is what distinguishes it from “freedom,” which connotes a state of being. But I’m feeling more connected to myself and the world than ever before. I am healing from the trauma of religion. I can hold both the damage and the gifts of my spiritual heritage together.
I will welcome the time when we no longer need the term spiritual because we have mended the wounds of religious imperialism and dogmatism. Until that time, when I tell you I’m spiritual, here’s a little of what I mean:
My eyes are open. I’m paying attention.
My heart is open. I’m willing to be wrong and eager to evolve.
My mantra is “enjoy everything,” even misery. The only way out is through.
I am a student of “religions” but find no reason to identify with any particular one because we’re all swimming in the same ocean of this.
I’m forever curious - not to know, but to ask and to learn.
Gratitude does not equal hope, but it is magic.
I don’t bifurcate myself into personal and professional, body and spirit, angel and demon; I seek integration of everything.
I’m not that mystical; I think about work or groceries or Liverpool when I meditate. But I practice such things for the value of discipline.
I suspect the non-duality or interconnectedness of everything is the whole actual point.
And I love writing about all this shit, which must mean something.
If you made it here to the end, I’m so grateful. Please let me know if this affected you by sending me a message.
Love,
Michael
