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Yoga or Demonisim? That was the title in the number two spot on Go0gle when I searched “Holy Yoga” in my preparation for one of my current freelance projects. There are several words that come to my mind concerning this tired debate and none of them are nice. I feel a bit like the Mad Hatter in the most recent film adaptation of Alice in Wonderland with Johnny Depp. You know…”I’m thinking of words that begin with “N”- numskull, narrow-minded, nincompoop…”
The thing is, while it is most important to be civil, there is also a moment when one has to stand up for the reputation of the body of Christ. I have been in the church since I was only a couple of weeks old, and I know how handy it is for a minister or writer to have a sensational rallying cry, but we as the church do nothing for the glory of God when our arguments are arrogant and poorly constructed. This brings us to the most fundamental reason the whole Yoga/Demonism argument is flawed- whether or not anything we do is glorifying to God, demons, or ourselves for that matter, takes place in the heart of the individual.
I am a follower of Christ. I have determined that the pursuit of my relationship with him is the most important one in my life. I wake up each day, make the coffee, grab my Bible and recommit to that pursuit with the simplest of prayers, “My God, once again, I lay down all I am for the sake of all you are.” Then, I get up and try to live my life in the light of that. I stumble a lot along the way. I snap at my kids. I eat too much sugar. I forget to pay the orthodontist. Sometimes, when my spatially challenged 16-year-old almost kills me while driving, I yell every bad word I used in highschool. I say I’m sorry. I receive grace. I get up and keep moving forward.
And I love yoga.
On that mat, I meet with God, and for those of you who are saying rather snidely (shame on you), “Yes but which God, hmmmm?” (You just forgot that bit about me growing up in the church. I know how you work.) I proudly state, that He is the one who is the same yesterday, today, and forever. The one who inhabits all things. The one for whom and by whom everything we see was created. His name is Jesus.
So, let’s give the yoga/demons bit a rest, shall we? The church has greater causes to champion. There are children who are hungry, orphaned, and abused. Even in America, young girls are sold into the sex trade. There are multitudes bound by addiction. There are too many people who are ruled by despair when we, the Church, know where to find hope.
“The person who has forgotten what God treasures, will not be filled with joy.”- Oswald Chambers
Last Sunday evening, I took my three girls to Sweet CeCe’s, an idyllic little frozen yogurt shop in downtown Franklin, TN. Every kid I know loves Sweet CeCe’s. The front window is decorated with large glass jars filled with seasonal candy. The entire place is awash in a whole lot of pink and feels like stepping into the candy store of my childhood dreams. Every time I am there, I half expect Willy Wonka to step out from behind the counter to offer me a stick of gum that will never lose its flavor, or some other magical confection.
My girls and I sat around a small table as they dove into bowls of candy topped yogurt, chatting. After awhile, my attention was drawn to a nearby television broadcasting a University of Tennessee basketball game.
“Mmmm…basketball,” I said. “I haven’t been to a game in so long. I forgot how much I like it.”
“I’m actually pretty good,” said my oldest.
“Well, you are tall like me, so be prepared for coaches to start seeking you out at some point. When I was your age, I was so tall that everywhere I went people asked me the same question- Do you play basketball? I wanted to say, ‘No. I don’t play anything because my parents believe wearing shorts is a sin.’”
My children know this part of my childhood, but they always react with fresh incredulity.
“Wow…Mom…wow…that’s sad.” (As in lame, not grievous.)
“Yep,” I say. “And I had to dress out everyday for P.E. in the 8th grade. Everyone else was wearing shorts and t-shirts, but I was something special. My parents bought me a pastel yellow sweat suit. I was the biggest nerd who ever lived- uncoordinated, all arms and legs. I was quite a sight loping down the court during P.E. in my yellow sweat suit. The kids gave me a nickname- The Flying Banana.”
At this, we all dissolve in the giggles.
“And,” I said, “I was in an inner city school! It is pretty astonishing that I got along as well as I did. The irony is that the kids at that tough school were so much more accepting of me than the small Christian school I attended the year before.”
The conversation moved on to other topics, but I was left pondering the tremendous force that so shaped my life- legalism. I thought about how much it hurt me as a child. My parents were good people who were just trying so hard to be right. I spent years as a young adult struggling my way to the light of freedom, hurting a lot of people along the way because I was profoundly bitter. As far as I can see, legalism is consistent in that one respect- it always bears the fruit of bitterness.
I have tried to wrap words around this force, legalism, that so defined me but all descriptions seem to fall short. It is an impersonation of spirituality, the rules and regulations that leave out the heart, or maybe even kill it. It is focusing on a point, to the destruction of the whole. It is a plastic model of all that is beautiful, mysterious, and miraculous. It is man playing God while pretending to serve him.
It is a thousand images of despair that flood my memories. It is standing in front of a class of students, the painfully shy new kid while the teacher who had never before spoken to me excoriated me because the long skirt I was wearing had a slit that was 3″ long. It is listening to a firebrand sermon with a group of kids like me, and then standing alone under the condemning eyes of the adults, as every other kid went to the altar at the end to “make a decision”. I stayed put because I knew I had not heard from God, and it felt like a betrayal of both of us for me to fake it. It is that same group of kids who went down front to find holiness telling me how ugly I was. It was them throwing things at me as I sat alone at the front of the bus.
It is finding myself doubting there was a God at all, and then coming to a place where I realized that if there was, He hated me. It is sinking down into deep depression a couple of years afterwards. It is despising my self and wanting to die. It is an ocean of tears shed alone in the dark.
And then, after a few more years, it is discovering I could no longer shed tears at all.
Biblical scholars tell us that the ancient Greeks, from whom we have received so much of our Biblical translation and interpretation, had only one word for “law’, nomos, for which the connotation is punitive and negative. The Hebrew word for God’s law, the beloved Torah, was always considered by the ancient Hebrews to be God’s gracious gift to man to teach us how to “hit the mark” in life. The God presented to me was far from this image of a loving Creator.
Somehow, God broke through my misconceptions of Him. He began to dismantle the lies first; then He began to show me the truth. It is not about condemnation, it is about grace. It is not about the rules, it is about loving God and being loved right back. It is about acceptance, and freedom, thankfulness, and joy. It is the mystery of a life lived with a greater holiness than legalism alone could ever produce, because this life is lived in gratitude, love, and the Spirit of God. It is about still being human, still failing, but getting back up again because I can rest in God’s forgiveness. It is about remembering the devastation and laughing out loud because now I can see that God redeemed it all.
It is about looking back at that girl, that awkward, lonely girl who was all arms and legs in a yellow sweatsuit and seeing how precious she was, just like she was. It is about making peace with The Flying Banana.
There is great comfort in the stillness of Creation, the permanence and peace of it all. Sometimes, I steal away to my porch swing or the chair by the back window as the sun paints the morning in a watery gray light with a cup of coffee in my hand. I stop to gaze out at the trees, beautiful and barren in the winter chill, their branches like works of art stretched to the heavens, and my heart is struck silent by the holiness of it all. Then, I think -”This has been here waiting for me all along- waiting while I wrestled with my world, waiting while I tried to be brave and productive and good. Waiting while I drug around my broken heart, painting over grief with a smile.”
But God is in the stillness of Creation, and He always calls to the broken hearted- “Come. Be still.”
And then, there is nothing to hide. Defenses are stripped bear as voice of God speaks silently in the frost, the wood, the branches of the pine. At last, tears fall, prayers are whispered, and hope is found once again as I am reminded that He not only formed all I see, but he walked it as well when he folded up the power of the universe to wrap it in humanity. They called him a man of sorrows. They said he was aquainted with grief. (Isaiah 53:3) His incarnation was an act of humility driven by his love for us.
And He still bends low to comfort me, speaking in the stillness of Creation.
“The world is not respectable; it is mortal, tormented, confused, deluded forever; but it is shot through with beauty, with love, with glints of courage and laughter; and in these, the spirit blooms timidly, and struggles to the light amid the thorns.”- George Santayana (philosopher, essayist)
