Recently, I was revisited by an experience for early in my ministry. As a young pastor I was serving in a rural/residential congregation. One of the men in the church had been a FDR Democrat, was a proud union member, a blue collar worker all of his life. He was a “man’s man.” When I knew him, he had been retired and enjoying some of “the fruits of his labors.” Then he ended up having a heart by-pass surgery.
I remember being with his wife in his hospital room when they wheeled him in from the recovery area. He was awake and doing reasonably well. When he saw me there, his pastor, he looked at me with tenderness and simply said, “I love you.” That was not what I, or his wife, had expected to hear him say. I appreciated the affirmation, but figured that his saying it was as much an effect of the drugs as anything else. Then, I had my own heart by-pass surgery. There is a feeling, an experience, that is hard to explain, but I don’t think it is as simple as “the drugs.”
I was reading an autobiography by Huston Smith, a person who has explored and written about world religions. In one section, as he describes his encounter with a Hindu teacher, Swami Satprakashananda, he recounts that the “Swami asked me, “Last night, when you were sleeping but not dreaming, was your mind aware?”
Smith then discussed a few other occasions when people, including himself and his daughter, were coming out of the effects of anesthesia or from being unconscious due to a concussion, and exclaiming things like, “I love you!” “It is so beautiful!” “I am so happy! I am so happy!”
“It is then, in dreamless sleep, that the mind is closes to divinity.” The dreamless sleep may have been induced by the anesthesia and other drugs, but when I awoke, the feeling was more than just having been drugged. Yes, there was pain. Yes, there was a grogginess that let me know I didn’t need to try and get up on my own. And there was something more. There was a calmness and peace that I felt, even when they were pulling the tube out of my throat (not fun, but not scary, either). There was a real sense of gratitude that came from somewhere deep inside of me. Even the young man who was volunteering at the hospital and seemed annoyed when he was asked to do something, I found myself thanking him for the little that he did do. To make the nurses and aids laugh was pure joy to me.
You can chalk up the euphoria that I felt as the remnants of the anesthesia, if you like. For me, the better description is that in my deep, dreamless sleep, when I was hanging in the balance between life and death, very literally, my mind was at it’s closest to divinity.
Tell me, does this description resonate with you, at all? Have you ever had such an experience? What was it like for you? Were you able to draw on that experience, later, when you needed a little extra peace? I would love to hear of your experience.
I remember being with his wife in his hospital room when they wheeled him in from the recovery area. He was awake and doing reasonably well. When he saw me there, his pastor, he looked at me with tenderness and simply said, “I love you.” That was not what I, or his wife, had expected to hear him say. I appreciated the affirmation, but figured that his saying it was as much an effect of the drugs as anything else. Then, I had my own heart by-pass surgery. There is a feeling, an experience, that is hard to explain, but I don’t think it is as simple as “the drugs.”
I was reading an autobiography by Huston Smith, a person who has explored and written about world religions. In one section, as he describes his encounter with a Hindu teacher, Swami Satprakashananda, he recounts that the “Swami asked me, “Last night, when you were sleeping but not dreaming, was your mind aware?”
ME: “Obviously not.”
SWAMI: “Oh, but you were.”
ME: “If I was aware, I was not aware of being aware.” Case closed.
He waved my objection aside. He said that in sleep, when we are not dreaming, the mind remains active and alert. But just as dreams are instantly forgotten, even less can this subterranean level of the mind’s operation be retained in waking memory. Yet it is then, in dreamless sleep, that the mind is closest to divinity, and were it not for our nightly immersion in that deeper mental reality, we might go crazy. [Huston Smith, Tales of Wonder: Adventures Chasing the Divine, HarperOne, 2009 p.115f]
Smith then discussed a few other occasions when people, including himself and his daughter, were coming out of the effects of anesthesia or from being unconscious due to a concussion, and exclaiming things like, “I love you!” “It is so beautiful!” “I am so happy! I am so happy!”
“It is then, in dreamless sleep, that the mind is closes to divinity.” The dreamless sleep may have been induced by the anesthesia and other drugs, but when I awoke, the feeling was more than just having been drugged. Yes, there was pain. Yes, there was a grogginess that let me know I didn’t need to try and get up on my own. And there was something more. There was a calmness and peace that I felt, even when they were pulling the tube out of my throat (not fun, but not scary, either). There was a real sense of gratitude that came from somewhere deep inside of me. Even the young man who was volunteering at the hospital and seemed annoyed when he was asked to do something, I found myself thanking him for the little that he did do. To make the nurses and aids laugh was pure joy to me.
You can chalk up the euphoria that I felt as the remnants of the anesthesia, if you like. For me, the better description is that in my deep, dreamless sleep, when I was hanging in the balance between life and death, very literally, my mind was at it’s closest to divinity.
Tell me, does this description resonate with you, at all? Have you ever had such an experience? What was it like for you? Were you able to draw on that experience, later, when you needed a little extra peace? I would love to hear of your experience.
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