A Course in Miracles Lesson 167

There is one life, and that I share with God.

Lesson 167 is one of the more challenging daily lessons in the ACIM workbook. Its emphasis on non-duality, its exploration of the unreality of death, and its call that we seek to mirror the Thoughts of God now challenge me on many levels. I want to take the abstractions and make them specific, turn death into a metaphor, and in that way postpone perfection.

In a way, this lesson invites me to confront the source of my resistance to the Course in general, paving the way to the radical healing it can impart when we are ready and willing to learn only from the Holy Spirit.

Although I like talking about non-duality as much as the next student of A Course in Miracles, in truth the concept is overwhelming. Our brains incline toward opposites; the body’s perception is grounded in duality. The body is one thing, the bed is another, and the book yet another, and the window another, and the stars outside and . . .

And yet.

There are not different kinds of life, for life is like the truth. It does not have degrees. It is the one condition in which all that God created share. Like all His Thoughts, it has no opposite (W-pI.167.1:1-4).

If the Course is right here, then we cannot rely upon the perception inherent in our bodies. Our senses – guided by the brain’s narrow range of interpretation – can only mislead us. We need to make contact with the mind that will project no opposite because it knows that neither God nor truth can be opposed. This is not an intellectual experience, but a spiritual one. We can’t reason our way to it. We can be willing to learn, and so we learn, and at some point in the learning the conditions of knowing ourselves as mind are revealed. That is the path. It is more in the nature of a gift than an accomplishment.

Yet the brain insists it can somehow learn this on its own. It is the same old story ego always tells. We don’t want to give up the body’s centrality, its primary role in the dream. We like the warm bed while the snowy winds blow and we like the stars that flicker in the dark and cavernous sky. We want to bring God down to this level. Abstraction is terrifying to us because all we know is the specificity of separation. But we can’t have both. This lesson reminds us that we are going to have to choose.

At the heart of that non-duality is the teaching that death is not real. God created Life, what God created has no opposite, and so Life cannot end. There is no state in opposition to it.

There is no death because what God created shares His Life. There is no death because an opposite to God does not exist. There is no death because the Father and the Son are one (W-pI.167.1:5-7).

Again, this confounds our physicality – all that we know of life in the world is that it ends. When we are happy, we know that some unhappiness waits down the road. When we are joyful, we know that sadness is still in the wings. We know that our bodies and the bodies of those we love are going to slow down and break and eventually stop altogether. Don’t tell me death isn’t real. Everything I see in the world teaches me otherwise.

And yet A Course in Miracles insists there is no death. And because I am not ready to hear it, I look for compromises. I can accept the idea that death is not real because I can turn it into a metaphor of sorts. I can say, for example, that I will turn to dust but that dust will assume the shape of a willow tree or a rose or a dung beetle. In that way, well sure, life goes on.

But the Course does not teach that. I can compromise all I want but A Course in Miracles does not. Again, Lesson 167 brings me face-to-face with the tension between what I want and what the Course teaches. And then it’s on me: what do I want? How real am I willing to get with the Lord?

Finally, this lesson urges me to give up the specificity of separation and stop clinging to the supposed reality of death and simply accept that what I am in truth is a Thought in the Mind of God – whole, pure, unchanging and eternally joyful. Why wait?

Let us today be children of the truth, and not deny our holy heritage. Our life is not as we imagine it . . . We will not ask for death in any form today. Nor will we let imagined opposites to life abide even an instant where the Thought of life eternal has been set by God Himself (W-pI.167.10:1-2, 4-5).

And I say: yes, that sounds nice. I’ll get to it tomorrow. Tara Singh said that there are two problems: one, we can’t see a truth and two, we think we can put off God until tomorrow. This lesson suggests that we don’t have to do that – that we can slip out of the awful dream of separation and wake up to Oneness now. And in response, we hedge. We like the idea of it, we’re happy to talk about, maybe write about it but . . . we aren’t going to do it. Not yet.

So seeing our resistance that way – having it brought so clearly to our awareness – what can we do? It seems impossible sometimes, the idea that we can just stop being locked in the experience of bodies and brains, stop fighting against love, stop insisting on the fever dreams inherent in the sleep of forgetfulness. It’s too much. It’s too hard.

At the end of the lesson, we are reminded that all we have to do in the world is be willing to learn. If we make our decisions with the Holy Spirit and allow healing to happen on His terms, then this dream of hell will gently and happily shift to a shared dream of Heaven. And then the step from sleeping to waking will be as if it were no step at all.

A sleeping mind must waken, as it sees its own perfection mirroring the Lord of life so perfectly it fades into what is reflected there. And now it is no more a mere reflection. It becomes the thing reflected, and the light which makes reflection possible (W-pI.167.12:3-5).

When we face our resistance, we see what blocks the recognition of God’s Love. We don’t have to do anything about it. When we see it clearly and associate it with our unhappiness, then we are ready to allow Jesus to show us a different way. We are ready to let the Holy Spirit assist us in a new way of seeing. All that is done for us, according to our willingness. The new life is already there and as it is revealed we are reminded that it is our truth, and our source, and our real life.

Lesson 167 is hard, but it is also a sign of fidelity. We are ready to go deeper and see more clearly the nature of the separation, and thus move more surely in the direction of atonement. That movement is itself joyful – reflecting Heaven – and ensures our safe awakening in God.

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A Course in Miracles Lesson 166

I am entrusted with the gifts of God.

Some clarity comes as we get clear about the futility of our designs and methods. We begin to see that we can’t fix anything and – deeper yet – don’t even really understand what “fixed” might mean. We can’t do a thing and even if we could do a thing, we wouldn’t know what thing to do.

In other traditions, we call this a “bottom.” We realize our powerlessness and the unmanageability that goes with insisting we can be in control.

So what do we do?

A Course in Miracles suggests this is not such a bad place to be. Note that it doesn’t say it’s a fun, happy or painless place to be – quite the opposite in fact (M-4.A.5:2-3). But it does suggest that once we reach this particular branch of the road, something useful and helpful is at last possible.

Your ancient fear has come upon you now, and justice has caught up with you at last. Christ’s hand has touched your shoulder, and you feel that you are not alone. You even think the miserable self you thought was you may not be your Identity. Perhaps God’s Word is truer than you own. Perhaps his gifts to you are real (W-pI.166.9:1-5).

When we come to that place where we do not wish to go back, accept – barely, perhaps, but undeniably – the presence of mighty companions, and have no clue how to proceed, then we are at last ready to perceive God’s gifts that are already given to us. We have slowed down enough, become willing enough – and spiritually unencumbered enough – to sense what is, and sense that it has always been here, independent of time and independent of our wish that it be somewhere or something else.

God’s Will does not oppose. It merely is. It is not God you have imprisoned in your plan to lose your Self (W-pI.166.10:1-3).

When we stop projecting an opposite or wanting something different or other, then God’s will emerges and clarifies. It becomes real to us. This is how the metaphorical veil lifts – we stop trying so hard to hold it in place. And most of us do not let go voluntarily. Rather, we simply exhaust ourselves – for years, lifetimes perhaps – in our efforts to keep God away. At last we give up.

And then what is always there – the gift that was given – is finally perceived.

[God] does not know about a plan so alien to His Will. There was a need He did not understand, to which He gave an Answer. That is all. And you who have this Answer given you have need no more of anything but this (W-pI.166.10:4-7).

Lately I have been praying on my knees. Who knows why? The pain and anguish of life has been intense and the temptation to just dump it all over everyone is strong. Meditation and reason aren’t helping. So I go back to where it all began – the simplest prayer I know. In a position of humbleness – signifying willingness – I hang my head and say simply “help me, Jesus. Help me. Please.”

And then I run through all my problems and resistances. I’m embarrassed to be praying in such a childlike way, I don’t think Jesus is “out there,” I’m ashamed that I’ve been an ACIM student for this long with no obvious improvement and so on and so forth. I apologize for rambling and then I ramble some more.

And I end the prayer by asking that I be reminded of what is already given. Just that. Despite my desires and ambitions, despite my fear and confusion, I know in the end that this is all I need. Whatever wanting stands in its way, the clarity of the need cannot be compromised now. I won’t ask for anything else.

Please: show me what is already given. Please.

I woke late this morning and didn’t walk the dog until close to 9:30 – after making pancakes, grading papers and that sort of thing. The sun was bright and I thought: where is my darkness? Where is my solitude? Oh my God what is happening?

“Keep it simple,” Jesus whispered. “Just breathe and keep it simple.”

And so the dog and I walked. And about a mile or so into the forest we came to a clearing. The pine trees were a deep luminescent green, lit by the sun. A breeze kept sifting snow from their limbs and in the sunlight each thin flake sparkled like a rainbow. So much loveliness all at once – it was like falling face-first into an Emily Dickinson poem. The chickadees were singing and in the distance I could hear crows. When I knelt to say thank you, I saw mouse tracks everywhere, and the tiny caverns where they duck back towards the earth. It was impossible not to laugh at how foolish I’d been. It was impossible to imagine anything other than this simple loveliness, this perfect unadulterated happiness.

And so what? It is not me but what we are together that renders what is broken and wretched beautiful and whole.

One walks with you Who gently answers all your fears with this one merciful reply, “it is not so.” He points to all the gifts you have each time the thought of poverty oppresses you, and speaks of His Companionship when you perceive yourself as lonely and afraid (W-pI.166.11:3-4).

And so it is done and all that remains is the happy laughter and the joyful extension of what was always ours together. Breathe. Keep it simple. Together we are home.

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How Does A Course in Miracles Define Love?

New and experienced students alike often ask: how does A Course in Miracles define love? The answer is both simple and revealing, and an understanding of it can greatly facilitate our ability to practice and learn from the Course.

The Introduction to the Text includes the cautionary note that A Course in Miracles does not “aim at teaching the meaning of love, for that is beyond what can be taught” (T-in.1:5).

It does aim, however, at removing the blocks to the awareness of love’s presence, which is your natural inheritance. The opposite of love is fear, but what is all-encompassing can have no opposite (T-In.1:6-8).

We can say, then, that love cannot be taught – its meaning lies beyond our limited capacity to understand – and it is also all-encompassing. It is everywhere and in all things.

The introduction goes on to point out (in language that truly does summarize ACIM) that:

Nothing real can be threatened.

Nothing unreal exists.

Herein lies the peace of God (T-in.2:2-4).

Thus, we can say that Love and God are synonymous in the course, and that a real appreciation of this fact is not something that we can grasp merely by intellect alone. As Helen Schucman herself pointed out, the course is meant to be lived. This includes its understanding of Love. Thus, coming to an appreciate of Love as the course frames it is more a function of willingness and insight than reasoning something out. Love is given to us – it is already here. What A Course in Miracles does is teach us how to get rid of all the psychological and metaphysical baggage that obstructs our awareness of this simple truth.

The course also distinguishes between love with a capital “L” – what we have been talking about so far in this post – and love with a lower-case “l,” which is the special sort of love that we tend to feel for spouses, close friends, good meals and artists and so forth. Special love is always premised on individual tastes and wants and it always represents the ego’s efforts to get, which is how it sustains itself. 

The Love of God – in which one remembers a peace that surpasses understanding – is both for everybody and from everybody. It doesn’t know separation – of self from God or you from me or anthing.

Thus, Love as A Course in Miracles contemplates it, includes a contemplation of unity as the fundament of our shared existence. 

It is simple to say “God is Love” or “Love is one.” But to practice that on a daily basis is challenging. Most of us do not simply snap our fingers and wake up in Heaven. We take one step forward, half a step to the side and then two or three steps backward. Yet the call of Love drives both our willingness and desire to continue practicing the course – reading the text, tending to the daily lessons, studying the manual, going to study groups, writing or teaching. It is Love that invites us to remember it, and in remembering it, to extend it.

Love is what we remember, however dimly. Its call has not been totally obliterated. Somewhere in the twisted hatred of ego, a thread of melody – a hint of the great Love that we are in truth – echoes and re-echoes, ever calling us back to Itself. 

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The Means of Grace

I often say that we are in this awakening thing together. This can sound like a bit like the coach rallying the team for a big game. On some level, it is that. It’s good to know that you share my commitment to practicing A Course in Miracles, and to awakening, whatever that means. On a long and sometimes frightening journey, supportive companions are a blessing.

But on a deeper level, we need each other not only to say “good job!” or “hang in there!” but also because it is not possible to wake up alone. We are literally one another’s savior and – in one of those metaphysical twists you can spend lifetimes deciphering – we give to each other the power to awaken us.

It’s like I want to go to Boston and I have the car and the keys but it’s not until I give you the keys and say would you drive me to Boston that I can actually go.

It only seems like we’re alone. It only seems like we can do this ourselves.

You cannot wake yourself. Yet you can let yourselves be wakened (T-29.III.3:4-5).

And how do we “let ourselves be wakened?”

You can overlook your brother’s dreams. So perfectly can you forgive him his illusions he becomes your savior from your dreams (T-29.III.3:6-7).

Simple. And yet . . .

This has always been one of the trickier parts of the course for me. It invokes relationship. Some of you know – because I write about it a lot – that most mornings I wake quite early and walk with my dog in the woods and fields. Then I come back and drink tea and pray and study and then ease into writing.

Those are sanctified hours for me. Yet – and I am only just learning this – they are somewhat empty if they do not translate to the balance of the day. What good is salvation if it disappears as soon as my five-year old daughter pokes her head in and asks will I make blueberry pancakes?

Indeed, a salvation – a Heaven, say – in which I have to grit my teeth over students who didn’t read the assigned Emily Dickinson poems, grouse about having to clean the bathroom, or feel aggrieved because I actually have to cook dinner for my family isn’t much of a Heaven at all.

And so the movement in my practice these days is into relationship – I am working on accepting that my brothers and sisters (in all their myriad forms) are not impediments to grace but the very means by which grace reveals itself. It’s not that solitude is bad or that I can’t carve out chunks of time to pray and study – I can and even should – but that I have to be careful of the inclination to parse experience into what is sacred and what is not.

As I have written about recently, there is no middle ground in this process. If I am willing to really look into that – to undo my resistance to it – then it can bring a helpful clarity. It can facilitate a real peace.

I am drawn these days to the course’s introduction. I remember seeing it for the first time in my aunt’s house on Cape Cod. It was electric – so much so that I had to close the book and put it away for many years! But now I find in its uncompromising directive the key to a peace that cannot be undone.

Nothing real can be threatened.
Nothing unreal exists.
Herein lies the peace of God (In.2:2-4).

Like Polaris – like Basho’s haiku – those lines restore a sense of purpose and certainty. They reawaken the awakening energy. In their calm insistence that confusion is optional and the end sure, I am able to remember why I am here, and you too.

Within the dream of bodies and of death is yet one theme of truth; no more, perhaps, than just a tiny spark, a space of light created in the dark where God still shines (T-29.III.3:1).

Forgive me – reflect that loveliest of lights – so that I can make my way back home! And I will do the same for you, as best I can.

Make way for love, which you did not create, but which you can extend. On earth this means forgive you brother, that the darkness may be lifted from your mind. When light has come to him through your forgiveness, he will not forget his savior, leaving him unsaved (T-29.III.4:1-3).

So yes. We are in this together. And I say: thank you. Thank you and thank you and thank you!

The Solution is Simple (That’s Why I Resist It)

There is a great story in the Zen tradition that you probably know. A farmer’s horse runs away leaving him with no means to work the fields. “What a pity,” his neighbors say. “Poor you.”

“We’ll see,” says the farmer.

The next day the horse comes home leading three wild horses. “That’s great!” say the neighbors. “Lucky you!”

“We’ll see,” says the farmer. “Maybe it’s good, maybe it’s not.”

The next day his son tries to work one of the new horses. It throws him and his leg breaks. “Wow,” say the neighbors. “That’s really too bad.”

The farmer replies, “maybe it’s bad. Maybe it’s good, though. We’ll see.”

The next day the army comes through, drafting able-bodied youths for war. Obviously they can’t take the farmer’s son. “Incredible news!” the neighbors say.

And the farmer – who is obviously a very patient man – says, “maybe it’s good. Maybe it’s bad.”

And on and on it goes.

In that story, I’m the neighbor. Every day I tell the farmer what’s good and what’s bad. Then I go to the coffee shop and babble about Heraclitus’ river. Then I go home and lecture my kids that time and space aren’t real.

I’m so busy being wise and making sure everybody knows it that the Truth – and the faith that makes seeing Truth possible – are altogether lost to me.

It’s a recurring theme lately. I let go and a grace so deep and still appears, leaving me silly with joy and then . . . I take seriously the idea that “I” did something serious and important and so ought to do it again. And then we’re off to the Separated-from-God races.

A Course in Miracles puts it this way:

You are still convinced that your understanding is a powerful contribution to the truth, and makes it what it is. Yet we have emphasized that you need understand nothing. Salvation is easy just because it asks nothing you cannot give right now (T-18.IV.7:5-7).

I tend to skip over that last sentence because its implications are so powerful. The whole course in right there. Whatever salvation requires is already quite literally at hand. I don’t have to do another ACIM lesson, re-read Tara Singh, meditate more or wake up at 4 a.m. and walk the dog through snowy woods while muttering in the direction of Jesus.

Those are the rituals the egoic self offers in place of the simple truth that if I’d like to wake up – like right now – then I can.

If I am willing to really read that sentence – if I am willing to give it some space – then I am going to have to see that the reason I am not saved yet is because I don’t want to be. I’m not ready. I am still deeply, even cunningly resistant to Love. And while that doesn’t make Jesus pound whiskey in a backwoods roadhouse, it also doesn’t leave me especially happy or peaceful.

And I really want to be happy and peaceful.

So what do I do? More and more it doesn’t seem especially complicated. When I am unhappy and in conflict it is because I am keeping Jesus – that loving symbol of the healed mind – at a distance. Since that’s the problem, the solution is to invite him back.

When I don’t walk my dog, I get irritated. And it’s funny in a way. Sometimes I’ll be talking to Chrisoula, telling her that I didn’t walk Song yesterday and here it is 9 a.m. and I still haven’t walked her and why do I do this to myself? And to her? Why is life so full and busy that I forget about my dog? Is it because I hate God? Or God hates me? Does God hate dogs? Why do I love being separated from truth so much? Maybe I should read some Ken Wapnick or Krishnamurti. Maybe I should write a blog post. Maybe I should return to the Catholic church and go to confession. Maybe . . .

And Chrisoula will say gently, “why don’t you take Song for a walk right now?”

I forget how simple the solution is. I like talking and thinking! The first time I sat in a Zendo, the teacher said that we were going to practice not paying attention to our thoughts and I was like, “wow, you must have really boring thoughts.”

She was right though. The Truth needs nothing at all from us. It’s not an insult. It’s freedom. And it’s ours whenever we’re ready.

The Journey Ends in Love

There is a certain pattern to my practice of A Course in Miracles. Lately it has become more pronounced. I stumble into a state of genuine happiness and peace. It’s heavenly, if you’ll forgive a cliche. But then – after a minute or a few hours, sometimes even a day or two – doubt and fear enter. I doubt the feeling is real or that I’m worthy of it. I fear losing it.

In response to that fear and doubt, two things happen simultaneously. First, I clutch at the peace, trying to make it mine because I don’t trust God. I don’t trust the peace. Second, I become dismissive. “Oh well. I don’t really want that love anyway. Find some sucker, Jesus.”

And then, sure enough, I am separated from the love of God. And it hurts. It hurts so much.

Here is what I am learning right now: it is important to see that I am choosing against Love. I don’t want to see that and I certainly don’t want to say it. But it’s true. I want the Love that Jesus offers to be conditional. I want an external God to offer and then jerk it away, like a cat toying with a mouse. That’s how God is, right? Cruel and spiteful, delighting in my misery.

If I can convince myself that this is true, then there is nothing to be done. It’s not my choice to be unhappy; it’s just how it is. I am God’s victim.

That’s the lie that allows me to blame someone else – God and Jesus, in this case – for my unhappiness.

In a way, we preserve the egoic self – we make it real – by defending it against these imagined attacks from God.

There is a wonderful line in the course that asks us: do you prefer that you be right or happy (T-29.VII.1:9)?

Be glad that you are told where happiness abides, and seek no longer elsewhere. You will fail. But it is given you to know the truth, and not to seek for it outside yourself (T-29.VII.1:10-12).

Sometimes I feel that somewhere, somehow, I whispered “yes.” I thought God wasn’t listening. Probably I hoped he wasn’t. But he was. He sent Jesus and the Holy Spirit. He sent other helpers, too. And they have taught me so patiently. Their lesson is so simple: I am doing this to myself. And so I can choose not to do it. They will help.

No more than that, but no less either. It is enough.

Before this Love – even with such teachers beside me – I am scared. I don’t want to lose myself – small, sad and pathetic as that self is. I think it’s all I have. To surrender it and live in God . . . what is that but annihilation? What is that but loss?

And so it goes. It is too late to turn back and tarrying has become so painful. “Follow me,” says Jesus. “You who labor and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.”

One or two steps only and the journey ends where it began: in Love.