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A Frank Confession(used by permission of the author) I grew up in the San Fernando Valley, and my family were members of ____ Church, a run-of-the-mill establishment church in west Van Nuys. From preschool up to the age of sixteen I attended first "Bible School" and then Confirmation classes, usually three or four days a week, in addition to going to public school. My parents were not actually that religious, but my father would regularly lead us in saying Grace, and we always observed Easter and Christmas with our extended family and friends. Religion was valued in our house not because it was God's truth but because it was a family tradition, an ethnic identity; most of my relatives were far more active in organizations like Kiwanis Club than in their church. In our house the Bible was never considered anything remotely like the literal word of God. I remember my mother once describing her actual religious beliefs in terms like, "I think there's something there, but I don't know what." Somehow (probably from my older brother), I found out around the age of five that some people didn't believe in the reality of the God of the Bible, or even in the existence of any kind of god at all. As I was already at that age often in a place where I was surrounded by people worshipping and praying to the Biblical God, I started to pray for some kind of sign from God of His existence. I kept this up for a few years, but by the age of eight I had become firmly convinced that indeed there was no God. In later years I came to see the logical difficulties with dogmatic atheism and began to profess agnosticism, but this was merely to demonstrate my antidogmatism, not out of any actual belief in the possibility of God. I still loved much of the Bible as literature (the Book of Jonah, Song of Songs, and the Gospel of John, just to name a few), and in fact considered the first six chapters of Ecclesiastes as perhaps the very greatest philosophical statement ever written. Though I couldn't take it at all seriously as history I still appreciated it as myth (from early childhood I've never gotten enough of tales, legends, fables, stories of all kinds), and while I could earnestly endorse commandments like "Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself," the same chapter of Leviticus goes on to say "Thou shalt not sow thy field with two kinds of seed; neither shall there come upon thee a garment of two kinds of stuff mingled together," so I was not inclined to see in it an altogether appropriate guide to modern living. It would take several tedious pages to adequately describe the biographical details of my journey from confident antireligious skeptic to doubtful seeker. Perhaps it was mainly fueled by the emotional stresses of a contemporary adolescence, and even further dramatized by all the larger existential questions implicit in just being human. It was also a conscious intellectual process, initiated by my discovery of the idea of mysticism per se. The welter of conflicting dogmas, contradictory claims, and social expediencies that so turned me off to the world of organized religion became less important when I saw that a thread of real religious experience seemed to run through most if not all religions. Still, having the intellectual recognition that it's possible to have a personal relationship with God (whatever that may be) seems a far cry from actually having the relationship itself. So as I was leaving my teens I began the search for some kind of personal experience of God. I was mistrustful of organized religion (of organizations in general), and philosophically an extreme individualist, and therefore did not become a member of any movement, but I widened my previous readings in literature, history, science, and philosophy, to include things like astrology, Kabbalah, Hinduism, and Buddhism. My circle of friends also widened to include people like Mr. O., who introduced me to much along these lines, including ceremonial magic and Thelema. I moved to San Francisco in 1976. Shortly thereafter, I began to study the life and writings of Aleister Crowley, and it quickly appeared that here was a religious philosophy particularly well-suited to me. It exalted individualism. It valued both reason and revelation, claiming to properly balance them. It inveighed against all dogma, seemingly including that of its own adherents. After more than a year of reading, and many discussions with Mr. O., we found out from a local newspaper that a branch of one of Crowley's magical orders was active over in Berkeley. Mr. O. consulted some friends he trusted and we became convinced that this group was indeed a legitimate lineage of the Crowley tradition, so we decided to check it out. There are numerous permutations of Thelemic organization, varying widely in aims, in styles of ceremonial, and ranging from masonic to ecclesiastical to collegiate in structure. The group which we found at that time (Ordo Templi Orientis, or O.T.O.) is a quasi-masonic social club and mystery school which offers members a series of secret initiation rituals, along with maintaining a church wherein public communion rituals are performed. Mr. O. and I attended one of these public rituals, were not turned off by the "vibe," and applied to undergo (in early 1978) the group's introductory initiation ceremony. The O.T.O. is a "secret society" in the sense that efforts are made to keep the details of the initiation ceremonies a secret from those who have not undergone them. This fact has led to a great deal of silly and/or hysterical behavior from both conspiracy theorists and misguided initiates alike. Personally, I find that the secrecy may teach one some valuable lessons in self-discipline, humility, and fellowship; it can also serve to heighten tensions which are sometimes subsequently released in experiences of self-recognition. And while I may not divulge any word or action of the rite which I went through at that time, I may certainly describe what I experienced spiritually. Looking back I recognize this as one of the most defining events of my life, and yet it seems that writing about it is nearly impossible for me. More than a decade afterward I tried my best and came up with this entirely inadequate poem:
To bathe in a shining fragrant swell of polyphonic melody is nothing to the song the universal being sings. Nor can poor symphonies of meaning in these strings of words ever cast one nilth of all the spells that are contained in just one nothingth of infinity. And strive I may with every art that ever graced the human race, I'll never convey the slightest clue to anyone of what I knew and now know just as memory of light of song of ecstasy — but if I could, you'd see...
For the space of what could not have been more than three seconds of clock time I experienced what I can only explain as eternity. And though its bliss exceeded anything I could ever have imagined, in its aftermath I was frightened by its absolutely overpowering reality. Many intense and varied experiences followed in the months and years to come, often made more confusing by my fear and attachment. Though a few glimpses of realization did not establish me in conscious union, they did set me firmly on a path toward it. I do not write all this to impress you with my "spiritual attainments" (an eye-of-the-beholder judgement in any event) or to justify my own particular practices, but merely to illustrate the basis of my viewpoint. I know that none of my experiences constitutes anything remotely like scientific proof of the existence of God; however, they are unquestionably my authentic experience, and I personally believe wholeheartedly in God, and in God's intimate connection with all beings. Fortunately, every time I think I've figured it all out, it changes in some way, a door opens or shuts, a tollbridge or an unmarked fork appears in the road ahead. My outlook has to widen to include more of the universe. Along the way I've managed to avoid the worst ravages of dogmatitis by continuing to study and derive inspiration from most of the major religious traditions. The Thelemite's holy scripture has in it the phrase, "All words are sacred and all prophets true," and I've taken this as a license to follow my own natural bent in this area. Thus I've come to profess a God which lives in each and every faith, yet is not limited to any single one of them. Still, I can also recognize that as particular human beings we must each come to our own particular interface with God. I am a Thelemite not because Thelema has the best revelation, or the latest revelation, or the truest revelation, but because it turned out to have the revelation with which I could fall in love and find happiness. I have no need to convince others, but nonetheless my bias is now explicitly declared. I am a Thelemite. Make of that what you will. (originally published in February 1997 in The Thelema Lodge
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