Marianne's
Journey
I
grew up in a middle-class Jewish family. When I went
to high school, I took my first philosophy class and
decided God was a crutch I didn’t need. What kind
of God would let children starve, I argued, or people
get cancer, or the Holocaust happen?
During
college, a lot of what I learned from professors was
definitely extra-curricular. I left school to grow vegetables,
but I don’t remember ever growing any. There are
a lot of things from those years I can’t remember.
Like a lot of people at that time—late 60s, early
70s—I was pretty wild. Whatever sounded outrageous,
I wanted to do. And usually, I did.
I
didn’t know what to do with my life, though I
remember my parents kept begging me to do something.
There was some huge rock of self-loathing sitting in
the middle of my stomach during those years, and it
got worse with every phase I went through. As my pain
deepened, so did my interest in philosophy.
I
always sensed there was some mysterious cosmic order
to things, but I could never figure out how it applied
to my own life. I believed other people were dying inside
too, just like me, but they couldn’t or wouldn’t
talk about it.
I
kept thinking there was something very important that
no one was discussing. I didn’t have the words
myself, but I was sure that something was fundamentally
off in the world. How could everybody think that this
stupid game of making it in the world could be all there
is to our being here?
One
day in 1977, I saw a set of blue books with gold lettering
sitting on someone's coffee table. I opened to the introduction.
It read:
"This
is a Course in Miracles. It is a required course.
Only
the time you take it is voluntary. Free will does
not mean that you can establish the curriculum."
I
remember thinking that sounded rather intriguing, if
not arrogant. Reading further, however, I noticed Christian
terminology throughout the books. This made me nervous.
I put the books back on the table.
It
took another year before I picked them up again—another
year, and another year’s misery. Then I was ready.
This time I was so depressed I didn’t even notice
the language. This time I knew immediately that the
Course had something very important to teach me. It
used traditional Christian terms, but in decidedly nontraditional,
nonreligious ways.
I
was struck, as most people are, by the profound authority
of its voice. It answered questions I had begun to think
were unanswerable. It talked about God in brilliant
psychological terms, challenging my intelligence and
never insulting it.
The
Course seemed to have a basic message: relax. I was
confused to hear that because I had always associated
relaxing with resigning. I had been waiting for someone
to explain to me how to fight the good fight and now
this book suggested that I surrender the fight completely.
I was surprised but so relieved. I had long suspected
I wasn’t made for worldly combat.
For
me this was not just another book. This was my personal
teacher, my path out of hell. As I began reading the
Course and following its Workbook exercises, I could
feel almost immediately that the changes it produced
inside of me were positive.
I
felt happy. I felt like I was beginning to calm down.
I began to understand myself, to get some hook on why
my relationships had been so painful, why I could never
stay with anything, why I hated my body.
Most
importantly, I began to have some sense that I could
change. Studying the Course unleashed huge amounts of
hopeful energy inside me, energy that had been turning
darker and more self-destructive every day.
The
Course, a self-study program of spiritual psychotherapy
contained in three books, claims no monopoly on God.
It is a statement of a universal spiritual curriculum.
There’s only one truth, spoken different ways,
and the Course is just one path to it out of many.
If it's your path, however, you know it. For me, the
Course was a break-through experience intellectually,
emotionally, and psychologically. It freed me from terrible
emotional pain. A Return to Love is based on
what I have learned from A Course in Miracles.
My prayer is that this book might help someone. I have
written it with an open heart. I hope you’ll read
it with an open mind.
The
Darkness
"The
journey into darkness has been long and cruel, and
you have gone deep into it."
When
I was most desperate, I looked for a lot of ways out
of my personal hell. I read books about how our minds
create our experience, how the brain is like a bio-computer
that manufactures whatever we feed into it with our
thoughts. "Think success and you’ll get it.
Expect to fail and you will," I read. But no matter
how much I worked at changing my thoughts, I kept going
back to the painful ones.
I
would work on having a more positive attitude, get myself
together and meet a new man or get a new job. But I
would eventually turn into a bitch with the man, or
screw up at the job. Sure, I could change my thoughts,
but not permanently. And there’s only one despair
worse than "I blew it," and that’s,
" I blew it again."
My
painful thoughts were my demons. Through various therapeutic
techniques, I’d become very smart about my own
neuroses, but that didn’t necessarily exorcise
them. The garbage didn’t go away; it just became
more sophisticated.
For
me, no matter what hot water I had gotten into, I had
always thought that I could get myself out of it. But
finally I got myself into so much trouble, that I knew
I needed more help than I could muster up myself.
My
fear finally became so great, that I wasn’t
too hip to say "God, please help me."
The
Light
"The
light is in you."
So
I went through this grandiose, dramatic moment where
I invited God into my life. After that, nothing really
felt the way I expected it to. I had thought that things
would improve. It’s as though my life was a house,
and I thought God would give it a wonderful paint job—new
shutters perhaps, a new roof. Instead, it felt as though
as soon as I gave the house to God, He hit it with a
wrecking ball.
"Sorry,
honey," He seemed to say, "there were cracks
in the foundation, not to mention all the rats in the
bedroom."
I had read
about people surrendering to God and then feeling this
profound sense of peace. I did get that feeling, but
only for about a minute. After that, I just felt like
I’d been busted. This didn’t turn me off
to God so much as it made me respect His intelligence.
It meant He understood the situation. If I was God,
I’d have busted me too. I felt more grateful than
resentful. I was desperate for help.
A
certain amount of desperation is usually necessary before
we’re ready for God. When it came to spiritual
surrender, I didn't get serious, not really, until I
was down on my knees completely. Nervous breakdowns
can be highly underrated methods of spiritual transformation.
They certainly get your attention. As painful as this
experience was, I now see it as an important, perhaps
necessary step in my breakthrough to a happier life.
For
one thing, I was profoundly humbled. I saw very clearly
that, of myself, I am nothing. Until this happens, you
keep trying all your old tricks—the ones that
never did work but you keep thinking might work this
time. Once you’ve had enough, you consider the
possibility that there might be a better way. That’s
when your head cracks open and you let God in.
People
are crashing into walls today socially, psychologically,
emotionally and biologically, and more people have felt
their heads crack open in some way, then have admitted
it to their friends. But this isn’t bad news.
It's good. Until your knees finally hit the floor, you’re
just playing at life.
The
moment of surrender is not when life is over. It’s
when it begins. Not that the moment of eureka, that
calling out to God is it, and it’s all Paradise
from then on. You’ve simply started the climb.
But you know you’re not running around in circles
at the bottom of the mountain anymore.
How
ironic! You spend your whole life resisting the notion
that there’s someone out there smarter than you
are, and then all of a sudden you’re so relieved
to know it’s true.
All
of a sudden, you’re not too proud to ask for help.