The Divine Location

by Rachel Creager Ireland

A customer came in to the motel one day and told me that he had a message for me. He seemed young, barely more than a kid, but then again he had fine lines around the mouth and eyes, like someone who’d had some wear and tear over more than just a few years. He was a bit uncomfortable telling me that he was supposed to tell me that God loves me. He had been staying here for a day or two, but the job he came to do had been delayed, and he was praying and asking God why he was stuck here, and repeatedly received the answer that it was because he was to talk to me.

Later I was telling Kevin about this conversation, and at this point in the story he began rolling his eyeballs. It’s not unusual for customers or potential customers to witness their faith to him, often immediately before asking for a reduced room price, then moving on to making the distinction between themselves and lazy freeloaders who expect government handouts. There’s not really anything in this recitation which would elicit from Kevin, or me, any sympathy or affinity with the person speaking.

But this customer, call him Eli, was different. Well, and I’m different too. I’m willing to take any help I get from supernatural sources, and the earthly sources assure me that denomination doesn’t matter, so I told Eli that I appreciated his message, even though it was a surprise because I do not identify as Christian. I told him that I usually pray to God as a Mother, not a Father, but that I was grateful for the message because I had been doing a lot lately to clear my negative thinking and feelings that hold me back. Eli didn’t have any problem with that. He told me that God is both Mother and Father, and that it takes bringing in Light to clear away the crap (my word, not his). He asked if he could pray for me, so we sat down and he expressed to Jesus’s Dad how much he hoped that I would come to see how much He loves me, to see that all the thoughts I carry about my inability to fulfill what is asked and needed of me are lies, and that I would come to see and understand how much God has invested in my happiness and prosperity.

As he prayed, and even before the prayer began, I could feel a charge of energy moving through me. It began, interestingly, in my root chakra, but before he was done, it was all through my body, and the tingly feeling persisted after Eli left the building. He told me that was the Holy Spirit.

He ended up staying for several days, and we spoke again later. He told me how he had found God while in rehab, how he’d never known who his father was, how he wanted to see Jesus, to look into His eyes. I kept feeling that Jesus’s eyes would probably be like Eli’s, open and searching, grounded in faith, but not afraid to see reality and be in it. Finally I said, “I think I’m supposed to tell you, that if you want to see Jesus, look in a mirror.” That one seemed pretty simple to me, but it was big to Eli.

At this point I started to wonder if we had been brought together not just for my benefit, but for both of us. Because what I had told Eli was something that maybe it takes a New Age pagan Buddhist yogi to see, which is that God is not located out there somewhere in the sky, or somewhere else equally distant and unattainable. The Divine is right here, not sitting next to us at the table, but within each of us, not in a little apartment somewhere in the brain, but living and working in every cell, in every electrical impulse that jumps from neuron to neuron. According to A Course In Miracles, God is love, and God is eternal, which is to say, without limit. Therefore there can be nothing in the universe which is not god, which is not Love. There is nothing you could say about God that would not be entirely true of yourself. You are God, which is not to say that you are above or more powerful than anyone or anything, but that you are everyone and everything. You are me. I am you. We are Jesus, and recovering addicts, and healers and swindlers and banksters and loggers and loin-clothed yogis fasting on the top of a mountain in India, and housewives in the suburbs going upstairs to make sure the beds are still made.

Before he left, Eli asked me if I thought I’d ever be Christian. I almost said, “Maybe I already am.” Instead I told him that I don’t know, but that I find the teachings of Jesus to be inspiring. I stopped short of calling myself Christian because I don’t know if Christianity, as people know and mean the word, can allow for the Divine to be seamlessly woven into the fabric of my being. Can it? Is Christian God always out there? Or not?