Playing with God

By Ozzie Ostwalt

Playing with God is a meditation on finding God and developing spirituality through the everyday joys, heartaches, loves, and challenges that all human beings experience and endure. This series of reflections began with a Lenten discipline and grew into a year-long experiment wherein the author simply tried to pay attention to spiritual realities underlying mundane life. God is everywhere; spirituality infuses everything; the divine energy that defines God is with us always. These are among the truths the author wants to highlight through his reflections on developing spirituality through intentionality. During his spiritual quest, Ostwalt discovered that God was particularly accessible when he (the author) was at playeither with his family, through sports, through the arts, or even when at play with the family dog. Playing with God challenges the reader to learn to play with God by recognizing the divine that resides in our everyday activities.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Dec 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781512763973

Ozzie Ostwalt

Ozzie Ostwalt has been teaching about religion in the university setting and in various churches for three decades. He earned his Ph.D. from Duke University and has published five academic books on religion. Playing with God is Ostwalt’s first book on practical spirituality and was an outgrowth of his own year-long spiritual exercise. Ozzie lives in Boone, NC with his wife Mary, daughter Heather, and dog Wiggles. He and his family live by the credo, “a family that plays together, stays together.”

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Copyright © 2016 Ozzie Ostwalt.

Photography by Tristin Derrick

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Scripture taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

Scripture taken from the Holy Bible, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc. All rights reserved worldwide. Used by permission. NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION® and NIV® are registered trademarks of Biblica, Inc. Use of either trademark for the offering of goods or services requires the prior written consent of Biblica US, Inc.

New Revised Standard Version Bible, copyright © 1989, Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright ©1996, 2004, 2007, 2013, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

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ISBN: 978-1-5127-6398-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-6399-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-6397-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016918886

WestBow Press rev. date: 11/21/2016

CONTENTS

Preface

Introduction

1. Playing with Animals

2. Playing with Sports

3. Playing with Children

4. Playing with Machines

5. Playing with Love

6. Playing through Pain: Fear, Loss, and Anxiety

7. Playing with Music, Art, and Entertainment

8. Playing with Spirit and Nature

9. Playing with Otherness and Religion

10. A Final Word

Works Cited

for life, love, spirit, and joy

to

Mary and Heather

and Wiggles

PREFACE

I’d never done anything like this—until I did. I didn’t set out to write a devotion/reflection book. Rather, it went something like this:

A few years ago, the Sunday school class I teach was trying to decide what to do for Lent. We wanted to do something different, a bonding activity we could do together. I innocently suggested that Lenten discipline need not require giving up something but could instead include adding something! Lenten discipline need not be based on deprivation. So, I agreed to write a daily reflection through the season of Lent, if each member of the class would agree to read them—our discipline would be a group discipline aimed at thinking and reflecting upon some spiritual topic daily. The reflections evolved. What began as somber Lenten topics transitioned to investigations of the spirituality behind everyday events. As I became more and more attuned to the Spirit around me, I began to look at the world differently—everyday life became for me an occasion for the Spirit. As the reflections morphed toward locating the Spirit (the other) within the familiar, I found my greatest inspiration springing from those closest to me, namely my family. Stories emerged—personal revelations, declarations, and attempts at humor came to dominate the reflections. So, I apologize when my reflections pick at the personal—it’s just how I say I love you.

Lent came and went. By Easter, I had grown accustomed to writing the reflections and the class had come to expect a daily email from me. So, I continued writing daily for several months, before cutting back to a couple of times a week for another couple of years. At some point, I realized I had written hundreds of reflections, some good and some not. After some prodding from members of the class, I decided to take a stab at collecting the little essays into a book.

It will be easy, everyone encouraged. You’ve already done all the work. So, in my innocence, I set about to collect the reflections I thought would make the best book. Well, despite the fact they were already written, this has been the hardest task of all—which to keep?—how to organize?—how to edit properly? I’m not at all sure I’ve been successful—perhaps the reflections should have stayed in their original context, written sometimes in a moment and time that can’t be recaptured years later.

Nevertheless, the book emerged, and here it is. I hope my original Lenten conspirators will enjoy reading once again reflections I offered in the past. And, I hope new readers will enjoy these ruminations on life and spirit. In any event, I thank my class for encouraging me in the first place, for reminding me when I had taken too long between reflections, and for waiting patiently for the printed version. I thank Mary for her long hours of proofreading and feedback and Christy Lohr for her support and insight. And most of all, I thank my family, Mary, Heather, and Wiggles, for allowing me to depend upon them for the best lessons about life, love, spirit, and joy.

It is to them I dedicate this work.

EDITORIAL NOTE* These reflections were written over time. Rather than reproduce them sequentially, I have chosen to rearrange them thematically. In addition, I made the decision to leave date and age references as they were first written rather than try to update them.

INTRODUCTION

Play with me. The request of every kid, everywhere—and, I imagine, also of God.

Play is the activity most pleasing to.… God. Bagger Vance

(The Legend of Bagger Vance, 188)

I believe in God, the Father.... (The Apostles’ Creed)

I believe in God, the parent.... Ozzie Ostwalt

God as parent is one of the most persistent metaphors alive in Christian theology. This metaphor is used to describe the love of God, divine punishment, and, in general, the relationship God maintains with human beings. The metaphor allows us to relate to an ultimate, transcendent, infinite God in a human way. Before becoming a parent, the metaphor of God as parent had power in my life. After I became a parent, the metaphor defined God in a whole new light—if I can love my child as much as I do, how much more must God’s love for his children manifest itself in our divine, spiritual relationship. I count it joy to claim God as parent. I believe in God, the parent....

As I reflect on my role as parent, I have come to think that, as the quote from Bagger Vance above suggests, a parent’s joy is at its greatest when the parent’s children are at play. During the past 18 years, I have spent countless hours on the floor, playing with dolls and dollhouses, dressing up horses and cows, riding bikes, swinging on swings, kicking a soccer ball, baiting hooks, and such. I’d do, and still would do, just about anything to play with my daughter—such sacred moments. I’ve also spent countless hours simply watching—watching my daughter at play, on the backs of horses, on the soccer field, with a golf club in her hand, or simply being ridiculously silly. As I watch my daughter at play, my heart swells with joy, and I must say that I am never happier than when my daughter is at play—joy begets joy. This is why I can agree with Bagger when he suggests that God likes to see His children at play.

So, I say—let’s make God really, really happy!! Let’s play!

And the more I play, I find that playing, sport, leisure—Recreation, or Re-Creation—give us space to re-imagine our world and our relationships, especially if we play with God, or for God. Then we make life and play a spiritual activity, we inhabit the spiritual realm, and we learn to see a spiritual reality in the midst of our playful living.

This is the basis of Playing with God—assuming a spiritual ground, this book presents a series of playful reflections that challenge the reader to reexamine assumptions about daily life. The reflections in this book are gritty with everyday life struggles, tinged with humor and skepticism, non-traditional and playful, and always founded on the assumption that the matrix of existence, the fabric of our material world, is fundamentally spiritual, founded on a metaphysical reality that is always available to those who have the desire and the spirit to play.

Playing with God contains topical reflections that can be read as daily meditations or thematic explorations. The reflections are written primarily from a Christian perspective, but they include wisdom from many of the global religions. The reflections attempt to be as open and responsive to the world’s wisdom traditions as possible, and, in the spirit of gentle provocation, lead the spiritually sensitive on a journey of recognition and exploration of the possibilities of life lived without spiritual limitations. The reflections themselves are the result of my own year-long journey, during which meditation on the spiritual underpinnings of reality became the main focus of seeking and emerged through my own playtime. The resulting reflections demonstrate that spiritual reality infuses everything in life from the trials and tribulations of parenting, to the banality and excellence of popular culture, to the wisdom of dogs and animals, and to the insights available through humility and humor. Above all, the reflections and corresponding insights emerge through play, and reading the reflections should be done itself in the spirit of play.

But why choose play as a metaphor for spiritual seeking? Because I think contemporary Christians need to infuse their religious lives with a healthy dose of frivolity. In a word, we tend to take ourselves too seriously. And the only way to reinvigorate our search for the divine is to shake things up a bit. I connect with my daughter through play; I romance my wife through play; I speak to my dog through play; I interact with my friends through play; why shouldn’t I also seek out God through play?

Why, indeed? It seems appropriate to me, because Spirit itself plays. The Spirit, pneuma, breath, is uncontainable, blowing and wafting hither and yon, peripatetic in its nature like a child at play. If we want to cultivate spirituality in our lives, if we want to be more spiritual, we must learn to be more spirit-like, peripatetic, spontaneous, and dare I say, child-like. To cultivate spirituality in our lives, we must recapture the ability to play; we must embrace leisure; we must seek and find recreation in order to experience a re-creation of the ancient, undifferentiated spiritual ground. I find such play in a variety of life pursuits: running; interacting with the family pet; parenting; riding a motorcycle; working on an old truck; playing music; creating art; writing poetry. The commonality of these activities is that they give one space (sacred space) and time (transcendent time) to play, if only for a moment, with and for God. The central metaphor is PLAY—play, recreation, leisure—within our playful selves, we shall find the freedom to please God and re-create our ancient, spiritual selves.

CHAPTER 1

Playing with Animals

Animals harbor a wisdom much older and of a different order than our own. We should be attuned and open to what they have to teach us.

Be Still

Wiggles, my twelve-year-old lab mix, and I went for a hike today. What glorious weather—seventy degrees, sunny, slight breeze at the passes, comfortable humidity—just enough of the proper weather components to break a light sweat. The hike was moderately strenuous, so we got a bit of exercise in the bargain. But I wasn’t really on the hike for exercise. I was looking for something else.

As we walked, I thought of Thoreau and his walking meditations; I thought of Emerson and his finding God in Nature; I thought of the Tao Te Ching and its allegories of nature; I thought of how much I enjoy the woods and how I should make more time to immerse myself in the natural world away from the products of human civilization; I thought of how little time we spend in Nature; I thought of how far we have removed ourselves from the natural world with our lifestyles and technologies.

As we walked, Wiggles occasionally turned around and looked at me. I know that look, and it started a human-canine conversation:

Do we go back now? Wiggles entreated.

No. We’re not where we’re going yet, I said quietly.

Where are we going? Wiggles must have wondered.

I don’t know, I thought.

Deeper into the woods: the car noise from the road retreated further from our hearing. Now? Not yet. Deeper into the woods: a distant chain saw buzzed through the breeze. Now? Not yet. Deeper into the woods: a jet plane flew somewhere high above us. Now? Not yet. Deeper into the woods: the leaves rustled; a bird sang; the breeze caught the tree limbs; there were no sounds but the stillness of nature.

Now? Wiggles’ look suggested.

Yes, now. We’re here. We can rest, I said.

As we sat, I tried to hear something made by humanity. I could not make out a sound that was not of nature; no machinery; no background humming; no distant music; no sirens screaming; just blissful sounds of nature. Be still and know that I am God. (Ps. 46:10 KJV) Yes, I know, I whispered.

And, behold, the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the Lord; but the Lord was not in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but the Lord was not in the earthquake: And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice. (1 Kings 19:11—12 KJV)

Yes, Lord, there you are.

Elijah found God not in the storm and the fire but in the still small voice—in the stillness of silence. Paul was the fortunate recipient of a dramatic vision. For most of us, we’re more likely to find God in the still silence.

Be still, and listen to the divine silence.

The Amazing Shrinking Dog

Our family dog, Wiggles, has been on a weight-reduction regimen over the past few months. I have dreaded our vet visits for some time now, because I get the lecture every time. Veterinarians are worse than my own doctor about ideal weight, food portions, exercise, etc. To be honest, Wiggles had ballooned from an ideal weight of about fifty to a pudgy fifty-seven. Seven pounds doesn’t sound like much, but it represents over twelve percent of her body weight. For Wiggles to lose seven pounds would be like me losing about twenty pounds!! I don’t want to even think about it.

So, our vet visits would go like this: Wiggles and I would sit in the exam room waiting for the doctor. She would come in and say something like, The first thing that jumps out at me is ... and then she would quote Wiggles weight, and it just kept inching up with every visit. Then I would get the lecture and would leave feeling really guilty. I would defend myself: I run with her three times a week (an exaggeration); I never give her table food (a bald-faced lie); I’ve cut her rations already (wishful thinking). But in the end, I left knowing that the doctor was giving me advice that would probably extend Wiggles’ life and, most importantly, would help her joints in old age. The vet would say, The best thing you can do for your dog’s longevity and comfort in old age is to get her weight under control. The last visit, when Wiggles was pushing the scales toward fifty-eight, finally pushed me into action.

More consistent exercise: check! Fewer treats: check! Limit table food: check! And the most painful: cut her dinner ration. Wiggles’ favorite time of the day was dinner—she would wait to be fed, eat leisurely and save some for a later dessert, and then collapse into a nice long nap. On her new rations, she dives voraciously into her dog bowl and gobbles up all the food before I have time to wash my hands. Then she comes and pokes me with her nose and barks at me. Have you ever heard dog profanity?? That’s what I get after serving Wiggles’ dinner these days. She’s not happy with the new regimen.

But, it has worked. We went to the vet the other day and her weight was back at fifty. She looks great, and she has more energy, but she still lets me know that she doesn’t understand why I don’t give her more food. And that’s what bothers me. I wish I could explain to her that while more food might satisfy her appetite now, in the long run it would be bad for her. I wish I could tell her that discipline exercised now will pay dividends in the future. I wish I could convince her that she should not be allowed to fill all her appetites but that it is better to live moderately and soberly in order to live fully. Alas, she doesn’t seem to get it, so I am left with the task of deciding what is best for her. Every night, after the dog profanity, she calms down and looks at me pitifully with those big, brown eyes, begging for another dish of food, and I must say, No! No more!

I have decided that I have become Wiggles’ conscience in these matters—the force that leads to self-control. In this case, the control is externally mandated, I know, but she needs an external conscience. We do not, or we should not. We have a conscience, a gift from God. And when I have at times cursed my conscience for acting as a kill-joy, I know that it usually keeps me on the right track. But we have to cultivate our conscience in order to trust it. Growing in holiness cultivates our ability to make right choices, to control our appetites appropriately, and to practice sobriety in our lives for the sake of the good life. Growing in holiness also grows our ability to sacrifice, to delay gratification, to exercise self-control for the greater good in our lives, in our families, and in society. Freud talked about the super-ego, Wesley talked about sanctification, the Puritans talked about moderation, and the Proverbs encourage sobriety.

There is a wonderful passage in the apocryphal book, Sirach, on self-control: restrain your appetites….Do not revel in great luxury, or you may become impoverished by its expense. (18:30—32 NRSV Apocrypha)

So, my wonderful, dear, shrinking dog, do not think too harshly of me. I am but playing the role of your conscience, guiding you to a richer life, even though you may not appreciate it now.

A Path Untrodden

It is twelve degrees outside. Two inches of fresh snow cover the ground and light snow is still falling. The wind chill is below zero. I lace up my running shoes in anticipation of the solitude I will find on the trail through the woods. No one will be in the woods this early. I can run for miles by myself, on a pristine path of unspoiled snow, listening to nothing but my breathing, clearing my mind of all thoughts, running along a path untraveled—that’s what I want.

I hear Wiggles, my nine-year-old lab mix, clicking down the hallway. She knows what I’m up to, and she wants to go along. Normally, I welcome her company on my runs, but not today. I want to run alone, at my pace, unleashed and free. Wiggles bounds into my room and does the little dance she does when she wants to go running. I feel badly. She likes to run in the snow so much. Am I being selfish?

No Wiggles, I say firmly. Not today. She looks puzzled and her dance stops.

Wiggles sits in front of me and gently places her paw on my knee. This is Wiggles-speak for please. Her supplication begins to break down my resolve. Be strong, I think. No, Wiggles. Not today.

Wiggles sulks to the corner, lies down, lets out a long sigh, rests her head on the floor, and looks at me through the corners of her eyes. I look away.

As I head out, my wife meets me at the door. Where are you going? she asks incredulously. I thought I’d go for a little run, I say pleadingly. I love to run through the woods when it’s snowing. The solitude will be great.

The last time you ran in the woods, you were afraid you were going to have a heart attack and die, she responds matter-of-factly.

I wasn’t really afraid. It just crossed my mind is all.

Well, it’s colder today than it was then, and the trail will be slippery, my wife implored.

I’ll be careful. I promise. And I won’t go as far into the woods. And besides, you know where I’ll be. If I’m not back in a reasonable amount of time, you can call 911 and give them my exact location.

She gives me a look that leaves me wondering whether or not she would bother to contact the authorities, but I receive grudging assent and head out the door.

Once at the trail, I breathe in the icy air. It burns my lungs and stings my face, bracing and wonderful. I begin to run and head into the woods on a narrow trail. There are tracks in the fresh snow, running shoe tracks. Someone has been here already this morning. I am angry—how dare they spoil my pristine snow. I am angry at the interloper, but mostly I am angry at myself for allowing someone to beat me to the trail. I examine the tracks as I run to see what I can determine about this interloper.

Observation one: the tracks run in both directions, meaning that the interloper returned along the same trail and is gone.

Observation two: the interloper is male in all likelihood—the tracks are almost as large as the prints my size twelve running shoes make.

Observation three: he is a strong runner. The prints his foot falls make indicate a neutral gait, no over pronation that leads to joint problems, and his long strides suggest he is fast.

Observation four: he loves his dog. There are dog tracks running along beside the human tracks. The interloper brought his dog for a run. I think of Wiggles sulking in the corner and feel guilty.

Having observed all this, I have already determined that I will run past the interloper’s turnaround point so that I can still run on an untraveled path. I begin to feel better knowing that at some point up ahead, the interloper turned around, and that beyond will be pristine snow trails. But I have already run far into the woods, the interloper is a good runner, and I promised my wife I wouldn’t go as far this time. Well, I actually promised that I would be careful. I only suggested that I wouldn’t run as far. Moral equivocation—this is not good. I run on, determined to find a path untraveled. Why is it so important to me to run on fresh snow? I begin to doubt whether it is the undisturbed path I seek or whether I have entered into some kind of perverse competition with the interloper to see who can run the farthest. I already have adjusted my stride so it is longer than his. I guess I won’t know for sure until I’ve outpaced the interloper.

Finally, I reach the turnaround point for the interloper and his dog. There are no more tracks in the snow. I run on. I blaze my own trail. I am truly alone. The wind bites my skin, but I am not cold. The snow tickles my eyelashes. My sweat freezes on my upper lip. I see a small path off the main trail and I turn down it. I don’t know where it leads, but it most likely joins the main trail at some point since all these trails are connected. This trail is narrower, small tree branches tug at my arms as I run by, and briars catch my legs from time to time. I have found the undisturbed path, and I think of Robert Frost. I am on the right track, I think to myself. Then I remember Joseph Bathanti’s analysis of Frost’s famous poem. (Commencement Address) We normally think that Frost’s unfrequented road makes a positive difference in the life of the pilgrim, but the poet really doesn’t claim this, according to Bathanti. What if Frost’s remote road makes a negative difference for the traveler? What if my own remote path ends badly?

I run on, and soon I see the river up ahead and the mountain range beyond and the snow gently falling on the path. Oh, my path has made a great difference: my spirit expands at this sight of great beauty; my soul ascends through the solitude of the trail; this is why I run today. I run on and rejoin the main trail once again. I see the interloper’s tracks, leading me back to the trailhead. As much as I loved my solitude on the untrodden path, it is nice to be back on the trail with my unknown running partner. Yet, I feel like I know him. He is a runner; a strong runner; he likes his solitude, too; he loves his dog. We are kindred spirits, and I am comforted knowing that he has been this way. We are part of a community that binds us, even though I have never met him, we are connected nonetheless.

Our spiritual path is much like this. We are supported on our path, encouraged along our way, by a community of like-minded souls, by our spiritual mentors and leaders, by those who have gone before and who travel along beside. But at some point along the path, we need to launch out alone and find our own way, unafraid to travel a path that no one else has trod. We can always return to the main trail.

I finish my run and return home. I open the front door and the warmth of the house envelops me. I will take a hot bath, drink a cup of hot cocoa, nap by the warmth of the fireplace. I have earned this. But before I indulge myself, I must do one more thing.

C’mon Wiggles, let’s go for a run.

Exorcism

My dog, Wiggles, is a study, as we used to say. If there is a doggie psychologist out there, please let me know. She has so many quirks and hang ups that she rivals her caretaker (that would be me) with quixotic behavior. But one of the things I have discovered is that when she acts strange, she’s trying to tell me something, and I try to listen. Sometimes it takes a

while to make the connection, but she knows things that I don’t know. Wiggles possesses a different type of wisdom, a doggie wisdom, which humans can learn from. It’s an intuitive wisdom I try to listen to. But her latest behavior baffles me. Allow me to explain.

When Wiggles wants to go out, she stands at the top of the stairs in our den. These stairs go down half a flight to the front door. She will stand at the top of the stairs for a few minutes. If I don’t respond immediately, she will paw at the top step. Still if I don’t respond, she will squeak (yes, squeak, which is different, obviously, from a whine). Anyway, the communication behavior continues until she gets my attention. Then, we walk down the stairs together and I let her out the front door. When she wants back in, she knocks. She went through one stage where she rang the doorbell—honestly.

Anyway, lately Wiggles will sit at the top of the stairs and ask to go out. But when I