This is the second post in a series Iâm calling âGrace Between the Linesââa journey through the beautifully strange overlap between Lutheran theology, mystical spirituality, and the books and ideas that have shaped me along the way. Whether youâve been with me since the early days or youâre just arriving at this odd little corner of the internet, Iâm so glad youâre here.
Each post in this arc explores a thread in my spiritual story: sometimes surprising, occasionally side-eyed by the canon police, but always grounded in grace. And this one? This one starts, not in a used bookstore this time, but on a couch beside my dad, watching public television and accidentally discovering the sacred in a sport coat.
I didnât know it at the time, but Wayne Dyer was my first hit of spiritual weirdness⊠The kind that made me feel high on hope and hungry for God, all while watching public television in my pj's.
Back when I was in my early 20s, my dad and I rented a house together. He was a widower and I was a single golf instructor who was NOT raking in the big bucks. So it was a nice arrangement. He worked at a startup gold mine (more about this later) a few hours away and had a little trailer on the site he stayed at when he was on the job. This meant he was only home a couple weekends a month. It worked out well.
One night, when my dad was home, he was flipping through TV channels (yes, back when we used to do such things) and he landed on a PBS special hosted by this bald sage named Wayne Dyer. He looked like a balding college professor in a sport coat (this was before his barefoot days, which I particularly enjoyed), but there was something magnetic about him. He had kind eyes, a casual confidence, and the kind of presence that made you feel seen, even through the screen. The way he spoke and moved made me lean in. He exuded a comforting authority and deep wisdom. He was talking about his new book, The Power of Intention, and he spoke for two hours straight. No notes. Just presence. And I was enthralled.
He talked about God as Source; a wellspring of creativity, love, and intelligence. He described a Universe that was for us. He quoted people Iâd never heard of: St. Teresa of Avila, St. Joan of Arc, Carlos Castaneda, Rumi. Every now and then, heâd mention Jesus. But when he did, it was a Jesus I hadnât met before. Not God's impossibly perfect only Son Iâd learned to feel threatened by, but a brother. A guide. The way of life made flesh.
Something in me lit up. I hadnât realized how parched I was. And suddenly, there was water.
đȘ Chaos and Control
I grew up pretty poor. My dad lost his software engineering business when I was three or four. When I was about twelve, we were evicted from the home he had built with his own hands. His dream house on the river. A few years earlier, my mom had been diagnosed with cancer.
She died after a long dance with the disease when I was sixteen.
It was touch and go with my dad after that.
He fell into a spell of depression and paranoia that lasted the rest of his life. âThe guys from India are taking all the programming jobs,â heâd say. âIâll never get hired again.â
Eventually, he got a job out of state helping a gold mine with their computer systems. (Spoiler: it was a bust and very likely a total scam.) They dangled the carrot of a big payout once the mine âwent public.â It never did. But he stayed for over fifteen years. Most months, he didnât get paid. But he clung to the dream that this one big break would save everything.
Life was chaotic. And when I heard someone say, âIf you change your thoughts, you can change your life,â it gave me something I didnât know I was craving: a sense of agency.
I wasnât just at the mercy of fate or some angry sky deity. I could work with God.
And when I heard, for the first time, that God might not be against me⊠I felt rescued.
đ From Dyer to Everyone Else
I went to Borders (oh, how I miss Borders!) the next day and bought *The Power of Intention. I devoured it. From there, I followed the breadcrumbs to Eckhart Tolle, Deepak Chopra, Byron Katie, Marianne Williamson, and others.
There was a season when I was mad at Dyer. When I felt like he had given me false hope. I wanted to manifest the gold mine thing working outâfor my dad, for me. I prayed. I visualized. I affirmed. And it never happened.
âThis manifesting stuff is nonsense,â I thought.
(And in a way, it is.)
But I also know now: I was adding words to Dyer's mouth. I donât think Dyer ever said God was a cosmic vending machine. He definitely got close to it. But that wasnât really the heart of his message. At its core, he was saying that we live in a creative, benevolent universe. And when we align with God, we tap into something bigger than ourselves that wants to help us become who we really are.
I can honestly say that I love Dyer now. God has redeemed his role in my life and I'm grateful for that. Iâve made peace with the part he played in my story. I admire his communication style. I love how he was metaphysical, mystical, and weird. But he could also throw in quips that bordered on inappropriate, or at least playfully provocative, in that âyour uncle had two glasses of wineâ kind of way like, âYou came from Source, and youâll return to Source. In between, just try not to act like an asshole.â Bah! So good....
𧔠The Thread That Held
Years later, when I found myself walking the halls of seminary, I could see that Wayne Dyer hadnât led me there directly. He didnât teach me theology in the doctrinally Christian sense. He didnât introduce me to the sacraments, or the liturgical calendar, or the grace-drenched theology of Martin Luther.
But he did offer me something I desperately needed at the time: a God I didnât have to be afraid of. A God I still hold onto now.
Sometimes I imagine Martin Luther hoisting a stein in the heavenly tavern. Wayne pulls up a stool, cracks a joke about enlightenment being just a well-timed nap, and lifts his glass to grace⊠The kind that shows up without a name tag, that enters through the cracks, and doesnât care how you got there, only that you came thirsty. The kind that shows up on PBS at just the right moment, sounding like hope and looking suspiciously like a guy named Wayne. Marty nods in approval at this strange, barefoot, best-selling mystic. And at the same table is my dad, finally getting that big payout. Only now it's laughter, rest, and the realization that he was loved and held all along.
Dyer gave me a way to imagine that maybe the God of the Universe wasnât out to get me. That maybe God was with me, even in the mess.
Thatâs no small thing. Itâs the kind of thing worth raising a glass to.
And now, as a Lutheran pastor, I can look back and see: that longing for a loving God was always holy. The form it came in wasnât perfect. But the thirst was real.
And grace? Grace doesnât wait for perfect theology.
It just shows up. Sometimes as a guy on PBS with a shiny dome and a sly grin, reminding youâgently, absurdlyâthat youâre already swimming in it.
P.S. Next up, Iâll share how the Church of my youth stopped working for me. A couple times. And just when I think I hit a dead end, a weird blue book slides into my life like a cosmic plot twist. Looking forward to it!!
Thank you for being transparent in a most intimate way.