Illnesses healed. Safety in the face of disaster. Financial troubles turned arround. Relationships restored. Read the pages of this magazine and it may seem like there's an equation in Christian Science that looks something like this: Problem + prayer = solution.
Yes, healing is the natural outcome of sincere prayer. But examine any one of these accounts of healing and an interesting picture emerges. It's this: Healing in Christian Science is not about outcome. Healing is about improved understanding and a shift in perspective. The individual healed develops a greater willingness to trust God and to rely less on material ways and means. In other words, Christian Science is not a Band-Aid for matter. In fact, it's not about healing matter at all. It couldn't be, since matter is, at best, illusory. But Christian Science is practical in that it opens our eyes to what already is—the reality of a perfect God and His perfect, spiritual creation.
Mary Baker Eddy explained that there is no substance or reality in matter. So matter, being insubstantial and unreal, cannot be treated. She stated this boldly when she wrote, "My first plank in the platform of Christian Science is as follows:" and then went on to remind the reader of "the scientific statement of being," found in Science and Health, which systematically lays out the allness of God, Spirit, and thus the spiritual, not material, nature of His creation. Miscellaneous Writings 1883-1896, p. 21. See also Science and Health, p. 468.
So since matter is unreal, could Christian Science ever be used to heal matter? No. Nothing can heal the nonexistent. And yet, as I learned in a rather dramatic way one day several decades ago, Christian Science is more than equal to any emergency because of what it is constantly revealing about the uninterrupted nature of God's goodness, of harmony.
I had been reading the weekly Bible Lesson, found in the Christian Science Quarterly, and, feeling inspired, to go for a walk along the beach. I called a friend to come with me, then ran out the door, taking the long flight or irregular steps down to the beach two and three at a time. About halfway down, I missed more than a few steps, flew to the bottom (now I know why it's called a "flight" of steps!), and landed rather inelegantly. I heard a loud noise in the foot I landed on, and almost immediately felt intense pain.
The interesting thing about this incident is that the free flight seemed to take several minutes. Of course, it didn't actually take that long, but the feeling I had of the timing conveys the way I responded to the situation. I felt like I'd entered a quiet place apart from the drama. Even as I was flying through the air, I had a great sense of the orderliness of the universe, of God's absolutely harmonious control over everything. I thought about how all the planets and stars were moving precisely in their set paths—immense ideas moving effortlessly, harmoniously, because they are held in uninterruptible order by God, divine Principle. I realized that I couldn't leave harmony—perfect movement—any more than these planets could. And so, even though the pain in my foot was servere, I was so thrilled by this feeling of the orderliness of the universe that the pain literally felt detached from me.
I stayed with this feeling of orderliness, Principle's sweet control, for a few more minutes. It was my prayer. And then, I suddenly heard the words "God . . . made man upright." See Eccl. 7:29. It was such a compelling message that it almost seemed as though someone had spoken it aloud. Although I later realized this was a passage from the Bible, I can't say I'd consciously committed it to memory at any point. But the words spoke. And I asked myself: If God made you upright, what are you doing on the ground?
What was I doing on the ground indeed? I got up, and limped off for the walk with my friend. As I went, staying with the feeling of God's government of the universe, the pain receded. By the following night, I was walking normally and there was no swelling or bruising. Just freedom.
This experience has been a landmark for me, because it illustrated what healing in Christian Science is all about, and it took place early on in my study of Christian Science. My prayer didn't even include a specific treatment of the foot. But normal action was quickly restored as I recognized what was already true: As the reflection of God, I was held in a constant state of perfection. My job was not to make that perfection true—or, least of all, to change damaged matter into undamaged matter. Rather, it was to see the unreality of matter to begin with, and the uninterruptible reality of what God was doing: expressing Himself as man, including me.
To be truly practical, our prayers should involve the active exploration of what God is. To know Him in His infinitude is to know ourselves.
Think of it: We are each what God is being right now. We are the conscious object of God's understanding. So to be truly practical, our prayers should involve the active exploration of what God is. To know Him in His infinitude is to know ourselves—not as limited humans prone to history and happenstance, but as His unlimited expression, completely untouched by matter and its so-called laws and circumstances.
The Bible gives countless examples of eminently practical men and women who were considered totally impractical by the majority of humanity. Imagine what Noah's peers must have said when he started building what would essentially be floating zoo. I believe the key to Noah's practicality is explained by one little verse: "Noah found grace in the eyes of the Lord." Gen. 6:8. This isn't to say that Noah was God's pet, the chosen one. It was Noah who found grace, seeing creation as God saw it—"in the eyes of the Lord." Noah didn't get himself tangled up with the violence of the times. Seeing as God sees was his first priority. I suspect that Noah saw and understood that God is Love and could not see anything unlike Himself wherever He looked in His infinite goodness. How else can you explain Noah's willingness to start such an odd task?
It seems to me that Noah was building his mental ark, or safe place, long before he was called to confront the raging seas. The safety of the ark was the demonstration of his practical understanding. In other words, the understanding of his oneness with God proved practical—though there is nothing to suggest Noah's desire to acquaint himself with God ever had anything to do with outcome.
So what about those times when it's hard to turn away from matter? Those are the times when we can remember the presence of divine Love. Looking into the gloom of the tomb after the crucifixion, Mary did not, at first, see her risen Saviour. But when Jesus called her name, she looked up. She had to look up—away from conventional thinking that life was dependent on matter and could be destroyed—to see the risen Christ, waiting patiently for her. Mary didn't have to fix, heal, or raise Jesus, who already knew life was eternal. But she did have to stop looking for him in the tomb of matter and accept his presence.
Ultimately, it is this Christly presence, this tangible embrace of divine Love, that frees us from the belief that we have ever known matter as a reality, or that we would ever want to work within its confines. Instead, we find "grace in the eyes of the Lord," seeing ourselves and our universe for what we really are—His creation. What could be more practical?
