Hello fellow travelers.
I’m a spiritual writer, originally from Northern Ireland, now resident in Lincoln, England. My autobiography, ‘The Prodigal Prophet’, which has been recently published by UK micro publisher Night Publishing. It’s a remarkable story; a cross between ‘The Wizard of Oz’ and ‘The Pilgrim’s Progress’ – a roller-coaster journey through a maze of religious belief.
I’ve been a zealous Evangelical,Charismatic Christian, a disillusioned agnostic, a burnt-out school teacher, psychology devotee and more recently the receiver of two profound spiritual experiences. I feel a deep empathy with all those who’ve been damaged by religion of all varieties, especially those led by charismatic gurus whether Christian, Islamic or Eastern.
I believe that when all the irrelevant bath water is thrown out, a deeply precious and profound ‘baby’ is left. If you can identify with my disillusionment with rigid religion and my continuing hunger for reality,then please join in the conversation!
Writer Dylan Morrison 
Go for it – look forward to reading your journey.
Peace Grace
With every good wish on your venture but I do have one pressing question. If it (your book) truly sucks, are we allowed to tell you?
Honesty tempered with compassion is at the heart of all judgement and truely welcomed in the realm of the spirit.
Thought you would this mystic poem by one Tersteegen which is where we are aiming for -that is , the home.
Thou who givest of Thy gladness
Till the cup runs o’er–
Cup whereof the pilgrim weary
Drinks to thirst no more–
Not a-nigh me, but within me
Is Thy joy divine;
Thou, O Lord, hast made Thy dwelling
In this heart of mine.
Need I that a law should bind me
Captive unto Thee?
Captive is my heart, rejoicing
Never to be free.
Ever with me, glorious, awful,
Tender, passing sweet,
One upon whose heart I rest me,
Worship at His Feet.
With me, wheresoe’er I wander,
That great Presence goes,
That unutterable gladness,
Undisturbed repose.
Everywhere the blessed stillness
Of His Holy Place–
Stillness of the love that worships
Dumb before His Face.
To Thy house, O God my Father,
Thy lost child is come:
Led by wandering lights no longer,
I have found my home.
Over moor and fen I tracked them
Through the midnight blast,
But to find the Light eternal
In my heart at last.
G.T.S.
…you describe something very akin to what I have called the Purple Martyrdom and about which I blog.
I hope to have the time to meander through your posts here, and will comment here and there, even though they will be “late to the conversation” ….
Peggy, thanks for visiting my blog. Your comments will be greatly appreciated!