A FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON THE WAY TO SPIRITUAL...

The great question suspended above the heads of the electorate this season, most often only hinted at rather than spoken outright, is a simple yet profound one: after 219 years of history, are we as a nation finally prepared to elect a black man, or woman, president? And after cogitating a good bit on a personal epiphany that came to me this past spring, I'd suggest that we are, and at some point we will, sooner rather than later.

Last April my wife and I enrolled in a "spiritual awakening" class held in the private home of a retired University of Kansas professor. Its aim was to enable participants to better focus on their life goals, their personal missions in this incarnation, each individual soul's raison d'être. Something of the Oprah-Winfrey-dialoguing-with-Eckhart-Tolle approach, you might say. We did some group meditation, a little yoga, and worked toward gaining a firmer grounding in "present time."

One of the more fascinating and insight-provoking aspects of the course was the questioning sessions involving a channeler. She was a most engaging and effervescent lady, warm of heart and blessed with wit. Her spirit guide was named Bill, a man with whom she had been friends before his earthly death. Being a person of great spiritual awareness and gifts, she had struck up a "contractual" arrangement with Bill that she would channel his spirit to provide advice to, and help educate, those of us still living. It presented an awe-inspiring glimpse of what might constitute a little of "the other side."

When my wife's and my turn came to pose questions, we initially clung to the security of the abstract: Was there really a Heaven and a Hell? Why do souls reincarnate? Was Jesus Christ a real person?

But after a few sessions we began to hone in on those deeper nagging uncertainties within the dark depths of our own psyches. Why did my sister die in infancy? Why did my wife's sister die from cancer? What are the greatest obstacles to our understanding each other? And at one juncture we learned that our souls had been companions repeatedly in other incarnations.

"So, we have lived other lives before?" I exclaimed.

"Oh many. You yourself about 65. You're both old souls."

"And we were together?"

"Yes. Many times. You've been business partners. Comrades in arms. Brother and sister-and oh you mischievous little things drove your mother nuts! And you were once a king and a queen."

"Really? A king and a queen? Where was that?"

"In Africa. What we'd now call southern Sudan."

"Africa? Southern Sudan? You mean...we were...black?"

"Very much so. Extremely dark."

"What did we do there?"

"Well, you were a responsible king. You did what was required and expected. There were sacrifices then. And ceremonies. And you carried them out. Your wife helped you."

These insights inspired a good bit of discussion driving home that evening. It appeared, my wife pointed out, that souls, in and of themselves, are not bound by time or by gender. By geography or by race. But simply by a collective wisdom of the ages. I had to admit that seemed right.

In the days that followed, I devoted substantial time to reflecting on what all this implied. I began retooling my perspective on my interactions with black folk. Where once I'd seen only "attitude," I now saw measures of strength and pride. I saw practical smarts in the "uh-huh" retort. I saw hard-earned history in the masculine muscle. I saw nature's bountiful beauty in bright colors against dark skin. I saw "soul" in the low-five.

I made it a point to converse with the elderly black man tending the pet area at Wal-Mart. He recommended a new variety of cat food. I recommended a herbal remedy for his wife's arthritis. He recommended a Chinese restaurant they'd found pleasant. I gave him an autographed copy of my book. We're now buddies and he keeps me straight on what's going down in the black community.

I watch the presidential campaign news on TV and all the pundits dancing around the issue of race. Listen to what the man says, I want to shout at the screen. Weigh the man's policy. Search his character. If not this one, then there'll be another one soon. But a black president, I think to myself-what's the big deal really? I can speak with some authority here. I was once one, of sorts, myself. And it seemed to work out just fine.

I'm reminded of the great black poet Langston Hughes. I loved his work when I studied him in college, and I've gone back to reading his verse again. The man knew life from all sides, and a little bit of eternity as well. That was evident in one of his most famous poems "The Negro Speaks of Rivers." I cherish those closing lines that read:

I've known rivers:

Ancient, dusky rivers.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

And I say, yes, brother Langston. I know exactly what you mean. My soul has known those same rivers.

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