<i>Earthy Mysticism</i>, chapters 5 and 6
The journey continues. Now that I’m considering reading the 76 remaining mystics in chronological order, it’s changed my way of looking at William McNamara and Earthy Mysticism. Now I’m thinking, “here is a book that is by turns eloquent and pompous, visionary and combative, earthy and chauvinistic. In other words, it’s a flawed work of beauty. Now, it was only written some twenty years ago. What pre-existing ideas and perspectives, in 2000 years of seeking the Divine Presence, have made this imperfect attempt to integrate earthiness and mysticism even possible?”
A good question, and suddenly I’m enjoying this book much more. Before, I was just reading it to see if I liked the author’s attempt to articulate a Christian vision of nature mysticism. And I must confess, my feelings are mixed. But now, to look at it as the caboose of this very long train, I’m letting go of the need to evaluate the book, or try to say something clever about its claim to be in the mystical canon—and I am just enjoying it, warts and all.
Last week I commented on the first four chapters. Now here are my thoughts on the next two.
Chapter five, “Birth of the Outlaw Church,” looks at Abraham, Moses, Mary, Christ, and the church as successive carriers of the Divine Rebel gene. The author still comes across as rather cranky, angry at how badly our culture misses the message of the Christian mystery (and, I wonder, when has there ever been a time in history when the cultural mainstream actually got it?). My favorite quote from the chapter: “The Church is neither the chaplain of the state nor the soul of society. She is more like a gnat on the rump of society.” (page 50). Ahem… I think I’ll just let that nugget of wisdom speak for itself.
Chapter six, “The Call: Personal, Particular, Persistent” is, I think, better than the five chapters that preceded it. But as I said above, my good feelings about it may be shaped by my thinking about this book more in contextual terms with the rest of the tradition. Mystical spirituality is all about call (i.e., vocation), and mystic after mystic reports a significant “call” experience as a central element of their inner development. What makes the notion of call so important is that it blows away any idea that mystical experience is purely a private matter. Somebody has to do the calling. And there has to be a point behind the call. Abraham was called into the desert. Julian of Norwich was called to put her faith in the blood of Christ. Thomas Merton was called into the monastery. Simone Weil was called to live (and die) in solidarity with French refugees during WWII. And on it goes. The concept of call implies process, relationship, community, transaction…all good energies and values that tend to be underemphasized in our microwavable spirituality-as-fashion-statement culture. So McNamara seems to be finally hitting his stride, not so much because he’s saying anything earth shattering but because his in-your-face style finally has found a topic for which it is well-suited. A few tasty quotes for you: “There is no way to become a full-fledged Christian unless you first become a good pagan and then a good Jew.” “We must all learn to wrestle with God and come out of that terrifyingly wonderful encounter as Jacob did—maimed for life; not with a nice experience of a surrogate God, but transfixed, transformed, remade, reborn.” “Today there is only one way to respond to the call and that is to climb into the heart of Christ. There’s only one way to get wet; get into the water.” “Prosaic functionalism keeps us from fulfilling our prophetic, poetic vocation because we are overly impressed and victimized by our roles.” Ooh, that last one hit close to home. Sure, I may be a “professional spiritual writer,” but I’m also a master at playing it safe. McNamara dances with the idea that a true call from Spirit may well be the most dangerous thing that any one of us will ever encounter, anywhere. Not dangerous in a cool, detached, ironic, your-jeans-are-riding-too-low kind of way, but real dangerous—enough to make you vomit or wet your pants. Yep, you can’t look at the face of God and live. Sounds far more powerful than all those nice little mythological gods and goddesses for sale at the local new age shop, huh?
Please don’t read that last sentence as a gratuitous swipe against the new age (or neopaganism, for that matter). Goddess knows, Christians have mastered the art of taming God. I don’t care whether you (or me or anyone else) encounter the Divine through ancient myth, Biblical thought, or postmodern psychobabble. We just need to remember to get out of our own way long enough to have an encounter that’s real. If it’s not scaring you half to death, then instead of truly encountering the Divine you’re probably just engaging in a little bit of harmless spiritual narcissism (confusing “the archetypes of my subconscious” for “the Divine”). Harmless, yes, but also ultimately inconsequential.
Yeah, McNamara still comes across as overblown and self-righteous. But finally, 2/3 of the way through the book, he’s beginning to say some things that matter. You want to be an earthy mystic? Listen. There are forces far bigger than you that will take you up on the offer. Only, you don’t get to be in control any longer. And you don’t get to play it safe, either. The place that scares you the most, or that makes you the angriest, or that bores you to tears… that’s the destination printed on your ticket.
Still interested?
