The Perils of Ideology
As part of my preparation for the class on World Mysticism I’ll be teaching next month through Evening at Emory, I’m reading a book called History of Mysticism: The Unchanging Testament by S. Abhayananda. The “S” stands for Swami. The author, a westerner whose birth name is Stan Trout, reports having had an enlightenment experience when he was 28 years old; he’s now self-published several books in which he traces the golden thread of mysticism in both its eastern and western guises. This historical survey has been for the most part a delight to read, especially since it has filled in a few gaps in my knowledge about eastern visionaries (figures like Shankara, Dattatreya, and Jnaneshvar were introduced to me by this book). Meanwhile, the author’s treatment of western mystics such as Plotinus or Meister Eckhart are for the most part fair and accurate. But there is one towering problem with the book.
The good Swami recognizes, presumably out of his own experience, that a profound mystical experience erases all sense of duality — i.e., the feeling that I am somehow separate from God and/or the universe — and throws a harsh bright light on the basic illusion of separateness that characterizes ‘ordinary’ consciousness. “The eye by which I see God is the same as the eye by which God sees me,” is how Eckhart puts it, quoted by Abhayananda in this book. Nonduality is a basic component of both mystical experience and mystical theology. All this is well and good. Meanwhile, duality is a characteristic of what I call “survival mind,” or ordinary consciousness. Those who have tasted nonduality discover, one way or another, that part of the challenge of living a spiritual life is the challenge of having to continue living in a world that plays by dualistic rules. Part of the joy of studying the mystics is discovering their many and varied strategies for cultivating lifelong holiness, even after coming down from the mountain top.
Abhayananda, at least in this book, makes what I believe to be one of the biggest mistakes a person can make regarding their own enlightenment experience: he turns the dualism of the world back on itself. He declares that only those people who have directly experienced nonduality deserve to be called mystics; anyone who does not report such an experience, or who attacks such an experience, or who seem to be writing about it only in abstract ways, simply doesn’t make the cut. As Abhayananda presents it, a profound experience of mystical nonduality is good, while anything else is not-good (or at least, not-good-enough).
Not only is this a big mistake, but it’s a common one. So I can excuse the Swami for doing so. But it’s a drum he beats mercilessly and relentlessly throughout his book. He’s really got a hidden agenda in a book that is purportedly a survey of mystical history: the hidden agenda being to convince readers that mysticism is only “real” mysticism when the mystic experiences complete and total oneness with God. Anything less is simply ersatz.
Sigh.
The book ends up reading like a one-note ideological screed. I’m about 2/3 of the way through it, and every time the author starts pontificating yet again on how only those who have experienced nonduality truly deserve to be called mystics, my eyes just glaze over. As if I didn’t already get the message. Multiple times.
On one level, Abhayananda is simply reacting against the pervading anti-mystical ideology that is so prevalent in the west, thanks to the unfortunate marriage of Christianity and imperialism that comes to us courtesy of Constantine and his successors. But the grand joke of mysticism is this: since everything partakes in the Divine nature, nothing is excluded! In other words, mystical grace even extends to those who have never had a mystical experience, who believe to the bottom of their hearts that God and creation are forever separate, and … and… yes, even to those who insist that you can’t be a mystic unless your experience is “good enough.” Yep. Even ideology is bathed in the divine splendour.
Now. If only I can remember this when ideology — and ideologues — annoy me!
The Perils of Ideology
As part of my preparation for the class on World Mysticism I’ll be teaching next month through Evening at Emory, I’m reading a book called History of Mysticism: The Unchanging Testament by S. Abhayananda. The "S" stands for Swami. The author, a westerner whose birth name is Stan Trout, reports having had an enlightenment experience when he was 28 years old; he’s now self-published several books in which he traces the golden thread of mysticism in both its eastern and western guises. This historical survey has been for the most part a delight to read, especially since it has filled in a few gaps in my knowledge about eastern visionaries (figures like Shankara, Dattatreya, and Jnaneshvar were introduced to me by this book). Meanwhile, the author’s treatment of western mystics such as Plotinus or Meister Eckhart are for the most part fair and accurate. But there is one towering problem with the book.
The good Swami recognizes, presumably out of his own experience, that a profound mystical experience erases all sense of duality — i.e., the feeling that I am somehow separate from God and/or the universe — and throws a harsh bright light on the basic illusion of separateness that characterizes ‘ordinary’ consciousness. "The eye by which I see God is the same as the eye by which God sees me," is how Eckhart puts it, quoted by Abhayananda in this book. Nonduality is a basic component of both mystical experience and mystical theology. All this is well and good. Meanwhile, duality is a characteristic of what I call "survival mind," or ordinary consciousness. Those who have tasted nonduality discover, one way or another, that part of the challenge of living a spiritual life is the challenge of having to continue living in a world that plays by dualistic rules. Part of the joy of studying the mystics is discovering their many and varied strategies for cultivating lifelong holiness, even after coming down from the mountain top.
Abhayananda, at least in this book, makes what I believe to be one of the biggest mistakes a person can make regarding their own enlightenment experience: he turns the dualism of the world back on itself. He declares that only those people who have directly experienced nonduality deserve to be called mystics; anyone who does not report such an experience, or who attacks such an experience, or who seem to be writing about it only in abstract ways, simply doesn’t make the cut. As Abhayananda presents it, a profound experience of mystical nonduality is good, while anything else is not-good (or at least, not-good-enough).
Not only is this a big mistake, but it’s a common one. So I can excuse the Swami for doing so. But it’s a drum he beats mercilessly and relentlessly throughout his book. He’s really got a hidden agenda in a book that is purportedly a survey of mystical history: the hidden agenda being to convince readers that mysticism is only "real" mysticism when the mystic experiences complete and total oneness with God. Anything less is simply ersatz.
Sigh.
The book ends up reading like a one-note ideological screed. I’m about 2/3 of the way through it, and every time the author starts pontificating yet again on how only those who have experienced nonduality truly deserve to be called mystics, my eyes just glaze over. As if I didn’t already get the message. Multiple times.
On one level, Abhayananda is simply reacting against the pervading anti-mystical ideology that is so prevalent in the west, thanks to the unfortunate marriage of Christianity and imperialism that comes to us courtesy of Constantine and his successors. But the grand joke of mysticism is this: since everything partakes in the Divine nature, nothing is excluded! In other words, mystical grace even extends to those who have never had a mystical experience, who believe to the bottom of their hearts that God and creation are forever separate, and … and… yes, even to those who insist that you can’t be a mystic unless your experience is "good enough." Yep. Even ideology is bathed in the divine splendour.
Now. If only I can remember this when ideology — and ideologues — annoy me!
Union with Christ: A Bibliography
This is fun. The title says it all:
An Annotated Bibliography of Resources Pertaining to "Christ in You" and "Union with Christ"
A new dream, an old friend, and the price we pay for following our hearts
Last night I dreamt about my good friend, co-author, and non-biological sister — Dancingwriter on LiveJournal. We were both attending a conference out of state (perhaps the 2007 International Congress on Medieval Studies?), and while many of the folks around us were using this time away from home (and their spouses) to behave like teenagers, she and I spent pretty much all of our free time with each other, hanging out, talking — something we’ve never had trouble doing! — and rather blithely ignoring the hormonal frenzy surrounding us. It made perfect sense, as we both share a deep love for our respective partners, along with a genuine sibling-like affection for one another. The dream meandered along, making no point other than this celebration of friendship and fidelity. I woke up thinking I need to call her; haven’t seen her since June which means it has been far too long.
What an innocent dream, and so Catholic of me — to dream about maintaining my chastity with a trusted friend while everyone around us threw their boundaries to the wind. But in truth, it’s not really inherently "Catholic" or "Christian" at all: Dancingwriter and her husband (KingoftheWho) are dedicated followers of the old Welsh ways, leaders in the community and highly respected for their gentle personalities, strong sense of values, and committed love for one another. In the neopagan subculture where so much interpersonal excitement is driven by various people’s adventures (and misadventures) in polyamory, their devotion to one another shines like a beacon of hope.
It’s been two years now since the agonizing summer of 2004, when I struggled internally with a call to explore Catholicism that threatened to sabotage just about everything about my life at the time: my writing and teaching career, my social network, my existing religious/spiritual identity. I had several friends to whom I regularly confided my struggles, but Dancingwriter was not one of them. The reason? We were collaborating on a project together — Magic of the Celtic Gods and Goddesses — and I didn’t want to jeopardize it. As I saw it, if my draw to Catholicism were only a "phase," then no point in sabotaging the book by drawing my co-author into the web of my internal struggle. And if it were more than just a phase, then I knew this would be my last pagan book — and at the time, I wasn’t ready to give up being a pagan author, not yet. So I worked on the book, and strived to be as authentically "pagan" as I could, and I hid from my co-author and my editors and anyone else associated with the book the insistent dynamics of my increasing sense of being called back into the world of mystical Christianity.
Now it’s 2006 and everyone knows the choice I made. Meanwhile Magic of the Celtic Gods and Goddesses gets panned on reconstructionist e-lists for no other reason than because I’m one of the authors — fallout from how some Pagans feel angered and betrayed by the path I’ve followed. Well, if anyone had a right to be furious with me, it’s DancingWriter. And yet, in response to my spiritual wanderlust she has been nothing but gracious and kind, giving her "brother" the space to follow his path even while she’s clear that it’s not a path she shares. If more Pagans — and Christians, not to mention adherents of other faiths — could share in her large and generous spirit, what a wonderful world it would be.
Now, ours is a world which keeps on spinning, and as the old Wiccan chant affirms, "She changes everything she touches." These days my interests lie in tracing the development of the Orthodox doctrine of deification (theosis) and how it correlates to Ken Wilber’s integral theory of consciousness; I’m learning all I can about Benedictine and Cistercian spirituality, with a particular focus on its relevance to laypersons here in the 21st century; and of course I remain profoundly in love with the writing of Julian of Norwich, and out of the class I’ll be teaching on her this fall, I want to develop a curriculum for presenting the core ideas of Julian’s spiritual theology to those who may not be familiar with her work.
So what about Celtic stuff? Frankly, my main interest in the Celtic world these days is in looking at the affinities between pre-Roman Catholic Celtic Christianity with Eastern Orthodoxy, and seeing to what extent those affinities may have defined what made "Celtic" Christianity unique in the west. Put another way: is deification part of what made the Irish spirit so persistently mystical?
These are interests I love, and I have good friends who share these passions. My life, so deeply transformed when I became a Catholic, is settling in to its new identity, and I’ve got more going on in the writing and teaching department than I expected this soon. But when I think of dear old friends, like Dancingwriter, a sigh does escape my lips. I wonder: would my enthusiasm for tracing the influence of Plotinus in the theology of Pseudo-Dionysius just bore my old friends to tears?
I’m afraid so. But of course, not so afraid as to change who I am. After all, I wouldn’t want to throw my boundaries to the wind.
Answers to Contemplation’s Objectors
I continue to be amazed at how some Christians reject, if not outright attack, contemplative and centering prayer. As best I can tell, the anti-contemplation arguments can be distilled down to three basic ideas: 1) People shouldn’t practice contemplative prayer before they are ready; 2) Contemplative and centering prayer are “un-Christian” because of their similarities to eastern forms of meditation; and 3) If a person silences his or her mind, it’s an invitation for the devil to enter. Now, the most obvious irony is that the first objection sees contemplative prayer as such a paragon of Christian spirituality that most Christians aren’t good enough to do it; while the second objection sees it as so sullied by non-Christian influence that it is therefore not good enough for Christians to bother with! The third (and saddest/most ridiculous) of the objections is nothing more than the paralysis of metaphysical fear, but obviously this does impact how some people approach life (let alone spirituality), so it needs to be addressed. Now, let’s take a closer look at each of these objections in turn.
Objection 1. Contemplative Prayer is such an advanced form of Christian spirituality that people should not do it before they’re ready: they should just stick to “ordinary” prayers like the rosary or intercessory prayer.
I do believe that centering/contemplative prayer needs to be part of a “balanced spiritual diet.” In other words, it is important to cultivate a discipline of daily silent prayer in the context of regular scripture study, lectio divina, frequent participation in corporate worship (the Eucharist or the Daily Office), working with a spiritual director/confessor, and a commitment to bringing the light of Divine Love to the world through feeding the poor, caring for the environment, or some other work of mercy.
But saying that one shouldn’t engage in contemplative prayer before one is ready is kind of like saying one shouldn’t read the Bible before one is ready — or participate in the Eucharist — or even repent of one’s sins. Contemplation is a gentle and loving spiritual practice, challenging on some levels but within the grasp even of children and teenagers. The experience of the many thousands of ordinary individuals who have found a closer, more intimate, more loving relationship with God through contemplative prayer makes it clear: far from waiting until you’re “ready,” silent prayer is something so valuable that it’s best to start it as soon as possible.
Objection 2. Contemplative prayer is dangerous, because it contains non-Christian elements, and/or is based on/resembles eastern meditation.
There are two ways of responding to this objection. First of all, how quickly the anti-contemplatives forget! In the 1970s, Christianity as a community was hemorrhaging members, as more and more individuals opted for either a secular life or a new approach to spirituality through eastern mysticism, transcendental meditation, and yoga. The early proponents of centering prayer (Thomas Keating, M. Basil Pennington, William Meninger) recognized that TM in particular was attracting a growing community of followers. They reacted to this with consternation, since Christianity had its own tradition of meditative spirituality: contemplation! This can be seen not only in the historical writings of Evagrius Ponticus, John Cassian, The Cloud of Unknowing and other mystical writings, but in the ongoing practice of silent prayer as preserved in Christian monasteries. So the earliest centering prayer programs were designed specifically to offer a Christian alternative to the rising popularity of eastern meditation. It’s kind of like contemporary Christian music: CCM artists often imitate the popular music styles of the day, from rock to rap to metal, as a way of reaching teenagers with a Christian message. The centering prayer movement did the exact same thing, dressing up a traditional Christian spiritual practice (contemplation) in the jargon and postures of currently popular non-Christian practices, simply as a way of reaching out to people who were seeking a deeper spiritual life. I myself would think that Christians should applaud the founders of centering prayer for their insight and ingenuity. But instead, they get attacked for introducing “non-Christian” elements into their spiritual practice. Go figure.
The most vocal opponents of centering and contemplative prayer even discount the long tradition of contemplative prayer in the life of the church, arguing that it all goes back to pagan influences in the days of the desert fathers and mothers, and therefore is suspect all the way down. Perhaps this is a fair assessment, since we do know that mystical theology is strongly influenced by the pagan philosophical school of Neoplatonism. But this leads directly to my second response to this objection: if contemplative prayer represents a Christianised version of non-Christian spirituality, well, so what? It’s hardly the first time this has happened. If Christians want to be zealous about purging non-Christian influences from their faith, they’d better get rid of the first chapter of the Gospel of John, which shows direct influence of pagan philosophical concepts. They’d better chuck out most of the symbolism associated with Christmas and Easter (even the word “Easter” comes from the name of a Germanic goddess!); in fact, most of the liturgical year would need to go: All Saint’s Day has its origins in the pagan festival of Samhain, while Christmas is clearly aligned with ancient winter solstice celebrations like Saturnalia or Yule. In fact, while we’re at it, perhaps we should just get rid of the entire Old Testament (i.e. Hebrew Scriptures), since it is the sacred writings of the community that largely has rejected the claim of Jesus to be the messiah…
If this seems increasingly absurd, well, that’s my point. If conservative Christians really want to go on a witch-hunt (pardon the pun) against everything in their faith that has a non-Christian (or even non-Jewish) origin, they will be left with a diminished faith that will be craven in its xenophobia. This would be direct disobedience of Christ’s command to “be not afraid.” But fear, it seems, is what really lies at the heart of the anti-contemplative agenda (see below for more on this topic).
Let me end this section by quoting from a pre-Vatican II edition of A Catholic Dictionary (edited by Donald Attwater, 3rd edition, 1958): “In paganism, especially before the Christian revelation, the Church has always recognized the existence of natural goodness and truth, the seeds of which the Fathers declare are to be found everywhere. All that is wise and true in the philosophies of antiquity, of Plato, of Plotinus, especially of Aristotle, has been incorporated into the Catholic system; all that is good and beautiful in their literature, arts and culture, whether of Hellas or Honolulu, is welcome to the Catholic mind.” I think here the word “Catholic” needs to be understood in its deepest meaning of “universally Christian.” True Christianity is not afraid of that which is non-Christian. Rather, it embraces all that is good, true, and beautiful within non-Christian culture. So it is with eastern forms of meditation: for if contemplation truly is “eastern” in its origin (and I’ve yet to see the smoking gun), then it is a perfectly good and truly beautiful spiritual practice, transformed into a Christian practice, offered with love and devotion to God through Christ.
Objection 3. Silent forms of prayer are dangerous because in clearing the mind one is opening it to the devil.
With this objection we finally see just how paranoid the anti-contemplatives really are. Theirs is a metaphysics of weakness and vulnerability, in which an open, spacious, silent mind is basically left undefended by Christ and the Holy Spirit, for Satan and his angels to wreak all sorts of malevolent havoc. Eek!
If this is true, then I guess we’d better stop sleeping (I don’t know about you, but every night as I drift off to sleep my mind gets clear), and such things as gazing at sunsets or the seashore must be verboten as well. You never know when the devil will pounce!
But the truth is, this notion that the devil attacks through a silenced mind has no grounding in the Bible or in Christian tradition whatsoever. Indeed, just the opposite is the case: Christianity has long taught that it is thoughts by which the evil spirit can tempt or attack us.
Everyone has malevolent thoughts (indeed, psychological tests like the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory will gauge if a person lies on the test by scoring how honest they are about having negative, violent, paranoid, or other antisocial thoughts). Sure, for some people these thoughts may be less “evil” than others, but just because not everyone fantasizes about molesting children or committing mass murder doesn’t mean that they don’t have their own version of disturbing/negative thought patterns. Here’s what is interesting: traditional Christian theology does not regard such “evil” thoughts as sinful (unless a person cultivates them or takes delight in them). That’s because such thoughts have historically been regarded as temptations.
So what gives? Is temptation a matter of silent prayer, or of enticing thoughts? Traditional theology points to the latter. So why is the silence of contemplative prayer seen as so dangerous? Presumably because it’s like offering the devil a blank slate on which he can write his evil intentions. But this is silly reasoning: for if everyone has tempting thoughts regardless of whether they contemplate or not, then obviously the devil doesn’t need a blank mind to do his dirty work! But what the anti-contemplatives fail to acknowledge is how the clear mind of contemplation is, in truth, an offering not to the devil, but to God. When I engage in silent prayer, I try to slow down the fuss and chatter of my mind so that I can simply rest in the loving presence of God. Frankly, I can’t think of anything the devil would find more distasteful! Instead of being a source of tempting thoughts, centering and contemplative prayer actually function as a tool for healing a mind that is troubled and disturbed by thoughts that lack goodness.
I think the argument that the devil will pounce on the contemplative mind is an argument that gives the devil more power than God. This flies in the face of Christ’s continual message of “Be not afraid” (Matthew 14:27, among others) and “Be of good cheer… for I have overcome the world” (John 16:33). The “world” here refers to the tendencies toward evil that we find, even in our own hearts and minds. We can trust in the light and goodness of God, even when facing our own inner demons. The silence of contemplation does not empower the “dark side” within us, but rather shines a light onto it, thus facilitating true healing which comes from God.
Contemplative prayer has a long history in Christian tradition; it is based on loving God and resting in the light of the Divine presence. A regular practice of it not only fosters a closer sense of God’s presence in our lives, but it also brings measurable physiological and psychological benefits (reduced blood pressure, inner calm and serenity). Given how good contemplative prayer is for us — body, mind and soul — I rather think that it’s not contemplation that is so wrong, but rather the prejudiced attacking of it!
You’re Late
My father hates to be late. Always has, and I suspect always will. To him, punctuality was not only in between cleanliness and Godliness, it was a requirement if one were to have any hope of salvation. The gates of heaven would be closed and locked right at the moment when eternity begins, and if you’re a millisecond late: well, it’s wailing and gnashing of teeth for you.
Like so many children of compulsive parents, I inherited a split personality when it comes to punctuality: I have a tendency to run late (a passive aggressive way of rebelling against dad, to be sure) but I share my father’s contempt for it. Not so much for other people (although sometimes my wife gets in the firing line), but mostly I just get angry at myself over my tardiness.
So this morning I wanted to go to Mass. Mass at the monastery starts at 7 AM, and it’s a 35 minute drive from my house. You can do the math: I need to be out of the house by 6:25, and if I’m that late getting started, it leaves me no time to really get centered and find my inner quiet before the monks begin chanting.
It’s a new school year, and Rhiannon has a new CNA (certified nursing assistant) to come help her get out of bed in the morning before the bus arrives (Rhiannon is a stroke survivor with hemiplegic paralysis). WIth the CNA helping Rhiannon get up, Fran and I can take care of ourselves (which is what most people with a 21-year-old get to do in the morning); but if the CNA doesn’t come for whatever reason, it’s up to us to get Rhiannon ready to meet her bus at 7:40. The CNA is supposed to arrive at 6:15.
This morning she was late. It’s only her third day on the job, and she was late yesterday too. We are anxious that this won’t work out; perhaps she’s unreliable, or has unreliable transportation, or is simply one of those people who’s always late. But the bus is hardly ever late, so Rhiannon needs an assistant who’s on time.
If the CNA doesn’t show up, I can’t leave for work until after I assist Fran in helping Rhiannon get out of bed and get ready for school. Thankfully, I don’t have to be at work until 9 AM, so I have plenty of wiggle room. But it’s nice to be able to go to Mass; Fran supports me going to Mass (she knows how much I need it!), so when the CNA is late, it puts me in a bind. I can’t just toodle on off to Mass: what if the CNA turns out not to show up at all?
The minutes ticked on by. Finally at about 6:30 she called, apologizing for being late but assuring Fran she was on her way. Fran shooed me out the door. "Go on to Mass," she said. "Are you sure?" I replied, knowing how much work she would have to do if she had to get Rhiannon up by herself. "Don’t worry, I don’t want you to be late for Mass."
But I was already late. I got in my car and the clock said 6:34. Even if traffic were favorable, I’d be ten minutes late. My father’s voice echoed in my mind, "I’d rather miss a meeting altogether than show up late." But no, I wasn’t going to give in to his compulsions. Better late than never, I said to myself, as I dashed down I-20, hoping no state troopers were out trolling for speeders.
The last five miles to the monastery are all rural roads, and of course, I got caught behind a truck toodling along at about 30 mph in a 45 mph zone. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel impatiently. A continual stream of morning commuters driving into Atlanta going the opposite direction made passing impossible. I tried to remember to keep breathing, and not to tailgate too closely!
Finally I drove into the monastery grounds. Practically ignoring the serene beauty of the trees and the meadows, I strode as quickly as my legs would permit the walk to the church. I got inside and found my seat just as the monks were finishing the Psalms. A deep breath, practically a sigh, and I flipped through the looseleaf-notebook breviary to find my place.
The Abbey Church is a splendid building, a 2oth century neo-gothic structure with simple concrete arches and radiant stained glass. Several fans were blowing to cool off the un-air-conditioned expanse. The chanting soothed me, and for a moment I forgot how much I had been mentally flagellating myself for being a mere ten minutes late. In fact, listening to the gentle rhythms of the monk’s voices, I realized that everything really was okay. Sure, I was late, but as soon as I got there, it didn’t matter any more.
Then came the morning Gospel reading: Matthew 20:1-16. The parable of the landowner who hired a series of workers, some of whom worked all day, others half a day, others only an hour. At the end of the day everyone got paid a full day’s wage — even those who were (gasp) late getting started.
I broke out into an unguarded smile. It was as if God were having a little goodnatured laugh at my expense. I was reminded: yes, it’s a good thing to be on time. But lateness happens. It’s not the end of the world. And God is much more forgiving of such human foibles than we tend to be ourselves. Perhaps there’s a lesson to be learned in there somewhere…
Who knows? Maybe I’ll even dare to be a little late for eternity. After all, all shall be well as soon as I (eventually) get there.
Our Faith
Back in my bookstore-manager days, I was inspired by a fellow named Stew Leonard who operates the "World’s Largest Dairy Store" with several locations in New York and Connecticut. Stew has a simple and powerful customer service statement:
OUR POLICY
Rule #1: The customer is always right.
Rule #2: If the customer is wrong, re-read rule #1.
It seems to have worked, as Leonard’s business is quite successful (I’ve shopped there several times while in New England; it’s an amazing place — more than just a grocery store, Stew Leonard’s features animatronics, costumed characters, and rooms where children of all ages can watch milk being bottled and eggs packaged in cartons. Truly a memorable shopping experience. Go visit the next time you’re in that neck of the woods).
Well, a couple of years ago I created a little sign for my home, that was in part inspired by Stew Leonard’s statement. It’s an outgrowth of conversations that my wife and I had about our faith, and how beneath all the rituals and dogmas and traditions one can find (and be distracted by) in religious observance, faith for us is really a very simple matter. When we returned to the practice of Christian spirituality after our sojourn in fairyland, this simple statement of faith has proved to be an important little reminder for us. Here it is, for your contemplative consideration:
OUR FAITH
- We believe completely and entirely in the unconditional love and grace of God: "God is love" (I John 4:16).
- We believe that all truth, dogma, religious doctrine, ethics, morality, values and traditions can only be understood in the light of the above.
Not quite as succinct as Stew Leonard’s statement, but certainly shorter than the Summa Theologica!
Stew Leonard has his mission statement carved in stone (literally). By contrast, our sign is a very simple little thing I created in Microsoft Word. We have it hung up in an inexpensive frame on our hallway wall. Meanwhile, Michael the Calligrapher, on his recent visit to our home, was so enamored of our little statement of faith that he asked for a copy to take home with him. So now we’re keeping our fingers crossed that he will be inspired to transform it into a lovely work of art!
Our Faith
Back in my bookstore-manager days, I was inspired by a fellow named Stew Leonard who operates the “World’s Largest Dairy Store” with several locations in New York and Connecticut. Stew has a simple and powerful customer service statement:
OUR POLICY
Rule #1: The customer is always right.
Rule #2: If the customer is wrong, re-read rule #1.
It seems to have worked, as Leonard’s business is quite successful (I’ve shopped there several times while in New England; it’s an amazing place — more than just a grocery store, Stew Leonard’s features animatronics, costumed characters, and rooms where children of all ages can watch milk being bottled and eggs packaged in cartons. Truly a memorable shopping experience. Go visit the next time you’re in that neck of the woods).
Well, a couple of years ago I created a little sign for my home, that was in part inspired by Stew Leonard’s statement. It’s an outgrowth of conversations that my wife and I had about our faith, and how beneath all the rituals and dogmas and traditions one can find (and be distracted by) in religious observance, faith for us is really a very simple matter. When we returned to the practice of Christian spirituality after our sojourn in fairyland, this simple statement of faith has proved to be an important little reminder for us. Here it is, for your contemplative consideration:
OUR FAITH
- We believe completely and entirely in the unconditional love and grace of God: “God is love” (I John 4:16).
- We believe that all truth, dogma, religious doctrine, ethics, morality, values and traditions can only be understood in the light of the above.
Not quite as succinct as Stew Leonard’s statement, but certainly shorter than the Summa Theologica!
Stew Leonard has his mission statement carved in stone (literally). By contrast, our sign is a very simple little thing I created in Microsoft Word. We have it hung up in an inexpensive frame on our hallway wall. Meanwhile, Michael the Calligrapher, on his recent visit to our home, was so enamored of our little statement of faith that he asked for a copy to take home with him. So now we’re keeping our fingers crossed that he will be inspired to transform it into a lovely work of art!
The Nine Heavenly Choirs
The late 5th/early 6th century Syrian mystic Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite (also known as Dionysius the Areopagite, or Denys the Areopagite) coined the word "hierarchy" from the Greek hieros, "holy," and -arch, "ruler." So hierarchy literally means "rule by the holy ones." Fifteen hundred years later the word has an unsavory reputation as it connotes a rigid, structured system of governance by those in ranked authority: think military hierarchy. But this is hardly what Pseudo-Dionysius meant when he used the word: he was riffing on the Neo-Platonist idea that all forms emanate from (and ultimately return to) the single, formless One. Thus the "ranks" of the hiearchy (whether celestial or earthly) simply refer to the dynamic nature of a universe where all that exists is continually in a state of flux and flow, pouring out from the Divine source, or seeking return to the same.
With this in mind, Pseudo-Dionysius’ map of the nine heavenly choirs (Seraphim, Cherubim, Thrones, Dominions, Powers, Authorities, Principalities, Archangels, Angels) represent not so much a way of speculating about how heaven is run (!), but rather considers that endless beings exist who are beyond us mere mortals in evolutionary terms. Human beings have no inherent authority over dogs or mushrooms or the amoeba, even though clearly we are beyond those fellow-beings in terms of evolution (and never mind how we feeble-minded primates think we have authority!). The Archangels and Seraphim relate to us the same way.
Why should we bother speculating on the minutiae of the celestial hierarchy? Forget about all the Protestant jibes about Catholic theologians counting the angels who dance on the head of a pin. Pseudo-Dionysius’ model of the celestial hiearchy works fine just as a metaphor, thank you very much. But a metaphor of what? Why, of our future mystical evolution, of course.
Grumpy > Scalia
A story on the internet this morning laments how a recent survey of Americans reveals that Disney’s version of the Seven Dwarves are more recognizable than the Supreme Court Justices; Harry Potter better known than Tony Blair; Homer Simpson more renowned than Homer the epic poet.
While it is very tempting to take cheap shots at how our educational system is failing us, or how pernicious the media is, or what a narcissistic pack of entertainment-besotted drones we’ve all become, I think I’ll pass on the alarmism. Rather, consider the power of a story. What do Snow White, Bart Simpson, Superman, and the young wizard of Hogwarts all have in common? They inhabit the realm of myth, even if they live in that newly fabricated subdivision called post-modernity.
Perhaps we who love myth ought to be inspired by this otherwise rather unsettling fact: if people would rather bathe their consciousness in story than in history, don’t we have an obligation to tell the best, most visionary, most liberating stories we can?
Without Ceasing
I Thessalonians 5:17 — "Pray without ceasing" in most translations — is a tiny little Bible verse that has had an enormous impact on the history of Christian practice. Some of the modern paraphrase translations render it as "Pray all the time," "Pray continually," "Keep on praying," and "Never stop praying." The meaning is always the same: no need for theological hairsplitting here. One of the marks of Christian spirituality is the call to perpetual prayer.
Of course, over the ages this has been interpreted and applied in many different ways. The orthodox Jesus Prayer ("Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner") has been used as a breath-prayer for those who wish to take I Thes. 5:17 at its most literal. The Benedictine approach to the question of continual prayer has been to create a culture of ora et labora ("prayer and work"), where the day’s tasks are alternated with seven liturgical "hours" or prayers for specific times of the day. For the agricultural Celts, various poem-prayers were (are?) recited at every significant task of the day, from lighting the fire to milking the cow to churning the butter. Then there is the ultimate goal of contemplative prayer: to use the time spent in focussed silence as a "practice time" for cultivating a prayerful mind and heart, enabling even the most mundane of daily tasks to be bathed in the light of continual awareness of the presence of God.
Pray without ceasing. However you choose to take up the challenge, I think it’s a worthy goal.
Spaciousness
At the risk of sounding spacey (pardon the pun), I think one of the pleasures of contemplative practice is a cultivation of a sense of inner space. There’s an old joke, "I try to take one day at a time, but lately two or three or more days have been ganging up on me at once." The same could be said of our thoughts. Mindfulness involves the discipline of attending to mental activity "one thought at a time." But sometimes, two or three (or more) thoughts can gang up on us at once, leading to a frenzied sense of inner, existential panic. Omigod, I’ve got to attend to this, and this, and this, and this… and all of it clamors for attention NOW.
Breathe deeply, to enter into contemplative silence. And another deep breath, and another, and another. Blood pressure eases up, the heart slows down a bit. And hopefully, so does the mind. Breathe space in between the traffic jam of our endless stream of thoughts. Let each declaration of the inner observer stand alone, visible within the clear light of consciousness, for discernment and action of appropriate. I’m afraid my boss is angry at me. Breathe. Okay, better set up an appointment with him tomorrow. What if I’m late paying the mortgage? Breathe. Try not to be, but if it happens, remember it’s only money. I’m lousy at this meditation business, why do I bother? Breathe. That’s a normal self-sabotaging kind of thought. Best to ignore it.
And on and on the process goes. Of course, during the actual practice of meditation, all thoughts — positive or negative, useful or mere chatter — can be gently set aside with a simple focus on repeating a prayer word. The important ones will come back later, and can be attended to at that time. But hopefully, meditation gives us the inner space where we can attend to such thoughts slowly, mindfully, attentively. One at a slow, spacious, keep-on-breathing time.
Spaciousness
At the risk of sounding spacey (pardon the pun), I think one of the pleasures of contemplative practice is a cultivation of a sense of inner space. There’s an old joke, “I try to take one day at a time, but lately two or three or more days have been ganging up on me at once.” The same could be said of our thoughts. Mindfulness involves the discipline of attending to mental activity “one thought at a time.” But sometimes, two or three (or more) thoughts can gang up on us at once, leading to a frenzied sense of inner, existential panic. Omigod, I’ve got to attend to this, and this, and this, and this… and all of it clamors for attention NOW.
Breathe deeply, to enter into contemplative silence. And another deep breath, and another, and another. Blood pressure eases up, the heart slows down a bit. And hopefully, so does the mind. Breathe space in between the traffic jam of our endless stream of thoughts. Let each declaration of the inner observer stand alone, visible within the clear light of consciousness, for discernment and action of appropriate. I’m afraid my boss is angry at me. Breathe. Okay, better set up an appointment with him tomorrow. What if I’m late paying the mortgage? Breathe. Try not to be, but if it happens, remember it’s only money. I’m lousy at this meditation business, why do I bother? Breathe. That’s a normal self-sabotaging kind of thought. Best to ignore it.
And on and on the process goes. Of course, during the actual practice of meditation, all thoughts — positive or negative, useful or mere chatter — can be gently set aside with a simple focus on repeating a prayer word. The important ones will come back later, and can be attended to at that time. But hopefully, meditation gives us the inner space where we can attend to such thoughts slowly, mindfully, attentively. One at a slow, spacious, keep-on-breathing time.
Meeting the Almighty
The Summer 2006 issue of Notre Dame Magazine (from the University of Notre Dame) features a fascinating article by ND theology professor Lawrence S. Cunningham on the distinction between Catholic and New Age mysticism. Clearly written from an orthodox/traditionalist perspective, the article includes a very useful survey of the history of the words mystic, mysticism and mystical — words that, in their current usage, really only date back to the 17th century.
The tone of the article at the beginning (where he rants about the New Age) is pretty grouchy. But it improves greatly after that. So if you get triggered by Christian Chauvinism, skip the first four paragraphs.
Click to read the article: Meeting the Almighty
Intra tua vulnera absconde me
I have fallen in love with a 14th-century Catholic poem/prayer called the Anima Christi.
Soul of Christ, sanctify me
Body of Christ, save me
Blood of Christ, inebriate me
Water from the side of Christ, wash me
Passion of Christ, comfort me
O good Jesus, hear me
Within Your wounds, hide me
Do not allow me to be separated from You
From the evil enemy, defend me
In the hour of my death call me
and bid me come to You
That, with your Saints, I may praise You
forever and ever
Amen.
It’s a prayer associated with Ignatius of Loyola, who refers to it often in his book The Spiritual Exercises; but Ignatius didn’t write it. Apparently Pope Pius XII recited this prayer every morning after receiving Communion. In 2001 Ignatius Press published Anima Christi: Soul of Christ, a book by a Poor Clare nun that is basically an extended meditation on the prayer.
I think it’s a rare work of liturgical poetry: one that is deeply traditional, and yet works as a postmodern mystical prayer. The emphasis is not on repentance, or piety, or what miserable worms we humans are; but rather, it focuses on Christ as one who bestows grace and joy. Intra tua vulnera absconde me: Within your wounds, hide me. Abscond me into your vulnerability, o God. Here is a portal into the mysteries.
I’m not quite up there with Pius XII, i.e. making it to Mass every day and then reciting this prayer afterward. But it is a prayer I try to remember to say often.
Sleepy
My wife started back to work yesterday. Like most educators, she has the summer off, which leads to a more relaxed attitude toward mornings in our house. My work is flexible enough that I can show up anytime between 8 and 10 with no one minding; and of course, when I’m freelancing or working on one of my own projects, the hours are mine to set. So the summer kind of settled in to us getting up most days at 7 (or so)… even on the mornings when I would be up and writing at 5 or 6, all too often I’d work for an hour or two and then crawl back into bed. But now, all that is changing.
Not only is my wife back to work, but Rhiannon starts her final year of high school next Monday. So we’re shifting gears; this week we’re back to getting up at 6 AM so we have time to meditate before they begin the flurry of activity that leads to their departure at 8 (this week Rhiannon goes to work with her mom). For me, the good news is that reverting to the school-year routine will enhance my productivity; I always seem to get more done before noon than after, and if I have a productive morning, that always seems to pave the way for a more productive afternoon (haven’t figured that one out yet, but it’s a consistent factor). But the bad news is what I’m in the middle of right now: a sleepy period of adjustment. My lazy summer mornings are not about catching up on my sleep, you see: I rob Peter to pay Paul, staying up later when I sleep in later. Currently I’m in the “squeeze” when by force of habit I continue to burn the midnight oil and beyond, only to have my precious hours of rest disturbed by alarms and activity shortly after I settle in for my nightly nap. The result: yaaawwwwwnnnn.
I think I actually made it to bed last night before midnight; if the last few back-to-school times are any hint of how my behavior will play out, over the next two weeks I will be driven by survival needs to get to bed a little bit earlier each night. Not too much earlier, mind you: I may be 45 but I’m like a teenager when it comes to resisting my bedtime. Still, it will eventually creep back to 11 or so, and I’ll function on my 6 – 7 hours of sleep about as well as most of us snooze-deprived Americans do. One thing I would like to do, though: the Monastery has Mass every morning at 7 AM. Last Advent I went five days a week, and it was a beautiful discipline, the soft and slow chanting of the monks providing a perfect beginning for the day. The catch: I’ll need to leave the house by 6:30. Throw in time for meditation and my morning shower, and I have to be up by 5:30. Just thinking about it makes me yawn! I really must get to bed earlier tonight.
It occurs to me that straddling the fence between the Celtic/druidic/neopagan worlds and the Catholic/liturgical/contemplative worlds is to live in a place of radically different sleep patterns. My nocturnal habits are a clear holdover from my pagan period (to say nothing of my undergraduate days). A typical pagan ritual begins at 9 PM and can easily run three hours or more; compare that to the Trappist monks whose day begins at 4 AM with alternating periods of chant, prayer and contemplative silence, culminating with the Mass at 7. What these schedules have in common is that they both pull their adherents out of “normal” (ie, culturally mainstream) waking/sleeping patterns. There’s a twilight quality to engaging in ritual activity when sleepy or only semi-awake. The brain can more easily slip into the kind of deep-meditative theta state where a sense of cosmic union with the Divine can more easily break through. I suppose the monastic schedule is slightly more practical, in that it can fit in with a “normal” work schedule. As long as you get to bed at a decent hour.
Sleepy
My wife started back to work yesterday. Like most educators, she has the summer off, which leads to a more relaxed attitude toward mornings in our house. My work is flexible enough that I can show up anytime between 8 and 10 with no one minding; and of course, when I’m freelancing or working on one of my own projects, the hours are mine to set. So the summer kind of settled in to us getting up most days at 7 (or so)… even on the mornings when I would be up and writing at 5 or 6, all too often I’d work for an hour or two and then crawl back into bed. But now, all that is changing.
Not only is my wife back to work, but Rhiannon starts her final year of high school next Monday. So we’re shifting gears; this week we’re back to getting up at 6 AM so we have time to meditate before they begin the flurry of activity that leads to their departure at 8 (this week Rhiannon goes to work with her mom). For me, the good news is that reverting to the school-year routine will enhance my productivity; I always seem to get more done before noon than after, and if I have a productive morning, that always seems to pave the way for a more productive afternoon (haven’t figured that one out yet, but it’s a consistent factor). But the bad news is what I’m in the middle of right now: a sleepy period of adjustment. My lazy summer mornings are not about catching up on my sleep, you see: I rob Peter to pay Paul, staying up later when I sleep in later. Currently I’m in the "squeeze" when by force of habit I continue to burn the midnight oil and beyond, only to have my precious hours of rest disturbed by alarms and activity shortly after I settle in for my nightly nap. The result: yaaawwwwwnnnn.
I think I actually made it to bed last night before midnight; if the last few back-to-school times are any hint of how my behavior will play out, over the next two weeks I will be driven by survival needs to get to bed a little bit earlier each night. Not too much earlier, mind you: I may be 45 but I’m like a teenager when it comes to resisting my bedtime. Still, it will eventually creep back to 11 or so, and I’ll function on my 6 – 7 hours of sleep about as well as most of us snooze-deprived Americans do. One thing I would like to do, though: the Monastery has Mass every morning at 7 AM. Last Advent I went five days a week, and it was a beautiful discipline, the soft and slow chanting of the monks providing a perfect beginning for the day. The catch: I’ll need to leave the house by 6:30. Throw in time for meditation and my morning shower, and I have to be up by 5:30. Just thinking about it makes me yawn! I really must get to bed earlier tonight.
It occurs to me that straddling the fence between the Celtic/druidic/neopagan worlds and the Catholic/liturgical/contemplative worlds is to live in a place of radically different sleep patterns. My nocturnal habits are a clear holdover from my pagan period (to say nothing of my undergraduate days). A typical pagan ritual begins at 9 PM and can easily run three hours or more; compare that to the Trappist monks whose day begins at 4 AM with alternating periods of chant, prayer and contemplative silence, culminating with the Mass at 7. What these schedules have in common is that they both pull their adherents out of "normal" (ie, culturally mainstream) waking/sleeping patterns. There’s a twilight quality to engaging in ritual activity when sleepy or only semi-awake. The brain can more easily slip into the kind of deep-meditative theta state where a sense of cosmic union with the Divine can more easily break through. I suppose the monastic schedule is slightly more practical, in that it can fit in with a "normal" work schedule. As long as you get to bed at a decent hour.
Guinness and Julian
The ever-perceptive Wheezinggirl writes, in response to my alliteratively-named Phosphorescent Effigy:
Nature Mysticism and Christian Mysticism shouldn’t be judged against each other – they should be judged by their own merits. Pop Culture shouldn’t be judged against Mysticism at all, but judged by its own merits. If any of these end up winning best in show, then everyone will have a Guinness to celebrate.
Well, sure. I agree. And I love your dog show analogy. By the same token, I’m not the first person who’s ever talked about the comparative value between nature and transcendental mysticism (which I think is what I’m really talking about, since I would put the mysticism of Plotinus or most forms of Buddhism in the same camp as Christian mysticism), or for that matter who’s looked at the idea that pop culture transcends itself into a form of postmodern mysticism. So what I’m exploring is more by way of response than assertion.
Hey — I love pop culture and I’m rather fond of nature mysticism. A true transcendental mysticism sees itself as emerging from, not alien to, sacred story and devotion to the wonders of creation (granted, it’s been a tremendous weakness of transcendental mysticism, at least in the west, that it has expressed itself dualistically: "to be a mystic one must reject the world." But that hasn’t always been the case, and some truly visionary voices in the last 100 years, including Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, Evelyn Underhill, Thomas Merton, Kenneth Leech, and Ken Wilber, have made great strides toward re-visioning mysticism in terms that celebrate, rather than denigrate, the physical world). I think an analogy could be drawn from Celtic tradition here: the bards are custodians of the sacred story; the druids custodians of nature mysticism, and the seers custodians of the mysteries beyond nature. The whole point is: they work together, they join together, they need and celebrate each other. I think problems begin if/when the bards decide they don’t need the seers and druids ("I get all the spirituality I need from the Grateful Dead!" as more than one stoner has assured me), or the same problem erupts among the seers and druids — the dualism in Christian mysticism would be, by this analogy, a case where the "seers" have rejected the "bards" and "druids;" while the postmodern hostility toward transcendentalism that Ken Wilber calls "flatland" and that is characteristic of some (not all) corners of neopaganism, would be an example of the "seers" rejecting their colleagues.
Early this morning I was rummaging through the refrigerator and noticed a quote that I had put on the door a while back: "The fullness of joy is to behold God in everything." — Julian of Norwich. Reading that, I thought about how it applies to my rather masculine way of trying to understand the distinctions between stories (sacred or pop), nature, and the mystery beyond mystery that monotheism calls God. Wise woman that she is, Julian reminds me that the mystery beyond mystery is not some untouched purity that exists only in the abstractions of our minds, but rather cascades down from its transcendent origin, suffusing all matter, all energy, all consciousness with its (his? her?) joyful presence. There comes a point where the mystic, having taken the Plotinian flight from the universe — the "alone to the alone" — turns back and realizes that everything s/he left behind shimmers and hums with the very presence being sought "out there." That is a lovely moment of profound nondual insight. But I don’t think it renders the journey unnecessary. Sometimes we have to go away to be able to truly see.
Wheezinggirl, if I remember correctly, you prefer Jamison’s to Guinness anyway. No reason why there can’t be more than one "best in show."
Phosphorescent Effigy
Dolmena offers this in response to my most recent post, Contemplative Geek? Mystical Fan?:
Maybe I am misunderstanding what you mean … but I don’t see the problem. Of course I think my type of spirituality is inherently deeper and more mature than others, but we all grope toward enlightenment, or joy, or salvation, in our own ways. Is a dancing teddy bear truly more ridiculous than a glow-in-the-dark, caucasian plastic Jesus? (Or are they in fact equally sacrilegious?)
The "problem" stems from a cultural relativism that characterized a perspective I held for many years: that there’s no such thing as absolute truth, therefore any assertion is as true (or false) as any other, and therefore mysticism has value only from a strictly phenomenological perspective. In other words, if mysticism is meaningful for you, then it’s meaningful, but that’s as far as its meaning goes.
My decision to return to mystical Christianity (thereby eschewing mere nature spirituality as my spiritual center) was driven as much by my no longer believing in absolute relativism as by anything else. Why do I reject mystical relativism? Because I believe it reduces all spirituality to the level of psychological experience: mysticism is only valuable to the extent that it’s a discernible shift in my own consciousness. Now, my argument with this assertion is strictly with the word "only." I have no problem with the enormous power and beauty inherent in the phenomenological experience of mysticism. But if that is all there is to it, then we’re back to relativism: the only mysticism that matters is the mysticism that matters to me. My argument with this kind of reductionist spirituality is twofold: first, nothing prevents such a perspective from sooner or later collapsing from subjectivism to nihilism — "the only thing that’s true is what’s true for me" all too easily can devolve into "nothing is true." All it takes is a deep enough existential crisis on the part of the relativist/subjectivist thinker, and the relativism/subjectivism gives way to the meaningless void that lies beneath it. My second argument stems from my conviction that subjectivism and relativism ultimately undermine community. Community, by definition, rests on shared values and objectives; but how can values and objectives be shared in a world where truth itself is entirely for grabs? Sure, even in today’s relativistic world we have many lovely models of community, but I have yet to see a truly postmodern community that does not in some manner exist based on modernist or pre-modernist assumptions about "the common good" or "the rationality of sublimating self-interesting to a higher good" or some other such value in which lurks some sort of notion of Truth-with-a-capital-T.
So my anxiety, as I expressed it the other night, is simply that postmodern expressions of mysticism (such as becoming geeky-fannish about one’s favorite mystic, as I have done more than once about Julian of Norwich in my blog) may in effect be a reductionistic approach to mysticism, unintentionally diminishing it to our relativistic/subjectivist world, thereby subtly sabotaging mysticism’s authentic witness to transcendent values/experiences. It’s not a fear that dominates my thinking, but it does crop up from time to time. Hence my blogging about it.
Now, regarding the dancing bear and the glow-in-the-dark Jesus… I don’t see the dancing bear as either ridiculous or sacrilegious at all, and I suppose that’s because I don’t think anyone seriously thinks the dancing bear is pointing to a transcendent reality. Even the most whacked out acid-casualty deadhead does not (as best I can tell) ascribe any kind of objective ontological spiritual "truth" to Jerry and the Gang. Sure, hardcore deadheads find a mysticism in the GD experience, but it’s a natural mysticism, earthy and pagan rather than supernatural or theistic in its orientation. The dancing bear evokes a sense of whimsy, celebration, perhaps humor, but it doesn’t presume to point to anything beyond itself. For this reason, it works perfectly well, in so far as it goes. But a transcendentalist would suggest that it doesn’t go very far. Again, I say this not to put down the GD experience (read my article about Mickey Hart to get a sense of where I stand in relation to the Dead), but simply to note that, as wonderful/ ecstatic/ mind-blowing/ consciousness-expanding as the GD experience might be, Christian mysticism always asserts that it goes much, much further. Whether you believe this or not, that’s the claim that Christian mysticism makes. Not that nature mysticism in its many forms is bad (the Christians who attack nature mysticism are usually the same ones who also attack Christian mysticism, which sheds light on what their true agenda is), but simply that it is limited. Think of it this way: Michelob is a perfectly adequate beer, at least as American beers go. But if I note that Guinness is far, far superior, I am not putting Michelob down. I am merely trying to be honest in assessing their relative merits. Those who think that I am putting Michelob down merely because I dare to note that it fails to measure up to Guinness suffer either from a faulty, dualistic understanding of logic or from a particularly pernicious form of relativism that insists it is not okay to make comparative value judgments — a perspective that may be amusing when we’re talking about beer, but is truly appalling when it comes to meaningful conversations about different religious perspectives.
So while I don’t reject the dancing bear as either "ridiculous" or "sacrilegious," the glow-in-the-dark statue of Jesus just might test positive on both counts. Why? Because as a Christian, I place credence in the assertion that Christian iconography points to something bigger and more Real than anything in our universe, either visible or invisible; and believing this, I am moved to worship that which is so Real. As part of my devotion and worship, I feel led to eschew anything that would belittle (or dismiss) that which I adore. The phosphorescent statue could be seen as merely whimsical or playful or even as a teaching tool designed for reflecting on Christ’s declaration of being "the Light of the World." But the more we assign a transcendent Reality to Christ, the more doubt is cast upon the ultimate value of such whimsical playthings: What, then, would be their purpose — to reduce the transcendent to mere silliness? Or to attack the belief in the transcendent, through parody? Either way, it leaves a bad aftertaste in my mouth.
Now, I wrote the preceding paragraph mindful of the many ways in which it could be misinterpreted. So I want to go on the record that I am not declaring all phosphorescent religious items to be sinful!!! For one thing, I just don’t see the world in such stark black-and-white terms, and furthermore, since I have such a high theology of God as the ultimate source of love and joy and delight, I’m not entirely sure that God wouldn’t be rather fond of playful (read: ridiculous) stuff like glow-in-the-dark rosaries. To be honest, I personally would rather err on the side of God’s sense of humor. So with that in mind: bring on the ridiculous and sacrilegious pop-culture representations of the Christian faith. But just don’t assume that’s all there is to it. For I believe with all my heart that we mortals have barely scratched the surface of that unfathomable mystery that we monotheists call God.
Contemplative Geek? Mystical Fan?
Social-network blogging (such as can often be found at sites like Myspace or LiveJournal) seems to be so often imbued with a sort of pop-culture mysticism: blogs and sites and communities wholly devoted to Firefly, Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, Buffy, and so forth and so on. I think, therefore I am has morphed into I’m a fan, therefore I blog.
But what do I mean when I call this a "pop-culture mysticism"? A few thoughts to chew on:
- The texts (scripts, videos, books, whatever) provide symbol-sets that create/establish/maintain meaning and values for those who are "initiates" of the particular "sacred" story;
- Frequently, the characters receive devotion if not outright worship; through slash fiction and OTP debates, the mysteries of eros can be injected into what are otherwise often asensual myths;
- Immersion into the minutiae of character and plot details (e.g., just what exactly did Snape’s and Dumbledore’s argument concern, when Hagrid overheard them in HP and the Half-Blood Prince?) creates a depth of identity with the story that enables the initiate to move into an "otherworld" experience parallel to, and often seen as more real than/higher than, "ordinary reality;"
- Such otherworld experiences result in a mild altered/hypnotic state of consciousness, that enables time and other phenomenon of ordinary reality to be perceived differently (if at all) — e.g., the experience of "totally getting lost" in the story.
What’s so much fun about fan blogs is how they extend the mystery-cult experience: now you no longer have to read a book or watch a DVD to explore the pop-culture otherworld; just visit a site like Lightning War or Buffy Mud, and go ahead and lose yourself in the pop-culture altiverse of your choice.
In the Mediterranean world of pagan antiquity, you had a variety of mystery cults to choose from: the Orphic, Eleusinian, Dionysian, Mithraic, Isian mysteries, to name just a few. A person could devote themselves deeply and faithfully to just one mystery religion, or could enjoy a more superficial (but meaningful nonetheless) connection to several such communities. Fast forward to 2006: have we, between the power of visual media and the noetic wonders of the blogosphere, simply created a new set of mystery cults; meta-mythic mysteries which call their adherents to the devotion of "Harry Potter," "Star Trek," or "Barbie"? Is the new paganism of our day actually not so much driven by the old gods and goddesses, but rather the new pop-culture icons? Put another way: Who cares if you’ve got degrees in Gardnerian Wicca and are a dedicant of ADF, if your real spiritual center of gravity is the Grateful Dead and Dr. Who?
Okay, I’m sure I’m not the first wiseguy to ask these questions (but it’s after midnight and I work tomorrow and hence I’m too sleepy right now to scour the internet looking for others who discern more than just an echo between Darth Vader and Hades). But here’s what really gets me all a-twitter: when I sit and muse on the theology of Julian of Norwich or the philosophy of Plotinus or the practical contemplative teachings of The Cloud of Unknowing, am I just another fan, using my blog to collapse the space that separates mystique from mysticism? Is my Joycean House of Breathings just another postmodern psychic funhouse where arcane literary references get bandied about to create a sense of belonging among those in the know, while (hopefully) impressing the not-yet-initiated? Is the mysticism I celebrate just another all-too-human methodology of mining culture to foster thoroughly naturalistic, engineered altered states of consciousness?
It goes without saying that I ultimately answer these questions with a confident "No!" — a negative that masks the essential affirmative quality of my belief in a real transcendent, far beyond anything that J.K. Rowling or Gene Roddenberry could ever have cooked up. The Force as envisioned by George Lucas and his Jedi do-gooders is barely a flickering matchlight compared to the blazing sun of Plotinus’ re-visioning of the Platonic One. So I’m confident that I’m not just some sort of contemplative geek or mystical fanatic. But not so confident that I don’t find myself pondering about the questions I posed above, at odd moments of the day or late at night when I’m not sleeping well. After all, if contemporary pop-culture is the postmodern answer to the mystery religions of our pagan past, perhaps postmodern expressions of mysticism (no matter how rooted in tradition) are really and truly far more culture-driven (and culture defined) than I would really care to admit.
But if that is the case, then I’ll appeal to all my fellow "fans" of the western inner tradition: let’s figure out ways to bust this loose out of the self-referential maze that is contemporary culture. We can do it. And perhaps — we need to do it. Or maybe we need to be listening as attentively as we can for the whispers of the Spirit: who is, after all, the only One who truly can lead us out of the maze.
What I’m Currently Reading
Long-time readers of my blog know that I tend to have anywhere from 20 to 40 books "going" at a time… in other words, between titles I plan on reviewing, research I’m doing for whatever project I happen to be working on, my ongoing study of the mystics, or even just stuff I pick up for fun, I’ve always got a slew of books by my bedside table. Frankly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Today I was having so much fun reading that I decided to blog about a baker’s dozen of the titles in my library that currently have bookmarks in them. So here you go, in no particular order…
- The Rule of the Society of Saint John the Evangelist, North American Congregation — I have deep respect for the "Cowley Fathers," one of the monastic orders of the Anglican Communion. Given my interest in the Rule of St. Benedict, it is fascinating to read this contemporary rule (published in 1997).
- S. Abhayananda, History of Mysticism: The Unchanging Testament — A survey of world mysticism written by an American practitioner of eastern spirituality. I don’t agree with all his conclusions/interpretations, but it’s fun to see who he includes.
- Spencer Burke, The Heretic’s Guide to Eternity — I’m reading an advance proof of this forthcoming book. Look for a review, probably before the month is out, on my reviews page.
- Michael Casey, Fully Human Fully Divine: An Interactive Christology — Casey is an Australian Cistercian; this book explores the Gospel of Mark as an initiatory text of deification. The writing is poetic, richly textured, and spiritually profound.
- Steven Fanning, Mystics of the Christian Tradition — Another book I’m considering for a possible review.
- W. R. Inge, Christian Mysticism — One of the first major studies of its subject in the late-modern era, this philosophical approach to mysticism was originally a series of lectures given at Oxford University in 1899.
- J. N. D. Kelly, Early Christian Doctrines — A classic survey of the formation of Christian thinking, and also an essential text for the study of Orthodox spirituality and the doctrine of deification.
- Andrew Louth, Denys the Areopagite — A basic survey of the writings of one of the most important mystics of the first Christian millennium.
- J. B. Phillips, The New Testament in Modern English — This paraphrase of the Christian scriptures was published in the late 1950s but it still reads with power and immediacy almost a half century later.
- Pseudo-Macarius, The Fifty Spiritual Homilies and the Great Letter — The book I’m currently reading from my 111 Mystics list. He’s no John of the Cross, but his sermons reveal a deep love for the faith and an optimistic approach to the possibility of mystical transformation.
- J. W. Taylor, The Coming of the Saints — Another old book (published exactly a hundred years ago), this survey of early Christian folklore considers the folklore surrounding Mary Magdalene and Joseph of Arimathea and their legendary missions to the Celts.
- Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, The Divine Milieu — What a beautiful book! The great Jesuit paleontologist/mystic explores how to approach devotion to Christ in a way that honors both nature and science. The translation is lovely; I can only imagine how beautiful the French prose must be.
- Ken Wilber, Integral Spirituality — Yet another advance reading copy of a not-yet-published book (due in October); I’ll probably write a review of it sometime closer to its publication date.
We live in a world filled with lovely and fascinating and poetic writing, and those of us who are blessed to have access to wonderful books really owe it to ourselves to enjoy them.
Right Where You Are
One of the reasons I love contemplative spirituality is the way it invites us into deeper communion with God from right where we are. John O’Donohue said in his tape series Anam Cara something to the effect of that he thought the "spiritual journey" only took a quarter of an inch to traverse! In other words, spirituality is not about some long arduous path that one must follow, for years and years, to finally get to the point where it’s possible to be a beginner. No, spirituality is the exciting adventure wherein God meets us right where we are, here and now, in the magnificent unexplored possibilities of each and every singular present moment. To be a contemplative means to sit down, shut up, and open wide: open your mind to the space between your thoughts… open your heart to the love that flows through silence… and most of all, open your spirit to the wonders of that silent love, wonders that dance delicately around us all the time but, like a butterfly, only come to us when we learn to be peaceful and still.
Mysticism may be about the ascent of Mount Carmel or the journeys into the cloud of unknowing or the interior castle… but on a level far more profound than how many miles you can log in while exploring the mystical way, is the shimmering recognition that this "way" leads both to and from each of our hearts, in a circular "path" that begins and ends where Divine Love illuminates and encounters our finite selves. You want to explore contemplation, meditation, and the mystic life? Start right where you are. Don’t move. Just breathe deeply… let yourself be still… and dive in deep.
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How to Be a Monastic and Not Leave Your Day Job
How to be a Monastic and Not Leave Your Day Job:
An Invitation to Oblate Life
By Brother Benet Tvedten
Brewster, Massachusetts: Paraclete Press, 2006
Review by Carl McColman
A charming and easy read, this book celebrates the unique spirituality of Benedictine oblates — individuals who are not monastics but who choose to integrate the wisdom of the Rule of Saint Benedict into their lives while also forming a special relationship with a particular monastery. Oblates (the word comes from the Latin for “offering”) offer themselves as dedicants to the Benedictine way of life, while remaining “in the world.” Oblates can be either women or men, Catholic or Protestant, clergy or ordained – the only requirement is a sincere interest in Benedictine spirituality, a willingness to be spiritually formed in accordance with the wisdom of the Rule, and a desire to explore this dimension of faith in relationship with a monastic community.
Brother Benet Tvedten has been the Director of Oblates for Blue Cloud Abbey in South Dakota since the 1970s. As such, he is the monk who provides guidance and support to the many non-monastic women and men who come to his community seeking the wisdom of the Benedictine way. Given his long-standing ministry to the oblates of his community, he is in a unique position to reflect on the unique gifts of oblate life and how monks and oblates can provide inspiration, encouragement, and spiritual nurture to each other.
In this book Brother Benet sketches the history of oblates, from the ancient practice of fostering young boys to a monastery all the way up to developments in our times (the practice of allowing both men and women to become oblates of communities of either monks or nuns is a twentieth century innovation). He devotes several chapters to the most essential of Benedictine values, including hospitality, stability, continual conversion, justice and peace. He notes how ordinary and unadorned the Benedictine tradition is, pointing out that this is not a path for extraordinary “mystics” so much as a discipline for anyone interested in deepening their walk of faith. The author notes that Benedictine spirituality truly is Christian spirituality – there is nothing exotic or extraordinary in the Benedictine way; on the contrary, here is a spirituality defined by its very simplicity and earthiness.
Not everyone is called to be a monk or a nun. But thanks to Brother Tvedten’s accessible invitation to consider oblate life, perhaps more people will taste the blessings of Benedictine wisdom than ever before. The author sees oblates as bridges between the hidden world of the cloister and the “everyday” world in which most of us live and work. Oblates are like ambassadors – fluent in both cultures and able to convey meaning between the two. Not only is this a rare and beautiful gift, but — for those who are called to it — oblate life is a source of joy and meaning. Brother Benet has done a fine job at putting into words the poetic beauty of this singular spiritual path.
This book is part of Paraclete Press’ “A Voice From the Monastery Series.” If the series can be judged by this title, then it’s well worth exploring.
