Cloister of the Heart
The other day I had a wonderful chat with a friend of mine who is a Lay Cistercian and who regularly makes retreats at the monastery where I work. As Lay Cistercians, we have a unique perspective on monastic spirituality and what it can mean for those of us who are not, and not called to be, monks. Lay Cistercians, incidentally, are like Benedictine Oblates, Secular Franciscans, or Third Order Carmelites: people who are not called to the consecrated religious life, but who are nonetheless drawn to it. As its name implies, Lay Cistercians are laypeople, most of us married with ordinary jobs and lives “in the world,” who nevertheless find that the culture and spirituality of monasticism has a real and significant role to play in our ongoing formation as Christians. We are not “monk wanna-bes” so much as we function as a kind of ambassador or translator, who interfaces with both the monastic community and the world at large, drinking deeply from the monastic well as a way to nourish the good life we have been called to live, outside the monastic cloister.
So Lay Cistercians, as much as we are able, try to integrate various elements of the monastic way of life into our own Christian journey. Practices such as lectio divina or the recitation of at least part of the Liturgy of the Hours anchor our daily spirituality. But perhaps even more important than the things we try to do are the charisms by which we hope the Holy Spirit will shape us into who we are. The Cistercian charisms include such qualities as the love of silence, solitude, stability and simplicity; living and praying in a contemplative manner; joyfully embracing the challenges of humility, obedience (to Christ), and continual repentance; and embracing the Holy Rule of St. Benedict as a guide for living — adapted, of course, for life outside the monastery; but part of the genius of the Rule is its very adaptability.
Of course, Cistercian spirituality and charisms are valuable only insofar as they are Christian values. Nevertheless, part of what makes the Cistercian way so beautiful is its emphasis on quiet, on simplicity, on rootedness and community: all qualities that are consistent with the Gospel, but deliciously subversive of the values that form our society’s mainstream. And this is where life as a Lay Cistercian sometimes gets tricky. (more…)
Concerning Rest, Rest-less-ness and Formation
Here are the final questions from my friend’s questionnaire, on issues related to Sabbath, rest, restlessness (or, “rest-less-ness”), and formation. Although she is writing specifically about how these issues impact those in Christian ministry, I believe the issues raised are germane to us all. If you want to see my responses to the first two sets of questions, look here and here.
Questions concerning Formation
- What do you hear, when Jesus says: “Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am meek and humble of heart; and you will find rest for yourselves. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light” (Matthew 11:28-30)?
The irony, of course, is that when I resist Jesus’ yoke (which, incidentally, is etymologically related to yoga, i.e. spiritual practice), I find it anything but easy and light! I think the key words here are “learn from me,” “meek,” and “humble of heart.” This is related to metanoia, usually translated as conversion but perhaps better understood as “after-mind.” I’m reminded of the book by Shunryu Suzuki called Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind. Perhaps the yoga of Christ is all about “Christian mind, beginner’s mind” — so, what would this look like? Paul says of the faithful “we have the mind of Christ” (I Corinthians 2:16), and I think he means this “after-mind” which is beyond all discursive thought, all oppositional and dualistic thinking: a rest that is found beyond the inner storms of ordinary human consciousness. But there is a paradox here, for Christ calls us to “become like children,” and I think this is where the “beginner’s mind” kicks in. The restful place beyond oppositional consciousness is, paradoxically, very much like the meek and humble, willing-to-learn place that children naturally inhabit. I think we need to be careful not to conflate the mind of a child with the mind of Christ: ironically, we need both, but it seems that the doorway to the after-mind is the beginner’s mind. I know I’m getting really cerebral, here — to bring it back down to earth, perhaps when we just interrupt ourselves and let ourselves be like little children again, we find the “burdens” of being in relationship with Christ to truly be easy (it’s harder to frown than to smile) and, simultaneously, we prepare ourselves for that “higher” rest which can only be given to us, freely even though it costs everything. - What are we to learn from Jesus in order to rest?
I think I’ve already answered this question. Become like little children. Love God. Love your neighbors. Don’t be afraid of a good party. Have fun. The rest is just details. - There is a growing awareness of burnout among ministers of the church, which seems to contradict Jesus’ affirmation about the easiness of his yoke and the lightness of his burden. What do you think about this seeming contradiction?
Although I’m not a minister in any ordained or official sense, I am a church employee, and I can see (perhaps more clearly than most) that the church is just as trapped by all of our cultural idols as anywhere else. I can only imagine how difficult it must be to honestly and vulnerably preach Christ’s subversive message in a religious culture that remains as bound to results and performance as any other aspect of society. The cognitive dissonance of preaching a message that directly subverts the institutional work you are doing must be incredible. How many churches, with their beautiful buildings, precious metal communion vessels, stained glass windows, and custom-made organs, are ready to sell it all and give to the poor? How many churches are ready to let go of pledge drives and membership records and just focus on setting the prisoners free? When I write this, I do not mean to judge anyone, for my house and car and computers and flat- screen TV and books and guitars make me just as much a prisoner of my wealth as any other churchman, clergy or no. But at least I can take some small refuge in being a layperson. For the ordained, “professional” minister of Christ, the contradiction must be crushing. In fact, without a sustained contemplative practice that would enable a minister to embrace non-dual and non-oppositional consciousness, I don’t think such a “ministry” (read: career) can be sustainable. And, alas, the church over the last 500 years has done a pretty poor job at teaching contemplative consciousness. So, no wonder there’s so much burnout. - How have people who can rest in God been formed in your tradition? (Please identify your tradition). What is Holy Leisure? Why is it important?
I’m not sure I have an answer to the question. I was raised Lutheran, then became an Episcopalian, and then (after a sojourn in the Neopagan community) entered the Catholic Church. Each of these Christian families is sacramental and liturgical in character, and each has at least some form of consecrated religious life. I think consecrated life is so essential, and that ideally there is a symbiotic relationship between monks and the laity. The monastic life is an invitation for all of us to be just a bit more childlike, a bit more subversive, a bit more lavish and prodigal in our love.
What is holy leisure? Is there a difference between sacred leisure and profane leisure? I’m not sure that profane leisure really exists. So holy leisure is true leisure. It’s important because it creates the opening, the space, the “wound” (related to wonder) in which we become vulnerable to the transforming power of Christ in our lives — without us doing anything to achieve it or bring it about.
Concerning Human Rest-Less-Ness
Here are my replies to my friend’s questionnaire: the second part, which deals with the topic of Human “Rest-less-ness.”
- What robs you of peace? What gets in the way of your resting? What makes you feel restless? What is it that we “lack” when we are “rest-less”?
My own compulsions, probably more than anything else. My tendency to compulsive behavior not only keeps me busy (often with tasks that do not in themselves truly nurture my soul), but also introduces a sense of anxiety: if I don’t do this, and do this now, somehow things are not okay. So what do I lack: faith, trust, humility (for example, I am compulsive about my marketing my work, and much of that compulsion stems from a sense that I’m not “okay” as a writer if I’m not doing things to promote my work). - Have you ever felt that you really wanted but really could not rest? … That there is something within us that resists or is afraid of resting? What do you think it is?
Of course I’ve felt that: I’m not a chronic insomniac, but I’ve had bouts of sleeplessness ever since I was a teenager. As for the “something within us,” the glib religious answer is “sin” just as the glib psychological answer is “obsessive/compulsive behavior” — but to try to drill down a bit further, I think for me the rest-less-ness at root is a need to assert control. I think that need is both sinful and obsessive/compulsive — and probably the only antidote is a continual, gradual, process of what the monks call “joyful penance” — continually letting go of the grasping need to control, and doing that letting go as joyfully as possible, even in its imperfection and impermanence. - Do you find keeping Sabbath easy? Or hard? What are the obstacles to your Sabbath observance? What/who are the helpers?
I am not very good at keeping the Sabbath, not only because of my compulsions but because of the joy I take in my work. Sin, like any freely chosen dysfunctional behavior, has some sort of payoff, and for me that payoff is, negatively, feeling like I’m in control, but positively, the genuine joy I find in my work. It’s like finding joy in eating lots of sweets and ice cream, I suppose: yummy, but not so good holistically. I still need to work on this. As for what helps: well, the Lay Cistercian way of life is certainly a gentle reminder: when I remember to pay attention to it! - What do you hear, when the author of Hebrews speaks about rebellion/disobedience of those “to whom God did swear that they should not enter his rest” and summons us to “harden not our hearts” but to “enter God’s Sabbath rest while it is still ‘today’” (Hebrews 3:7-4:13)?
At first I don’t see these words applying to me, since I don’t ever willfully set out to break Sabbath: it’s more mindlessness and bad habit, in my case. I suppose this sheds light on my perception (or misperception) that “rebellion” or “hardness of heart” must entail some sort of grand, dramatic, gesture. But perhaps the Hebrews author is chipping away at the fact that we harden our hearts, rebel and disobey in countless small and ordinary ways. Perhaps it’s a slippery slope: swearing to sin comes at the end, not the beginning, of a long process of sloppiness in regard to how we attend to our response to God’s love. A priest and I once were talking about mortal sin, and he used adultery as an example: he pointed out that the decision to deny God happens long before the illicit lovers tumble into bed — it begins with very small, seemingly “harmless” choices: I’ll invite this person over for dinner when both our spouses are out of town, or something like that. And something like that could really be entirely innocent: it’s all about what’s going on deep inside. We’re always called to be vigilant about the sneaky motives that lurk in our hidden places. This is tricky when talking about Sabbath, for sloth is a deadly sin, but so is its shadow, work-aholicism. And even monitoring our own tendency to sin can become a compulsion!
Back to Hebrews: I think “entering God’s Sabbath rest while it is still today” is the key: Sabbath is always about the present. I don’t think you can plan the Sabbath: back to my idea that the most restful time is unstructured time. Rest is not something we do, it’s something we allow. Like grace, actually.
Concerning Human Rest
Last week I posted a series of questions from a friend of mine who is writing her dissertation on the theology of rest and the role that rest plays in the life of Christian ministers. Now, for my answers to her first set of questions:
- What gives you rest? What do you find restful? When we say “beautiful,” we mean “full of beauty;” then, what are we “full of” when we are restful? What does it mean to call something restful?
For me, rest is all about unstructured time. It’s an opportunity to live in the moment, which can mean just napping all day, or getting a spontaneous notion to go climb Stone Mountain, which of course involves physical exertion. But the key is that my calendar is open, allowing me to follow my heart even if just for a day. - What do you need in order to rest? What do you do — or avoid doing — on your Sabbath day?
See above. The key for me is having unstructured time, which of course is indicative of how structured my life normally is. - How do you understand the meaning of the ancient monastic phrase, otium negotiotissimum (”always be at rest yet never be idle“)?
Monastic life is by its very nature highly structured, and this continues, day in day out, seven days a week. I’m clear that I don’t have a call to such a life, even though it does appear attractive to me. I think the phrase otium negotiotissimum, for me, is a call to mindfulness: preventing my daily activity from devolving into freneticism, and likewise preventing my sabbath time from devolving into mindless pleasure-seeking. I don’t always live up to such mindfulness, but it seems to me that when I do, there can be a dimension of contemplative rest even in my work, and a dimension of purpose and integrity even in my Sabbath-time. - What do you hear when Jesus says, “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give it to you. Do not let your hearts be troubled or afraid” (John 14:27)?
I think “worldly” peace is merely the absence of conflict: it’s a negative peace. Christ’s peace, by contrast, is a postivie peace: not primarily the absence of something, but rather the presence of something: of God’s own Self, of the presence of the profound integral being-in-joy and being-in-delight and being-in-love. This being has nothing to prove and nothing to achieve, so of course it is profound rest. I’m not sure that human beings can fully participate in this being endlessly and still remain human, that seems to be fundamentally contradictory. But we can partially participate in it, and more fully participate from time to time (say, during sabbath or deep meditation). The deeper we go, the more peaceful/restful it gets. - What do you hear when the Hebrews author says that the “Sabbath rest still remains for the people of God” (Hebrews 3:7-4:13)?
Part of Jesus’ radical revisioning of religion involves dismantling purity codes, and Sabbath observance can function as a purity obligation. Those who break the Sabbath laws are “unclean.” I think the Hebrews author is reminding Christians that, while we are no longer bound by a legalistic/purity-code convention regarding the Sabbath, we are still creatures fashioned in the image and likeness of God, and therefore need Sabbath rest. We just have to take responsibility for it without being legalistic. - How would you connect rest and peace?
I think my answers already begin to connect those dots. Rest is something we do; peace is something God is. We enter more fully into rest when we open ourselves up to partake in God’s Divine nature — the nature of true peace.
Okay, more to come later!
On Learning a Musical Instrument as a Metaphor for Contemplative Practice
I’m a beginner with the bass guitar. I bought an inexpensive Ibanez bass the January before last and took about four months of lessons, but then stopped as I got more involved in writing my book on Christian mysticism. Now, over a year later, the book is on my editor’s desk and I’ve resumed working with the bass. Thanks to a rather lucrative freelancing job I had earlier this year, I’ve upgraded my gear and am now learning with a Rickenbacker bass (I am not worthy to be playing such a wonderful instrument, but when we say “life’s not fair” sometimes that works to our advantage). I’m going to start back on my lessons, and who knows? Maybe some day I’ll be good enough to at least pluck along with a church praise band. Or not. We’ll see. My commitment to the bass is entirely to have fun.
But of course, learning a musical instrument in midlife is about a lot more than just having fun. I’m facing all the demons of insecurity and low self-esteem that prevented me from picking up the bass (or some other instrument) 30 or 40 years ago. Yes, I can say that my parents never encouraged me to play an instrument and without that kind of external support/discipline, I probably wouldn’t have made it very far; nowadays I can be my own “parent” and pull the self-discipline up from within me. I suppose that’s true (although every professional musician I know had the self-discipline at age 13; in fact, usually they got in trouble with their parents because they were more interested in playing the guitar than in doing homework, but I suppose that’s another story). However we slice it, the bottom line is that I’m doing something now, rather awkwardly, that many other folks pull off successfully before they learn how to drive. I suppose there’s some humility in there.
But there’s also all the “I’m not good enough” stuff. “What’s a guy with gray hair and a less than svelte physique doing trying to learn a rock and roll instrument?” that snarky voice whispers within me. “Isn’t this just some weird midlife phase?” “Sell the bass, act your age, and invest the money. It would be a wiser thing to do.” Every time I try to learn a new riff and I make a loud buzzing noise or a string of flat notes, I have to breathe through the temptation to get angry or feel defeated. “I’m doing this for fun,” I keep reminding myself. “This isn’t about becoming a professional musician, or being cool, or proving anything to anybody. It’s just about having fun.”
And I’m discovering that, for me and my Rickenbacker, “having fun” means taking baby steps. By the end of my fourth month of classes, I was just barely beginning to be able to play eighth notes without totally screwing up. Over a year later, that’s still where I am. Baby steps? Hah! I’m still crawling.
The other night on PBS there was footage from the Crossroads festival a few years back, and Jeff Beck performed with an amazing young Australian bassist named Tal Wilkenfeld. Fran and I both were amazed at her playing chops; I looked her up online and discovered she was born in 1986, meaning she was barely 21 during that performance we saw (indeed, we made the apparently common error of thinking she was Jeff Beck’s daughter). Watching her fingers fly over the fretboard, I felt all my “I’m not worthy stuff” flow up like some sort of psychic acid reflux. But then I remembered that it’s all about fun, and I don’t have to worry about comparing myself to someone less than half my age who had already “made it” in the bass world. After all, I’m not trying to “make it in the bass world.” But, still, the snarky voice mumbles in the background, because part of me is toxically ambitious and feels like anything I do I should be the best at, period — or else I’m just a worthless pile of you-know-what.
Reflecting on these silly but persistent inner dynamics, I had a flash of insight the other morning. Isn’t the practice of contemplation a lot like learning a musical instrument? Perhaps many other people will see this as pretty much a no-brainer, but for me, having never seriously pursued a disciplined study of an instrument before, it came as a revelation.
I can only speak for myself, but I certainly do the same silly things with my meditation practice that I do with my bass playing. I sit to be silent, and I attack myself for how lousy I am at it. I come up with all sorts of excuses to undermine my discipline — and then, my discipline having been undermined, I accuse myself of bad faith. When I play my “eighth notes” of rather short and not-terribly-focused meditation experiences, I judge myself as unworthy because I am not engaged in the kind of consciousness alteration that (I assume) characterizes the practice of a “true” master.
Practice makes perfect. If at first you don’t succeeed, try try again. These may be little maxims that parents use to keep their kids at their daily hour of piano playing, but they also are solid pointers to the reality of contemplative practice. Of course, the kicker here is this: contemplation, like my approach to the bass, is not meant to be anything other than its own reward. Even if we feel like we don’t “succeed” in contemplation, we’ve succeeded anyway. Of course, success is a not-very-useful category by which to describe contemplation, but since we live in a culture that worships the idol of success so pervasively, we (or at least, I) can’t help but see contemplation as something we might or might not succeed at. So what is success in contemplation: feeling God’s presence? Noticing deeper serenity and calmness throughout the day? Making it through 20 minutes of centering prayer without a single distraction? (yeah, like that is going to happen!)… we can evaluate our contemplative practice any way we want, and if we try to evaluate it, chances are we’ll just stack the deck so that it comes up lacking. Sigh. So we try not to judge ourselves — even our judging self — and we try, try again. We take baby steps. We play eighth notes and we try not to wince when the string buzzes. And somewhere in the midst of it all, we have fun.
Forty-something guy meets awesome bass guitar
Christianity, Islam & Buddhism (or, Two Conversations)
I had two conversations yesterday with two different people. While on the surface they seem to be entirely different conversations concerning different matters, on reflection I see that they are two aspects of the same discourse. They both involved the question of how Christianity (and individual Christians) ought to be relating to other religious traditions (and the practitioners of those traditions). Here’s what happened:
First, someone forwarded to my wife an alarmist video about projected changes in religious demographics in Europe and North America over the next fifty years, as the birth rate declines among caucasians, while rising immigration and a vigorous birth rate of immigrants, many of whom are Muslim, means — according to the people who produced the video — that the native Christian population will soon be overwhelmed by a nascent immigrant Muslim population. By interspersing through this video quotations from figures like Muammar al-Gaddafi who is alleged to have said “There are signs that Allah will grant victory to Islam in Europe without swords, without guns, without conquest,” the video’s message is clear: Christians need to start birthing babies — and evangelizing Muslims — or else we all better start learning Arabic.
This video never identifies its producers, but it was uploaded to Youtube by a user named “friendofmuslim” who is identified by the Islam in Europe blog as a “Christian evangelist.” No big surprise there. This blogger goes on to challenge much of the content of the video, and I suppose I could have fun trying to deconstruct the question of just how soon Europe will transition from being a secular/post-Christian continent to becoming a Muslim continent. But it’s all speculation. It could happen in 40 years (as the video predicts), 100 years, or never. But that’s not the point I wish to make.
In the ensuing conversation that my wife and I had after watching the video, I pointed out that demographics are always changing, and the more interesting question, to me, concerns not this kind of power politics where Christians have to contain a non-Christian threat, but rather the larger question of what will happen as Christian and non-Christian cultures continue to interface?
Which leads to the second conversation I had yesterday, with one of the monks in Conyers. He shares my interest in interreligious and interfaith dialogue, and I was telling him about a book I recently purchased: Mind in the Balance: Meditation in Science, Buddhism and Christianity by B. Alan Wallace. I haven’t read any of Wallace’s previous books, but his body of work looks interesting enough: a former Buddhist monk who now heads the Santa Barbara Institute for Consciousness Studies, most of Wallace’s work concerns the interface of Buddhist contemplative practices with the science of human consciousness; and now he’s invited the Christian tradition to join in on the conversation as well.
The monk and I talked about how important we felt the Buddhist-Christian conversation is, particularly to contemplative spirituality. We talked about how many of the most important contemplatives of the past century, including Thomas Merton, Raimon Panikkar, Bede Griffiths, and William Johnston, were (or are) engaged in some form of interfaith work between Christianity and eastern religious practice. Finally, I said, “You know, I think I have more in common with a contemplative Buddhist than with a fundamentalist Christian,” and he agreed.
Here we have the challenge of the postmodern world. Phyllis Tickle says that the key issue facing emergence Christianity is the question of authority. But I think identity is just as critical a concern. Christians who oppose interfaith dialog, or who insist that our only interaction with non-Christians must be to convert them, are precisely those who have a high level of anxiety over what it means to be a Christian: to have a Christian identity. Now, I am all for having a Christian identity, just as I think it is important to have a clear sense of where our authority is situated. But just as all the old paradigms of authority seem to be shifting under our feet, so too I think “Christian identity” is totally up for grabs. If the emergence of a Muslim majority in Europe would mean the death of contemplative Christianity, I would grieve. But if it just means a new chapter in the endless drama of clashing fundamentalisms, I can’t get too worried about it, except to fear the violence that must inevitably accompany such conflict. Meanwhile, the thought of mystical cross-fertilization between contemplative Muslims (such as the Sufis) and contemplative Christians is a question I find fascinating. Perhaps in another few years meditation practitioners like B. Alan Wallace will be inviting the most visionary of Muslim thinkers to join in the conversation that is already occurring between scientists, Buddhists and Christians.
Don’t dismiss me here. We have to get over the media stereotype of Islam as the religion of suicide bombers. Yes, that element exists, just as there are Christians out there who murder abortion providers. Islam has a long history of its own intellectual distinction (remember, it was the Muslims who, like the Irish, kept classical philosophy alive while Europe sank into the dark ages). When we think in terms of Christian-Muslim dialogue, it is vital that we think in terms of creative and fruitful exchange between the greatest minds and most loving practitioners of each faith. It needs to be a conversation between the saints and the mystics and the genuises of both communities. If we allow the tribal-minded masses (of either religion) to shape the conversation, it will devolve from a conversation into a quarrel, from a quarrel to a fight, and from a fight into a war. This is something no one needs.
Fifty years from now, Europe may be demographically Muslim and Africa may be the center of the Christian world. But North America, I suspect, will remain a roiling mass of secularism which plays host to a variety of religious identities, from fundamentalisms of all stripes to truly visionary contemplative explorers of human consciousness. Frankly, it will be among those contemplative explorers, regardless of where they happen to worship, that the most enlightening discourse will occur. If I’m still around (If I’m alive in 2059, I’ll celebrate my 99th birthday), I hope to be part of what promises to be a fascinating conversation (or two).
Cloister Talks
Cloister Talks: Learning from My Friends the Monks
By Jon M. Sweeney
Grand Rapids: Brazos Press, 2009
Review by Carl McColman
Monasteries are archetypal. Even for Protestants who live in a religious milieu that does not include monastic communities, monks and nuns (and their communal way of life) symbolize either strong positive or negative concepts: at worst, they represent religious decadence or hypocrisy, no doubt a lingering after-effect of the hostilities of the reformation era or the economic injustices of pre-revolutionary France. But monasticism can also represent the idea of giving oneself totally to God, in a life of fervent devotion that renders even asceticism, self-sacrifice and celibacy as small prices to pay.
As a Protestant youth, my introduction to monasticism came through books: reading the works of monks like Thomas Merton, or of other authors who spoke highly of consecrated religious life, like Evelyn Underhill. Author Jon Sweeney had a similar introduction to the life, when, as a teenager a pastor suggested he read Merton. As an undergraduate, Sweeney made the effort to actually go and visit the monastery where Thomas Merton lived — and thus began a lifelong journey of appreciation for monastic life, anchored in several friendships and spiritual mentoring relationships that he developed with monks, not only at Merton’s Gethsemani Abbey in Kentucky, but also at St. Joseph’s Abbey in Spencer, MA and Holy Spirit Abbey in Conyers, GA (which is the monastery where I work, in the Abbey Store). Writing in his midlife, Cloister Talks represents over twenty years of life and learning as Sweeney evolves from a brash young evangelical unsure of what to make of this ancient lifestyle, to a thoughtful and perceptive 40-something who understands just how precious the wisdom of the cloister is — and what a profound role it has played in his own life and spiritual growth.
This book is a joy to read, because Sweeney is a natural storyteller and keeps his focus on both his own inner development and on the lighthearted, often humorous and even playful dialogue that he shares with a number of monks over the years. The most renowned of his monastic friends is M. Basil Pennington, one of the founders of the centering prayer movement and possibly the most prolific contemporary monastic writer after Merton. But this is far more than a memoir of a friendship with a famous author. Most of the monks who appear in Cloister Talks are just ordinary monastics, and Sweeney even changes their names in an effort to shield their identity (although, to be honest, all the monks from Conyers were easy enough for me to identify!). This is not meant to be so much a book about individual monks as about their collective wisdom, and so really the key figure is the author himself; the book is built around his arc of learning to wrestle with the call to contemplation, the need to unlearn worldly habits of striving and the egoic need to be “original,” and understanding the role of work and play in one’s overall spiritual life. The author asks honest questions of his cloistered friends: Do monks get lonely? What’s so different about being a monk? What do monks think about death? Why is stability (the monastic vow to live at one monastery, rarely leaving the cloister) so important? The answers he gets don’t always satisfy him, and he says so. But more often, the monks give him plenty to ponder as he stumbles along, not only with his own fits and starts as he learns how to pray, but also with the quotidian challenges of raising children, and dealing with an increasingly troubled marriage. Sweeney’s monastic friends never fix his problems, but provide him space to look at the dynamics of his life in a new way.
At one point he grouses about how frustrating it is that the monks who offer him spiritual guidance don’t offer any kind of spiritual method or program and don’t even make any promises. “‘We can show you how to be quiet, how to listen, but only God can show you the other stuff,’ Father Ambrose told me long ago. ‘What stuff?’ ‘You.’”
So many books on monastic spirituality offer a wealth of information, unpacking the storied history of monasticism, or the profound wisdom of true masters like Merton or his predecessors like Bernard of Clairvaux or Aelred of Rievaulx. But while such books can be dazzling in the insight they offer, they also often as not can be dull or difficult to read. By contrast, Cloister Talks is delightful, down-to-earth, warm, and geared toward the reader who may have no real knowledge of consecrated religious life. As such, it is a treasure.
Patience
I am not a particularly patient person. My house is full of books that I may never get around to reading, but I keep buying new ones, because I’m just a wee bit compulsive about having new books and also because I’m not patient enough to let a book stay at the bookstore (or at Amazon.com) until I need it. Meditation is also a daily struggle with my own impatience at the intransigence of my monkey mind. Wait for a slow unfolding of my deep relaxed self? Well, that would be okay, except for the waiting bit.
Pretty much every time I go to confession I have to share with my priest, yet again, how I fail to observe the speed limit. My contrition is real, if imperfect: I’m sorry for speeding more because I know of the risks involved than because I don’t really want to speed. The speeding is a sympton-sin, symptomatic of how deeply I remain in a hurry, all the time.
So now that the first draft of my book is done, and I have a bit of a break before my editor gets back to me with recommended changes and alterations, I have a bit of time on my hand. And so every night I’m trying to spend a half hour or more with a guitar and a bass that I bought over the past year, while I was too busy writing to bother learning a new musical instrument. And so now I have two musical instruments to learn! I’m 48 years old, and have never seriously studied a musical instrument before (not counting hand drums, and I don’t think they should count).
There was a segment on NPR a while back about adults learning to play a musical instrument. It exploded a lot of the old myths (“If you don’t start while you’re a child, don’t bother”), but one of the persons interviewed did make a point of saying that adult learners must be very patient, for it will take them longer to master new skills than it does young people, who are learning the instrument even as their brain synapses are still settling in. For us grown-up types, learning a musical instrument is an exercise in patience. For this patience, we are rewarded with tiny baby steps of musical accomplishment.
Needless to say, my desire to make music competes with the roar of my impatience; that part of me that feels like if something isn’t an immediate slam-dunk, it’s not worth my time or effort. The electric guitar and bass might not seem to be particularly “contemplative” instruments. But the way in which they force me to work on being more patient — maybe better said, to allow myself to be more patient — has a direct corollary in my meditation practice. The more I learn to accept my imperfection — and my infinitesimally slow progress — with the guitar and the bass, the more these same skills can shed light on both the promise and the challenge of my spiritual practice.
At my age, I suppose learning to sit in a silent mind might take just as much long-term patience as does learning how to play a musical instrument for the first time.
Somehow, this is a comforting thought.
Rest, Restlessness, Rest-less-ness (part 3)
If you haven’t already done so, please read Monday’s post: Rest, Restlessness, Rest-less-ness (part 1), which was followed by part 2 yesterday. Tonight I’m posting the third and final part of my friend’s questionnaire, this segment dealing with the topic of formation, and how this applies to the concepts of rest and restlessness (or, rest-less-ness). Please, if you feel so inclined, post your thoughts, comments, or answers to these questions here.
Questions concerning Formation
- What do you hear, when Jesus says: Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am meek and humble of heart; and you will find rest for yourselves. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light (Matthew 11:28-30)?
- What are we to learn from Jesus in order to rest?
- There is a growing awareness of burnout among ministers of the church, which seems to contradict Jesus’ affirmation about the easiness of his yoke and the lightness of his burden. What do you think about this seeming contradiction?
- How have people who can rest in God been formed in your tradition? (Please identify your tradition). What is Holy Leisure? Why is it important?
Words that Spoke to Your Heart
Please share passages from the Christian tradition which have spoken to your heart during your journey of “entering into God’s Sabbath Rest.” I do not intend to create an anthology of Christian writing on rest (not in this dissertation, at least! ), but I would like to receive and ponder the “words of Peace” which you have come to cherish. When possible, please provide the name of the author and/or the name of the book.
Stay tuned… I’ll be posting my own answers to some or maybe even all of these questions over the next few days. But in the meantime, if you have any thoughts on one or some or all of these questions, please don’t be shy.
Rest, Restlessness, Rest-less-ness (part 2)
If you haven’t already done so, please read yesterday’s post: Rest, Restlessness, Rest-less-ness (part 1).
Tonight I’m posting the second part of my friend’s questionnaire, this segment dealing with the topic of Human “Rest-less-ness.” Please, if you feel so inclined, post your thoughts, comments, or answers to these questions here.
Questions concerning Human Rest-less-ness
- What robs you of peace? What gets in the way of your resting? What makes you feel restless? What is it that we “lack” when we are “rest-less”?
- Have you ever felt that you really wanted but really could not rest? … That there is something within us that resists or is afraid of resting? What do you think it is?
- Do you find keeping Sabbath easy? Or hard? What are the obstacles to your Sabbath observance? What/who are the helpers?
- What do you hear, when the author of Hebrews speaks about rebellion/disobedience of those to whom God did swear that they should not enter his rest, and summons us to harden not our hearts but to enter God’s Sabbath rest while it is still ‘today’ (Hebrews 3:7-4:13)?
Thank you. The third and final part of this questionnaire will be posted tomorrow.
Rest, Restlessness, Rest-less-ness (part 1)
A friend of mine who is a doctoral candidate at Emory University’s Candler School of Theology is conducting research on the question of rest and restlessness as areas of theological concern. She has developed a questionnaire which she is using to gather insights from a variety of persons on these topics, as part of her original research. Here’s a bit of insight into her work, in her own words:
I want to share with you the ways in which I understand and employ the word ‘rest.’ My understanding and use of the word stretches to its widest possible meaning, including not only physical repose but peace of mind and spiritual respite, peace that surpasses understanding and extends beyond merely individual well-being, toward an ideal human state and universal wholeness of shalom. Therefore, to capture the “lack of rest,” I have coined a word ‘rest-less-ness.’ By introducing hyphenation in this existing word, I try to emphasize and preserve the twofold meaning of the word: that of the common use of the word, i.e. an inability to remain “still or motionless, or a lack of quiet, repose, rest,” as well as my emphasis on the spiritual nature of the problem, expressed by St. Augustine, “…O Lord… You made us for Yourself, and our heart is restless until it rests in You.” In my own reflections, I have come to understand rest-less-ness as a deep longing of the human heart, which is spiritual at its core but thoroughly embodied, the daily manifestations of which rarely display an explicit connection to religion.
The questionnaire is divided into three parts: the first concerns human rest, the second rest-less-ness, and the third formation. I’m posting the first set of questions here tonight, and will post the other sets over the next few days. Please respond as you see fit. If you would like your input to be considered for her research, please post your response by September 24. Thank you.
Questions concerning Human Rest
- What gives you rest? What do you find restful? When we say “beautiful,” we mean “full of beauty;” then, what are we “full of” when we are restful? What does it mean to call something restful?
- What do you need in order to rest? What do you do — or avoid doing — on your Sabbath day?
- How do you understand the meaning of the ancient monastic phrase, otium negotiotissimum (“always be at rest yet never be idle“)?
- What do you hear when Jesus says, Peace I leave with you, my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give it to you. Do not let your hearts be troubled or afraid (John 14:27)?
- What do you hear when the Hebrews author says that the Sabbath rest still remains for the people of God (Hebrews 3:7-4:13)?
- How would you connect rest and peace?
Thank you for your insights. More questions to come!
Communion and the Broken Body
As the National Conference of Catholic Bishops puts it,
Because Catholics believe that the celebration of the Eucharist is a sign of the reality of the oneness of faith, life, and worship, members of those churches with whom we are not yet fully united are ordinarily not admitted to Communion.
To put in the language of the street: Catholics have closed communion. Non-Catholics are not invited to the table (well, technically Eastern Orthodox Christians can receive communion in a Catholic Church, but even they “are urged to respect the discipline of their own churches” — which probably means in most circumstances they should not participate, because their own church has closed communion). If you are a Protestant, Anglican, Evangelical or post-denominational Christian participating in a Catholic mass, you are specifically expected not to receive the host or the precious blood.
It is not the purpose of this blog post to either defend or attack this doctrine. Perhaps it is a litmus test of whether one is a “traditional” or “progressive” Catholic, as to whether one agrees or disagrees with this matter of church teaching. But I do not wish to get into the dogfight, and I certainly lack the theological chops to make a persuasive argument one way or the other. All I can talk about is the evolution of my own experience in regard to this particular aspect of the Catholic faith. This evolution has undergone four stages: my “Protestant” phase, my “Pagan” phase, my “RCIA” phase, and where I am today. When I look at the arc of my personal spiritual journey, I suppose it is inevitable that I’ve ended up where I am now, but I sure didn’t see it coming beforehand. (more…)
Quote for the Day
But when it seemed to God that the right time had come and he took pity on his beloved in her suffering, he sent his only-begotten Son to earth into a magnificent palace and a glorious temple, that is, into the body of the glorious Virgin Mary. There the Son wedded this bride, our nature, and united her with his own person through the purest blood of the noble Virgin. The priest who witnessed the bride’s marriage was the Holy Spirit. The angel Gabriel brought the message. The glorious Virgin gave her consent. Thus did Christ, our faithful Bridegroom, unite our nature with himself. He came to us in a strange land and taught us through a heavenly way of life and with perfect fidelity. He worked and struggled as our champion against our enemies, broke open the bars of our prison, won the struggle, vanquished our death through his own, redeemed us through his blood, freed us through his water in baptism, and made us rich through his sacraments and his gifts, so that, as he says, we might “go out” with all virtues, “meet him” in the palace of glory, and enjoy him forever in eternity.
— Blessed John Ruusbroec, interpreting Matthew 25:6,
in The Spiritual Espousals
Odds and Ends
A few odds and ends for your Friday enjoyment…
- Mike Morrell, who is “Facebook Friends with everyone on the planet,” has an interesting little conversation going on at his blog about apologetics and post-postmodernism (yes, that’s right, two – count ‘em – “posts” there). Basically, he’s pondering the question of whether or not the emergent/postmodern conversation is already getting a bit long in the tooth, thanks to the newest generation which is bringing an entirely new set of concerns and questions to the community of faith. He flatters me by calling me an “integral Christian thinker and practitioner” because of my interest in Wilber, but frankly I feel far too inadequate to offer much in the way of the fascinating (and philosophically nuanced) conversation that is emerging in his comment box. To read all the fun, click here: http://zoecarnate.wordpress.com
- In Mike’s post, he refers to this website: Integral Christian, which seeks to introduce the connection between Ken Wilber’s integral theory and Christian praxis. The website is anonymous, giving no hint as to who authored the content or who owns the site, and I haven’t had a chance to read the essays themselves — so with that disclaimer in place, this might be a wonderful website or a waste of time. But it looks good, and is probably worth investigating.
- Do you live in Atlanta? If so, then there are some sweet events coming in October:
On October 17, the Jung Society of Atlanta presents Dr. Jerry Wright speaking on Celtic Spirituality and Jungian Psychology: Sources of Nourishment for the Modern Soul. Jerry is a kind and gentle man and I suspect this will be a fascinating evening. Cost for non-members is $20. For more information, visit http://www.jungatlanta.com/schedule-jwright.html.
The following week, on October 24, Richard Rohr will speak in Atlanta, for the first annual “Cathedral of Saint Philip Spirituality Conference.” The Intersection of Prayer and Life in the 21st Century: A Day with Richard Rohr costs $40; for more information, visit http://www.stphilipscathedral.org/rohr.html.
Prayer and Violence
Yesterday I posted this quote from the British Benedictine Cardinal Basil Hume on my Twitter feed: “It is very difficult to be a praying person and then go and be beastly to your neighbour.”
The response from my friends was interesting. Basically, people said, “It’s a nice idea; too bad it’s not true.” Examples ranging from Oliver Cromwell to Arjuna to Samurai Warriors were offered as evidence that, alas, prayer and abusive or violent behavior are not only not opposed to each other, but often do exist explosively within the same person.
Certainly, any military chaplain will understand the challenge inherent in the spiritual call to love and compassion, balanced against the very real-world reality of engaging in kill-or-be-killed scenarios. One does not ponder the ethical subtleties of “love your enemy” when that enemy has a gun pointed at you and your job is to stop him from shooting.
So is Cardinal Hume just a sweet, naive idealist? I don’t think so. I think the key to unlocking the spirituality & violence paradox lies in theories about human consciousness. Mystical consciousness is the consciousness of “love your neighbor as yourself” and “love your enemy.” But no one stays at any one level of consciousness permanently. Call me a heretic for thinking so, but I believe even the Buddha came down after a while, and the Gospels are pretty candid that Jesus who was radiant with light on Mt. Tabor was of a different mindset than the man who was sweating blood in Gethsemani the night before his execution. So even though true mystical consciousness probably renders a person incapable of doing real violence, that incapacity is tied with the level of consciousness: come down off the mountain, and the mystic is just as capable of violence, or military service, as anyone else. Indeed, to be an effective soldier, one must be capable of a level of consciousness that is comfortable with tribal boundaries: otherwise, how could one be clear about who is friend and who is foe? And once a sense of tribal boundaries are accepted, it is a small step to accepting that the “others” can ethically be killed.
Now, I’m an aging peacenik and I wish that we human beings would grow up already and get over our need to hurt one another. But war has been going on for pretty much all of human history and I’m afraid it’s not going to stop now, even though for the first time in history we mortals have the capacity to commit global suicide. Hopefully, as a species we can continue to take baby steps toward that level of consciousness where being beastly to one another is unthinkable. And I am convinced that a life immersed in prayer can only help us along that way. But we must not be surprised even when a deeply spiritual person commits acts of violence, whether as a rogue criminal or as a disciplined, conscientious soldier. We can be saddened by such things, but we should not be surprised. After all, even Cardinal Hume said it was “very difficult” — but not impossible — to treat one another badly after praying.
A Few Random Thoughts
When Jesus spoke of how God sends the sun and the rain to the just and unjust alike (Matthew 5:45), he spoke of how God’s love is shared universally among all people. All people. What does this mean for mysticism? Here’s a few random thoughts: each and every one of us, at all times, in all places, is fully immersed in the luminous, radiant, dazzling love of God. This means that each and every one of us has immediate access to all the love and bliss we could ever hope for. Naturally, for many of us, seemingly insurmountable obstacles exist, from bodily pain, to emotional suffering, to real or perceived injustices or abuses or oppression that crush in on us and limit, or seem to limit, our potential, our freedom, and our ability to be and feel love.
We are trammeled by sin (both individual and corporate), by despair, by anger and fear, by the limitations inherent in being mortal, physical creatures. Yet despite all these towering disadvantages, the splendor of Divine Love still breaks through, to all of us, in big and little ways, each and every day. The vast majority of these breakthroughs we simply ignore — our ego, false self, survival mind, whatever you want to call it, censors the vast spaciousness of God-infused bliss and banishes it deep out of the realm of ordinary conscious awareness. Thus, when we do sometimes get a glimpse of it, despite the false self’s wiles, the false self tricks us into thinking it is just a play of the imagination, some sort of neat psychological process, a momentary burst of endorphins. And none of these interpretations are false, but neither are any of them complete or adequate. For God showers God’s love in and through us by very means of a playful imagination, an optimal psyche, an endorphin-drenched body. But these vessels by which Divine Love comes to us are only a tiny part of the overall picture.
The mystic — the contemplative — is not anyone who has had extraordinary experiences so much as is merely someone who experiences just how ordinary the extraordinary is.
There are so many possible ways in which a contemplative can subvert his or her own experience. One way is to be tricked into thinking such experience, such consciousness, makes one “special,” as if a mystic experience somehow sets us apart from everyone else. Another trick is to interpret mystical experience as somehow exempting us from having to be in communion and community with others: whether this means no longer bothering to live a holy life, or no longer bothering to engage in works of mercy or a life of compassionate service, or assuming that mystical wisdom is so far superior to the received wisdom of tradition that, therefore, mysticism renders religion obsolete.
All these errors are variations on a theme: that conscious experience of the love and light of God somehow renders us exempt from the mundane work of truly loving one another. Of course, nothing could be further from the truth. Indeed, perhaps one reason why contemplatives often experience a dance between the splendor of God’s presence and the limitless abyss of the experience of Divine absence: the cloud of unknowing, the dark night of the soul — just might be because the Divine wisdom recognizes that in the abyss, not only do we learn to love God beyond the vicissitudes of our experience, but we also learn to love each other better as well.
And it seems to be a miracle of mysticism: not only that God’s dazzling presence continues to break through the limitations that (seem to) imprison us all, but also that somehow, contemplative experience transforms us, despite the many ways we can misinterpret it, or try to turn it to our own, egoic advantage. We fall down, repeatedly. And God is always there, silently calling us to get back up again.
What I’m reading right now…
I always enjoy finding out what people are reading. So I thought I’d share with the world what’s on my nightstand right now. It’s actually an uncharacteristically short stack of books. When I’m in hardcore writing mode, I might have 30 or more books going at a time, but my current list is only a fraction of that. Here goes (in no particular order):
Chasing Francis: A Pilgrim’s Tale by Ian Morgan Cron- Monastic Practices by Charles Cummings, OCSO
- Thomas Merton: Essential Writings selected with an introduction by Christine M. Bochen
- The Spiritual Espousals and Other Works by John Ruusbroec
- The Land Within: The Process of Possessing and Being Possessed by God According to the Mystic Jan van Ruysbroeck by Paul Mommaers
The Deathly Hallows Lectures: The Hogwarts Professor Explains Harry’s Final Adventure by John Granger- Rancé and the Trappist Legacy by A. J. Krailsheimer
- Evelyn Underhill: Essential Writings selected with an introduction by Emilie Griffin
- A People’s History of Christianity: The Other Side of the Story by Diana Butler Bass
- The Green Bible (NRSV)
Yes, I know. Busman’s holiday and all that. What can I say: I’m a geek for mysticism and monasticism and all that kind of stuff. Hey, at least I’ve got the Granger book for fun (of course, Granger is unpacking the layers of Christian symbolism in the Harry Potter books, so even that title has an explicit connection to the work I do. But it’s still something I’m reading just for fun).
For those of you who worry about me… I actually read a fantasy novel last month (The Temple and the Stone by Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris) and I’m looking forward to reading its sequel, The Temple and the Crown. But probably not until after I finish Chasing Francis.
My Daily Horarium
A reader of this blog has asked me to comment on my own daily practice, especially in regard to these concerns:
- Word prayer (litanies and sorts)
- Rosary prayer
- Jesus prayer/prayer of the heart
- Psalm prayer
- Christian meditation/Centering prayer
- Daily Office
- Lectio Divina
- Participation in the sacramental life of the Church
- Bible reading
- Personal study
- Creative exercises (writing, painting, dancing…)
- Retreats and quiet days
- Fasting
- Waking & vigilance
- Works of mercy (volunteer work)
- Devotion to saints/mystics
- Personal health (diet, exercise, sleep, …)
- Therapy
- Spiritual direction
He notes that he has a full-time job, and wryly notes “Of course it is impossible to do everything.”
Well, this will be an exercise in humility, but here goes. (more…)
Tools and Clothes
One of my favorite lines in the Rule of St. Benedict comes from chapter 31, describing the function of the monastic cellarer (business manager): “Let him regard all the vessels of the monastery and all its substance, as if they were sacred vessels of the altar.” In other words, the guy in charge of the monastery’s mundane tools and equipment needs to regard those items as if they were as sacred and precious as the chalice and paten used on the altar to hold the bread and wine that will be consecrated during the Eucharistic feast. Do the math, my friends: the “vessels of the altar” are considered sacred precisely because they are containers of the Real Presence. If the cellerar (and, by extension, all the monks) are to regard even the most mundane of tools as just as sacred, isn’t this because even our most ordinary items are means by which we can encounter the Real Presence of Christ, in our labor, our work, our chores?
It’s a very simple and oblique way by which Benedict hints at the practice of the presence of God: contemplatives acknowledge that we encounter Christ not only in the Blessed Sacrament or in Sacred Scripture (wonderful as those thresholds might be), but truly in the most mundane moments of our day. In Benedict’s day, this would have been while working in the farm or cooking in the kitchen. We who live 1500 years later might also consider the sacrality of our cars and our computers, in addition to our kitchen utensils or handyman tools.
Last night I had a dream about clothes. Now, those of you who know me will acknowledge that I am hardly Mr. Fashion. Jeans and a t-shirt or polo shirt are my preferred “habit.” Yes, I try to keep myself basically clean and tidy, but I’m not much for dressing up (my “Sunday best” might involve swapping the jeans for a pair of khakis, but then again, it might not). But my dream was not about how upscale my attire might be, but rather about how I treat my clothes. In my dream I heard a voice: “If you are a partaker of the Divine Nature, shouldn’t you treat your clothes as if they were sacred vestments?”
Such a simple, obvious extension of Benedict’s wisdom. Care for our belongings as if they were as sacred as the vessels of the altar. Care for our clothes as if they were as sacred as priestly vestments. This applies regardless of whether you are a priest or a layperson, a Catholic or a Protestant, a person of wealth or someone of modest means. It’s universal, because the love and the presence of God is universal. If you are a tabernacle of the most high, does not that suggest that even the jeans and t-shirt you wear while puttering around the house are as important as the alb and chasuble of a priestly celebrant?
Five Marks of Authentic Mysticism (Underhill)
In her introduction to Orbis Books’ Essential Writings of Evelyn Underhill, Emilie Griffin notes that Underhill delineates five marks or characteristics of authentic Christian mysticism. These are well worth considering:
- Christian mysticism is active and practical. Even a Carthusian hermit takes responsibility for living his contemplative life with honor, dignity, and personal integrity. Meanwhile, for the vast majority of Christian contemplatives, the life of silence is embedded in a network of community relationships and responsibilities of some form. True mysticism does not fly from such obligations, but embraces them and seeks to meet them well.
- Christian mysticism is spiritual and transcendental, rather than magical. The authentic mystic does not seek supernatural power for the purpose of controlling earthly circumstances, but rather seeks to surrender to the will and calling of Divine Love. By doing so, one does not abdicate the need to be engaged with the earthly dimension of life (see #1), but rather abandons all things to Divine Providence, whether “good” or “bad.” Both pleasure and suffering are held lightly and viewed in the light of eternity.
- Christian mysticism is centered in love. It is not centered in experience, or in shifts of consciousness, or even in miracles or healing — no matter how worthy such spiritual matters might be. For the authentic mystic, all the phenomena of mysticism is always subordinate to the essential fact and yearning for ever-unfolding intimacy and immersion into the dance of Divine love. Such love is the heart of the Trinity and the key to Divine-human relations.
- Union with God in authentic mysticism transforms the mystic for ever richer levels of life. In the Gospel of John, Jesus says of his followers, “I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.” Mysticism is a portal into such abundant living. Like all things of God, it is never an end to itself — if it were, it would cease to be an icon and instead become an idol. Mysticism points beyond itself to the life of kenosis and theosis: self-emptying in order to participate in the Divine nature.
- As a result of such loving union, the authentic mystic becomes unselfish. Just as normal human moral development moves us from ego-centric to ethnocentric and finally world-centric stages of care, so the mystical life makes love of God and love of neighbor real by anchoring love of self in ever-widening circles of concern. An unselfish mystic is not contemptuous of the self, but rather loses interest in self-aggrandizement because of the deep love for and interest in others: love that is, of course, expressed in concrete, practical ways.
Let me finish this post by quoting Emilie Griffin directly, as she has so eloquently summarized how these marks of authentic mysticism transform the contemplative who truly seeks a God-centered life:
The mystic is not seeking his or her own happiness, virtue, or well-being, though by surrendering self such blessings are often heaped upon him or her. The true mystic is not looking for peak experiences or altered states of consciousness. No, the genuine mystics is on a course of radical self-forgetting, self-surrendering, and self-transcending. Thus Underhill distinguishes the authentic mystic from those who are looking for a spiritual high.
— Introduction to Essential Writings of Evelyn Underhill, p. 13f.
More on the Fortress and the Beacon
Sometimes I’m a slow learner. My “fortress and beacon” analogy (see yesterday’s post) emerged out an email correspondence I’m having with a Catholic laywoman who is feeling called to the contemplative life, but also feels the tension with mainstream Catholics who are afraid of, or hostile to, contemplative and centering prayer, because of their alleged new age or eastern mystical characteristics (as I’ve said repeatedly on this blog, I think such fears/hostility are groundless and based on misunderstandings, largely because of the fortress mentality).
So I came up with the fortress and the beacon as a way of unpacking how the church can be understood and experienced in different ways, as I wrote yesterday. My “duh!” experience came this morning when I realized that I have written about this tension previously: when I’ve explored what it means to be holy. As I’ve said in previous posts, holiness can take two forms: the quest for purity, and the quest for true hospitality. Purity is all about freedom from sin, complete submission to Divine Love, uncompromising commitment to upholding traditional church teachings. Hospitality is all about welcoming the stranger, caring for those who are wounded, broken, messy, and imperfect, and opening our doors and our hearts to whomever God sends our way, welcoming everyone — everyone — as if they were Christ himself.
Isn’t it obvious: holiness as purity is linked to the desire to enforce strong boundaries: the “mighty fortress” dimension of faith. Holiness as hospitality is linked to the desire to share God’s lavish love with everyone: the “luminous light” dimension of faith.
I believe in the universal call to holiness, which suggests that each of us are called to both purity and hospitality. We’re all called to embrace and uphold the healthy boundaries of our identity, and likewise and simultaneously to open those boundaries in the service of love. It’s a tricky calling. The fortress and the beacon subvert each other, and yet they need each other. Without the light, the fortress becomes so self-contained that it dies. But without the fortress, the light would soon be lost. It’s a tension we all have to live with, and figure out how best to play it out in our own lives.
Welcome to the contemplative life.
A Fortress or a Beacon?
Is Christianity a fortress or a beacon?
In other words, is the primary function of Christianity to defend the good guys from the bad guys, or is its primary function to shine a light that will illuminate everyone, the good and the bad alike?
It’s a good question. But maybe this question poses a false dichotomy. We could just as easily say that Christianity is meant to be both “a mighty fortress” and the “light of the world.” I agree, let’s not get dualistic here. Nevertheless, where should we put our own focus: on shining the light, or manning the defenses?
Obviously, different members of the body of Christ will answer this question in different ways. Some Christians will be enforcing the boundaries while others will be seeking to unleash the luminosity. Perhaps it is important for the light-shiners and the bulwark-strengtheners to refrain from judging each other. In fact, there’s no perhaps about it. “Judge not” means more than just Christians need to be kind and loving toward atheists — it means that we have to be kind and loving toward each other, sometimes the hardest task of all.
Contemplatives are, in my experience, generally much more drawn to the beacon than to the fortress. We often play fast and loose with the boundaries, not worrying too much about such things as dogma, or theological precision, or having a clear understanding about just what we do or don’t believe. And then, we get annoyed when we discover that for other Christians, the dogma and the theological boundaries are what matters most. We think there’s something wrong with them, and when they suggest that there might be something wrong with us, we get defensive.
I think the Body of Christ needs both the ramparts and the radiance. It’s good to have a clear understanding of the difference between Christianity and Buddhism, or Christianity and Islam, or Christianity and Gnosticism. But it’s also good to let those boundaries be permeable enough that we can be in dialog with, and form relationships with, those whose faith is different from ours. That’s where the light shining comes into play.
Be who you are called to be. And try as best you can to love, rather than judge, those whose path diverges from your own.
Hidden in Plain Sight
I received an email this morning from a Catholic who is interested in finding something deeper in faith, and has begun to explore a variety of topics, including Gnosticism and Edgar Cayce. This person wonders if the Vatican might have some secret information hidden away that could truly revolutionize what it means to be a Christian. Here is my reply:
There are many similarities in our journeys… I first became interested in Catholicism in 1979 and for a variety of reasons never formally entered the church until 2005. It’s been a long journey, and I continue to be nourished by this amazing, 2000 year old tradition.
Edgar Cayce, the Essenes, the Gnostics… been there, done that. I also spent a good chunk of my life exploring the Druids, shamanism, Goddess Spirituality and Wicca. Like the Catechism of the Catholic Church says, I can appreciate whatever is truly good & true & beautiful in all these things. But in my experience, none of the Gnostic or New Age spiritualities are as ultimately satisfying as true Christian mysticism, which I believe is 100% compatible with good old-fashioned Sunday morning church. Of course, many Christians (Catholic or otherwise) are not interested in mysticism, and some are even opposed to it, usually because they’ve been misinformed and think mysticism requires the blending of Christianity with a bunch of non-Christian ideas. Although in my experience most people who are interested in mysticism are open to learning from the deep wells of other faiths, in no way does mysticism require or demand such interfaith exploration. Meanwhile, even if 99% of regular church-going Christians will never become contemplatives, that doesn’t make church incompatible with true Christian contemplation and mysticism. On the contrary, I believe the Holy Spirit wants to raise up people whose eyes are luminous with Divine Love, right within the Body of Christ.
As for the Vatican hiding stuff from us, I really have no idea. Conspiracy theories are a lot of fun and interesting to speculate over. But at the end of the day, here’s what I believe: the best way to hide something is to hide it in plain sight. And this, I believe, is what the church has done with mysticism. It’s “hidden” not because anyone is trying to keep it from us, but rather, it remains hidden-in-plain-sight because the Holy Spirit is very shy and doesn’t want to force the mysteries on us until we’re ready for them. Many people gladly go through life without a care for the mysteries in the world. Such people are not bad, that’s just their path. But others are called to something deeper, and it really is available for them… but they have to go looking for it. Where to look? There is a life time’s worth of reading in the field of Christian mysticism. Meanwhile, mysticism is very practical and down to earth and offers us concrete advice on how to become holy, how to pray, how often to pray, how to form or participate in community, and how to ‘be’ Christ to others. Warning: the price is high, for we pay for it with our very lives. But then our lives are taken by God and transformed into something new and beautiful, with a core of deep serenity and silence.
Are you near a monastery? If so, I’d encourage you to go spend a day or two there. Not only because spending a few hours there in silence might help you to reflect on where your path is calling you, but also because most monasteries have a gift shop with a wonderful book department — where you will probably find a few books that might begin to help you discern just what it is that is “hidden in plain sight” that might be calling you “farther up and further in,” as C.S. Lewis put it, into the wild and untameable and totally transformational love of God.
Many blessings to you, and stay in touch!
Carl
