Divine Light
Divine Light: The Theology of Denys the Areopagite
By William Riordan
San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2008
Review by Carl McColman
To fully grasp the beauty and complexity (and some would say, the challenge) of Christian mysticism, sooner or later you will contend with the elusive sixth-century figure known variously as Denys, Dionysius, or Pseudo-Dionysius, the Areopagite. We don’t know his real name. In his own writings, he passes himself off as a figure briefly mentioned in the New Testament — a Greek from Athens, who became a follower of Christ after Paul’s sermon in that city (recounted in Acts 17). For many centuries, these writings were generally accepted to be by Dionysius, and therefore of New Testament-era provenance. But scholars in the fifteenth century began to question this when it became obvious that so-called Dionysius relied on heavily the ideas of Neoplatonic philosophers such as Proclus, who lived in the fifth century. Today, Pseudo-Dionysius is now generally thought to have been a Syrian priest or monk who lived and wrote sometime around the year 500 CE. But if for a thousand years his works were highly influential because of his alleged ties to the Apostle Paul, once his identity was questioned, his reputation plummeted, and through the modern era he was dismissed as, at worst, a forger and a fraud; at best, a crafty Neoplatonist attempting to import pagan ideas into Christianity by the clever use of a pseudonym.
William Riordan’s accessible introduction to the theology of this figure, whom he prefers to identify using the traditional name “Denys,” seeks to find an orthodox middle ground, seeing the Areopagite neither as a fraud nor as an opportunist, but simply as a theologian seeking to affirm a grand and glorious synthesis between the philosophy of Neoplatonism and the teaching of the church. Riordan carefully delineates the distinctions between Denys’ thought and pagan philosophy, showing how Denys consistently submits his Neoplatonic ideas to Christian doctrine.
After an introductory look at Denys’ historical background, his theological method, and his influence both in the east and the west, Riordan explains both the similarities and differences between Denys and Neoplatonism, and then concentrates on Denys as a teacher of divinization, both in terms of cosmology and individual spirituality. “Divinization is an initiation, and often an arduous one, into Divine Being,” notes Riordan, and he teases out how Deny’s understanding of what we now call “the great chain of being” (Denys himself speaks of heirarchies, a concept he himself developed and which has become contested in our time because of its association with the abuse of power) all serves the larger question of how human beings are initiated into the unfathomable mystery of God, in order to become partakers of the Divine Nature.
Denys’ influence on the course of Christian mystical theology cannot be overstated. And while ours is an age in which many people of faith seek to regain an authentically Jewish celebration of the goodness of creation — which implies moving away from an understanding of metaphysics or spirit as “higher” than matter — the insights of Denys, acknowledging God as transcendent other who both loves the creation but also challenges it to be transformed in him — remain relevant to anyone who finds value in contemplative practice or who seeks to integrate the visionary thought of even non-Christian thinkers like Ken Wilber into the quest for holiness in our time.
I particularly loved the appendix of this book, where Riordan examines Denys’ teachings in the light of Mircea Eliade’s studies of shamans and shamanic initiation. Needless to say, there are some real points of correlation and convergence, and Riordan’s explanation of the three-fold process of purgation, illumination and union in terms of shamanic initiation is, to my mind, alone worth the price of the book.
This is a book heavy on theory rather than practice; in other words, reading it won’t provide you with tips on how to improve your discipline of contemplative prayer. But it might give you some insight into a way of approaching Christian thought that embraces, rather than dismisses, other wisdom traditions, and that underscores the many points of commonality between Christian mysticism and other transformational spiritualities.
Quote for the Day
Let all my world be silent in your presence, Lord, so that I may hear what the Lord God may say in my heart. Your words are so softly spoken that no one can hear them except in a deep silence. But to hear them lifts him who sits alone and in silence completely above his natural powers, because he who humbles himself will be lifted up. He who sits alone and listens will be raised above himself.
— Guigo II, The Ladder Monks
A Recap of my Upcoming Events
One of the fun things about having a book come out is that there will be a number of events coming up related to the book (i.e., concerning Christian mysticism). So, here’s a quick preview of events that are on the calendar, as well as a few that don’t have dates pinned down yet, but will probably be firmed up in the near future. Some of these events (like the Portland weekend) have already been announced, but I’m putting them all here for the sake of being comprehensive.
- June 3-5: Writing Retreat at the Monastery of the Holy Spirit. With Fr. James Behrens, OCSO. At this point there’s a waiting list for women retreatants but there might still be a room or two for men.
- July 23-25: Christian Mysticism Retreat at the Monastery of the Holy Spirit. With Fr. Tom Francis, OCSO. I think there’s still room for this one, but it will likely fill up fast.
- August 22: Speaking on Ken Wilber’s Integral Theory at the Vedanta Center of Atlanta. Program begins at 10:30 with meditation; I speak during the 11 o’clock hour, with time for socializing afterward.
- September 13-15: Live, Laugh, Love Retreat at the Monastery of the Holy Spirit. With Fr. Tom Francis. This retreat was originally scheduled to be conducted by someone else, but she had to cancel. I have no idea what I’ll be doing for this retreat, but it’s a fun topic and I suspect we’ll have a grand time.
- September 23-October 21 (Five Thursday Evenings): Introduction to Christian Mysticism through Evening at Emory. Continuing education class on my favorite subject. Details and registration information to be announced.
- October or November (exact dates and location TBD): Christian Mysticism program at a Church in Atlanta. Friday evening talk followed by a day-long event on Saturday combining teaching with contemplative practice.
- October 28-31: Weekend in Portland, Oregon. Several events, including a Thursday evening booksigning or pub theology talk; Friday evening presentation; Saturday talk and contemplative practice event; and preaching at two different churches on Sunday.
- Spring 2010: Several Events in the Planning Stages. These events may include speaking at several churches in the Atlanta area; a weekend in other cities such as San Francisco; St. Cloud, MN; and/or Orlando, FL; weekend events not only at the Monastery of the Holy Spirit but at other retreat centers in the Atlanta area and beyond. So many events are in the formative stages, I can’t say too much about them now, except for: stay tuned!
Would you like to see me come to your city? I would too! I’m looking for churches, colleges/universities, monasteries, and/or conference and retreat centers that could sponsor me for a weekend (or longer) in different regions around the country. I love to speak on a variety of subjects including Christian mysticism, Celtic spirituality, interfaith issues (particularly between Christians and Neopagans), Integral Theory, and establishing or deepening a contemplative practice. Please connect with me (go to my Contact page to send me a direct message) if you’re interested in helping to coordinate an event in your region.
As Old as John of the Cross When He Died
Here’s a bit of useless information. Today, to the day, I am as old as John of the Cross was when he died.
I figured this out earlier this week. I was thinking about John, and realized he was 49 when he died, and I’m 49 now. So I looked at his dates, and figured his age at death (49 years, 5 months, 20 days) and compared it to me (today I’m 49 years, 5 months, 22 days, but the slight discrepancy is because I have a February in there). So to the day, I’m as old as he was when he died.
Aside from the fact that this proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that I have an obsessive-compulsive streak, I find this oddly humbling. Of course, John is one of my heroes, and I cannot in any meaningful way compare myself to him except to say that we are both writers concerned with questions concerned with faith and mystery. He had the good fortune of having Teresa of Avila for a mentor; he was a gifted poet and a profound theologian; and he suffered terribly for his beliefs, enduring imprisonment and regular beatings for some nine months, at the hands of his own Carmelite brothers. But of course, out of that affliction came some of the most psychologically astute mystical writing that the Christian tradition has yet to produce.
As for me? Well, let’s just say that I enjoy affluence and comfort that would have been unthinkable to John; as a writer and an amateur theologian, I mainly hope that my by comparison feeble talent might help others to find treasures such as the writings of John.
I suppose I am reminded that life, for so many of our ancestors, was nasty, brutish and short. John of the Cross was by no means the only great contemplative to have died relatively young. Thomas Aquinas and Richard Rolle both may have been only in their late 40s when they died; Catherine of Siena was 33; Simone Weil 34; and dear Thomas Merton only 53 when he was electrocuted in a freak accident.
Now, lest you think that mysticism is a hazardous line of work, we can point to Bede Griffiths, who lived to be 87; Matta el-Maskeen (also 87), George Macleod (96), or Raimon Panikkar, who as of this writing is 91 and still breathing. Historically, there was John Ruusbroec (88), Hildegard of Bingen (81), Thomas à Kempis (90), and St. Anthony of the Desert, reputed to live to be 105!
Christians of old used to talk about always remaining aware of one’s mortality. In our day, when the average life expectancy is perhaps double what it was 200 years ago, this seems like a less useful endeavor. It strikes us as morbid, or psychologically twisted. But I don’t think pretending death doesn’t exist help either. What does it mean to have a balanced and healthy friendship with one’s own mortality? I suspect that it means living life to the fullest each and every day (which probably includes not bothering to compare one’s length of life to those whom we admire but who died young). It also means finding, and living, the “peace that passes understanding,” so that when the day comes in which we do draw our final breath, we can do it with serenity — whether we are 49, 79 or 109 years old.
Into the Region of Awe
Into the Region of Awe: Mysticism in C. S. Lewis
By David C. Downing
Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2005
Review by Carl McColman
In his last book, Letters to Malcolm, C. S. Lewis all but declares that he is not a mystic. Comparing mystics to those who climb mountains, Lewis tells Malcolm, “You and I are people of the foothills.” Of course, one of the paradoxes of mysticism is that the true mystic is humble, and a humble person is far less likely to think of himself or herself as a mystic. So, the less inclined a person is to think of himself or herself as a mystic, the more it is conceivable that he or she actually is one.
C. S. Lewis may well be the poster child for this line of thinking. Despite his protest to the contrary, much of Lewis’ writing — particularly his fictional works, such as The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, Perelandra, and Till We Have Faces — positively shines with poetic descriptions of luminous, otherworldly beauty and the shimmering encounter with the Divine. Meanwhile, Lewis was known to be fond of many of the greatest visionaries and contemplatives of the Christian tradition, such as Julian of Norwich or Walter Hilton. Perhaps the most renowned author of popular Christian literature in English in the twentieth century really does deserve to be counted among the greatest of Christian mystics?
I think so. And I’ll tell you a little secret: I say as much in my forthcoming book. When I included Lewis in my listing of “the communion of mystics,” I thought I was going out on a limb. But that was before I discovered — and devoured — David Downing’s wonderful book about Lewis’ relationship with mysticism. Downing, a respected Lewis scholar, has put into words in this marvelously accessible book what I had merely intuited: that Lewis, beneath his natural shyness and humility, truly thought like, talked like, wrote like, and in all likelihood experienced spirituality like, a great Christian mystic.
Some readers may be wondering “What is mysticism, and why is this relevant to Lewis?” Downing does a splendid job at explaining mysticism and its uniquely Christian expression. Frankly, the first chapter, “The Mystique of Mysticism,” is alone worth the price of the book, so elegant and accessible is its treatment of this notoriously difficult subject. But from there, Downing goes on to consider the role that mysticism played in Lewis’ own spirituality, considering the mystics that Lewis read, his dealings with Evelyn Underhill (the greatest British authority on the subject during Lewis’ lifetime), and then, finally, the witness of his writings. Downing pays particular attention to Lewis’s speculative fiction, The Space Trilogy and The Chronicles of Narnia. In several characters in these novels, particular Ransom in the trilogy and Reepicheep in the Narniad, Lewis presents figures who experience the profound transformation that comes with a sustained contemplative spirituality.
Downing also devotes attention to Lewis’ criticism of mysticism, particularly the ersatz types already gaining currency in his day, including shallow forms of syncretism and narcissistic spiritualities of experience. He shows that Lewis’s concerns about mysticism really are consistent with the overall tradition, which has always had a clear understanding of the difference between authentically Christian and heterodox expressions of spirituality. In other words, when Lewis attacked mysticism, it generally was not Christian mysticism he critiqued, but one or another form of generic or secularised mysticism that for Lewis, as an orthodox Christian, simply was not good enough.
Like other figures of the recent past, Lewis ultimately stood for a kind of “democratic” mysticism that was available to all people, not just clergy or monastics, not just those who are educated or especially holy. Ordinary children as in the Narnia books, or an undistinguished layman as in the space trilogy, are fully capable of being ushered out of the ordinary confines of their lives “into the region of awe.” Lewis wrote beautifully and poetically of the ramifications of such a possibility, and our tradition is the richer for it. Then along comes David Downing, who has done a first-rate job at making Lewis’s mysticism plain for all to see.
Mapping the Journey
A reader of this blog writes:
Do you assess yourself at what point you are on the mystical mountain. Do the three stages and with them the two dark nights have any bearing on growth in love of man and God? It seems at times that over self-analysis is like watching your feet while dancing. The dancing becomes forced and clumsy. On the other hand, there might be a need for a ladder of ascent for novices. Do most folks spend their life in the purgative stage with some moments in the unitive and illuminative phases? This seems to be my lot. I can’t tell which dark night I’m in or is it just depression. Gerald May’s book Care of Mind, Care of Spirit offers some general categories which I don’t find that helpful. Maybe this stuff eludes hard categories. I know it’s OK to be in the purgative stage but at times it seems hopeless for any desire and will to progress unless God acts with the gift. Anything we receive is a gift anyway.
Thanks for writing. I think you’ve largely answered your own question, but I’ll share a few of my own thoughts as well. Writers on the mystical life from Evelyn Underhill a century ago, to Robert Davis Hughes in our own time, emphasize again and again that the classic formula of purgation -> illumination -> union needs to be understood strictly as a map, and “the map is not the territory.” Origen, who first came up with the three-part sequence of the spiritual life, based it on his interpretation of three of the wisdom books in the Hebrew Scriptures: purgation corresponds with Proverbs, illumination with Ecclesiastes, and union with the Song of Songs. I think, while this has been an interesting map and many contemplatives have worked with it over the last 1800 years, we need to acknowledge that it is, fundamentally, artificial (and dare I say, contrived). It’s important also to remember that other folks have developed other, more intricate “mystical itineraries,” as Bernard McGinn calls them. Underhill (and Hughes) offer a five-stage model, Richard of St. Victor offers a four-degree model, Bonaventure speaks of six levels of contemplation, and Marguerite Porete develops a seven stage model! So, it’s important to hold all of these “lightly” and to refrain from using them to judge or evaluate our own perseverance. These various models might be useful as tools of discernment, but I would recommend this only in conversation with a trusted spiritual director or soul friend. Often others can see what’s going on in our spiritual lives better than we can see ourselves.
I’m not sure if novices need a “ladder of ascent” any more or less than anyone else. Really, we’re all novices, some of us have just been at it longer than others.
Hughes does suggest that we should think of the spiritual life in terms of tides washing up on the shore, rather than as discrete stages in single linear progression. Thus, it is possible to engage in purgative, illuminative and unitive dimensions of one’s relationship with God pretty much simultaneously. Certainly Benedictine/Cistercian spirituality, with its commitment to the conversion of manners, suggests that purgation is a lifelong process.
One key, I think — coming again from the monastic tradition — is the idea of joyful repentance, which suggests that even the purgative way can be a source of delight in God. Granted, surrendering sin and opening ourselves up to transformational healing can be hard, ego-threatening work, but I see no reason why it must be miserable work. It’s like the question of purgatory: I think Protestants rejected purgatory because it was seen so much as a hellish place. But many Catholics regard purgatory as a place of great wonder and excitement, a room in heaven rather than in hell. Once you enter purgatory, the exit door leads to the great banquet hall. You are there simply to get a manicure and take a lovely bubble bath before your intimate date with your beloved. I for one cannot think of anything more delightful than taking the extra effort to clean myself up before a special evening with my wife. S0 — even for Protestants who reject the idea of purgatory — I think we can all agree that the hard work of holiness and penitence in this life ought to be an occasion for joy, if entered into in the right spirit — a spirit of trust and hope and confidence in God’s love for us, and humble recognition that everything we do to improve ourselves is ultimately a gift of grace to begin with.
Somehow, I suspect that once we embrace the lifelong possibility of joyful purgation, questions of illumination and union will then begin to sort themselves out.
Finally, you do mention an important matter in the question of discerning the distinction between a dark night experience and depression. I think the key here is serenity. As bleak and as foreboding as a dark night experience might be, it is always directed by the Holy Spirit and so the soul truly willing to undergo this process will, it seems to be, enter it in a spirit of humility and trust. That doesn’t have to be perfect — part of what is stripped away in a dark night is our tendency not to trust — but I think it will be a discernible quality. Ultimately, though, I think discernment really is the key here, and if anyone suspects that they are struggling with depression, they owe it to themselves and to those they love to seek out help. Likewise, the challenges of a dark night experience ought not be faced alone. So either way, a person moving into such a shadow stage of their life journey will be wise to remain (or become) connected with a soul friend, priest or pastor, or therapist (hopefully, a therapist sensitive to the dynamics of the spiritual life, and thankfully this is true of more and more therapists). I believe that love is the best antidote for depression and the most reliable lifeline through a dark night experience. So we all need to be nurturing our relationships, even if they’re professional or therapeutic in nature.
I hope this is helpful. Thanks for writing!
Three Dimensions of Prayer
Consider this tasty morsel from The Cloud of Unknowing (Carmen Butcher translation):
Just as the meditations of those skilled in contemplation come suddenly and directly, so do their prayers. I mean their personal prayers, not the liturgical prayers used in worship at church. True contemplatives value these community prayers above all others and participate in them as ordained by the Church and its earliest holy fathers. A contemplative’s personal prayers, however, rise unrehearsed to God, with no go-betweens or specific ways of praying.
The Cloud author appears to be saying that both liturgical prayer (i.e., the Eucharist and the Daily Office) and “unrehearsed prayer” (which, the author goes on to say, is for contemplatives generally short — to the point of being only a single word) support the practice of contemplation. I see this in a trinitarian way. The practice of Christian contemplation includes:
- Offering the words of our heart to God (unrehearsed prayer);
- Offering the words of our community to God (liturgical prayer);
- Offering the silence of our heart to God (contemplation).
Now, the Cloud author goes on to say,
Contemplatives seldom use words when they pray, but if they do, they choose only a few, and the fewer the better. They prefer a short one-syllable word over two syllables, because the spirit can best assimilate it. This one word keeps the person engaging in this spiritual exercise fit and at the top of their form, so to speak.
This, of course, is the passage in The Cloud of Unknowing seen as affirming the use of a prayer word, as it is called in the centering prayer community — basically, a Christianised mantra. But not exactly a mantra, for the idea in centering prayer is to repeat the prayer word only until one finds his or her place of contemplative rest, and then the prayer word can be gently laid aside — to be used again, whenever distractions begin to disturb the mind.
Critics of centering prayer dismiss it because of its historical affinity with transcendental meditation, and dismiss the prayer word as a foreign practice imported into Christianity. I think this is a legalistic and insular-minded perspective; if God can use anything to God’s glory, it seems to me that even a Christianised form of T.M. — and a Christian version of a mantra — cannot escape the splendor of his grace. Heaven knows that the Cloud author (and his predecessors, going all the way back to John Cassian among the desert fathers) never heard of mantras, and yet they encourage the use of short prayer as a way to focus the heart and mind on God. So I think such a practice makes all the sense in the world, and is fully acceptable as a dimension of Christian discipleship and spirituality.
However, just as we shouldn’t be legalistic about forbidding the use of a single prayer word, I think contemplatives should also avoid the temptation of requiring such a practice as well. I think it’s clear that the Cloud author is not forbidding longer prayer, even though he clearly thinks that the shorter an unrehearsed prayer is, the better. Liberty in prayer, it seems to me, is a beautiful thing, and would be a natural hallmark of a mature contemplative. Sometimes the heart may be stirred to share more with God than just a single word or phrase. This is not necessarily antithetical to silent prayer, but rather can be a complementary practice to “pure” contemplation. I think what’s beautiful about these three dimensions of prayer — liturgical prayer, silent prayer, and personal discursive prayer — is that, in proper proportions, they function as a sort of “balanced diet” of spiritual practice. Too much silence without the Daily Office and the sharing of one’s thoughts with God would, from the perspective of Christian contemplation, be out of balance — but so would a practice that only emphasized the liturgy, or only emphasized personal conversational prayer. The Christian life thrives best when it includes a healthy equilibrium of all three of these doorways into the presence of God.
The Dharma of Time
Every day I want to do a number of things. I want to nurture my relationships with my family — and with God (and that means at least part of the Daily Office and contemplative prayer); I want to put in an honest day’s work at the store; I want to post to this blog; I want to work on whatever writing project I have going on at the time; I want to do at least some reading (my monastic gadfly doesn’t say I shouldn’t read at all, just not as much as I tend to), and of course, there are the little but important things like exercise, cleaning up around the house, and playing my bass.
Now, by my calculations I can do all of this, each and every day, but I do need to do a few things differently. I need to spend less time messing around online (my biggest time-waster, particularly when it comes to browsing books and articles related to my areas of interest, and occasionally succumbing to current but inconsequential news), and I need to be diligent and disciplined about getting to bed every night by 10 PM and up the following morning by 5 AM. Just two simple tasks: limit my internet “fun” time, and get to bed on time.
Time… I remember reading somewhere once that the monastic life is, essentially, all about time. So is, therefore, the life of a monastic lay associate. But when I look at my life, I see two primary nexus points of chaos: first, I tend to be a clutterbug (as anyone who has seen my house, especially my garage, or my desk at work can attest), and — more germane to the issue I’m working with now — I tend to clutter my time.
Sigh.
Living in the present — that’s what classic works like Abandonment to Divine Providence are all about. But here’s a mystical paradox: to most fully and mindfully live in the present, I need to manage my time, which means being mindful of the coming demands of the future — even if I’m just talking about the next few hours or days. Knowing and planning for my future, and then mindfully living in the present, seems to be an all-important key.
Especially when that means turning off the computer, and getting to bed on time.
So I can do all the other things I choose to do (but never seem to find the time for).
My Schedule in Portland
For my friends on the west coast: here is the schedule for my trip to Portland, OR, the weekend of October 28-31, 2010.
Thursday, October 28:
Still to be determined; either an evening presentation/booksigning at an area bookstore, or a “beer & theology” event a local pub. I’ll post details here as soon as it’s worked out.
Friday, October 29:
7:00 PM: “The Underlying Stream of Mysticism in the Christian Tradition”
St David of Wales Episcopal Church, 2800 SE Harrison, Portland, OR 97214
Saturday, October 30:
9:30 AM – 4:00 PM: “Christian Mysticism and Contemplative Spirituality”
This day-long event will include a morning talk by me, with a response by a guest panel. After an optional group lunch, the afternoon will include time for group interaction and shared contemplative practice.
Sts. Peter & Paul Episcopal Church, 8147 SE Pine, Portland, OR 97215
Cost for the Friday evening presentation will by $15.00; for the Saturday event will be $40.00, or participate in both for $50.00. The optional lunch on Saturday is $7.50.
Sunday, October 31:
Morning: Homilist at Sts Peter & Paul Episcopal Church
8:00 AM Spoken Mass
9:00 AM Adult Forum
10:00 AM High Mass
12:00 noon Misa en Español (Spanish Mass)
Evening: Homilist at Spiritus Abbey, which meets at Sts Peter and Paul Episcopal Church, 8147 SE Pine, Portland, OR
5:00 PM Mass
I’m so excited about this trip: the opportunity to speak about Celtic Christianity and Christian mysticism on the weekend preceding the feast of All Saints (the traditional Celtic holy time of Samain). It’s going to be a splendid weekend, hope you can be there!
To register for the paid events, please contact the Institute for Progressive Spirituality at by visiting their website (www.instituteprogressivespirituality.org) or mailing your registration fee to:
Institute for Progressive Spirituality
1163 SW Chastain Drive
Gresham, OR 97080
Lectio Divina and the English Mystics
I’ve been reading Carmen Butcher’s delightful new translation of The Cloud of Unknowing, and today I read chapter 35, which discusses the importance of lectio divina in the contemplative life:
The contemplative beginner must, however, engage in certain exercises. These are the lesson, the meditation, and the orison, better known as reading, reflecting, and praying. You can learn about these three activities in another book, where the author explains them better than I can, so I won’t go into great detail here.
In a footnote, Butcher suggests that the Cloud author here is speaking either of Guigo the Carthusian’s Ladder of Monks, which is the “classic” explication of lectio divina as a process of reading, reflection, praying, and contemplation; or else the Cloud author may be referring to another English mystic, Walter Hilton, who devotes a chapter of The Scale of Perfection to lectio:
There are three means most commonly used by people who devote themselves to contemplation: the reading of holy scripture and of holy teaching, spiritual meditation, and diligent prayer with devotion.
Meanwhile, Julia Bolton Holloway’s wonderful website on Julian of Norwich includes a page with an extensive chart of scriptural allusions in Julian’s text, suggesting, of course, that lectio was itself a major part of Julian’s spiritual practice, thus enabling her to draw on scripture so fully in her own writing. But perhaps of even more direct use to us today, Holloway suggests a contemplative reading of Julian and the Bible simultaneously, using her table of correspondence as an entry point:
It is suggested that these tables be printed out … then be compared with hard copies of the Julian of Norwich [text] … and the Bible, side by side. The experience will be that of lectio divina, especially where one savours these echoing texts, contemplating upon them, entering into eternity…
One might be tempted to see lectio as a peculiarly Benedictine/Cistercian/Carthusian practice, well-suited to the cloistered life but of little practical use beyond monastic walls. Granted, Julian and Hilton and The Cloud author all seem, likewise, to be writing from, or with intended readers in, monastic enclosures. But given the popularity that the English mystics are now enjoying among readers who are not cloistered, I think it is safe to say that anyone, monastic or not, who turns to the English mystics as spiritual guides, will find guides who commend the practice of lectio as the foundational exercise leading to contemplation.
Quote for the Day
“You can’t know,” said the girl. “You can only believe — or not.”
— C. S. Lewis, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader
Believe in = Embrace the Mystery of
I spoke with a friend recently about the concept of belief. We talked about the challenges of believing in the postmodern world. Joni Mitchell sums it up nicely in her song “The Same Situation”:
Still I sent up my prayer
Wondering where it had to go
With heaven full of astronauts
And the Lord on death row…
Much of the contemporary difficulty, I think, comes from the fact that belief has, culturally speaking, come to imply a sort of suppression of rational or cognitive doubt: “I believe in Santa Claus” means I affirm the idea that a man lives in the north pole and distributes presents to children all over the world on Christmas eve (well, he goes to the Netherlands on December 6), never mind all evidence to the contrary. And even if we can allow that “believing in Santa Claus” implies nothing more than accepting the power of Santa as myth or metaphor, as soon as you raise the stakes and start talking about believing in God or believing in Jesus Christ, the waters get muddier and murkier. It’s one thing to believe in Santa-the-myth, but if we start talking about “the mythic Christ,” tempers flare and anxiety levels rise.
Here’s something I wrote way back in the mid 1990s, which appears in my first book, Spirituality:
Even more interesting is the etymology of “belief.” It stems from an Ind0-European word, lubh-, which means “to hold dear” or “to like.” Lubh-, incidentally, is the same ancient root from which love originates. This connection between belief and love suggests that belief has something to do with being in relationship. To believe means to trust and to love. To believe in the Sacred means to love the Sacred — and to be the Sacred’s beloved. To believe in God means to trust, depend on, and rely on God. Belief is not a matter of certainty or lack of doubt. Belief is a matter of emotional openness. Belief grows out of such characteristics of spirituality as willingness and vulnerability.
From the perspective of mysticism or contemplation, perhaps it is best if we lay aside any temptation to link belief with certainty. Perhaps it is the glory of belief that it is awash with unknowing. Not an anti-intellectual, willfully naive unknowing, but a humbler recognition that all human knowledge is suspended over the vast mystery of a cosmos that is beyond our capacity for full understanding. In other words, an unknowing that comes only when we are forced to acknowledge the limitations of our knowledge, our perception, our capacity for reason and analysis. We can dissect God, we can prove (or disprove) God’s existence, we can rest painfully in the unanswered questions of theodicy or the mystery of suffering. And then we face a choice. Do we retreat into nihilism and despair, or at best, a nontheistic humanism (which is more or less what so many secularized intellectuals opt for in our culture), or do we, seeking to continue the conversation of our centuries-old wisdom tradition, choose with joyful hope to embrace the mystery?
What if we recast the creed, substituting “embrace the mystery of” for “believe in”? Consider this as a tool for your own spiritual reflection.
We embrace the mystery of one God, the Father, the Almighty.
We embrace the mystery of one Lord, Jesus Christ, maker of heaven and earth, of all that is, seen and unseen; the only Son of God, eternally begotten of the Father, God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, of one Being with the Father…
We embrace the mystery of the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the giver of Life, who proceeds from the Father (and the Son)…
We embrace the mystery of one holy catholic and apostolic Church. We acknowledge one baptism for the forgiveness of sins. We look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come. Amen.
Maybe this won’t solve all the problems of belief in the postmodern age. But if nothing else, it might open up some new ways of approaching the question of how do we “do” faith in our time, consistent with the calling of contemplative spirituality.
Quote for the Day
The cloud of unknowing is that dark and obscure knowledge and love that fills the mind of the contemplative when, void of images and discursive reasoning, it rests silently in God in mystical sleep. The knowledge now suffusing the mind is only that of a faith which, nakedly divorced from any human consideration whatsoever, finds God’s truth in His revelation in Christ; and from this knowledge springs a love that touches the very essence of God, bringing yet a higher wisdom. This darkness of faith and love and wisdom is in reality a dazzling light that blinds the mind of the contemplative, thus leaving him in the mists of the cloud.
— William Johnston, The Mysticism of The Cloud of Unknowing
The Beard is Dead, Long Live the Beard
Last night I shaved.
Here I am in my full bearded glory...
... and after the deed was done.
More endorsements!
Several other folks have praised The Big Book of Christian Mysticism since I published the first round of endorsements on this blog a few days back. Here are the latest kind words:
Carl McColman has both studied and practised the Christian mystical tradition, stressing its earthiness and ‘ordinariness’. Like Thomas Merton, Michael Ramsey and others, he holds that mysticism is not an esoteric realm, reserved for the very holy, but is what all Christian life is about. I strongly commend this book.
— Kenneth Leech, author of Soul Friend:
Spiritual Direction in the Modern World
A brilliant contribution from a clear, concise and articulate author! Carl McColman’s Big Book deepens the conversation as he explores the paradoxes of the mystical/traditional approaches, outlines the bias against cultivating an interior life and illuminates the reader on practices to embrace in order to relate to a dynamic Living God.
— Lauren Artress, author of
Walking a Sacred Path
Mysticism is at the heart of faith, whatever religious or denominational flag we raise. Thoughtful, well-written doorways into these mysteries, such as this one, matter a great deal to all of us who seek communion with the Mystery Itself.
— Robert Benson, author of
In Constant Prayer
If you’d like to see what other folks (like Richard Rohr, Carolyn Myss, Brian McLaren, and Phyllis Tickle) have said, click here. And if you haven’t done so already, I hope you’ll take a moment and pre-order the book here: The Big Book of Christian Mysticism.
Is there such a thing as too many books?
I am trying to lose weight. Actually, I’m a good 15-18 pounds lighter than I was in November, when I first resolved to trim up. I’d still like to take another 20 pounds off, so I’m only about halfway to my goal. When people ask me how I’ve managed to lose the weight I’ve already taken off, I always shrug and say that I have no particular diet: my basic game plan is “eat less, move more.” In other words, I try to be mindful of my portion sizes and I try to keep exercise and physical activity as a priority.
I’m still thinking a lot about the conversation I had last week with a monk who suggested that I need to be spending less time reading and more time engaged in my spiritual practice of prayer and contemplation. I literally have a house full of books, and the vast majority of them I have not read, or only read in part. This, I know, is not unusual for educated, reasonably affluent American writers, particularly since once the publishers discover someone like me (who often blogs about books), they start sending out free books in the hopes that I’ll mention them in my blog. Even worse (as my wife likes to remind me), if I ask a publisher for a complimentary copy of a newly published book, often they’ll send it along. The moral of the story: I have a book addiction, and I acquire the things faster than I can usefully read them. I am book-fat.
If the way to lose excess flesh is to eat less and move more, then it seems that the only way to overcome the problem of book-fat is to acquire fewer books and simply set about to reading the ones I already have (which, frankly, will probably see me through to the end of my life). But instead of “moving more,” the process of abandoning compulsive book acquisitions probably will indeed require contemplating more. Engaging in the silent process of seeking and resting in the presence of God is probably the only real antidote to the rather materialistic (read: gluttonous) habit of continually buying (or begging for) still more reading material.
None of us can read our way into the presence of God. The only real point behind spiritual reading is to encourage us to, finally, put the book down and get on with the business of prayer, meditation, contemplation, and the work of loving one another. Mind you, I’m not suggesting that spiritual reading should be abandoned altogether (that would be silly, considering that I have just finished writing my own book on Christian spirituality), but I do think that reading is like eating: it’s possible to both over-do and under-do it. I suspect that book-anorexics probably are not much for reading blogs either, so I don’t imagine too many of my readers suffer from that particular problem. But if you, like me, have too much book-fat in your life (warning signs include acquiring books faster than you can read them, and rather compulsively reading pretty much every spare moment of the day), then perhaps my monastic friend’s advice would be useful for you, too. Read less, pray more. Read less, meditate more. Read less, contemplate more.
Here are a few quotations from www.quotationspage.com to ponder as we consider how to find the perfect balance between the right amount of reading and a meaningful practice of contemplation in our lives.
Reading, after a certain age, diverts the mind too much from its creative pursuits. Any man who reads too much and uses his own brain too little falls into lazy habits of thinking.
— Albert Einstein
Books to the ceiling,
Books to the sky,
My pile of books is a mile high.
How I love them! How I need them!
I’ll have a long beard by the time I read them.
— Arnold Lobel
Readings is sometimes an ingenious device for avoiding thought.
— Arthur Helps
Never read a book through merely because you have begun it.
— John Witherspoon
The multitude of books is making us ignorant.
— Voltaire
A Photo Essay of the Monastery of the Holy Spirit
If you would like to see some photographs from the monastery where I work, including some rare shots from inside the cloister, follow this link:
Georgia Monastery Strives to Be Self-Sufficient
The occasion for this little photo essay was the groundbreaking at the Monastery on Tuesday, for a new “monastic heritage center” (which will include a new bookstore!).
The meaning and purpose (and types) of prayer
A reader named Steven responded to my Wasting Time with God post by writing, in part:
Carl, the terms “prayer,” “contemplation,” “meditation,” “non-discursive contemplation,” have been used in this conversation. I would very much like to understand how you would distinguish between them. Furthermore, I am trying to come to a deeper appreciation of the meaning and purpose of prayer.
Forgive me for not getting too detailed in my response here, for two reasons: 1. it’s late, and I want to get to bed, and 2. I address these issues in further detail in the forthcoming book. So, for now, here is an admittedly brief response.
First of all, “non-discursive” is used only for the purpose of adding emphasis. Talking about non-discursive contemplation is rather like talking about the very truth. Contemplation, as I understand it, is by its very nature non-discursive, or at least has as its goal the entry into a non-discursive way of relating to the divine.
Now, as for the distinctions between prayer, contemplation and meditation (please keep in mind that I am defining and using these terms explicitly in terms of the Christian wisdom tradition. My definitions may not make sense in other contexts):
- Both contemplation and meditation are forms of prayer;
- Contemplation is a form of meditation.
Therefore, let’s start with the broadest term (prayer), and finish up with the narrowest (c0ontemplation).
Prayer, as I understand it, involves communion/communication with God. Now we can go down the rabbit hole of “what is God?” but I’ll save that for another day. If the marker “God” makes you uncomfortable, try replacing it with “Holy Mystery.”
Just as there a variety of ways in which human beings can communicate (verbally, non-verbally) and for a variety of reasons (to get something done, to enjoy intimacy), so too prayer can take on a variety of forms, methods, techniques, and purposes. But it seems to me that whether we are praying to get something from God or simply to enjoy God; whether we pray using lots of words we find in a book or simply sharing the unrehearsed words of our hearts or employing a technique to silence the words in our mind, it all boils down to some action or dimension of communion or communication with God (the Holy Mystery).
So both the meaning and purpose of prayer is to facilitate such communion or communication.
Meditation, as a type or category of prayer, represents that point where we begin to relinquish control over our own prayer. It’s easy to approach prayer as if you need to be making a speech while God, your heavenly secretary, quietly takes good notes. But eventually such prayer dries up. Meditation (in the Christian sense) implies a quieter, more reflective, pondering or thoughtful consideration of God, or of some other aspect of your faith & relationship with the Holy Mystery. We pray using words for rain, but we meditate on God’s goodness. We pray with words to confess our sins, but we meditate on God’s forgiveness. We pray discursively to praise God, but we still our mind to simply rest in God’s praiseworthiness.
In the classical Christian understanding of the word, meditation can still be filled with thoughts, ideas, feelings, and mental chatter. It is, essentially, a cataphatic form of prayer, which is to say prayer that uses concepts and words and images to reach out to God. But there comes a point when we begin to recognize just how impoverished even the loftiest words and thoughts and concepts are when it comes to God. It seems that any word or image or concept that reveals God also in some significant way conceals God. It seems that the more we pray, the more we meditate, the more we mysteriously and inexplicably feel called to a place beyond words, beyond concepts and images, beyond anything that seems to come between us and God. The more and more we are able to move into this prayer beyond words, beyond images, the more we have embraced the path of contemplation.
Now, a number of “methods” or techniques for contemplation have been developed over the centuries, from John Cassian encouraging the repetition of Psalm 70:1 (69:2 in the Douay version) to the eastern fathers and the Jesus prayer, to the centering prayer movement in our own day. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with such intentional forms of prayer that aim to enter into contemplation, but I think that, ultimately, contemplation is a gift, that may or may not be given to us, even when we engage in a method or a technique. Repeating the Jesus prayer for hours a day may not make you a mystic, it could just mean you’re obsessive and compulsive. So, while such techniques for contemplation do exist, it’s important to keep in mind that what efforts to still or slow down the mind actually do is to dispose us to the mysterious action of the Holy Spirit — which may or may not take us where we “want” to go. It’s helpful, therefore, to keep in mind that even the apophatic (no-images) form of contemplative prayer is, at the foundation, still a form of prayer: seeking communion or communication with the Holy Other. And just like human-to-human communication, it doesn’t always go the way we want it to or think it should.
Okay, I’m begin to nod off, so I’ll end here. I hope this helps to make these terms at least a wee bit clearer, and perhaps will initiate further discussion and consideration from those who are more clever (or at least, more alert) than I am…
Quote for the Day
Those who are perfectly humble lack nothing, physically or spiritually, because God is all abundance.
— The Cloud of Unknowing, Carmen Butcher translation
Wasting Time with God
Yesterday one of the older monks had to pick up a printing job, and so he needed a ride into town to the print shop. He could have asked a novice or a monastic guest to drive him in, but he chose me. I was delighted at the thought of spending an hour with this monk, whose loving personality and palpable holiness I have admired for a long time. It turned out to be almost two hours — the print shop was further away that I realized. Little did I know how the conversation would go. I’m not sure if he planned on this or not. I suppose it doesn’t matter.
After a bit of small-talk chatting, we got onto the subject of the challenges facing monasticism, between declining vocations, aging communities, and the difficulties of adapting to the economic realities of the postmodern world. A frequent theme for this monk was his concern over the decline in contemplative practice, even among those who have given their lives to the cloister. As a layman, I supposed myself to be beyond his astute critique. But I was mistaken.
Before I fully realized what was happening, my companion had stopped talking about monks and monasticism, and began a litany of complaint against the many authors and teachers of contemplation and Christian spirituality who, in his opinion, do not live the life they are teaching. I won’t name names here, but everyone he spoke of he knew personally, and more than one person he mentioned was someone whose work I admired. Slowly the noose was tightening around me, and still I hadn’t caught on.
The monk spoke about how writers and teachers get so caught up in their message, and their audience, and the “business” end of the work they are doing, that they either stop praying altogether or maybe only give ten minutes a day to their practice. As he said this, I grimaced a little, for I caught a glimmer of recognition there. Then, finally, he sprung the trap.
“I think a mature contemplative needs to be devoting two hours a day to their practice. And while normally lay people simply cannot embrace such a discipline given the challenges of work and family, I would think that anyone who is writing about the contemplative life probably needs that level of commitment, whether inside or outside of the cloister.”
I gulped.
“Well, father, I’m nowhere near that level of practice.”
“I know,” he said gently. “Carl, you are very sincere, and I admire that about you. And you’ve written a wonderful book. But now you face a difficult question. Are you going to live the life, or are you just going to talk and write about it?”
“I don’t know that I have two hours a day to give, father.”
“Maybe you need to be reading fewer books.”
Ouch again. He knew right where to poke, didn’t he? By now I made no pretense of hiding my defensiveness. “But I love the reading I do. Are you saying I need to give all that up?”
“Of course you’re going to read. The question is, how much? Are you so committed to staying ‘current’ that your contemplative life gets sacrificed? What good does that do — you, or anyone else? Which comes first, reading or prayer?”
As we pulled back onto the monastery grounds, he paid me a wonderful compliment, especially since he is one of the brothers who has already read my book. “Carl, you have written your masterpiece. Don’t throw away your spiritual life trying to write another one.”
Back in the store, I needed to call my wife to make plans for the evening, and I told her about this conversation. As I expected, she just laughed, and said she would have to be sure to give this particular monk a hug the next time she saw him. “But honey, how can we devote two hours a day to prayer?” I said, hoping desperately that she would commiserate with me. But no such luck. “Yes, I know we’re not there yet,” she replied, “but that doesn’t mean we can’t be working toward it.”
At one point during the conversation the monk defined contemplation as “wasting time with God.” If I am bluntly honest with myself, I know I waste a good two hours a day, between reading silly stuff online (do I really need to know about iPhone prototypes that get lost in California bars?), watching TV (I don’t do a lot of that, but I do some), playing games on my iPhone (ditto), shopping for books online (just because I have a house full of the things doesn’t mean I don’t want more), and — dare I say it? — Facebook. Okay, okay. If I can waste time all these other ways, why not waste more time with God?
I’m not suggesting to my readers that everyone needs to be suddenly devoting two hours a day to contemplation, just because that’s how my monastic friend challenged me. In fact, I believe most people probably shouldn’t attempt more than an hour a day, without competent spiritual guidance. And if you’re not meditating/contemplating an hour a day, twenty minutes or even ten minutes a day is better than nothing. But perhaps all of us can consider how much time we waste every day, doing stuff for no other reason than it’s silly or fun. I don’t think we have to eliminate silly or fun from our lives, but that’s like saying we don’t have to eliminate chocolate or potato chips, either. A healthy diet means lots of fruits and vegetables and only the occasional candy bar. Likewise, a healthy contemplative life means more silence and less Facebook. I have a long way to go on this one myself, so I offer these words not in a spirit of judgment, but rather with an open-ended sense of possibility: if we want to waste time with God, just how far can we take it?
Visiting my Father on Mother’s Day
Both of Fran’s parents, and my mother, have all passed away. So we visited my father on Mother’s Day. That in itself is not too remarkable, as we visit dad almost every Sunday. I told Fran more than once that I appreciated her spending Mother’s Day — “her” day — going to a nursing home to visit my father. “I love him,” was her simple, and completely typical, response.
Dad has had Parkinson’s disease for well over a decade now, with a variety of other ailments, from some heart issues to a scare with prostate cancer at one point. But these days his main issue is dementia, which may be related to the Parkinson’s. Like many people dealing with memory issues, he has good days and bad days. On his worst days, he’s sleepy and barely coherent. But on a good day — like yesterday — he is chatty and talkative, and even (with prompting) seems to have a basically working memory. He didn’t seem to be aware that mom was gone, but other than that we spent ninety minutes discussing a variety of things, from Rhiannon’s health issues to my forthcoming book to camping. He told us about the first car he ever owned — a Model T — as well as his first luxury vehicle (a Buick, which in his words, “I needed like I needed a hole in my head”). He remained alert throughout our entire visit, asked meaningful and relevant questions, and was affectionate and loving. When we said good-bye, Rhiannon leaned out of her wheelchair and kissed his hand. It was too sweet a moment not to capture with my iPhone camera, so here it is.
Dementia is a long slow good-bye, and as it wreaks its slow, inexorable havoc, plenty of sad or disappointing moments come along (I’ve already encountered days when Dad, smiling and genial, had no idea who I am; even more frequently, he confuses my with my older brother Don, who sees him much more frequently than I do). But then like unbidden grace, along comes a day when Dad is simply present — maybe not as eloquent or witty or sharp-minded as I’ll always remember him at the peak of his game, but still, present, simply present. Mother’s Day may have been Fran’s day, but we all got a splendid gift.
Ordinary Mysticism
The other day somebody at work paid me a compliment, and told me that I was a natural storyteller.
Last night Fran and I had dinner with a couple, relatively new friends whom we’re still getting to know. The subject of “how we met” came up, and Fran and I began to weave our complicated tale: meeting at a pagan gathering, the dance of flirtation and ignoring each other… the story involved a sweatlodge, and all-night conversation by a bonfire, and, eventually, my meeting Rhiannon and her own little efforts to ply me with her charms (she was six years old at the time). Everyone at the table was laughing. Yeah, I guess we (not just me) are natural storytellers.
But that may be true for all of us, you know. I think storytelling is like kissing. Everybody can do it, some folks are more confident, or have more of a swagger about it, or a larger “vocabulary” (!). It’s fun, it’s human, it connects us. Sure, some people might be “better” kissers than others, but you know, unless a kiss has been adulterated by fear or anger or possessiveness or inappropriate lust, it’s almost always a really good experience.
So just like we all need lots of hugs and kisses in our lives, so also we all need good stories. And we get these not from a book so much as from each other. And our stories need to be about nothing more dramatic than our lives. How did you meet your spouse? When did you first comprehend that you really truly believed in God (or, didn’t believe)? What is your deepest, darkest fear, and what do you do to inject hope into that fearful place? And on and on the possibilities go.
I called this post “ordinary mysticism” because I believe that, with eyes to see and ears to hear, even the most mundane stories can become luminous with mystery — mystery revealed and mystery concealed. Just as when Fran and I told our friends last night about how we met, and at one point I looked at her and said “Should I tell them about…” and before I could even finish the sentence she said “Let’s not go there!” Every story has mystery, and I think that’s true even when we tell it all. Mystery is something deeper than secrets, although secrets often can be the place where mystery lurks. One of the big differences between Christianity and the pagan mystery cults of the Greco-Roman world is that Christianity, at some point, went “open source” with its secrets. In the early years you had to be baptized before you could even witness the Communion rite. Nowadays anyone can watch. It’s no longer a secret. But it’s still a profound mystery, and perhaps the openness just serves to deepen the mystery.
I think that’s true with our storytelling, too. We talk about meeting someone special whom we would eventually marry, and the mystery of love lights on us like a butterfly in a spring garden. We recount our health woes, and there is the mystery of suffering. We take a closer look at our spiritual lives, and the mystery of Divine presence becomes manifest. Mystery happens. It is the foundational building block, the necessary amino acid, for mysticism. Let’s do all we can to share it with one another. And that means, let’s tell our stories.
Proposed Class on Christian Mysticism
The good folks at the Emory Center for Lifelong Learning have given me the green light to prepare a proposal for a class on Christian mysticism. I’ve taught an “Introduction to World Mysticism” class there for the past four years, and it shows no signs of easing its popularity, so now it’s time to see if a class that focusses on the Christian tradition would likewise appeal to the continuing education community.
My proposal is due on the program manager’s desk on Monday. Here is what I’ve come up with — please give me your feedback. Would you sign up for a class like this? What changes do you think I could make to this proposal to make the class even more appealing?
Introduction to Christian Mysticism
Proposed course for Evening at Emory
Description:
The renowned twentieth century German theologian Karl Rahner said, “The Christian of the future will be a mystic or will not exist at all.” What could he have meant by this? In the popular mind, mysticism is associated with eastern spirituality, like Yoga or Zen. But there is a little-known tradition of meditation and spiritual awakening even within Christianity. This non-sectarian class will survey the history of Christian mysticism from Biblical times to the present, explore the meaning of mysticism and why Christians often view it with suspicion, and consider the role that mysticism might play in Christianity of the present and future.
Format:
Five evening sessions, 7:00-9:00 PM
Learning Objectives:
1. Understand what mysticism is, and how its meaning has evolved over time
2. Survey the key Christian mystics from Biblical times to the present day
3. Learn the reasons why mysticism is controversial within Christianity
4. Understand mysticism’s relationship with monasticism, and what kinds of spiritual practices mystics have engaged in over the centuries
5. Speculate on how mysticism can remain vital to Christianity in the future
Course Outline
Class 1: Introduction
- Defining mysticism
- How the concept of mysticism has evolved over time
- Distinctive qualities of Christian mysticism
- How mysticism differs from occultism, esotericism, gnosticism and piety
Class 2: History of Mysticism through 1200
- Mysticism in the Bible
- The Alexandrian Mystics
- The Desert Fathers and Mothers
- Pseudo-Dionysius, Augustine, and the Greek tradition
Class 3: History of Mysticism from 1200 to the present
- High medieval mysticism: Cistercians, Franciscans, and Dominicans
- Northern European Mysticism
- Southern European Mysticism
- Protestantism and Modern Mysticism
Class 4: What Mystics Do
- Ascetical Practices: Monasticism, Celibacy, Austerity
- Lectio Divina and Biblical study
- Meditation and Contemplation
- The Relationship Between Mysticism and Works of Mercy/Social Action
Class 5: Understanding Mysticism
- Mysticism and Heresy: Why have so many mystics been rejected by the Christian mainstream
- The Protestant Reformation and the Marginalization of Mysticism
- The Twentieth Century Renaissance (Christianity encounters eastern mysticism)
- Thoughts about how mysticism will evolve in the future
Text
The Big Book of Christian Mysticism: The Essential Guide to Contemplative Spirituality
Carl McColman
Hampton Roads Publishers, 2010
ISBN 9781571746245
