Peter Rollins, Insurrection: To Believe is Human, to Doubt, Divine — I’ve been a fan of Peter Rollins since his first book came out five years ago; I’m happy to report that his latest — his first with a major publisher — retains his insightful exploration of apophatic themes such as mystery, unknowing, and darkness. The premise of this book is startling in its simplicity and solid logic: we know that Jesus experienced both suffering and a sense of desolation in being crucified (“My God, why have you forsaken me?”); so any spirituality worthy of being called Christian must likewise take us into a similar harrowing place of despair and doubt. And while Rollins does not flinch from criticizing the church’s cowardice in avoiding the shadow side of the imitation of Christ, his creative theology should prove inspiring for anyone willing to explore the heart of mystery — which, after all, is the essence of authentic mysticism.

Sarah Maitland, A Book of Silence — One of the most luminously beautiful literary works I’ve read in quite some time, this lyrical book functions both as a memoir of Maitland’s journey into a deeper love for, and relationship with, silence, as well as a thoughtful and insightful meditation on the nature, meaning, and spirituality of silence and its first cousin, solitude. Maitland is known not only for her award-winning fiction but also for several works of feminist theology, so naturally this book has a religious feel to it; but she is aware that the pleasures and perils of silence transcend all dogma, and so she draws on secular as well as sacred sources to forge her unique insights on the presence that is found within the absence of sound. If you are serious about exploring contemplative or meditative silence in your own life, read this book; if you’re like me, you will discover new things about yourself in its pages.

Paul Knitter, Without Buddha I Could Not Be a Christian — One of the most interesting and helpful books on interfaith dialog and interspirituality I have ever read. Knitter, trained in Rome as a Catholic theologian who now teaches at Union Theological Seminary in New York, tells the story of his own faith journey and how both study and practice of Buddhist dharma has strengthened his understanding and identity of being Christian. Although he is clearly wrestling with theological issues, Knitter’s writing is lucid so that even those without formal training in theology can appreciate what he has to say. He considers questions related to God, Christ, heaven, prayer and meditation, and peace, looking at how difficulties inherent in Christian thought can be addressed (if not resolved) by considering Buddhist perspectives. Ultimately Knitter embraces a “dual-practitioner” identity as a committed Christian who is simultaneously a committed Buddhist. But I think anyone who cares about interfaith exploration on any level would benefit from his insightful journey.

Maggie Ross, Writing the Icon of the Heart: In Silence Beholding —This collection of essays explores what it means to be a contemplative in today’s world, from considering the missing element in so many discussions of contemplation (“beholding”), to a frank but sober assessment of how a spiritual awakening might be our only hope as we consider the breadth and depth of environmental degradation that characterizes today’s world. Ross’s writing is infused with an appreciation of wilderness, not only for its own sake but also as a key element in authentic spirituality. Ross writes eloquently about the spirituality of tears — not as some sort of emotional manipulation, as so much religious spectacle seems to promote — but rather as an authentic embracing of sorrow, of loss, of repentance, of grief, of letting-go — that ushers us in to that place, where, in our letting go (kenosis) we encounter the kenotic God. This is the place of transfiguration, beyond any “technology” or “experience.”

Martin Laird, A Sunlit Absence: Silence, Awareness and Contemplation — A sequel to his masterful introduction to contemplative prayer, Into the Silent Land (if you, or the person you’re gifting, hasn’t read that book, then get it too!). Laird’s writing is economical and clear, offering gentle and practical advice for those seeking to establish a regular practice of resting in silence as a way to embrace the Mystery of God. Laird particularly shines when he addresses common problems in the practice of prayer, including boredom, distractions that cloud awareness, and dealing with emotional challenges such as panic or depression. He is a keen observer of how the grasping dimension of the human mind (the “ego”) subtly tries to undermine the vast freedom of true contemplation, and offers practical advice for lessening the egoic grip and learning to humbly receive the gifts that God offers us in radical silence.

James Martin, My Life with the Saints — A book that is both sweetly inspirational and gently honest, this memoir of popular Catholic author James Martin tells his spiritual autobiography by detailing the many saints for whom he has had special devotions over the years. Martin has a broad understanding of sainthood (he includes in his list Thomas Merton, who is most assuredly not on the Vatican’s short list for canonization) and introduces us to both well-known (Francis of Assisi) and more obscure (Aloysius Gonzaga) examples of the heroes of sanctity. And while it is always enlightening to read his encomiums for figures like Mother Teresa or the Ugandan Martyrs, what really makes this book a must-read is the insight readers get into Martin himself, who manages to pull off the tricky matter of balancing candor about himself with heartfelt devotion to both Christ and the Church.

Richard Rohr, Falling Upward: A Spirituality for the Two Halves of Life — This book considers how the goals and purpose of the spiritual life evolve over the lifespan; what is important and necessary in the first half of life might actually impede our spiritual calling in the second half. But as an institution, Christianity is almost exclusively geared toward first-half-of-life issues (creating a spiritual identity, finding one’s place in the world, and adopting a code of conduct appropriate for that identity and place) and leaves those wrestling with the second-half-of-life issues (finding meaning, giving back to others, learning to let go of the limitations that identity/place entail) to basically fend for themselves. Without attacking the church for its limitations, Rohr offers a viable roadmap for those who wish to embrace the wisdom of maturity, even when it leads to places that traditional religion simply is not equipped to address.

Roland Merullo, Breakfast with Buddha — This novel explores the collision point between skepticism and spirituality during an unlikely road trip where a skeptical New York businessman named Otto and a Buddhist roshi travel together from New Jersey to North Dakota. Trying to make the most of it, Otto shows his passenger a slice of American life, from visiting Hershey’s Chocolate Factory to an evening at a bowling alley; the roshi, meanwhile, gently challenges Otto to see both his dysfunctional family dynamics and his own armored way of doing life in a new light. Whimsically written and at times laugh-out-loud funny, this book pulls off a rare feat: it gives both faith and doubt an authentic voice, and finds a way to make peace with both secular cynicism and spiritual belief without throwing either viewpoint under the proverbial bus. Otto never becomes a true believer, but his encounter with the spiritual master does change him in some surprising ways.

Julian of Norwich, All Shall Be Well: Revelations of Divine Love, translated by Ellyn Sanna — I’ve looked at many translations of Julian of Norwich over the  years, and at first glance, this one seems the most offbeat: the translator sometimes changes words where the meaning in the middle English has now become obscured, even if the word is still used in today’s religious circles: for example, Christ’s passion (a topic dear to Mother Julian) is called in this book Christ’s “endurance.” Also, following Julian’s assertion that God is both father and mother, this translation uses the pronoun “she” often when referring to God. While purists may decry this work for its inaccuracy, I see it as similar to Eugene Peterson’s The Message translation of the Bible: as a paraphrase designed to introduce new readers to the work, and to startle “old timers” with a fresh way of approaching the text. I’m seeing this first-hand: this has become my wife’s favorite translation of Julian, and she’s giving several copies to friends this Christmas. As a bonus, the Kindle version is very attractively priced at only $5.99.

Leif Hetland, Seeing Through Heaven’s Eyes: A World View that will Transform Your Life — I haven’t had a chance to read this one yet, but my wife is plowing through it and loves it. Hetland is a Norwegian pastor, a living prodigal son figure who returned from a life of drug addiction and homelessness to embrace a truly mystical spirituality that emphasizes God’s passionate love for each of us. Hetland writes that we have been created “to bear God’s image and to establish His heavenly Kingdom here on earth.” With a theology reminiscent of Thomas Merton’s epiphany, Hetland sees each human being as a co-creator and co-lover with God, called to dance with the Trinity and the human family in a circle of love, joy and harmony. To see through heaven’s eyes is to see all things how God sees — with Godly love, compassion and purpose.

Lorna Byrne, Angels in My Hair: The True Story of a Modern-Day Irish Mystic — A publicist sent me a review copy of this book, probably because it has the word “mystic” in the title. I think it’s rather more accurate to describe Byrne as a visionary who sees the presence of angels around her and others. My wife loves memoirs so I passed it on to her, and she has been talking about this book ever since. Byrne tells her story of growing up poor in Ireland, of becoming a young widow with four children at home, and finally breaking through her dyslexia to find the confidence to tell her remarkable story. The angels are a source of encouragement, guidance, comfort, and assistance, and Byrne’s message, which comes from her own angelic guides, is simple and hopeful: each of us has angels waiting to support us; all we have to do is ask.

Robert A. Emmons, Thanks! How Practicing Gratitude Can Make You Happier — After a meditation instructor recommended I read this book, I found a copy, but my wife got to it first. This is a book about gratitude and the physical, emotional and spiritual benefits that arise from cultivating thankfulness in one’s life. Emmons gathers a wealth of scientific data and personal anecdotes to survey the research done on this topic, and shows that something as simple as keeping a daily gratitude journal for as little as three weeks can provide observable benefits such as increased sleep and improved energy levels. By cultivating gratitude, we learn to want and enjoy the present blessings in our life, which in turn leads to an increased well-being, allowing for even greater joy. That’s a feedback loop anyone can benefit from! The final chapter includes practical tips for increasing the gratitude quotient in your life.

Finally, if you’d like a few more gift ideas, please visit my Amazon store: http://astore.amazon.com/earthmystic — and I humbly hope you will consider giving my books as gifts! Here are the direct links: The Big Book of Christian Mysticism and The Lion, the Mouse and the Dawn Treader. Many blessings to you and your loved ones for a  happy holiday season.

It looks great on a Kindle!

Amazon’s announcement yesterday of several new versions of the Kindle, including a reader that retails for only $79 and their first color reader (for a mere $199), should convince even the most confirmed skeptic that not only are e-books here to stay, but that they will follow the path of the MP3, and only become increasingly popular as a reading format. My latest sales report for The Big Book of Christian Mysticism shows that e-book sales account for almost 25% of the book’s total sales (impressive, since it is currently only available on the Kindle, although my editor assures me that the Nook and Kobo versions are in the works). I think we can safely assume that the percentage of e-book sales, especially on new books, will only grow over time.

To me, there’s no point in arguing over the merits of paper books versus e-books, or getting self-righteous because studies show that people are more likely to browse e-books than read them thoroughly, yada yada yada. We are all entitled to our opinions, but the e-book is not going anywhere (and neither is the paper book). To me, e-books represent just one more format for books, along with the various formats already available: hardback books, trade paperbacks, and mass market paperbacks. Just as the paperback did not kill the hardback, so the e-book will not totally render paper books obsolete. As an author, I’m happy to see my books available in as many formats as possible — after all, I want to reach as many readers as possible.

So, with all that in mind, I thought I’d post links to the various available e-book formats of my titles, current as of today. Obviously, there are some gaps that still need to be filled in (and my agent has already gotten an earful from me about this). But whether your favorite e-reader is the Kindle, the iPad, the Kobo, or the Nook, you can find at least one or two of my books for your reading pleasure. Just follow the links…

Kindle Versions:

• The Big Book of Christian Mysticism
• The Lion, the Mouse and the Dawn Treader
• The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Celtic Wisdom
• Magic of the Celtic Gods and Goddesses
• Before You Cast a Spell
• When Someone You Love is Wiccan
• The Well-Read Witch

Nook Versions:

• The Lion, the Mouse and the Dawn Treader
• The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Celtic Wisdom
• The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Paganism

Kobo Versions:

• The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Celtic Wisdom
• The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Paganism

iBook Versions:

• The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Celtic Wisdom
• The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Paganism

Of course, if you are like me and still prefer the old-fashioned paper & glue & ink type of book, you can always order The Big Book of Christian Mysticism or The Lion, the Mouse and the Dawn Treader or any of my other books in all their low-tech glory.

Happy reading, my friends!

St. Vincent's Archabbey

Thank you to Joann D. of Tucker, GA, who recently donated $32 to help me send copies of The Big Book of Christian Mysticism to two monasteries. Thanks to her generosity, today I’ll be mailing copies of the book to St. Leo’s Abbey in St. Leo’s, Florida, and St. Vincent’s Archabbey in Latrobe, Pennsylvania.

That brings us up to thirty-four monasteries, convents, and retreat centers where donated copies of the book have been sent. I’m asking the monasteries to please place the books in their libraries, and/or their guesthouse libraries, where hopefully the books can be a blessing for individuals making retreats.

There are still plenty of spiritual communities and centers where I’d like to send a copy of the book. Do you think you could help out? Click here for more details.

Happily, my friend and fellow Lay Associate Nancy, who is on the committee that sponsored Jane Tomaine’s visit to Atlanta, decided to bring her out to the monastery this afternoon, and I was able to meet her, chat about current authors we both enjoy, and talk Nancy into taking this photo of us.

Jane Tomaine and Carl McColman at the Abbey Store, September 9, 2011

First of all, for all you breviary addicts (I know you’re out there), two of my favorite young writers — Shane Claiborne and Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove — have joined forces with Enuma Okoro to develop Common Prayer: A Liturgy for Ordinary Radicals. This ecumenical/interdenominational resource offers a weekly round of evening prayers, along with a complete annual cycle of morning prayers, a mid-day office, and a selection of prayers for special occasions. Various saints and heroes of the faith are commemorated, ranging from Thomas Merton to Julian of Norwich to Martin Luther King, Jr. to dear Saint Benedict. As someone who has prayed the Roman liturgy for some time now, there are to my mind real limitations to this breviary: no office of compline, no structuring of the Daily Office to echo the cosmos and the human lifespan in each daily round of prayers. But I don’t this book is intended to replace existing liturgies like the Roman or Anglican offices. Rather I think it’s meant to be an introduction to liturgical prayer for a young generation of evangelicals, who have grown up in a church where singing contemporary praise music is about as liturgical as it gets. In that sense, I think this a brilliant and much-needed resource. And for liturgy snobs like me, it’s a wonderful addition to the library, with some wonderful prayers and commemorations geared toward a spirituality anchored in the call to justice. Another nice touch: each month the book features one of the “twelve marks” of neo-monasticism.

There are a lot of books available on Benedictine spirituality. Many of them are written by laypersons who may never have lived in a monastery (authors like Esther de Waal and Norvene Vest); others are written by monks but primarily for monks (Terrence Kardong, Adalbert de Vogüé). Please don’t misunderstand me — most of such books are wonderful, and I don’t mean to criticize the authors I’ve listed; I like works by all of them). But what makes Lessons from Saint Benedict: Finding Joy in Daily Life a noteworthy book is that its author, Donald S. Raila, is an oblate master at a large Benedictine abbey, specifically writing for oblates: men and women who are not monks, but who have placed themselves under the spiritual guidance of monks and who seek to conduct their secular lives according to the wisdom of Benedict. Buddhists talk about “taking refuge” as the initiation into the life of following the dharma; for Benedictine oblates (and their counterparts, lay Cistercians), there is a similar sense of “taking refuge” under the guidance of the monks at a particular monastery. As the master of oblates at St. Vincent’s Archabbey, Fr. Raila writes a quarterly letter to the oblates on an aspect of the Rule and Benedictine spirituality; this book gathers 26 of those letters. Raila’s writing is homey and down-t0-earth; he recognizes that the key to applying Benedictine wisdom is to see how it makes a difference in the most ordinary circumstances of life, from travel delays to hernias to a wristwatch that runs just a few seconds slow each day. Raila understands that spirituality is all about the slow and unglamorous transformation of every moment of life, and his thoughtful but accessible insights are ideal invitations to meditation and reflection.

The Sin Eater: A Breviary is not a liturgical work per se, but an anthology of poems and photographs evocative of a lost age of Celtic spirituality. Undertakers Thomas and Michael Lynch (father and son) share an Irish eye for beauty that can be found hidden in the most stark and unadorned of places; this cycle of carefully structured poems, each illustrated by a sombre black and white photograph, invite the reader into the life of Argyle, the titular sin-eater and perhaps Thomas’ alter ego. The sin-eater is a liminal figure (neither pagan nor priest, neither therapist nor healer, neither magician nor mystic) who symbolizes — or, perhaps, sacramentalizes? — the borderlines between religion and spirituality, between culture and nature, between death and life, all situated in the hidden-away setting of the Lynchs’ ancestral Irish home. Earthy, blunt language of death and decay — but also eros and irony — dance through these poems, where the  hidden presence of the Divine is found not through pious formula, but evoked by honesty and wonder.

Finally, I’d like to briefly mention a series of books published by Fons Vitae, celebrating the ecumenical and interfaith dimensions of Thomas Merton’s work. These collections: Merton & Buddhism, Merton & Hesychasm, Merton & Judaism and Merton & Sufism, gather together writings of Merton with relevant essays by Merton scholars exploring his relationship with each of four traditions outside his own. These books certainly will help to solidify Merton’s reputation as the patron saint of ecumenical and interfaith contemplatives. Grab the one that most appeals to  you — or if you are as intellectually curious as Merton himself, read all four.

Almost twenty years ago I read Maggie Ross’s wonderful book on the theology of priesthood, Pillars of Flame: Power, Priesthood and Spiritual Maturity. Not only was it a valuable book in helping me to affirm my ministry as a lay Christian, but it also struck me as one of the most lyrical and eloquent statements of Christian spirituality in general that I had ever read. Yes, that is high praise. But the book deserved it. Ross, an Anglican solitary, clearly understood how tainted Christian theology had become by imperial, Greco-Roman, concepts of God-as-controlling-political-authority — and how such a domineering image of God had corrupted not only Christian spirituality in general, but particularly Christian thinking about priesthood. Only by regaining an understanding of God-as-kenotic-love, as evidenced by the witness of Christ and the New Testament authors, could we ever hope to re-vision priesthood as the radical servant/ministry that Christ intended it to be.

So when one of the brothers at the Monastery of the Holy Spirit sent me an enthusiastic email insisting that Writing the Icon of the Heart, Ross’s newest offering, was by far one of the most important books on spirituality that he had read in a long time, I took him at his word. And now that I’ve read it, I’m happy to commend it to you as well. The book is a collection of essays Ross had written over a twenty year period, most of which had been published in journals like Weavings or Sobornost. But they have all been revised/rewritten for this collection, and she requests that the essays be read in the order presented here. So what emerges feels less like a hodgepodge anthology and more like a thematic introduction to her singular perspective on what it means to be a contemplative in today’s world, from considering the missing element in so many discussions of contemplation (“beholding”), to a frank but sober assessment of how a spiritual awakening might be our only hope as we consider the breadth and depth of environmental degradation that characterizes today’s world. Ross divides her time between Oxford and Alaska, and so her writing is infused with an appreciation of wilderness, not only for its own sake but also as a key element in an authentically kenotic spirituality.

Ross warns in the introduction of the book against the facile use of the words “mystic” and “mysticism,” and indeed, one of her most consistent targets is the idolatry of experience that characterizes so much spiritual thinking and activity in our day. While I am not willing to be quite as damning in my critique of experience as she is — I see the turn toward experience as a necessary corrective to the overly intellectualized propositional theology that has bedeviled so much Christianity, particularly in its Protestant form, over the past few generations — I broadly agree with her assertion that the quest for experience has become a religious cul-de-sac, reducing Christianity from its splendor as a threshold to the mysteries to a mere consumer spirituality, trading transformational kenosis for mental-emotional entertainment. The Christian mystery takes us far beyond what we can think or feel — to the place of “beholding,” a splendid word that Ross notes has been all but erased from modern translations of the Bible (not to mention most modern translations of the writings of Julian of Norwich and the Cloud of Unknowing, which helps to explain why Ross is so critical of reading those texts in translated editions).

Unlike consumer spirituality where a warm cozy experience of God’s love can be engineered by the right music and a carefully crafted sermon, true contemplative beholding ushers us into radical encounter with the  terrifying living God, a place beyond our puny attempts to control and our feeble insistence on good feelings as the arbiter of sanctity. True beholding, therefore, is transfigurative rather than merely experiential — echoing Teresa of Avila’s insistence that the only sure way of assessing progress in the spiritual life is by considering one’s growth in holiness, which is to say, growth in love and humble service of others.

For Maggie Ross, the “others” we are called to love and humbly serve are not merely our fellow Christians or even the larger human family. Rather, she eloquently speaks of the entire sweep of creation as our brothers and sisters in the Divine economy. From cranberries to walruses to a hair-raising near-encounter with a grizzly bear, her essays are vibrant with the beauty and splendor of God’s good earth. She also pulls no punches in considering how much damage our consumer economy has caused. Only by abandoning consumerism and accepting the call of kenosis — of self-emptying love — is there any hope for our fragile and distressed biosphere. And only by beholding God in silence and self-forgetful abandonment can we hope to discern, and accept, that uncompromising call.

In the end, Maggie Ross writes eloquently of the experience of tears — not as some sort of emotional manipulation, as so much religious spectacle seems to promote — but rather as an authentic embracing of sorrow, of loss, of repentance, of grief, of letting-go — that ushers us in to that place, where, in our letting go (kenosis) we encounter the kenotic God. This is the place of transfiguration, beyond any “technology” or “experience,” whether religious or otherwise. May we all be carried by our tears to such a graced encounter.

Harvey Egan is one of the big names in the academic study of Christian mysticism; he is the editor of one of the best anthologies of Christian mystical writings, and has penned insightful studies into the work of Jesuit mystics like Ignatius of Loyola and Karl Rahner. But this most recent offering of his may be one of the most useful books for anyone wishing to learn more about the great mystics themselves. Like Evelyn Underhill’s Mystics of the Church or John MacQuarrie’s Two Worlds Are Ours, Soundings in the Christian Mystical Tradition functions as a basic history of Christian mysticism, offering a chronological survey from Biblical times to the present day. But what sets this book apart is how almost every chapter is devoted to one particular mystic, offering a biography of the subject, a look at the historical and theological issues that would have been part of his or her cultural milieu, and how the subject’s mystical relationship with Christ arose in response to the realities of the time — and, most significant for us, how the writings and ideas of each particular mystic still speak to us today. In other words, Soundings in the Christian Mystical Tradition functions almost like a dictionary of mystical biography, a “who’s who” in the history of mystics functioning within the Christian tradition.

Egan profiles over 75 mystics, offering a survey of mysticism in both the Hebrew Scriptures and the New Testament, and then galloping through twenty centuries beginning with Origen of Alexandria and culminating with Mother Teresa of Calcutta. Of course, all the usual suspects are present (Meister Eckhart, Teresa of Avila, John of the Cross, Julian of Norwich, The Cloud of Unknowing) along with a few surprises (Bernard J. F. Lonergan, Benet of Canfield) and, it seems to me, a willingness to include devotional women whose writings or lives are primarily ecstatic or visionary (Gemma Galgani, Maria Faustina Kowalska), perhaps subtly reinforcing the stereotype that mysticism is about extraordinary phenomena. That in itself is not terribly problematic (after all, I have a “big tent” understanding of mysticism), but the exclusion of living or recently deceased figures who I believe have made more significant contributions to the tradition (Ramon Panikkar, Thomas Keating, Richard Rohr, Cynthia Bourgeault, Maggie Ross) is bothersome. Certainly Egan was not overly concerned with Catholic political correctness, or else he would have omitted Teilhard de Chardin and Merton. Considering that Panikkar was still alive when this book was in production, I’ll assume that Egan intentionally did not include any living contemplatives in his survey — an  understandable if regrettable move.

But never mind my nitpicking over who did and did not get included: the survey offers a wealth of information and would be deeply useful to anyone trying to navigate through the history of Christian mystical writing. What I found especially helpful was a distinction that Egan offered in the book’s introduction, highlighting the difference between mystics, mystical theologians, and mystagogues. Mystics actually live the contemplative life ordered toward union with God; mystical theologians write about such a life, seeking to understand and articulate the theory/theology of such a life; and mystagogues teach and lead others in seeking the mystical life. Writers in the Christian mystical tradition may belong to any one of these three categories, or more than one; but it is helpful to recognize that the writings of Julian of Norwich represent a profound expression of mysticism in itself, whereas The Cloud of Unknowing is a work of mystagogy, and the writings of the Pseudo-Dionysius represent mystical theology. This is not to say that the Cloud-author or Pseudo-Dionysius were not truly mystics, but just to point out helpful distinctions in the writings themselves. Scholars sometimes quibble about whether Evelyn Underhill is properly understood as a mystic (she does not appear in Egan’s table of contents, another lamentable omission in my opinion), which is understandable considering that her writings are more about the theory and practice of mysticism than creative expressions of her own spiritual life.

This book works well as a handy reference tool, enabling the seeker after Christian mystical wisdom access to intelligent summaries of the lives and thoughts of (most of) the great contemplative writers. But I’d like to commend it as a work to read through from cover to cover. Each chapter is short (6 – 8 pages) making it useful as a daily supplement to your devotional reading. But in reading the text as a whole, you get a sense of Egan’s own understanding of how Christian mystical theology has evolved over time, particularly the emergence in the late twentieth century (beginning with Lonergan) of the recognition that mystical spirituality involves the evolution of human consciousness. This is a significant understanding, and I’ve never before seen an author trace it so lucidly. It puts the living contemplatives like Keating and Rohr into context. Since mysticism is about relating to the living God, it only stands to reason that mysticism itself is a living, evolving thing. Soundings in the Christian Mystical Tradition offers a useful summary of Christian mysticism as God’s work in progress.

Sometimes I get bored with spiritual writing. That may seem like a crazy foolish thing for me to admit, for after all, I am a “spiritual writer” myself. But it’s true. I can only take so much gentle, kind, inspirational prose about discovering our inner authenticity and learning to let God’s forgiving love transform us so that we can in turn bring compassion and forgiveness to others…. yada yada yada… I believe it all, it’s all true, but sometimes it just gets a little boring. It’s kind of like contemporary Christian music. Some of it (the David Crowder Band leaps to mind) is authentically creative and worthy of repeated listens. But so much of it feels rather constrained by the essential politeness of its message. It may be good, and honest, and true, but it lacks passion, and risk, and danger.

The solution to such boredom, of course, is to make sure we don’t have a steady diet of religious prose (or music). But this doesn’t always have to be an either/or proposition. Sarah Arthur and Paraclete Press have recently produced a wonderful devotional book called At the Still Point: A Literary Guide to Prayer in Ordinary Time — which is, as the title suggests, a collection of literary writings arranged to foster a lively devotional practice. Set in a 29-week cycle (long enough to cover the period from Pentecost until Advent), this book features excerpts of poetry and prose from a wide array of authors, including George Eliot, Herman Melville, Jane Austen, Leo Tolstoy — as well as authors we might more intuitively think of as “spiritual,” like George Herbert, John Donne, Julian of Norwich, George MacDonald, and Dante. The book is set up so that you can use it as a daily devotional, or for a longer, weekly sampling of the literary treasures it contains. Each week has its own contemplative theme: “In the Stillness,” “The Intimacy of Grace,” “Communion of the Body” and so forth. Basically, this is a book for bringing a love for fine writing into your practice of prayer (and vice versa). It’s well worth checking out.

Richard Rohr’s newest book unpacks a simple, and yet profoundly important, idea: that the goals and purpose of the spiritual life evolve over the lifespan; in other words, what is important and necessary in the first half of life might actually impede our spiritual calling in the second half. While even a cursory knowledge of developmental psychology can make this idea seem like mere common sense — after all, isn’t it rather obvious that the keys to happiness for a twenty-year-old and a sixty-year-old are in almost all cases going to be radically different? — the real meat of the issue involves the fact that conventional, Sunday-morning Christianity has very little to offer for mentoring those in the second half of life. Institutionally speaking, Christianity is almost entirely geared toward first-half-of-life issues (creating a spiritual identity, finding one’s place in the world, and adopting a code of conduct appropriate for that identity and place) and leaves those wrestling with the second-half-of-life issues (finding meaning, giving back to others, learning to let go of the limitations that identity/place entail) to basically fend for themselves.

So Falling Upward addresses this blind spot. Combining Rohr’s earthy writing with mythology (particularly the story of Odysseus), insights from scripture and from poets and mystics ranging from W. H. Auden to Pema Chödrön, a dollop of Ken Wilber’s integral theory, and helpful concepts such as double belonging and the tragic sense of life, Rohr teases out why rules of behavior, boundaries, dualistic thinking, and other stock-in-trade characteristics of conventional religiosity may be important when we’re young, but actually get in the way as we mature (one of the many ways in which this book is wise is how Rohr continually insists that “first half” and “second half” of life are general terms and should not be used in any sort of rigid chronological sense: some people might enter the second half of life in their teens, while others don’t make it until their hair is white — and others, alas, never seem to make it at all). Think of it this way: in the first half of life, we are given the task of building a religious “container” within our psyche: a sense of spiritual identity (I am a Christian, not a narcissist; therefore I behave in certain ways while other choices are off-limits) that helps us to navigate through the stresses and choices of life. But by the second half of life, the issue is not whether we’ve built such a container or not, but rather, what are we going to do with it? For Christians, the “container” is meant to be filled with radical love, radical forgiveness, radical compassion, radical fearlessness. Ironically, sometimes the contents seem to pull us away from the very limitations that the container imposes.

Richard Rohr, speaking on "Contemplation and Action" at the Wild Goose Festival

The wisdom of the second half of life involves learning how to discern the difference between the container and the contents, and knowing what choices to make that best serve the deepest calling of the Spirit in our lives. Wisely, Rohr remains gracious and affirming in his discussion of the ordinary tasks of conventional religion. He sagely points out that if we do not master the challenges of the first half of life, then we’ll never get to the place where the invitation of the second half can take place (he points to criminals as examples of those whose lives have been derailed by an inability to learn the limitations and control of the first half of life). The point is not to dismiss the basics of Christianity (or any faith), but rather to understand that sometimes true wisdom takes us into places where the contents of our spiritual calling matter more than the container — and that the “rules” of the first half of life simply cannot address the realities of the second. For example, the quest for religious identity often can lead us to judge, ignore or even repress the “bad” parts of ourselves. Those shadow dimensions will not remain hidden forever, and often the second half of life calls us to come to grips with our own brokenness, woundedness, and (to use religious language) sinfulness. Do we learn to forgive and accept even the shadow parts of ourselves, or do we embark on increasingly neurotic attempts to make ourselves “perfect” even at the cost of serenity and self-esteem? How we answer this question will often set the stage for how capable we become to showing true compassion toward others whose lives are as messy (or even messier!) than our own.

I particularly love the concept of double belonging — one that I also heard Paul Knitter (author of Without Buddha I Could Not Be a Christian) speak about at the Wild Goose Festival. Double belonging acknowledges that sometimes our spiritual calling takes us to places beyond the neat and tidy boundaries of first-half-of-life religious identity. For Knitter, this means being a committed Christian who is also a practicing Buddhist. For others it might entail learning to balance spirituality and art, or religion and political activity, or even integrating the choices of youth with those of maturity. In my life this means integrating my exploration of neopaganism with my current commitment to contemplative Christianity (and interfaith work). Hmmm, that sounds like triple belonging!

Rohr is a wonderful and gifted speaker, and this book reads like a transcript of one of his talks — informal and accessible, more conversational than logical in its tone. But its imperfections are minor. Falling Upward is a warm, wise, and useful book. It will make the most sense to those who are already engaged, at some level or other, with second-half-of-life issues. Of course, as Rohr points out, that can happen even to those who are young. If you find yourself questioning the limitations of religious identity, or how to integrate your faith with the wisdom of other traditions or the promise of science, or what it means to practice your faith in light of the mandate to care for the earth and the struggle for justice in a world that seems increasingly distracted by stress and entertainment, then I suspect this book will speak powerfully and eloquently to who (and where) you are. If not, well, read it anyway — it will serve as a foreshadowing of the invitation that will yet surely come.

It's not really THAT big...

Amazon.com offers authors the chance to write something personal about their book(s) to appear on Amazon’s website. This morning I finally wrote such a statement for The Big Book of Christian Mysticism. I thought I may as well post it here, so readers of this blog could enjoy it as well. The following text should be published within the next few days on The Big Book of Christian Mysticism‘s page under the heading “From the Author.”

When I was eighteen years old, a friend of mine loaned me a copy of Evelyn Underhill’s Mysticism: A Study in the Nature and Development of Spiritual Consciousness. Like many folks raised in a mainstream Christian context, I had no idea that Christianity had such a rich and storied history of men and women who experienced profound, life-changing mystical encounters with God — nor did I have any sense that such a tradition could remain relevant, even today. But Underhill’s book opened the door to that wondrous spiritual world for me, and I have been an enthusiastic seeker of the mysteries ever since. I’ve come to believe that mysticism is Christianity’s “best kept secret,” and that a renewed understanding of, and appreciation for, Christian mysticism can help Christians find greater meaning and joy in their faith, and help non-Christians to see the wisdom tradition that began with Jesus of Nazareth in a new light.

Given how important Underhill’s book has been to my own spiritual life, I discerned a desire to write an introduction to Christian mysticism for the third millennium. While my book can never replace or supplant hers, my hope is that it can help introduce its readers to the splendor and beauty of Christian mysticism, just as Underhill’s book made that introduction for me. So on a very personal level, The Big Book of Christian Mysticism is my way of saying “thank you” to Underhill — and beyond her, to God, who Christians believe is the source of all true mystical experience.

Evelyn Underhill was a brilliant scholar who spent years researching the history and literature of mysticism. Her pioneering work led to further studies by such renowned academics as Bernard McGinn, Harvey Egan, Andrew Louth, and the late Grace Jantzen. My book is designed to serve as a complement to such important researchers and theorists. The Big Book of Christian Mysticism bridges the gap between the “ivory tower” of scholarly studies of mysticism, and the everyday experience of ordinary Christians, for whom mysticism is not a topic for bookish research, but rather an invitation to a deeper experience of God. Because I assume that my readers may not know anything about mysticism (or, for that matter, anything about Christianity!), it can be an ideal introductory book.

My spiritual journey, like that of many seekers in our time, has been marked by a variety of twists and turns. I was raised a Lutheran Christian, moving to the Episcopal/Anglican communion as a young adult. But I was also drawn to the wisdom of other traditions, including Buddhism and Neopaganism. Eventually I spent about seven years outside of Christianity, exploring Wicca, shamanism, Goddess spirituality, Celtic Druidism, Ken Wilber’s Integral Theory, among other spiritual paths. But the Christian contemplative path called me back, and in my 40s I entered the Catholic Church, placing myself under the spiritual guidance of Cistercian monks and Benedictine wisdom. What all this means is that I’ve been able to ponder the meaning of Christian mysticism for people both inside and outside the institutional expression of Christianity (the church). With this in mind, I endeavored to write The Big Book of Christian Mysticism both for Christians who might be new to the topic of mysticism, but also for people outside of the Christian tradition, who may or may not be students of the mysteries, but who are unfamiliar with how mysticism has been uniquely experienced and expressed within the lineage of those who follow Jesus of Nazareth.

The book that first inspired me...

Mysticism is a wonderful “location” of spiritual experience, particularly for those who are more drawn to what unites all people, rather than what separates us. All through history, Christian mystics have been at the forefront of interfaith dialogue: the great conversation between people of different religions. Unlike how some Christians too often approach “others” merely as targets for conversion, the great mystics and contemplatives of the Christian faith, especially in the recent past and present, see mysticism as the bridge that enables fruitful and positive interaction across religious boundaries. Thus, Thomas Merton explored Buddhism, and Henri Le Saux became so immersed in Vedanta that he even took a new religious name as Swami Abhishiktananda. More recently, contemplatives like Cynthia Bourgeault, Tilden Edwards, Mary Margaret Funk, and Paul Knitter have been leaders on the frontier where Christian spirituality engages with the wisdom of other traditions. The Big Book of Christian Mysticism is not an interfaith book per se: it really is intended to serve as an introduction to the distinctively Christian expression of mysticism. But it is written as a contribution to an understanding of spirituality that is both deep (as in deeply-rooted in the Christian path) and inclusive (open to the wisdom of others). It is my hope that readers who do not identify as Christians will nevertheless find in this book a lovely expression of a particular stream of spirituality. Meanwhile, those readers who do identify as Christians will find themselves called to a deeper, richer, more intimate, and hopefully transformational dimension of their faith.

One final word: I’m rather embarrassed by the book’s title. Here’s the inside story. My editor came up with the idea of calling this work the “big book” because, in early conversations before I actually started writing it, we envisioned a tome rather like Underhill’s: 500+ pages long, providing more information about mysticism than you’ll ever need. But as I wrote the book, I began to question whether my goal of writing an accessible introduction to Christian mysticism would really be served by making this book so long that it could seem intimidating. My editor agreed, and eventually the book ended up being about half the length we originally thought it would be. Which I’m perfectly happy with — except neither he nor I thought to revise the title. Oops! I’ve had a few readers scratch their heads over how “little” this “Big Book” is. Thankfully, only a couple of snarky reviewers have attacked the title, and then there’s Richard Rohr, who very kindly told me he thought the title was “whimsical.” Maybe in a future edition we can drop “The Big Book of” and just call this work Christian Mysticism: A Guide to Contemplative Spirituality. But for now, it is what it is. I humbly hope you’ll order yourself a copy. Just don’t be surprised at how “normal-sized” this so-called “Big Book” is!