A reader of this blog, named Peter, asked me a couple of questions recently. He had been at church where he heard a priest speak about a controversial issue with a kind of rhetoric that implied “this is what God wants for the church.”
So Peter writes:
So I put 2 questions to him. 1. Does he know there is a God and 2. Does he also know God’s plans. If yes, then I requested his explanation of how he knows these things.
Of course I don’t expect an answer and in fact have never heard an answer to these questions from the church, other than the tired old, the Bible told me so.
So just wondering how these two questions are answered in the mystical tradition.
So, what is a mystical perspective on how we “know” God exists, and how we “know” God’s will. I put quotations marks around the word “know” both times, because the answer is anything but straightforward!
Of course I cannot speak for all mystics, and even my knowledge of the tradition is very limited — I have only read a portion of the many great (and lesser known) writings of the mystics; I’ve only read mystical writings in English, so most of what I read has been translated, and as someone who is not in possession of an advanced degree in theology or philosophy or church history, naturally I only have a layperson’s knowledge of all these things. Hopefully I am an informed layperson — but a layperson nonetheless.
So my answer to your questions must be seen for what it is: one person’s opinion and perspective. Hopefully, that opinion/perspective is anchored in my contemplative practice, so it is my hope and prayer that Peter (and anyone else reading this) will, at least, get some useful food for thought.
The Short Answer
Let’s be blunt. No one knows for sure that God exists. No one knows for sure that they have a certain and unquestionable understanding of God’s will. I mean no one — not the pope, not the bishops or the theologians, not your grandmother, not any of the great saints or mystics, and most certainly not some local priest who thinks he can speak assertively and authoritatively about God’s will.
And anyone who tells you otherwise is deceiving you and/or themselves.
There’s a reason why we speak of Christian spirituality in terms of faith. Faith is not certainty! (There’s even a book about all this, which I have not read, but the title is pretty compelling: The Sin of Certaintyby Peter Enns. Might be worth checking out).
Faith is about the trust in our heart, not the unassailable (or even assailable) knowledge in our minds. When Saint Paul says we are justified by faith, he’s saying it is our capacity to love and trust in the mystery we call God that will bring us to wholeness — not our assent to some system of doctrinal orthodoxy.
Listen, I have nothing against the church establishing its core teachings and doctrines and maintaining that such teachings help us to understand what is unique and distinctive about the Christian faith. But all the teachings, doctrines and dogma of the church matter only to the extent that they support us in following the teachings of Jesus, the core message of which is love — love God, love your neighbors as yourself, be forgiving, be merciful, love your enemies, and so forth.
But Then How Do We Know?
So there’s two parts to Peter’s question:
How do we know that God even exists?
If we believe in God, how do we know God’s will for us?
My conviction is that we can only “know” God’s existence and God’s will through love, which is to say, through the intuition of our hearts, not the certainties of our mind. I believe that everything about Christianity: the Bible, the myths and stories of our tradition, the wisdom of the great saints and mystics, the rituals such as baptism and communion, and yes, the doctrine and dogmas, all have meaning only to the extent that they help us to grow in that intuitive love for God — but intuitive love will never be absolutely certain. This is always a matter of faith.
That’s not to say it can’t be really real in the experience of our hearts. Indeed, the first line in my New Big Book of Christian Mysticism makes this bold statement:
Love is real, God is love, and God dwells in your heart.
Am I certain that this is true? No, I’m not. But do I have faith in it? Yes, I do. I have faith in love, and I have faith in goodness. And I have faith that love and goodness are both larger than the entire cosmos, and small enough to reside in our hearts. And I call the mystery that weaves all this together “God.” For lack of a better word.
Because I have faith in God, I’m willing to give my life to (lay) ministry; I’m willing to orient my values and beliefs to Christian teachings related to love and mercy and forgiveness; I’m willing to hope that I will know my loved ones in eternity, and so forth. Basically, my life is oriented toward faith, love, and hope, and I agree with Saint Paul that the most important of the three is love.
But since I do not have absolute epistemological certainly, there are things I’m not willing to do. I’m not willing to sanction religious violence. I’m not willing to back unethical or unscrupulous politicians just because they agree with my church teachings some of the time. I’m not willing to scapegoat people that have historically been rejected as “sinners” or “outsiders.” I’m not willing to turn a blind eye of the sins of the institutional church or to acquiesce to religious behavior that is hostile, aggressive, abusive or even shaming. And I am bolstered in my unwillingness to do all of these things because I am convinced, based on the plain words in the New Testament, that Jesus was opposed to all these things as well. And I would much rather have my faith oriented toward Jesus than toward some “thick and ordinary” Christian who thinks he knows God’s will inside and out.
Discernment, Mystery, Faith… and Love
Peter, you asked both about knowing that God exists, and then knowing God’s will. Two different questions, but I think they point to the same “strategy” for how we live into our faith. Trusting that God (Love) exists also means trusting that we can know how Love wants to direct our lives. Again, no certainty. But the possibility of intuitive guidance, nevertheless. Instead of asking, does God exist? or, what is God’s will? Try asking, does Love exist? and what is Love’s will for my life, our lives? Again, there’s plenty of mystery and no final certainty. We are called to trust, to hope, to have faith. When we foster a faithful trust in Love-with-a-capital-L in our hearts, we don’t have all “the answers” — but we do have guidance. And trust me, it’s the guidance of Love. So once again, it’s not about insiders and outsiders, or sheep and goats, or shame, or scapegoating. Instead, it’s about hospitality, and compassion, and kindness, and caring, and feeding the hungry and caring for the sick and so forth. No certainty, but lots of direction that emerges from our faith.
You’ll often hear contemplative Christians talk about discernment — it’s the idea that we can carefully and prayerfully discern (not absolutely know, but faithfully discern) what we believe is God’s will for our lives. Discernment, like faith in general, is not about certainty. It, too, is based in trust, in hope, in faith, and most of all in love. Discernment does not shy away from mystery, but seeks to know God’s existence, and God’s will, squarely in the heart of mystery. In the dark night of the soul. In the cloud of unknowing. In the mystery.
You asked how these questions are answered “in the mystical tradition.” In truth, many mystics speak with many different theological values and perspectives. So you can find mystics who sound like fundamentalists. But I believe that, overall, the mystical and contemplative strands of Christianity point us toward a willingness to embrace the mystery with trust and love and faith, rather than some anxious insistence on adherence to a set of propositional beliefs that some men (it’s always men) somewhere decided was authoritative.
Hope this is helpful. And if anyone is reading this and feels it is scandalous, I encourage you to listen closely to your heart. To acknowledge that the demands of love sometimes takes us beyond the black-and-white dualisms of dogmas and doctrinal systems. And then remember, Jesus never said a think about believing the right things. But he sure said a lot about love, and forgiveness, and mercy, and faith. Take it from there.
My question is, how do I meet other Christian mystics?
Thanks for asking. It’s a question many of us ponder. Even though there is a long tradition of regarding mysticism as “the flight of the alone to the Alone” (in the words of Plotinus), it’s been my experience that many of us “aloners” nevertheless seek out the company and fellowship of others who are undertaking similar spiritual journeys.
Indeed, this is probably why religion emerged in the first place. Today so many people reject religion (“I’m spiritual but not religious”) because we see how the big religious institutions can be oppressive to people who don’t fit in, and often seem to promote a kind of lowest common denominator of spiritual practice that leaves little space for intellectual curiosity or the importance of personal experience. Just the other day I came across a video on Youtube created by an evangelical church not far from where I live, warning of “the Dangers of Christian Mysticism.” But the person speaking — a young and no doubt very earnest pastor — said nothing about the beautiful tradition of mystical Christianity (he never mentioned any of the great mystics of the past); instead he just kept insisting that because Christians have the Bible, we should not try to foster any kind of personal spiritual experience! To his mind, faithful Christianity was an entirely intellectual exercise of obeying the external authority of the Bible, and therefor remaining uninterested in any possibility of a living encounter with the Holy Spirit within (he was upset about several popular, contemporary books about near death experiences because he saw them as “unbiblical”). Hmmm, no wonder so many young people opt for “I’m spiritual but not religious”!
But back to my patron’s question. Even though many people of our time reject the alienating institution, that doesn’t mean we no longer desire authentic community. Even introverts like myself want to be connected with kindred spirits. But the question remains: especially given the problem I have just outlined (that Christianity in its institutional form often seems indifferent, if not hostile, to mystical spirituality), how do we go about finding one another?
I think to answer this question we have to remember the principle that “a mystic is not a special kind of human being, each human being is a special kind of mystic.” So it’s not just a matter of finding the mystics; it’s a matter of finding mystics that you feel like you can truly relate to.
So perhaps the first step is getting to know yourself. What kind of mystic are you — or do you aspire to be? Are you drawn more to the theology and philosophy of mysticism: the soaring intellectual thought of deep thinkers like Meister Eckhart, John of the Cross, or Bernard of Clairvaux? Or do you simply seek a more heartfelt, deeply devotional encounter with the presence of God, similar to the experience of Teresa of Ávila, Julian of Norwich, or Thérèse of Lisieux? Are you interested in an interfaith approach to mysticism (like Thomas Merton), or the interface between mysticism and science (Pierre Teilhard de Chardin)? Are you more drawn to silent forms of prayer (like Centering Prayer), or do you want your interior life to be rich with imaginative reflection (like Ignatian Prayer)?
And, yes, are you comfortable operating within the structure of the institutional church (whether Orthodox, Catholic, Anglican, Protestant or Evangelical), or are you more of what is increasingly known as “spiritually independent”?
Taking the time to know your personal mystical “style” is helpful for anyone seeking to meet other contemplative and mystical seekers, since for most of us we probably want to find kindred spirits: that is to say, people whose faith journey is similar, at least in some ways, to our own.
Now, for some practical thoughts. I had a mentor years ago, Kenneth Leech, who discouraged me from calling myself a mystic. His logic was elegant in its simplicity: a mystic is like a saint, one of the characteristics of being either a saint or a mystic is true humility (self-forgetfulness), so it’s more important to simply be a mystic rather than to identify yourself as such. If you are a true mystic, Leech resigned, others will see it in you; let them call you a mystic.
What this means, paradoxically, is that the best way to find other mystics is not to go looking for people who identify themselves as such! The mystics in your community probably are flying under the radar: they are living a mystical life, but doing nothing to draw attention to themselves. So one of the ways we find mystics is by getting to know what mystics do.
What Do Mystics Do?
In my forthcoming book (The New Big Book of Christian Mysticism, coming out in August), I have a chapter called “Living a Mystical Life” where I attempt to answer this question. Just like there’s many different ways to be a mystic, there are many different practices that mystics do. I list twenty such practices, including lectio divina, Centering Prayer, and cultivating deep interior silence, to name just three. Indeed, most of the practices revolve around prayer in some form or another. That’s for a very simple reason: the heart of mysticism is union with God, and the key to intimacy with God is prayer. So I think my first practical piece of advice in response to the question “How do I find other mystics” is to say, look for people who are serious about prayer, meditation and contemplation. And I would specify that meditation and contemplation (which, in a Christian context, are forms of prayer) are important keys to finding the mystics in your midst. The controversial theologian Matthew Fox once said “Prayer is not saying prayers.” I would edit that slightly: for mystics and aspiring mystics, prayer is far more than just “saying prayers.” Prayer is a way of life. Prayer is a posture of deep, abiding, attentiveness and receptivity to the Spirit within (see Romans 5:5). So you might need to dig deeper than just your local church’s intercessory prayer group. Nothing against intercessory prayer — it’s a beautiful way to express care for others while seeking intimacy with God. But meditative and contemplative prayer go far beyond just asking God for stuff, even if on behalf of other people.
So we can refine our question: where do we find people with a deep, stable and ong0ing commitment to a life of prayer, meditation, and contemplation? Because such people are probably not going around calling themselves mystics, and yet they are the ones who mostly likely embody what the mystical life is all about.
The Monastery of the Holy Spirit, where I’ve met several amazing contemplative persons over the years. Photo by Haven Sweet.
Let me suggest seven possible places where such people are to be found.
Monasteries (and Monastic Associates and Oblates). Monastic culture is not everyone’s cup of tea, but if you are drawn to it, you’ll probably meet other people with a similar interest in mysticism and the mystics. Not all monasteries are Catholic or Orthodox, although most are; but you can find monastic communities in the Episcopal and worldwide Anglican churches, and even “Neo-monastic” groups that are evangelical or non-denominational in nature. Monasteries, convents, and neo-monastic communities typically value silence and contemplation and recognize that prayer is central to the spiritual life. You don’t have to join a monastery or convent to benefit from their deep spirituality; of course, some of us are called to the monastic life, so if you feel that tug in your heart, you might want to explore it in a patient and unhurried way. Meanwhile, many monasteries and convents sponsor associate groups or oblate groups which are communities of laypeople, non-monastics, who gather on a regular basis for prayer, study and fellowship. A community like that can be a veritable mothership of humble contemplatives. Many (but not all) such groups are ecumenical in spirit, so you don’t necessarily have to be a member of “the right” church to participate, but that is something to look for when seeking out monastic-affiliate groups.
Retreat Centers. Think of monasteries and convents as spiritual resource centers; they have a residential community that forms the heart of their worship and community. For you can also find retreat centers without a residential community of monks or nuns, but still function as destinations for contemplatives and aspiring mystics. Many such retreat centers are affiliated with religious orders like the Jesuits, or are sponsored by churches, or sometimes even are independent/ecumenical. Retreat centers may or may not have affiliated communities like an associates group; the easiest way to connect to a retreat center is to simply go on retreat (something that aspiring mystics and contemplatives ought to do on a regular basis). Retreat centers can also be places where you can connect with a spiritual director (see below). One example is Ignatius House, the Jesuit retreat center in Atlanta, but there are many others so look for one near you.
Centering Prayer Groups. The problem with both monasteries and retreat centers is that you may have to travel a significant distance to get there, and the people you meet may all live far away from you. How do you find mystics and contemplatives in your own neighborhood? Perhaps the best way is to seek out a Centering Prayer group. Under the auspices of Contemplative Outreach, Limited, these volunteer-run groups exist to help individuals deepen a stable and daily practice of Centering Prayer, a deeply silent form of prayer that is intended to prepare us for the gift of contemplation. If you are not familiar with Centering Prayer, see if there is an introduction to Centering Prayer workshop taking place near you: such workshops are usually sponsored by local Centering Prayer groups. Such groups typically meet weekly or biweekly and include time for silent prayer, for shared discussion over a contemplative book or video, and instruction and guidance for beginners. Visit the Contemplative Outreach International website to learn more, and check to see if there is a local chapter near you. There are also Centering Prayer groups online that you can participate in.
Christian Meditation Groups. Similar to Contemplative Outreach, the World Community for Christian Meditation offers similar resources in terms of local groups, training programs, and retreats. CO follows the teachings of Thomas Keating, while WCCM follows the teachings of John Main and his successor, Laurence Freeman. Centering Prayer and Christian Meditation have slightly different methodologies, but their similarities run deep: they are both forms of meditative prayer that foster deep interior silence through the intention of consenting to God’s presence within. Again, visit the WCCM website to learn more and/or to find a group near you.
The Quakers. Many local faith groups have resources for supporting contemplative prayer and practice, but I feel like giving a special shout out to the Quakers (the Religious Society of Friends), because of the tradition of worshiping in silence, and seeking the voice of God within. Like so many Christian churches the Quakers have both liberal and conservative communities, so find the flavor that you feel most at home with. Check out www.quaker.org to learn more, or seek out a Friends community near you.
Spiritual Directors. A lot of people drawn to contemplation and mysticism are introverts, and perhaps may find that meeting an entire group of folks can be a bit overwhelming. You might want to seek out just one person who can be a formal companion for your journey into the mysteries of the divine presence. In Christianity, like other faith traditions, there is a long tradition of one-on-one spiritual guidance, mentoring, and/or companionship, that falls under the umbrella of spiritual direction. It’s not the same thing as a guru; for Christians, the ultimate “director” of our faith journey is the Holy Spirit, so any human being we turn to for support and guidance serves as a “co-listener” who seeks to find the Holy Spirit’s activity in your heart. An organization called Spiritual Directors International can help you locate a spiritual director near you (note that SDI is an interfaith organization, but you can specify a Christian spiritual director when searching their database). And as I mentioned above, many monasteries and retreat centers also have spiritual directors/companions in their networks that they can refer you to. Like mystics in general, spiritual directors come in many “flavors” — depending on their church affiliation, their background (Jesuit, Benedictine, ecumenical), and where they were trained. So you may need to speak with several spiritual directors and companions before you find the one you truly resonate with. Note that spiritual direction is a more formal relationship, so this is probably not someone you will pal around with. But a spiritual director probably would no local activities and resources where you could meet other like-minded contemplatives and mystical seekers.
Online Communities. Finally, let’s not underestimate the beauty and power of online resources, including websites, blogs, social media groups, and membership communities where you can meet kindred spirits. My own Patreon community is evolving into a small but meaningful tribe of contemplative seekers; another, larger example would be Closer Than Breath, a membership website for contemplatives. Groups on Facebook are typically free to join, but as you know social media can be a free-for-all. So like in any other aspect of your life, use common sense and discernment when connecting with others who share interests in common with you.
I know this was a lot of material (I’ve never been very good at writing just a 500-word blog post!) but I hope it gives you a few useful ideas for connecting with your “tribe” of fellow mystics, aspiring mystics, contemplatives, lovers of silence, and seekers of the divine presence. I’ve met so many wonderful people in the contemplative community over the years, so I trust you will too. Enjoy the adventure!
Dear Carl, I find myself struggling with a bit of a spiritual crisis. I feel torn between the teachings of more traditional Protestant thinkers like Dallas Willard and the mystical teachings of figures like Thomas Keating. While I’ve experienced spiritual growth through my meditation practice using the WCCM form, I’m also concerned that I’m straying from the more conventional forms of Christianity. I’m drawn to silence, peace, and contemplation, and the WCCM form of meditation brings me a great deal of peace. But at the same time, I wonder what the true way is. I feel confused and uncertain about what path to follow. I would greatly appreciate your thoughts and guidance on this matter. How can I reconcile my love of the mystical teachings with the more conventional forms of Christianity? What advice would you have for me as I continue on my spiritual journey? Also, I thought I would mention that I attend an Anglican church and find a lot of value in its liturgical tradition and sacramental practices. I’ve been reading a lot of Evelyn Underhill’s works lately, and I find that her writings on Christian mysticism and spirituality really resonate with me. I’m wondering if you have any thoughts on how I can integrate my affinity for the mystical and contemplative aspects of Christianity with my participation in the more structured and formal practices of the Anglican church.
Allen, I’m sure you are not the first person to have wondered about how to integrate the contemplative dimension of Christianity with, as you call it, “conventional” religious observance.
I think it’s important to begin with a clear recognition that contemplative teachers like Evelyn Underhill and Thomas Keating are, in fact, faithful Christians whose teachings and writings are accepted as orthodox by their faith communities (Keating was Roman Catholic, Underhill an Anglican like yourself). In fact, to the best of my knowledge Dallas Willard also stood in the contemplative tradition, as did his protegés, Richard Foster and Gary Moon (who is a friend of mine). Willard was a Baptist — so between him, Keating, and Underhill, you have Catholic, Anglican, and Protestant Christians, each tradition of which has faith-filled teachers of contemplative spirituality. And of course there are many others — from Catholics like Richard Rohr and Laurence Freeman (of WCCM); Anglicans/Episcopalians like Adam Bucko or Cynthia Bourgeault, and Protestants/Evangelicals like Howard Thurman or Phileena Nicole. In short, Christians from across the spectrum of the denominations have taught, and continue to teach, the practice of contemplative spirituality.
But you may be wondering, why then isn’t contemplative spirituality more widely practiced in the churches? It’s a valid question, and I think the answer has two parts — one historical and the other psychological.
Why Contemplation Seems “Unconventional”
Historically speaking, it’s helpful to keep in mind that in there is good evidence in the New Testament that contemplative spirituality was at least somewhat present in the earliest churches. We see Jesus’s example of going on retreat (40 days in the wilderness) and withdrawing on a regular, probably daily, basis for silence and solitude. Later, we find Paul instructing the Thessalonians to learn silence as a part of their spiritual walk (I Thessalonians 4:11, often poorly translated as “Strive to be peaceful” or “Aspire to live quietly,” would more accurately be rendered as “Learn to be silent” — the original Greek word, ἡσυχάζω (hésuchazó) carries the sense of stillness and silence that we associate with contemplation (it’s the word from which Greek Orthodox contemplatives, known as hesychasts, derive their name). Even the Revelation to John includes an approving comment about silence in heaven for a half an hour! (Revelation 8:1) — I think we can safely say that the angels and saints weren’t just fidgeting during those 30 minutes — they were praying. Silently. Contemplatively.
But what happened? The simplest explanation is that as Christianity became a more mainstream religion, the deep interior work of contemplation became increasingly just something that monks and nuns did. Laypeople were not expected to be contemplatives, so it became a practice restricted to the cloister. Therefore, virtually all the great mystics of Christianity during the millennium between the fall of Rome and the Protestant Reformation lived in monasteries or otherwise in consecrated life: from saints like Benedict and Bernard of Clairvaux, to nuns like Hildegard of Bingen or Gertrude the Great, and friars like Francis of Assisi or Meister Eckart — almost without exception, mystics were cloistered (or, at least, members of religious orders) — eventually you begin to see lay contemplatives and lay mystics — from Catherine of Genoa to Julian of Norwich to Margery Kempe, many mystics (especially women mystics) were laypeople (Catherine we know was married, and many scholars believe Julian was as well). So even before the Reformation, you begin to see some lay mystics and contemplatives. Of course, that trend has continued, to the point where in our time you have Thomas Keating marveling that the persons he knew “who are most advanced in prayer are married or engaged in active ministries” (he said this in Open Mind, Open Heart: the Contemplative Dimension of the Gospel).
But in addition to the historical reason that contemplation was not widely practiced because most contemplatives lived in monasteries, there is also a psychological reason why you don’t find a lot of contemplative practice in the churches.
Psychologically speaking, the simple fact is that the “contemplative personality” is only found in about 1% of the general population (I’m basing this on research done by Carl Jung and by the developers of the Myers-Briggs Personality Type test). Frankly, most people find it difficult to pray for extended periods in silence. I do not point this out in order to judge people — on the contrary! I think it is wonderful that God has endowed human beings with so many different personality types and characteristics. But for many people, the contemplative approach to spirituality is simply unappealing, or too difficult. For people who are natural extraverts, who naturally have a more scientific than intuitive mind, and who naturally are thinkers more than feelers, often find the spiritual practice of silence to be unappealing or simply too difficult to do regularly. It’s like some people are not very gifted when it comes to music or art or sports. They are not bad people; it’s just that their gifts lie elsewhere.
The same principle is at play with contemplation. Over the centuries and extending into the present day, the practice of religious Christianity (i.e., what goes on at church) has typically been more geared toward the extraverts, the concrete thinkers, the “sensible” folks. Such people respond well to didactic teaching like Bible study or preaching; they do best when expressing spirituality in very down-to-earth, concrete ways (like helping people in need or visiting the sick and homebound) and prefer worship that is verbal/vocal (like singing, chanting, and praying out loud) to the more quiet and withdrawn practice of silent prayer. As this “extraverted” culture in the Christian religion gets passed down from generation to generation, contemplation simply receded further and further into the background.
And so we come to the present day, and people like Allen wonder if contemplation and mysticism are “truly” Christian. As someone who has been studying Christian theology and spirituality my entire adult life, I am confident and clear that yes, contemplative Christianity is completely faithful to the teachings of Jesus and the mainstream teachings of the church. If it seems “different” or “unusual,” that’s mainly because many neighborhood churches simply don’t make room for it in their lives. No wonder it can seem unfamiliar! And for many people, religion needs to seem familiar in order to seem orthodox or safe. I can understand that impulse, but unfortunately it doesn’t help the 1% of us who have the natural personality for contemplation. We have to learn to accept that Christianity — orthodox Christianity — is both broader and deeper than the “conventional” church religion we grew up with.
What About People Who Reject Contemplative Christianity?
Allen may be aware that there are some Christians — a minority, to be sure, but often a very vocal minority — who insist that contemplation is not good Christianity. They see it as too “new age,” or too “eastern” or even too “Catholic” (it’s usually only Protestants who complain about that!). I have a Buddhist friend, James Ishmael Ford, who recently ran a post on his blog quoting a Catholic theologian who has worked to refute the arguments of anti-contemplative Catholics. Why do some Christians reject Centering Prayer and other contemplative practices? Usually they seem to have a very poor understanding of church history, so they genuinely believe that silent prayer is a “novel innovation.” They’re wrong, of course, but that doesn’t prevent them from spreading their misinformation, especially online. Plus, if they have a theology that stresses God as angry, as remote, as an authoritarian figure who wants only our submission and obedience, then they really don’t have any breathing room in their theology for contemplation, which stresses God as more loving than angry, more close than far away, and more interested in our happiness than just our compliance to rules.
Our theology will shape the way we pray. And I personally believe that a theology which stresses God’s anger and requires human beings to be docile and submissive is, frankly, poor theology. But this way of seeing things has always been evident among at least some Christians, so I don’t think it’s going away anytime soon. But this leads me back to Allen’s question, and I have to respond by asking Allen (or anyone else reading this): who gets to decide what is or isn’t “the true way”? In the Catholic world, the Church is the final arbiter of “truth” — but the Catholic Catechism makes it clear that contemplation is an appropriate spiritual practice. In the Protestant world, the ultimately authority is the Bible — and while the Bible does not explicitly promote practices like Centering Prayer, neither does it prohibit such ways of praying — and as I pointed out, there is good evidence in scripture that silence, stillness, and solitude are all very important to the spiritual life!
So Allen, I hope no one has told you that good Christians cannot practice meditative prayer. If someone has, I frankly would question their motives. Are they really trying to help you draw closer to God, or are they projecting their own anxiety (about trying to please an angry authoritarian “god”) onto you and your love of silence? The tradition is clear, that silent forms of prayer are deeply nourishing, profoundly beautiful, spiritually safe, and provide us with a rich inner doorway into the mysteries of God’s hidden (mystical) presence. And while it’s unfortunate that this way of praying has been marginalized over the centuries, and for that reason it doesn’t feel “conventional,” we should allow the Holy Spirit to guide us where the Spirit will — and for some of us, the Spirit does guide us directly into deep contemplative silence.
A Final Word: Concerning Formal Liturgy and Contemplative Prayer
In his PS, Allen brought up Anglican Christianity in particular, wondering how the deeply personal and radically silent nature of contemplative practice can square with the carefully structured, deeply liturgical practices of many Christian communities (including the Orthodox, Catholic, Anglican and Lutheran Churches). I think the key here is to view liturgy (formal, corporate worship) and contemplative (usually private, silent prayer) as complementary. They do not compete with each other, nor is a Christian required to reject one in order to be faithful to the other. On the contrary, like monks down the centuries who chanted their liturgical prayers together every day but explored deep interior silence in solitude, Christians can weave together the personal, solitary love for silence with a community life that simultaneously stresses community, music/praise, worship, and liturgy. I would even go so far to say that a well-balanced Christian “diet” needs both liturgy (or communal worship in some form) and contemplation (or silent prayer in some form). Just like a healthy marriage needs both intimate/private time but also time spent with friends and neighbors and the larger family, so too is the healthiest Christian life a blend of private/silent prayer, and public/communal worship. Allen, I hope you can find time for both in your heart. Each will nurture you in its own way!
A regular reader of this blog wrote to me and asked if I could recommend a good biography on Hildegard of Bingen. As I thought about what book to recommend, several noteworthy biographies — and autobiographies — of the renowned Christian mystics came to mind. So I figured to write an entire blog post about it, and here we are.
Hildegard of Bingen
Since the reader asked about Hildegard of Bingen, we’ll start with her. Because of her music, Hildegard is enough of a medieval “celebrity” that a variety of books, from scholarly studies to more accessible works for the general reader, continue to be published about her. I would suggest starting with Fiona Maddocks’ Hildegard of Bingen: The Woman of Her Age. Maddocks is a journalist, so this is a book that is readable and balanced in its presentation of one of the Christianity’s most colorful saints and mystics. After that, if you want to get a bit more academic, look for Barbara Newman’s Voice of the Living Light: Hildegard of Bingen and Her World. Meanwhile, to begin to dig into Hildegard’s own words, check out Carmen Acevedo Butcher’s Hildegard of Bingen: A Spiritual Reader (which also includes a brief biography).
So, now let’s look at some other books about the mystics and their life stories. The following list includes both autobiographies (written or dictated by the mystics themselves) and biographies, written by scholars, historians or journalists.
Thomas Merton
First, if you are like me — a white, college educated, middle-class American Christian — one of the ways you may have discovered Christian mysticism is through Thomas Merton’s celebrated autobiography, The Seven Storey Mountain. It’s certainly a book worth reading, although it has its flaws. On the positive side, it’s a relatively modern (published seventy-five years ago) insight into intentional contemplative/monastic spirituality; it’s beautifully written, and documents at least one beautiful mystical experience (that occurred while Merton attended a Sunday Mass in Havana, see “Magnetic North” in part three). But Merton was only 33 when the book was published, a perilously young age to be writing one’s memoir, and it shows: the book is by turns arrogant and smug, dismissive of non-Catholic religion, and too uncritically accepting of the kind of reward/punishment theology that was so prevalent before Vatican II (and unfortunately still is prevalent in some circles). Still, despite its flaws The Seven Storey Mountain is well worth reading — but it’s only the tip of the proverbial iceberg, when it comes to mystical biographies and autobiographies.
I myself first encountered Merton through Monica Furlong’s accessible Merton: A Biography. But probably the most famous (or infamous) biography of Merton is Michael Mott’s The Seven Mountains of Thomas Merton, controversial when it was published because of how frankly it treated Merton’s affair with a young nurse that took place just a few years before he died.
Howard Thurman
I have previously praised Howard Thurman’s beautifully written memoir, With Head and Heart — so for now I’ll just reiterate that I think it is every bit as good and well-written and important as Merton’s more famous autobiography. In the long run, I think Howard Thurman will get the acclaim that he so richly deserves; not only was he a significant figure in the American Civil Rights Movement and deserves acclaim as a mentor to Martin Luther King, Jr., but his writings so richly reveal that he was a great mystic on top of everything else. For this reason, I also recommend Lerita Coleman Brown’s new book, What Makes You Come Alive— which is more of a spiritual reflection on Thurman’s teachings than just a straight biography, but it does tell his life story and presents it in the light of his rich and deep wisdom.
Evelyn Underhill
To my way of seeing, Merton and Thurman are two of the three greatest English-speaking mystics of the twentieth century: the other being Evelyn Underhill (yes, Bede Griffiths, Ruth Burrows, Richard Rohr and Caryll Houselander are all amazing as well, but I remain persuaded that the top three at least in the English language are Merton, Thurman and Underhill). Underhill, born in 1875 and dying in 1941, was the earliest of these three, and the only one not to write her own memoirs, so her story has had to be pieced together through her other writings (thankfully, we have many letters) and the memories of her friends and acquaintances. Fortunately, several biographies have been published over the years, but I would say the best is clearly Dana Greene’s Evelyn Underhill: Artist of the Interior Life. But if you want to go further, Margaret Cropper (who knew Underhill) and Christopher Armstrong also documented her life story.
Simone Weil
Before we leave the twentieth century, let’s take a look at two important French-speaking mystics. First up is Simone Weil, the radical Jewish philosopher who had mystical experiences of Christ and now is something of a patron saint of “religious outsiders” (it’s a matter of debate whether Weil was ever even baptized; if she was, it never got officially documented in a church). Two books to get to know this enigmatic but essential figure: Maria Clara Bingemer’s Simone Weil: Mystic of Passion and Compassionand Robert Zaretsky’s The Subversive Simone Weil: A Life in Five Ideas. Perhaps reading both of these together would be helpful, as sometimes when philosophers are mystics (and vice versa), biographers don’t always manage offer a well-rounded appraisal — so reading one biography that emphasizes the mystical dimension, and other that zeroes in on the ideas of the philosopher, probably makes for a fuller appreciation of the genius being celebrated (in this case, Simone Weil).
Pierre Teilhard de Chardin
Teilhard de Chardin is the other great French mystic of the twentieth century, and perhaps is the twentieth century Christian mystic mostly likely to be remembered a thousand years from now (although Thurman and perhaps Merton will probably have staying power as well). As Weil was a mystic-philosopher, so was de Chardin, although we could also rightly call him a mystic-scientist. Once again, I would recommend two studies of his life: Ursula King’s Spirit of Fire: The Life of Vision of Teilhard de Chardin and Kathleen Duffy’s Teilhard’s Mysticism: Seeing the Inner Face of Evolution (more recently, John Haught has authored The Cosmic Vision of Teilhard de Chardin which I haven’t read yet, and I believe it’s more of a study than a biography, but it looks pretty good so I’m giving it a mention).
Thérèse of Lisieux
Books by and about twentieth century mystics are pretty easy to come by, but let’s not lose sight of the some of the great figures of previous centuries. Since I’ve been talking about French mystics, we should acknowledge the Little Flower, the young Carmelite nun whose autobiography, The Story of a Soul, took the Catholic world by storm when they were published shortly after her premature death in 1897. If you want some other perspectives on this nineteenth century saint, check out Joseph Schmidt’s Everything is Grace: The Life and Way of Thérèse of Lisieuxand Thomas Keating’s St. Thérèse of Lisieux: A Transformation in Christ.
John of the Cross
The Little Flower was a Carmelite nun, so let’s turn our attention to the two greatest of Carmelite mystics: first, John of the Cross. John was a poet rather than a memoirist, so we don’t have an autobiography, but if you can find a copy of Silvano Giordano’s God Speaks in the Night: The Life, Times and Teaching of St. John of the Cross, grab it. It’s a lavishly illustrated, coffee-table sized book that makes John (and his rather challenging mystical doctrine) truly come alive.
Teresa of Ávila
Teresa of Ávila, John’s mentor and a world-class mystic as well, did write her own memoir, published under several slightly different titles (I recommend the Mirabai Starr translation, published as The Book of My Life). Teresa is brilliant but very right-brained, so her writing is not always that easy to follow, so I would recommend supplementing her memoir with one or two good biographies: check out Shirley Du Boulay’s Teresa of Ávila: An Extraordinary Lifeand Cathleen Medwick’s Teresa of Ávila: The Progress of a Soul.
There’s More!
I don’t want to over-do this blog post, so I’ll just list a few more biographies that I think are worth checking out…
Julian of Norwich — check out Amy Frykholm’s charming Julian of Norwich: A Contemplative Biography. Although it has its minor errors (in the fourteenth century Julian would not have been a tea drinker!), it does a lovely job of telling Julian’s story in a narrative way.
Margery Kempe — a contemporary of Julian’s, Margery is famous in her own right but especially loved in the contemplative world because she recounts going to Julian of Norwich for spiritual direction! The Book of Margery Kempeis her colorful and freewheeling biography, and while her spirituality is certainly more idiosyncratic than what we might think of as “mystical” today, it’s well worth reading; and if you can find a copy of Martin Thornton’s Margery Kempe, that’s worth picking up as well.
John Ruysbroeck — this gets an honorable mention because it’s one mystic writing about another: Evelyn Underhill’s short but insightful biography of the great Flemish mystic, titled simply Ruysbroeck, was published in 1915.
There are many other worthy biographies and autobiographies of mystics and contemplatives, from Augustine of Hippo to Bede Griffiths, but I’ll finish with one final book that I think anyone interested in Christian mysticism ought to read, and that’s Joel F. Harrington’s excellent biography of Meister Eckhart, Dangerous Mystic: Meister Eckhart’s Path to the GodWithin. Eckhart is another philosopher-mystic whose ideas can be frustratingly dense, but Harrington does an amazing job at making his work accessible even for the non-specialist reader. Don’t miss this one.
Well, that’s probably more reading material than you bargained for — but even if you find just one or two new books to check out here, then my work is done. Happy exploring!
A reader of this blog (and a Patreon member) wrote to me and asked:
Hi Carl: Do you have a list of fiction and poetry you recommend for those on the Christian Mystic path? Thanks!
A wonderful question, and while I didn’t have a handy list available to email back to him, it inspired me to write this post. It’s a bit of hodgepodge: fiction about the mystics, and poetry by mystics. But together, I hope this list can be an inspiring way to dive into the beautiful contemplative world of Christian mysticism.
Mystical Fiction
First, a disclaimer: I have not read all of these, so I offer this list in the spirit of two friends browsing in a bookstore: “Hey, check this out, it looks promising!” If you read one of these books and really don’t like it (or, more hopefully, that you really do like it), please let me know. Of course, with fiction like all art, everyone’s taste is different; still, it’s nice to get a perspective from somebody who has actually spent time with the book.
Carmel Bendon’s The Mystics Who Came to Dinner(Orbis Books) — a charming book that imagines what it would be like to have a dinner party with several of the great mystics (including Julian of Norwich, Hildegard of Bingen, Francis of Assisi, and the mysterious author of The Cloud of Unknowing). Suspend your disbelief and join the party — if you’re like me, you’ll laugh, smile, and perhaps even shed a tear or two as you read this whimsical yet inspiring story.
Mary Sharratt’s Illuminations: A Novel of Hildegard von Bingen(Mariner Books) — pretty much all the other books on this list qualify as historical fiction: imaginative narratives that seek to make the mystics themselves come to life. Mary Sharratt has written two such novels, the first being this fictional account of the great 12th century abbess, writer, composer, herbalist, visionary, and renaissance-woman-before-the-renaissance, Hildegard of Bingen.
Mary Sharratt’s Revelations(Mariner Books) — one of the great encounters in mystical literature is that of Margery Kempe, who turns to Julian of Norwich for spiritual direction. Sharratt uses that encounter as the jumping off point for inviting us into the world of both these great late medieval women. You might also want to check out a forthcoming novel that is getting a lot of buzz: Victoria Mackenzie’s For Thy Great Pain Have Mercy On My Little Pain(Bloomsbury). also built around the encounter between Julian of Norwich and Margery Kempe.
Bárbara Mujica’s Sister Teresa(Overlook Press) — this novel invites us into the world of Teresa of Ávila, the sixteenth century visionary, theologian, and monastic reformer. Teresa lived during the time of the Protestant Reformation, the council of Trent, and the Spanish Inquisition — plenty of background material to highlight both the drama and spiritual beauty of the world in which she lived and had her mystical visions.
Robert Waldron’s Lady at the Window: The Lost Journal of Julian of Norwich(Paraclete Press) — Julian of Norwich is renowned as the first woman that we know of to have written a book in the English language. But like many other authors, could she have kept notebooks to help her with her writing? Again, this is fiction, but that tantalizing question provides the foundation for this imaginative excursion into her life and wisdom.
Louis De Wohl, The Joyful Beggar(Ignatius Press) — Louis De Wohl was a German Catholic author who died in 1961, so his books are dated; still, he wrote narrative biographies of several great mystics. The Joyful Beggar chronicles the life of Francis of Assis. Also check out his novelization of the life of Ignatius of Loyola, The Golden Thread(Ignatius Press).
Carmen Acevedo Butcher’s Man of Blessing(Paraclete Press) — Saint Benedict is not always thought of as a mystic, but given how important monasticism was for the development of Christian mysticism, and how influential Benedict was to the monastic movement, he deserves to be listed as one of the more “down to earth” examples of contemplative Christians. Here, Carmen Acevedo Butcher, renowned for her translations of mystical classics like The Cloud of Unknowing and Brother Lawrence’s Practice of the Presence, offers us a fictionalized account of Benedict’s life, paying particular attention to this relationship with his sister, Saint Scholastica.
Mystical Poetry
All of the books listed here are poetry anthologies, featuring a variety of mystics — some limited to the Christian tradition, others offering a broader selection of mystics from the world over. Several are older anthologies, dating from 1917 (the Oxford Anthology), 1919 (Osmond), 1963 (Tozer) or 1966 (Gross). Tozer, incidentally, was himself a Protestant mystic of the 20th century, giving his anthology an additional layer of interest. Each of these books includes well-known and lesser-known poets, which makes for some fun exploring. Meanwhile, many of the mystics themselves had reputations of poets, so if you want to dive deeper into mystical poetry, look for collections of poetry by Abhishiktananda, Angelus Silesius, George Herbert, Hadewijch, Jacopone da Todi, John of the Cross, Thomas Merton, Thomas Traherne, and Evelyn Underhill, among many others.
Endless Life: Poems of the Mysticstranslated and adapted by Scott Cairns (Paraclete Press) — includes works by Isaac of Ninevah, Angela of Foligno, Mechthild of Magdeburg, Catherine of Siena, Thérèse of Lisieux, and many others.
The Oxford Book of English Mystical Versechosen by D.H.S. Nicholson and A.H.E. Lee (Alpha Editions) — includes works by John Donne, Richard Crashaw, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Coventry Patmore, Evelyn Underhill, and many others.
The Mystical Poets of the English Church by Percy H. Osmond (SPCK) — both a study and an anthology; includes works by Edmund Spenser, George Herbert, Henry and Thomas Vaughan, Emily Brontë, Christina Rossetti, and many others.
The Mystic in Love: A Treasury of World Mystical Poetry edited by Shelley Gross (Citadel Press) — primarily an interspiritual anthology, but does include Christian poets such as Richard Rolle, Jacopone da Todi, Angelus Silesius, and John of the Cross, among others.
Carl,
How would you compare and contrast mysticism with gnosticism?
Thanks!
I suppose there are three ways to answer this question. First we’ll look at the historical sense of mysticism and gnosticism in the history of Christianity. Then, to bring it closer to the present day, we’ll consider how these words were used by a twentieth century Christian Hermetic writer, Valentin Tomberg. Finally, we can reflect on how we can make sense of these concepts in the here and now.
A Brief History of Two Opaque Words
If you go the doctor because you’re not feeling well, she will give you a diagnosis — in other words, she will identify what is probably wrong with you, based on your symptoms and her examination of your condition. Etymological dictionaries will tell you this word is a compound of two Greek roots: dia- meaning “thorough” and -gnosis meaning “knowledge.” So we can immediately surmise that gnosis — and, therefore, the spiritual movement Gnosticism — has something to do with knowledge. But not just any kind of knowledge! Again, back to the etymology dictionary, where gnosis is described as follows:
gnosis (n.) “knowledge,” especially “special knowledge of spiritual mysteries,” 1703, from Greek gnōsis “a knowing, knowledge; a judicial inquiry, investigation; a being known,” in Christian writers, “higher knowledge of spiritual things,” from PIE *gnō-ti-, from root *gno- “to know.” (Source: www.etymonline.com)
So gnosis implies a kind of “higher” or “spiritual” knowing, in contrast to another Greek word, εἴδειν (eídein) which means intellectual knowledge. It’s street smarts as opposed to book learning. Gnosis is an intuitive, feel-it-in-your-guts knowledge of spiritual things. A word often used in our time for this is experience. When we talk about the “experience of God,” we are taking about a direct knowing of God, as opposed to a second-hand knowledge (like reading about God in the Bible).
So what, then, is Gnosticism? Historically, it refers to an early heresy within Christianity: a teaching that was rejected by the Christian mainstream. History is written by the winners, and so our knowledge of gnosticism is shaped by the criticism of it penned by early Christian theologians. The problem with gnosticism, at least from a mainstream perspective, is that it promoted a dualistic way of seeing the material world as inferior to the spiritual world, even to the point of regarding material creation as evil in contrast to the goodness of pure spirit. This is clearly a Greek notion, for the Jewish tradition has a strong heritage of celebration God’s creation as essentially good, even if it is marred by sin.
What’s interesting to keep in mind is how some early Christian writers — including early Christian mystics — used the word gnosis in a positive way, to explain their understanding of the importance of experiential knowledge as part of the spiritual life. One example of this is Clement of Alexandria, widely regarded as one of the first mystics in the Christian tradition after the New Testament writers. Clement wrote several works where he attempted to explain the Christian mysteries using language and concepts borrowed from Greek spirituality.
So there’s the word mysteries which leads us to consider the root of mysticism. Unfortunately, the etymology dictionary is a mess when it comes to trying to unravel the origins of the words mystic, mystical and mysticism. So I’ll quote myself here, from The Big Book of Christian Mysticism:
To understand the history of Christian mysticism, we have to explore the origins of Christianity, in the context of the language, philosophy, and religion of the Hellenistic world in which the New Testament was written. The word “mysticism” comes from the Greek word mueo, which means “to close” or “to shut.” In “Mysticism: An Essay on the History of the Word,” French scholar Louis Bouyer says it refers to closing the eyes, while other sources suggest it refers to keeping your mouth shut. In fact, both of these meanings make sense. Yet another source suggests the word means “to initiate into the mysteries,” hence “to instruct.” Mysticism thus involves shutting, closing, and hiddenness, but also initiation, learning a secret, and keeping your mouth shut long enough to listen for what’s really going on.
Incidentally, that important essay by Louis Bouyer, “Mysticism: An Essay on the History of the Word” is found in an old anthology called Understanding Mysticism.
Unlike gnosticism, mysticism never emerged as a rival to mainstream Christianity (indeed, the word “mysticism” itself shows up relatively recently, only about 300 years ago). So at least historically speaking, we really are comparing apples and oranges. But for the sake of where we’re going (i.e., now do these words apply to spiritual practice today), I think it’s fair to say that gnosis/gnosticism applies to the direct experiential knowledge of spiritual things, including embodied knowledge of God whereas mystery/mysticism applies to the spirituality of encountering God’s essential unknowability, hiddenness, mysteriously, ineffability. At the risk of oversimplifying: gnosticism talks about experiencing God, while mysticism remains silent in awe before the ultimate mystery that some call God.
A Twentieth Century View
A Russian anthroposophist-turned-Catholic mystic named Valentin Tomberg (1900-1973) wrote a series of meditations on what he called “Christian Hermeticism” based on the 22 Major Arcana cards of the Tarot. Published anonymously after his death, Meditations on the Tarot became recognized as a modern mystical classic (despite its esoteric title and format). Thomas Keating, Basil Pennington, Bede Griffiths, Cynthia Bourgeault, Therese Schroeder-Sheker, and even Cardinal Hans Urs Von Balthasar were among the book’s many fans (I am currently leading a study course on the book for this blog’s Patreon supporters). We know the author was Tomberg, but he wanted to be anonymous, so let me refer to him as the “anonymous author.” Because of his own background studying topics like Kabbalah, Ceremonial Magic and Hermetic philosophy, this author was not afraid to use language that more timid orthodox theologians might avoid. So Meditations on the Tarot attempts to rehabilitate the concept of gnosticism, reclaiming it from its tragic history of an early heresy.
The author writes:
The essence of pure gnosis is reflected mysticism. Gnosis signifies that that which takes place in mysticism has become higher knowledge. That is, gnosis is mysticism which has become conscious of itself. It is mystical experience transformed into higher knowledge.
So here we begin to crack the nut of Brian’s question: how do we “compare and contrast” mystic and gnostic dimensions of spirituality? (I’m going to set aside for now the equation of gnosticism with heresy, since that is a historical reality that seems irrelevant for most spiritual seekers today). Meditations on the Tarot implies a kind of “sun and moon” analogy: if “gnosis is reflected mysticism,” then the luminous radiance of the pure encounter with the mystery of God is like the sun: the source of all light, yet it blinds us to look directly at it. Gnosis, meanwhile, is like the moon: reflecting the pure mystical light, making it more available to the human intellect but also resulting in a kind of self-consciousness that can undermine the spiritual search. Humility, after all, is a kind of self-forgetfulness, and if gnosis implies a kind of self-consciousness, there is a risk that gnosis could lead to ego-inflation and pride.
Mysticism and Gnosis in the 21st Century
So, how does this bring us to the present day? How do we compare mysticism and gnosticism for our time, and in a practical way to support our contemporary spiritual search? Given how squirrelly both of these topics are, I don’t know that I can provide a definitive answer. But Brian’s question was about how I compare and contrast these two topics, so all I can offer you are my own thoughts, presented here in a handy bullet point format, in no particular order:
Gnosis does not have to be a dirty word, just because of the historical link to the heresy of gnosticism. Indeed, there are small groups hither and yon that describe themselves as modern day gnostics, gnostic Christians, etc. I don’t know how much they have in common with the gnosticism of 1800 years ago, so I’ll leave that for interested parties to explore for themselves. But from the perspective of Christian mysticism as it evolved over the centuries, I believe there’s a place for the search of knowledge and experience of God within the larger umbrella of mysticism, or the spirituality of responding to divine love.
So much of the language of mysticism is embedded with mystery: the dark night of the soul, the cloud of unknowing, the hiddenness of divinity, and so forth. So there is a kind of existential tension between gnosis as the quest for knowledge of God and mysticism as a recognition that God is ultimately unknowable. Nevertheless, I think it’s only human nature to want an experience of God, so I think for many people the hunger for gnosis is a natural part of the desire for mystical or contemplative spirituality.
I agree with this idea that gnosis can function as “self-conscious mysticism.” During centering prayer, we consent to God’s mysterious silence. It is not uncommon to experience moments — maybe even long moments — when thinking slows down and we experience what Cynthia Bourgeault calls “objectless awareness,” i.e., the pure unmediated presence of vast, limitless, silence. But to be in the presence of such silence is to be in a place beyond words and thoughts, in other words, a “hidden” place, hidden to ordinary human consciousness. As soon as we try to talk about, describe, or even think about such objectless experience, we fall from mysticism into gnosis. Mysticism is the pure wordless experience, gnosis is the attempt to think about it, understand it, describe it, talk about it.
It’s important to resist the temptation to write gnosis off as merely a corruption of mysticism. I love the idea that gnosis is “mystical experience transformed into higher knowledge.” This maintains a kind of dignity about gnosis; after all, it is human nature to try to make sense of our experience, and to talk about it/share it with others. This is why so many mystics and contemplatives are writers — or voracious readers! Just as sports fans love to endlessly analyze and reflect on legendary games (or even legendary single plays), we contemplative seekers sure do love to read, write, talk, discuss, all about our experience in prayer. This is a good thing! It’s just helpful to remember that talking about prayer is different from simply praying (although to the extent that we seek to live a nondual life of pure prayer, than even the talking-about becomes a dimension of the prayer, but that is probably something we do not need to worry about in the early stages of our contemplative practice).
So, this is certainly not the final word on mysticism and gnosis! But the beauty of our world is illuminated by both the sun and the moon. We need both knowledge and silence, both experience and wonder, both intuition and inspiration. On her wonderful album Big Science, performance artist Laurie Anderson sang, “This is the time. And this is the record of the time.” Mysticism is the time (the timeless time). And gnosis is the record of the time.
There are literally hundreds of mystics in the Christian tradition alone — or, should I say, hundreds of mystics who were writers (no one knows how many great mystics were too humble to write about their union with God, and so their wisdom is lost to history). And while some mystics like Julian of Norwich only wrote a small amount, others like Thomas Merton or Teresa of Ávila left us enough writings to fill multiple books. The bottom line: if you want to savor the wisdom of the mystics, how can you figure out what to read, given that there are more mystical writings than most people can read in a lifetime?
One approach to this problem is to enjoy a number of anthologies of mystical writings. Ever since The Philokalia was compiled in the late 1700s, aspiring mystics and contemplatives have benefited from books that curate and collect key writings from mystics in general, or even from a specific subset of the mystical tradition (for example, The Philokalia features Eastern Orthodox contemplatives, while Karen Armstrong’s Visions of God features the words of 14th-century English mystics). Different anthologies are arranged topically, alphabetically, or chronologically, offering a variety ways to explore mystical wisdom. Some anthologies are specifically devotional in nature, featuring short, pithy quotations intended to foster daily prayer or meditation. Others feature more in-depth selections of mystical writings, and are intended for study and research.
For this blog post I’ve gathered together a dozen titles that I think are representative of the best in mystical anthologies Aside from The Philokalia which is a four-volume set, each of these is a single book, so even the list as a whole is not too intimidating (I hope!). Consider this list as an invitation to dive more deeply in the contemplative and mystical literary tradition within Christianity — don’t expect that every one of those books will necessarily be meaningful for you: just as the mystics themselves represent a variety of voices and theological perspectives and therefore will not all appeal to you (or anyone), so these anthologies offer a wide variety of approaches to the topic. Pick out the ones that appeal to you, and start there. Just don’t be surprised if you find that the more you read the mystics, the deeper you’ll want to go. You can’t say I didn’t warn you!
Disclosure: The links take you to Amazon: they are affiliate links, so if you click on a link here and make a purchase, I receive a small commission. Thanks for doing so, it’s an easy way for you to support this blog.
Twelve Excellent Anthologies of Mystical and Contemplative Writing
Karen Armstrong (editor), Visions of God: Four Medieval Mystics and their Writings. Since it only features the writings of four mystics, all from the same century and country: Richard Rolle, Julian of Norwich, Walter Hilton, and the author of The Cloud of Unknowing — this seems to be quite a limited “anthology.” But it’s a great read not only because of Armstrong’s helpful commentary and the excellent translation of the source writings, but also because it’s a great case study of how diverse the voices of the different mystics really are. Seeing firsthand the distinctions between these four mystics is a good way to begin to appreciate how different all the mystics are.
Carmen Acevedo Butcher (editor), A Little Daily Wisdom: Christian Women Mystics.Although best known for her luminous translations of the mystics, Butcher here provides a devotional anthology of 366 writings, all from female mystics like Julian of Norwich or Teresa of Ávila, arranged for daily prayer and reflection.
Louis Dupré and James A. Wiseman, OSB (editors), Light from Light: An Anthology of Christian Mysticism. After an informative introductory essay, this chronological collection features lengthy selections of writings from over twenty mystics, from Origen in the 2nd century to Merton in the 20th.
Harvey Egan (editor), An Anthology of Christian Mysticism. Like Light from Light, another survey of the writings of over fifty great mystics in chronological, rather than topical, order — an in-depth anthology which allows the reader to get a feel for how mystical literature has evolved over the past 2,000 years.
Nikodimos of the Holy Mountain and Makarios of Corinth (compilers), The Philokalia: Volume One, Volume Two, Volume Threeand Volume Four. This multi-volume anthology of writings from the fathers of the Eastern Orthodox churches provides detailed instructions on asceticism and the life of prayer, particularly the “Prayer of the Heart.” Among the great mystics whose writings are included in The Philokalia are John Cassian, Evagrius Ponticus, Maximus the Confessor, and Gregory Palamas. A one-volume anthology, Writings from the Philokalia on the Prayer of the Heart, features the writings that were mentioned in the anonymous Russian classic The Way of a Pilgrim.
Shawn Madigan, CSJ (editor), Mystics, Visionaries, and Prophets: A Historical Anthology of Women’s Spiritual Writings. As the title implies, this is a broader anthology of spiritual writing that includes not only mystical/contemplative women, but also significant women theologians and activists. Still, plenty of mystics are included, and this collection provides an interesting approach to mysticism as part of a broader spiritual conversation.
Carl McColman (compiler), The Little Book of Christian Mysticism. Over three hundred quotations from the Bible and the great mystics, arranged according to the process of purification, illumination and deification, and selected for devotional use.
Bernard McGinn (editor), The Essential Writings of Christian Mysticism. Numerous anthologies of writings by the great mystics have been published over the years, but this one towers over them all. It includes lengthy selections from the writings of the mystics arranged topically, as well as insightful introductions and commentaries on the various selections.
H. A. Reinhold (editor), The Soul Afire: Revelations of the Mystics. Dating from the 1940s, this is an older compilation of mystics, and long out of print so you’ll have to chase down a used copy. But it’s an interesting assortment of quotations and a reminder that interest in Christian mysticism is not just some fad from the last few decades.
Douglas V. Steere (editor), Quaker Spirituality: Selected Writings. This installment in the Classics of Western Spirituality series 1Paulist Press’ Classics of Western Spirituality series of great mystical books is an excellent resource for students of Christian mysticism, as well as Jewish, Muslim, and even Native American spirituality. presents key writings from the Religious Society of Friends, including works by George Fox, Isaac Penington, John Woolman, Rufus M. Jones, and Thomas R. Kelly, all of whom celebrate the rich Quaker tradition, whose profound attentiveness to contemplative silence and to God’s presence within has resulted in a strong heritage of social justice.
Howard Thurman, Essential Writings. Here’s an example of a useful anthology that features the work of one specific mystic. Many of the great mystics have their own “Greatest Hits” collection; I don’t have the time to list them all. I’m highlighting Thurman because I love his writing, and I don’t think he appears in any of the other anthologies listed here, so certainly his Essential Writings is a must-have. But don’t stop here: if a mystic you love has been published in an anthology edition, pick it up, you will likely find it a most enjoyable read.
Hi friends, I recently was a guest on the “Mystics and Skeptics” podcast. Needless to say, we talked about… Christian mysticism, of course! Sybil, the host of the “Mystics and Skeptics” podcast, is a wonderful conversation partner; she and I quickly developed a rapport which led to a wide-ranging conversation about mysticism — both Christian and in general — and how it relates not only to religion but to life. I hope you enjoy listening to the conversation as much as I enjoyed taking part in it! And after you listen to this episode, visit the Mystics and Skeptics Podcast website to check out other episodes — Sybil has a wide ranging circle of dialogue partners, representing mystical traditions from across religious traditions (including those who do not necessarily ascribe to any one particular lineage). You may not agree with everyone that’s on the show, but I bet you’ll find the conversations fascinating!
Here’s how the podcast itself is described:
Different paths – same destination. Join me for an exploratory discussion on traditional and ancient religions and the sciences, spiritual and other belief systems, unexplained phenomena, and their nexus to better understand our existence and purpose. This is a judgment-free zone; all perspectives are welcome. Only through respectful discourse and critical thinking can humanity progress and attain enlightenment.
And the blurb for my episode:
Tune in and listen to Carl McColman discuss Christian mysticism and describe how to encounter the Divine. Mr. McColman is a spiritual director, retreat leader, and internationally known speaker and teacher on mystical spirituality and contemplative living. He is the author of many books, including “The Big Book of Christian Mysticism.” He is one of the co-hosts of the Encountering Silence podcast and runs the website: Anamchara.com.
To listen, click on the audio player above. Enjoy!!!
Recently a reader of this blog wrote the following to me:
I am just starting out on this journey and feel drawn to the mystical/contemplative side of Christianity. To this end, I am using your book “Answering the Contemplative Call” and also “Growing into God” by John Mabry as my guides. I do not have a spiritual director as yet but am trying to find one near where I live in the UK. In the meantime, I am using the 2 books mentioned above and finding them very useful. By the way, I love Julian of Norwich but find St. John of the Cross beyond me!
My difficulty is that I am confused between the God of the mystical tradition and some aspects of the God of the Bible (particularly the Old Testament). The God who “doesn’t hold anything against us and never has” seems at odds with the God who does show anger against evil and injustice in the bible. As maybe He should, given that so much suffering is caused by cruelty, greed, injustice etc. So where does this idea that there is no wrath in God and that He doesn’t hold anything against us come from? Is it just wishful thinking?
This is such a great question. Thanks for asking it! I am actually currently at work on a new book about reading the Bible in the light of the wisdom of the mystics (God willing, it will be published in 2024), so your question is very apropos!
For readers who may not be knowledgeable about Julian of Norwich, she was a medieval visionary who experienced sixteen revelations or “showings” during a serious illness she experienced as a young woman, in May 1373. These visions were theologically rich and filled with insight, particularly in terms of God’s love. Indeed, Julian’s book of theological, contemplative reflections on her showings is often published under the title Revelations of Divine Love.
Among other things, Julian remarks that her visions gave her a new perspective on an idea about God — an idea that probably was quite common in her 14th century experience of Christianity: the notion of “the wrath of God.” Julian writes,
I saw no kind of wrath in God, neither for a short time nor for long. (For truly, as I see it, if God were to be angry even a hint, we would never have life nor place nor being.) As truly as we have our being from the endless Power of God and from the endless Wisdom, and from the endless Goodness, just as truly we have our protection in the endless Power of God, in the endless Wisdom, and in the endless Goodness.
Elsewhere in her writing Julian notes, “I saw no wrath except on man’s part, and that He forgives in us. For wrath is nothing else but a rebellion from and an opposition to peace and to love, and either it comes from the failure of power or from the failure of wisdom, or from the failure of goodness (which failure is not in God but it is on our part).” These quotations are from The Complete Julian of Norwich.
Wow. It’s a compelling argument. There’s no such thing as wrath in God! And furthermore, when human beings have thought we saw wrath in God, Julian is basically saying that we are projecting our own human anger on to God, for God is perfect power, wisdom, and goodness, and anger stems from a “failure” of power, wisdom or goodness in human hearts.
The problem, as my reader points out, is that the Bible offers images of God that seem quite wrathful indeed:
For the wrath of God is revealed from heaven against all ungodliness and wickedness of those who by their wickedness suppress the truth. (Romans 1:18)
Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave room for the wrath of God; for it is written, “Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.” (Romans 12:19)
Put to death, therefore, whatever in you is earthly… on account of these the wrath of God is coming on those who are disobedient. (Colossians 3:5-6)
They will also drink the wine of God’s wrath, poured unmixed into the cup of his anger, and they will be tormented with fire and sulfur in the presence of the holy angels and in the presence of the Lamb. (Revelation 14:10)
There are many others, I just chose a few. And I made a point of choosing examples from the New Testament, to avoid the subtly anti-semitic notion that God is only depicted as wrathful in the Old Testament, before Jesus came along to clear things up. Alas, images of God-as-wrathful are found throughout the Bible — just as images of God as merciful and forgiving can be found in the Jewish scriptures as well as in the New Testament.
So what are we to make of Julian’s assertion? Was she simply wrong? Or, if we agree with her, does that mean we are rejecting the authority of the Bible? This is a tough nut to crack!
Julian of Norwich: Mystic, Visionary… and Interpreter of Scripture
The Bottomless Well of Meaning
This question is ultimately a question about how we read the Bible — and interpret it for our time. For many Christians, the Bible is seen almost like a technical manual, or a legal code: it contains very precise language, with clear-cut meaning that must be understood and applied in the one acceptable way.
But not everyone sees the Bible that way. To begin to illustrate this idea, let me recount a story I just heard the other day. Last week I participated in an interview with Brian D. McLaren, and at one point he told us about a conversation he had with a rabbi a few years back. The rabbi asked Brian why Christians are so focused on finding the one correct meaning of each and every verse in the Bible. She saw that as foreign to the way many Jews read the Bible.
“The Bible is a bottomless well of meaning,” remarked the rabbi. “Why would you want to stop its meaning with one interpretation?”
This reminded me of a conversation I had with my wife, just a few days earlier. “I think many people see the Bible as speaking with one voice,” I pointed out. “But actually, there are many voices in the Bible, offering different — and at times conflicting — ideas about God, about humanity, about theology and spirituality and ethics. The Bible is more like a lively conversation than a monologue.”
If we take the rabbi who spoke to Brian McLaren seriously, it invites us into what, for Christians, represents a radically new way to think about the Bible. It is a record of centuries of religious imagination, reflection and discernment rather than a single, definitive statement about God that cannot be questioned in any way.
Many Christians have been taught to view the Bible as the inerrant word of God. It’s a hermeneutical principle which insists that there is no error in scripture. (Hermeneutics refers to the principles by which a text is interpreted). But not all expressions of Christianity include a requirement to believe the Bible is inerrant. While pretty much all mainstream forms of Christianity see the Bible as authoritative and as an expression of the word of God, it is possible to hold those beliefs while also accepting the Bible as written by human beings (even if inspired by God) and therefore subject to human limitations and blind spots.
The problem I see with the belief that every single verse in the Bible must be inerrant is that it does not address the many problems and disparities that even a casual reading of the Bible can reveal. Even within scripture itself, there are clearly statements that most people would acknowledge are contradictory to other statements within the Biblical text. Let’s look at a few of the more obvious inconsistencies:
In Genesis 32, Jacob proclaims “I saw God face to face, and yet my life was spared.” But by the time of Moses, God is saying “You cannot see my face, for no one may see me and live” (Exodus 33:20). Jesus, however, seems to opt for Jacob’s perspective, since he taught “Blessed are the pure of heart, for they shall see God” (Matthew 5:8)
Jesus promises us that “With God all things are possible” (Matthew 19:26), but the author Judges apparently never got the memo, for he comments that God could not even defeat chariots made of iron: “The Lord was with Judah, and he took possession of the hill country, but could not drive out the inhabitants of the plain, because they had chariots of iron.” (Judges 1:19)
Regarding God’s wrath, consider this harsh statement found in Exodus 20:5, “I the Lord your God am a jealous God, punishing children for the iniquity of parents, to the third and the fourth generation of those who reject me.” By the time of the prophet Ezekiel, a more balanced perspective emerges: “A child shall not suffer for the iniquity of a parent, nor a parent suffer for the iniquity of a child; the righteousness of the righteous shall be his own, and the wickedness of the wicked shall be his own.” (Ezekiel 18:20)
Likewise, there are other examples of how later Biblical texts will, in essence, override an earlier principle, such as Jesus’s famous reversal of the Old Testament “eye for an eye”:
“If any harm follows, then you shall give life for life,eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, stripe for stripe.” (Exodus 21:23-25)
“You have heard that it was said, ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’ But I say to you, Do not resist an evildoer. But if anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also.” (Matthew 5:38-39)
There are many other examples of this kind of Biblical discontinuity (a tip of the hat to the American Atheists website for their List of Biblical Contradictions page!)
So can you see the face of God and live? Or not? Will God punish children for the sins of their parents — or not? I don’t see how anyone can honestly consider tensions like these without accepting that at least some of them represent errors, or at least obsolete ideas.
Christians sometimes try to resolve some of the Bible’s apparent inconsistencies by arguing that the New Testament represents a “new and improved” revision of Old Testament theology. Jesus, especially, trumps anything in the Old Testament, so his comments about turning the other cheek are seen basically as an acceptable revision of an old, but no longer valid, way of thinking about God. But even this has its problems: what do you do when you run into tensions in the New Testament; for example, Jesus and Paul have clearly different understandings of the function of the Jewish law — see Matthew 5:17-18 and Romans 6:14?
All of these apparent contradictions, disparities, tensions, differing or opposing viewpoints are only a problem if we insist in reading the Bible as a unified document declaring only one correct way of understanding God. But if we join the rabbi quoted above, and are willing to view the Bible as an “endless well of meaning,” we can begin to consider the idea that many verses can be interpreted in multiple ways, and even the most glaring contradictions might actually be invitations for us to reflect on how our understanding of God, and truth, and spirituality grew and evolved over the centuries in which the Bible was written — and continue to evolve to this day.
So rather than getting caught up on what is absolutely the “one correct way” of reading the Bible, we can approach the Bible as a “work in progress” — as the word of God that is still being spoken. Like any good story, we can expect character development — only in the Bible, it’s not so much that God is “developing” but rather that the human understanding of God is growing and evolving. So some images of God in the Bible are, obviously enough, going to be more helpful than others — some might be more obsolete, more culturally conditioned, more shaped by outdated ideas where God is seen as terrifying, angry, patriarchal, wrathful — compared to other images (found within the Bible) that stress God as loving, merciful, kind and radically forgiving.
Enter Julian of Norwich
“I call them like I see them.”
One of the most loved of American sports is baseball, a game which is moderated by an impartial umpire, who makes on-the-fly decisions whether a runner is safe or out, whether a missed pitch is a strike or a ball, and so forth (if you don’t know baseball jargon, it just means the umpire is the one who makes final decisions about how the game is progressing, decisions that can be controversial and that affect who wins the game). A legendary story holds that an umpire, challenged by the accuracy of his decision, simply states “I call them like I see them.”
I think about that when I think about Julian of Norwich and the wrath of God. When it comes to her vision of God, I believe she called it like she saw it.
She very simply states “I saw no wrath in God” and also “I saw no wrath except on man’s part.” I think we need to hold both of these statements together to understand what Julian is saying. And I believe this: Julian is interpreting the Bible, based on her own visionary experience of God. She is challenging us to re-think what the very concept of “the wrath of God” as found in the Bible means.
There’s plenty of language in the Bible about God’s wrath. But there’s also plenty of language in the Bible stressing God’s love, mercy, compassion and forgiveness. Are we to assume that God is moody — angry some of the time, but understanding and forgiving the rest of the time? That sure sounds like projecting a human quality (the changeable nature of our emotions) unto God!
Julian offers a different interpretation. She boldly suggests that “the wrath of God” is essentially a mirror of human wrath, projected onto God. We human beings — including Biblical writers — are prone to assuming that God is basically a mirror image of ourselves. Since human beings get angry and wrathful, therefore God must too. And Biblical writers inserted this into their way of speaking about God. But Julian, based on the authority of her own experience of God, isn’t having it. She calls us to a new way of seeing God.
Julian reasonably argues “if God were to be angry even a hint, we would never have life nor place nor being.” In other words, the wrath of God would simply annihilate all existence. We are held in existence by God’s creativity, God’s love and God’s sustenance (see Julian’s “hazelnut vision” for more on this). Her point: if God really got angry, we would be completely and utterly annihilated by the terrible force of that wrath.
Therefore, God may judge us, God may hold us accountable for our sins, and God may expect us to take responsibility for our actions. But all of this emerges out of God’s love and justice, not God’s wrath.
I understand that not everyone will be comfortable with this kind of radical re-visioning of how we as Christians can read the Bible. But I am convinced that the Jewish idea of the Bible as a well of endless meaning simply makes more sense than a more brittle idea that the Bible can only have one correct meaning. No wonder there is so much division in Christianity: we’re all arguing over the correct way to read the Bible, and it’s a zero sum game if we believe there’s only one correct reading. Only one interpretation can be correct, all the others must be wrong: erroneous if not heretical.
But if we are willing to entertain the idea that the Bible is meant to guide us in our relationship with God, but not to suppress us into submission to just “one correct” way of reading it, then we are free to let the Bible be in conversation with itself, and to allow other inspiring and learned commentators (like Julian of Norwich and many of the other mystics) offer us insight into how to read the Bible as well. Of course, Julian — like anyone else — may have made mistakes, gotten some things wrong. We are not required to slavishly obey everything she (or anyone else) says about the text.
Our job may seem daunting: we need to bring critical thinking and adult discernment to bear when we read the Bible (or for that matter, when we read Biblical scholars, commentators and interpreters). We can be assured that we will not always agree with the experts, or each other (and we have to be humble enough to admit that we ourselves don’t always get it right either).
Back to my image that the Bible is more like a conversation than a monologue: we who read the Bible here in the third millennium are invited to join in an ongoing conversation, that has already been continuing for centuries and will carry on long after we are gone. We need to do so humbly, acknowledging that we don’t have all the answers. But when a writer says something that rings true, it’s worth taking it on, at least as a hypothesis.
For me, Julian’s declaration that there’s no wrath in God absolutely rings true. When I hear Christians talk about the wrath of God, I assume that they are telling me more about themselves and their beliefs and image of God, then offering me anything new about the God who is vast, limitless love and compassion.
“Wishful Thinking” — or Mystical Insight?
So does Julian of Norwich represent just “wishful thinking” when it comes to her commentary on the wrath of God — or is she offering us a kind of mystical insight into a new way of approaching God (and the Bible)?
Everyone who reads this blog post will have to answer that question for yourself. What rings most true for you? The idea that God must be wrathful because some ancient Biblical passages speak of God’s anger, or the idea that Julian’s insight into scripture can offer us a deeper appreciation of God’s love, even though it may mean interpreting the Bible in a different way than we are used to?
For what it’s worth, here’s my perspective; I don’t think Julian’s words represent just “wishful thinking” at all, but rather an important and profound theological statement. Julian is calling us to a more consistent and hopeful understanding of God as infinitely loving, infinitely compassionate, infinitely merciful. To do this, we have to learn new ways of interpreting the Bible (maybe more like our Jewish friends, and less like fundamentalist Christians). But the good news is, we can continue to read the Bible as an inspiring text, while also taking into consideration the wisdom of all the ages in learning how to interpret it most consistently (and most lovingly).
One final point: my reader speculates that it may be necessary to believe that God is wrathful because God naturally is opposed to evil and injustice. That’s a good point, but then I am reminded of Jesus’s teaching to “love your enemies” (Matthew 5:44). Certainly Jesus would not command us to do something that is not already present in the heart of God! We are to love our “enemies” because God loves everyone, even those who are responsible for evil and injustice and suffering.
God’s love does not mitigate God’s justice. A God of infinite and unalloyed love will still demand that we mortals take responsibility for repairing all the ways that we have caused suffering (for others, or even for ourselves). God remains the God of justice, of siding with the vulnerable and the oppressed, with opting for the poor and the downtrodden. But God does all of this out of love. Even how God deals with those cause harm, who oppress or who are unjust — it will all emerge out of infinite love. I, for one, think it’s a far more humbling thought to have to hold up my sins and imperfections to love, than to anger!
But as humbling as that thought may be, I’m also comforted by knowing that there is no limit to God’s mercy, and that God is with me every step of the way: from my admission that by myself I am ultimately incapable of righting my wrongs, to my feeble efforts to make amends when and where I can, to my ultimate giving of myself entirely to God’s clemency and mercy.
See? No wrath necessary. God is love. Love will handle everything.
Almost from the beginning of the Christian era, mystics and saints and theologians and spiritual teachers have reflected on one of the most beautiful and poetic of the “wisdom writings” in the Bible to explore the mystery of the love of God and how that love seeks intimacy with us, God’s human creatures. I am referring to the Song of Songs, also known as the Song of Solomon or the Canticle of Canticles. It’s not so much a “book” as a poem or extended lyric; it’s short — only 8 chapters and barely over 100 verses long; my Catholic Prayer Bible has about 2000 pages, and the Song of Songs takes up less than nine of those. It’s one of only two books in the Bible that never directly mentions God at all. Instead, on the surface, it is a love poem — and a deeply sensual, subtly erotic love poem at that. So why, of all the spiritual and philosophical riches in scripture, would this be the book that the mystics and other God-seekers turn to, again and again?
The simple answer might make some people uncomfortable, but it needs to be said: we need to understand the fullness of human love — even including the passion and physical intimacy of romantic love — if we truly wish to explore the mysteries of God’s love. God’s love is bigger than all earthly love, like the entire spectrum of light extends beyond the rainbow of human vision. But if we want to appreciate the splendor and mystery of light, we ought to begin, at least, by embracing all the light that we mortals can comprehend, and then from there we can try to extend our understanding of light into the “hidden” regions of infrared and ultraviolet rays.
I say “hidden” because they remain hidden from our eyes, not because they are beyond the mind of God!
Truly, infrared and ultraviolet light are mystical in the arcane meaning of the word: such light is beyond our normal comprehension, and only become known to us by the special technologies that make them “visible” in a way. When I was a child, there was a time when blacklights were popular, at least among the hippies and flower children: a device which emits ultraviolet light, invisible to the naked human eye, but some items (like petroleum jelly, tonic water and oddly enough, urine) are fluorescent: that absorb ultraviolet light and then reflect a kind of “glowing” light that becomes visible to the human eye. I remember the friend of a cousin who sometime around 1969 invited me into his room, turned out the lights and turned on his blacklight. His room, filled with posters and art adorned with fluorescent colors, became a bluish fairyland. I was entranced. Then he turned on a strobe light and it got even weirder (in retrospect, I suppose my hippie friend enjoyed the pleasures of cannabis if not stronger psychedelics, but I was a good decade younger than him, only about 8 years old and innocent of such things).
Even some species of the lowly scorpion are fluorescent — they glow in ultraviolet light!
So mystical love is like ultraviolet light — hidden from ordinary human perception but capable of leaving telltale signs when viewed in a certain way or using the right “technology.” For mystics, that technology is not a blacklight, but is contemplative silence. A wisdom poem like the Song of Songs overflows with “fluorescent love” that reveals its secrets when exposed to the attentive eye of silent contemplative adoration.
(A digression: one reason cannabis and other psychedelic substances are sometimes seen as agents of spiritual wisdom is because they, like contemplative silence, can reveal the “fluorescent” wisdom of divine love as well, but for our purposes we can simply focus on the gentler and therefore safer practice of attending to the depths of interior silence.)
Love’s Overwhelming Power
Love is powerful, and love expressed through the physical desire of sexuality and erotic yearning is no less dynamic a force. We know that sexuality can overwhelm us like a tsunami: it unleashes the capacity for all-consuming obsession, jealousy, ecstasy and anxiety, and can be as addictive as the most powerful of narcotics. Early seekers of the love of God began to regard human eroticism as a problem: a compelling distraction that could seduce a person away from the spiritual quest, trading their yearning for God away in return for the heady pleasures of physical intimacy. Unfortunately, this morphed into an unhealthy dualism: in which too many spiritual seekers regarded eros not merely as a distraction, but as a mistake; and when that combined with ideas circulating in the ancient world that the human body was inferior to the purity of the spirit, some drew the unfortunate conclusion that sexuality, even at its best, was sinful.
Thus you have Saint Augustine, a mystic himself who, prior to becoming a Christian kept a mistress, apparently oblivious to how this was unfair to the woman — then when he embraced the spiritual life, he could not separate out the injustice of his privileged mistreatment of his partner with an erroneous idea that sexuality itself was broken. He went on to argue that human sexuality was so stained that even married couples committed a venial (minor) sin when they made love! Unfortunately, Augustine (who was a spiritual genius in many other ways), became highly influential in the Christian west, so his unfounded and frankly toxic misunderstanding of sexuality became widely known — and accepted — in Christendom.
Monks and nuns adopted a celibate life, eschewing sexual and romantic love because they wished to give themselves wholly to God. In itself there is nothing wrong with this, and even today some people identify as asexual, simply uninterested in physical intimacy with another. But celibacy became interpreted through a dualistic lens that rejected sexuality not because it was potentially distracting, but because it was seen as inferior or even sinful. This misunderstanding has bedeviled Christianity ever since, and influenced even those outside the cloister. I weep for the countless Christian people whose ability to enjoy the pleasures of sexual love was compromised by the lie that sex is somehow contrary to God.
“Song of Songs (Cantique des Cantiques)” by Gustave Moreau, 1893
But the mystics, even though so many of them were themselves celibate, recognized (thanks to the Song of Songs, as viewed through the lens of their own contemplative experience) that physical love — the “red” light of the spectrum — matters just as much to the fullness of light as the “violet” of ethereal or spiritual love. Take away the red, and the rainbow is incomplete. Likewise, take away to rich and delicious joy of eros, and our capacity to understand the fullness of love likewise becomes diminished.
Clearly, God does not have a material body; even those of us who accept Christ as fully divine acknowledge that following the ascension Christ is only “met” in spiritual form. So we do not “make love” to God in a physical or sexual way. But human beings do make love with one another, unless they are asexual or celibate by choice or circumstance. When we make love, we learn something about that “red” spectrum of the mystery of love, which sheds light (pardon the pun) on the fullness of divine love—a love which transcends beyond the limits of what is “visible” to the human heart.
Erotic love alone cannot reveal to us the fullness of divine love, but neither can spiritual love alone. Frankly, we need the entire spectrum. This is why celibate mystics from Origen to Bernard of Clairvaux to Teresa of Ávila and many others continually returned to meditate upon the wisdom of the Song of Songs. What they themselves did not experience physically, they at least could (and did) meditate upon. They celebrated romantic and even erotic love because it helped them to more fully apprehend the abundance of divine love.
Those of us who are not celibate can also find insight into mystical love by celebrating the beauty, power, and life-affirming joy of healthy erotic love. We know how powerful eros is, and hopefully if we are in healthy relationships, we also understand that the fullness of love requires more than just the pleasures of physical intimacy. But just because romantic love requires more than just sex does not make sex inferior or incomplete or somehow wrong.
The Vitamins of Love
Sexuality is like a vitamin, an essential vitamin for healthy romantic love. It is not the only vitamin that a healthy marriage requires; in addition to vitamin “E” (eros), a sustainable human partnership requires vitamin “I” (intimacy), vitamin “A” (affection), vitamin “C” (caring and compassion), vitamin “F” (friendship), vitamin “V” (vulnerability), and vitamin “S” (self-sacrifice). Perhaps you can think of others.
So how does this relate to the mystical life? Mystics and mystical seekers do not have “sex” with God, but we do experience yearning for God in our hearts and even our bodies. We desire God, and we want to give ourselves fully to God. We want God to give us joy and even ecstasy. Are we capable of giving God pleasure? That may be up for debate, but if we could, we would. And we certainly want the pleasure of God to fill our hearts, souls and bodies.
Saint Teresa of Ávila, mystic of ecstatic (erotic?) love (statue by Bernini)
All of this encompasses the “erotic” dimension of the spiritual life. Notice that it touches not so much on the physicality of erotic love (we do not use our genitals in our direct relationship with God), but it does very much touch on the inner experience of eros: there is desire, yearning, passion, pleasure, excitement, intensity, and ecstasy available in the mystical relationship between human and divine.
There is also, at least potentially, a kind of gendered engagement. Many mystics, even male mystics, envisioned themselves as “brides” of Christ, suggesting that the mystery of human gender can bring light into the mystery of intimacy with God. But that is another topic for another day!
Read the Song of Songs, and allow its frankly erotic and beautiful descriptions of earthly love between a passionate man and woman wash over you. Enjoy it, exult in it, find delicious pleasure and delight in it. And then take it into your prayer. What can human love, even at its most erotic and physical, teach us about God’s love for us, and our longing to respond to that divine love? It is a question that leads to a deep and vibrant area for spiritual exploration — a question you cannot answer easily or quickly. It may take a lifetime (and beyond). Take your time with it and enjoy the pleasures of the search!
I’ve been working my way through Mystical Theology and Contemporary Spiritual Practice: Renewing the Contemplative Tradition, a book in Routledge’s “Contemporary Theological Explorations in Mysticism” series. There’s a delightful essay in it called “Unlikely Mystics” about the sense of wonder and numinous reality that people encounter when visiting medieval cathedrals. Based on her research at Durham Cathedral in England, author Rosalind Brown describes the cathedral as “mystical space for ordinary people.” Telling the story of a visitor to the cathedral who had two very different experiences of the building at different points in her life, Brown makes this observation:
Mystical experience is not entirely from beyond ourselves; in an incarnational faith it incorporates our humanity, our particularity, into the life of the Trinitarian God.
I agree wholeheartedly.
Mysticism — at least, theistic mysticism — is about relationship. We often think that mysticism is about experience (we equate “mystical experience” with peak or ecstatic moments), or about consciousness (what makes a mystical experience “mystical” is how it represents an enlarging or enlightening of awareness, an “in-rushing” of divine union or sacred presence). Those are certainly meaningful categories for understanding or exploring the landscape of mystical spirituality. But theistic mysticism — God-centered or divine mysticism — always anchors experience and consciousness, no matter how beautiful or illuminating, in relationship — specifically the relationship between the creature (the person) and the Creator (God, for lack of a better word).
So much of the language of mystical experience/consciousness/relationship is unitive or nondual in nature: “one with God,” “divine union,” “God and I are not-two” — but the reason why such language is even necessary stems from the fact that we have a pervasive sense of the otherness of God/The Mystery: the nondual unitive theosis (“en-God-dening”) of mysticism has to be talked about because it represents a rupture or transformation of the all-too-common experience of God-as-separate. And while we can argue that such a sense of separation is wrong, or misguided, or incomplete, for many people, it simply is. And I think there’s nothing to be gained for shaming those for whom God is encountered as “other.” Instead, let’s see this for what it is: a splendid and beautiful opportunity to be in relationship with the divine other, even if such a relationship ultimately leads to a recognition that “God” and “I” have been one all along!
So the heart of mysticism, divine union, is relational. But it’s not just a spirit-to-spirit or mind-to-mind nonduality. Again, speaking at least in a Christian sense, the relational nature of mysticism is an embodied or incarnational relationship. We do not just imagine that we are one with God — we embody it. We bring our own selves into the relationship: the fullness of our selves, mind, spirit and body.
So this is why you and I can both visit a sacred site, like a monastery or a holy well or a shrine associated with a mystic, and one of us has a luminous sense of divine presence while the other one was left unmoved. God is not playing favorites here, as much as it might seem like that. Nor is the Mystery “rewarding” one person while ignoring the other.
Rather, there are a host of variables at play here: a person’s capacity for belief and wonder, their emotional state, their need or desire for a sense of divine presence, and maybe even the inscrutable mystery of God’s own designs (it is possible that for some people a mystical experience or sense of encounter with the divine could be frightening, or ego-inflating, or in some other way counter-indicated for the good of that person’s soul).
The common theme here is that the fullness of the human being matters when it comes to mystical spirituality: my body, my mind, my soul, my beliefs, my feelings: all have a part to play in the “particularity” of how I encounter the Trinitarian God.
More than once in a my life, I have been at a particular place and have enjoyed a surprising and meaningful sense of God’s loving and beautiful presence. Then, a year or a quarter-century later, I return to that particular location, only to find that my experience of it is remarkably different the second time around. Does this mean I am somehow “less worthy”? Or that there is a capricious randomness to mysticism that makes any sense of the presence of God completely unpredictable? I suppose you could make the case for either of these interpretations.
But I prefer to think of it this way: mysticism means relationship: the human encounter with the mystery we call God. Like all relationships, I can never fully be in control of this encounter. All I can do is try to bring myself as fully and consciously to the encounter as I can. But even there, I never have full control over the mystery of my own being, let alone God’s! Issues concerning my health, wellness, emotional state, physical fitness, experience of illness or trauma, etc. etc. are often partially or fully outside my control. So all I really can do is to do my best to show up — and then experience what ever it is I am available to experience.
Mystically speaking, we “show up” by praying. By opening our hearts and minds and souls to meditation, to contemplation. We make ourselves available and we consent to the hidden mystery of the divine presence. Then, we experience whatever we experience. Maybe “nothing.” Maybe simply a sense of yearning or hope. Maybe boredom or a sense of fidgety unease. And maybe a sense of euphoria, or happiness, or rapture, or ecstasy, or boundary-dissolving union.
This is why the mystics tell us not to over-focus on experience. Maybe the key is, don’t waste time and energy judging or evaluating our experience (or lack thereof). Let God meet us in our bodies, in our particular places, just as we are. And then trust whatever happens (or doesn’t happen) as just what the God-human relationship needs, at that place in space and team. Trust the particularity of the mystical encounter, no matter how hidden it may be. Let our humanity, our “contribution” to the mystical encounter, be what it is: and let God receive that gift as God gives God’s own immeasurable gifts to us. In this gift-encountering-gift, the mystery happens: no matter what we feel or experience.
Yes, mysticism involves the mind, the imagination, the heart. But it also involves the body. Your body is the “location” of your relationship with God. It truly is, therefore, a temple of the Holy.
Here’s the second release in my new series of “Mystical Minute” videos. The topic of this one: “the book that changed my life.”
This is a brief introduction to Mysticism by Evelyn Underhill. After acknowledging that my first copy of the book (given to me by a friend when I was 18) has a hideously ugly cover, I briefly explain why this book matters to me — and why it might be a book that could change your life, too.
