Some writers and scholars, who might humbly deny identifying themselves as mystics, nevertheless have contributed much to our understanding of mystical theology, philosophy, and spirituality. In our time, scholars like Bernard McGinn, Louise Nelstrop, Barbara Holmes, Mark McIntosh, Grace Jantzen, Andrew Louth, Joy Bostic, Michael Battle, Amy Hollywood, Denys Turner, Michael Casey, and many others have contributed immensely to our common knowledge about Christian mysticism and contemplative spirituality. Anyone who wants to become immersed in the mystical way would benefit from the scholarly writings of these authors.
You will notice that in this long list of mystical scholars, the first name I list is Bernard McGinn. That is not by accident. I admire (and rely on) the work of every scholar listed there, but McGinn has consistently been my g0-to for the academic study of Christian mysticism. He has written wonderful essays with titles like “Mystical Consciousness: A Modest Proposal,” “Ocean and Desert as Mystical Symbols” and “The Language of Love in Jewish and Christian Mysticism.” He is the curator of the single best one-volume anthology of mystical writings, The Essential Writings of Christian Mysticism. And his nine (!) volume magnum opus, The Presence of God: A History of Western Christian Mysticism, is simply brilliant, although I’m sad that he only traces the course of mystical history up to the quietest controversy in the seventeenth century.
But while McGinn hasn’t offered a “volume ten” of his history of Christian mysticism to cover the last few centuries, his newest book is still a cause for celebration. Titled simply Modern Mystics: An Introduction, this is Bernard McGinn’s consideration of ten significant Christian mystics of the past 150 years. I just got my copy yesterday and haven’t read it yet, but it looks like it could easily be seen as a kind of appendix to The Presence of God. McGinn is an academic writer but his work is engaging and accessible — I make no bones about being a contemplative practitioner, not a scholar (for example, my knowledge of Latin and French are minimal, and I don’t have any German or Greek), and yet I find his writing luminous and insightful. I’m sure you will too.
So for each of the ten modern mystics he discusses, McGinn offers a brief biography of the person, an overview of their writing, and a consideration of their key ideas and contribution to the ongoing tradition of western Christian mysticism.
Here are the mystics he profiles:
Charles de Foucauld (1858-1916)
Thérèse of Lisieux (1873-1897)
Elisabeth of the Trinity (1880-1906)
Pierre Teilhard de Chardin (1881-1955)
Edith Stein (1891-1942)
Dag Hammarskjöld (1905-1963)
Simone Weil (1909-1943)
Henri Le Saux (Swami Abhishiktananda) (1910-1973)
Etty Hillesum (1914-1943)
Thomas Merton (1915-1968)
McGinn admits in the preface, “This is a decidedly personal selection” — he goes on to note that originally he wanted to discuss as many as twenty recent mystics, but finally realized that would mean writing less about each figure, and he felt that short essays would not do justice to these important spiritual writers. He notes that his final list includes five men and five woman, but he doesn’t seem to be bothered by the fact that more than half of the figures he writes about are French, and all are white. Interestingly, three are Jewish, although Jews who either converted to Christianity are who were significantly engaged with Christian spirituality. If I were his editor, I would have pushed for the inclusion of Howard Thurman, at the very least (let alone other significant non-white voices like Desmond Tutu, Anthony de Mello, or Ramon Panikkar). But I bring this up not to warn readers away from this book, but rather to simply point out how much more work needs to be done, especially in the larger project of acknowledging and amplifying voices of western Christian mystics who are not just caucasian or European in ancestry and cultural context. One of the reasons I wanted to revise my own Christian mysticism was because I was embarrassed that the first edition did not mention Thurman at all! Western Christian mysticism remains very much a product of white European culture, but it’s not monolithically white (for example, most of the desert fathers and mothers were from Africa or the Middle East) so I think we all need to be conscious of how to make our understanding of mystical spirituality more consistent with the universality of God’s action in the world, both in history and today.
When I worked in retail, we used to say that customers complaining about prices is a good thing, because that means they weren’t unhappy about anything else! Likewise, I suppose a book like Modern Mystics: An Introduction will always give critics an opportunity to gripe about who wasn’t included. But if that’s our biggest criticism of the book, then we need to celebrate what it represents: an opportunity to see the landscape of recently mystical theology and spirituality through the eyes of one of Christian mysticism’s most important living scholars. That is a cause for celebration indeed!
And Dr. McGinn, if for some reason this review comes to your attention: please write about Howard Thurman, and Ramon Panikkar, and Evelyn Underhill, and Bruno Barnhart, and Sebastian Painadath… ah, the list could go on!
Little Mama, one of Fran’s and my adopted feral cats, died yesterday, and we are devastated.
We made the heartbreaking decision for her to be euthanized after several weeks of an illness that led to her refusing to eat and rapidly losing weight and even losing the use of one of her back legs.
She was only about 9 years old — far too young for a cat, especially a pampered house cat, to die. Never mind that feral cats often only live 2-3 years “in the wild.” We had hoped to love her well into old kitty-cat age (i.e., over 15).
If you don’t know about Little Mama, I hope you’ll go back and read Lessons I’ve Learned from a Feral Cat which was published in March 2015. It first appeared in the Huffington Post and was reprinted by Day One before I archived it here on my website.
Little Mama, January 2019. After four years living with us, she’d let me get close enough to take a picture, but she still wasn’t about to curl up in my lap. That would come later.
As I wrote in that article, we discovered a feral cat and her litter of three kittens living in the crawlspace under our house. It was the fall of 2014, just a few months after our daughter died. Fran and I were numb with grief at the time, but these skittish cats charmed and amused us. Worried that they would keep reproducing, we set out to trap them so that we could have them neutered — but two of the kittens disappeared before we could make that happen, presumably killed by foxes, coyotes or even owls (we live in a forested suburb where all of the above are commonly sighted). Finally, we did manage to trap the mother and her lone surviving kitten, a boy we named Pete (after the children’s book series our daughter so loved). His mom, because of her diminutive size, we christened “Little Mama.” Although the main purpose of trapping them was to neuter them, we were thrilled to discover that neither of them had dangerous illnesses like rabies or feline leukemia, so we figured we’d give them a try at indoor living.
When I wrote my article, Little Mama and Pete had been living with us for over three months, and while the younger cat was quickly beginning to adapt to life with humans pretty well, his mother retained much more of her feral defensiveness. I wrote about how I was trying to win her over, but in the meantime was learning some important spiritual lessons from her, like “Calmness and tenderness can be conduits for healing;” “Walk slowly and gently” (necessary to keep from frightening her, especially at first); and “It’s important to feel safe before you can play.”
Three of our four cats. Left to right: Thumbs, Little Mama, and Pete (her son).
Until today, I never wrote another article about Little Mama, although I would occasionally share pictures of her, along with Pete and our other cats, with the Patreon members who support my work. As I predicted in that 2014 blog post, it was a very long, very slow journey of earning Little Mama’s trust. Several years into life with us, she would on occasion hop into my lap, but only stay a moment or two — almost as if she were saying, “See! I’m not afraid of you” but then not sticking around long enough to take any chances. Fran nicknamed her “Smoke” because, as Fran would put it, “If you tried to pick her up, she’s slip out of your hands like she was smoke.” But Mama’s aversion to being held did not mean that she wanted nothing to do with us. On the contrary, almost from the beginning she proved to be quite affectionate especially when it came to being petted; she would also sleep at the foot of the bed with us — and she learned, no doubt from all the other cats, that it was a good thing to come get my attention in the morning, because she was more likely to be fed sooner rather than later.
Little Mama had the most distinctive way of communicating “I’m hungry” of any cat I’ve ever known; where most cats (including her son, Pete) typically make plenty of whiny noises when they’re hungry (I suppose all that meowing translates as “I’m hungry, can’t you see? So feed me already!”), Mama maintained a dignified silence — but she would make sure she was visible to me (or Fran when it was her turn to feed them), sit down right in front of us, and open her mouth as if to show us how empty it was. It was quite effective, but also unbearably cute and endearing. Truly, Mama was the strong, silent type, with one notable exception: when she would play with a cat toy like a stuffed mouse, she would pick up her “prey” and then walk with it around the house, making a series of sweet “chirping” noises, which according to at least one online source means the cat is happy. We wanted nothing more than for Mama, who had such a rough start to life, to be happy, so this sound was certainly music to our ears.
But it wasn’t until the long secluded months of the COVID-19 lockdown — in other words, during the spring and summer of 2020 — that Mama truly became a lap cat. In other words, during those fearful weeks when Fran and I pretty much were home all the time, I wasn’t traveling for work and neither of us traveled for pleasure — only then did Little Mama begin to settle into the pleasures of being a lap cat. It had only taken her just over five years! But once she got the hang of it, she got a new nickname: “Needles,” because she would jump into Fran’s and (not quite as often) my lap, but with her tiny claws extended. Just to make sure she landed safely; I don’t think she ever really grasped that we found her “needles” to be unpleasant. I was just so thrilled to have her in my lap that I put up with it, and Fran took to placing a towel in her lap, so that “Needles” could jump up and settle down without causing her any discomfort.
It seemed almost like overnight, Little Mama went from a feral cat who would never get in our laps (aside from the afore-mentioned “I”m not scared” moments) to a dedicated house cat who it was almost impossible to keep out of our laps.
She still didn’t like getting picked up: she still was “Smoke.” But I noticed something: she would regularly come to me in the morning for affection, no doubt driven by her desire for breakfast but clearly engaged with the pleasure of human-to-feline touch (i.e. lots of rubbing and purring). Thinking that at some point in the future we would need to take her to the vet, I made it a goal to get her used to being picked up. So regularly — not every day, but at least a few times each month — I would try to pick her up. Pretty much the same thing would happen each time I tried: she would tense up and run away — but then she would come right back to me, offering me head-bumps in exchange for plenty of affectionate pets and rubs, especially on the back of her head.
It occurred to me that Little Mam was exhibiting some approach-avoid behavior. She didn’t want to be picked up, but I started to suspect that she didn’t want not to be picked up, either. She could see that all the other cats would let me pick them up. I began to wonder if part of her wanted to be picked up too (at least the part of her that enjoyed getting petted and hanging out in our laps) — but of course, the feral part resisted it. I tried to be respectful of her feral need for feline autonomy, but I also tried to be responsive to the cat that kept coming back for more affectionate touch. I’d say to her, “I just would love to pick you up and cuddle you!” But I figured if I could just get her to tolerate it enough that we could take her to the vet if necessary, that would be enough.
And then — about three weeks ago — all of our lives changed forever. Fran and I came home from church one Sunday and noticed that Mama kept vomiting. Even with her stomach empty, she repeatedly was throwing up saliva and then she was just dry heaving. We kept an eye on her, at first assuming she was about to pass a monster hairball. But that never happened, and we got concerned when we realized she was not eating.
After two days of this, Fran’s concern was upgraded to alarm and she decided she had to get Mama checked out by the vet. That particular day I had a doctor’s appointment, but Fran decided she had to try to pick up Mama and put her in a carrier to go to the vet — and Mama let her. It was the first of four veterinary visits over the next week. X-rays, ultrasounds, and several doctors exams later, we had sobering news: no hairball or other blockage, but Little Mama had inflammation surrounding her heart, indications of pancreatitis, and a possibility of cancer. The pancreatitis could be managed, assuming Mama would resume eating. The other possibilities, combined with her sudden lack of appetite, suggested a life-threatening condition.
Fran and I don’t have the financial resources to take a “no matter what the cost” approach to veterinary care — and the doctor assured us that, short of expensive surgery which he didn’t recommend anyway given how little Mama is, we could assume that, unless she regained her appetite, in all likelihood whatever was going on, that she was terminally ill.
With a sense of high stakes urgency, we tried feeding her with pureed food in syringes for several days, combined that effort with medicines for suppressing nausea and stimulating her appetite. No luck. Even with her reduced energy, Mama made it clear that she hated what was amounting to force feeding — even though she seemed very happy to sit in our laps and even was accepting of us picking her up.
Haunted by my words to her from even just a few weeks ago, I started saying “I love it that you are letting me pick you up now, but I sure didn’t want you to have to get sick in order for this to happen.”
“Smoke” no more: Little Mama lets me and Fran cuddle her in the final days of her too-short life. That’s Pete photobombing the picture of Fran & Mama.
A Blood Clot, an Oozing Eye, and the “Difficult Decision”
Then about nine days after she stopped eating on her own, we noticed that she had lost the use of one of her back legs. She was still ambulatory but dragged her back right leg behind her. One more visit to the vet and he said this was probably caused by a blood clot, which could have been the result of pancreatitis, or liver disease, or the her inflammation surrounding her heart. If we were lucky, it might resolve itself in a few days; if we were unlucky, she could even lose the use of another leg. The final verdict: if she didn’t regain the use of the leg in 48 hours or so, we should assume her time was limited.
We knew what that meant; we had euthanized beloved pets before, and knew that the calm, sedated process of “putting to sleep” was far preferable to the risk of a protracted natural death, filled with discomfort and suffering. But Mama was only about nine years old. At first, neither Fran nor I could admit to ourselves that this very young — and, until recently, completely healthy — cat that we both loved dearly was terminally ill.
So each day we would do what we could to take care of her, giving her food through syringes, watching with humble admiration as she continued to drink and use the litter box, moving slowly from one end of the house to the other, even with one leg no longer functioning.
Forty-eight hours came and went, and the leg didn’t get any better. She didn’t lose any of the other limbs, but we noticed that it was taking her longer to get around. She’d walk partway down the hall leading from the living room to the master bedroom, and then stop to rest.
Finally, we realized that the syringe feeding was making her miserable. We stopped giving her food, recognizing that this was basically putting her into hospice. We tried giving her food in a dish a few more times, but she showed no interest. She continued to let us pick her up, and she would purr when we petted her. But we also could see that she was uncomfortable. We didn’t want her to die, but we knew it was selfish not to make arrangements for her to be euthanized.
Fran asked me to make the call to the vet. “I just can’t do it,” she confessed. I wasn’t wild about it either, but I knew it needed to happen.
For her last few days, Mama would still walk around the house, breaking our hearts as she would move just a few feet and then have to rest. A viscous liquid that we thought was pus began to ooze from her eye — we learned to our horror from the vet that it was actually body fat, being excreted as she suffered the ravages of her self-induced starvation. We picked her up several times each of those last few days to wipe her eyes, give her some water via syringe, painkillers that the vet had provided, and — most important of all — simply to pet her and love her. She accepted it all (although she continued to resist the syringes). We loved how she would purr when we would pet her or pick her up, and tried to ignore the fact that cats are just as likely to purr when they are in distress as when they are content.
On the last day, Fran picked her up and held her and cried softly. Mama made no attempt to struggle and get out of Fran’s arms. She accepted being placed in the cat carrier, and entered the vets office with curiosity more than fear. We were both crying as the vet explained the simple process of sedating her and then overdosing her on barbituates once she was fully unconscious. We held her and stroked and told her we loved her until finally the vet announced she was gone.
It was Good Friday, the nineteenth day after that horrible Sunday when she kept throwing up. Three weeks earlier, we had no idea she was about to leave us. Now, we were just relieved that she was no longer suffering.
A Legacy of Love
I wrote about Little Mama in 2015, suggesting that in my efforts to “win her over” I had unwittingly placed myself in a position to learn a thing or two from her. Eight years later, as I faced the horror of her suddenly refusing to eat and rapidly declining to the point where euthanasia was the only humane option, I realized she was still teaching me.
What, in fact, was Little Mama’s legacy? Here are a few thoughts for your consideration:
Live (and Love) Well Today, For Tomorrow Is Uncertain — An indoor cat’s normal life expectancy is about 15-20 years, which means twenty days in a cat’s life is like three months in human time. I’ve known human beings who received a cancer diagnosis and they were gone three months later, so in the grand scheme of things, Mama’s sudden departure is simply a reminder that the future is always uncertain. “Tomorrow Never Knows,” as the Beatles put it. The takeaway for us: live as fully as you can in the present, for today just might be all we’ve got. I say that not to be morbid, but to be mindful: don’t delay love. Love now.
It’s Never Too Late To Take a Risk (Especially for Love) — Little Mama was a feral cat and always had a strong sense of self-protection and defensiveness. But over the arc of her too-short life, she grew in loving us, trusting us, letting us love and care for her. And when you consider that meant trusting two creatures that were 20 times as big as her (!), that’s saying something. Whether we are young or old, rich or poor, confident or frightened, we always have choices — and love always involves a measure of risk or trust. Even after she got sick, Mama kept taking the risk to love and to allow us to love her.
Love Doesn’t Have to Be Perfect To Be Beautiful and Meaningful — As long as she was healthy, she was “Smoke.” She became a lap cat, only to be “Needles.” Sure, Mama wasn’t the perfect cat (and I certainly wasn’t the perfect human, either!). But somehow we managed to love each other even in our imperfections. I could tell that Mama wanted to interact with me, even if she never could manage to just let me cuddle her — until she got sick, of course. Love will grow even in less than perfect conditions, if we let it, and if we nurture it as best we can. Mama did that, and she inspired me to do that as well.
Don’t Stop Trying (To Love, To Trust, or Just to Move With Dignity)— On her last day, Mama walked from one end of the house to the other, to get to the living area where Fran spends much of her waking time. She had to rest literally every few feet; it must have taken her close to half an hour to walk only about 100 feet or so (something in her prime she would done in just a few seconds), Fran, and I and even the other three cats watched her, with silent respect. Her dignity was amazing. Our vet said that we humans could learn a lot from the resilience of cats. I agree with him.
A Short Life Isn’t Tragic if it is a Life Filled with Love — Saint Ignatius suggests that one marker of spiritual maturity is that we stop investing our ego into being wealthy, or socially esteemed, or even having a long life rather than a shorter one. I confess, I have an idea in my mind that a longer life is better than a shorter one (which I suppose is a sign of how much I love my life, not necessarily a bad thing). For a cat to die at 9 is like a human dying in their early 50s — so Mama’s short life is similar in length to that of Thomas Merton, St. John of the Cross, or Caryll Houselander, three mystics I adore. Yes, their lives were too short, but they lived those short lives so well! And Little Mama lived her short life well, as well. Ignatius is right: it’s not the number of days we have, but the depth at which we live the days we are given, that ultimately determines the measure of the life. A life filled with love is a life lived well. May this be a fate we all share, no matter how short or long our earthly pilgrimage may be.
Rest in peace, Little Mama. We will miss you. But we also will carry your memory in our hearts forever.
2019: Our favorite picture of Little Mama. Fran took this photo where Mama appears to be impatiently waiting for one of us to pick up the can of cat food and feed her already!
Next month — May 2023 — marks the 650th anniversary of the visionary “showings” of the great 14th century English mystic, Julian of Norwich! To make the occasion, for the patrons of this blog I’m currently leading a course on the contemplative study of Julian of Norwich. Twice a month I publish PDF documents in which I offer my commentary on her writings, curate my favorite quotations of hers, and offer a spiritual exercise based on her wisdom. I also host a Zoom call, what I affectionately call a “contemplative salon” where patrons join me for some time devoted to silent prayer and then shared reflection on conversation on Julian’s Wisdom.
Last month, for one of the Zoom calls, I shared a list of some of my favorite books about Julian, along with a few I hadn’t read yet but that looked really promising. I promised the participants of that call that I would post the list of books online… so here it is. The first book in this list is the translation of Julian that we are currently reading (by Mirabai Starr). All the others are books that can help you to grow deeper in your own knowledge of, and appreciation for, this great but reclusive medieval mystic (if you don’t mind shopping at Amazon, the links take you to each book’s page there).
Julian of Norwich, The Showings(translated by Mirabai Starr)
A few disclaimers. I have not read some of these books, but the ones I haven’t read are either by authors I respect or they have been well reviewed online. A couple of the books (specifically Julian’s Gospel and Extant Texts and Translations) feature scholarly theories about Julian that may not be universally accepted among academics. I read Julian as a contemplative, not as an academic, and so I tend to prefer books about Julian that I find support my prayer life. But I encourage you to use your own common sense and discernment when choosing these or any books to read. Scholarship can really make an ancient text come alive, but it can also be its own little labyrinth of competing theories and speculation. Just something to keep in mind.
Finally, if you are interested in taking a closer look at what I have to say about Julian (both in written form and in recorded Zoom meetings), then I hope you will consider becoming a patron of this blog by joining Patreon. When I finish the Julian course, I’ll move on to another mystic to explore, but all my previous courses will remain available to patrons.
Friends, it is holy week, and I cannot think of a better guide to this most sacred week of the Christian liturgical year than Julian of Norwich.
Julian’s book of visionary writing, The Showings, is remarkable on multiple levels. Written about the same time as Geoffrey Chaucer was composing The Canterbury Tales, Julian has the distinction of being the first known woman to write a book in the English language (on any topic). Thankfully, her command of Middle English is lyrical and sensual, so her book flows with a graced rhythm and a decided earthy spirituality. She is considered one of the great mystics not only of medieval England, but of all time.
At first glance, Julian’s book can be challenging to 21st century readers. Conforming to the spirituality of her time, she is focused on the crucifixion of Jesus Christ as the supreme saving act of divine love — but far from being coy about the trauma surrounding the cross, Julian writes about it in explicit, almost gory detail. She goes into gruesome detail not for its own sake, but always in service of her theology and spirituality, which is grounded in love: so the death of Christ has meaning because it is an expression of God’s infinite love.
Fast forward to today; here we are in Holy Week, when Christians remember the events in the final days of the earthly life of Jesus of Nazareth, culminating in his horrific death on Good Friday (leading, of course, to the ultimate plot twist: the resurrection on Easter Sunday. But the gravitas of Good Friday is that no one at the time would have known that Jesus’s messy, painful death would lead to a triumph over death, “on the third day”). It has been customary for centuries for Christians to commemorate Jesus’s slow progression from his trial, where we was condemned to die, walking through the bustling streets of Jerusalem (now known as the via dolorosa, “the way of sorrows”) burdened by having to carry the very cross to which he would soon be nailed. After several falls and moments of comfort, eventually he and the soldiers tasked with executing him make their way to the hill just outside the city walls where he was crucified, culminating in his death and burial. The devotion recounting this traumatic process is known as the Stations of the Cross, so named because Catholic and catholic-friendly churches around the world contain fourteen plaques known as the “stations” each one marking another critical moment in the final hours of Jesus’s life.
Over the years, many people, including many saints, have written devotions to be prayed at the stations. Other Stations of the Cross devotionals have been created from the writings of great saints and mystics — including this beautiful devotional booklet that draws from the writings of Mother Julian: Stations of the Cross with Julian of Norwich.
Sheila Upjohn, a well-known authority on Julian, posted this video of Julian’s stations last year, and recently one of the patrons of this blog brought it to my attention. Here it is for your devotional use:
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!
Soul Food collects 18 essays by contemplative writers including Lerita Coleman Brown, Tilden Edwards, Gay Byron, Margaret Benefiel, Marcelle Martin, Elaine Voci and others. The essays cover a wide terrain, from the relationship between Centering Prayer, recovery and social justice; contemplative aging; silence in queer life; spiritual care for persons of color; rage and spirituality; group spiritual direction; and much more. My essay is called “God’s Pronouns” — it begins as an appreciation of Carmen Acevedo Butcher’s luminous new translation of Brother Lawrence, but from there I explore larger questions of how contemplative practice can give us insight into not only the question of gender in relation to God, but also a contemplative approach to solidarity with nonbinary and transgender persons.
The book is edited by Westina Matthews, Margaret Benefiel and Jackson Droney. It will be published in September 2023, but you can pre-order it now by clicking here.
So I got invited to be a beta-tester for Google’s new AI assistant called Bard. Yesterday I received an email from Google that said, in part:
Meet Bard, an early experiment by Google Because you’re a Google One member, we’d like to offer you the opportunity to be among the first to sign up for the new Bard experience and provide feedback. Think of Bard as your creative and helpful collaborator, here to bring your ideas to life using generative AI…
You might ask Bard to outline a blog post about summer mocktail recipes, draft a packing list for a weekend fishing and camping trip, or help you understand if lightning can strike the same place twice.
We can’t wait to hear how people start using Bard, but we also know that large language models will not always get it right. Input from a wide range of experts and users will help Bard improve.
It sounded like fun, so I signed up, and today I got an email that said “It’s your turn to try Bard.” So I did. I clicked through to Bard’s home page, agreed to the terms of service (noting tidbits like a warning not to use Bard for legal, medical or therapeutic advice), and then I was brought to a simple page where I was invited to enter a prompt, a question to pose so that Bard could show itself off.
I typed the following request in:
Help me to write a blog post about Buddhist-Christian interspiritual practice.
And here’s what Bard came up with… almost instantaneously:
Buddhist-Christian interspiritual practice is the practice of combining elements of both Buddhism and Christianity in one’s spiritual life. This can be done in a variety of ways, such as incorporating Buddhist meditation practices into one’s Christian prayer life, or studying Christian texts alongside Buddhist scriptures.
There are many reasons why someone might choose to pursue interspiritual practice. Some people find that both Buddhism and Christianity offer valuable insights into the human condition and the nature of reality. Others may be drawn to the complementary nature of the two traditions, which can provide a more holistic approach to spirituality.
Whatever the reason, interspiritual practice can be a rewarding and transformative experience. By combining the best of both worlds, it can help us to develop a deeper understanding of ourselves and our place in the universe.
Here are some tips for getting started with interspiritual practice:
Start by learning about both Buddhism and Christianity. The more you know about the two traditions, the better equipped you will be to integrate them into your own life. There are many resources available, both online and in libraries.
Explore different ways of combining the two traditions. There is no one right way to do interspiritual practice. Experiment with different methods and see what works best for you.
Be open to new experiences. Interspiritual practice can be a journey of discovery. Be open to learning new things and having new experiences.
Be patient. It takes time to develop a new spiritual practice. Don’t expect to see results overnight. Just keep practicing and you will eventually see the benefits.
Interspiritual practice can be a powerful tool for personal growth and transformation. If you are interested in exploring it further, I encourage you to do some research and find resources that can help you get started.
While it may not be the most innovative explanation of the topic, it is solid, informative, and helpful. I was impressed.
So, let’s see how Bard does with the mystics… I asked this question:
Write a blog post explaining why mysticism is an important dimension of Christian spirituality.
Once again, Bard took only a matter of seconds to generate this response:
Mysticism is an important dimension of Christian spirituality because it is the experience of direct contact with God. Mystics believe that they can experience God through prayer, meditation, and other spiritual practices. This experience can be transformative, leading to a deeper understanding of God and a more intimate relationship with Him.
Mysticism has been a part of Christianity since the early days of the church. The Bible contains many examples of mystics, such as Moses, Elijah, and Paul. These individuals had profound experiences of God that transformed their lives and the lives of others.
In the Middle Ages, mysticism flourished in Europe. Many monasteries and convents were founded by mystics, and their writings and teachings continue to influence Christian spirituality today.
In the 20th century, there was a renewed interest in mysticism. This was due in part to the work of scholars such as Evelyn Underhill and William James, who studied and wrote about mysticism. It was also due to the experiences of many people who sought out mystical experiences during times of crisis or upheaval.
Today, mysticism is still an important part of Christian spirituality. Many people continue to practice meditation, prayer, and other spiritual practices in order to experience God. These experiences can be transformative, leading to a deeper understanding of God and a more intimate relationship with Him.
If you are interested in learning more about mysticism, there are many resources available. You can read books, attend workshops, or talk to people who have had mystical experiences. You can also find many online resources, such as websites and blogs.
Mysticism is a personal journey, and there is no one right way to experience it. The important thing is to be open to the possibility of experiencing God and to be willing to put in the time and effort to grow in your spirituality.
No bullet points this time, and it certainly feels very general — but how specific can you get in a 300 word blog post? But it touches on the history of mysticism, the core practices, and the essential role that experience plays. Not bad.
I don’t think AI is going to make flesh and blood writers like myself obsolete; at least not yet! But it’s fascinating to see the facility for creating readable and useful prose, in literally just a few seconds.
But can AI deal with matters of conflict? For my third experiment (and the last one for tonight), I decided to spice things up a little bit:
Write a blog post to refute the objections of Christians who are opposed to Centering Prayer.
This time I timed Bard — it took all of 10 seconds to deliver this almost-500-word response, written in the first person no less!
Centering prayer is a form of prayer that is based on the idea of silently resting in the presence of God. It is a simple and effective way to connect with God on a deeper level. However, some Christians object to centering prayer, claiming that it is not biblical or that it is a form of meditation.
In this blog post, I will address some of the common objections to centering prayer and explain why I believe that these objections are unfounded.
Objection 1: Centering prayer is not biblical
Some Christians object to centering prayer because they believe that it is not biblical. They argue that there is no mention of centering prayer in the Bible and that it is a man-made invention.
However, there are many biblical passages that support the practice of centering prayer. For example, in the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus says, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” (Matthew 11:28) This passage suggests that one way to find rest and peace is to come into God’s presence.
Centering prayer is simply a way of doing that. It is a way of taking some time to quiet your mind and body and to simply be in God’s presence.
Objection 2: Centering prayer is a form of meditation
Some Christians object to centering prayer because they believe that it is a form of meditation. They argue that meditation is a form of idolatry and that it is a way of emptying your mind of God.
However, centering prayer is not a form of meditation in the same way that other forms of meditation are. In centering prayer, you are not trying to empty your mind of God. You are simply trying to quiet your mind and body and to open yourself up to God’s presence.
Centering prayer is a way of praying that is based on the idea of simply being in God’s presence. It is a simple and effective way to connect with God on a deeper level.
If you are interested in trying centering prayer, I encourage you to find a quiet place where you can sit or kneel comfortably. You can close your eyes or leave them open. Then, simply begin to focus on your breath. As you breathe in and out, bring your attention to the present moment. If your mind wanders, simply bring it back to your breath.
You can do centering prayer for as little as 5 minutes or as long as 20 minutes. There is no right or wrong way to do it. The important thing is that you simply take some time to be in God’s presence.
I believe that centering prayer is a valuable tool for Christians who want to deepen their relationship with God. If you are open to trying it, I encourage you to do so.
While I am not entirely happy with its description of Centering Prayer — Bard has completely ignored the 4-step method for Centering Prayer as developed by Thomas Keating and Contemplative Outreach, instead offering a simple practice of following the breath which has more in common with shamatha meditation than with The Cloud of Unknowing — overall I am still impressed with a very helpful brief article. The two objections it offers are, indeed, common criticisms put forth by Centering Prayer’s detractors (Bard could have also addressed the common complaint that Centering Prayer is “too eastern” or “too Catholic,” but for a short post that would focus on just two common criticisms, I think it’s chosen its content well.
So, is AI perfect? Absolutely not. Bard is still very much what Google is calling an “experiment.” In other words, it’s very much in a beta stage, and I’m sure it’s susceptible to making worse mistakes than just confusing Centering Prayer with shamatha. But I for 0ne am going to play with it some more, and I imagine it will be very helpful for a writer like me to do initial research on a topic and to get a broad overview of what is getting about a particular topic or area of research, especially online.
So how do we list Bard — or other AI tools — in a bibliography? Ah, the problems that our postmodern world presents to us.
One of the great joys of my work has been the opportunity to meet other writers, teachers, retreat leaders and spiritual directors who are also engaged in the heart-centered work of calling people into a deeper relationship with the Mystery-with-a-capital-M. And of the many wonderful people I have met in the contemplative community over the years, few have touched me as deeply as Mirabai Starr.
I first “met” Mirabai through her amazing and beautiful translations of mystical classics like The Interior Castleand The Dark Night of the Soul. When Mirabai came to Atlanta while promoting her book God of Love, we had the chance to connect through a mutual friend. We discovered a bond that truly made me think of her as a sister of the heart — for at that time, my wife Fran and I were parenting Rhiannon, who was terminally ill with kidney disease. She died not long after we met Mirabai, who herself was no stranger to the excruciating grief of losing a child, having suffered the death of her own daughter a few years earlier — a story she recounts in her memoir Caravan of No Despair. Nobody wants to bond over the loss of their children, but it’s a reality that some of us face, and those of us who walk down that harrowing road learn more than we ever could imagine about the landscape of loss, bereavement, and grief.
Fast forward to today, and I am so honored to share with you news that Mirabai, in partnership with her colleague Willow Brook, has put together a four-day online event that I believe will be a blessing to everyone — because grief, sooner or later, visits us all. Unfortunately, we live in a society that is often afraid of grieving, and too many people get caught up in myths or misinformation about this all-too-human reality. I’m pleased to invite you to participate in this free program, which is called Unraveling the Myths of Grief. It will take place online, over a four day period March 28 through 31, 2023 for an hour each day at 11 am Pacific time. You can trust that it’s led by these truly loving and wise women who intimately know the terrain through which they will guide you.
You may have been conditioned to judge yourself when certain feelings arise in the process of grieving any kind of loss, such as: emotional numbness, irritability, and exhaustion. These are natural and universal responses to shattering loss. We invite you to join us for a 4-day free online event, Unraveling the Myths of Grief, as we dispel the false notion that you are meant to “move on” from your loss and affirm that grief is a lifelong journey. While the landscape changes, and your capacity to carry your loss expands, your relationship with that which you have lost is ever-unfolding.
Unraveling the Myths of Griefwill leave you with a renewed sense of trust in your own authentic process, courage to reenter the stream of life with grief as a loving companion rather than a terrifying adversary and support you to discover the sacred wellspring at the heart of your loss. You can register for free at www.wildheart.space/griefmyths.
Whether you are currently meeting grief in the topography of your life, or know someone else who is grief’s companion, or simply recognize that sooner or later you will encounter this most human of experiences, this retreat is for you.
Now, just for fun: here’s a throwback picture from the 2016 Wild Goose Festival, the last time I saw Mirabai in person (hmmm, it’s been way too long). Fran took this picture of Mirabai, myself (yes, with short hair!) and a young Brandan Robertson (if you’re not familiar with him, he’s someone else well worth getting to know).
Mirabai Starr, Carl McColman, Brandan Robertson, at the 2016 Wild Goose Festival.
Once again, here’s the link to learn more about, and register for, Unraveling the Myths of Grief: www.wildheart.space/griefmyths.
KairaJewelLingo is a Dharma teacher who has a lifelong interest in blending spirituality and meditation with social justice. Having grown up in an ecumenical Christian community where families practiced a new kind of monasticism and worked with the poor, at the age of twenty-five she entered a Buddhist monastery in the Plum Village tradition and spent fifteen years living as a nun under the guidance of Zen Master Thich Nhat Hanh.
She received Lamp Transmission from Thich Nhat Hanh and became a Zen teacher in 2007, and is also a teacher in the Vipassana Insight lineage through Spirit Rock Meditation Center. Today she sees her work as a continuation of the Engaged Buddhism developed by Thich Nhat Hanh as well as the work of her parents, inspired by their stories and her dad’s work with Martin Luther King Jr. on desegregating the South.
In addition to writing We Were Made for These Times, she is also the editor of Thich Nhat Hanh’s Planting Seeds: Practicing Mindfulness with Children. Now based in New York, she teaches and leads retreats internationally, provides spiritual mentoring to groups, and interweaves art, play, nature, racial and earth justice, and embodied mindfulness practice in her teaching.
She especially feels called to share the Dharma with Black, Indigenous, and People of Color, as well as activists, educators, youth, artists, and families. Visit kairajewel.com to learn more.
Long before I moved to Georgia, I knew about Athens GA, as some of my favorite bands — like the B-52s and R.E.M. — hailed from this quirky little southern college town.
If you live in or near Athens, I hope you’ll join me on Thursday, March 16, 2023 when I venture from Atlanta to visit Friendship Presbyterian Church to give a talk on Celtic Spirituality, on the eve of St. Patrick’s Day! We won’t have any green beer (sorry!) but I do promise some poetry and stories and insights into the timeless wisdom of the great Celtic saints.
It will be an evening where we celebrate the spiritual wisdom of our Celtic ancestors! Celtic Christianity — the poetic and earth- positive spirituality of Scotland, Ireland, and Wales — has long been appreciated as one of the most beautiful expressions of faith in the western world. The Celts had a mystical sense of God’s abiding presence that was expressed through the veneration of holy wells and other sacred sites, stories of remarkable saints who lived in deep harmony with nature, and a profound spirituality with roots in the ancient wisdom of the desert mothers and fathers. Our time together will celebrate Celtic spirituality with stories of the ancient saints (like St. Patrick, St. Bridget and St. Columba of Iona) — and we will pay special attention to the Gaelic understanding of prayer and contemplation, which will bring us to a deeper appreciation of how God meets us “at the edge of waiting.”
This program is free (always cool), but they’ll pass the hat to offer a bit of love for my ministry. Pre-registration is requested, please download this PDF for more information and registration details.
Friends, I am heartbroken to report that my dear friend and mentor, Trappist monk and author Elias (Paul) Marechal, passed away last night at the age of 86. He had been suffering from a variety of health conditions in recent years, and recently embraced hospice care in the infirmary of his monastery in Conyers, Georgia.
Elias was the author of two books: Dancing Madly Backwardspublished under his secular name of Paul Marechal in 1982 and now out of print, and Tears of An Innocent God, published in 2015. Both books are poetic, lyrical reflections on the inner dynamics of the contemplative life. An interesting story links the two books: Tears grew out of a desire that Elias had to see Dancing be reissued in a new edition. He spoke to several editors and literary agents over the years, and learned that for publishers, reissuing old books in new editions is often a money-losing prospect. They encouraged him at first to write some new material so it could be an expanded new book; but a little bit of new material evolved into the point where the second book consists of almost entirely new writing. As good as Dancing Madly Backwards is, Tears of an Innocent God shines with the wisdom of an additional thirty years of living, much of it in monastic settings.
Tears of an Innocent God
I read Dancing Madly Backwards shortly after it first came out — I think I was drawn to it because the foreword was by an author I liked, Morton Kelsey. But the poetic, non-linear meditations that danced (pardon the pun) throughout the book grabbed me, and it became for me an example of meaningful and beautiful Christian mystical spirituality written by a living author. I’m the kind of person who is always getting new books so I’m also always selling or giving away old books I no longer need or want — but in almost 40 years, I never let go of my copy of Dancing Madly Backwards, which remains a treasure in my personal library.
I met Elias in 2005, when I began working for the monastery. Attending daily Mass, I was impressed by the lovely voice of this particular monk, who often would be tasked with reading one of the lessons. Then, at the Christmas party the monks hosted for their employees and volunteers, I had a chance to chat with Brother Elias. We found out we both were writers — at the time, most of my published books concerned pagan spirituality, so I was a little hesitant to admit this to him; but like so many monks I’ve met over the years, he responded to that fact not with judgment but with open-minded curiosity. Still, I wanted to steer the conversation in a different direction, so I asked him about his work.
“Well, I only have written one little book,” he replied modestly (Elias was one of the most humble and modest persons I have ever known); it came out many years ago and is now out of print; I’m sure you’ve never heard of it, it’s called Dancing Madly Backwards.”
Of course, I had heard of it, and effusively began to praise the book like a star-struck teenager. I don’t know who was more nonplussed: me, at meeting the author of I book I had loved for many years, or Elias, thrilled to discover that some random person at this party had actually read the book!
Dancing Madly Backwards
And thus began a wonderful friendship. Over the years Elias and I would go on to lead retreats together (our “Wisdom of the Christian Mystics” retreat was an annual event, interrupted only by the COVID-19 pandemic), share new writing with each other (last fall he sent me five new pieces he was developing for a hoped-for follow-up to Tears), but most of all, we were simply friends. It was always a joy to see him and spend time with him, and I am so incredibly thankful that we got to see each other several times even during the pandemic, after vaccinations made it less frightening for medically vulnerable people like him to be around others.
I’d like to write a paragraph or two about Elias’s life, but like so many Trappist monks, he wasn’t one to spend a lot of time talking about himself, so I only have bits and pieces to share with you. Still, I hope I can offer a few details to give you a sense of what a lovely and remarkable man he was. Paul Marechal was born in New Orleans, Louisiana on July 11, 1936; his father was a diplomat from Belgium so even from a young age he had a cosmopolitan sensibility — what nowadays we might call being a “third culture” kid. He had a near death experience as a boy when he almost drowned, and remained fascinated by research into NDEs his entire life. But it was as a freshman at Notre Dame University in the early 1950s that his spiritual life really kicked into gear. At the advice of one of his professors he visited the Grotto on the Notre Dame campus, where he spontaneously fell into a period of contemplative abandonment — what monks classically called excessus mentis; when he came back to ordinary consciousness, some 45 minutes or so had seemed to pass by in just a moment — he had to rush to get to his supper before the dining hall closed. Sharing his experience with a priest, he learned that it probably was an incidence of infused contemplation: a graced, entirely outside-our-control experience of nondual union with the mystery we call God. From then on, Elias was a mystic.
Like so many contemplatives of our age, he was nurtured not only by the Catholic faith he grew up in; for a number of years he was active in the Transcendental Meditation movement, attending a number of lengthy retreats and eventually reaching the point where he was training others to be T.M. teachers. Still, the beckoning call of mystical Christianity remained in his heart, and after working for some time as a high school teacher and testing his vocation at Gethsemani Abbey and Holy Cross Trappist Monastery in Berryville, Virginia, he found his way to Conyers, where the Monastery of the Holy Spirit became his home.
Elias had a very subtle (and at times wicked) sense of humor. As I mentioned before, he was truly a humble and modest person, but very warm and someone who valued friendship dearly. It was a joy working with him as a retreat leader and I learned so much from him. I’ll miss him dearly.
I also want to acknowledge that when Rhiannon died in 2014, two monks attended her funeral (it is customary for two, and only two, monks to attend the funeral of a friend of the monastery). The two who attended were Fr. Tom Francis Smith (who concelebrated the funeral mass) and Brother Elias. I have made many friends at the monastery, but it meant so very much to me that those two brothers were the ones who joined with us when we were saying good-bye to our daughter.
Here is an interview I conducted with Elias for the Encountering Silence podcast in 2018. This was before Elias became familiar with Zoom, so we conducted the interview at the monastery where I met with him at the guesthouse (this is why my co-hosts Cassidy and Kevin were not part of this particular episode).
Brother Elias Marechal, OCSO, date unknown (photo by Rosary Mangano).Brother Elias speaks with Carl McColman, 2016 (photo by Rosary Mangano)What a couple of goofballs (photo by Rosary Mangano)Elias and Fran McColman, circa 2016 (photo by Carl McColman).Elias and Carl at the Monastery, March 13, 2019. Photo by Fran McColman.
Rest in peace, Elias Marechal. Enjoy the unending light you are now immersed in.
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!
