I grew up in the suburbs, and gardening was not something my family devoted much time to. So when I got into elementary school and we had a class project of planting something — I think it was a bean or some other vegetable — I became fascinated with the mystery of life.
Each of the kids in my class a dixie cup filled with soil, into which we place our seed. We watered out little cup-gardens as the teacher instructed us, and then placed all the cups in the window sill so that the sunlight could do its bit.
Sure enough — within just a few days, little green proclamations of life were greeting us out of the cups. If I remember correctly, only one or two students had “duds.” The rest of us marveled at the miracle of life.
As far as I could tell, the entire affair was magic.
Over the years, I’ve done a little bit of gardening — not much, my wife has more of a green thumb than I do — and have taken care of a few houseplants along the way. I still feel a sense of awe when I see plants growing, thriving, blossoming, gracing our world and our lives with their beauty and silence.
The Fruit of the Spirit
Planting and growing metaphors abound in the spiritual life. Jesus, who lived among peasants and farmers in an agricultural society, told all sorts of plant-centric stories, from the parables of the sower to the workers in the vineyard. Sharing a new perspective or idea with somebody is planting a seed; inviting a person to make a commitment to the spiritual life is compared to harvesting.
Perhaps the most meaningful of plant metaphors comes when the Apostle Paul compares the characterisitics of a spiritual life — or of a life unconcerned with the Spirit — to “fruit.” He writes in Galatians 5:22-3:
The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. There is no law against such things.
Here’s something I need to keep reminding myself: cultivating the fruit of the spirit is like cultivating any other plant or crop. I am asked to be a good “gardener” — plant the seeds, water the soil, remove the weeds. It’s a big and important job. But I am responsible for actually making the plant grow.
Planting a “Dream”
I suppose I am like many Americans — I have a “can-do” approach to life. As the child of the post-World War II white middle class, I was taught that the world was my oyster and that if I applied myself, worked hard, with a lot of perspiration and a little bit of luck I could achieve almost any goal. Over the years I have come to see that this — the myth of the American Dream — doesn’t always pan out, and if you’re not white, middle class or higher, male, straight, and/or Christian, the “dream” becomes far less attainable.
But even while I have learned to be more cynical about the map to success that I was shown as a child, I recognize that it still influences much about how I conduct my life. Including my spiritual life.
You see, the shadow side of the American Dream is this idea that your success (or failure) is all up to you. You decide if you’re going to be a millionaire or a hobo. Sure, I know on a rational level that’s simply not true, but deep down inside, it still impacts how I make choices.
Including my spiritual choices.
So there is this idea that if I want to be a Christian, or a holy person, or an enlightened person, or a mystic — it’s all up to me. I get to choose, and I have to do what it takes to reach the goal.
Do you see what’s wrong with this picture?
Trusting the Blessings
If I apply the mentality of the American Dream to my spiritual, then everything becomes my responsibility, and my responsibility alone. The fruit of the spirit? If I want such fruit, I have to make it grow.
But that’s not how gardening works, now, is it?
The ingredient that is so important, and that apparently many of us have difficulty with, is trust. In order to harvest the fruit of the spirit, we have to be good gardeners, which includes not only doing all we need to do the support the fruit, but also trusting in God — who is the only one who makes the plants grow and the fruit to manifest.
In the spiritual life, what do we do to “cultivate” our “garden”? We invest our energy into learning the stories of faith, we immerse ourselves in a faith community, and — most relevant of all to followers of the contemplative way — we embrace silence, and stillness, and prayer that is basted in meditation and wordless waiting.
So we do all these things — and then we trust. From here on out, it’s God’s job to make the fruit appear.
There is a dance to the spiritual life. We do the things we need to do, to grow spiritually, to mature in our faith, and hopefully to be prepared to receive the graces of infused contemplation or even profound illumination.
And then… we wait. And we trust. And we recognize that the outcome of it all, being in God’s hands, may not look anything like what we envisioned.
That’s a bitter pill for us “can-do” types to swallow. And yet it carries a beautiful invitation: an invitation to trust. To rest in Divine mercy. To discover that our destiny is not all “up to us.” The spiritual life is a partnership: between you… and Love-with-a-capital-L. Love who is conscious. Love, who loves.
I’ve been thinking about the relationship between contemplation and creativity.
This is inspired in part by the many contemplatives who are also artists. We see this in the past — think of William Blake, or Johann Sebastian Bach, or of course poets like John of the Cross and Thomas Merton. It often seems that a contemplative personality or philosophy goes hand in hand with a gift for one more forms of creative expression.
Evelyn Underhill certainly understood this. She writes in her brilliant book Mysticism about the essential relatedness of art and spirituality. She writes,
Mysticism, the most romantic of adventures, from one point of view the art of arts, their source and also their end, finds naturally enough its closest correspondences in the most purely artistic and most deeply significant of all forms of expression.
Underhill very much had a neo-Platonic world-view: God is the fountain and source of all goodness, truth, and beauty; therefore any art that deserves the name must in some way be drawing its meaning and splendor and value from this Divine fountain — even if the artist is an atheist. Mysticism, “the art of arts” simply represents those individuals who most fully and consciously are immersed in that sacred source. An artist, to Underhill, was a “partial mystic” — someone who became immersed in the Divine for the purpose of expression or creativity.
A century later, I think we can be a bit less chauvinistic than Underhill and celebrate art and mysticism — contemplation and creativity — not in a hierarchical way, quibbling over which is the “higher,” but rather acknowledging that they both reach deep into the heart of God to bring inspiration, purpose, vocation, and expression into the life of mortals. The pure contemplative is rather like Mary, perpetually rapt at the feet of Christ, whereas the pure artist is rather like Martha, no less in relationship with the Lord but living that relationship in terms of outward creative expression.
But, of course, the “pure Mary” and the “pure Martha” don’t really exist, do they? We are all part-Mary and part Martha. Therefore, it seems to me, to be a contemplative means to be a creative — and vice versa.
Sure, I suppose one could aspire to be an artist without any regard for the elements of contemplation: patience, wonder, silence, waiting, unknowing, embracing the mystery — but I honestly wonder how long this person’s creative fires will burn. It seems to me that art without contemplation would quickly devolve into mere (and uninspired) craftsmanship.
On the other hand, one could be so inspired by a pure vision of seeking Divine Union that any effort to express that vision would be seen as a waste of time. But this sounds like disregarding “love your neighbor” in an effort to more fully “love God” — a misguided, even if well-intended, project. For God calls us to both expressions of love: we love God, in part, precisely by loving our neighbors. And one of the ways we love our neighbors is by communicating with them. And art, at its heart, is communication.
Incidentally, this also applies to art created purely for self-understanding or insight: keeping a private journal, for example. Remember, we are to love our neighbors as ourselves. When I create something, even only as an expression of self-care, I am simultaneously exercising love for God.
In our time, we have a number of contemplative poets, writers and artists who in different ways explore the nexus between mysticism and creativity. Mary Oliver, James Behrens, Julia Cameron, Christine Valters Paintner, and Patrick Shen leap to mind. Each one knows that the very practices we need to cultivate a contemplative heart are, at the same time, essential practices for cultivating creativity. If you want to be an artist, do the work of being contemplative. And vice versa.
Jacob Nordby, in his delightful book Blessed Are the Weird: A Manifesto for Creatives, includes “mystics” in his categories of weird creative folks. He writes, “Most painters, writers, poets, troubadours, misfits and heretics are mystics to some degree. The act of creation is mystical and we often cannot explain exactly how inspiration comes to us.”
One last thought. I do think there is a danger in seeing either artistry or contemplation in instrumental ways — in other words, “I will practice contemplative silence in order to become a better artist” or so forth. Sure, the practices of contemplation are tools every artist could benefit from — but contemplation is its own end, never a means to another. I think you could say the same thing of art. We are all part Mary and part Martha — let us avoid the temptation of seeing one sister as the servant of the other. Each has her own dignity and purpose, independent of the other. And yet they are sisters: each nurtures the other as well.
For years, I have thought that one of the best ways to understand Christian spirituality is by the study of shamanistic forms of spirituality and religion, typically found among indigenous cultures the world over.
Wikipedia defines shamanism as “reaching altered states of consciousness in order to perceive and interact with what [shamans] believe to be a spirit world and channel these transcendental energies into this world.”
Altered states of consciousness? From Jesus’s transfiguration to Paul’s vision of the “third heaven” all the way down to Thomas Merton’s streetcorner epiphany, shifts in human knowing and seeing have always been a part of mature, contemplative Christianity.
“The spirit world” for Christian mystics doesn’t involve power animals or trance states, but it does engage with angels (and demons) — and often does imply that the mystic can bring such “transcendental” (angelic) energies into earthly life.
Jesus’s forty days in the desert? Shamanistically speaking, it was his initiation; his vision quest. His death and resurrection? Dying and rebirth is a common archetypal passage in many shamanistic cultures.
Like shamans, Jesus was a healer, a prophet, and a visionary.
Following Christ, many of the great mystics — from Julian of Norwich and Meister Eckhart, to Teresa of Ávila and Hildegard of Bingen — seem to have embodied the same kind of “non-ordinary” consciousness and capacity for entering into magical/imaginal dimensions of consciousness, similar to what has been found among indigenous healers and soothsayers the world over.
In his wonderful books The Priest In Community and Ministry and Imagination, the Episcopalian theologian Urban T. Holmes suggested that the archetype of “the shaman” is one of the most meaningful ways of understanding the spirituality of the priesthood.
I’ll see him his shamanistic priesthood and up the ante: I would suggest that shamanism is not only the key to priestly ministry, but indeed the key to baptismal ministry.
All the baptized — all those called into the body of Christ through the ministry of the sacraments — are called to be “walkers between the worlds.” We are called to be ambassadors to the spirit realm. We are called to bring the grace of God — mediated to us by the angels — to each other, here on earth.
Thinking Poetically, Metaphorically
I know some people, many people, may struggle to see what I’m describing here. How could Christ — or the mystics — be compared to shamans? They didn’t engage in magical practices like soul retrieval or divination; they didn’t rely on entheogens like peyote or ayahuasca to facilitate their visionary experiences. Nor did they engage with power animals as their spirit totems or guides.
But when I compare Christian mysticism or contemplative spirituality to shamanism, I invite you to join with me in seeing this as a poetic, metaphorical comparison. It’s not meant to be understood in a kind of linear, calibrated correlation. Rather, what I have sensed on an intuitive level, for many years now, is that elements of mystical Christianity function in the lives of Christians in a way that is poetically similar (not identical, not even necessarily correlatable) to how elements of shamanistic spirituality function in the lives of indigenous visionaries and healers.
Today, I was chatting on the phone with my good friend and Encountering Silence co-host Kevin Johnson, and we were talking about how shamanism can be a meaningful tool for trying to understand the visionary heart of contemplative Christianity.
As we were talking, I had the following insight:
So many people who have embraced shamanistic spirituality have found a meaningful practice in meditation or guided visualization to the accompaniment of a steady drumbeat. Indeed, the steady beat has a slightly hypnotic effect on practitioners, helping to entrain their brainwaves into a relaxed or even dreamlike state of “theta wave” consciousness (theta brainwaves being the normal level of brain activity accompanying dreams and deep, silent meditation).
Shamanic drumming has not been a regular part of Christian spirituality, of course. But my insight is this: Christian contemplatives and mystics have embraced a slowing-down of brain activity using a different kind of rhythm: the rhythm of fixed-hour prayer, of daily liturgy, of the Divine Office. In regularly chanting psalms and canticles, and revisiting key texts like the Benedictus, the Magnificat, and the Nunc Dimittis, the monastic contemplatives of much of Christian history have engaged in a slow but inexorable “rhythm” of prayer, chant, and silence, that over time served to induce a subtle state of relaxation and engagement with interior silence.
If mystical Christianity is shamanistic, then the Divine Office is the drum. And in the rhythms of daily prayer, the supplicant for the mysteries of God becomes available to the wisdom that is encoded only in silence.
So the next time you pray morning or evening prayer or one of the other liturgical offices, try not to be too engaged with “what the words mean.” Instead, simply allow the cadences and rhythms of the words you are reciting (or chanting) to wash over you. Those cadences and rhythms are entraining you to be more responsive to the silence that is already found within you. In that silence, at a level far beyond words, the wisdom of God speaks silently to you. The slow “beat” of the liturgy helps you to listen, at a level deeper than words.
This is turning out to be “James Ishmael Ford” week at my blog. Earlier this week I posted a review of his new book, Introduction to Zen Koans. Check it out if you haven’t done so already.
One of the reasons I like his writing so much is that he is a Zen roshi who warmly supports Christians who embrace zazen. We need more folks like him.
It is that lovely nondual Christianity… that is popping up here and there that I find resonates. And. All I have to do is go to any Christian church for a Sunday service to recall this is an aberrant form of that tradition.[1]
His first point — that nondual (mystical/contemplative) Christianity resonates with his experience as a Zen Buddhist — is something I experience as well, only the other way around. But his second point — that nondual Christianity is “aberrant” — I must take issue with.
Granted, very few Christians have any sense of the mystical or contemplative heart of our spirituality. But that doesn’t make it aberrant. That just is evidence of how broken the body of Christ is.
So it’s no surprise that Ford never or rarely finds a whiff of authentic mysticism in a Sunday morning church service — and my hunch is, that’s true whether he was attending a Catholic, mainline Protestant or evangelical service.
(Generally speaking, Eastern Orthodox Christians have done the best job at preserving the mystical heart of Sunday worship, but most Orthodox churches in America have such strong cultural identities — Greek, Russian, etc. — that it’s hard for outsiders to find a place there.)
And, to be honest, I can’t blame him for saying “No, thank you, I’d rather be a Unitarian Buddhist.” That’s quite a reasonable choice to make.
So the interesting question is: why, given how impoverished contemporary Christianity is in relation to its own mystical treasury, do some of us choose to stay? In other words, why haven’t I — and numerous other Christian contemplative students and practitioners — why haven’t we abandoned the church, in search of a community where contemplation isn’t so absent from the mainstream?
It’s really the same question that many of us Catholics are wrestling with right now, in the wake of the recent Pennsylvania Grand Jury Report about clergy sex abuse — the latest sobering reminder that the Catholic hierarchy has, for decades now, put the reputation of the institution ahead of caring for its most vulnerable members. Why stay in such a profoundly broken institution?
The Truth of Christianity (a Postmodern Digression)
I suppose I could talk about truth — Ford suggests that, at the end of the day, Buddhism simply strikes him as more “true” than Christianity. I could say the same thing about my experience of Christianity. The problem that I run into with that approach is that, the deeper I get into my contemplative practice, the more I see all religious and wisdom traditions as essentially complex mythical narratives, designed to create meaning and cultural identity and to give adherents a sense of their place in the cosmos and their responsibilities both to one another and to the cosmos (or to the mystery that Christians call “God”).
In other words: contemplation takes us to the same place where postmodern philosophy goes: a place where “truth claims” begin to ring hollow, because they all are embedded in specific cultural or historical biases. Not that there is no such thing as truth, mind you. But humbly recognizing that all human efforts to proclaim truth are limited, contingent, and provisional.
Here’s my point: language can never reveal ultimate truth. Language by its nature is dualistic, and if we believe truth both precedes and transcends all dualities, then language just gets in the way.
So for me to say that Christianity feels more “true” to me than Buddhism is simply to acknowledge that I am personally deeply immersed in the Christian story, I find beauty and meaning in the Christian story, and that I love the Christian story, all of which is true — but none of which goes very far in anchoring me (or anyone else) in “truth,” particularly in any kind of objective or universal/modernist sense.
There are voices in the Jewish tradition that do a very good job of pointing out that what you believe about God is far less important than how you put your faith into action. Frankly, I’d like to see that perspective more widely embraced within Christianity. Is Christianity true? I think the answer to that question is found in the lives of the saints, far more so than in any kind of dogmatic declaration or theological treatise.
But I digress.
Why Stay in an Imperfect Church?
Back to the central question: why do I stay? Why should anyone stay?
I said above that I love the Christian story, but let me clarify that. I love Jesus. I fell in love with him when I took a New Testament course my senior year in college, and I’ve been in love with him ever since. I have no idea how much of his story is historical and how much is mythical, but at this point I don’t think it really matters, at least not to me. What matters is how the experience of loving Christ (which begins with the experience of being loved by Christ) makes a difference in my life.
I should hasten to add that I think the Buddha is pretty awesome too. But Jesus got to my heart first, which is probably the single biggest reason why I’m a Christian-interested-in-Buddhism rather than the other way around.
Part of loving Christ means wanting to be in relationship with him. Which means — at least in a spiritual sense — wanting to follow him, to listen to him, to wrestle with his teachings, and then to accompany him over the difficult parts of his story — including waiting with him at the foot of the cross.
In the story of the crucifixion, most of Jesus’s friends did not hang around at the foot of the cross. Most of them couldn’t handle seeing his broken, crucified body, and hearing him gasp for breath as he slowly died. Most just simply disappeared.
John stayed. Mary and several other women stayed. But the rest skipped out.
Now, it might be tempting to laud John and the women, and to get all judgmental toward Peter and Matthew and James and all the others. But that would be to royally miss the point.
Because Peter and James and all the other disciples who abandoned Jesus on the cross still became saints.
It seems that when it came to the crucifixion, some people had to leave. Others had to stay. It’s not about who’s right and who’s wrong. It’s just that each person did what he or she had to do.
Waiting with the Crucified Body
Now, back to Christianity today. Christians call the church “the body of Christ.” So whenever you attend a local Sunday morning worship service, you are checking in with the body of Christ.
And guess what? The body is still being crucified — by its own mistakes, its own sin, its own instititutionalism, its own amnesia regarding its mystical and contemplative heart.
It is, frankly, painful how broken the body is. It’s painful to see, and painful to be present to it.
Some of us choose to stay with the crucified body. Many others need to leave. That’s okay. If Peter and James could become saints after abandoning Christ, then so can anyone living today. No judgement.
But it’s a mistake to say that the contemplative or nondual heart of Christian spirituality is aberrant. That’s just not true. What is aberrant is the broken body that unfortunately is all many people ever experience of the church.
Why do we stay? Like the women, we want to anoint the body before it gets placed in the tomb. And then we will wait, trusting in the Spirit who always brings new life.
After all, contemplation is, on one level, just a fancy word for “waiting.”
N.B. The image of waiting at (or leaving) the foot of the cross as a metaphor for staying in or leaving the church today was inspired by a talk given by Fr. Gerald McGlone, SJ, at St. Thomas More Catholic Church in Decatur, GA on September 30, 2018, called “Separating Fact from Fiction in the Sexual Abuse Crisis.” It’s well worth listening to. You can find an audio recording of the talk by clicking here.
[1]Update 10/14/18: After reading this post, Ford edited the paragraph that I quoted above, changing the last sentence to read: “All I have to do is go to any Christian church for a Sunday service to recall this nondual approach, while perhaps the true heart of the tradition, is also not normative.”
A reader, who identifies as a contemplative/mystical Christian, posted this question to me on Facebook:
Carl….when I meditate/contemplative prayer…can I use a mantra such as-OM or Hare Krishna or something similar?
It’s a great question, and the short answer is, it depends.
Some Christians are allergic to the very idea of a mantra. They see it as the importation of a “foreign” (non-Christian) practice, an adulteration or impurity that God will reject in anger.
That “God” is neither one I believe in or I experience, but for those who are particularly drawn to the more tribalistic passages in the Bible, this can very much define their faith.
Language can be found throughout the Bible that describes God as wrathful toward those who worship other gods, as a jealous god, as one who punishes not only sinners, but their children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Consider this little gem from the Exodus version of the 10 Commandments:
You shall not bow down to them or worship (other gods); for 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… (Exodus 20:5)
People who take the Bible literally are more likely to have an image of God shaped by this kind of language: a tribal God of reward and punishment, who reacts with fury at any hint of spiritual infidelity.
But it’s not the only image of God found in the Bible, and certainly not the only image of God found in Jewish or Christian history.
There is also the God who loves justice and mercy, who is the very embodiment of Love (with a capital L), who stresses compassion and hospitality above purity and partisan identity. Consider these verses:
He has told you, O mortal, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God? (Micah 6:8)
and
God is love, and those who abide in love abide in God, and God abides in them. Love has been perfected among us in this: that we may have boldness on the day of judgment, because as he is, so are we in this world.There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear; for fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not reached perfection in love. We love because he first loved us. (I John 4:16-19)
But let’s be clear: just a few verses earlier (I John 4:3) the author writes, “every spirit that does not confess Jesus is not from God.” So, once again, those who read the Bible in a literalist way are more likely to relate to other religions through fear, rather than through the love which casts out fear.
It really boils down to your image of God:
Is your image of God primarily shaped by power, limits, and control — in other words, do you see God as an authoritarian, patriarchal figure who establishes order by punishing those who transgress the limits he sets?
Or do you see God primarily as a profound mystery, Love and mercy in sentient form, the one who continually creates, saves, redeems, heals and guides all people of good will, urging us toward lives shaped by mercy, compassion, hospitality, kindness, and joyful hope?
And then the next set of questions to ask: regardless of your image of God, which of these approaches to spiritually appeal more to you:
Do you feel it is important for your spiritual practice to consist exclusively of historical Christian practices?
Or do you feel called to explore a spirituality that is more universal in scope, grounded in Christianity-in-dialogue-with-other-faiths?
Generally speaking, if you answer “yes” to the first question in each of these sets of questions, I would encourage you to avoid non-Christian mantras, since using one would just cause you internal conflict. But if you find you are more likely to say “yes” to each of the second questions, then you might find such a mantra to be very meaningful.
Mantra ( मन्त्र) is a Sanskrit word that literally means “instrument of thought.” I would encourage anyone interested in mantras to spend a few minutes reading the Wikipedia entry on “Mantra” — it becomes evident in a hurry that mantras take many different forms across world religious traditions, and have different functions in spiritual practice. Some mantras are meaningless words, that are used in meditation to give the discursive mind something to play with while the meditator seeks to settle the mind into silence. But others — like the two examples my reader gave, OM and Hare Krishna — do carry meaning.
I think the simplest way to understand a mantra is this: it is a word, phrase, or utterance that is used as a means to gently focus one’s attention during meditation. In this sense, it has an obvious parallel in repetitive forms of Christian prayer, including the Jesus Prayer/Prayer of the Heart, Centering Prayer, and even the Rosary. In Centering Prayer, the meditative word is called a “prayer word” rather than a mantra, which I suppose is helpful as a subtle reminder that in a Christian sense, the exercise is prayer (communication with God) and not just an exercise in awareness or concentration.
Now, let’s look at OM and Hare Krishna specifically.
“OM,” (ॐ) also rendered “aum,” according to Wikipedia…
…is a sacred sound and a spiritual symbol in Hinduism, that signifies the essence of the ultimate reality, consciousness or Atman… the meaning and connotations of Om vary between the diverse schools within and across the various traditions. In Hinduism, Om is one of the most important spiritual symbols. It refers to Atman (soul, self within) and Brahman (ultimate reality, entirety of the universe, truth, divine, supreme spirit, cosmic principles, knowledge)… It is a sacred spiritual incantation made before and during the recitation of spiritual texts, during puja and private prayers, in ceremonies of rites of passages (sanskara) such as weddings, and sometimes during meditative and spiritual activities such as Yoga.
Some spiritual teachers suggest that “om” shows up in English words like “home” or “omni-” suggesting it is as big as the universe and as intimate as our hearts. I’ve also heard it suggested that “amen” is related to “om.” Since English is an Indo-European language, I suppose it’s possible, but I don’t know that there is solid evidence to support this; still, it makes for a nice idea.
So can a Christian recite ॐ during meditation? I don’t see any reason why not. The word’s meaning has more philosophical than theological content. And anyone interested in fruitful interreligious or interspiritual exploration between Christianity and Hinduism (see the writings of Ramon Panikkar or Francis X. Clooney I’ve listed below), might find this a rich word to use in their prayer or meditation.
Hare Krishna is actually the beginning of a 16-word mantra: (Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Hare Hare, Krishna Krishna, Hara Rama, Hare Rama, Hare Hare, Rama Rama) “Hare,” “Krishna,” and “Rama” are all names of Hindu deities. Once again, different interpretations exist as to the meaning of these names, particularly Hare.
So this mantra has more theological content, in contrast to the philosophical OM. Which means that some Christians might feel less comfortable using this mantra: now you are in the arena of invoking deities from another faith.
But others may see all the names of all the gods as pointing to the one nameless mystery, and may find it culturally meaningful to approach the one-who-cann0t-be-named using names from a tradition other than the faith of their upbringing.
Why Use a Mantra?
It seems to me that mantras (or prayer words) have multiple purposes. As “instruments of thought,” they are tools for occupying our endless capacity for thinking — which enables the heart of our awareness to open up into the silence to which God calls us (“be still and know that I am God;” “the Lord is in his holy temple; let all the earth keep silence before him”).
But whenever a mantra or prayer word has meaning — whether abstract and philosophical like OM or more devotional like Hare Krishna or Jesus, mercy — then in addition to distracting the thinking-mind to allow attentiveness to silence, the word or phrase also functions like a spiritual vitamin: its meaning is repeatedly “spoken into” consciousness, which means we are basically entraining our mind accordingly.
Repeat the word “Love” in your mind for thousands of times over the months or years, and you are gently “programming” your mental computer to be oriented to love.
Same goes for any other prayer word or mantra.
Even though in the act of contemplation / meditation / centering prayer itself you are placing your attention on silence, the prayer word is still resonating in the background. So over time, it will undoubtedly shape how you structure your thinking.
People in recovery (alcoholics anonymous, etc.) talk about “stinking thinking” — the kinds of thoughts that breed anxiety, fear, resentment, judgment, low-self-esteem, arrogance, and so forth. But there’s an alternative to stinking thinking: graceful thinking, thoughts of love, compassion, mercy, forgiveness, generosity, reconciliation, peace, joy, hope. If stinking thinking makes us more vulnerable to substance abuse, then logically doesn’t graceful thinking fortify us to live a more healthy and integrated spiritual life?
So I think it does matter which mantra or prayer word we choose. Whether or not you choose a word (or name of a god) that comes from Sanskrit, or Hebrew, or whatever language, to me matters less than what that word or concept or name means to you: does it open your heart and mind to the mystery of love, of joy, of peace, of the other fruits and gifts of the Spirit? I would encourage you to entrain your meditative mind to a word that says “yes” to Divine grace in a real and loving way.
For Further Reading
If you want to learn more about mantras from an interspiritual (and Christian-friendly) perspective, check out Eknath Easwaren’s wonderful little book The Mantram Handbook: A Practical Guide to Choosing Your Mantram and Calming Your Mind. Spoiler alert: he recommends Christians stick with the name “Jesus,” since that is the name that has the most spiritual resonance and meaning for most Christians.
Finally, no discussion of Christian/Hindu interfaith dialogue would be complete without mentioning Bede Griffiths (The Marriage of East and West), Sara Grant (Toward an Alternative Theology), or Abhishiktananda (Prayer), all of whom were European Catholics who moved to India to explore this rich opportunity for interreligious dialogue.
A reader of this blog wrote to me about the practice of silent prayer. He alluded to a comment I made in an interview where I talked about allowing my breath to be my “prayer word” — in other words, instead of focussing my attention by silently repeating a single word (as promoted by The Cloud of Unknowing and Centering Prayer), I allow the normal rhythm of my breathing to be that gentle focal point for my attention. So with that in mind, here is the reader’s questions:
1. Do you continually focus on breath (outside infused contemplation of course)?
2. So one can practice more than one type? I ask because I wonder whether doing a concentrative type is helpful too esp when trying to be mindful on say the breath during the day. I do martial arts so something like focusing on the breath would help whereas I would do Maranatha Meditation for prayer (or Jesus Prayer).
I’ll begin with your second question. Christian spiritual practices are different in some ways from other contemplative traditions, like various schools of Buddhism. I think it’s common in eastern spiritual traditions to have a more structured discipline of meditation — in other words, more of an emphasis on following the instructions of your teacher, and of keeping a consistent practice — one specific technique of meditation, or not changing the mantra, that sort of thing.
In the Christian tradition, an emphasis on structure is found more in the liturgy than in individual prayer or meditation practice. There’s a “right way” to pray the Daily Office, which is usually done in a community setting. But when it comes to private practices, like lectio divina or various forms of “mental” or contemplative prayer, there seems to be more latitude.
As one of my monastic teachers was fond of saying, “pray as you can — not as you can’t.”
It’s Okay to Pray in Different Ways
So that said, I know of no Christian teacher of prayer or meditation who requires his or her students to only practice one type of prayer. I myself am regularly engaging in both silent/apophatic/”centering” forms of prayer, but also more content-rich, imaginative, “Ignatian” exercises. Of course, I’m a Lay Cistercian who works for the Jesuits, so naturally both of these approaches to prayer are a big part of my world!
And the more I think of it, even in the eastern world students of meditation will learn a variety of techniques or practices. Shamatha and vipassana are fundamentally different types of meditation: shamatha is a “calm abiding” or relaxed-awareness meditation, while vipassana means “insight” or clear seeing. While a student might be expected to follow the instructions of his teacher or guru, there is still the possibility of practicing more than one type of meditation.
Back to Christianity: yes, it’s possible to engage in different types of prayer or meditation. Whether it is useful to do so is another question, and since everyone is different and everyone has different needs or concerns at different points in life, it’s impossible to address that issue through a blog post. This is why having a spiritual companion or spiritual director is so valuable. Being able to discuss our unique needs and challenges with a trusted guide is really essential for a maturing spiritual life.
The Breath and the Awareness in Silent Prayer
Now, about focussing on the breath. Centering prayer, as a practice, involves using a repeated prayer word to calm and focus our attention — but there is a recognition that sometimes, the prayer word will “fall away” and the person who is praying will simply rest in the silence of the Divine Presence.
Clearly, our breath does not “fall away.” But I think it is possible that our attention on our breath might open up to a more subtle, more gentle resting in a non-focussed awareness of silence and presence. We still our breathing, of course; but our awareness is not focussed on the breath.
In my experience, such graced moments of n0n-focussed awareness seem timeless, so it’s hard to say how long they last. A few seconds? Maybe longer? I’m sure it varies. But what usually happens in my prayer is that eventually my “inner commentator” will chime in, usually with some variation of “Isn’t this wonderful!?!”
And at that point, I realize that I am distracted, and so I return to resting my attention on my breath.
My reader alludes to “infused contemplation.” I think the point here is that such opening-up moments really are graced, or “infused” — they are a gift of the Spirit, not something we can engineer for ourselves. Such moments are shaped by radical self-forgetfulness, which is like falling asleep: it’s not something we make happen, only something we can allow to happen.
What’s your view on the phenomenon of spiritual ecstasy? I used to think, before I experienced it, that it was a surge of positive emotion, rather like joy. Experienced in the body. Actually, in my experience spiritual ecstasy takes place in silence, in stillness, and in the spirit rather than the body. It is an internal experience. Do you have a view?
That’s a great question, and I’m afraid I can only speak from my own admittedly limited experience, as well as my sense of what some of the great mystics had to say.
And the first thing I would say: it’s a mystery.
What I mean by this: so much of what we might call mystical and spiritual phenomena simply cannot be put into words… which is to say, how can we ever truly know if your “ecstasy” is even remotely like what I call “ecstasy”?!
Evelyn Underhill has this to say:
All mystics agree in regarding such ecstasy as an exceptionally favourable state; the one in which man’s spirit is caught up to the most immediate union with the divine. The word has become a synonym for joyous exaltation, for the inebriation of the Infinite. The induced ecstasies of the Dionysian mysteries, the metaphysical raptures of the Neoplatonists, the voluntary or involuntary trance of Indian mystics and Christian saints— all these, however widely they may differ in transcendental value, agree in claiming such value, in declaring that this change in the quality of consciousness brought with it a valid and ineffable apprehension of the Real. Clearly, this apprehension will vary in quality and content with the place of the subject in the spiritual scale. The ecstasy is merely the psycho-physical condition which accompanies it. — Mysticism, pp. 358-359
She goes on to suggest that, physically speaking, ecstasy is the same thing as a trance.
What is Ecstasy?
So what is it? A surge of positive feelings? A deep internal experience of silence and stillness? Being caught up in Divine Union? A trance? Or even an out-of-body experience? (the word comes from the Greek ekstasis, from an Indo-European which literally means “to stand out” — as in out-from-the-body. That brings to mind another Latin phrase that medieval monks used to bandy about: excessus mentis, or literally “exceeding the mind” — the idea of a mystical ecstasy involving a higher consciousness that takes a person beyond him- or herself.
For me, my prayer tends to be very grounded — no out-of-body experiences, no sense of my mind somehow going beyond itself. That’s not to say that I don’t have moments of deep peace, indescribable joy, and awe-inspiring encounters with silence — or with Silence, with Love, with the Mystery. But as I get older, my prayer seems to be more — well, grounded. I don’t know if that’s because I’m maturing in my spiritual life, or if I’m just some sort of contemplative slacker. Others can be the judge of that.
For what it’s worth, Kevin, I really like what you describe: “in my experience spiritual ecstasy takes place in silence, in stillness, and in the spirit rather than the body.” I’m not quite sure what you mean by “in the spirit rather than the body” — but again, it seems that my encounters with the Mystery simply take a different form. I think one of the biggest mistakes any contemplative can make is to start comparing his or her experiences to those reported by others. Either we’ll think we have a “better” experience which is a manifestation of pride, or else we’re at risk of deciding others have something better, and then we fall into envy. Either way, it’s a trap.
So what’s the bottom line? I’m reminded of Dory, the absent-minded fish in Pixar’s Finding Nemo. She would sing a little song to remind herself to persevere in the hunt for little lost Nemo: “Just keep swimming, just keep swimming, just keep swimming…” she would sing to herself. And for us, our song ought to be, “Just keep praying, just keep praying, just keep praying!” When moments of ecstasy, or rapture, or excessus mentis, or whatever come, well, enjoy them, and don’t get too attached to them. They are, as the Zen master Charl0tte Joko Beck once said, “Nothing special.” After all, no less a mystical authority than St. John of the Cross suggested that we should basically ignore any extraordinary mystical or spiritual experiences that happen during prayer. “One should disbelieve anything coming in a supernatural way and believe only the teaching of Christ,” he states bluntly in his masterpiece, The Ascent of Mount Carmel.
Keep praying. Keep finding joy in the silence. And allow whatever feelings or experiences that come and go, to just come and go. The key to all this isn’t having cool experiences, anyway. It’s all about love. We are called to become Love. That’s where this road is taking us.
Carl, I just recently started centering prayer as my form of meditation. Here is my dilemma: I find myself picking a word without really knowing why and the midway through the meditation feeling some kind of inadequacy in it so then picking another word. How do you pick a “sacred word” and then how do you stick with it? Any thoughts?
This is a great question and one that I imagine many people wrestle with. “What if I don’t like my sacred word?” “What if I’ve chosen the ‘wrong’ word for me?” “What if I can’t decide between two (or more) words?”
Notice what all this has in common: it’s thinking.
Centering prayer is a gesture of gently releasing the tight grip that our thinking mind normally holds on our waking consciousness. But the thinking mind often will not go down without a fight.
This is why centering prayer, like any form of silence-oriented meditation, often seems so “noisy” with internal distractions — even though the thoughts we think can be banal or pointless. The thinking mind feels like it is dead if it is not actively working.
Of course, thinking is a function of a conscious mind, which is why it’s a misconception to describe centering prayer as “emptying the mind.” That does not happen. Even when we learn to gently lay all our distracting thoughts aside, they will still hum along in the background — kind of like a TV that is playing, only no one is watching it.
So in centering prayer we seek to be present to God, who is already present to us but at a level deeper (higher) than ordinary consciousness. As The Cloud of Unknowing puts it, we can’t think our way to God. So we gently set thoughts aside, to simply “be still and know.”
Thoughts during silent prayer are like the surf on the beach: they may never end, but they cannot erase the stillness at the center. (Photo by Carl McColman)
The prayer word, then, functions as a wonderful point of focus. By gently repeating the prayer word, we give ourselves a point of attention, allowing our awareness to rest in or on the prayer word — as a way to avoid getting caught up in the many distracting thoughts, feelings and images that the “TV” keeps throwing our way.
Some people suggest that any word can work. You could choose “plop” and it would be a perfectly suitable prayer word, since it would have the same function (giving the mind a point for focussing the attention) that a more “spiritual” prayer word like “God” or “love” or “grace” does.
I don’t go quite that far. Especially for beginners, I recommend choosing a word that is consistent with the intention to pray. I don’t want to pray to a plop, but I am interested in praying to Love, to God, to Christ. So those are the kinds of prayer words I go for.
Thinking About the Word
But back to the reader’s question. What to do when feelings of inadequacy or boredom or any other kind of thinking about the prayer word arises?
Centering prayer is an invitation to set aside all thoughts in the interest of being still and knowing God. So that even includes pious or religious thoughts. And it also includes internal commentary about the experience of the prayer — whether good or bad.
It’s not unusual to have thoughts like this emerge during centering prayer:
“This is boring.”
“I’m so busy, I don’t have time for this.”
“This feels pointless. I should be praying the rosary/feeding the poor/etc.”
“This prayer word stinks! I need to choose another one.”
Sometimes centering prayer can lead to wonderful feelings of peace, or serenity, or a sense of closeness and even union with God. That really gets the ol’ mind stirred up.
“I’m one with God! Wheeeee!”
“I must be a mystic!”
“God has chosen me for something special, I wonder what it is?”
What all of these thoughts — whether good or bad, pleasant or unpleasant — have in common is precisely that they are thoughts, and therefore are distractions from the silence. It’s like you’re watching a football game and deciding that you’re more interested in what the sports announcer has to say to the point of ignoring the game itself.
Okay, Howard Cosell was a legendary sportscaster, but listening to him chatter on was no substituting for watching the game itself. In centering prayer, the “game” is simply the silence, that vast openness within each of us, where we are invited — I’ll say it again — to simply be still and know.
So when we feel those urges to change our prayer word, the most helpful response is the same response to any other thought that arises. Simply let the thought go.
And return to the prayer word.
For the duration of our prayer-time — whether it’s twenty minutes, a half hour, or whatever — it’s best to approach the prayer word without any judgment. Just let the word be. If you feel impressed with the word… let it go. Feel the urge to second guess it… let it go.
Changing Your Word?
Which leads to the question of how often can someone change their prayer word? In other forms of meditation (like transcendental meditation, for example), the student is told that their mantra may not be changed without the approval/guidance of the teacher.
A prayer word used during centering prayer is not a mantra (in the technical sense), and no student of centering prayer is beholden to the teacher like a student of T.M. is. So, you really are free to change your prayer word.
But I would caution against changing your prayer word too often or too frivolously. For a very simple and practical reason: choosing a prayer word involves plenty of thinking. You have to ponder what your choices are, mull over which word(s) you like and which ones you don’t, and so forth. It’s like giving a child a sugary drink right before nap time.
In other words, it can actually make the settling into silence during your prayer time just that much more difficult.
So I would recommend taking some time at the front end and picking a word that resonates with you. And then making a commitment to stick with that word for at least a month, maybe three months, maybe six months.
Chances are, over the course of the weeks you are praying, you’ll find that some days you love your prayer word, some days you can’t stand it, and some days you don’t think about it very much (hallelujah).
And guess what? When (if) you do change your prayer word, you’ll soon discover that you have the exact same ups and downs with the new word, that you had with the old.
So it’s not like one prayer word is necessarily “better” for you. Rather, any prayer word you choose will be simultaneously a word you use to focus your attention — and an object that your thinking mind will try to use to distract you from the silence.
Silly thinking mind!
So choose a word and stick with it, at least for long enough to become familiar with how that dynamic plays out in your own prayer practice.
Choosing Your Word
Now, my reader asked me how do I pick my sacred word, and I’ve already said that I personally prefer a word that seems itself to be prayerful. So “God” works better for me than “plop.”
And following the advice of The Cloud of Unknowing, I think it makes better sense to stick with a one-syllable word. The shorter the better. Again, there’s nothing magical or sacrosanct here. It’s just my preference, and I agree with the author of The Cloud that a shorter word makes for less likelihood of getting entangled in distractions.
So here are a few options, mostly one-syllable although there are a few two-syllable ones. See if one of these works for you. But don’t feel like you have to be limited to this list.
Love … Grace … Joy … Peace … Light … Heart … Yes … Be … Now … Life … Hope … Faith … Jesus … Christ … Holy … Still … Spirit … Father … Mother … Heaven … Glory … Amen.
I’m sure you can come up with some other ideas. Remember: you only need one.
I hope this is helpful. Be gentle with your prayer practice. Be gentle with your distracting tendency to think all sorts of thoughts. Lay them aside gently. And place your attention again and again on the silence, the luminous silence, that is always available within.
The two organizations that I have turned to for contemplative formation over the past decade — the Catholic Church and Shambhala Buddhism — have both been rocked by abuse and cover-up scandals.
Since 2004 the Catholic Church has been my spiritual home. I was confirmed as a Catholic at the Easter Vigil in 2005. Over the past fourteen years I have gone from being a timid student of Catholicism, to immersing myself in the world of Trappist monasticism, eventually becoming a life-professed Lay Cistercian — and then, to bring things full circle, since 2016 my wife and I have co-directed the RCIA program in our parish, which means we now assist others who are considering embracing the Catholic faith as adults.
Meanwhile, I have been a strong proponent of interfaith dialogue and interreligious spirituality throughout my adult life — really, ever since I read Autobiography of a Yogiin high school and discovered that mysticism knows no bounds. In the years since becoming Catholic, however, most of my interfaith exploration has been confined to my long-standing interest in Buddhism, which for the most part meant taking classes and meditating at the Buddhist center closest to my home, the Atlanta Shambhala Center — part of the Vajrayana (Tibetan) Buddhist community.
As the political slogan says, “If you aren’t outraged, you aren’t paying attention.”
Not only outraged, but sickened. Appalled. Horrified. Devastated.
Contemplation and the Toxic Institution
I am a student of both Catholic Christianity and Vajrayana Buddhism because they are both ancient spiritual paths combining a rich wisdom tradition with a strong emphasis on contemplative practice and mindful living (yes, I know many Catholics have no sense of contemplation or mystical spirituality, but it’s there for those who look for it).
But — both Catholicism and Tibetan Buddhism also have strong patriarchal, hierarchical cultures, where spiritual leaders, whether bishops and priests, or lamas and rinpoches, are treated with deference and obeisance — which is a ripe culture for abuse to flourish. Abusers can take refuge in the hierarchical system, and many others (both above them and below them in the power-structure) can conspire to shield them, all in the name of protecting the institution.
I suppose a psychoanalyst would have a field day with me, trying to figure out why I have participated in two contemplative institutions that have turned out to have widespread abuse problems. But let’s set aside my personal neuroses for the moment, and ponder this question:
What should a sincere student of contemplation do, when facing the fact that the institution(s) where we have studied have turned out to have significant problems of internal corruption?
We could phrase this question another way. I’m hearing it more in the Catholic world, but that’s the world I am more fully immersed in. But I bet Shambhalians are asking the same question.
And the question is simply this: “Why am I here?”
Discernment, or, in the words of The Clash: “Should I Stay or Should I Go?”
I am convinced that the vast majority of Shambhala Buddhists and of contemplative Catholics are truly good-hearted people who have affiliated with these institutions because we want support in our own spiritual growth. But I think it would be irresponsible not to ask the question, “Should I leave this damaged, toxic institution?”
Each one of us will have to answer that question in an individual way. Some people have been so hurt (directly or indirectly) by the institution, that they need to leave. I hope that such persons will find the succor and healing that they deserve, wherever that might be.
Others may feel so angry, so betrayed, or so devastated by the organization’s failings that they are no longer capable of relating to the organization except from a place of deep anger, deep grief, or deep bitterness. At this point, the relationship is like a marriage that has become toxic (for whatever reason). Again, they may need to leave. But if they choose to stay, I hope they are staying for the right reasons.
A toxic marriage needs either to be healed or to be ended, hopefully in a compassionate way. But just persevering in an unhealthy marriage without doing the hard work to heal it is like taking a little bit of poison every day — it may not be enough to kill, but it sure is diminishing your life.
This brings us to this question: “can I stay in this relationship and work to heal it?” That, to me, is the only sensible reason why anyone would want to remain a Catholic, or remain a Shambhala Buddhist. It’s saying, “I have seen first-hand how much good there is in this tradition’s ideals and teachings and culture. Of course, now I know just how much toxicity there is, as well. I’m willing to fight for the good, but that means I have to fight against the bad.”
Julian of Norwich: just one of the many contemplative treasures in the Catholic tradition.
Contemplation Does Not Exist in a Vacuum
In our day, many people have rejected any kind of institutional religion — whether or not the organization has been accused of covering up abuse. To such people, staying in an institution in the wake of such allegations just makes no sense.
But those of us who choose stay are not staying because of the institution. No, we stay because of the wisdom, because of the community of people who share our desire to grow spiritually. And for Catholics, we stay because we love Christ.
As repellant as abuse or cover-ups are, I cannot deny how much Buddhist and Christian wisdom has meant to me. I continue to find nurture in the wisdom of Buddhist contemplatives like Pema Chödrön or Christian contemplatives like Martin Laird, Mary Margaret Funk, or Thomas Keating. I continue to be inspired by virtuous activists and advocates like Gregory Boyle, Simone Campbell, and James Martin.
I continue to find that the centuries-old wells of wisdom continue to inspire me, form me, and teach me — and that I need living teachers and companions to help me understand and interpret that great figures of the past like Meister Eckhart, John Ruusbroec, Julian of Norwich or Teresa of Ávila. Most important of all, when I am engaged in the church, I have ways where I can be of real service to people.
Because it’s the people that matter — not the institution, not the power-structure, not the hierarchy. The people.
Contemplation, and contemplative living, does not occur in a vacuum. We learn contemplation from others, and we live out the contemplative life (even if we are “mixed” contemplatives-in-action) in relationships with other people. We learn and we teach, we study and we instruct, we are nurtured and we serve.
Saving the Burning Building
Many people are cynical about hierarchical institutions like the Catholic Church or centralized organizations like Shambhala. “Lay people have no power,” they say. “Change will be too little, too late.” “You can’t undo problems that were centuries in the making.”
I understand where those thoughts come from, and I don’t mean to minimize the barriers to change that currently exist. But I don’t want to give way to defeatist thinking.
These kinds of statements rightly challenge those of us who choose to stay in the toxic organizations. We cannot be complacent or hide our heads in the sand, hoping that the problems will just go away. In the Catholic world, this means: we cannot rely on the Vatican to solve the problem, and we most certainly cannot rely on the Bishops. It’s up to us lay-folk to lead the way.
Here’s how I see it. The Catholic Church is like a burning building. Most people will sensibly want to stay as far away from the danger as possible. But if we all walk away, the building is doomed. Some of us need to be fire-fighters, and work to limit the damage and extinguish the flames.
That’s dangerous work. To do it you have to go into the building. You better have on the right protective clothing and be carrying the right equipment. You need lots of water or chemical retardants. It’s going to be hard work, but if the building is worth saving, then you’d better get busy.
The “building” is not the institutional church, but rather the wisdom tradition. That’s true for both Catholicism and Vajrayana. The building is not the hierarchy, but the community. That’s what is worth saving.
Jesus did not cause the fire; nor did the Gospel. Nor did the contemplative and mystical tradition.
The fire was caused by toxic systems of power, outdated ideas about gender and sexuality, and a hierarchy that dominates rather than serves. That’s what us firefighters must work to extinguish.
And, frankly, I believe contemplative practice is just the kind of “protective gear” that we need, those of us who are choosing to remain in the burning buildings to fight the fire. And the “water” we need to extinguish the flames? Well, that “water” is simply the ability to tell the truth.
What Needs to Change?
For this final section of this very long post, I’m only going to talk about Catholicism, since that is my primary community of faith. But I think the points I make here could be applicable to Shambhala Buddhism or any other organization with a toxic hierarchy. And of course, for those who conscientiously believe it is best to leave toxic institutions, what follows may not seem too relevant. I’m writing for those who, like me, choose to remain within the burning building (and fight the fire).
I love the spirituality of Catholicism, and I am committed to “on-the-ground” Catholicism, whether that means the local parish, the local monastery, the local retreat center, or the local soup kitchen.
I remain committed to learning (and teaching) sacramental spirituality, mystical theology, and the ethics of life and justice. I continue to love the great art and culture of the Catholic tradition.
But I realize that I cannot remain in the church and pretend that I am not profoundly convinced that our entire structure of governance must change. I have tended to shy away from speaking my mind about church politics, mainly because I’ve wanted this blog to be a “contemplative safe space” where people of all political and theological persuasions can come together to pray and to reflect together on what unites us spiritually.
I still think it’s important to be inclusive as possible for anyone who claims to follow Jesus or to practice Christian contemplation. But I’m beginning to recognize something. When we refrain from speaking our conscience, we are abdicating our responsibility to fight the fire.
I can’t do that any more. And that might mean that I will lose a few readers. Well, so be it. I’m sorry. Contemplation does not exist in a vacuum. If we want to talk about contemplation we also have to talk about the difference between healthy spirituality and toxic religion.
So let me be perfectly clear.
We need to dismantle clericalism in the church. We need to renounce any theology that even hints at “ontological difference” between the ordained and the laity. We need full accountability and transparency, all the way up the organizational ladder. We need to ensure that our teachings about gender and sexuality are healthy and consistent with the full scope of human knowledge. We need to dismantle mandatory celibacy and the barriers that keep women out of ordained ministry. Most of all, we must eradicate the culture of power and privilege that has shielded abusers and their enablers from accountability.
We need an empowered laity, with a robust theology of the priesthood of all believers and the full engagement of laypersons in all aspects of church governance, oversight, finances, and discipline.
Ultimately, we must denounce the kind of authoritarian thinking that has made the privileged hierarchy possible in the first place. Authoritarianism and systems of privilege are contrary to the Gospel and to any form of contemplative spirituality.
This is just a first step. There’s much more to say, but this post is already far too long. If you have read (or skimmed) this far, I thank you for hearing me out. I promise I will get back to writing about contemplation with my next post. I know that readers of this blog come here for contemplative writing, and not for commentary on Catholicism or any other institution. But I realize that at moments like this one, I have to speak as my conscience dictates. And I hope that I will be more candid going forth, as well.
As always, I welcome your feedback, comments, and insights. But, I should mention, trollish comments that dogmatically reject Catholicism altogether or dogmatically reject conscientious calls for reform will either be ignored or deleted, depending on how offensive they are. You’ve been warned.
When I lead retreats, I often offer up a disclaimer: I am not an academic theologian, or a Biblical scholar, or any other kind of scholar for that matter. Which I don’t see as a handicap, since you don’t need a college degree to do the work of silent prayer. I try to be honest that I am a layperson, writing (or speaking) for other laypersons or for anyone interested in contemplative practice.
Most of the time this is not an issue, but once in a while I get reminded of how much I don’t know. Which is good for my humility!
Recently I directed a retreat for an ecumenical group of Third Order and Ecumenical Franciscans, and during the retreat I gave what I thought was a fairly non-controversial interpretation of the Mary and Martha story (Luke 10:38-42). You know the story: Martha is bustling about in the kitchen, while her sister is hanging out with Jesus (and the disciples, whom we may assume were all or mostly men). Martha, annoyed with her sisters, asks Jesus to tell her to get into the kitchen, but instead Jesus basically tells Martha to chill out since “Mary has chosen the good (or better, or generous) part.”
Many contemplative writers over the centuries have interpreted Mary to be a symbol of the contemplative life, which historically meant consecrated religious life; while Martha represents the active life, committed to the responsibilities of marriage, family, and career. Clearly, these interpreters (who we may assume were all themselves consecrated religious) saw in this story a ringing endorsement from Jesus himself that the contemplative life was higher or “better” than the active life. One well known example of this is found in The Cloud of Unknowing, where we read this complaint: “And just as Martha complained about her sister Mary, so to this very day all actives criticize contemplatives.”
I may not be a scholar, but even I can see that this is a case of reading something into the text that wasn’t originally there. Jesus lived centuries before the first monastery was founded, so he is not endorsing monastic life or any other kind of formal, consecrated, religious life. I think, if anything, Jesus was simply trying to praise Mary for enjoying the company of her friends (and spiritual teacher) and gently encouraging Martha not to fret so much.
Sisters in Contemplation (and Action)
But still, the Mary and Martha story has carried this “contemplative” interpretation for so long, that it has become an archetype for comparing those two approaches to spirituality (active versus contemplative). Now, fast forward to the present, where consecrated religious life is not part of m0st peoples’ experience, but many Christians (and others) are looking for ways to integrate contemplative practice into otherwise very busy live
My take on Mary and Martha: that if Mary is the archetype of contemplation, and Martha the archetype of activism, then let’s not lose sight of the fact that they are sisters. In other words, they might squabble, and activist Martha might get annoyed at contemplative Mary, but at the end of the day they are sisters, and they need each other. Likewise, we all need to cultivate both an activist and contemplative dimension to our spiritual lives. This is something I’ve been saying for years now.
Like I said, I thought this was pretty non-controversial. But after the retreat, I received a thought-provoking email from one of the retreatants who is a New Testament scholar (and who also happens to be a good friend of mine), David Rensberger, who is the author of Johannine Faith and Liberating Community among other books.
David offered me this perspective on Luke 10:38-42:
In my opinion there is just no way to get “balance” out of that story… this is because we are so attached to our busyness and hoped-for results that we simply cannot accept this story for what it is. It offends us; and we manipulate it in any way we can to make it be about “balance.” … But what happens when we make this story about balance, at least in Protestant churches, is that “We must have both Mary and Martha” becomes “It’s good to be Martha,” which becomes “Let’s all be Martha,” and then Mary disappears entirely — and so once again we dispense ourselves from actually following Jesus’ teaching by turning it neatly on its head…
What I think this story is about at bottom: discipleship, rather than contemplation and action (both of which are ways of discipleship). Jesus’ call to discipleship was to a single-minded devotion to God in spite of all social pressures, conventions, and conveniences. So I think the story of Martha and Mary parallels, in the world of women as ancient society understood things, the story of James and John in the world of men, who left their father behind in the family fishing business, abandoning their work to follow Jesus. It’s not that Jesus had nothing for Martha to do; it just wasn’t the socially acceptable work of entertaining guests and keeping house. It was the work of discipleship, just as Luke shows Mary Magdalene and other women following Jesus around a couple of chapters earlier (8:1-3); and of course they show up at the cross and are first at the empty tomb. I think the story is fundamentally about discipleship, and particularly about its equally radical claim on women as on men.
I must admit — this is much food for thought.
Discipleship First
And the more I thought about it, the more I realized I agree with David — the story is not, fundamentally, about balance. Since I spend so much of my time hanging out with monks and nuns and Jesuits and spiritual directors, I’m rather shielded from that tendency in our culture to eraseMary because we all identify much more with Martha (and I should point out, I don’t think that is just a Protestant problem!).
But it is a problem, and I do see it. I see it among many Christian activists, whose energetic engagement with ministries of social justice always seem to carry an unspoken assumption that spirituality or contemplation have no value except to help activists recharge their batteries.
And then I also see it among many rank and file Christians — those that The Cloud of Unknowing identify as living “the active life” — who simply do not get why anyone would want to pray in silence to begin with. And in its more toxic form, this anti-Mary bias results in some conservative Christians insisting that contemplation is “dangerous” — usually because they misinterpret it as a form of syncretism, since contemplative prayer is so similar to non-Christian forms of meditation.
But if we accept that the Mary and Martha story is fundamentally about discipleship especially for women, does that mean it has nothing whatsoever to tell us about contemplation?
I don’t think we have to go that far. And I think David would agree. He said that this story could be something “for contemplatives to appeal to when they are criticized for their withdrawal and seeming indolence. Defense against such criticisms shows up everywhere, from The Cloud of Unknowing to Thomas Merton’s reports of Buddhist monks facing the same thing. ‘My sister has left me to do the serving alone.’ ‘She has chosen the better part, and it will not be taken from her.’ This is the encouragement that we need to hear from Jesus when our vocation is called into question as useless and uncaring.”
Put another way: Biblical spirituality, covering both Testaments, clearly makes room for silence, for waiting, for wondering and pondering, and for stillness as essential dimensions of a mature spirituality. Discipleship, naturally, includes not only learning from Christ, but being in relationship with Christ — and, for Christians, “relationship with Christ” is virtually a synonym for “spirituality.” So if we want to be disciples, we need to cultivate a meaningful and daily spiritual practice, which at its most mature includes a contemplative dimension.
Jesus tells Martha, “don’t criticize your sister for taking her discipleship seriously.” That serious discipleship includes taking the time to learn from Jesus. But it also includes taking the time to be silent and still in adoring prayer to Christ as well.
Featured image: Bernardino Luini, Martha and Mary (ca. 1520), San Diego Museum of Art, California.
One thing I’d like to see some work on is reintegration. By this, I mean how to integrate with “polite Christian society” when you clearly don’t fit. … It’s one thing to be a Christian mystic in a monastery or nunnery, another to be a mystic in the local Baptist church. Living like this often gets one “invited to seek fellowship elsewhere.” … What about when no one wants to assemble with you because your very life makes them uncomfortable? It’s an area that bears further exploration and representation.
I don’t know if this reader is speaking from personal experience or not, but I certainly am sorry to hear of mystically-inclined Christians being asked to “seek fellowship elsewhere.” I don’t know the full story, of course, but my initial response is to think that any community that asks its mystics to leave is probably a community worth leaving!
But I know it’s rarely that simple.
Margery Kempe, a lesser-known mystic who received spiritual direction from Julian of Norwich, had an annoying habit of sobbing — loudly — every time she attended Mass. She cried, she wailed, she boohooed. In short, she was disruptive, and it annoyed the priests and fellow churchgoers to no end. Could Margery have toned it down a bit? I’m inclined to think she probably could have. But Margery herself insisted that her love for Christ demanded nothing less than her full-throated crying.
The takeaway: when mystics and churches don’t get along, sometimes it’s the church’s fault, and sometimes it might be the mystic’s problem.
Honesty… and Discretion
If I were providing spiritual direction to a contemplative Christian who had been asked to leave a community, I would invite my directee to be honest and fair-minded in considering if he or she could have done something differently, in order to prevent this kind of thing from happening in the future. Jesus did instruct his followers to be wise as serpents but innocent as doves. In other words: sometimes there is a place for being discreet, which includes not telling everyone about my moments of ecstasy in prayer, or my sense that God has instructed me to spend three hours a day in silence, or whatever.
Some things are best discussed only with a sympathetic (and mature, and discerning) spiritual director.
Once a person is confident that he or she is being spiritually mature, discreet, and trying reasonably to be healthily integrated into a faith community, then I think it’s important to simply acknowledge that church memberships really are like marriages, and sometimes despite the best of intentions all the way around, the relationship breaks down, or becomes toxic, and sometimes separating is the most loving, if unhappy, choice.
Being asked to leave is painful, and I would suspect it would lead to real grief that needed to be worked through — at least with a spiritual director, if not with a therapist.
Other Options
But there are other options for faith communities. Sometimes when one church environment proves to be toxic (or just a bad fit), the best solution is to prayerfully and with discernment seek a new community. It may involve stepping out from one’s previous denominational affiliation.
Without meaning to impugn the Baptists, I think it’s fair to suspect that many (not all, but many) Baptist pastors lack the training or resources to provide spiritual care for true contemplatives/mystics. Such people might need to explore other church traditions.
If Catholicism is not an option, consider Anglicanism — or Eastern Orthodoxy. Those three churches are probably the most “mystical-friendly,” although again, it varies from congregation to congregation.
If you don’t require liturgy, the Quakers are perhaps the most contemplative ecclesial community of all. And of course, I do know many Methodist, Presbyterian, UCC, DoC, Mennonite, and yes even Baptist clergy who are themselves contemplatives or at least are contemplative friendly. So sometimes it’s just a matter of finding the right congregation, regardless of its denominational affiliation.
So it’s worth doing a little bit of shopping around.
Taking Contemplation Outside the Church
Finally, I think what many contemplatives do is learn to balance the garden-variety responsibilities of membership in their local church with participation in a small group or gathering that is explicitly geared toward contemplative or mystical spirituality.
Many monasteries and retreat centers have lay groups, ecumenical in nature, that allow contemplative-minded Christians to gather usually one day a month for fellowship and instruction.
Likewise, many local churches sponsor contemplative small groups affiliated with organizations like Contemplative Outreach, the Julian Meetings, or World Community for Christian Meditation. Joining a group like that, which will give you space to enter into a serious practice of silent prayer with friendly people who will support your prayer life, is often the secret sauce that we need to survive in what is otherwise a very run-of-the-mill church environment.
I still recommend being part of your neighborhood congregation, even if you find your contemplative nurture through a small group or lay monastic affiliation. Think of your participation in the local congregation as an opportunity to serve others. You get nurtured in your contemplative group, and then you can nurture others — not necessarily by teaching them about contemplation, but by simply being a contemplative presence in their lives.
Steps to Take
To summarize: if you are finding conflict between your interest in contemplation and mysticism and the culture of your local church, take these steps:
Find and begin working with a sympathetic spiritual director or companion;
Review (with your spiritual director) to make sure you are not causing the problem yourself;
If you still feel you must leave the church, take the time to grieve the loss;
Explore other churches looking for a place you can fit in, even if “discreetly,” and
Consider joining a Centering Prayer, contemplative prayer, or monastic associate group to provide you with your contemplative sustenance, allowing your church membership therefore to be primarily a way to be of service.
A Jesuit priest, a Trappist monk, and a Tibetan buddhist walked into a bar.
(No, this is not a joke).
A sign above the bar said, “Free drinks to everyone in your party, if you can all agree on a definition of the word “contemplation.”
Two hours later, the Buddhist and the two Catholics were very thirsty — and still arguing.
Contemplation is one of those words that, frankly, means different things to different people. Even religious people can’t figure it out. And as soon as you start talking about different religions (like Christian and Buddhist), or throw in secular perspectives as well, well, the water just keeps getting muddier and muddier.
So What Is Contemplation?
Here are a few definitions of contemplation — to illustrate my point.
The Catechism of the Catholic Church defines contemplation as “a gaze of faith, fixed on Jesus… This focus on Jesus is a renunciation of self. His gaze purifies our heart; the light of the countenance of Jesus illumines the eyes of our heart and teaches us to see everything in the light of his truth and his compassion for all men. Contemplation also turns its gaze on the mysteries of the life of Christ. Thus it learns the “interior knowledge of our Lord,” the more to love him and follow him.”
Meanwhile, in his book New Seeds of Contemplation, Thomas Merton offers this grouchy response: contemplation “is a misleading word in many respects. It raises great hopes that are all too likely to be illusory because misunderstood. It can become almost a magic word, or if not magic, then inspirational, which is almost as bad. But the worst disadvantage of the word is that it sounds like ‘something,’ an objective quality, a spiritual commodity that one can procure, something that it is good to have; something which, when possessed, liberates one from problems and from unhappiness. As if there were a new project to be undertaken, among all the million other projects suggested to us in our lifetime: to become contemplatives.” He goes on to flatly insist that “it is impossible for one man to teach another ‘how to become a contemplative.’ One might as well write a book: ‘how to be an angel.’”
This Trappist monk seems to be saying that contemplation cannot be possessed, taught, or objectified. But compare that to the perspective of a Jesuit priest who writes about Ignatian spirituality. In his book The Jesuit Guide to (Almost) Everything, James Martin equates contemplation with “imaginative prayer.” Insisting that “all prayer is contemplative,” he goes on to note that, in Ignatian terms, contemplative prayer means “imagining yourself in a scene from the Bible, or in God’s presence, and then taking part in it. It’s a way of allowing God to speak to you through your imagination.”
What is contemplation? It is mixing the teachings with our experience. Contemplation is a bridge to study for meditators because it arouses inquisitiveness about the nature of meditation and postmeditation experience. Reflecting on the meaning and implications of the teachings puts meditation in a larger perspective than simply cultivating what we believe to be wholesome states of mind or trying to master a series of techniques. Study and contemplation arouse insight and give meditation direction and focus. Insight and focus make meditation an effective means of transformation.
But if contemplation links meditation and experience, the Anglican solitary Maggie Ross couldn’t disagree more. In her book Silence, A User’s Guide Volume 1, She notes that “contemplation entails relinquishing all claims to experience; it opens to what is uncircumscribed and other. It is not, therefore, an ‘experience.’” She goes on to say, “contemplation takes place in the absence of self-consciousness.” In other words, anything you self-consciously think is contemplation, therefore by definition is anything but contemplation.
Finally, here’s a word from Barbara Holmes, author of Joy Unspeakable: Contemplative Practices of the Black Church. Speaking more of “contemplative practices” than simply of contemplation, Dr. Holmes defines spiritual or communal practices as contemplative when “they create intersections between inner cosmologies and the interpretive life of a community.”
I think we’re getting somewhere. But still — how does all this fit together?
Is it the path? Or is it the garden?
Can We Narrow Down Our Understanding? Is it Even Possible to do so?
Is contemplation a gaze of faith? Learning to see in the light of truth? Something that cannot be controlled or manipulated? A bridge between meditation and teaching? Or the relinquishing of all claim to experience? Finally, does it mark the intersection of our inner lives with our communal ways of knowing and discerning?
What if — in the words of the great philosopher Pete the Cat — “it’s all good”? Can we find a way of thinking about contemplation that embraces and includes all of the above? Can we help our poor Trappist, Jesuit, and Buddhist friends get a drink already?!
If you’ve been following my blog for a while, you get the joke: I’m the Buddhist, the Trappist, and the Jesuit. I work part-time at a Jesuit parish, and I’m a lay associate of a Trappist monastery. I’m also an off-and-on student of Shambhala Buddhism. So for me, this question is really important. How can we approach contemplation in a way that embraces our spiritual diversity, without making this word or concept so broad that it becomes meaningless?
Here’s what I’d like to say. Ultimately, we cannot put contemplation into words. We should be suspicious of turning contemplation into another “experience” that splits me-as-subject off from God-as-object. But if we could say anything about contemplation, it would be that it invites us within — to the arena of imagination, and/or devotional adoration, and/or meditation, and/or visionary seeing. All of this is too big for any one person to figure out on their own, so we need to balance that inner “cosmology” with the insights that come to us from others — whether that means religious instruction, spiritual wisdom, or the guidance of discerning elder. I’m not saying that our inner lives are less important than the wisdom that we learn from others — but neither is that wisdom less important than our personal experience. It’s not either/or, it’s both/and.
By now you may be wondering, “But what does all this have to do with centering prayer? Or zen? Or T.M.? Or praying the rosary, or walking the labyrinth, or…” the list could go on. I think we have a tendency to confuse contemplation as a spiritual phenomenon with contemplative practices that we engage in, to grow spiritually. You can engage in a contemplative practice without entering into authentic contemplation (that’s the old catholic distinction between “infused” and “acquired” contemplation — what we do by our own initiative is acquired, but the real mystical encounter is always an infused gift from God).
But just as you can do a contemplative practice (like centering prayer) without contemplation, likewise, contemplation-as-a-spiritual gift can come to us, regardless of whether or not we are dedicated practitioners of this or that spiritual practice. Contemplation can happen without warning, to anyone, at any time, even in the most ordinary or strange of circumstances.
So what’s the point then of spiritual practices? As Thomas Keating puts it, they serve the desire to make ourselves available for contemplation. Contemplation itself is always a gift (a gift that cannot be talked about or even self-consciously ‘experienced’). But religious and spiritual traditions all over the world have developed a variety of practices that can make us more available to receive the gift — which still remains ultimately beyond our control.
In the headline of this post, I asked the rhetorical question “why should I care?” — about contemplation and contemplative practice. I think the answer to that question will vary, depending on the language of faith or spirituality that you prefer to use. A Buddhist will answer this question differently from a Trappist or a Jesuit. But it seems to me that people who have faith in God understand contemplation as authentic encounter — the encounter between “God” and “me,” even if (and often, especially if) the lines separating “me” and “God” suddenly fall away.
I can’t speak for non-theists, since I myself am a theist. But I suspect that contemplation is still an authentic encounter for non-theists, only it’s the encounter of self with self. Or perhaps you could self and Self. Ramana Maharshi talked about the “I” that encounters the “i.”
So whether contemplation brings us eyeball-to-eyeball with God, or simply with our most authentic/real/interior self, either way it matters because it ushers us into the heart of things.
Celebrating Unity within Diversity
I love reading the writing on non-Christian contemplatives, folks like Thich Nhat Hanh, or Rumi, or Aurobindo. I see the basic unity where “deep calls to deep.” But I have no interest in shedding my identity as a Christian in favor of some sort of lowest-common-denominator bland/generic spirituality. I continue to make contemplative Christianity my home because there is a rich language, history, wisdom lineage, and set of exercises that only make sense in a Christian context. That’s not to denigrate any of the other wonderful contemplative lineages out there. Contemplatives understand that you can go deep in one tradition while simultaneously respecting and affirming the contemplative wisdom found in other traditions.
Contemplative spirituality is a place where Christians can be Christians, Buddhists can be Buddhists, Vedantists can be Vedantists, etc. Granted a lot of color outside the lines to a greater or lesser extent, but I imagine most of us have a particular place we think of as “home.” But we affirm our religious diversity while also celebrating the deep unity that contemplation reveals. There are many languages, and many stories, and many teachings, but there is only one silence. And as we get to know each other’s stories and languages, we simply find more and more paths leading us into that one silence.
