A beautiful curation of Christian mystical writings over Western history. Most of them are pre-modern; a few modern ones; and a strong conclusion with Thomas Merton from the mid-twentieth century. These approaches loosely unifies the mystical way of going about Christianity: (1) an emphasis on what you encounter in experience itself (rather than just knowing or thinking about theological matters), (2) an emphasis on the shape your life takes on, (3) intimate, emotional interaction with God, and (4) understanding humanity and this world in terms of manifestations of God, and so all having a divine nature. A friend got a reading group together on the basis of this book. Out of those we read, here are some of my favorites:
Bernard of Clairvauz’s “Sermons on the Song of Songs 23” (early 12th century): He starts from a line in the Bible where God is understood to have rooms for his followers, where he intimately encounters them. From there, he riffs that we are each a concubine for God, and God as has one bedroom for each of us. This was not only hilarious and fascinating, but it is beautiful writing.
Hadewijch of Antwerp’s “Vision VII” (some time during the 13th century): This was saucy. It is quite a way to think about one’s relationship with God. “I desired to consummate my Lover completely… to be strong and perfect so that I in turn would satisfy him perfectly… I wished, inside me, that he would satisfy me with his Godhead in ones spirit… to taste nothing of [this suffering and pain for God] but sweet love and embraces and kisses.” Longing for the beloved is a beautiful and intense state of being, when one’s beloved is another person. I can only imagine what it might be like to have this erotic longing when the beloved is God. Something amazing about this case is that God is by definition unknowable in the flesh. Does this mean that the separation with the beloved is infinite and permanent? Or does this mean that the beloved is always here, but in a way that is neither embodied or disembodied? As a secular heathen, I may never know.
John of the Cross’s “Dark Night of the Soul” (late 16th century): There’s a wonderful metaphor of darkness, used in two ways. First, knowledge of God is darkness because it is unreachable, given that we’re stuck in our human finitude. Second, we may be overwhelmed in suffering and darkness in our understanding of how short we fall from the perfection and goodness of God. Something that unifies both senses of darkness: Both are secretly simultaneously divine light. This light is the flip side of the coin of darkness. Knowledge of God is infinitely good. When we are at rock bottom, this state presupposes awareness of how wrong we are, which in turn presupposes awareness of the right and good. Maybe this doesn’t go much beyond the general structure of any negative evaluative judgment; when we don’t like something, it’s because there’s some standard and awareness we have of what we’d like. But at least it was written about in an especially powerful way here.
Thomas Merton’s “New Seeds of Contemplation” (1949): There was a beautiful image: “we are words that are meant to respond to [God]… He answers himself in us and this answer is divine life, divine creativity, making things anew…. It is as if in creating us God asked a question, and in awakening us to contemplation he answered the question… The question is, itself, the answer. And we ourselves are both” I love this idea that we are each the question God asks and answer God gives. At any moment of experience, we are uncertain of the significance of this moment. That significance will be fixed by what happens in the future and what we are to do. This incompleteness intrinsic to the present, on this metaphor, amounts to our being a question that’s never completely and precisely formulatable. The question keeps on changing. So likewise we can never arrive at an absolute answer. The notion of a question, moreover, sustains us in the atmosphere of searching for truth, of our being poised to alight upon knowledge we desire, which holds the promise to change us. I want my being to be reduced to a ceaselessly incomplete question. That sounds nice.
As a whole, I noted that I worry that training in philosophy has set me back from being able to approach spirituality or religion earnestly. In reading these texts, I often couldn’t help but desire for the authors to be more precise: to spell out their metaphors in literal detail, to make clear their claims and to defend them. They never do. This is okay when the text is overtly poetic. In fact, it’s beautiful literature. But for any of the texts written in a more prose-like descriptive or prescriptive fashion, I was dissatisfied in this way. I can imagine that there is a place of being one could arrive at, where one understands that issues surrounding God are of such a nature that they cannot be spelled out in precise detail. Or, they are not the sort of claims that could be given justification as ordinary claims about this world. I am not at this place of being, however, and might never be.
As a whole, there are some Christian ideas that this anthology inspired in conversation that I hope to let my life be shaped by. One idea is that sometimes it is key to give up control and expectation, to assume humility before the face of danger or uncertainty. This kind of humility is special. It safeguards us from the emotion of fear and all of its bad consequences (e.g., becoming stingy, inclined to demonize, scapegoat, or put others down, obsessed with protecting oneself and thereby closing off to the world.) This humility intrinsically involves trust in God and thereby love and hope. This keeps us open-hearted and open-minded, while we courage forth into something dangerous or uncertain. While I suspect I can’t manage to believe in any deity, I can believe in love, beauty, and truth, as places of being of which humans are capable. I would like to be less assuming and dominating over my day-to-day, to look ambiguity and uncertainty in the face, and trust in love, beauty, and truth as I open myself to this.