A Fish on Dry Land

“Abbot Anthony said: Just as fish die if they remain on dry land so monks, remaining away from their cells, or dwelling with men of the world, lose their determination to persevere in solitary prayer. Therefore, just as the fish should go back to the sea, so we must return to our cells, lest remaining outside we forget to watch over ourselves interiorly.”
—Wisdom of the Desert

Perhaps this is the greatest gift of the Desert Fathers to modern people: they remind us of what we have lost in the way of solitude, quiet and inner re-creation. Notice that Abbot Anthony does not claim that being in “the world” corrupts the monk morally. He is much more practical than that. Rather, the problem is that the pace of the world detracts from the monk’s time and capacity for prayer and meditation. We would all do well to regularly “return to our cells” and “watch over ourselves interiorly.”

Be Here Now

“An elder said: Just as a tree cannot bear fruit if it is often transplanted, so neither can a monk bear fruit if he frequently changes his abode.”
—Wisdom of the Desert

As someone who has lived in three cities and five different “abodes” in nine years, I can identify with this oft-transplanted tree, as well as the restless monk. I regret none of these moves, but I do sense that at some point greater fruit will be born from just growing where I’m planted.

However, the elder is not just talking about changing where we live. He’s talking about that incessant need to control our external situation, that compulsion we feel to rearrange things in an effort to “achieve” happiness. So much suffering is caused by our assumption that if we can just get this, or we can just avoid that, everything will be wonderful. Then we get this or avoid that, and it’s not exactly wonderful, so we keep looking for something else to get or avoid.

Contemplative prayer is about intentionally breaking this pattern, and deliberately practicing gratitude and acceptance for what is, rather than what we wish was. The stability of a monk’s life is a way of living out this prayer experience, of staying put and embracing the present moment. Thankfully, this embrace is available to all of us, even when it becomes necessary to rent that moving van again.

The Gift

“Abbot Anastasius had a book written on very fine parchment which was worth eighteen pence, and had in it both the Old and New Testaments in full. Once a certain brother came to visit him, and seeing the book made off with it. So that day when Abbot Anastasius went to read his book, and found that it was gone, he realized that the brother had taken it. But he did not send after him to inquire about it for fear that the brother might add perjury to theft. Well, the brother went down into the nearby city in order to sell the book. And the price he asked was sixteen pence. The buyer said: Give me the book that I may find out whether it is worth that much. With that, the buyer took the book to the holy Anastasius and said: Father, take a look at this book, please, and tell me whether you think I ought to buy it for sixteen pence. Is it worth that much? Abbot Anastasius said: Yes, it is a fine book, it is worth that much. So the buyer went back to the brother and said: Here is your money. I showed the book to Abbot Anastasius and he said it is a fine book and worth at least sixteen pence. But the brother asked: Was that all he said? Did he make any other remarks? No, said the buyer, he did not say another word. Well, said the brother, I have changed my mind and I don’t want to sell this book after all. Then he hastened to Abbot Anastasius and begged him with tears to take back his book, but the Abbot would not accept it, saying: Go in peace, brother, I make you a present of it. But the brother said: If you do not take it back I shall never have any peace. After that the brother dwelt with Abbot Anastasius for the rest of his life.”
—Wisdom of the Desert

The book was Abbot Anastasius’, but he did not possess it. When you possess nothing, what can be taken? What can be given away?

The Desert Koan

“An elder said: Here is the monk’s life-work, obedience, meditation, not judging others, not reviling, not complaining. For it is written: You who love the Lord, hate evil. So this is the monk’s life – not to walk in agreement with an unjust [person], nor to look with his eye upon evil, nor to go about being curious, and neither to examine nor to listen to the business of others. Not to be proud in his heart, nor to malign others in his thoughts. Not to fill his stomach, but in all things to behave with discretion. Behold, in all this you have the monk.”
—Wisdom of the Desert

So the essence of the monk’s life is simplicity. It is not great works of charity, not purity of heart, not piety and religious observance, not visions and rapture. It is a quiet, open, non-judgmental embrace of things as they are, without the need to achieve or control. In fact, it is letting go of the need to achieve or control anything.

The physical austerities and solitude of the desert hermits would have been far more challenging than our own everyday modern lives, but is the simplicity of heart they were seeking any less challenging (or any less necessary) for us? It is harder to discover, in fact, because we are assailed by the temptations of material success, gossip and physical excess on a daily basis.

The koan for us modern, married monks is this: how do we realize the desert experience without going to the desert? How do we nurture the simplicity of the monk’s heart, to love the world with compassion and acceptance, which is of course to love ourselves with compassion and acceptance, just as we are?

A Middle Path

“Abbot Pambo questioned Abbot Anthony saying: What ought I to do? And the elder replied: Have no confidence in your own virtuousness. Do not worry about a thing once it has been done. Control your tongue and your belly.”
—Wisdom of the Desert

There are enough gems in this tiny saying to fill a book of reflections. Abbot Anthony at first appears to be admonishing us to humility, in that we are to have no confidence in our own virtue. On the other hand, he isn’t into guilt either, as we are to forget about our deeds once they are done. As a society, we Americans are a paradox: we are the most materialistic individualists in the world—overindulged, pampered, spoiled, unable or unwilling to see perspectives beyond our own. And yet we are weighed down with a lot of guilt at the same time, and our individualism masks a deep lack of collective self-esteem. We deem ourselves fat, ugly, unlovable, not good enough. We act out in a variety of ways to make up for the many shortcomings we perceive in ourselves.

Abbot Anthony points to the middle way: we ought to know ourselves intimately, including all the cracks in our personalities, and love ourselves anyway. This kind of self-intimacy arises spontaneously through the reflection of contemplative prayer and meditation. We get to know the things that make us “tick,” and at first we are overwhelmed by all the darkness we see in our hearts once we finally start to look. But prayer is ultimately letting go of our need to control, to be perfect, to have all the answers. Wordless prayer is about learning to embrace everything that arises and passes away, just as it is. Once “a thing is done,” we let it go, returning to the present moment, waiting for whatever arises next, confident not in our virtuousness, but in the Universal Mind in which all problems and all solutions are really one.

Such mindfulness takes great practice. As Abbot Anthony advises, it would be enough just to practice mindfulness of our speech and our attitudes and habits regarding food. This would keep us busy for a lifetime.

Wisdom of the Desert

"We cannot do exactly what [the desert hermits] did. But we must be as thorough and as ruthless in our determination to break all spiritual chains, to find our true selves, to discover and develop our inalienable spiritual liberty and use it to build, on earth, the Kingdom of God. This is not the place in which to speculate what our great and mysterious vocation might involve. That is still unknown. Let is suffice for me to say that we need to learn from these men of the fourth century how to ignore prejudice, defy compulsion and strike out fearlessly into the unknown."
--Thomas Merton, Wisdom of the Desert

Merton, the great twentieth-century contemplative, was writing about his spiritual forefathers, the first Christian monastics. These were the "Desert Fathers," men who abandoned society in order to receive a more direct, sincere, authentic experience of reality. By the fourth century CE, Christianity had become the state religion. Some thoughtful people saw that the union of Christendom and the state had not achieved the Kingdom of God. In fact, such a union had the capacity to pervert and undermine the life of prayer, compassion and justice that followers of Christ were seeking to realize. So a rare few, simple men (there were surely women, too, but their names are lost to us and do not appear in the collections of their sayings), left to live alone in the desert and seek God face to face.

These were the forebears of the great monastic orders, but they lived before the rise of rich and powerful monasteries and of the carefully articulated rules of monastic life. Their only rules were survival and love. Eventually, spiritual seekers came to the Desert Fathers and sought out their teachings and words of wisdom. Thomas Merton, who in 1960 when this volume first appeared, was himself an aspiring hermit-monk, translated his favorite sayings of the Desert Fathers from the original Latin texts, and offered a brief introduction.

Merton saw in these simple men icons for our own times. And while Merton acknowledged that most of us will not become hermits (though we surely need more time in silence and solitude), the point is not to emulate the Desert Fathers' outward life. Rather, the point is to seek the same inward experience that they sought, to get beyond the conventional forms of social Christianity and to find "their own true self, in Christ."

Let Go and Enjoy

Mahatma Gandhi was asked once what he considered to be the essential teaching of Hinduism. He replied in words from a Hindu sacred book, the Isha Upanishad: "All this that we see in this great universe is permeated by God. Renounce it and enjoy it."

Now, don't run away. I think there's something quite intelligible to all of us here and I hope to make that clear! Let me paraphrase the verse Gandhi quoted. All that we see around us in this great universe is filled with and penetrated by God. Let go of it; don't hold on to it possessively and then, enjoy it, appreciate it.

More: the universe, all that is, belongs to and comes from God; God lives in it, in every part of it. It is not ours but it is definitely given to us to use and even to enjoy. We enjoy it best by not seeking to take any part of it and make it our own private possession but by seeing it for its value, beauty, usefulness and approaching it accordingly. By letting go of it, by 'renouncing' it we try to let it be what it is as it comes from the hand of God. That means that all that is has a meaning and value apart from what I think it could be for me and I should try to see this. Letting go and enjoying is a bit like what parents must do with their grown children: be willing to let them be what they are or will become and then be able to appreciate the uniqueness that follows.
--Don Talfous, OSB

The Offering

“Abraham did not doubt God’s promise in unbelief; rather, he was empowered by faith and gave glory to God and was fully convinced that what God had promised God was also able to do.”
—Romans 4:20-21

When I look back at the whole scope of my life, I see an endless river of grace. I also see that on the surface of that river I have flailed and splashed about, trying ceaselessly to control the direction and flow, trying to wrench some self-concocted version of “happiness” out of reality for myself, as if this were possible. If you’ve ever tried to swim in a strong current, you know this will simply leave you exhausted. It’s when you let go and float that you can be swept to safety.

What can I say or do? I am speechless with awe and amazement at the reality of what is. I can only give up this ridiculous offering of what I am, just as I am, offer it back to the river from whence it came, with gratitude, with adoration, with love.

Reckless Love

“Even the hairs of your head have all been counted. Do not be afraid.”
—Luke 12:7

Today is the feast of St. Callistus, one of the early popes. Most of what we know of Callistus comes from his enemies, who criticized him for what they perceived to be his excessive forgiveness toward sinners. They attacked Callistus for, among other things, admitting adulterers and fornicators to communion after they had done penance and for allowing men who had been married and divorced (sometimes multiple times) to become deacons and priests.

In an increasingly fundamentalist religious climate, perhaps Callistus is a patron for our age. He reflects Jesus’ ministry to the outcastes and those whom conventional society wants to write off as unredeemable. The miracle of the Christian message is that regardless of the mess we may have created in our lives, we are nevertheless redeemed. In fact, its sometimes through that very brokenness that our wholeness is revealed.

According to Bishop John Shelby Spong, the key message of Jesus’ teaching was to “love recklessly.” May today be a day of reckless love for us all.

the spiritual child

"While gazing at a glorious sunset or watching a silent snowfall, individuals often experience a moment beyond time, a sense of a peaceful Presence. Something vaguely familiar is experienced, which, at first, is beyond naming. Graced moments such as these are often valid experiences of God's presence. They are possible because the individual is calm, relaxed, and absorbed in beauty, therefore open to Ultimate Beauty. Children are habitually receptive and can focus completely on the present moment. They are naturally loving and trusting and have not lost their openness and sense of wonder. These inner dispositions and attitudes are also those of the spiritual child, the prerequisite for entering or participating in the [Reign] of God."
--Peggy Wilkinson, OCDS, author of Finding the Mystic Within You

The Freedom of Being

“And so I urge you: go after experience rather than knowledge…Knowledge tends to breed conceit, but love builds. Knowledge is full of labor, but love, full of rest…Yet you say: ‘Rest? What can he possibly be talking about? All I feel [in meditation practice] is toil and pain, not rest.’…My answer is simple: you find this work painful because you are not yet accustomed to it. Were you accustomed to it, and did you realize its value, you would not willingly give it up for all the material joys and rest in the world…I call it rest because your spirit does rest in a freedom from doubt and anxiety about what it must do…And so persevere in it with humility and great desire, for it is a work that begins here on earth but will go on without end into eternity.”
—Privy Counsel, Chapters 23 and 24

And so ends the anonymously written 14th century masterpiece on Christian meditation, The Book of Privy Counsel. Though a mystic, the author is always completely realistic about the challenges of the contemplative life, and so even in the end he acknowledges the pain and toil that often accompanies this work. Yet he emphasizes that this difficulty is part of the process, even a grace in itself, as we let go of our habitual tendency to want to know with the mind and we begin to really know (experience) with our hearts, or souls, or very being. This kind of knowledge is complete freedom from fear, because in this ocean of being the contemplative has seen that there is only one Life, which is the Life of us all.

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This concludes my commentary on the Book of Privy Counsel. For those of you on my mailing list, I will e-mail a Word version of the edited commentary, along with a brief introduction, in coming days. In the introduction I'll try to give a little more historical and theological background on this seminal piece of contemplative literature. If you are not on my mailing list (basically my e-mail address book; in other words, if I don't know you personally) but would like to be included, please post a comment to this blog along with your e-mail address. I'll remove your address from the blog and then include you in the next mailing.

I feel very blessed to have been led down this path, to have received the gift of these teachings, and to have the ability to share them with you. I feel wholly inadequate to do so, but I am encouraged by those of you who have read the blog and have received some blessing from it yourselves. We have no idea what miracles we may be working in the simple words we share with each other.

I never know exactly where this journal is going, so I don't know what I'll write about next. I am interested in looking at the teachings of the Desert Fathers, the earliest Christian monastics, but some other direction may emerge. Log on tomorrow if you are so inclined and we'll see what happens. Pax.

Embracing the Dark Night

“You will learn that all I have written of these two signs and their wonderful effects is true. And yet, after you have experienced one, or perhaps all of them, a day will come when they disappear, leaving you, as it were, barren; or, as it will probably seem to you then, worse than barren. Gone will be your new fervor, but gone, too, your ability to meditate as you had long done before. What then?”
—Privy Counsel Ch. 20

This is an extremely important instruction in meditation practice, but one that is not often addressed in more basic introductions. This is what St. John of the Cross called “the dark night of soul.” Once a contemplative has made some progress on the path, and has experienced some of the pleasant side effects of meditation, suddenly the benefits seem to vanish. The practice becomes stale, boring, difficult and completely devoid of any joy.

This is when most people give up, or worse, develop an outright hostility toward spiritual practice. But according to St. John, and to the anonymous author of Privy Counsel, this is a sign of great promise. It means that the spirit is purifying the heart of all need for a result, which is the ultimate prerequisite to entering the “cloud of unknowing.”

A central quality of contemplative living is, then, a simple, quiet equanimity—the gift of accepting all things as they arise and pass away, even the unpleasant, the boring, the seemingly painful. Because as long as we wait for some circumstance to make us happy, whether internal or external, we miss the real point: that genuine happiness lies in receiving the gift of what is, just as it is.

Two Signs

“I sense a question rising in your mind. Perhaps you are thinking something like this: ‘Tell me, please, is there one sign, or more, to help me test the meaning of this growing desire I feel for contemplative prayer?’…[There are two signs,] one interior and one exterior…The interior sign is that growing desire for contemplation constantly intruding in your daily devotions…The second sign is exterior and it manifests itself as a certain joyful enthusiasm welling up within you, whenever you hear or read about contemplation.”
—Privy Counsel, Ch. 18

All of this continues a kind of aside from the technique of contemplative meditation, but is nevertheless important since the author of Privy Counsel discusses at length the fact that this practice is not for everyone. So, who is it for? And here in Chapter 18 he answers with some signposts that might indicate one is opening to the practice.

The first is key, and I think happens to far more people than they realize. I encounter many people who say, “I just can’t pray anymore,” by which they mean, “I can’t pray with words anymore.” They usually don't realize that there are ways to pray that don't involve words, or even ideas and concepts. This dissatisfaction with traditional prayer is not in itself a sign of a budding contemplative, but in accompaniment with other variables like access to the teachings on contemplative prayer, someone to guide them in the practice, and life circumstances that present the opportunity for practice, it could be. The second sign is the response to discovering this silent way of knowing God. If it resonates with your deepest being, if it makes sense intuitively, if you feel its pull, then perhaps you are ripe for the practice.

In Chapter 19, the author goes on to describe how this all comes together. I have nothing to add by way of commentary. The author speaks for himself:

“Your whole personality will be transformed, you countenance will radiate an inner beauty…A thousand miles would you run to speak with another who you knew really felt it, and yet when you got there, find yourself speechless…Your words will be few, but so fruitful and full of fire that the little you say will hold a world of wisdom (though it may seem nonsense to those still unable to transcend the limits of reason). Your silence will be peaceful, your speech helpful and your prayer secret in the depths of your being. Your self-esteem will be natural…your way with others gentle, and your laughter merry…How dearly you will love to sit apart by yourself, knowing that others, not sharing your desire and attraction, would only hinder you…Thus the mounting desire for contemplation and the joyful enthusiasm that seizes you when you read or hear of it meet and become one.”

The Path is the Goal

“I make this point on purpose to refute the ignorant presumption of certain people who insist that man is the principal worker in everything, even in contemplation…But I want you to understand that in everything touching contemplation, the contrary is true. God alone is the chief worker here…In every other good work we act in partnership with God…God consents to [our activities] and assists us through secondary means: the light of Scripture, reliable counsel, and the dictates of common sense, which include the demands of one’s state, age, and circumstances of life…But in all that touches contemplation, even the loftiest human wisdom must be rejected…This, then, is the way I understand the Gospel’s words: ‘Without me you can do nothing’…Alas! I have used many words and said very little. But I wanted you to understand when to use your faculties and when not to…And since it is written, let it stand, though it is not particularly relevant to our subject.”
—Privy Counsel, Ch. 17

This chapter amounts to a lengthy aside reinforcing the mysterious message discussed in yesterday’s post: that in contemplation, we don’t actually do anything. This is difficult, and there is a risk that we take on a kind of anthropomorphic view of God, who is responsible for everything that happens, and for us to slip into a kind of dumb quietism. This is not what the author means, and is in fact a kind of heresy.

The author goes on at length emphasizing the free will of humans, and that we are co-creators with God of our everyday reality. We are “partners” with God, and we can test every decision by scripture, the advice of others we trust, and common sense, as well as taking into consideration all the many variables of our life circumstances. This kind of discursive reason is necessary for effectively functioning in the world, including the decision to take on a spiritual practice or meditation, and all the various techniques and teachings that are associated with it.

However, this is as far as our activity can go. The author advises that after that, you just sit still and let whatever happens next unfold. This is the difficult part, because we wonder why we are pursuing such a practice if we cannot influence the outcome. I think what the author is getting at here is our fundamental problem spiritually, psychologically and emotionally: our need for control, and our desire to shape an external situation (or in this case an internal situation) that will make us happy. But in fact, the root teaching is that no such situation will lead to true happiness. In the end, it is the letting go that brings liberation.

And letting go is the practice itself. As the Zen master Dogen said, “Zazen [meditation practice] is itself enlightenment!”

Waiting by the Door

“Tell me now, if Christ is the door, what should a person do once she has found it? Should she stand there waiting and not go in? Answering in your place, I say: yes, this is exactly what she should do…she must learn to be sensitive to the Spirit guiding her secretly in the depths of her heart and wait until the Spirit stirs and beckons her within…Lay hold of [contemplation], then, if you can; or rather I should say, if grace lays hold of you…For left to ourselves, we may proudly strain after contemplation, only to stumble in the end.”
—Privy Counsel, Ch. 16 (gender-inclusive text added)

This is one of the many paradoxes that lies in the background of everything the author of Privy Counsel teaches. We do all this work, but in the end, we do nothing. The work is done to us. This is why some authors distinguish between centering prayer and contemplation. One is the technique; the other is the fruit of the technique. They are not necessarily connected. We do not earn contemplative awareness, nor do we give it to ourselves. We dispose ourselves to receive it by letting go of all results and accepting everything just as it is. Like a Zen koan, the answer does not appear until we are content with no answer at all. Therein lies the mystery.

Listening for What Comes Next

“Moreover, outside of God’s special intervention, I believe it is humanly impossible for a sinner to come to peaceful repose in the spiritual experience of himself and of God until he has first exercised his imagination and reason in appreciating his own human potential, as well as the manifold works of God, and until he has learned to grieve over sin and find his joy in goodness. Believe me, whoever will not journey by this path will go astray. One must remain outside contemplation, occupied in discursive meditation, even though he would prefer to enter into the contemplative repose beyond them…Some find the door and enter within sooner than others, not because they possess a special admittance or unusual merit, but simply because the porter chooses to let them in.”
—Privy Counsel Ch. 14

Here the author emphasizes again that contemplative practice is not for everyone. It is an extremely rare calling, in fact, and though we may feel drawn to the practice, an intellectual curiosity about meditation is not the same thing as a vocation to it. There is nothing wrong with traditional forms of discursive prayer or meditation techniques which utilize reason and imagination. The author stresses that it is necessary to utilize these techniques first on the pathway to contemplation, and that some may find such techniques to be their permanent spiritual home.

If we do eventually come to an understanding of contemplative practice, a deep, quiet waiting should follow to see if such silent prayer is actually for us to pursue. This is an extremely subtle process, and a kind of meditation in itself.

In case anyone who read this thinks that I myself am an experienced contemplative, let me confess that I do not maintain a daily meditation practice. I have used meditation techniques off and on for a dozen years or so, and have been graced with a number of remarkable experiences and insights during contemplation. But I am no expert. My central spiritual practice is journaling, which is what I am doing right now, and it is one of those discursive methods of imagination and reason that the author of Privy Counsel describes as a part of the path.

Lately I have been drawn to a more informal type of contemplative practice as I go about my daily life. While driving my car, or eating, or conversing with friends and family, I feel drawn to slow down internally (even though on the outside I may be very active). From a still point inside, I endeavor to just watch the flow of things as they occur, even the activity of my own mind, without identifying with it, clinging to the experience or pushing it away. This is contemplative practice in its most basic form, as I understand it, and I have a sense that for now, it is sufficient. When a different approach is needed, I believe that it will become evident, and a new path will open.

Perhaps it is the same for everyone else. The key component to contemplative living is just listening to the present moment, to see what should come next.

An Ecclesiastical Aside

Church politics is of great interest to me, but I have never intended to use this blog as a place for commenting on ecclesiastical matters, and I promise I will not make it a habit to do so. Nevertheless, a lot of my readers are Catholic friends and family, and I think there are some interesting things going on right now that deserve their attention. First of all, Pope Benedict XVI's first Synod of Bishops begins in Rome this week. The topic is the future of the Eucharist. What is remarkable in this is that a number of issues critical to progressive Catholics are on the table, including a discussion of optional celibacy for the priesthood (in other words, married priests). There will also be a contingent of representatives from other Christian denominations participating in the discussions. These are hopeful signs, but none perhaps more hopeful than the cordial meeting between the Pope and Catholic theologian-in-exile Hans Kung, who is a patron saint of church reform. Let's send good vibes to the Pope and this Synod that the sensus fidelum might be heard.

The Cross of Self

“Yet do not misunderstand my words. I did not say that you must desire to un-be, for that is madness and blasphemy against God. I said that you must desire to lose the knowledge and experience of the self. This is essential…It is possible, of course, that God may intervene at times and fill you with a transient experience of himself. Yet outside these moments this naked awareness of your blind being will continually weigh you down and be as a barrier...just as in the beginning of this work the various details of your being were like a barrier to the direct awareness of yourself…See how necessary it is to bear this painful burden, this cross of self?”
—Privy Counsel Ch. 13

This issue of the self is one of the most difficult aspects of contemplative practice. Intellectually, we rebel at the notion that “self” is a problem because we cling to this concept so desperately. And even once we’ve made peace with the idea of losing the self intellectually, in practice it remains the last and greatest barrier to real contemplation.

It is also difficult because our understanding of human psychology has advanced to the point that we share a general consensus that a healthy sense of “self” is fundamental to personal well-being, and that not being able to perceive or honor appropriate boundaries with others can lead to a variety of emotional problems. Likewise, we imagine that if we lost the “self” we would cease to have emotions or even a personality. All of these misperceptions are rooted in a lack of understanding about the real nature of the contemplative experience.

Everyone has had a contemplative experience, whether they realize it or not, and the author comments on this when he mentions those transient times when we are filled with an experience of “God’s self.” It is not necessary to use theological language to identify these moments. We have these moments when we look up at the stars at night and are filled with a sense of awe at the majesty of the universe, or when we see the ocean and are struck speechless at its beauty, or we look into the eyes of our child and are overwhelmed by the enormous mystery of unconditional love.

In those moments, we do not cease to be, but we are lifted beyond the normal boundaries of our “self” and experience an interconnectedness that is far beyond it. Our self remains intact, but we are given a brief glimpse into the infinite ocean of being from which the self (and all other “selves”) emerge. This is the contemplative experience, and we know it well. Meditation or centering prayer practice is meant to nurture a deeper sensitivity to that reality beyond the self (which nevertheless contains the self), so that we live in greater, ongoing awareness of it.

This and More Than This

“But now I want you to understand that although in the beginning I told you to forget everything save the blind awareness of your naked being, I intended all along to lead you eventually to the point where you would forget even this, so as to experience only the being of God.”
—Privy Counsel Chapter 12

In the Buddhist tradition, a distinction is made between meditation practice for concentration (shamatha) and for insight (vypashana). The idea is that the untrained mind is a bit too wild and unsettled for wisdom to emerge immediately in a new meditation practice. The mind must gain focus. And so the meditator begins by focusing on the breath, and returning to the breath over and over again when distractions arise, until the mind becomes laser-like and bright in its focus. The breath becomes ever more subtle as the process goes on.

Eventually, the mind is settled enough that the meditator can begin to peer into the nature of the thoughts and feelings that arise in the mind. This is insight practice, and here we study each mental object by looking carefully to see its impermanence, the unsatisfying results of clinging to it or pushing it away, and by looking for the separate “self” that creates it (and we don’t really find one). Thus, we gain greater liberation over the landscape of our minds.

The Christian mystics use slightly different language for this process, but the steps are nearly the same. In the Cloud of Unknowing, the author recommended that the beginning contemplative practice with a “sacred word” to calm and focus the mind. In Privy Counsel, he does not mention the word at all, but instructs us to focus on a naked awareness of our own being (which is a kind of insight meditation). But now he tells us that this has all just been preparation for the next step, which is the raw, unmediated experience of the being of God.

In this final experience, the self is “forgotten” as the contemplative is completely submerged into the infinity of Being itself. The author likens this to the experience of lovers. “The lover will utterly and complete despoil himself of everything, even his very self, because of the one he loves…He desires always and forever to remain unclothed in full and final self-forgetting.”

We want to know more about this experience and to describe it, but it cannot be described in words. It can only be experienced. I've already said too much about it by way of commentary. I'll end with this: those who have been there say that it is a kind of pure awareness of the present moment, just as it is, but that the experience of this takes us beyond this and connects us to that which is more than this. And in that vibrant life between this and more than this is the whole universe.

Jumping In

“But since God in his goodness stirs and touches different people in different ways (some through secondary causes and others directly), who dares to say that he may not be touching you and others like you through the instrumentality of this book. I do not deserve to be his servant, yet in his mysterious designs, he may work through me if he so wishes, for he is free to do as he likes. But I suppose after all that you will not really understand all this until your own contemplative experience confirms it.”
—Privy Counsel Ch. 11

Wonderful humility here on the part of the anonymous author, and his humility teaches a great lesson. One of the greatest miracles is how the Divine works through all of us. When we speak to one another, we hear the voice of God. When we look at each other, we see God’s face. When we touch each other, we touch the body of Christ, the body of the Universe.

And it matters not one bit how broken we are individually. I take great hope in the conviction that the saints are not really all that different from me in depths of their hearts (not more morally pure or pious, for example), but rather in their courage to let go and become an instrument of grace and love in whatever humble way they can. Which means all that is necessary for me is to likewise let go.

This letting go is what the author means when he says we don’t understand any of this esoteric language until our own contemplative experience confirms it. Standing on the edge of the pool looking at the water is not swimming. You have to jump in.