The Gospel of Mary Magdalene
Page 12
space-time (which is not the same as eternal, inasmuch
as the latter is defined as beyond all possible space-times).
Three-Dimensional Humanity
spirit (nous)
soul (psyche)
body (soma)
The psychosomatic complex is joined to a spirit (nous)
that is considered as the supreme value.
Fourfold Humanity
Spirit (Pneuma)
spirit, (nous)
soul (psyche)
body (soma)
The human complex (body, soul, spirit) has an opening through its spirit or higher mind (nous) to a dimension beyond space-time, known as the Pneuma or Holy Spirit.
It is this last, fourfold anthropology that is probably that of the Gospel of Mary. It embraces both the Platonic and Neoplatonic Greek traditions (body-soul-spirit) as well as the Semitic tradition, which equates the Pneuma with the Hebrew ruah, the Holy Breath or Holy Spirit that gives the human complex its life and coherence.
There are various ways of symbolizing this anthropology (see figure 4):
Figure 4
According to the Gospel of Mary, it is precisely this nous (human higher mind or spirit) that receives the Pneuma (Spirit of God) and transmits its fire and light to the other elements of the human complex.
If we apply this anthropology to our previous figure of Anthropos, while trying to avoid over complexity, then we might arrive at the scheme in figure 5. [Note: Words in roman in figure 5 refer to figure 4, which represents the human being in its process of becoming; words in italics in figure 5 refer to the underlying anthropology deduced from the passage 10:17–25 of the Gospel of Mary.—Trans.]
Figure 5
In both figures 4 and 5, the most important region is the junction—the relation, or bridge—between two different realms of Being. Many aspects of this bridge are shown, the ultimate of which is that of the unthinkable and inconceivable alliance of Being and nonbeing; of the I AM and the I am not.
Various elements of these systems are also to be found later in the writings of the early Church Fathers, especially in the anthropological synthesis of the Christian tradition by Maximus the Confessor.
The sinner—meaning the unhappy, unbalanced human being—is one who is cut off from the Holy Spirit.
The human spirit (nous), having turned away from the Spirit of God, the Pneuma, now turns toward its own soul (psyche), and this entangles it in the passions (pathé, or “pathologies”).
The soul then turns toward the body (soma) and becomes a slave of its sensations and instincts.
The body, having nothing toward which to turn, returns to nothingness.
All that is composed is decomposed.
The theos-anthropos undertaking would seem to have failed.
The happy (well-balanced, “normal,”“saved”) human being is one whose spirit or mind (nous) is turned toward the Pneuma and looks and listens for the messages communicated by the Breath. Such a mind is able to orient and clarify the psyche. The psyche then transmits its light to the body, bringing it vitality and peace.
Figure 6
This is the human being who is completely turned toward the divine or uncreated Being. This is the human who becomes Anthropos, the union of theos and anthropos. Such individuals are able to freely appropriate all of the potentials written in their genetic heritage, plus those granted by the opening of their humanity (see figure 7).
Figure 7
Yet much remains to be said about the specific nature of this nous, which is neither completely psychic, nor completely spiritual, and which forms the bridge between two.
“‘. . . the nous between the two
which sees the vision, and it is this which . . .’”
Might we complete this sentence with “ . . . sees and hears”? It would at least bring together the partisans of vision and audition, Greek and Semite alike. But if we stick to the text as we have it, the focus is on vision, and it is through the nous that one sees. For Miriam, the apparition of the resurrected One thus becomes not just a belief or a possibility, but a certainty and reality.
We could even go so far as to say that it is the very foundations of Christianity that are at stake, inasmuch as these embrace the love and knowledge of the Christ who was witnessed to have lived, taught, and suffered, and who was crucified, killed, and buried; and who was witnessed after his death as resurrected and alive, and who is still present now—who, according to his words in Matthew 28:20, is “with you always, unto the end of the age.”
This suggests several hypotheses regarding the nature of “that which sees,” and which seems to see through the mind or imagination. This especially evokes an experience very similar to that explored by Henry Corbin in his numerous works on mystics and saints, which he calls the creative imagination (following Ibn Arabi), or the imaginal.
But we might also consider what has been said by some thinkers less open to charges of mysticism than Corbin. For example, in the Critique of Pure Reason, Kant has some interesting things to say regarding the place and specific limits of the imagination, which he considers to be the faculty of synthesis: “I mean synthesis in the most general sense of the word: the act of adding together diverse representations so as to comprehend this diversity in knowledge.”
Thus addition becomes unification. Kant continues:
Synthesis in general is [ . . .] the simple effect of the imagination, that is to say, of a human faculty that is blind but indispensible, and without which we could never have any sort of knowledge, though we are only very rarely aware of this.
Christian Jambet comments on this text:
It is clear that the “blind” imagination is for us dark, hidden, and mute, for it does not reveal anything in particular to us, and especially nothing imaginary. It gives nothing more than the world, and just the world. Its place is close to the ultimate root of subjectivity: transcendental apperception, which unifies the totality of the given and the edifice of judgments. This place is so enigmatic that Heidegger, meditating upon the most famous passages of the Critique, coined this most striking résumé: “The transcendental imagination is without a homeland.”120
Returning to texts that are more akin to the Gospel of Mary, we might recall the words of Yeshua to the Pharisees, reminding them that it is those who claim that they see who are the most blind, and that: “I came into this world so that those who are blind might see. . . .”121
The nous—or creative imagination—of Miriam is in a sense blind, and this is paradoxically why she is able to see. As Heidegger said, her imagination is “without a homeland.” In other words, it is without a ground, without matter to be seen, without a body that can be touched. And yet she sees. She sees the One who animates and forms this body and this matter that she had previously been able to perceive only through the physical senses. She has passed into another mode of knowing, where Yeshua tells her (in Jn 20:17) not to detain him through touch, that is not to try to reduce him to sensible and conceptual categories of the known.
The philosopher Berkeley, like Malebranche, maintained that ideas are not private phenomena pertaining to an individual, but independent, non-material entities quite distinct from the soul and its modifications.122 For Berkeley, as for the great Iranian mystics Suhrawardi and Mullah Sadra Shirazi, there is the same paradox of sensation: Although the imaginal is a modification of the soul, it is presentational knowledge rather than a representational knowledge. It is a presentational knowledge (hoduri, in Persian) where the reality is the image itself. The imaginal is not just an individual way of functioning, but an independent entity.
Surely it is among such authors as these that we must search, reflect, and meditate if we are to come closer to the reality contemplated by Miriam of Magdala, a reality that is neither the fruit of her projections, nor of some need to be filled with what remains of Yeshua in her memory. This reality is not objective in the same sense that the term is applied to ordinary reality,
for this resurrection is not something that can be captured so as to weigh, measure and explain it with the faculties of sensation and reason, those powers that have become so dear to us in the one-dimensional reality in which the Teacher was previously perceived.
There are anthropologies infinitely richer than that of one-dimensional humanity. It is the latter point of view that always reduces any phenomenon of resurrection to something unreal—yet there is no evidence that history itself is one-dimensional. The Gospel of Mary’s purpose is to open up our vision of humanity and its history. The blinders that we wear are ultimately our own choice and responsibility.
Yet it is also true that we cannot be too careful about interpreting the ellipses in the text,
“‘It is neither through the soul nor the spirit,
but the nous between the two
which sees the vision, and it is this which . . .’”
[Page 15]
1 “And Craving said:
2 ‘I did not see you descend,
3 but now I see you rising.
4 Why do you lie, since you belong to me?’
5 The soul answered:
6 ‘I saw you,
7 though you did not see me,
8 nor recognize me.
9 I was with you as with a garment,
10 and you never felt me.’
11 Having said this,
12 the soul left, rejoicing greatly.
In the previous chapter Miriam taught the disciples that we are able to see visions by grace of the nous.
In this vision the Resurrection is not merely an event of the past, but the imaginal, transhistorical symbol of all love that is linked with a body of flesh and blood, and that is victorious over the space-time by which it was believed to have been limited. This Resurrection abides and continues far beyond any date and time at which it was empirically witnessed. Its space must be both physical (otherwise it disappears from history) and spiritual (otherwise it disappears into history). It is the nous that perceives this zone between the purely physical and the purely spiritual worlds.
If this dimension of humanness is denied or still dormant, there is an entire climate of Reality that remains undiscovered. Yet even beyond the nous there is the Pneuma . . . and beyond the Pneuma, the Silence (sigè). In the Gospel of Mary, the Kingdom is also called Repose and Silence.
Visionary experience is a necessary stage between words and the Silence—but words, vision, and silence are only particular steps in this great voyage from matter toward light, which is also known as a human being. Or better yet, the human being is the memory and storytelling of this voyage. Undoubtedly we would know more about the vicissitudes of this adventure if pages 11–14 were not missing.
Before attaining the Repose of Silence, Miriam’s being must pass through four climates,123 the final and uppermost of which consists of seven levels. At the opening of page 15, Miriam has already passed through the first climate. She has left behind the experience of nausea so well described in our contemporary literature—that sense of disgust and absurdity at being too full of matter, trapped and stifled by the weight of our consituent elements.
Of course we must also live with love and appreciation for our passage through materiality. But when its weight usurps all our space, when we no longer feel in us even the faintest beating of the wings of levity, the experience of this materiality descends not only toward a subhuman stupor, but toward an experience of “bad nothingness”; although the vehicle is empty, it still has no room.
Figure 8
The Gospel of Mary now recounts the soul’s dialogue with Craving, a symbol of the trial that every psyche must face in crossing this second climate:
“And Craving said:
‘I did not see you descend,
but now I see you rising.
Why do you lie ...?’”
Indeed, the soul does lie, inasmuch as it belongs to Craving. If Craving can make us rise (and toward what?), it can all the more make us fall. This is a climate of possessiveness. We have all been warned against being possessed by our possessions. As long as Craving drives us, we will never have peace. Craving can never say “Enough,” only “More.”
“‘ Why do you lie, since you belong to me? ’”
But Craving cannot conceal its true identity as the very nature of the psyche alone, the nature of all psychic activity that has been cut off from spirit. The soul in this condition can never be satisfied, and it is this ever-growing demand that is bound to become more vehement, and culminate in wrath.
Yet Miriam’s soul is clear, for the light of the nous lives in it, so that she is able to see, and to answer:
“‘I saw you,
though you did not see me,
nor recognize me.’”
The soul that is illumined by nous is turned toward spiritual Reality and is open to the breath of Pneuma—it sees the mechanisms and convolutions of psychic activity; but the soul, when left to itself, cannot see these. This highlights the problematic aspect of many so-called psychics who claim to be in contact with spiritual realities. An authentically spiritual person is capable of understanding a person driven by craving and possessiveness. But a person who is merely psychic cannot understand a spiritual person, one who is guided by non-attachment and is capable of free and unselfish acts. The psychic always has a tendency to reduce the acts of the spiritual person to its own limited categories—for example, labeling the behavior of the latter as hypocritical, incomprehensible, or deluded.
“‘I was with you as with a garment,124 and you never felt me.’”
Craving (epithumia) is like a garment for the soul. It is a robe richly colored with bright and dark places, no doubt, but it is not an essential manifestation of the soul, nor even of its physical envelope, the body. The soul could instead put on a garment of generosity or kindness, or of any of a number of other animate forms. The very nature of Craving is inflation—pretending to be something it is not. In this case, it has taken itself for the envelope or skin of the soul, rather than as a mere costume. But it cannot truly feel.
“Having said this,
the soul left, rejoicing greatly.”
Having affirmed its freedom from its clothing—its forms—the soul can leave in joy. Miriam’s own psychic activity thus shows that it is not alienated through identification with its cravings. This is akin to its previous liberation from identification with its nausea or aversion.
Is not the psyche that has passed through the climates of attraction and repulsion already on the path of nous and Pneuma? Is it not already able to taste a fully spiritual joy or, in other words, a joy that is not the mere result of success in avoiding pain or attaining pleasure, but a simple rejoicing in that which is, regardless of whether it is agreeable or disagreeable? This is the gift that is granted to the soul so that it may continue its ascent in the evolution of its consciousness.
[Page 15, continued]
13 Then it entered into the third climate,
14 known as Ignorance.
15 Ignorance inquired of the soul:
16 ‘Where are you going?
17 You are dominated by wicked inclinations.
18 Indeed, you lack discrimination, and you are enslaved.’
The third climate is one of complacent or willful ignorance. We prefer not to know, for knowing would imply a conscience and responsibilities. “We didn’t know,” or “We were just obeying orders,” have now become familiar excuses given by those judged for crimes against humanity. We would in fact prefer not to really know that our enemy is also a human being, and thus a brother or sister, in spite of apparent differences such as race or culture.
This refusal of awareness, this lethargy that blocks certain incoming knowledge, is ultimately capable of making us accomplices in the most atrocious crimes. Yet this ignorance brings no peace to the soul, and those who have it are not as blissful as they might appear. A questioning must sooner or later come to shake them out of it: Where are you going?
What is your path and what is the meaning of your life?
Awareness of our own ignorance can be our salvation. Does not wisdom begin with consciousness of our own not-knowing, just as healing begins with consciousness of our own lack of health?
“‘ You are dominated by wicked inclinations. ’”
What is it that “inclines” us to do this or that? What is it that makes us lean toward one attitude instead of another? As André Gide said, “Yes, you do have to go with the slope—but upwards!”
It is right and useful to explore and to know our own inclinations—all our attractions and repulsions—so as not to become reduced to being their unconscious slaves. Thus the accusations would seem to apply to a soul that is unable to resist its inclinations:
“‘Indeed, you lack discrimination,125 and you are enslaved.’”
What is lacking in such a soul is that diacrisis, discrimination or discernment, that enables it to resist identifying with its inclinations. We must not mistake our true nature for that which is defined by our inclinations. Of course we have desires, but we are not these desires. This confusion is another aspect of ignorance, a dreadful mixing-up of our being as subject with the objects of its desire.
Discrimination begins with separation: What I am from what I am not; and what I desire from what I do not desire. Of course these things are not always so clear. Unfortunately, this human limitation often becomes used as an excuse to defend our ignorance; we can claim that we are all just mixtures after all—especially of consciousness and unconsciousness.
The climate of willful ignorance is strangely perpetuated by all sorts of pseudo-understandings like this. They offer us a cheap and clever escape from guilt, which only makes us behave more and more irresponsibly. We cannot truly become free of guilt if we try to escape the grain of consciousness implicit in it. It is precisely this consciousness that enables us to discern our bad inclinations. This does not mean judging or condemning them, or feeling guilty about them—it means knowing them well enough so that we do not become easy prey for them.
The passage from animal to human requires discrimination, the capacity to evaluate and judge one’s acts favorably or unfavorably. Chimpanzees can create works of art with their agile hands, occasionally achieving quite remarkable paintings in color. But it is useless to look for even a hint of discrimination or evaluation on the part of the chimps.126 The anthropology of the Gospel of Mary reminds us that a multitude of talented monkeys cannot accomplish what one creature of discrimination can do. Is not the world of human society in reality a jungle—or rather a circus—where talented monkeys reign supreme?