The Big Book of Christian Mysticism: The Essential Guide to Contemplative Spirituality

by Carl McColman

The paradox that mysticism is mostly about the mind and also mostly about the heart can be resolved only by saying "yes" to both contentions. Mysticism is about abstract intellectual theory and feel-it-in-your-gut passion. Mysticism is visionary, and mysticism is erotic (in the best and highest sense of the word). Some mystics are more naturally "head" mystics; others are more naturally "heart" seekers. All in all, the Christian tradition seems to require both.

  Practically speaking, this means balance. Mysticism is about immersion in the great stream of Christian thinking, from the wisdom of the Bible to the teachings of the great mystics themselves. But it's also about putting down all the books and retreating into silence and solitude to encounter the God who calls you to love. And then it's about returning from solitude to engage in real-world life and relating to other people in love and joy, in conflict and challenge, in suffering and trials. What you think, what you feel, and how you love are all important to the mystical journey.

  The mystical life is like climbing a mountainit's a lifelong journey to reach the place God is calling you.

  There's nothing separating you from the love of God-right here, right now.

  Here we face the question of degrees in the spiritual life. Does the path of the mystic involve a developmental process, moving from beginner, to intermediate, to adept, to advanced student of the God-filled life? Or, on the other hand, is mysticism really just a matter of discovering that you already always, completely, without qualification exist right here and right now in the eternal and infinite love and presence of God?

  The answer to both questions is a unified "yes." Many of the great mystics and contemplatives in the Christian tradition taught that mysticism is a process that unfolds through stages. The most common "map" of this process was first developed by the third-century mystic Origen of Alexandria, who felt that three of the wisdom books of the Hebrew Scriptures (Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, and the Song of Songs) symbolically represented three stages of spiritual growth: purification, illumination, and union. The anonymous author of The Cloud of Unknowing suggested that contemplatives go through a four-stage process, while Evelyn Underhill, expanding on Origen's idea, outlined five stages. The thirteenth-century mystic Marguerite Porete saw the mystical life as a journey with seven stages.

  The number of stages on the path is not important. Many mystics have envisioned the spiritual life as a journey that, like any process, requires time, effort, and the passing of recognizable landmarks along the way.

  But what about the mystics who suddenly experienced the unmediated presence of God, without going through all the "stages" first? What about Saint Paul, who heard the voice of Jesus even while he was still in the business of persecuting Christians? Or Julian of Norwich, who had a life-altering vision after apparently doing little more than praying for an experience of God? Jesus told a parable in which a man hired workers to work on his land, and he paid the same wage to those who worked there all day long and those who arrived at the last hour. Did he intend to imply by this that the fullness of union with God is available to anyone, at any time, not just those who "work the program"?

  Of course. Just as we saw earlier that no spiritual method or technique of prayer is required to achieve intimacy with God, no linear beginner-toadvanced process is required either. To say something is not required, however, is not the same as saying it is never useful. After all, love at first sight may exist, but most people in happily-ever-after relationships go through a slow and steady process of becoming acquainted before the wedding bells start ringing.

  And so it is with the spiritual life. When John of the Cross compared the mystical life to the ascent of Mount Carmel, he was not declaring that anyone with any hope of experiencing God's presence must climb the mountain in the very same manner. He was making the important point that, for many lovers of God, the journey can be quite long. When we think of this mystical life in this way, we can approach the wisdom of great mystics like John of the Cross as signposts along the path that help seekers to find their way. And one of those signposts says: "Not everyone has to follow this route; some of you can get there in the twinkling of an eye."

  Robert Hughes' wonderful book Beloved Dust: Tides of the Spirit in the Christian Life recasts the traditional purgation/illumination/union sequence in different language as conversion, transfiguration, and glory. But as his "tides" metaphor suggests, Hughes argues that these "waves" of spiritual experience can wash up on the shore of the soul in any order, in any sequence, in any way. Perhaps we can truly say that the mystical life will, sooner or later, call us to conversion, to transfiguration, and to glory. But as for how these experiences will manifest in any one person's life only the Holy Spirit knows for sure.

  The Ultimate Mystery is silent.

  Part of being a mystic is trying to express the ineffable through words.

  The contemplative life is devoted to silence. Monasteries are silent places, churches (up until about a generation or so ago) have traditionally been places of quiet reflection, and the desert or the wilderness (places traditionally associated with mystics and contemplatives) are places that invite deep solitude. Silence, it seems, is an important ingredient in mystical spirituality. This may seem odd to those whose lives are filled with electronic gadgets that continually generate sound and noise. But, when you stop to think about it, all the sonic clutter in your life functions as little more than a distraction that keeps you from attending to the unobtrusive (and profoundly silent) presence of God.

  Not only is a mystery something that cannot be explained; but in spiritual terms, the Ultimate Mystery cannot even be put into words. We cannot fully and finally capture the fullness of the divine ineffability in mere human language. Perhaps our words can give us a vague sense of what we believe about God, or what our faith tells us that God has revealed to us. But, even then, words leave us with more questions than answers or lead us into paradox. Since God is so ultimately unknowable since his light is so dazzling that it blinds us perhaps it's reasonable to say that the Word of God is so overpowering that we can experience it only as (and through) silence.

  As soon as I say that, however, another paradox emerges, for I am using words to testify to God's "meta-wordness."This is a paradox that has been part of the mystical tradition since the days of the Biblical writers (if not before). We cannot put God into words. And, it appears, we cannot stop trying to do just that. Indeed, in the Gospel of John, one of the names of Christ himself is "the Word of God." And, of course, central to Christian faith is the "word of God" as found in the Bible.

  I believe it was G. K. Chesterton who said, "Anything worth doing is worth doing poorly." And this seems to be the motivation behind mystics who talk about, write about, or teach others about their experience, their visions, their insight, their speculations and ruminations about God. Of course, all their words fail some more spectacularly than others. Some are even rejected for how their words are interpreted (or misinterpreted). Mystics like Origen and Meister Eckhart are admired for their contemplative genius, even though their teachings their words have been questioned by orthodox Christians as being just a little too "out there." Then there is Thomas Aquinas who, after his mystical vision on the Feast of Saint Nicholas, stopped writing because he realized that all his words were worth little more than straw.

  Well, compared to the splendor of the Ultimate Mystery, he's right. But I, for one, am certainly glad that he tried. And I'm glad that Teresa of Avila and John of the Cross and Julian of Norwich and John Ruusbroec and Thomas Merton and Evelyn Underhill and countless others tried as well. Surely, all of them knew in their own way just how impoverished and error-prone and limited their words were as they tried to describe the mystery of God. And they were right. Before the Great Silence, all words fail. But even the words that fail need to be spoken.

  Heaven is a gift freely given.

  Hell awaits those who reject divine love.

  Finally, I want to touch briefly on what Christian doctrine calls the last things:
death, judgment, heaven, and hell. Death doesn't require much comment: we all have an appointment with the Reaper, hopefully after a long life well lived. But many people find troubling, and distasteful, the notions of judgment and heaven or hell. Even for many devout Christians, the idea that God will judge us and consign the unchosen to an eternity of unremitting torment seems utterly at odds with the idea that God is allloving and all-merciful, and desires communion with us. How could such a God do such a thing?

  The topics of judgment and hell, as unpalatable as they are to the modern mind, are central to the teachings of the Christian religion, and they show up throughout the teachings of the great Christian mystics. If you want to engage in this great tradition, you must come to some sort of understanding of these "final things."

  The idea that God is both all-loving and all-just is paradoxical, not because it portrays him as half just and half merciful, but because he partakes of both qualities 100 percent. So whatever God's judgment may be, it does not in any way diminish God's compassion and love and vice versa. In fact, Frederica Matthewes-Green, in her essay "Why We Need Hell," suggests that heaven and hell are not two different places or states at all, but rather one reality the full and unmediated presence of God that can be experienced in different ways depending on the response of the individual.

  If you choose to accept the unified love and justice of God in all its glory and splendor, it may overwhelm you at first (this is what Catholics call "purgatory"). As the eyes of your soul adjust to the light, you will be brought into that glory and splendor in ways far beyond your imagining. God may dazzle you with his presence, but he also lets you choose whether you will open yourself to his glory. For those who freely choose to remain closed to God forever, that is what Christians call hell -a state of unredeemed suffering that results from rejecting the grace and power of God. God's judgment, therefore, is nothing more than absolute reality and complete self-knowledge. In that crystalline clarity, we choose what we choose. And God loves us, regardless.

  So it's not God's love (or lack thereof) that accounts for heaven and hell. It's how you respond that makes all the difference. As C. S. Lewis put it: "There are only two kinds of people in the end: those who say to God, `Thy will be done,' and those to whom God says, in the end, `Thy will be done.."'24

  TAKING THE PARADOXES (NOT SO) SERIOUSLY

  Perhaps one way to look at all these paradoxes, and all the ideas that go into explaining them, is to approach them all as a form of play. We tend to take our relationship with God very seriously which is understandable, since a major theme of at least the Western religions is to order our behavior in a way that makes it pleasing to God. But if God wants us to take delight in him (Psalm 37:4), then perhaps a little bit of joy and even playfulness can be blended with our seriousness.

  I'm not suggesting that the mystical life is frivolous, merely that there is more room in it for smiling than we (who tend to take ourselves too seriously) may at first admit. And this, I believe, is what paradox ultimately teaches us. We do not have it all figured out, under control, managed, and packaged. God is slippery and keeps wriggling out from our feeble efforts to pin him down. To the extent that we want (consciously or subconsciously) to be in control of our lives, we are likely to find this idea of God delighting in playful paradox rather hard to take.

  And that's precisely how I think God wants it.

  God tries to keep you on your toes not because he has a twisted sense of humor and wants you to feel uncomfortable, but because he knows that the best antidote for taking yourself (and your religion) too seriously is to fill your faith with all sorts of apparent contradictions. Sooner or later, you just have to throw up your hands and say: "Okay, God, I give up. There's no figuring you out." At that point, God comes to you "as a little child," laughs in your face, and says: "That's okay, I love you anyway! Let's go play!"

  PARADOXICAL CONSCIOUSNESS

  One final thought on the function of paradox in the mystical life. I believe that God is paradoxical, not only because he transcends human logic, and not only because he wants us to learn to have a more childlike, playful trust in him, but also because I believe paradox can be a springboard to mystical consciousness.

  We know that mysticism is all about mystery; the hardest paradoxes to crack are, in essence, profound mysteries. These mysteries/ paradoxes function within the Christian tradition in the same way that koans function in Zen Buddhism. A student of Zen receives a koan from his or her roshi (teacher), often in the form of a question that seems rationally impossible to answer. The most famous koan, for example, is: "What is the sound of one hand clapping?" As part of the student's ongoing meditation practice, he or she wrestles with the koan, not just to find the correct or appropriate response, but more to the point to reach the limits of rationality and then move beyond them into the expansive place of pure presence where a new or heightened state of consciousness can be experienced.

  A significant, but often ignored, declaration of the Apostle Paul is that "we have the mind of Christ" (I Corinthians 2:16). But what exactly is the mind of Christ? The Greek word, nous, offers a variety of connotations: mind, understanding, wisdom, comprehension. Plotinus spoke of the nous as an emanation from the divine source. This reminds me of a fascinating statement by the psychologist/ contemplative Gerald May, who, in his book Will and Spirit, wrote: "It seems quite certain, in fact, that rather than saying, `I have consciousness,' it would be far more accurate to say, `Consciousness has me.."'21 So, perhaps one of the gifts we can receive from the many paradoxes of God (and Christianity) is the opportunity to bump up against the limits of our own finite human consciousness, and thereby open ourselves up to let the consciousness of Christ, the mind of Christ, "have" us. When this happens, all the paradoxes melt away into non-oppositional, non-dual awareness. Christ does not resolve paradox; he simply transcends it.

  And he invites us along for the ride.

  CHAPTER 8

  Christianity's Best-Kept Secret

  So you have pain now, but I will see you again, and your hearts will rejoice, and no one will take your joyfrom you.

  JOHN 1 6: 2 2

  We have heaven within ourselves since the Lord of heaven is there.

  TERESA OFAVILA26

  If Christian mysticism is so important, why don't you hear more about it from the pulpit of your local church? Many ministers, priests, and other church leaders either never talk about mysticism at all, or seem to be uncertain about its role in the Christian life. One Episcopal priest told me: "I'm not sure what mysticism means anyway. My focus is on discipleship, and discipleship involves a direct and personal, as well as social, relationship with Jesus and with God." His comment suggests that, for many Christians, the language of mysticism, with its emphasis on mystery, darkness, unknowing, and paradox, can be intimidating or even threatening. What seems to be at issue here is a semantic distinction between a "direct and personal" relationship with God and the profound experiential union that forms the heart of mysticism.

  There are historical reasons why mysticism has fallen out of favor in mainstream Christianity, largely aftershocks of the Protestant Reformation. But perhaps the most compelling reason has more to do with the nature of mysticism itself. Mysticism simply doesn't "preach" very well because it challenges the comfort and ease by which most of us settle into established religious observances, accepting the relatively modest demands of church membership in exchange for an abstract belief that God loves us and will care for us. Mysticism upsets this status quo.

  Mysticism can shake the foundations of everything you believe or think you "know" about God. And it can be dreadfully dull, demanding a daily commitment to spiritual practices that, sooner or later, lose their appeal. Trappist monks describe their lives as "ordinary, obscure, and laborious." And while mysticism promises union with God, the price we must pay to get there (a life of daily discipline, continual self-sacrifice, and letting go of everything in our lives that does not foster love) is pretty daunting
. Moreover, while we are assured that, through spiritual discipline, we will partake of God's loving presence, there's no guarantee that we will experience it consciously. So mysticism is unlikely to appeal to those who do not feel impelled to explore it.

  No SILVER PLATTER

  A friend of mine recently told me a story that illustrates the ambiguous relationship between mysticism and religion. Like so many people today, he had been a spiritual explorer, checking outYoga and Zen and other practices from around the world before settling into a more prosaic spiritual practice as an Episcopalian. While he liked the Episcopal Church, before long he began to chafe at what he thought was a rather superficial approach to spirituality. Where was the depth that he had encountered in Eastern meditation? Finally, he took his question to his priest. "It's hidden in plain sight," was the minister's response. "The Christian tradition has just as much depth as any other wisdom tradition, but no one's going to hand it to you on a silver platter. You have to go looking for it." The priest went on to recommend a few books The Philokalia, The Cloud of Unknowing challenging my friend to get the right equipment and start working if he wanted to climb the mountain.

  ValentinTomberg, a Russian philosopher who, in midlife, entered the Catholic faith, once wrote about the personalities of angels. He suggested that angels are always eager and ready to assist us in whatever way we need, but, because of their evolved sense of ethics, they never interfere in human affairs unless asked to. I believe this is the same dynamic that governs the Holy Spirit's relationship with us as we stand on the threshold of the mystical life. We become mystics or contemplatives only through the grace of God at work in our lives. Any effort we make to do it on our own is doomed to failure. Indeed, the author of The Cloud of Unknowing, a medieval manual of instruction on the contemplative life, has stern words for those who, through pride and the folly of their own imagination, try to become mystics or contemplatives without humbly relying on the guidance of the Holy Spirit. He calls these pseudo-mystics the "devil's contemplatives." Contemplation and mysticism are always gifts from God. But God will never force those gifts on anyone. God is not in the business of spiritual coercion.