Relationship to the darkness

2,700 words

In some way, then, that is not clear, we suspect that if there is an ultimate “explanation” for our being-here as matter, it lies in that darkness into which we peer but cannot see — what we feel and touch as our very bodies, what we understand so intimately and see so clearly and certainly but about which we can say nothing.  We have little choice but to accept this situation because, however galling it might be, we ourselves awaken into a condition of absolute immersion in that darkness.  We understand it with absolute clarity; we know of its creative power with absolute certainty; and we rely on it for our very ex­istence itself, for it is the components of our organism.  Matter’s energy, the embrace of existence, is a matter of sheer unexplained empirical fact.  It is as incomprehensible as it is absolutely familiar, undeniable and self-evident. It is the very fire and light of our lives, but utter darkness to our minds. It is us … and yes indeed, we understand it intimately.

What do I mean? If an immersion-relationship to being-here is the defining feature of our organisms, our selves, we fail to embrace the reliability of existence with its endemic thirst and emptiness at the risk of denying our very selves and the conditions under which we and our ancestors have been here and have evolved to become what we are. We cannot do that. We cannot sit in judgment on the circle of existence, matter’s energy, as if we stood outside of it; for not only our faculty of analysis and judgment but our very existence itself is an evolved function of matter’s energy. The internal incomprehensibility of being-here is now seen to have invaded our persons. The sense of emptiness, the hunger to live, which we encountered in the dynamism of existence, material energy’s self-em­brace, we now see resides at the core of our very selves and lights the fire of our conscious presence; for we are-here without escape (not even death can annihilate the material energy that we are) and our very consciousness is a tool of our inherited determination to survive. We accept it. To fail to do so implies personal self-negation.

But notice: upon realizing that our analysis of existence could not explain itself, we did not physically annihilate nor disappear. Of course not. The contradictions we encountered in our rational ruminations had no impact whatsoever on being-here. Existence clearly is not dependent on our conceptualizations; the significance of being-here and the selectivity of rational consciousness do not move in the same plane. There is a reason why we cannot make deductions about reality from our ideas alone … it’s because our intimate understanding of reality is not a function of ideas. Our consciousness is grounded in somatic experience, our bodies, our organic immersion in matter’s energy. It also supports our conclusion that the neo-Thomists’ “transcendent thrust of consciousness” tells us nothing. Conceptualization with the logic of its required “explanations,” in other words, does not correspond to the reality we have come to realize is process — energy, a dynamism we’ve described as a congenital self-embrace. And what we’re interested in is what reality is, not how we conceptualize it.

The original organic function of abstractive intelligence was not “to know” but to survive. That we “do not know” is not a problem.  Not-knowing is the expression of the very nature of what we are. We were not meant to know; we were meant to survive. “Knowing” what reality is, is not an innate mission or mandate that comes from “God,” as Rahner, Lonergan et al., would have it. Knowing is a task we have set for ourselves. It’s a valid project, but it’s entirely ours; we cannot infer anything transcendent from our voluntary pursuit of it. Nor do we have a right to expect it will tell us what we demand: “knowledge” in terms of our warehoused ideas. Our inability to know is only a problem (or a solution, as for the Thomists) if we have assumed our conscious “selves” to be (as in fact we have in the West) like “gods,” immortal spirits, striding above and beyond this world, forming divine immaterial ideas, the ultimate arbiters of all things material. We claim the right to sit in judgment on reality, submitting it to the bar of our dubiously reliable “ideas,” as if our “raptor’s claw” survival tool, abstractive conceptualization and its rationalist logic, were the very Mind of God.

In my opinion, this is the key. We divinized human reasoning — need I add, under the baneful influences of the Platonic-Cartesian illusions about the non-materiality of the human mind. From then on anything that does not yield to our concepts is judged irrational and impossible, all evidence to the contrary notwith­standing.

The evidence, however, does in fact withstand these presumptions. For, however absurd it may seem, we are-here … and we understand it intimately! Our being-here-now is something we cannot grasp with our rational intelligence, verbal-conceptual formulations and abstractive tools … but that doesn’t mean either that it is nothing or that we do not understand it. This reduces the range of possibilities offered by our conventional words even as it expands exponentially the potential for an accurate and intimate understanding of existence mediated by other cognitive mechanisms like metaphor, and the possibility of relationship. For our attempt to understand our conscious immersion in being-here trans­lates to our attempt to understand the ineffable wordless darkness — that material energy with its existential self-embrace which we are.

“Darkness,” of course, is another metaphor for this phenomenon, like the sense of emptiness. It is the living dynamism, the hunger of which we are constructed but unable to speak. It is what we are. In order to speak of this immersion we are forced to utilize our arsenal of non-con­ceptual apprehensions, our metaphorical allusions and poetic markers — myths, legends, parable-stories and witness personalities, rituals, symbols, interpretations and, most important of all, contemplative silence, to evoke, in a manner as close to presence itself as we can get, the embrace of being-here that we are. All we need do is experience ourselves being-here … the rest follows.

Hence, at the end of the day, we realize we do not “know” ourselves, … but we understand ourselves. We embrace ourselves in the transparent contemplation of a hungry and surviving energy that is “darkness” for our minds … but only for our minds. It is an understanding of existence derived from the realizations and interpretations of what lies hidden in the crystalline clarity of un-knowing and the penetrating silence of interior experience. We understand this desire and joy to be-here. It is who we are … it is what everything is. It’s why we understand one another … and all things.

Christian “revelation” and darkness

Chris­tian “revelation,” as traditionally understood and defended at least since the end of the middle ages, would turn this “darkness,” this un-know­ing, into “light,” that is, into conventional knowledge. “Revelation,” meaning beliefs, “factual truth” as we have inherited it, fundamentally claims to present clear ideas. It pretends to take the emptiness and the darkness out of being-here and to articulate it in the form of defined concepts guaranteed by “divine authority” brokered exclusively by an infallible Church and/or the “Book.” Catholic dogma is officially labeled de fide definita (a contradiction in terms, in my opinion). Dogma recapitulates the partializing dis­tortions of abstraction that we have been trying to get in perspective through­out these reflections.

Conventional knowledge — concepts — is the unequivocal goal of Ca­tholic dogmatic definitions. For, by claiming to “transcend” the dead-end of rational enquiry, “revela­tion” attempts to deny the ultimate significance of the unknowability, the Mysterium Tremendum that philosophy un­covered. The Void, the darkness, the emptiness, we must understand, is not a concept. It is the antithesis of all concepts. It is a Mega-Metaphor; the ultimate figure that describes our experience of being-here, our contemplative appreciation of the ineffable dynamism that drives becoming and gives meaning to our world and our very persons as part of that world. It is the force responsible for evolution. It is sacred for us for it is our very own lust for life. We experience it internally, we understand it intimately and with an unshakable certitude for it is ourselves, but we do not know what it is.

It’s relevant to remember that before the Middle Ages, in the more ancient Christian view, revelation was not considered defined dogma. Revelation for the ancients exclusively meant the Scriptures. John Scotus Eriúgena, for example, believed the result of rational enquiry, Philosophy, was not transcended by the Scriptures but rather was restated there in symbolic terms.[1] The Scriptures, he said, were allegories and symbols, “figures” (= metaphors) that represented the self-same truth discovered by Philosophy. We will recognize this as the view of all the Fathers from Origen to Gregory of Nyssa in a living tradition that went back to Philo of Alexandria. In fact, for this tradition, as far as “knowledge of God” was concerned, Philosophy was the more direct and literal of the two. Scrip­ture was believed to provide stories and symbols designed to make the ethereal truths of Philosophy intelligible to the people who were not philosophers. The real “truth” contained in the symbols of scripture was Philosophical. Scripture did not trump Philosophy. The two were parallel modes of expression. There was only one “truth.”

In this perspective, the bottomless Unknowable Ground into which the roots of reality sank and disappeared was a discovery of Philosophy that always remained insuperable. Ancient Christian mysticism as represen­ted by the apophatic tradition of Pseudo-Diony­sius and Gregory of Nyssa, was constructed on exactly that foundation. Outside of the person and work of Jesus (who was quickly assimilated to Greek Philosophy’s Logos), there was no “new” infor­ma­tion about “God” to be found in the Scriptures. The Scriptures were symbols and stories which blended and flavored the “truth” of the Unfathomable Mystery — giving a “human” face to the Utter Darkness at the base of reality for the edification of the ordinary people. “God” was categorically unknowable and the role of revelation was only to provide metaphors for the darkness, not knowledge.

Since the days of the ascendancy of the claims of the infallibility of Ca­tholic dogma, revelation has come to be presented not as figures and me­taphors of the unknowable, but rather as “facts” that were allegedly known but just happened to be beyond unaided discovery and rational comprehension. This had a long historical development.[2] As the Church became associated with, and then progressively exercised in its own right the imperial prerogatives of the theocratic Roman State, its declarations about the “truth” became more arbitrary, authoritarian and “definitive.” Beginning with Nicea (with the personal intervention of the Emperor Constantine himself), the Church acted as if it had inside information that defined “God,” the Logos, the Trinity, Grace, the after-life, and was the only one that knew exactly how that information was to be used in practice. Fundamentally what it did was to reify legitimate religious metaphors, and turn them into gratuitously infallible dogmatic concepts, entities, qualities, reasons and explanations — facts taken literally. The upshot of this was to change the significance of mystery from “unknowable” to “unintelligible,” and the method of expression from metaphor to defined dogmatic verbalized concept. As I grew up, every Catholic schoolchild was taught and believed that the “facts” of religion were fully known. The only “mystery” was what they meant!

But as far as “knowledge” was concerned, it meant that the Catholic Church “knew” everything that could possibly be known about “God.” It solidified the Church’s exclusive and universal role in “salvation.” It was the basis for an ideological absolutism that dominated western culture for a thousand years and still has influence to this day.

preserve the question … celebrate the darkness

The only way for religion to safeguard the integrity of the Unknown that our analysis of presence-in-process revealed to us, is to accept the “truths of revelation” not as conceptualized “facts” but as powerful evocative metaphors, creative instruments designed to preserve the question, not give an answer, … to celebrate un-know­ability, the “absent explanation,” which is our life … and to bundle the unknown remainder into relationship with what, at root, is our very selves. For traditional Christianity this is not the 180o turn it appears to be. Our mystical traditions, going back past the Middle Ages, beyond the Cappadocian Fathers, beyond even Philo of Alexandria to the origins of Mosaic Yahwism, have always spoken of “God” as the Unknowable One. Moses’ code demanded that graven images be forbidden lest we dared to imagine we “knew” the One-Who-Has-No-Name, Yahweh, which Philo tells us was a word that means “Nameless,” “Imageless.”[3] The surrender of the claim to possess conceptual “knowledge” of God means the end of “dog­ma.” That will mean the surrender of human control, and an end to the arrogance of the sectarian religious enterprise.  It accepts our ignorance. It confirms us in our utter humility, dethrones the overrated rational human “intellect” as the ultimate arbiter of reality, challenges the haughtiness spawned by our technological prowess and the false human superiority it implies, rejects the anti-material, anti-body, cerebral and gender-distorting assumptions of the Platonic-Carte­sian Paradigm, and lays a solid foundation for faith not as arcane “knowledge,” a canonical gnosis, but as unconditional trusting surrender to a darkness we embrace as the very core dynamism of our living selves.

I have intentionally used the same images and metaphors as the mystics because I think we are talking about the same experience.  Darkness, unknowing, emptiness, are traditional words that de­scribe the fact that the only thing we will ever know, conceptually, is our universe of matter’s energy — including us — driven to survive in the present moment by evolving endlessly.

To my mind, this is the basis for the ultimate reconciliation of philosophical enquiry and theological projection.  It not only confirms the limited conclusions of rational observation and analysis at all levels, scientific and philosophical, but it also guarantees respect for the metaphors of all religious traditions which are attempting to celebrate and relate to the powerful creative darkness instead of denying it. It also finally includes in the circle of the fully human all those people branded “atheist,” who choose to stand in utter silence before the mystery of it all, because they refuse to apply any metaphors whatsoever to the emptiness, the embrace of existence, that they, like the rest of us, encounter at the core of them­selves. We are all made of the same thirsty clay, the same hungry quest for life. For those of us who know that the very heart of the matter is that we do not know what that is, “atheists” are our coreligionists.

But it should not make us disconsolate to say we do not know. We don’t need to know; for we understand existence, and understanding opens to the possibility of relationship. Once we stop in­sisting that there must be an explanation that can be expressed in the con­ventional terms of our rational knowledge concepts, explanations, reasons, words, logic, analyses, instruments of human control — the immense mystery of being-here discloses itself. For while we may not know what it is, we experience its dynamic power and understand it from within. We possess it completely in conscious form. For we are it. We can have no more intimate understanding of it than that. We can realize our identity with it; we can hold it and be-hold it in silent contemplation; and we can express, com­mu­ni­cate and celebrate its groaning creative maternal benevolence which gave birth to this astonishing universe, with evocative metaphors, spellbinding narratives and ecstatic rituals. And ultimately we love it as our very selves …  

But we do not know what it is.

Tony Equale

2009

 

[1] The end of the Periphysion

[2] This is similar to Adolph Harnack’s assessment of the significance of Nicea as the first time that belief was accepted as irrational.

[3] Philo of Alexandria, On the Change of Names, II (7) to (14) passim, tr.Yonge, Hendrickson Publishers, 1993, p.341-342.

 

Buddha and the Absolute

1,300 words

Efforts to correlate western theism with Buddhism always run into the same difficulty: theists try to introduce the concept of a non-material changeless Absolute into a Buddhist world of empty ephemeral “things” that exist in a roiling process of constant composition and decomposition. “Absolute” is a concept that is necessarily non-material and changeless. It is because it is so totally different that it immediately evokes a “world” or a dimension of reality that is other than ours. If you conceive “God” as an “absolute” as Christian theology has always done, his relationship to the world requires a complicated explanation that is not always convincing even when it’s coherent.

Besides, to claim access to another world that is not empty, shows a fatal misunderstanding of why the Buddha refused to talk about such things. For once you introduce the “Absolute”, you have introduced permanence and non-materiality. That means the material human “self” seeks to connect with the Absolute and must think of itself as becoming (if not already) permanent and non-material. Transformative practice becomes a pursuit (or protection) of permanence and a rejection of the body. One seeks absorption into the Absolute here and/or hereafter by changing oneself and being filled with the Absolute’s non-material, non-temporal reality.

Anatman, “no-self,” would then become only a “skillful means,” a technique, a mental manipulation, a kind of self-deprecation you use to help you “act” right and fill yourself with a permanence that you do not have; it no longer characterizes reality-as-it-is. That may serve as a synthesis of Hinduism and Abrahamic theism, but however abstract and non-anthropomor­phic, it is still radically dual. If the Absolute is an entity, it is transcendently Other. It is non-material and changeless in a universe of matter, change and process. It sets up a necessary relational dynamic of imitation and infusion, whereby “salvation” consists in matching human behavior to a standard “out there” set by the Absolute Other, and those who do not conform become sinners or failures who require “forgiveness” from the Other and a metamorphosis accomplished by an infusion that changes the organism from what it is into what the Other is: from matter to non-matter; from process to permanence. Anatman disappears because the emptiness from which it is derived becomes a source of repugnance and recoil.

To do that is to abandon what I believe is Buddha’s radical religious insight and challenge: we cannot “achieve” Nirvana. Nirvana emerges from embracing our emptiness. And nirvana emerges because it is already there. We are constituted of it, like an oak tree emerges from an acorn. Our “salvation” is to embrace ourselves; “I” and my body are “two” in one flesh, one thing. The “I,” in fact, stops insisting on being acknowledged, because now it knows it was never anything separate from the body to begin with. What was there was only the human organism ― the body ― material energy-in-process. What we thought was a separate non-material permanent “self” was the organism’s own material reflex for self-preservation.

Only in a system of total immanence, where the practitioner is already fully and completely what s/he transforms into, i.e., where what becomes is what seminally is fully there, can the material universe be what it is: material energy-in-process ― what we see unfolding itself before our astonished eyes: hydrogen atoms becoming stars, suns imploding and spewing out earths, sea and soil generating living organisms, acorns developing into oaks, species evolving species endlessly. Everything is in process; and nothing comes from nothing.

This is not some esoteric insight, the solution of an exquisitely complex equation. It is simply the result of taking the evolving universe out there to be exactly and only what it appears to be, with no remainder whatsoever. What is there is exactly and only what you see. There is no other world, plane or dimension of existence. You are looking at it all, every bit of it: cause and effect, source and outflow, seed and organism, origin and emanation, Creator and Creatures. A universe in process. It’s all right there.

There is nothing more. WE ARE THAT! We belong here. We are in the only home we will ever have, and we already are all we could ever hope to be, an emanate constructed of our very source: material energy-in-process.

metaphysics and practice

I am attempting to make a point about the nature of reality for those who are trying to philosophically synthesize theism with Buddhism. I am not comparing practices, or trying to counsel a new way to practice Buddhism. This is strictly a metaphysical exercise.

Is there a cosmic “Absolute” or is there not? That is the question. Can traditional theists be Buddhists? Buddhist practice, I am saying, cannot conflate with an Absolute without abandoning its unique focus on the pre-existence of that reality which makes nirvana possible: emptiness understood as radical metaphysical contingency.

(Many people erroneously think of “emptiness” in psychological terms, as a “realization,” a subjective appropriation of the objective metaphysical fact which translates into a kind of self-deprecation. I do not mean that. I am using the word as Nagárjuna originally meant it: metaphysically. Nothing has its own “stand alone” being. “Emptiness,” sunyata, is a phenomenological description of the nature of reality.)

Nirvana pre-exists as dharmakaya because the organic matter of our bodies, when undistorted and unencumbered, exists naturally in a state of serene self-embrace: inner peace and abiding joy. For me it corresponds to the definition of material energy as existential ― i.e., matter is the very energy to exist, hence it is pure “act,” esse, necessarily one with itself, utterly undivided.

This, I am claiming, has nothing to do with reward or metamorphosis or imitation, implying an absent “reality” outside the living human organism that needs to be inserted or infused or in some other way added to the human organism to give it meaning and a reason for self-accep­tance. The organism needs nothing outside itself . . .   and therefore that fact creates a presumption that there is nothing outside the matter’s energy-in-process that constitutes the human individual, i.e., there is no non-material “soul” with an eternal destiny. The empirical “self” is the material reflex for self-preservation, a derivative of matter’s existential nature as self-embrace. Following Spinoza I call it conatus. It is a reflex of this organism. When this organism dissolves, its reflexive “self” disappears.

Embracing (realizing) that reality constitutes “enlightenment.”

This is a metaphysical discussion. I’m trying to say that the psychology of enlightenment in the Buddhist system requires a particular way of understanding reality metaphys­i­cally; and I believe that taking reality as material energy-in-process fulfills that requirement. It explains why Buddhism is not compatible with a non-material, non-changing “Absolute.”

Buddhism has no explicit metaphysics. Nagárjuna’s analysis of “emptiness” in the 2nd century c.e. was an attempt to elucidate the meaninglessness of metaphysics. His book, The Fundamentals of the Middle Way, is not itself a metaphysics. It simply takes possibility after possibility and, in repetitive fashion, shows that nothing you can bring up has its own being.

Buddhism is exclusively a practical program. Buddhism works; even though it does not evoke an Absolute. That fact alone says that a non-material, non-tem­poral Absolute, even if it existed, is irrelevant to human aspirations; but it also suggests that there is no such entity.

Theists generally insist on conceptualizing “God” as an entity that is Absolute. But those who have chosen to practice Buddhism authentically, will have to stop doing that. In fact they will have to stop imagining “God” altogether and simply acknowledge that the contingency of the universe ― the emptiness of all things, including ourselves ― is the only metaphysical “fact” that we can say we “know.”

The rest is beyond our knowledge, but not beyond our loving embrace.

Buddha and the Body

1,000 words

The Buddha is notorious for refusing to discuss metaphysical questions. He is a source of great frustration for western thinkers who are trying to correlate Buddhism with other theories of the destiny of humankind, especially the Abrahamic tradition ― Judaism, Christianity and Islam ― “religions of the Book”. His silence not only covered any attempt to explain the origin and nature of the universe, but it included the question of life after death for the human individual.

The written records indicate that when directly confronted, he simply would not respond; but some of his teachings carried an embedded implication that many have interpreted as answers to those questions. One such teaching is the doctrine of “no-self” often labeled with its Sanskrit name: anatman. The doctrine states that there is no permanent, independent “entity,” identified as a human person, in existence. Buddha didn’t deny the existence of the human organism, with all its urges, feelings, fears and aversions or its mind-filled plans and reactions, but he simply said that apart from all the multiple factors contributing to the phenomenon, there was no independent thinking, willing, core that was responsible for this individual’s stance in the world. What we call the “self” is merely the sum of its inputs; and when the inputs are no longer functioning, in whole or in part, the “self” disappears to a corresponding degree. The claim that there is no permanent “self” underlying human active presence seems to be, in traditional western terms, the denial of the existence of a “soul”.

As a religion, Buddhism has always been something of a mystery to westerners because it does not seem to offer any concrete motivation for its rather wide-ranging and intense austerities that run counter to human inclinations. Buddhism counsels the avoidance of selfish gratification in all areas: food and drink, sex, possessions, relationships, status in the world, control over others, even “spiritual” experience. The question emerges “why”? Why should the human individual stop pursuing the desired goals that have driven all human activity as far back as records go? The Buddha, unlike the various versions of the Abrahamic tradition, spoke of no “God” who watched over and cared for us or commanded a “justice” that might require self-sacrifice; he offered no “eternal reward” after death, and feared no “eternal punishment” except that of continuing to live as we do now, suffering the frustrations of “chasing the wind” of our insatiable cravings for what is just not there.

The Buddha offered nothing but the end of the suffering. But notice: even here, it was not the end of all suffering. He said his program would end the suffering caused by craving for things that do not satisfy. He did not say he would eliminate sickness, accidents, poverty or death. He simply said he would eliminate the extra suffering that we heap on ourselves because of our bitter dissatisfaction with the way things are.

The Buddha also said that when all selfish craving was ended through the faithful pursuit of the “eightfold path,” the practitioner would arrive at “the other shore” ― a metaphor for what he called Nirvana. Nirvana was described as a psychological state in which all craving, and therefore all dissatisfaction, ceased. At that point the “self,” always a delusion anyhow, ceased having any affective and therefore any effective presence and was “extinguished” as far as the practitioner was concerned. The practitioner embraced, or maybe better, “sank into,” realized somatically, the human organism’s true reality as anatman ― as empty ― in western philosophical terms: conditioned, dependent, contingent, determined ― with no independent “stand alone” existence of its own. It knew it was “not there.”

It is necessary to point out that Buddha never evoked any other reality than the world as it actually was, right in front of our eyes. Nirvana, like its opposite, the insatiable senseless craving called Samsara, was a state of mind. Each of them was focused on exactly the same things and events: this world in its real-time process. Even the “other shore” was not “other” than real life as it was. It was simply a metaphor for having substituted nirvana for samsara ― seeing the very same realities through different lenses. What had happened in nirvana was that the mental operation of the human organism changed through a transformation of perception that usually occurred only after a long, hard, incremental labor on the part of the practitioner, modifying mindset, attitudes and behavior. But there was nothing to prevent such a conversion from taking place instantaneously. Nirvana was not a place or some Absolute person into which you were absorbed. It was yourself without the “self.”

The result, the Buddha said, was the natural emergence of a way of being human that was characterized by inner peace, self-acceptance, compassion for others, and a deep abiding joy in life. But while the practitioner had been focused all through his/her practice on developing precisely these attitudes and corresponding behavior, nirvana was not to be thought of as the creation, or construction of such a human “personality configuration” as an actor would do it. Nirvana is not an “act” or a mindless reflex or even a mental habit. It was rather something that emerged from the human organism along with a release of creative energy of which the practitioner was totally unaware and did not expect. This occurred on its own once the delusional cravings generated by the imagined “self” were put to rest.

Buddhists refer to this phenomenon as the emergence of the practitioner’s “Buddha nature,” in later Buddhism called dharmakaya. The term means that every human organism in undistorted form spontaneously loves itself and everything else in the world, and lives in a state of unalloyed and endless joy. The process accomplished by Buddhist practice, then, is to eliminate all those distorting factors that have channeled human organic energies into selfish directions, creating cravings that lead to insatiable desires and the inevitable frustration of trying to make permanent a “self” that is not really there.

To repeat: at no point does the Buddha suggest that there is “another world,” with forces or entities other than this one. It is the individual material human organism, spawned and nested in this world of matter, exactly the way it is, that bears the potential for Nirvana.

Raindrops

A reflection and a parable

2,650 words

1.

Source

I usually use the word LIFE in place of “God,” but here I use the word “Source.” I believe it is more appropriate. It is less religiously allusive, and I think that compassionate atheists belong in this conversation because of the new universal consensus provided by science. We all know what we are made of and how we got here. And we all have to respond to what we know we are. This is not a “religion” issue. Theists belong in this discussion, but they have no privileged place.

The departure point for this reflection is my main proposition ― what this blog has been trying to say for over ten years. The distinction between us and our “Source” is exclusively in the relationship of existential causality.

Our “Source” makes us to be-here, we do not make our Source to be-here, but in all other respects, we are indistinguishable from our Source which is present and active in the presence of our living material organism. We are-here together. Since the effects are matter, the cause has to be material, i.e., physically capable of making my living matter to be-here as my matter, in the present moment. Whatever else my living matter’s source may be, it must be matter, and it must be alive; it must be the same matter that I am. The distinction between my Source and my organism is only the metaphysical structure of cause and effect.

Here’s an image that illustrates that relationship. Think of your on-going “self” ― your living human organism ― as a pool of water actively welling up from an underground spring. The “source” of that visible, active spring of water is not itself visible but it has to be producing the pressure necessary to keep the water flowing up to the surface. It is truly “source,” for it not only provides the action, it provides the very water itself. The pool on the surface is nothing more (and nothing less) than the emergent flow of its source: it IS its source at a further point in a space-time process. The only distinction between the spring and its underground source comes from the structured nature of the process. To express this, we use a category of thought we call “causality,” which is shorthand for antecedent and consequent phenomena in a process. I do not mean unconnected phenomena that just happen to appear in a temporal sequence. The antecedent phenomenon, in this case, is not only prior to but really makes the consequent phenomenon to appear, while the contents and forces operating in each are exactly the same, in reality and not just in appearance.

Now, applying this imagery to the human organism, we can see scientifically what comprises this “self” that emerges from moment to moment as a living presence in the world: it is material energy ― the quarks and electrons, gluons and neutrinos that congealed out of the amorphous energy plasma released at the big bang. These elements evolved through many forms over eons of astrological/geological time into the living organism that we all enjoy. The DNA-guided human organism is nothing but a form of material energy-in-process. Material energy is our source, and like the spring, we and our source are one and the same thing, undivided, indistinguishable, inseparable, a single process structured as cause and effect. The quarks and muons of living matter are the source of the motor and emotive activity we call “life” but they also comprise the content ― every last bit of “stuff” ― that our organisms are made of, blood and bones, hair and hormones.  Everything is matter’s energy.

But doesn’t there have to be something else? If material energy ― my source ― is the same in everything, even the stones, how do I come to be “me,” and where does the force of life come from except through some factor other than matter’s energy?

In a Platonic universe, everything sharing the same word also shared the same idea, and, therefore was thought to share the same reality. That’s why, in a spiritual universe, the idea of humanity made us all “one thing.” Platonists needed to posit an individual spiritual soul uniquely created by “God” to account for personal human spiritual individuality.

In a material universe, in contrast, particles of matter are not all the same, therefore the cluster of particles that comprise my organism is different from yours. Individuality comes from a multitude of coalescing particles and forces, all of which have a uniqueness of their own that derives from a prior similar coalescence from other more remote sources. What you call them does not affect their particularity. I am “me” because a huge multiplicity of unique particles and forces came together at the same time to construct “me.” There is no need to posit a “spiritual soul” to account for individuality. Individuality is a material phenomenon.

Similarly, as regards life, matter, in the pre-scientific Platonic universe, was considered dead and inert. Platonists thought it required that a living spiritual idea be intentionally inserted into matter by a rational divine “Craftsman” for matter to be alive. But in the material universe that science has discovered in our times, if matter is itself a living energy, as many claim it is, life is present as a potential in all particles and forces from the very beginning, ready to become perceptible as life when the complexity sufficient and necessary for its appearance is achieved.

2.

a parable

How can a collection of sub-atomic particles become “me”?

I offer a parable. It starts with our image of the human organism as an emerging spring of water. Let’s imagine this particular organism has been visited by the coronavirus which uses living human DNA to replicate itself. In my reverie there are two little coronaviruses, brother Covidone and sister Covidella. (I give them names to evoke familiarity, because they are living organisms just like we are, trying to survive by using whatever they find around them. Francis of Assisi would understand.) They are living on the banks of the spring, which is the human organism, reproducing because of the life-giving power of the upwelling water: living human DNA.

They are relaxing and basking in the sun after replicating, and they are chatting. Covidone says, “Della, I wonder where all this wonderful water that keeps us alive and reproducing comes from? We’re good swimmers; why don’t we go down into the wellspring and locate the original source of the water. It’s gotta be down there somewhere.” Covidella said, “great idea, Vido, let’s do it.”

With that the two little adventurers start down into the spring, swimming against the upwelling current. They find themselves in a kind of shaft, a long vertical tunnel; the water is being forced up from below and they keep going down. Finally, at a great depth the shaft opens into a large cavern filled with water. It was clear that pressure from the cavern’s water was making it rise to the surface. “This is it,” said Vido, “this is the Source of the Spring. Both the water and the pressure come from here. I think we should just pitch our tent and stay here. It’s the source of the life we live on. Maybe, here, we can live forever, d’ya think”?

Della was skeptical. “There are two things I still don’t understand,” she said. “The first is the water itself. Was it always here? And the second is the pressure. Why is this water under pressure”?

Vido had to admit she was right. Where did this water come from, and what was the reason for the pressure? The two began to take another look around.

They saw that water was coming into the cavern on all sides from stratified layers of earth and rock. “Well, now,” Della says, “it looks like the water really comes from multiple sources and they all feed into this one place. Let’s pick one of these strata and follow it wherever it leads and see where its water comes from. That may take us to the original source.” Off they go, following a very thin sheet of water in one of the strata. They immediately notice that they are no longer going down, but they are now swimming uphill against a current that is flowing downhill.

It’s not long before they emerge back out onto the surface of the earth. But something was still making them wet. “Where is the water coming from now”? They look up and they realize: it’s raining!

The water all along had been coming from millions and millions of raindrops. The rain was falling on the ground, seeped into the earth until it encountered some formation ― like the stone cavern ― that forced the water to collect. With no place to go, the pressure from gravity built up. Eventually, when some outlet, lower than the level of the water sources, allowed it to escape, it emerged in the form of a spring. The “Source” was raindrops all along.

3.

Raindrops

The story takes on meaning with the change in perspective that occurs when we accept the fact that all of reality, even its living forms, like the virus, and us, are all and only matter. It helps explain how our living “selves” emerge from matter.

We are all made of the same clay. That means that all things, living and non-living, are subject to the same conditions for being-here, everywhere. Living organisms have the added burden of trying to stay alive in the midst of the maelstrom of roiling forces that constitute matter’s energy launched as our universe 14 billion years ago. This realization, occurring to someone who has not been totally consumed and blinded by belief that the “self” does not belong to this world, is enough to awaken a sense of compassion not only for other human beings, but for all things, for we are all made of the same “stuff” driven by the same forces. We belong only to this world, but we are not just ourselves. Everything is a temporary composite of that same “stuff.” And everything will decompose. Even the stones will perish. We, including the viruses, are one family. We didn’t ask for things to be this way, but it is the condition for our being-here. We are matter in a material universe.

Is this some kind of nightmare? No one I know would say so. We can’t explain it, but despite the suffering it entails and our final dissolution, to be-here is to die for. We love it. We can’t help ourselves. It’s hard-wired into our bones.  We want to be-here forever.

It is relevant to ask, “why”?

In the parable, the living spring was really raindrops. In the metaphysics of the Mahayana Buddhist system, the multiple threads that weave my “self” ― not unlike the raindrops ― are virtually infinite in number and type. It effectively amounts to the whole universe-in-process. That is what Buddha meant by “no-self.” Anatman ― the doctrine of “no-self” ― doesn’t mean there is nothing there, or that there is no “me.” Just the opposite. It means that “I” am the emanation of a vast multiplicity of sources, throughout geological time as well as in the present moment, all of which had to function together in order for my living organism to be-here now with the form and features that it has.

The spring was raindrops; our “selves” are particles of matter’s living energy.

The doctrine of “no-self” expands “I” into “all things.” It says we are not separate selves; rather we are the product of a totality that transcends the self and includes everything. No identifiable, eternal, independent, self-subsistent self, apart from its causes whose synchronicity is subject to eventual termination by entropy, can be said to exist. When that amazing confluence ceases to coalesce, the self, which is only the reflexive consciousness of the resulting composite, disappears. Nothing else disappears. All the components ― matter’s living energy ― continue on. Nothing is created; nothing is destroyed.

4.

A new imagery for “God”

So if “God” is really the Source of our being-here we are confronted with a huge challenge to the traditional imagery we have inherited from our pre-scientific forebears about what “God” is like. In ancient times, based on our experience of potters and carpenters, artists and sculptors we imagined a Craftsman of great power and intelligence who designed and shaped each and every kind of thing that we could see on earth. But, as we know now, that story was a product of our imagination; it was the best we could do in the absence of any real knowledge. Now we know better. We have learned that the earth itself, this planet, evolved all the life forms that live on it, including humankind, out of its own substance. We know what we are made of, and how we got here the way we are. The Genesis story was plausible guesswork for a long time; but it was wrong.

John said, “No one has ever seen God,” but going by our experience of brutal tyrants, we generated the picture of a grasping, controlling, cruel, thin-skinned, punitive and self-involved narcissist, that ran counter to everything that our human flesh cried out for. Why did we do that? When finally someone came along who challenged that imagery and said that “God” corresponded to our instinctive longing for justice and cooperation, love and compassion, the ruling “authorities” killed him to shut him up, and proceeded to appropriate his name to sustain their own slave-driven enterprises. “No one has ever seen ‘God’,” said John, but that didn’t stop us in our blindness from creating all manner of distorted imagery that, even today, continues to turn human beings into frightened grasping creatures who hate themselves and everyone else.

What do we do now? The blinders have come off and we can see clearly how this entire universe evolved and operates. We know our “Source” and how its creative energy functions. We have a new imagery to integrate. The word “God” has to take on a new meaning. We can’t claim ignorance any longer. We cannot continue to excuse our willful clinging to imagery inherited from ancient fairy tales. We have to face squarely how we have mis-taken and misunderstood our “Source” . . . and therefore how we have misinterpreted ourselves, what we are. We are our Source poured out and made available for all things to be-here, each in their own way, together. WE ARE THAT! Like the rain ― generous, abundant, self-emptying, undiscriminating ― life-generating energy is what we are made of. It is what we are!

What “providence” means has to be radically reimagined. There is no invisible rational “person” who chose to let 150,000 children die in the Haitian earthquake, or who “permitted” the Nazis to seek the “ultimate solution” for two millennia of Christian Jew-hatred in the Holocaust. There is no “person” who refuses to perform a miracle to cure your child’s cancer, or who wills rich and powerful men to enslave and exploit the masses of humankind, manipulate the minds of the frightened and despoil the earth of its ability to sustain life. There is no “person” who puts thoughts in your head, or who will “marry” you on the condition that you stay celibate.

Our “Source” is like the rain. Wherever it falls it brings life. It is always being used by others. In itself it is nothing, but it becomes all things. It has become us. We humans, like springs, are that same rainwater pouring itself out on the earth, now as persons, intentionally.

When we finally appropriate that reality and become rain for others, we will need no more proof.  All our questions will be answered.  It is at that moment that we will experience in our blood and bones why being-here is to die for.

 

Translating the Mystics

2,000 words

The mystics, east and west, are a key resource in the pursuit of the universalism that I am convinced lies at the heart of all religions and traditions, among which I include compassionate atheism. The mystics are cherished everywhere, but in the west particularly, they are not taken seriously as a source of “truth.” They are considered rather as visionaries, poets, holy to be sure and inspiring but not entirely reliable because the considerable emotion they display gives rise to the suspicion that they are subjective.

In the Christian west, Jesus fared no better. Observers will notice that gospel accounts do not record that Jesus enunciated virtually any of the “doctrines” that were later counted as core truths of Christianity. Hundreds of years later, as Christian doctrine came to be “defined,” mainly by councils sponsored by the Roman emperors, Jesus was divinized and treated more like an object of worship than a source of doctrinal truth. He was sidelined like all the mystics, even though it was his “defined” divinity that was called upon to “prove” doctrinal infallibility.

In the east, in contrast, the words and practice of Buddha became the subject of discussion, debate, interpretation and eventually canonization in the form of written documents considered by consensus to accurately reflect the mind of the founder. What there is of authentic dogma and ritual in Hindu-Buddhism, is closely linked to practice and bears no reference to the anatomy of the universe or the favor of the gods. The focus is what in our tradition we would call “prayer life,” and spiritual transformation; that practice, among Buddhists, is specifically meditation. Doctrine amounted to accurately identifying and applying the methods of meditation and, of course, achieving its goals: individual peace and social harmony in this world.

This was not true for Christianity where the words and attitudes of Jesus were used to justify a religion structured around dogma and rituals created by the Roman Empire broadly patterned on its earlier state religion. Early Roman religion was a local version of the polytheism common to the Mediterranean region built on the myths of the gods. It was not complex. Its purpose was to secure divine favor for the advancement of the interests of the polis. Social harmony and consensus among the citizens came as a byproduct of that, but were hardly secondary. By the beginning of the fourth century the old state religion of the mythological gods, whose adolescent antics were ridiculed relentlessly by the philosophers, had lost all credibility and the Roman Empire needed a replacement. It selected Christianity. As part of that award, not only the buildings and temple paraphernalia of the gods were turned over to the Christian Church, but with the “donation of Constantine” came a responsibility: to sustain the worldview and purposes of the Roman state religion. Christianity re-invented itself as the ground for Rome’s theocracy.

The “Way of Jesus” which had produced the gospels was ultimately swallowed up by the Imperial embrace. Jesus himself was not interested in using “God” as a prop for state power, so if his followers were to fulfill the role offered to them by Rome they would have to stop following Jesus. Effectively, the religion that came to bear the name “Christian” found itself required to reinterpret Jesus’ words, attitudes and behavior, lifestyle and motivations, in order to subordinate them to Roman priorities. It made Jesus an inspirational, even consoling figure, but it prevented the codification of his message, which was so thoroughly opposed to the demands of the Roman state that it got him killed. Jesus’ use of the words “kingdom of God” was precisely intended to situate ultimate loyalty and behavioral compliance in justice and compassion among people not in any state authority, whether it be the Jewish nation or the Roman Empire. In the frenzy to accommodate themselves to the windfall of Constantine’s “donation,” Christians had to ignore all this. They did. Some say they still do.

Roman “Christian” Doctrine came to be determined on other bases, some a crass, politically motivated exaggeration, like the Greek philosophical divinization of Jesus pressured by the emperor himself at the Council of Nicaea, and others the result of the interpretative fantasies of Hellenizing Jews like Paul of Tarsus and John following Philo, and neo-Platonic Roman philosophers like Augustine of Hippo who concocted “doctrines” like Original Sin which were not part of the Jewish doctrinal legacy and never even alluded to by Jesus. Nicaea, taking place in Constantine’s own private villa and with his dominating personal participation, proceeded to its decisions despite the fact that not only did the assembled bishops try to resist the emperor who insisted they use the word “homoousios” to describe Jesus’ divinity, but also with Jesus himself who, as recorded in the gospels, explicitly denied being “God.”

What “divinization” missed was the heart of the matter.   What made Jesus a great spiritual teacher was the fact that he was an ordinary human being whose extraordinary human experience had brought him to a profoundly human reinterpretation of the theocratic Jewish tradition and turned it into a potential universalism of irresistible appeal. It was providential that his message was preserved in the gospel narratives of his life and work or we may never have known what it was, for it is not borne forward by the dogmas of the religion. He saw “God” as a loving Father, not a demanding and punitive Monarch who would reward you with conquest and slaves if you obeyed him. The gospels, written by his earliest followers for whom it was entirely enough to say that Jesus was God’s messenger, have preserved for us the character and significance of his message. The claim that he was a “god.” or even, outrageously and blasphemously that he was “God” himself, served to distort, undermine and fatally emasculate the radical transformative power of his discovery and his invitation.

Re-forming Christianity

But while the theocratic exploitation of Christianity has created outrageous doctrine that because of its antiquity, we realize now, will never be repudiated by the Churches whose success is tied to the appearance of tradition, the authentic religious endeavor should nevertheless move resolutely to the task of a new kind of codification: to identify and articulate the vision of Jesus in the light of the universalism it shares with all other religions. And in pursuit of that end, as a first and immediate item of common data across time and traditions, the experience of the mystics should be considered foundational. What Jesus and the mystics all have in common is the recognized superlative nature of their lived religious experience and practice. “By their fruits you will know them,” Jesus is recorded as saying. Indeed. It is the only test of religious truth.

Religion is practice. It is the art of living humanly. It is not primarily focused on “truth” taken as objective “scientific” knowledge. This should not be misunderstood. Knowing what things really are is important for determining what they can and should do; that holds true for humankind as well. But in our case, knowing what we are as human beings comes at the end of a process of discovery. We know what we are by seeing what we do that works. So practice, the lived experience of people like Jesus and the mystics who have achieved unequaled success in the art of living, has been the origin and energizer for most religions throughout history.

Unfortunately, because of the “other worldly” emphasis of mediaeval Christianity, some mystics expressed their discoveries in terms of visionary experiences. Despite their own clear rejection of assigning any importance to these forms of expression, the word “mystic” in the popular mind evokes enthusiasts who have psychedelic and hallucinatory experiences. But in reality, as a serious reading of their work will show beyond any doubt, their “doctrines” were about the moral and emotional transformation of the selfish individual into a generous and compassionate human being, for the benefit of all, and the practices necessary to achieve it.

Religious reform, then, which amounts to a re-appropriation of religion’s original vitality, should be equally based on the experience of these extraordinary people.

Jesus was one of the mystics. Christianity originally began as an attempt to follow and elaborate on his lived experience. That process got sidetracked and in many ways actually reversed by the Roman take-over. That reversal is not an insignificant development in the history of humankind. Among other things it has meant, after two thousand years of Christian “truth,” the domination and exploitation of the rest of the globe by White European Christians who falsely identified the wealth and power of their nation-states with the success of their “faith” applying the theocratic justifications embedded in Romanized Christian doctrine.  Correcting the false directions taken by Christianity and undoing the damage done by Christian theocracy will require reinstalling the lived experience of Jesus and other mystics from across the globe at the foundation of a new doctrinal edifice. There is no alternative. Many who have accurately seen the source of the problem, and yet, in an attempt to respect traditional institutions, believed that somehow the damaging effects of doctrine could be ignored and authentic religious experience pursued on a parallel track, have again and again had their hopes dashed as “reform” has been demolished by theocratic doctrine. We should have known better. The very attempt is schizoid. It belies the obvious integrity of the human organism whose thoughts and actions can be split from one another only at the cost of sanity. It is not insignificant that some have defined holiness as a profound and available sanity. What is eluding us transcends “truth.”

The mystics’ vision

I suggest starting here: Mystics, east and west, broadly speaking, agree on one foundational experience that characterizes their practice: the self is intimately one with all things. It has two aspects: (1) There is an intimate connectedness among all things creating an inescapable bond of unity with the whole universe. This is, in practice, most often seen in action within the human community in the form of justice, compassion and mutual assistance. (2) The practitioner’s self has a unique role in the establishment of the religious relationship which grounds universal connectedness. The human individual’s intimate relationship to all things originates in the depths of the self. The self is the wellspring of the principle of unity.

In practice, while the first expresses itself most often in human society, it is fundamentally universal; we see it functioning today in a concern for the whole planet. The second corresponds to a sense of ground residing in one’s own interior depths. It also sets up a relationship with that ground which may or may not be interactive as between two “persons.” All this remains to be explored in detail.

Both of these aspects of common practice give rise to other secondary explanatory “doctrines” which differ among the traditions depending on the “scientific” (philosophical) context provided by the local culture in which they are occurring. But I want to emphasize: the two foundational items are features of direct experience. They are not beliefs or objective truths “out there;” they are the descriptions of personal experience that are universal among the mystics. There is, initially, no talk of “God” or of any explanatory “entities” not encountered directly in the process of living. Such second tier explanations are claimed to be “revealed,” or conjectured, or inferred, but in all cases they are ancillary and, despite the dominant role they may come to play for the particular tradition, they are the doctrines that vary most among the mystics. What all mystics have in common with little divergence is the originating experience: a oneness with all things realized through the source of unity found in the depths of one’s self.

This is absolutely universal among them. For the mystics, we are intimately related, by dint of something resident in the self, to everything that exists, even the inanimate. I want to sit quietly with this for a while as experience before analyzing it in future posts. I think it is fair to say that it is not unfamiliar territory for any of us.

“Perfect Joy”

from The Little Flowers of St. Francis of Assisi

1,230 words

I personally do not share the enthusiasm of the author of this mediaeval legend for the motivation he offers as a conclusion.  But I am presenting this tale exactly as written because I think it illustrates the depths to which a functional, realistic spirituality must reach in any age if it is to serve the needs of the aspirants that rely on it.

There are extremes to which life can go that are not anticipated by the ordinary mechanisms of coping. If the answer to life is an equanimity rooted in trust, how far can/must trust go? Is it possible to trust life so profoundly, with such total abandon, that absolutely nothing can overcome it? In our search for a spirituality that serves our needs in our times, what is required to make total trust possible, credible? As Ugolino seems about to say at the end, isn’t that within our purview? Or did such a possibility end with the middle ages?

[THE LITTLE FLOWERS OF ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI

Author: Brother Ugolino

Publisher: Christian Classics Ethereal Library, Grand Rapids, MI

Description: Arthur Livingstone, editor of this 1930’s reproduction of Little Flowers, characterizes this text as a masterful work of folk literature from the Middle Ages. The phrase “little flowers” refers to “notabilia,” or a collection of noteworthy events in the lives of St. Francis and his followers. These stories were originally collected and compiled by Brother Ugolino during the early 1300’s. Ugolino attempted to draw out similarities between Jesus and St. Francis, since both leaders taught their disciples to deny the things of this world and to instead seek humility and holiness. Ugolino’s original Latin text was lost, but by consulting a variety of sources, scholars have worked to reconstruct Little Flowers into both Italian and English translations. Livingstone advises readers to enjoy Little Flowers with a sense of humor, as the contents of several stories contain much irony and amusement.                                                                                                                                                                                                                          Emmalon Davis CCEL Staff Writer]

 

PART I, CHAPTER VIII

How St Francis, walking one day with brother Leo, explained to him what things are perfect joy

One day in winter, as St Francis was going with Brother Leo from Perugia to St. Mary of the Angels, and was suffering greatly from the cold, he called to Brother Leo, who was walking on before him, and said to him: “Brother Leo, if it were to please God that the Friars Minor should give, in all lands, a great example of holiness and edification, write down, and note carefully, that this would not be perfect joy.”

A little further on, St Francis called to him a second time: “O Brother Leo, if the Friars Minor were to make the lame to walk, if they should make straight the crooked, chase away demons, give sight to the blind, hearing to the deaf, speech to the dumb, and, what is even a far greater work, if they should raise the dead after four days, write that this would not be perfect joy.”

Shortly after, he cried out again: “O Brother Leo, if the Friars Minor knew all languages; if they were versed in all science; if they could explain all Scripture; if they had the gift of prophecy, and could reveal, not only all future things, but likewise the secrets of all consciences and all souls, write that this would not be perfect joy.”

After proceeding a few steps farther, he cried out again with a loud voice: “O Brother Leo, thou little lamb of God! if the Friars Minor could speak with the tongues of angels; if they could explain the course of the stars; if they knew the virtues of all plants; if all the treasures of the earth were revealed to them; if they were acquainted with the various qualities of all birds, of all fish, of all animals, of men, of trees, of stones, of roots, and of waters – write that this would not be perfect joy.”

Shortly after, he cried out again: “O Brother Leo, if the Friars Minor had the gift of preaching so as to convert all infidels to the faith of Christ, write that this would not be perfect joy.”

Now when this manner of discourse had lasted for the space of two miles, Brother Leo wondered much within himself; and, questioning the saint, he said: “Father, I pray thee teach me wherein is perfect joy.”

St Francis answered: “If, when we shall arrive at St Mary of the Angels, all drenched with rain and trembling with cold, all covered with mud and exhausted from hunger; if, when we knock at the convent-gate, the porter should come angrily and ask us who we are; if, after we have told him, ‘We are two of the brethren’, he should answer angrily, ‘What ye say is not the truth; ye are but two impostors going about to deceive the world, and take away the alms of the poor; begone I say’; if then he refuse to open to us, and leave us outside, exposed to the snow and rain, suffering from cold and hunger till nightfall – then, if we accept such injustice, such cruelty and such contempt with patience, without being ruffled and without murmuring, believing with humility and charity that the porter really knows us, and that it is God who maketh him to speak thus against us, write down, O Brother Leo, that this is perfect joy.

And if we knock again, and the porter come out in anger to drive us away with oaths and blows, as if we were vile impostors, saying, ‘Begone, miserable robbers! to the hospital, for here you shall neither eat nor sleep!’ – and if we accept all this with patience, with joy, and with charity, O Brother Leo, write that this indeed is perfect joy.

And if, urged by cold and hunger, we knock again, calling to the porter and entreating him with many tears to open to us and give us shelter, for the love of God, and if he come out more angry than before, exclaiming, ‘These are but importunate rascals, I will deal with them as they deserve’; and taking a knotted stick, he seize us by the hood, throwing us on the ground, rolling us in the snow, and shall beat and wound us with the knots in the stick – if we bear all these injuries with patience and joy, thinking of the sufferings of our Blessed Lord, which we would share out of love for him, write, O Brother Leo, that here, finally, is perfect joy. And now, brother, listen to the conclusion.

Above all the graces and all the gifts of the Holy Spirit which Christ grants to his friends, is the grace of overcoming oneself, and accepting willingly, out of love for Christ, all suffering, injury, discomfort and contempt; for in all other gifts of God we cannot glory, seeing they proceed not from ourselves but from God, according to the words of the Apostle, ‘What hast thou that thou hast not received from God? and if thou hast received it, why dost thou glory as if thou hadst not received it?’ But in the cross of tribulation and affliction we may glory, because, as the Apostle says again, ‘I will not glory save in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ.’ Amen.”

 

 

Night-Blooming Cactus

night blooming cactus

night-blooming cactus with Spike Zwicky, McAllen TX, Lent 2000

I know my time, which is obscure, silent and brief
For I am present without warning one night only.

When sun rises on the brass valleys I become serpent.

Though I show my true self only in the dark and to no man
(For I appear by day as serpent)
I belong neither to night nor day.

Sun and city never see my deep white bell
Or know my timeless moment of void:
There is no reply to my munificence.

When I come I lift my sudden Eucharist
Out of the earth’s unfathomable joy
Clean and total I obey the world’s body
I am intricate and whole, not art but wrought passion
Excellent deep pleasure of essential waters
Holiness of form and mineral mirth:

I am the extreme purity of virginal thirst.

I neither show my truth nor conceal it
My innocence is described dimly
Only by divine gift
As a white cavern without explanation.

He who sees my purity
Dares not speak of it.
When I open once for all my impeccable bell
No one questions my silence:
The all-knowing bird of night flies out of my mouth.

Have you seen it? Then though my mirth has quickly ended
You live forever in its echo:
You will never be the same again.

Thomas Merton
(1915 – 1968)