The Way of the Mystic is Both Interesting and Chall...

Why are you so afraid of the word "mysticism"? Perhaps it makes you think of the eastern religions - Buddhism, Hinduism, Shintoism - and you want nothing to do with them. You are an adherent of a religion of the book. You believe in the Bible, not in the Void. Your religion is a religion of facts. Okay, but it is also a religion of faith. What exactly is faith? Classic definition: Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. Indeed, by faith our ancestors received approval. By faith we understand that the worlds were prepared by the word of God, so that what is seen was made from things that are not visible. So your religion is not entirely a religion of facts. It also involves the unseen and the creation of what is seen from what is not visible. Very interesting.

And what is mysticism? I shall first give you David Downing's take. He gives William James' definition: a mystical state is a "consciousness of illumination". This illumination involves new insights, which elude description in words, creating a sense of an overpowered will, and is experienced in a short period of time. Another intriguing definition Downing explores is given by R. M. Jones: rather than a new idea or insight, a mystical experience transforms "what one believes into what one knows".

Mysticism is, of course, mysterious, elusive, and a bit esoteric, maybe. But, is not God mysterious and elusive? Is not the universe in which we live beyond our comprehension? Do we not all experience awe and wonder when we really stop to think about the world? We cannot understand our own existence, so why should we be able to understand God's? The mystics experienced that which cannot be fully understood by reason alone. Are some mystics fakes? Sure. Do some babble incoherently in a way that helps no one? Of course. But that does not mean that the mystic way is completely off or completely unhelpful or dangerous. Mysticism is simply another way to express one's relationship with God and another way to experience God through nature, through contemplation, and perhaps through direct encounter.

The Binding and Submission

Part One

“Hey, Zeke.”

Zeke’s face fell as soon as he heard the despondent greeting from within the prickly thicket, which he had until then been stealthily approaching. “How can you always tell it’s me?”

“A woodland creature told me,” came the now lighthearted reply.

“Ha ha,” remarked Zeke dryly.

“No, really,” the voice was now in earnest, “as you were approaching, a coney came scrambling down the rocks. If you had been my dad, you’d have gone on and on about the wonders of the coney in order to teach me a moral lesson or something.”

“Oh, come off it, Yitzhak. You’ve got a great dad. I mean, at least he spends time with you. I heard Rach and Judy talking this morning about how he’s going on yet another pilgrimage and that he’s taking you with him!”

Yitzhak frowned from within his thorny stronghold. “What do servants know?” he snapped back. But in his head Yitzhak contemplated this news with utmost seriousness, none too happy to be dragged along on another spiritual quest. So that’s why Dad has been acting weird lately.

The sound of his thicket being penetrated reached his ears, drawing him back to the present. Concerns of defense and general strategy overcame his previous depression, a change which suited him just fine. “Invade my fortress will ye, barbarian? Not while I yet draw breath!”

A most glorious campaign then ensued, which both sides agreed was the most fabulous war yet betwixt the warring nations of the Hittites and the Hurrians. Numerous poems, songs, and ballads were swiftly composed to detail the exploits of the two nations and their superb leaders and were just as swiftly forgotten. The excitement lasted until just before sundown when the king of the Hurrians, bedecked in his most splendid garments turned to his most trust adviser and said, with a wave of realization, “I was supposed to chop down this thicket and bring back the brambles hours ago.” The war council which was about to take place was postponed until further notice and the king’s most trusted adviser and sometimes mortal enemy was convinced to help finish the task.

The two youths worked feverishly for the next half hour before finally resigning themselves to a job partially completed due to the imminent darkness besetting them. They piled high the cart with one large stack in an effort to make it look like they had more then they did. As Yitzhak pushed the cart home he yelled his thanks, farewell, and promise for vengeance to his companion.

It wasn’t until he came into sight of the house that the dread of what awaited him again entered his mind. It wasn’t that he didn’t like his father, on the contrary, he loved him, but he didn’t have the same devotion and excitement his father had for the family religion. What, after all, did Yitzhak know about “the encounter” his father had so famously had decades earlier? For all Yitzhak knew it had all been a dream. He scowled fiercely as he thought about all this dream had led to – the separation of his family from their relatives and the home of his grandparents, which none of their relatives had seen the need to leave. Then he thought of his step-brother, the big bully he had been, and the lengths to which his father had gone to restore the family peace. And all this, for a dream? Yitzhak was in no mood to go gallivanting into the wilderness to pay homage to his father’s fantasies. But at this point, it didn’t look like he had much of a choice. Yitzhak began unloading the cart when a voice called out from the direction of the entranceway, “Son, is that you? Where are you?”

“Here I am, Mother,” he called out to the figure holding the candle in the entryway.

“Come in, my boy. That can wait until morning.”

Yitzhak paused, thinking carefully. “I thought I was going with father on his journey.”

“I’ll have Rachel do it.”

That must mean we’re leaving before sunrise. Yitzhak suddenly felt tired. He tossed aside some sticks he’d been holding and slumped his way to where his mother was standing.

“Yitzhak,” his mother said gently, “your father loves you very much. He only wants what’s best for you.”

Yitzhak pulled away from his mother’s embrace. “He only wants what is best for himself and his stupid dream.”

“Yitzhak!” The mortified face was made garish in the low light.

“Well, it’s true! Ever since we moved it’s been the Promise this, the Promise that! He cares about the Promise more than he cares about our family! He cares about the Promise more than he cares about me!”

The mother made one last ditch effort to pacify her son, “Some things are more important than ourselves!” Before she could say any more he had stormed past her, into their dwelling and straight to the mat that served as his bed. It was the only place he could be alone. He feigned sleep and stolidly ignored the noisy movements that indicated the presence of others. Eventually he was left alone with his churning thoughts and restless emotions. He could faintly hear his parents conversing.

First the deep, calm voice of his father, “I need to tell him.”

Then the soft, worried tones of his mother, “he already knows.”

Lastly he heard a sigh, which was long and drawn out, full of agony, pain, hope, uncertainty, and a resignation to a higher purpose than at that moment could be understood in the slightest. The sigh turned into a cool breeze that washed over him like a flood of soothing waters, bringing him to a realm of blissful sleep during which his body rested and his mind was renewed.

Part 2

Yitzhak shifted in his sleep while he dreamt of his friend speaking to him: “You’re not the only one, you know. There’s greater things than you out there. Wouldn’t it be great to be part of it?” Then Zeke had laughed and jumped into the air, catching some sort of wind which whisked him away into the heavens to dance amongst the stars. In his dream, Zeke’s proposition hadn’t seemed at all bad, but now, as Yitzhak dressed and gathered what he would need for the journey, he scoffed at the lofty words and rejected such an idea.

When he finished inside, Yitzhak went out to join his father and the two servants chosen to accompany them. One was loading some of the thicket Yitzhak had hurriedly chopped the day before onto a donkey along with some special wood for a sacrifice. The other servant was laden with food.

Oh, boy. A multi-day affair. I bet we’re going to some mountain, known for its religious significance.

His father looked at him, gave a nod of approval and began to walk. Not even a “good morning”. It did not look to be a good journey.

They walked all day, stopping only briefly during the hottest part, shaded by a makeshift tent Yitzhak’s father had brought. No one spoke and Yitzhak’s resentment only grew as he thought of the things he could be doing if he were at home with his buddy Zeke. That night as he went with the servants to a well to fetch water, Yitzhak listened with interest to their conversation.

“Baal goes down into the earth to fight with Mot, the god of the underworld and the bringer of drought.”

“Does Baal not win? Isn’t he strong enough to beat Mot?”

“Not at first. That is why it gets so hot and dry – because Baal is being held captive!”

“Wow. No wonder the rains stop. How does Baal escape?”

“After his sister searches and searches, after seven long years, he comes back to life!”

The servants paused in their water gathering to think on this great feat. As they resumed their work, the one who had been asking the questions glanced at Yitzhak and said, “But that’s not what the master believes. Baal is not his god.”

“Oh no. El is his god – the god of the gods. And he speaks to the master directly. The master is his most trusted servant and he will do great things through him.”

“And perhaps through us, too! I wish we could be entrusted with a special mission from El or from Baal. It is our purpose, is it not? To serve the gods?”

“That is what the Words say, and it only makes good sense.”

They handed the jar to Yitzhak and hoisting their own burdens, made their way back to the camp.

That night while falling asleep, Yitzhak thought of what the servants had said and contemplated what it would be like to be chosen especially to serve the gods.

On the second day of the journey, Yitzhak’s body was sore from the previous day’s exertions, but his spirit was mellow and his mind relaxed. His father, too, was unusually attentive and kind to him. While journeying along, he turned to Yitzhak, touching him gently on the arm. “Son,” he asked, “have I ever told you about how your mother and I named you?”

Yitzhak was slightly puzzled. Come to think of it, he wasn’t entirely sure why he had been given such a strange name. “Wasn’t it because everyone laughed to see such an old couple with a little baby?”

His father chuckled. “Well, that is an understandable conclusion. But, no, that is not the real reason.” His eyes twinkled and it seemed to Yitzhak that they glistened with tears and with loving memory, a memory that included himself. “El prepared us in a special way for your coming. He changed my name, and your mother’s name. She was to be called ‘princess’ and I ‘father of a multitude’. That multitude was to start with you. When El told me your mother and I would bear a son in our old age, I must confess that I laughed. But El was not deterred.” He paused, looking carefully at his son. “El took my natural response and incorporated into who you would be. We need not be perfect, Yitzhak. We can even laugh in the face of El and still be used by Him.”

This gave Yitzhak much to think about. He had never thought of his name in the way his father talked about it. He had always thought he was just some sort of joke or anomaly, a subject of entertainment. Put this way it appeared he was part of a plan after all. Yitzhak thought back to the conversation between the servants the night before. Perhaps he too would be able to serve the gods of his ancestors and the god of his father when he arrived home from the journey.

On the third day, Yitzhak heard his father instruct the servants to stay behind with the donkey, while he and Yitzhak continued on alone. Their destination was now visible and the peak looked to be only two days’ walk away. Yitzhak was given special wood, wood used only for bunt offerings, to carry for the rest of the journey. As they set out, Yitzhak called out, emboldened by the previous day’s tenderness, “Father!”

“I am here, son.” Came the loving voice from ahead.

“I have burnt offering wood, and you surely have the flint and knife. But what about a lamb? There is no one nearby from which to ask one.”

There was a long silence before the reply came in a husky voice, “El shall provide the sacrifice.”

They spoke no more until they reached a point halfway up the mountain. It was not yet dusk, but both were tired from the ascent and they had found a good spot by a stream to rest.

“We may not find water again in so accessible a place.” Yitzhak’s father told him, “Let us rest and think on the goodness of El.”

“Father,” said Yitzhak, “I, too, want to be used of El. I, too, will be his servant.”

His father’s face twitched. “Will you?” He sighed. “Think of that as we worship tomorrow.”

The next day dawned bright and clear, though the air was inexplicably heavy and the footsteps of the two journeymen did not fall with ease. It was all they could do to place one foot in front of the other. The summit was claimed by mid-day and Yitzhak and his father immediately began to construct an altar. El will provide. El will provide, thought Yitzhak. But what will El provide? He looked around, doubtful that any creature would show itself. The altar was completed before long and the wood was laid. Yitzhak looked at his father, about to ask what they were to do, when he saw the ropes in his hands, and the determination in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” was all his father could manage before he began to walk toward his son.

Yitzhak froze, not knowing how to respond. His father was feeble. It would be simple to bind him instead. If El wanted a sacrifice, why not the old rather than the young?

“I, too, will be his servant.” His words came floating back. But this? This? Surely this was too much. Surely this was not what El would want. As his father placed the ropes around his wrists, Yitzhak looked into his eyes. “I thought you loved me?”

Tears welled up and spilt over, dripping down the craggily cheeks.

“Why are you doing this?”

The only response was a croak that sounded like “El.”

The feet were bound next.

“What about the promise?”

The eyes closed as tears continued to force their way out. A pause in which Yitzhak saw a glimmer of hope. And then, “El.” Then Yitzhak realized he was the hope and it was in Yitzhak that his father was trusting even as he prepared to commit the most abominable of acts and the most abhorrent of practices.

The altar was low and Yitzhak sat down on it, slowly lifting his legs onto it and lying submissively down.

I can’t believe he wanted my life was the last thought to enter his mind as the knife flashed upon him, glinting in the sun.

“Avraham! Avraham!”

The knife froze a foot from Yitzhak’s chest. The hand trembled along with the voice, “Here I am.”

Don’t drop the knife. Don’t drop the knife.

“Do not harm your son. Now I know you fear El.”

The knife was put safely aside and the sound of a nearby thicket being penetrated reached Yitzhak’s alert ears.

I am a Monk Lock

http://imgs.xkcd.com/comics/string_theory.png

Going to the Monastery this weekend in Three Rivers, MI. Those poems I published in the last blog post were written after my experience visiting the monastery last Fall. I went with Rena, Remy, Dan Bethel, and Ben Wright for Labor Day weekend. It was really nice. This time I'm going with Joanna, Thad, Rena, Shelly, and Dan. I am anticipating a good weekend, although I am really quite tired and I don't know that I'll be able to get a lot of sleep. Perhaps, if we go to bed early.

I really like the monastic lifestyle. Having 7 services a day is fantastic. It focuses the mind and puts you into a rhythm that includes God in a way that other lifestyles do not allow. I should go to an Anglican seminary. Wouldn't that be neat?

At the Monastery

Matins

It is cold

And dark.

All night I have been anticipating this.

The appointed time is come.

I dress quickly and splash my face

For I have not allowed myself much time.

Dong.

The first bell.

I fasten my hair and slip on my shoes.

I open the door and enter the cold pre-dawn. Pausing,

I notice the stars.

Ah. Orion.

I do not normally see you in the summertime.

Good 3^rd watch of the night to you.

Dong. Dong. Dong.

The second series of bells begins.

I walk towards the sanctuary, open the door, and enter in.

I find a place,

I kneel,

I bow my head.

Lauds

After Matins I do not want to return to sleep.

That feels wrong.

So I stay awake and do what seems most natural:

Read scripture.

Your Word, O Lord, is a light.

My God, enlighten my darkness.

O Lord, my God, enlighten my darkness.

O Lord, my God, enlighten my darkness.

The simple song sings in my head.

It repeats itself,

Filling my whole body,

Infusing me with its melody.

Perhaps God is trying to tell me something.

Oh, yes. I know He is.

He is trying to bring the steel down.

He’s trying to remove the metal from the wall of my life;

The cynicism I cling to for comfort.

Very well, I’ll give it a try.

Lamentations 3.

Very good.

Commentary.

It is well.

Just as usual.

Perhaps I should read it again?

Interesting.

This passage stands out to me.

I know it was written regarding the exile but I can relate to this feeling of being

Abandoned by God and

Shunned by Him.

I like being the victim.

I focus on these verses, thinking that they are for me.

I re-read.

What’s this I find?

Verses of hope.

Okay.

That’s nice.

Too bad I didn’t feel that at the time.

(I’m caught up in the past).

I’m sleepy.

It’s dark.

Drooping eyelids.

Tired mind.

Beep! Beep!

It’s my watch.

I hold it up to my sister’s bed.

No response.

There’s the bell.

There are the stars.

I take my place, kneel, and bow.

Dawn/Terce

The sky has changed.

Still there are stars

But less.

The world is lightening.

I enter the house

And sit to write.

A division of self is the focus.

I wrestle with my identity.

I cannot be both at once!

Must I deny one for the other?

Insight.

No.

There are far greater things in store.

Redemption. Change. Transformation.

To what?

The real self,

That was already plucked from danger

And placed in the basket.

A journey of two gains a third companion.

The weight lifts

And I understand those lines of hope;

I experience them.

But this do I call to mind,

Therefore I have hope:

The kindness of the LORD has not ended,

His mercies are not spent.

They are renewed every morning—

Ample is your grace!

“The LORD is my portion,”

I say with full heart;

Therefore will I hope in Him.

I find myself outside.

I am walking, bouncing,

Hardly able to contain the joy within.

Nor do I want to.

Freely and gladly do I express my glee

To the sky,

To the trees,

To the rising sun.

I walk to the East

In excited anticipation

Of the world within

And the world without.

As the dawn breaks

I make my way back.

To the ringing of the bells

I enter the chapel,

Find a place, kneel, and bow.

Requiem Mass

“Today’s reading is from the Lamentations.”

I sit agape.

“Your mercies…new…morning…”

A double confirmation.

As if I even needed one.

Amazed.

I am amazed.

Going to the front,

I anticipate this holy meal.

We give each other the sign of peace.

“And also with you.”

“Peace be with you.”

“The body of Jesus,

The Bread of heaven.”

Amen.

“The blood of Christ,

Shed for you.”

Amen.

A mouthful of warmth

Courses through my whole body.

The wine strikes me in a way

To which I am unaccustomed.

We return to our seats.

The mass concludes.

We walk to the house,

Take seats at the table,

Give thanks,

And partake of the feast.