Strangers to the City

by Michael Casey

  Benedict himself takes for granted that such a transformation of consciousness is the normal result of a life lived in conformity with God through faith, obedience, patience, and perseverance. When we amputate the ultimate goal of monastic observances we have nothing left to inspire optimism and buoyancy. It is simply a via negativa without even the breathing spaces (respiria) that Western tradition has led us to expect during the hard slog of the journey toward God.

  2. Prayer Integrated in Living

  For those unenthusiastic about the term “mystical,” it is important to understand its origins. It is related to the word “mystery,” a term that means more than a puzzle to be solved. A mystery, in the strict sense of the word, is a reality that is eminently reasonable, but cannot be circumscribed by reason. A famous (and probably apocryphal) story is told of Augustine walking by the seashore trying to get his powerful intellect to unlock the meaning of the Trinity. Seeing a small boy trying, by means of his little bucket, to empty the ocean into a hole he had dug, Augustine laughed—only to be told that this was a more realistic project than his attempt to master the mystery of God. When we speak of mysticism or meta-experience we are speaking of our capacity to be drawn sometimes into a zone beyond the familiar world of space and time, a zone in which all our interior faculties come alive. What transpires during those graced moments is beyond language. God is a reality that we can never explain or prove. This is what we mean by “mystery.” The Incarnation is a mystery, and so is the Atonement. So is the Church. So are the sacraments and the sacred liturgy. None of these realities lack reasonableness, but not one of them can ever be fully captured by reason. The most that can be done is to give a dim sketch by means of symbol and metaphor.

  Our experience of prayer is our entry into the realm of mystery. If you like, it is stepping out of space and time into eternity, where we are conscious only that our spirits are being fed. It is this heavenly nourishment that energizes our efforts to live according to the impossible precepts of the gospel. It is not only when times are hard that we are sustained by prayer: Only to those who pray is it possible to keep stretching out beyond ordinary comfort zones to a closer following of Jesus. Monastic life is not possible without prolonged dedication to prayer; where prayer is lacking, commitment falters and life begins to fall apart.

  However, contemplative practice is not without its ambiguities. It is made up of a large portion of what Dom Hubert Van Zeller termed “the prayer of stupidity,” when one does not know for sure if any prayer is taking place, since all seems to be flatness, distraction, and a restlessness that makes continuance difficult. This is a normal sense of anomie, since one is entering a foreign country where, as John of the Cross pointed out, the old rules do not apply. We are strangers in paradise, and we feel somewhat lost. In at least one Middle English author the word “mystical” seems to have been connected with the idea of mist and hence cloud. We cannot see clearly the way ahead, and we sense that control is being wrested from our grasp. What is experienced in contemplation can never be seen directly or clearly stated in words, because conceptualization and language are inadequate, just as a comic book version of the theory of relativity would be. No doubt that is why Benedict uses the term “ineffable”: to indicate that the taste of divine sweetness defies human description.

  It follows from this that there can be no permanent structures or techniques that will infallibly lead to a sense of closeness to God. This is simply because there is no standard or universal “mystical” experience. We are speaking of a relationship, and our relationship with God is determined by where we are at a particular time. When we are in a different space, our prayer is different. John Cassian, Benedict’s own master of prayer, is very clear about this.

  I believe that it is impossible to grasp all the different forms of prayer without great purity of heart and soul. There are as many forms of prayer as there are states of soul or, rather, there are as many as the totality of states experienced by all souls together. We are not able to experience all the various kinds of prayer due to our inner debility, nevertheless, let us try to go through those which we know from our own far-from-extraordinary experience.

  Prayer is fashioned anew from moment to moment according to the measure in which the mind is purified and according to the situation in which it finds itself, whether this be the result of external contingencies or of its own doing. It is certain, moreover, that nobody is ever able to keep praying in the same way. A person prays in a certain manner when cheerful and in another when weighed down by sadness or a sense of hopelessness. When one is flourishing spiritually, prayer is different from when one is oppressed by the extent of one’s struggles. One prays in this manner when seeking pardon for sins, and in that manner when asking for some grace or virtue or the elimination of a particular vice. Sometimes prayer is conditioned by compunction, occasioned by the thought of hell and the fear of judgment; at other times it is aflame with hope and desire for the good things to come. People pray in one manner when they are in dangerous straits and in another when enjoying quiet and security. Prayer is sometimes illumined by the revelation of heavenly mysteries but, at other times, one is forced to be content with the sterile practice of virtue and the experience of aridity.108

  What this boils down to is that while we can be emphatic about the contemplative finality of monastic life, we cannot promise that the goal will be infallibly reached if a person perseveres in particular practices. Some people are exasperated by this typically Benedictine reluctance to be prescriptive when it comes to practice of prayer. This is not a matter of ignorance of various techniques or confusion about means and ends. This slowness to impose particular practices is the result of a realistic sensitivity to the differences among persons, the subtle changes that accompany spiritual growth, and the sovereign freedom of God to make light of any human construct.

  Early in the last century Abbot Cuthbert Butler published a book with the title Western Mysticism relaying the mystical teaching of Augustine, Gregory the Great, and Bernard of Clairvaux. What is common to the approach taken by these authors, and to Western Fathers generally, is the insistence that prayer comes as part of a package. It is embedded in a network of supportive practices: interior and exterior, individual and communal, spontaneous and routine. Most likely if prayer is not functioning well it is because of some discordance or imbalance between the different elements of Christian living: too much of this and too little of that. The remedy is found less in fine-tuning prayer itself, as in ensuring that all the other “implements of the spiritual craft” are in good condition and are being used as appropriate. In fact, we will find that experiences of dysphoria during prayer are often due to interpersonal difficulties, lack of self-care, or defective obedience. The seeming failure of prayer is not a penalty or punishment, but merely a signal that something needs attention. Even though it is comfortless our prayer is successful, if it brings us more fully into the realm of truth. Just as aches and pains alert us to muscular over-exertion, so, when in prayer we experience ourselves at a great distance from God, we are being invited to re-assess our priorities in living and probably to modify some aspects of our daily conduct.

  I was very impressed, many years ago, reading the views of a world-famous nutritionist. He was of the opinion that most people, in order to be healthy, need do no more than eat a varied diet. An unhealthy diet for him was one in which, by necessity or choice, the range of foods was limited. Given a wide variety of different foodstuffs, the body can forage for what it needs without being oppressed by too much of anything. He was dubious about the value of strict diets or dietary supplements because, when it comes to trace elements, we do not know enough about what the body really needs to be able to provide it.

  Our prayer draws what it needs from the variety of our daily experiences. This is why I have reservations about the wisdom of concentrating the bulk of one’s spiritual effort in a particular practice, such as the rigorous repetition of a mantra such as Marana tha or t
he Jesus Prayer, valuable though these may be for some people some of the time. The experience of many monks and nuns is that their awareness of the closeness of God occurs as often outside formal prayer as inside it: at work, in caring for others, in admiring the scenery, even in sleep. God will not be organized. If our expectations of prayer are built on the hypothesis of God’s predictability, our only certainty is that we will be disappointed.

  3. The Variety of Mystical Experience

  Because our moments of more intense awareness of God’s presence seem spontaneously to leap out of the ordinariness of daily living, they are beyond our direct causation. As a result we often are slow to own these flickers of divine intimacy, because we did nothing to bring them about. Yet though they happen infrequently and are gone before we can scrutinize them, these “stirrings” (as the Author of The Cloud of Unknowing termed them) are very important. They encourage us and confirm to us that a particular action or attitude is potentially transparent, leached of self-importance, so that through it the glory of the Lord may shine. What bothers us is the humility of such experiences. There is no “objective” content, nothing to recount afterwards, just a modified awareness independent from sense experience or logical deduction, yet strangely warm and personal. We cannot capture these moments of grace or preserve them in amber; we cannot gather them in with our rational mind and submit them to analysis. Like sparks in stubble they rise from nowhere and vanish.

  When the divine light shines upon us it is refracted by the prism of our own personal history. This means that if we try to paint a picture of what we have experienced, the result may seem no more than a reflection of our own interior images. Variation may be due to differences in the way our minds operate. Many people translate the experience into something visual, but for others it is a voice they hear or a concept that presents itself. One may expect different degrees of emotional intensity. There may be a variety of psychological determinants. One who was mother-deprived may experience these moments of spiritual awakening as a maternal presence, as may another person who had a strong exposure to maternal love in infancy. The same can be said about paternal images of God. There may even be deep, personal reasons why some choose to describe what they have felt in abstract and metaphysical language. Others may use language based on Scripture, or belonging to a school of theology or devotion. What one person interprets as the work of the Holy Spirit, another may ascribe to the intervention of angels or the intercession of the saints. The experience is one thing, the faltering attempts to explain it are something else. Those involved in inter-religious dialogue often report great harmony among participants, so long as they remain at the level of experience; as soon as theology enters the conversation, divisions multiply.

  What I am suggesting is that we need to be cautious in assigning absolute significance to our interpretations of religious experience. It is true that sometimes these spiritual events can serve to mirror some subliminal reality within our own spirits; what we see or hear needs, however, to be submitted to discernment—by ourselves and by others. Where there is question of simple consolation, there is no harm in accepting it with gratitude. But if what we have experienced seems to impel us towards a particular course of action, especially if it involves a radical change of direction, then we need to seek counsel. If we become convinced that we have a message for somebody else, I think we need to be very circumspect. I may be a bit prejudiced, but I tend to think that any reading of our experience that sends us off on some prophetic crusade is unlikely to come from God and more probably comes from a deranged mind.

  The fact of the matter is that, at a secondary level, religious experience is not immune from silliness. A genuine experience can sometimes interact with our own neuroses to cause a considerable wastage of time and diversion of energy; it may even have results that are harmful to us or to others. Such is the fragility of our human condition. It is because of such aberrations that many stolid Christians are suspicious of anything to do with “mysticism” and try to maintain an even level of neutrality in their own religious sentiments. Beware of this also. Some people feel obliged to restrict themselves to “rational” religion so that the chances of being led astray by emotion are reduced. More often than not the result is chronic aridity. Trying to exclude feeling from religion is as silly as allowing oneself to be dominated by it. As in everything else, common sense, balance, and good advice will serve us best.

  A mystical experience is one in which there is no direct causation within the spatio-temporal universe. It is the fleeting imprint of eternity on our dull awareness. It cannot be known directly. Its genuineness is attested by its effects. Meta-experience does not fall within the ambit of personal control, and so there is an overwhelming quality about it that makes those who experience it diffident to flaunt it. In simpler terms, far from making them proud, it tends to induce a deep sense of humility. There is a great deal of energy contained within a brief moment, so that often a person is empowered to do something long resisted as too difficult.

  The intensity of such experience cannot be measured by the degree of drama accompanying it. As we all know, some people experience life as grand opera, with soaring highs and terrifying lows. The ordinary rarely intrudes on their passionate existence. A day without a crisis is unbearable. For such people, religious experience also is dramatic. For those who are solidly phlegmatic, however, even strong moments of divine intimacy rarely cause a ripple on the surface of their equanimity. For the rest of us, who are in-between, God comes into our lives with a middle-level impact. It is as though the divine visitations are accommodated to suit our own particular disposition. For all, the two criteria of authenticity mentioned above are equally valid: humility and energy for good.

  What are some concrete examples of everyday mystical experience? Let me list some and say a little about each.

  a) Conversion: As we have spoken about above, whether it be cumulative or sudden, this experience opens our eyes, allowing us to evaluate issues differently, and gives us the energy to change the direction of our life.

  b) Vocation: This experience gives us the courage to embark on a new life that has God at its center, helping us to accept the inevitable sacrifices involved, and allowing us to yield control of our life to God and to others.

  c) Compunction: In the ancient tradition this is more than our feeling-response to the realization of our sinfulness. It is whatever “through God’s grace, is able to arouse the soul from its sleepiness and half-heartedness.”109

  d) Searching: There are many people today who are “looking for something” that their own culture does not give them. These pilgrims of the Absolute have been touched by some intangible Reality, and they are restless until they can establish a more permanent relationship.

  e) Patience: This is reckoned by Benedict as the key to everything (Prol. 50). We often observe this quality in faith-filled people—how steadfast they are in times of change, how courageous when affliction strikes, how hopeful when everything is hopeless. It is obvious that such endurance comes from an inner strength that is much more powerful than mere character.

  f) Self-Transcendence: Those who live forgetful of the demands of the superficial self and responsive to the deeper calling of spiritual reality show by their behavior that they have tasted for themselves the goodness of the Lord; henceforth nothing else has the power to satisfy them for long.

  g) Love: Sometimes we can be possessed by a love that seems unconditional, that has no boundaries, and is able to embrace even those who act against us. It is unlike our love for those nearest and dearest in that it is proactive, making lovable those whom otherwise we would have considered unlovable, turning enemies into friends, and embracing the whole world with the arms of our concern.

  h) Communion: Many of us experience long periods in which prayer seems fairly unproductive. Yet, even in our gloomiest moods, we have to admit that there have been breathing spaces. God seems to have visited us. We felt our own will becoming conformed to G
od’s. We felt drawn out of ourselves in desire and longing, and in a sense that God was our true home. Despite the prevailing distance, we experienced at least moments of communion with God. “I have seen God face to face and my soul is alive,” as the Latin translation literally renders Genesis 32:30.

  Such experiences are common enough among those who have chosen to assign importance to living a spiritual life, and to those who have embraced a religious or monastic vocation. I consider them to be “mystical experiences,” even though they are not accompanied with the fireworks commonly associated with that term. This is not to say they are defective or inferior to visions, revelations, and prophecies. They are more profound and long-lasting, and they are the ordinary means by which the mystery of Christ-life is continued in our world.