In the gospel of St. Luke we read that our Lord came to Martha’s house and while she set about at once to prepare his meal, her sister Mary did nothing but sit at his feet. She was so intent upon listening to him that she paid no attention to what Martha was doing. Now certainly Martha’s chores were holy and important … But Mary was unconcerned about them. Neither did she notice our Lord’s human bearing, the beauty of his mortal body or the sweetness of his human voice and conversation, although this would have been a holier and better work … But she forgot all this and was totally absorbed in the highest wisdom of God concealed in the obscurity of his humanity.
Mary turned to Jesus with all the love of her heart, unmoved by what she saw or heard spoken and done about her. She sat there in perfect stillness with her heart’s secret, joyous love intent upon that cloud of unknowing between her and her God. For as I have said before, there never has been and there never will be a creature so pure or so deeply immersed in the loving contemplation of God who does not approach him in this life through that lofty and marvelous cloud of unknowing. And it was to this very cloud that Mary directed the hidden yearning of her loving heart. (this page)
From the above it is very clear that entering the cloud does not mean abandoning Christ. Jesus is present: he is the divine center to which Mary’s love is directed. But she has no regard for clear-cut images of his beautiful mortal body, no ears for the sweetness of his human voice. She has gone beyond all this to a deeper knowledge, a deeper love and a deeper beauty. Here in practice is the paradox of a contemplation that is at once Christocentric and imageless.
Examples of this imageless approach to the man Christ abound in the English author; nor is it necessary here to quote his reference in Privy Counseling to Christ who is at once the porter and the door. Or his interesting interpretation of the ascension of Christ, who has to go (“It is expedient for you that I go”) lest the disciples become so attached to his historical body that they cannot love his glorified body. As I have said, our word “cosmic” is not there; but the idea is inescapably present.
With the realization that Christ is co-extensive with the universe, a whole cosmic and social dimension enters into contemplation. Christian mysticism can never be selfish preoccupation with one’s little ego; it must be an opening to other people and to the universe. Once again, the English author explains this in the cosmology of his day.
For when you fix your love on him, forgetting all else, the saints and angels rejoice and hasten to assist you in every way—though the devils will rage and ceaselessly conspire to thwart you. Your fellow men are marvelously enriched by this work of yours, even if you may not fully understand how; the souls in purgatory are touched, for their suffering is eased by the effects of this work; and, of course, your own spirit is purified and strengthened by this contemplative work more than by all others put together. (this page)
No corner of the universe is untouched by this exercise of love. Put in Teilhardian terms we might say that the noosphere is built up by this contemplative exercise; or that fresh impulse is given to the thrust of consciousness in its movement toward Omega. It is, of course, a great paradox that we should help people precisely by forgetting them: “Therefore, firmly reject all clear ideas however pious or delightful. For I tell you this, one loving blind desire for God alone is … more helpful to your friends, both living and dead, than anything else you could do.” (this page) This is something known only to experience through faith.
The increasingly cosmic and social dimension of contemplation is stressed in Privy Counseling where this work is described as a development from “bodiliness” to “ghostliness”; and I have translated these words as the Pauline “flesh” and “spirit.” For Paul, of course, flesh is not the sensual, Platonic flesh; it is not the instinctual part of man. Rather does it mean man rooted in this world; and when Paul uses it in a pejorative sense, it means man seeing only this world and blind to anything beyond it. On the other hand, the spiritual man is the man open to the universe and under the influence of the Spirit. Hence growth in contemplation, a growth toward spirit, is a development toward cosmic consciousness so that the contemplative puts on the mind of the cosmic Christ and offers himself to the Father for the salvation of the human race. Here, indeed, is the very climax of the author’s thought, couched in the beautiful prayer of Privy Counseling:
That which I am and the way that I am,
with all my gifts of nature and grace,
you have given to me, O Lord, and you are
all this. I offer it all to you, principally
to praise you and to help my fellow Christians
and myself. (this page)
This is truly the peak-point when the contemplative together with Christ offers himself to the Father for the human race. Now he has put on the mind of Christ so completely that, in a sense, only the Father remains. It is Christ within who prays and offers himself to the Father—“I live, now not I, but Christ liveth in me.” And, of course, the whole prayer is eminently Trinitarian and bafflingly paradoxical. There is one God, who is my very existence. And yet my existence is somehow distinct and I can offer it to him.
In this Christology, however, some readers may be perturbed by the author’s use of the Bible. Here, as in Privy Counseling and throughout his works, his apparent twisting of Scripture to illustrate and prove his point may bring a smile to the lips of the modern exegete. Yet this approach is typical of the mystics from Origen to John of the Cross. And it is, I believe, legitimate, and even helpful to the modern exegete.
That there is a distinctively contemplative approach to Scripture was indicated by Vatican II when it wrote: “For there is a growth in the understanding of the realities and the words handed down. This happens through the contemplation and study made by believers who treasure these things in their hearts through the intimate understanding of spiritual things they experience.” (Document on Divine Revelation, Chapter 2, 8) Growth in understanding comes from the mystics who, so to speak, live the Scriptures from within. If it is true, as Paul says, that no one can understand the spirit of a man except his own spirit, how true, too, that no one can really understand the Scriptures (however much his exegesis) except he who possesses the Spirit that composed them. The contemplative approach to Scripture complements the exegetical and is, I believe, coming more and more to the fore today.
Primacy of Love
From what has been said it will be clear that in the English author the central place in the contemplative exercise is allotted to love. That love is the essence of the whole thing is unequivocally stated again and again in words like the following:
For in real charity one loves God for himself alone above every created thing and he loves his fellow man because it is God’s law. In the contemplative work God is loved above every creature purely and simply for his sake. Indeed, the very heart of this work is nothing else but a naked intent toward God for his own sake. (this page–this page)
So the very heart of this work is love, which the English author refers to as a “secret little love,” a “naked intent of the will,” a “blind outstretching,” a “gentle stirring of love,” “this work,” or simply as “it.” It should be noted, however, that he uses these expressions for an activity that includes knowledge or consciousness of some kind. For purposes of analysis it is possible to speak of knowledge and love in contemplation; but the activity the author speaks of is a blend of both, a completely simple experience arising in the depth of the contemplative’s heart: in the last analysis it is indescribable, as the author declares when he says that “Whatever we may say of it is not it, but only about it.” (this page) He has no doubt, however, that its predominant element is love and it is upon this that he puts all the emphasis. The practice of unknowing with its treading down of all distinct knowledge beneath the cloud of forgetting is no more than preparation for the cultivation of this blind stirring that is the most important thing in life. This is reiterated many times, as, for example
, in such words as the following:
And so to stand firmly and avoid pitfalls, keep to the path you are on. Let your longing relentlessly beat upon the cloud of unknowing that lies between you and your God. Pierce that cloud with the keen shaft of your love, spurn the thought of anything less than God, and do not give up this work for anything. For the contemplative work of love by itself will eventually heal you of all the roots of sin. (this page)
This, a typical passage, shows how the business of forgetting is relegated to a secondary place, being no more than a means of making room for the “keen shaft of … love,” which, however, is accompanied by a deep consciousness of God. Instances could be multiplied where the author waxes enthusiastic about the little love that comes to dominate in the mystical life. “Your whole personality will be transformed, your countenance will radiate an inner beauty, and for as long as you feel it nothing will sadden you. A thousand miles would you run to speak with another whom you knew really felt it, and yet when you got there, find yourself speechless.” (this page–this page) As the contemplative enters more deeply into the cloud, love comes to guide him, teaching him to choose God, who cannot be thought or understood or found by any rational activity. As it grows stronger, it comes to take possession of him in such a way that it dominates every action. It orders him to choose God, and if he does not follow its command it wounds him and gives him no peace until he does its bidding. This is beautifully illustrated in a passage from another work of the author which does not, unfortunately, appear in this book. Let me quote from An Epistle of Stirrings about the dynamic quality of the blind stirring of love:
Then that same that thou feelest shall well know how to tell thee when thou shalt speak and when thou shalt be still. And it shall govern thee discreetly in all thy living without any error, and teach thee mystically how thou shalt begin and cease in all such doings of nature with a great and sovereign discretion. For if thou mayest by grace keep it in custom and in continual working, then if it be needful to thee for to speak, for to eat in the common way, or for to bide in company, or for to do any such other thing that belongeth to the common true custom of Christian men and of nature, it shall first stir thee softly to speak or to do that other common thing of nature whatso it be; and then, if thou do it not, it shall smite as sore as a prick on thine heart and pain thee full sore, and let thee have no peace but if thou do it. And in the same manner, if thou be speaking or in any such other work that is common to the course of nature, if it be needful and speedful to thee to be still and to set thee to the contrary, as is fasting to eating, being alone to company, and all such other, the which be works of singular holiness, it will stir thee to them.
From the above it can be seen that the blind stirring of love eventually develops into a bright flame, guiding the contemplative’s every choice. It stirs him softly and sweetly to act; but it also impels him to do God’s will with a certain inevitability against which it is useless to struggle: he seems to be in the grip of something more powerful than himself that he must obey at the risk of losing interior peace when it smites upon his heart. That this is the guidance of God himself is indicated in The Cloud where the author speaks of the guiding action of God in the very depths of the soul to which no evil spirit can penetrate and on which no reasoning can make impact. And this, I maintain, is the very apex of Christian morality. No longer fidelity to law but submission to the guidance of love.
Moreover it is precisely this love that gives wisdom, the truest knowledge. Indeed the meditational process taught by the English author could be described in three stages. First there is the clear and distinct knowledge brought by discursive meditation. This is abandoned for the guidance of love. Then this love finds wisdom. In yet another work, A Treatise of the Study of Wisdom, the author describes this process with a traditional simile. As a burning candle enlightens both itself and the objects around, so the light of love enables us to see both our own wretchedness and the great goodness of God:
As when the candle burneth, thou mayest see the candle itself by the light thereof, and the other things also; right so when thy soul burneth in the love of God, that is when thou feelest continuously thine heart desire after the love of God, then by the light of his grace which he sendeth in thy reason, thou mayest see thine unworthiness, and his great goodness. And therefore … proffer thy candle to the fire. (S.W. 43:8)
A similar doctrine is taught by Aquinas, who holds that a great love of God calls down the Spirit, according to the promise of Christ at the Last Supper that if anyone loved him he would be loved by the Father, who would send another Paraclete: progress in charity, then, means progress in wisdom. This kind of wisdom is, I believe, apparent in human relations where love can discover beauty and potentiality that reason alone cannot find.
And so the author stands in the stream of tradition that regards mysticism as a love affair between the bridegroom and the bride, between Yahweh and his people. It is here that the deepest significance of Western mysticism is to be found.
Dionysius
This Englishman belongs to a tradition known as “apophatic” because of its tendency to emphasize that God is best known by negation: we can know more about what God is not than what he is. Influenced by Neoplatonism, it is a doctrine that owes much to Gregory of Nyssa and Dionysius the Areopagite. To this latter the author of The Cloud acknowledges his debt at the end of his book: “Anyone who reads Denis’ book will find confirmed there all that I have been trying to teach in this book from start to finish.” (this page) That these words are sincere is proved by the fact that the English author made a translation of Dionysius’ Mystical Theology, which goes by the name of Hid Divinity. Yet recent scholars have pointed out that he was less Dionysian than he himself supposed. One reason for this is that no medieval could get an objective view of the writings of the Areopagite. Only comparatively recently was it established with certainty that Dionysius was a Syrian monk of the early sixth century; for the medievals he was St. Paul’s convert writing to Timothy with an authority close to that of the Scriptures themselves. His writings had influenced not only the Greek mystics, notably Maximus the Confessor in the eighth century, but also after the translation of John Scotus Erigena in 877 they made an incalculable impact on the whole Latin Church. Commentaries were multiplied; Albert, Aquinas and Bonaventure received Dionysian influence; even Dante sang the praises of the Areopagite. Consequently, the Dionysius who came to the author of The Cloud, like the Aristotle who sometimes comes to modern Thomists, was overlaid with a tradition that no medieval would have recognized. And it was this embellished Dionysius that influenced the English author. Moreover, he makes no secret of the fact that he will not follow the “naked letter” of Dionysius’ book; he intends to interpret it himself and to make use of other interpreters. He almost certainly did not read the original text of Dionysius but used the Latin translation of Joannes Sarracenus together with the commentary of Thomas Gallus, Abbot of Vercelli.
Yet, granted that Dionysius has been somewhat embellished in the years that elapsed between the sixth century and the fourteenth, it still remains true that his basic ideas are fundamental to the thought of the author of The Cloud. I shall, therefore, first briefly set forth his doctrine.
According to Dionysius, there are two ways in which man can know God: one is the way of reason (); the other is the way of mystical contemplation (). Rational knowledge of God is obtained through speculative theology and philosophy; but mystical knowledge is greatly superior to this, giving a knowledge of God that is intuitive and ineffable. Hence, it is called “mystical” or “hidden.” Dionysius speaks much of the transcendence of God, stressing the fact that by reasoning we know little about him; but he never denies the power of discursive reason to give some knowledge of God, merely emphasizing the superiority of mystical knowledge.
In fact, he teaches two ways of knowing God by reason—one affirmative and the other negative. We can affirm of God all the good that can be affirmed of his creation, say
ing that he is holy, wise, benevolent, that he is light and life. All these things come from God, so we can affirm that the source possesses their perfections in a higher way. But (and this is the point stressed by Dionysius) there is also a negative way of knowing God, since he is above all his creatures. He is wise, but with a wisdom different from that of men; his beauty, goodness, and truth are different from those we know. So, in a sense, God is unlike anything we know: we must keep in mind that the ideas we have of him are totally inadequate to contain him.
But there is yet a higher way of knowing God. “Besides the knowledge of God obtained by processes of philosophical and theological speculation, there is that most divine knowledge of God which takes place through ignorance”; in this knowledge the intellect is illuminated by “the insearchable depth of wisdom.” Such knowledge is not found in books nor can it be obtained by human effort, for it is a divine gift. Man, however, can prepare himself to receive it; and this he does by prayer and purification. Here is Dionysius’ advice:
Do thou, then, in the intent practice of mystic contemplation, leave behind the senses and the operations of the intellect, and all things that the senses or the intellect can perceive, and all things which are not and things which are, and strain upwards in unknowing, as far as may be, towards the union with Him Who is above all things and knowledge. For by unceasing and absolute withdrawal from thyself and all things in purity, abandoning all and set free from all, thou shalt be borne up to the ray of divine darkness that surpasseth all being.
(De myst. theol., I, 1)
The Cloud of Unknowing Page 3
