Mysticism
15/03/16 04:46
A conversation with friends brought up the topic of mysticism. One friend asked us to define the term. I hesitated, listening to how others were responding. There are mystical traditions in many different world religions and one might assume that the practices, beliefs, institutions, texts and other aspects of mysticism might vary from one expression to another.
I chose not to respond, but I suppose that if I were pushed, I would say that mysticism has something to do with the belief that there can be a union between the divine and the human. Using that definition, there is a strain of mysticism at the core of Christianity. We believe that in Jesus the divine and the human fully meet. To use the words of the prologue to the Gospel of John, “The Word became flesh.”
In Christian practice, the term mystic has often been applied to a particular group of practitioners of liturgy and spiritual disciplines. Mystics are those who devote their lives to disciplines and practices of prayer, study and worship that lead to a deep connection with the divine.
I am not, however, comfortable with the term. At least I don’t consider myself to be a mystic.
In the first place there is nothing secret about my practice of Christianity. I don’t appreciate secret rites or mysterious traditions that are shrouded in any kind of special knowledge. I believe in practicing my faith in public. And there is nothing about my experience of God that is special or unique to me. Others can easily share similar practices and obtain a similar sense of communion with God in Christ.
There is another term, however, that I do like, when thinking about experiences of the divine. That word is transcendence. Simply put, transcendence is going beyond the limits of ordinary experience. It is reaching for that which is beyond.
Yesterday morning I had an ordinary experience that had a transcendent quality.
I rose early, while it was still dark and went to the lake with my kayak. The ice is all out of the lake now, so I set out with a wooden kayak and my preferred greenland paddle. I carried a small light that I could turn on for recognition if another boat were to be on the lake, but since I was alone, I paddled out into the middle of the lake in the dark. I stopped to wait for the sunrise.
Sitting still on the lake in the dark, one quickly begins to learn several things. First of all, it isn’t completely dark. Even with the clouds, there were some breaks where stars could be seen. There were a couple of yard lights at the marina and campground that gave a sense of dimension to the lake. The sky was starting to lighten in the East and the outlines of the surrounding hills were visible. After my eyes had time to adjust I could see the bow of my boat and the texture of the water. I could sense the shoreline even when I couldn’t clearly make it out.
Secondly, it is not as quiet as one might expect. Of course at this time of the year the geese are quite noisy. Even though they were quite a ways from my position, they were murmuring and yammering and I could even hear the echo of their loudest squawks. The ducks are back this week and i could hear them as they flew and called out to one another. Back in the trees on the south side of the lake an owl was crying out its “Whoo whoo whoo whoo.” The water, stirred by the geese and my passing was lapping on the sides of my boat and ripples were hitting the shoreline. I could ear the whine of tires on the highway in the distance and occasionally a motor would be loud enough to echo through the hills.
Those are the usual, the normal, the ordinary. But there was more. First of all as I sat on the lake waiting for the sunrise, I was sitting with my own memories. There have been other mornings waiting for the sun to rise. I used to do so regularly with my father as we prepared an airplane for a dawn flight over the forest to check for fires. We also waited for the sun to come up when we were hunting in the fall. I have watched the sunrise from this lake for so many years that I feel like I know the creatures. If the owl isn’t the same one I listened to last year, it is likely a descendent of the old bird who has been keeping watch over the lake for years. A beaver swam by about 20 feet from my boat. It was likely the kit of a beaver that I used to watch regularly a couple of years ago.
I was aware that I am a part of something much bigger than just one morning in a tiny boat on a little lake in the hills of western South Dakota. The rising of the sun is a phenomenon that has been a part of this planet for millions of years. Even before there were human witnesses the sun rose. There were generations of people who believed that the sun was God, or at least one of many gods. Then, when our people began to understand the transcendent nature of a single God, it took generations for us to formulate our ideas into beliefs that we could share with others. How many of our people have watched and waited for the sunrise? We’ve been doing this since before Jacob wrestled with his angel or Moses listened to the voice from the burning bush.
I may not be a mystic, but there is mystery in every sunrise. The particular interplay of light and cloud is unique with each new day. There are no repeats. The days that I don’t look at the sky, I miss something that is well worth seeing. The days I rise early to greet the sun, I am greeted by more than the sun.
Perhaps I won’t ever feel confident to offer expertise on mysticism. But I can tell the stories of water and air and sun and the gift of a new day.
I chose not to respond, but I suppose that if I were pushed, I would say that mysticism has something to do with the belief that there can be a union between the divine and the human. Using that definition, there is a strain of mysticism at the core of Christianity. We believe that in Jesus the divine and the human fully meet. To use the words of the prologue to the Gospel of John, “The Word became flesh.”
In Christian practice, the term mystic has often been applied to a particular group of practitioners of liturgy and spiritual disciplines. Mystics are those who devote their lives to disciplines and practices of prayer, study and worship that lead to a deep connection with the divine.
I am not, however, comfortable with the term. At least I don’t consider myself to be a mystic.
In the first place there is nothing secret about my practice of Christianity. I don’t appreciate secret rites or mysterious traditions that are shrouded in any kind of special knowledge. I believe in practicing my faith in public. And there is nothing about my experience of God that is special or unique to me. Others can easily share similar practices and obtain a similar sense of communion with God in Christ.
There is another term, however, that I do like, when thinking about experiences of the divine. That word is transcendence. Simply put, transcendence is going beyond the limits of ordinary experience. It is reaching for that which is beyond.
Yesterday morning I had an ordinary experience that had a transcendent quality.
I rose early, while it was still dark and went to the lake with my kayak. The ice is all out of the lake now, so I set out with a wooden kayak and my preferred greenland paddle. I carried a small light that I could turn on for recognition if another boat were to be on the lake, but since I was alone, I paddled out into the middle of the lake in the dark. I stopped to wait for the sunrise.
Sitting still on the lake in the dark, one quickly begins to learn several things. First of all, it isn’t completely dark. Even with the clouds, there were some breaks where stars could be seen. There were a couple of yard lights at the marina and campground that gave a sense of dimension to the lake. The sky was starting to lighten in the East and the outlines of the surrounding hills were visible. After my eyes had time to adjust I could see the bow of my boat and the texture of the water. I could sense the shoreline even when I couldn’t clearly make it out.
Secondly, it is not as quiet as one might expect. Of course at this time of the year the geese are quite noisy. Even though they were quite a ways from my position, they were murmuring and yammering and I could even hear the echo of their loudest squawks. The ducks are back this week and i could hear them as they flew and called out to one another. Back in the trees on the south side of the lake an owl was crying out its “Whoo whoo whoo whoo.” The water, stirred by the geese and my passing was lapping on the sides of my boat and ripples were hitting the shoreline. I could ear the whine of tires on the highway in the distance and occasionally a motor would be loud enough to echo through the hills.
Those are the usual, the normal, the ordinary. But there was more. First of all as I sat on the lake waiting for the sunrise, I was sitting with my own memories. There have been other mornings waiting for the sun to rise. I used to do so regularly with my father as we prepared an airplane for a dawn flight over the forest to check for fires. We also waited for the sun to come up when we were hunting in the fall. I have watched the sunrise from this lake for so many years that I feel like I know the creatures. If the owl isn’t the same one I listened to last year, it is likely a descendent of the old bird who has been keeping watch over the lake for years. A beaver swam by about 20 feet from my boat. It was likely the kit of a beaver that I used to watch regularly a couple of years ago.
I may not be a mystic, but there is mystery in every sunrise. The particular interplay of light and cloud is unique with each new day. There are no repeats. The days that I don’t look at the sky, I miss something that is well worth seeing. The days I rise early to greet the sun, I am greeted by more than the sun.
Perhaps I won’t ever feel confident to offer expertise on mysticism. But I can tell the stories of water and air and sun and the gift of a new day.