Thoughts on Philosophy, Religion, God and the gods

05/07/2013

 

04 May 2013
Dear Jeanie,
Thank you for your two very good responses. I just finished a straight 7 hours of Saturday week-end duties, and sat down comfortably at last. The pups and I had a longer drive to Raynesford, as the main highway is under repair, and traffic is rerouted on meandering roads. Then I gave the dogs a run up a muddy lane on a mountain, celebrated Mass in Raynesford, spoke with parishioners, took communion to a parishioner who is seriously ill, visited a ranch with a kennel, drove back to Belt, prepared and ate a quick meal (rice and canned tuna fish), then celebrated another Mass, spoke with more parishioners, let the dogs out.... and am now here, ready to write.
 
As with your intense realization-experience, my interest and focus is also on philosophy, not "religion," but I would add that "religion," a term coined by Cicero, is not in any way a very definable term, but a general topic. In Cicero's day, "religion" surely included philosophy as a way of life, for the root meaning of religio is that to which one binds or commits oneself. Plato had already coined the term "theologia" to cover discourse on the gods; his own noetic philosophy treats the divine as the Good (Agathon, Republic), or Intellect (Nous, as in the Laws), or Demiorgos (Timaeus), and so on. Since that time, even “theology” covers a wide variety of phenomena. Of course, so does “philosophy,” for now it may include what Plato called “philodoxy,” the love of opinions rather than love of wisdom.
 
Remember that I wrote you a few nights ago that I am working on a problem about "the gods," and you seemed a little surprised? Consider: Israelite religion recognized a number of gods, but Yahweh was the god of Israel. Centuries later, through Deutero-Isaiah, Yahweh became the “one god” of all the earth, and post-exilic Judaism became what we now term “monotheistic.” Whereas earlier Old Testament passages (Israelite) can mention “the gods” as real, later passages, after the exile, declare the gods to be “no gods,” or not real, “false gods.”  Then early Christianity picked up the Jewish conception, with its antagonism to "the gods," but was in a sort of bind, finding divinity in Jesus, the Holy Spirit, and the unknown god beyond (called “Father”), a position criticized for inconsistency by some "pagan" thinkers arguing against Christianity (such as Celsus). And of course the early Christians--even the Apostle Paul--were highly intolerant of "the gods," accepting the Jewish bias. (In Acts 17, Luke has St. Paul admit anger at the Athenians for their statues and "idolatry." St Paul even saw a statue to Agnosto Theo--to an unknown god--and then launched out on his homily proclaiming the unknown god now made known through Christ. As for the other statues and gods, Paul evidently missed the truth of the reality they were symbolizing, for he shared the Jewish-monotheistic bias. Islam (at least in the Koran), is as single-mindedly monotheistic as Judaism, and apparently intolerant of "the gods."

But that brings me back to Plato and Aristotle, or especially, to Plato (4th century BC) and Plotinus (c 200 AD): these great philosophers have major "revelations" of what Plato calls "the truly divine," the Nous, "the beyond," and Plotinus especially writes about "the One" that is “beyond being."  And yet, these philosophers can write about "the gods" without the kind of anger or dismissive mockery found in the so-called monotheistic religions. It is the function of "the gods" once the "truly divine" has been differentiated that I am trying to understand. There seems to be more to divinity than can be absorbed only into the more radically-divine symbols (the One, the First Cause, the God of Israel, and so one. This phenomenon is fascinating. A key document here is Plato's Phaedrus (mainly on language and love), a masterful work of philosophy, and supremely beautiful. Soon I shall reread the Phaedrus, in part to understand the "surplus of divinity" issue to which I just referred: in a phrase, that there is more to the divine than can be symbolized in “God” or an equivalent symbol. In the Phaedrus, Socrates presents a myth in which the gods and their human adherents are led once a year to the summit of the cosmos, and gaze upwards towards divinity beyond the cosmos, the "truly divine." Note that "the gods" have their purpose, they are not dismissed; like the psyche with its divine partner, the gods are intermediary between being-things and the divine “beyond.” As Plato says in the Epinomis, "Every myth has its truth." Those words often ring in my mind, and lead to tolerance of various ways to symbolize reality. The gods, too, have their truth.

In mainline Christianity over the centuries, "the gods" were officially dismissed, but came back, I would argue, in different dress: mainly in the saints. Or more precisely, the gods did not come back, but the "surplus of divinity" or divine reality that is more than in God alone finds its place again--it is given symbolic meaning. In one's meditation or thought, some of the saints seem to function the way the gods did in “cosmological” cultures, such as the Egyptian, Greek, Roman, Norse, and so on. I may be wrong on this, but the problem of “the gods” bears thought. Experiences of reality were being symbolized as “the gods” that would only be lost or discarded at a price.

When the more radical Reformation (as in John Calvin) threw out adoration of the saints (even smashing statues, stained glass, and so on, as "idolatrous"), then the world became far more "dedivinized," and lost much of its "charm," or "magical quality," as I seem to recall Max Weber's describing the effect on culture. A strictly Protestant theology, and perhaps an Islamic one as well, leaves no room (or very little room) for mediation of divinity. More ancient Catholicism and Orthodoxy, on the other hand, absorbed the experiences of the ancients, with their "world full of gods" (Thales), but changed the names, and modified the "causes" of their divinity. Example: today at Mass a prayer praised God for his "mighty love." I probably smiled reading it ,thinking of "the mighty Aphrodite," and praise for the power of the god Eros in Plato's Symposium. Even in our secular (Protestant-originated) culture, stories such as those around "St. Nicholas" as "Santa Claus" have much of the aura of a kindly Greek god who visits children, a kind of lesser divinity bestowing blessings. In short: I am fascinated by the "excess of divinity" that spills over into gods and saints, and is not confined to "the wholly Other," and so on.  As noted, the problem at least bears thought, and a place to begin is with Plato’s treatment of “the gods.”

As for philosophy, please recall the account given by Plato (in the Phaedrus, I believe), in which Socrates unfolds this logic: Philosophy is the love of wisdom (philosophia); the god alone is truly wise; therefore, philosophy is the love of god. Philosophy is the intellectual love of the divine. Not a religion, but a way of life. Plato, Aristotle, Plotinus (and surely Parmenides and Heracleitos before them) engaged in philosophy as a response to experiencing their soul or consciousness (psyche) being moved by the god, often symbolized as Nous (Intellect). Indeed, that was the primary meaning given to “soul”: the “place” in which the divine and human meet. One cannot read Plato's Republic, or the Symposium, or the Phaedrus, or the Timaeus, and so on, with any kind of attention and not be aware of divine action on one’s soul while reading. Through his writing of dialogue and myth, Plato seeks to stir up similar experiences to his own in the consciousness of the reader. That is their purpose. Foremost among these experiences is the intellectual search for the divine that is moving (or drawing) one to search. To study Plato is to search for the God moving one to search.

I cannot think of any truly secular philosopher until we get into "the moderns," especially Hobbes, Descartes, and then the French Enlightenment philosophes (whom Plato would have recognized as sophists).  Philosophy, shall we say, was no “inner-worldly” activity, but a participatory movement into God, variously symbolized and understood. Note that it is Descartes, in the 17th century, who tried to "prove" the existence of God--something no ancient or Christian philosopher would have attempted. The very famous passage in Thomas Aquinas' Summa Theologiae, for example, in which Thomas supposedly tries to "prove" God's existence is misread if one thinks that is what Thomas is doing. He provides 5 ways (viae) in which the mind can recognize that God is (not "exists"), but these ways are not intended as a demonstrative proof, but far more as a "pointing to" from one mind to another. There is a pair of technical terms for the difference, but I do not recall it precisely (something like apodeictic, epideictic. with the difference between a logical demonstration and a pointing to for one who will look). Recall that for St. Thomas, God does not exist anyway; He / it is: Esse per se subsistens, to be subsisting through itself. Not an existent, a “being-thing,” at all. But modern philosophers still had to deal with “God” in some way. Hegel collapsed God into human self-consciousness, especially his own. And not even Nietzsche could not leave God alone!  He had to struggle hard to declare God "dead," and that “we have murdered him.”  (In the process, Nietzsche did explore the consequences of the death-of-god to consciousness, and for that I give him great credit for his brilliant insights). 
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Now, as for what I previously termed "divine dreams." Your account of "lucid dreaming" sounds fitting, and may include what I mean. But at times there is a "divine" content to such dreams, and these I would mark out as significant as a kind of "revelation" of the unknown, although God remains beyond the dream. Something of divine presence in the psyche is made known. Such divine dreams are intense, authoritative, and provoke remembering. You asked for several examples:

1. The night Alma Packard died--mother of Muriel, Judy, and Noreen--I had a vivid dream. A man and Alma Packard were sitting at a round wooden table, across from me. Nothing else was visible, just the table and the two persons in a gentle light. I did not recognize the man, but on reflection when awake I took him to be Muriel's father.  In any case, Alma looked me in the eyes and said one simple sentence: "Have compassion on Muriel." That was it. For the following weeks and months, I obeyed. I made a point of visiting Muriel, and had dinner with Muriel and her sisters weekly. When I saw her, I would always give Muriel a firm embrace. And we talked about her agony, for her mother, who had just died, was also her best friend. We did not play "too holy to mourn," the way Muriel said folks in her church wanted her to act. Muriel has often thanked me for the compassion I showed her. For my part, I was obeying the insight or word through the dream.

2. During the 1980's, while in the monastery, I dreamed one night that I was in India. I was in the River Ganges, the sacred river, walking upstream. Many people were with me, moving in the same direction. I kept walking upstream, uphill, and gradually people faded away. The river became a small stream in the Himalayas, but I kept walking up the stream, alone. Finally I came to an opening between large rocks, out of which a very small amount of water was flowing from the source. I peered into the darkness, into the small opening between the rocks, and saw nothing, but realized that it was the source of the sacred river.  Now, what did the dream tell me? That I am searching for God, and never to give up, but to peer into the darkness, and that from out of that darkness flows the life-giving stream of God. The dream expressed and assured me of the search which constitutes my life.  I had other dreams related to this one, but the essential experience is similar: "Seek [God] and you will find."

3. Also during the 1980's, while you and Vic were living in Saudi Arabia, I dreamed that I was on a train to you. As the train came around a sharp bend, suddenly I saw in the distance the Great Mosque of Mecca, with a glistening dome, beneath a deep, purple sky above and behind it. I immediately was overcome with intense awe--and fell down on the floor of the train in worship of the unseen God. That was the dream. Note: to this day, when I see Muslims on their knees praying, I am reminded of that awe before God, and I much appreciate that experience as the basic "religious" experience: awe, wonder. And recall Socrates in the Theatetus of Plato: "Philosophy begins in wonder." Aristotle says the same in his Metaphysics (properly called "First Philosophy"). I think that the experience of awe is the fundamental experience engendering philosophy. 

Consider the insights given: Have compassion on the one suffering; continue the search, and you will find; the experience of awe (with awe of the Almighty, El Shaddai in Hebrew). At least for me, these experiences and similar ones, presumably, form the living core of my "spirituality," and provoke the mind's search for God that is the philosophical life. There is no dogmatic content here. Is it a wonder that I prefer philosophy as search to theology or religion as belief? "The Tao that can be expressed is not the Tao."

Hearing God's Voice

Yesterday my sister asked me to read an article in the New York Times written by an anthropologist who studied an evangelical community in Chicago, and found that numerous persons claimed to hear God speaking to them with their ears.  My sister wanted to know what I thought of this work. I share my reply, which is a hastily written note, and not intended as a final or polished word.  Perhaps it can provoke a good question or two.

Dear Jeanie,
Thanks for sharing the anthropologist's piece. It is well written and fair, I think. She does not dismiss the auditory experiences out of hand, but nor is she simply gullible.

I cannot say too much about the anthropologist's research (methodology, conclusions), other than that she seems to be open-minded, and I commend her effort to deal with the phenomenon of auditory experiences attributed to "God."

But then, knowing me, I could add a few other comments, and think that you may be eliciting them (to some extent) by sending the article. So I will be brief, and invite comments or questions if you wish.

Various religious traditions are familiar with divine voices, revelations, images, and so on. The claim that one heard God speaking externally would be less common for sure, and perhaps appears more in folks who may not know the clear difference between internal and external "voices."  Or again, perhaps these folks did indeed hear some voice; but to credit it to "God" would be an act of faith, without certain knowledge. When divine experiences occur, they usually require faith in the recipient, not certain knowledge (gnosis).  They leave one puzzled, or wondering, or questioning. But there are exceptions. Remember, in the book of Acts, three times the author (the evangelist Luke, a disciple of Paul's) describes Paul's encounter with the Risen Christ on the way to Damascus. Details by Luke vary in the 3 accounts, but the basic vision is recounted thrice. (By varying the details, it shows what is really important, I would say). In these accounts, "Saul heard a voice from heaven," and the question is asked, "Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me?" Luke tells us that Saul/Paul says, "Who are you, Lord [kyrie]?"  "I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting.  Arise and you will be told what to do." (See Acts 9, for example). That event is decisive in early Christianity, as you know. Internal or external?

The apostle Paul recounts the matter differently. He does not refer to external voices, as Luke does. (But Luke is a fine story-teller, and using external voices and lights flashing communicates to everyone, whereas more grounded, experiential analysis may fall flat in the hearer/reader, or be good for philosophers, but not for more simple souls.) Paul distinctly makes the event internal to consciousness, something I have often pointed out in writing and in preaching: In the opening of Galatians he writes that "God was pleased to reveal his son in me [en emoi]."  "En" can mean "to me," but "eis" would be far more common; and elsewhere when Paul talks about Christ, he clearly uses internal language: "The Lord said to me in a dream..."  Or "We have the mind (nous) of Christ."  Some language is ambiguous, and could be physical or internal, but I surely take it internally (a divine-human participatory movement in consciousness): "Have I not seen the Lord?" or "Christ appeared to Kephas (Peter).... and last of all to me."  In any case, the letters of Paul and the Acts of the Apostles have numerous accounts of spiritual encounters with Christ. Note that the term "Father" is employed for divinity beyond what is experienced--something that evangelicals seem to miss. When the divine is personal and speaks to one (internally, I would say), it is called "Christ" by the early Christians. When the divine presence is felt as love, joy, peace, forgiveness, and so on, it is called "the holy spirit," with spirit a neuter in Greek, and translating the Hebrew ruach. Spirit is impersonal, “Christ” is God’s personal presence in and to a human soul.

As you know, the Christian tradition has numerous saints and mystics who have recorded remarkable spiritual experiences. Surely St. Francis "heard" the Lord speak to him, but I do not recall him ever writing (or his disciples claiming) that he heard a voice with his ears. Francis' initial experience, by the way, is the one that I think helped inspire the present Pope to choose the name "Francis." In prayer at San Damiano, a run-down Benedictine chapel, Francesco "heard" the Lord speak to him "from the cross," as I recall: "Francis, rebuild my church." As you may remember, Francis took the command literally, and rebuilt the chapel, and then it dawned on him that "rebuild my Church" had another meaning, a much more demanding and beneficial one. And if anyone "rebuilt the church" in his time, it was San Francesco. Did he hear with ears or internally? Or both at once? I don't know, but perhaps a good Franciscan scholar has studied this issue with regard to Francis.  

In truth I do not know, but it is not impossible, I would say, for one to believe that he/she is hearing a voice from God with their ears, or see a "vision" with the eyes. But I have little doubt that accounts of internal processes are much more common. Recall the over-arching wisdom of St. Thomas Aquinas: "God works through secondary causes." So if a voice is heard, what was the cause? Surely I have “seen” the God looking at me through beings and Ikons, but I am aware that the secondary cause is the particular being (such as a kindly dog), not eyes of God inside the animal! 

One characteristic of what I would call "a divine experience" as distinct from some other type is simply said in words, but understood in the process: the event--heard or seen or smelled or whatever--comes with an intensity and authority that penetrates the mind/soul, and really gets one's attention. If it is a dream, for example, it "burns in" to the soul, so that one does not forget it. To be honest, I have had a number of these, and they are simple, clear, and very powerful, and unforgettable. What I am noting here is the kind of "authority" or overwhelming truth-force, if I may borrow a term from Gandhi, that leaves the recipient aware that s/he has received unmistakable communication. It is not certainty that one is "saved," or "knows God." I would say, on the contrary: the divine experiences, even with their truth-force, makes one vividly aware that there is far more of the divine beyond what is experienced. Hence, they incite search, questioning, rather than "possessive knowledge" (gnosis). They draw or entice, as Plato describes so well using the Greek very helkein, to draw. One experiences oneself being drawn (Plato) or moved (Aristotle) into divine-human mutual participation (methexis, as I recall, is Aristotle's term). In his 7th letter, Plato refers to a spark igniting a fire in one's soul.  Internal processes. 

External? Let's conclude with a good quote from "Hamlet," in which Hamlet tells his friend: "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy."

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Part II of blog on “Hearing God’s voice.”

Jeanie, I still find some thoughts rattling around my mind on the issue of “hearing God” externally. I will tease out a few more of these thoughts.

Recall that in the previous note I referred to awareness of being “looked at” through another creature, or through an Ikon. I could add the experience of being “spoken to” through a human or animal voice. But when these occur, I do not think that “God is speaking” in the voice of the human being or bird or whatever. Rather, I am aware that I am interpreting the external action (such as words) as having divine source, whether known or unknown to the speaker. It is the act of interpretation that is decisive. Through faith one may “hear” the unknown God speaking through a human being; but someone else may hear nothing but the human words, and not be moved to think of God at all. Recall the incident in the Gospel of John (chapter 12, if I am not mistaken), in which Jesus prays and “a voice” is heard from heaven; but, notes the evangelists, “some thought it thundered.” Sounds heard differently, and in the case of openness or lack of openness to God, the difference can be a voice from God or mere thunder.  

On a second point: The people who believe that they physically hear God’s voice may not, as I noted, understand the difference between internal and external processes. They may be like the young boy, Samuel, being raised by the elder priest, Eli, in the Temple (Book of Samuel). The young boy thought that he was being called by the old priest, and ran to him in the night. This happened several times, and then the old priest realized that God was addressing the boy. And the priest told him something such as this: “Next time you hear the voice, say,`Speak, LORD, for your servant is listening.’” The author tells us that “Samuel was not yet familiar with the LORD.” Hearing the “call” of the Lord in the soul or mind is common throughout the Israelite and Jewish prophetic tradition. Prophets such as Jeremiah give very detailed accounts of their encounters with God, and the “word of the LORD” is usually “heard” (interiorly, I think is understood) or “seen” in visions using the prophet’s imagination moved by “the spirit.”  Unless and until one is more accustomed to spiritual experiences, it is understandable that one assumes that the voice “heard” (in the mind) is outside, through the body. But one should ask: How does one know if the voice “heard” is simply in the mind, or in the soul from God, or “God speaking” outside in space-time?

Again I refer to Aquinas, that “God works through secondary causes.” One may well hear a sound, or words, externally, but to ascribe them to God directly, without any “secondary cause,” seems contrary to the nature of God. That is my guess. The divine can use anything, I presume, but physical phenomena work by natural causes. As I must remind fundamentalists from time to time, “God has no body, no voice, and his words are not physical phenomena.” There is much confusion here, grounded, it seems, on equating Jesus with God, as distinct from recognizing the unknown God in the person of Jesus. 

Now, for a contrary account. You may recall that young Joseph Smith claimed that one night, God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit--three divine-human persons--came and stood in his room, around his bed. Even thinking of this “vision,” I spontaneously shake my head. Years ago I asked the philosopher Voegelin how one distinguishes between true and false visions. His answer: “They are true if they accord with common sense.”  Seeing “God the Father” with a body (and he lives on a planet) surely does not accord with common sense, but is more like a small child’s understanding or misunderstanding of God. (Recall the 2-year old girl who climbed up on a neighbor’s roof to “look for God.” Well, one begins somewhere!)

In conclusion for now, I would say that a person with living faith may interpret external events as divinely moved, or containing divine presence. Such a stance may show a development of reason or common sense, in addition to faith. But to claim that one “hears God’s voice” externally, without an awareness that one is interpreting physical phenomena in a certain way, but that God is not literally “speaking” to their ears, suggests to me a considerable lack of mental development, that is, a lack of that “common sense” to which Voegelin referred.

But I shall give the matter more thought, and see what emerges.

For Resurrection and Ascension of Christ, and Pentecost

 

The truth about reality, and especially about the divine-human partnership, is far too enormous and profound for us to understand. Our Church celebrations break up the mystery, in effect, by celebrating different aspects or perspectives in sequence. The mystery is one, but our understanding and absorption of the truth of God comes in parts, in gradual insights, breaking into our minds gradually as the dawning light slowly spreads before the brilliant sunrise. The Gospel of John seeks to hold this mystery together by linking Christ’s death, Resurrection, his departure, and the giving of the Spirit on the cross, and then in a few appearances to chosen disciples. The evangelist Luke, who wrote the Gospel and the Acts of the Apostles, stays closer to the Jewish calendar of feasts, and blends into it the mystery of Christ. In our Catholic calendar and celebrations, we largely follow St. Luke’s presentation:  Death of Jesus (Good Friday), Resurrection (Easter), 40 days of appearances, his Ascension, then Pentecost 50 days after Easter. The truth is simple, but our minds need the mysterious whole presented piecemeal so that we can in our limited way understand it and appropriate the truth to our lives. We believe so that we may understand and live Christ in love and in truth.

As Eastertide closes, liturgies turn our mind from rejoicing in Christ’s Resurrection to accepting his physical absence and Lordship (Ascension) in preparation for our union with God in and through the presence of the Holy Spirit.  Jesus Christ has not abandoned his people, nor will he. “I am yours, you are mine.”  That is his divine promise to us.  But his presence is now mediated to us through the Holy Spirit. Whatever of Christ we receive--his Word in the gospel, his Body and Blood in the Eucharist, his love in the Body of Christ--we receive in and through the Holy Spirit. Without the Spirit, we would not believe or experience the real love of Christ for human beings, each and all. Without the Holy Spirit, our minds would not be enlightened by the truth of Christ shining in. Without the Holy Spirit, we would not experience God’s forgiveness. Without the Holy Spirit, we could love for our own benefit, but not with God’s own self-giving love. 

“We believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the giver of life.”  One may say that our biological life comes through the body’s physical processes and through ongoing breathing, drinking, eating, exercising, and resting; but God’s life in us comes through openness and ongoing response to the indwelling Spirit.  The Spirit, generating true love in us for God and for one another, knits us together for our well-being in time and in eternity. The life that the Holy Spirit keeps breathing into us is divine Life, true life, and it is forever, because it is not ours, but God’s Life in us. “Because I live, you shall live also,” says the Risen LORD, dwelling in us through the Holy Spirit. “We will not leave you orphans or abandoned, we will come to you.” That promise, spoken by Christ, means that the whole mystery of God is alive in our souls, and we are taken up eternally into union with He Who Is. One simple truth, slowly breaking into our human hearts, effecting in us what God promises to give: Himself to us eternally.

A Note on Gnosticism

Dear Sister, You implicitly asked about the Gnostic experience. Let me say a few words. Modern philosophy, at least since Descartes, has often dabbled in Gnosticism, so you have no doubt read some more or less Gnostic texts, possibly without knowing it. Descartes is not a Gnostic, I believe, but he commits a fundamental philosophical error which paves the way for Gnostic experiences. Consider his famous cogito. He has replaced the human being's participation in the whole (cosmos) with a self-contained Ego. In reading his "Meditations," I keep wanting to ask, "What about reality?  What about the whole cosmos? Why are you beginning with yourself as a separate being?" Once he has done that, he can "prove the existence of God," as he purports to do, but he is left with the famous "mind-body" problem. Beginning with the solitary ego, how does one "get out?"  As I read the great philosophers--say, Heracleitos, Plato, Aristotle, Plotinus--I am ever being made aware of human participation in the mysterious whole. That is the ground for philosophizing: the "primary experience of the cosmos," of the essential oneness of all that is, an awareness that precedes the intellect's activity of making the proper distinctions. One of the most moving expressions of this essential oneness I came across some years ago in Plotinus, and when I read it to students, I could not contain tears. It is utterly beautiful. Remind me, please, to share the passage from the Enneads with you. It will "knock your socks off," using your phrase. The lover sees and experiences each and all in every being. That is not Gnostic, but mystical: the mystical experience of essential unity, a kind of "natural mysticism," or "cosmic mysticism," if we can coin that phrase.   Now, as for modern Gnosis, there are many examples, from Mary Baker Eddy (Christian Science [Gnosis]) to Emerson to a my own college-age dabbling, which I grow out of quickly. Consider a few formulations I came up with in my late teens, for they reflect what is probably a Gnostic experience:  "I created I" was the earliest at 18. About a year later, I distorted the Platonic symbol of "the beyond" to "I beyond beyond the beyond."  Note the break from reality, from common sense. I was playing, but the play was dangerous, and I realized it. The genius of modern Gnosis is without doubt Hegel. In the Phenomenology, he explicitly brings "God" into his self-consciousness. Rather than mystical union, he openly replaces any "divine beyond" with "human self-consciousness." in the long "Preface" to the "Phenomenology," apparently written last, Hegel explicitly rejects philosophy as "love of wisdom," and promises "real wisdom" (wirkliches Wissen) instead. That phrase expresses the move from philosophy as love to philosophy as possession of "wisdom." At the end of the "Phenomenology," after his long exegesis of his experience, Hegel concludes with the "Golgatha of God," of any divine being beyond human self-consciousness. The death of God is achieved speculatively not in a superficial way, but by drawing "all of the divine" into human consciousness. That is a magnificent expression of Gnosticism. Once that is achieved, how does one relate to reality?  Hegel replaces man, God, consciousness with his "system of science."  Extraordinary achievement.   As you know, Nietzsche rejected any attempt to provide a "system," and helped to reclaim genuine philosophy as anti-system, and for that I praise him highly. He knew that reality could not be reduced to a "system of science." But Nietzsche had his own games to play. As you probably know, his "philosophizing" radically cut him off from human contact, and he became utterly lonely and isolated. I cannot read Nietzsche without feeling his anguish, and wanting to befriend him. I love him, but he went down one huge "rabbit hole" to the point where he could not return. That is how I read his breakdown: it indexed a spiritual-mental collapse, not merely physical disease. In reading his works, I can see the extreme breakdown coming, as he divorces himself from one part of reality after another. Nietzsche is a delight to read, a first-rate intellect, but painful to read, too, when one sees what he does to himself. But in the process, he throws much light on modern biases, such as his attack on democracy and "the herd mentality," and so on. He would have detested the Nazi movement, but they used him, as you know, by bowdlerizing his works.   Now for a sample from "Thus spake Zarathustra," from the poetic "Night Song."  I was mistaken. It is in Book II (section 9) of Zarathustra, not Book III. I type this to show you what is typical, or perhaps essential, in the Gnostic experience. Using Kaufman's well-known translation:                                                The Night Song Night has come; now all fountains speak more loudly. And my soul too is a fountain. Night has come; only now all the songs of loves awaken. And my soul too is the song of a lover. Something unstilled, unstillable is within me; it wants to be voiced. A craving for love is within me; it speaks the language of love. Light am I; ah, that I were night!  But this is my loneliness, that I am girt with light. Ah, that I were dark and nocturnal! How I would suck at the breasts of light! And even you would I bless, you little sparkling stars and glowworms up there; and be overjoyed with your gifts of light. But I live in my own light; I drink back into myself the flames that break out of me. I do not know the happiness of those who receive, and I have often dreamed that even stealing must be more blessed than receiving. This is my poverty, that my hand never rests from giving... Oh, darkening of my sun! Oh, craving to crave! Oh, ravenous hunger in satiation. They receive from me; but do I touch their souls?...I should like to hurt those for whom I shine; I should like to rob those to whom I give; thus do I hunger for malice. Such revenge my fullness plots; such spite wells up out of my loneliness. My happiness in giving died in giving; my virtue tired of itself in its overflow.... Alas, ice is all around me, my hand is burned by the icy. Alas, thirst is within me that languishes after your thirst. Night has come: alas, that I must be light! And thirst for the nocturnal. And loneliness.   Night has come: now my craving breaks out of my like a well; to speak I crave. Night has come; now all fountains speak more loudly.  And my soul too is a fountain. Night has come; now all the songs of lovers awaken.  And my soul too is the song of a lover. Thus sang Zarathustra.

It Moves to Consciousness

Write.  Seek to articulate what is as yet a fairly vague thought or awareness in consciousness. Make it more explicit, clearer, and understand what it is you are thinking rather unthinkingly. Help it to come to understanding through writing.

It is the issue. Beyond all knowables, beyond everything or being intended by rational consciousness, there is the mysterious whole in which each and all are immersed. It presses in ever so quietly, gently, and yet it is the all-encompassing. But more dominant acts of consciousness--not only feelings, but thoughts about things--can keep unseen, unknown, the ever-present background to every moment.
 
There are moments that may serve as windows into it, or doors of perception, if we should but attend. It is steady and sure, but our attention to it is fleeting at best. But moments arise when we may wonder, “Why did I remember that right now?” or “Why did that thought occur to me?”  I find myself often asking such questions, because I am puzzled by the sudden and unseen arrival of memories or thoughts into consciousness. They just show up to the party, so to speak, seemingly uninvited guests. These are not intrusive or obnoxious guests, but puzzling, curious reminders that every mind is immersed in a reality far greater than one can conceive, or know, or understand. It goes on, whether we attend or not. It is here always. One sees no beginning or end, but recognizes that it is, and that everything else, every moment, every being-thing, is as it were a little piece of wood floating on a vast and unfathomably deep ocean.

Is it the case that it moves one to think certain thoughts, to explore in some directions rather than others? Or more essentially: Does it come to consciousness in one’s consciousness? Is it pressing to be known, to be recognized, to come to consciousness in the consciousness of a human being?  Is man the being in whom it gains clarity, luminosity, awareness?
 
In truth, I do not know. But I sense a pressing into me at times, a very gentle movement of a kind of spirit into spirit. But it is not “a spirit,” or anything, or a being. I do not even want to call it “God,” or “Being.” It simply is what it is, unlimited and mysterious, ever-present. It may arrive with the dawning of morning light; or in the first awareness of fresh love; or a moment when insight is given, and one begins to understand anew, or more clearly.

“Write.” “What shall I write?” Let it emerge into consciousness if and as it wills. Do not seek to force it in any direction. Allow it to speak, as it were, simply by being what it is. No name is needed, just quiet attending.  It is far too vast for any consciousness, and yet it can illumine, and become illuminated in the process of one’s free cooperation. “I did not ask for this.”  “No, but you can let it happen, or refuse to attend, and prevent its coming to mind.”  

Here and now it presses to discovery, and yet it is always present, and forms the entire matrix, the womb, as it were, in which all else comes into being and passes away. Perhaps it was here before the gods came to be, before the starry heavens, before plant life and animals arose. Perhaps the gods are expressions of it, or manifestations of it to us, I do not know.  “I do not know much about gods...”

Words can reveal, words can obscure. Perhaps words do both at once: as they reveal something, they also obscure, eclipsing from consciousness what is yet unseen, unthought, or unspoken. And that is why, or one reason why, consciousness must return again and again from words into the undifferentiated light-darkness, into the mysterious presence of it.  “Let it be.” Return to the surface and to the depths.  In-between we have words, and words reveal and obscure at the same time.  

And yet, it brings forth speech in human consciousness. It presses on and inspires, moves one to break forth into song, into words, into dance, into love. It presses, invites, and we may or may not respond. The question arises--I know not from where--”Who are you, LORD?” The answer to Moses remains for me a pointing to, an indication that it ever remains beyond the knowable, even beyond god: “Ehyeh asher Ehyeh,” “I AM that I AM.” All words, all names, fall short, and a responsible human being, a responding consciousness, needs to be ever-conscious of one’s profound ignorance before the mystery of reality, before it, before the divine abyss.  

                                                                ***
Begin anew, ever anew. Let go of the sides of the pool, and venture out in deeper water. Or leave the shore behind, and launch out into the deep where you know-not-what awaits you. Creatures of a day, we long to know and to be known, to love and to be loved, but the greatest adventure is to venture forth, to leave one’s home, even one’s self, and follow the pull into one-knows-not-what. It beckons, it draws, it pulls: one may follow, or refuse. “Qui incipit amare incipit exire.”  “He who begins to love begins to leave.” What is left was passing away; what one enters into is never exhausted, ever fresh, alive with more than biological life. Words are failing me, because no words are adequate to it. And yet we make the attempt, aware of our relative dimness, and ever-missing-the-mark.  Our task is to venture forth.  “Not fare well, but fare forward, voyager.”

                                                            ***
Moses is hungry, so I will give him an egg. But I need to return, to let it arise into consciousness, if and as it wills.

                                                           ***
It arose into consciousness some years ago, when I was nine or ten, living in Hawaii. Standing in the backyard to our home, my attention was arrested. I looked at the sun above, and thought, “It was always here. It was here before me, and it will be here after me.”  And I thought, “It has to be, but I did not have to be.”  That the sun “did not have to be” is not the relevant matter. The thought about the sun served its purpose, as I became aware of being a passing part of a mysterious whole. It moved me to consciousness, to a loving awareness, and to a feeling of joy and gratitude for being alive at all.  “I did not have to be.”  And yet, there it was, here I am.  

Why does one become conscious of it here and now, and not at other times? What allows it to come forth into consciousness?  Is it ever coming forth into consciousness, even forming consciousness perhaps from moment to moment, and yet one does not know it? For an unknown reason, Hamlet’s words come to mind: “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in our philosophy.” Indeed, philosophy is “love of wisdom,” and it is ever incumbent upon love to be aware that it does not know well what it loves, but must seek to know more, to know better, to know more truly.  

Why now? Or why not now? Where has it gone? To what has it receded? Why do I not now sense it, or see it, or feel it, or know it?  Ah, it is far too vast and too vital for my partial awareness. “Do not fear, little soul, for it cannot go away, but is ever present, known or unknown.”  It moves me to seek, to explore, to wonder, to write. 

At Dawn

 

It grows light. It is becoming lighter. The world, the cosmos, lightens in dawn. The mind responds to the growing light with peace, gratitude, quiet joy, and expectancy. What is arriving, what is slowly dawning forth?  Much is unknown. The sun gives light, but has not yet appeared from behind the mountains. It grows lighter. It is waking up. And the mind awakens, too:  watching and waiting. It comes into consciousness, and recedes, each moment fresh and alive.  It is only a part of the whole that one sees in a moment, but that part awakens a desire to see more, to see the whole, and to know it as it is. But one must be patient, not grasping, for it unfolds or becomes or arrives as it wills. It is alive with wonders and seeming possibilities. Too vast, too unknown, too mysterious for a name.  It arouses wonder, incites or invites curiosity. What is this that happens now, that arrives yet is here, grows lighter now, but will darken again in time? This part, this member, wonders.  You are here.

The Good Shepherd

 

“The LORD is my Shepherd; I shall not want.” Both historically and in popular devotion, there are few images of God and of Jesus that have as much emotional appeal as the image of the Good Shepherd. Historically, the oldest physical images of Jesus, found in Roman catacombs, present Jesus as a shepherd, often with a lamb on his shoulders. The likeness was drawn from the Greek tradition of the gods Apollo and Hermes. In popular devotion, Jesus is often depicted as a shepherd with sheep or lambs, seemingly intended to communicate the Lord’s gentle care for his disciples, including his “little ones.”   “I AM the good shepherd; the good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep” (John 10). The evangelist John explicitly borrows language from God’s revelation to Moses at the burning bush (I AM) with a theme developed in the prophets, and especially in Ezekiel, in which God says “I myself will shepherd my sheep.”  In Ezekiel and in John, the point is made that human shepherds--including political and religious leaders--have failed, or not fulfilled their proper function. Shepherding by God and by Christ in effect eclipses the work of human leaders who have not protected, tended, nourished those in their care.

Several questions which may arise include the following: Who is actually the Good Shepherd, God or Jesus? The question itself points towards the Christian awareness that the unknown God presents Himself in and through Jesus Christ, who becomes the representative and agent of the God who Jesus calls “Abba,” Father.  Hence, Jesus can say (in John’s Gospel), “He who has seen me has seen the Father,” and so on. Christ is the means through which God shepherds humankind. A second question arises: How does God, or God-in-Christ, shepherd humankind? What does this mean?

An inquiry into the meaning of God or Christ as “the good shepherd” ought to serve as the orienting question for this week-end’s homily. One meaning is clear and ought to be kept in mind at the outset: Not only did Christ reject for himself all political and religious authority/power, but he made himself utterly defenseless and powerless, and willingly “laid down his life for the sheep.” The self-sacrificial death of Christ to bring us into the life of God is the essential action of Christ as “the good shepherd.” The reign of God-Christ-the Spirit in the human soul, in the open heart, is the essential ground for the ongoing shepherding of God for His people. The Kingdom of God is not outward rule and power, but inward guidance, drawing, leading into true life.