Hearing Christ's Voice: A Response to Reed Dressler

In our Wednesday Groupthink essay, my friend Reed Dressler takes on an important contemporary topic, one that is close to my own heart and that is difficult to talk about at our denominational conferences and church coffee hours: hearing the voice of God. Dressler points to the importance of remembering God’s continuing presence in God’s creation, a remembering which breaks down traditional barriers between the sacred and the profane.

I sincerely appreciate Dressler’s writing on the topic, but I am often nervous about discussing contemplative theology. Such discussions can quickly become overly abstract and self-absorbed, focusing (no less than evangelical pop theology) on the individual’s relationship with God to the neglect of a larger narrative of God’s action in history.

The best way, I think, to avoid the problem of atomizing individualism in the spiritual life is to hold the truths Dressler points us to in tandem with a spirituality that centers our union with the crucified and risen Christ within the community of his Body, the Church. Private contemplative practice will lead us astray if we pursue it overzealously and without equal commitment to our “common prayer” and service with others who commit their lives to the Way.

Authentic spirituality, for Christians, should always begin with the One we consider the ultimate expression of God’s being and character, “the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation” (Colossians 1:15).

I don’t say this to denigrate anyone else’s religious traditions or to imply that only Christians can pray or meditate or know God. I do believe, though, that as people of faith, we best honor the traditions of others by living faithfully the best of our own, not by appropriating and generalizing until nothing is left but abstracted “spiritual but not religious” feelings of goodwill. Poet Christian Wiman likes to quote George Lindbeck: “You can no more be religious in general than you can speak language in general.” In Wiman’s own words, “the only way to deepen your knowledge and experience of ultimate divinity is to deepen your knowledge and experience of the all too temporal symbols and language of a particular religion” (My Bright Abyss 141). For Christians, those symbols and that language must center on Jesus Christ.

Many of the early Church Mothers and Fathers spoke at great length about Christ as Logos, the Word by which God made and sustains the world, the divine creative principle of the universe. The poet Gerard Manley Hopkins had just this conception of Christ in mind when he formulated his vision of every molecule of creation giving praise to God simply by being what it is truly is:

"As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves — goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying Whát I dó is me: for that I came. 

"I say móre: the just man justices;
Keeps grace: thát keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is —
Chríst — for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men's faces"

For Hopkins, and for many of us who see the beauty of his vision even if we have trouble with his metaphysics, it is not only the First Person of the Trinity we experience in creation and providence, but Jesus Christ as well.

I used to dismiss this talk of the Logos as so much overbaked Platonism, an aberration of the original concrete and social vision of Jesus.

It is true that, when overemphasized, a theology centered on the Logos can be used as a way of avoiding the most difficult teachings of Jesus found in the gospels.

However, a healthy understanding of the Logos in creation helps us to move beyond abstraction and see Christ’s face in this action, this experience, this experience this person. We need the actions, experiences, and presence of others to understand fully what Christ is doing among us. I think that is what our Orthodox siblings mean they greet each other, not with the familiar “The Lord be with you” “And also with you” found in my church, but with “Christ is in our midst” “He is and shall be.”

Jesus chose a meal with his friends, not solitary meditation,
as the main way we are to remember him.

One great way to begin cultivating a Christ-centered and communal spirituality is by reflecting on the sacraments of Baptism and the Eucharist. Baptism, and the remembrance of our baptism, is a way of partaking in Christ's death and resurrection. In baptism, we are initiated into Christ's new creation, the world as God intended us to see it, with Christ the Logos visible, if only faintly, in all things. Whether we were baptized as infants or as adults, it remains true that none of us baptized himself or herself. It's a gift that only comes to us through the actions of other Christians.

Similarly, in the Eucharist, we remember our place as "living members of [God's] Son, our Savior Jesus Christ," in the words of the Book of Common Prayer. Here, St. Augustine says it best:

"If you are the body of Christ and his members, your mystery has been placed on the Lord's table, you receive your mystery. You reply 'Amen' to that which you are, and by replying you consent. For you hear 'The body of Christ,' and you reply 'Amen.' Be a member of the body of Christ so that your 'Amen' may be true. ... Be what you see, and receive what you are" (Sermon 272).

Spirituality is, as evangelicals are fond of saying, about one's "relationship with God," but it is also about our relationship with God. It's about who we are discovering Christ to be and ourselves to be in Christ as we gather in his name.

Christ is in our midst. He is and shall be. Amen.

What Do These Mystics Know?: A Review of Richard Rohr

When I discovered one of Richard Rohr’s newest book What the Mystics Know at Barnes and Noble, I was ecstatic! I jokingly asked my girlfriend what she thought the mystics know, to which she sarcastically responded, "Not much.”

“Not much.” If you just take a look at all the books Rohr has written, it would be easy to declare such a comment as absurd, yet it has more truth than I think she even realized.

"Not much.” While contemplating what to say about his book, I looked over at my dog and asked her what the mystics knew. Obviously she just stared up at me without comment.

While reading the book, I was shocked by how much Rohr has improved in his ability to communicate effectively and elaborate his message. I have read many of his books and loved each one, yet this book is unique in its ability to make sense of the contemplative traditions Rohr has spent his career exploring and popularizing. He constructs short but informative sections which can be read in no time at all. If you want a deeply reflective devotional, this is the book for you.

I had trouble to believe I could love this book even more than Rohr's last offering, Eager to Love, which is about the transformative love of St. Francis. I truly did not believe he could top that captivating work, yet here I am reflecting on the new masterpiece in front of me.

One of the most powerful lines from the book is found in the heading “Beyond an all-or-nothing outlook,” where he states:

More than with any other personality trait in my life, all-or-nothing thinking has caused me to make huge mistakes and bad judgments, hurt people and myself, withhold love, and misinterpret situations.

Let this sink in for a second. True mysticism does not give one more conceptual certainty. Indeed, this type of extreme certainty can lead to less love, which is not what Christians should want. Rather, mysticism requires a level of openness. 

Really, what Rohr and other mystics have known for thousands of years is just now being discovered in academia. This is shown through the recent emphasis on epistemological humility--the possibility that one could be wrong and should act as such. This does not mean one becomes less certain of God or his or her religious doctrines. Instead, these doctrines begin to take on new life at a deeper level, a level beyond the conceptual, which opens up the heart to what God has to offer.

Stop believing so much and start knowing! Knowing is not always easy. It will always be easier for the self-serving nature to create beliefs it can defend rather than go through trusting God’s judgments. Nothing is harder than letting go, yet nothing is as freeing.

When my dog looked at me I felt a flood of love. She usually brings this to my life. She is extremely loyal and follows me around everywhere. She doesn’t have judgments on who I am. She accepts reality as it is and seems to be at peace with the world. This is something I often wish I could achieve. This is the peace I think the apostle Paul refers to when he speaks of "the peace which transcends all understanding." Maybe it explains why so many mystics love nature. The animals in this world never forgot who they were in God. 

So what does my dog know which the mystics strive for? “Not much.”

Forging Sacred Spaces: The Value of Ritual and Tradition

For many Christians, especially younger ones, “tradition” is a dirty word. When the word is spoken or written, it conjures images of cold rituals and overblown ceremonies. Many see traditions as unnecessary elements of faith which suck the life and personality out of our walk with Christ. For many years, I felt this way. I didn’t want to schedule regular times for reading my Bible or praying. I didn’t want to make my faith about showing up to church just because I was expected to. I wanted a relationship with God that was spontaneous and dynamic, and I mistakenly believed that tradition would make that impossible.

When I was in high school, I was swept up in the whole, “It’s a relationship, not a religion” trend. I watched all those trendy videos on the internet. I read all those edgy blog posts. In one way, it was definitely healthy. It gave my faith a much-needed injection of personality and intimacy. However, to me, that injection came with the unfortunate implication that traditions, rituals, ceremonies, and the like were strictly barriers to a healthy faith, not aids. So I decided that if I was going to pray, read my Bible, or go to church, it would only be when I felt the desire to do so. As a result, I just stopped reading the Bible, praying, or going to church. I never really felt the serious desire to do any of those things, and if I did, I chalked it up to a feeling of guilt or obligation, and I didn’t follow through. My faith quickly declined. I was no longer in love with God. For a little while, I didn’t even believe in him.

Eventually, however, God brought me back. I can’t explain it, but one night, I started to feel the need to pray again. I did not feel the desire to pray; I felt the NEED to pray. So I did. I prayed. I read my Bible. I dove into church life with a vengeance. It was at this point that I understood the real value of tradition. A scheduled faith, with repetition and a focus on consistency, is not supposed to govern how we approach God. You can (and probably should) experience God outside of church and regularly scheduled devotion time. The point is that we live in a busy, changing world. The stresses, inconsistencies, and time constraints of this fallen world come between us and our King. There’s a saying, “If you love someone, you will make time for them.” In a world where there are so many earthly concerns to pursue, it can be easy to let God be pushed to the wayside. This is where traditions, when performed well, come into play. They carve out a consistent, comfortable niche in which we can escape from our daily concerns for a moment, focusing all of our attention on the divine, letting the world around us go for a brief time.

As a Baptist, my church background is not as filled with traditions and ceremonies as, say, a Roman Catholic or an Episcopalian. What traditions I have experienced are hardly complex. For me, tradition is simply showing up to church at 10:00 AM, taking communion once a month with oyster crackers and grape juice (as opposed to wine, one of the more disappointing Evangelical/Baptist traditions), and going to men’s breakfast every other Tuesday, at 6:00 AM. These traditions are incredibly mundane and simple, but they serve an important purpose. They are sacred spaces, so to speak. They are places in time that exist solely to allow me to worship, receive spiritual edification and instructions, enjoy fellowship with other believers, etc. My work and personal schedules are structured around these sacred spaces. When I’m having a rough week, I can look forward to these “rituals”, if you could call them that, knowing that I will enjoy them and find relief from the pains of everyday life.

Traditions are not walls meant to control when and how we are allowed to experience God, but ways to ensure we have consistent times and methods to experience God. Humans are creatures of habit. We find comfort and security in routine. A faith structured with rituals, ceremonies, and traditions of all sorts can be deeply personal, dynamic, and complex. I know mine is.