Bumped into a Mystic...

I opened up one of my favorite books last week and stumbled upon a mystic.  The writing had always attracted me with its immediacy. The plot and the description drew me in erasing the separation between story and experience.  Fiction and non-fiction blurred as the writing nudged me toward the truth.

           

“…Afterwards we will be as one animal of the forest and be so close that neither one can tell that one of us is one and not the other. Can you not feel my heart be your heart?”

            “Yes. There is no difference.”

            “Now, feel. I am thee and thou art me and all of one is the other. And I love thee, oh, I love thee so. Are you not truly one? Canst thou not feel it?”

            “Yes,” he said. “It is true.”

            “And feel now. Thou hast no heart but mine.”

            “Nor any other legs, nor feet, nor of the body.”

            “But we are different,” she said. “I would have us exactly the same.”

            “You do not mean that.”

            “Yes I do. I do. That is a thing I had to tell thee.”

            “You do not mean that.”

            “Perhaps I do not,” she said speaking softly with her lips against his shoulder. “But I wished to say it. Since we are different I am glad that thou art Roberto and I Maria. But if thou should ever sigh to change I would be glad to change. I would be thee because I love thee so.”

            “I do not wish to change. It is better to be one and each one to be the one he is.”

            “But we will be one now and there will never be a separate one.” Then she said, “I will be thee when thou are not here. Oh, I love thee so and I must care well for thee.”

The matter of fact-ness of the dissolution of personal boundaries had slipped by me in previous readings.  I had dismissed it as “just love.” But there was more here.  Martin Buber’s I- thou distinction appears here, but is muddied in the mystical haze we are each called to enter. The subject-subject relationship here takes on a meaning familiar to lovers and mystics alike.  There are no longer ideas or philosophies between the two. The relationship takes on an ontological immediacy. Being joins being.   It is more than emotional intimacy. It is more than physical closeness or union. It pushes further than words.  It moves into eternity and spirit that offers a glimmer of the resurrection and the symbolic key for the meaning of the book and the events that unfold.

Further on in the book the main character shows a similar dynamic in a dialogue with himself.  It demonstrates insight into self-awareness and the perduring nature of the I-thou relationship. He has become aware of himself in a new way while the relationship with his beloved continues within him.

“And you, he said to himself, I am glad to see you getting a little something back that was badly missing for a time. But you were pretty bad back there. I was ashamed enough of you, there for a while. Only I was you. There wasn’t any me to judge now. We were all in bad shape. You and me and both of us. Come on now. Stop thinking like a schizophrenic. One at a time, now. You’re all right again now…”

A relationship is a mystery and an adventure.  A real relationship with God is an adventure which most people are unwilling to undertake.  To relate to the divine you must be willing to encounter what philosophers would predict. It is omnipotence. It is omniscience and omnipresence. For the Christian, encountering our God takes us into a darkness beyond even the philosophical power of the omni-ness of God.  He takes us to a place where we are called to relate to God.  To open ourselves to one that seeks us. We are called to love one that suffers and dare to seek union even there. 

When is the last time that you followed God’s whisper to come along on a divine adventure?  All I did was open a book, and I found myself dropping inside the Universe and falling in love all over again.

Who do you think the author is?  Have you bumped into a mystic lately?

Epiphany courtesy of Charlie

It was not quite two months ago that my son, Charlie, was born.

After his birth, he had trouble breathing. I quietly left my wife's side for just a moment so that I could put my hand on his little struggling body. The nurses hurried around me trying to make sure that he was fine. After that,he was whisked away and connected to tubes and machines and given medicines.

About four hours later, I rode in the ambulance with him to the Cleveland Clinic while my wife stayed at the hospital to recover. Waves of tears washed over me as I sat with the little boy connected to so many tubes. In between the waves, I traced the path of the ambulance across the interstate and down Chester avenue until we arrived at a back alley entrance late in the dark of night. The experience of a sick child is one that some of you can understand.

My wife arrived the next day after an early release from maternity recovery. I hugged her and held her tight while the tears flowed again. Thankfulness for her mixed with fear for our little new born son and permeated ever corner of my being. They filled my mind and expanded my heart. They coursed through my veins and pounded in my ears. Batteries of tests, feeding tubes, and ventilators were added to the usual changing of diapers that new parents experience. It is only through the haze of sleepless nights that I can recall those first days.

That event changed my experience of mass. You see, I used to stand on the other side of the altar. I used to pray for all the parents and watch all of the babies while I led all of us in the celebration of the Eucharist. I had seen priests upset with mothers of screaming children, and seen priests preside carelessly over funerals. I never could do either one. I was always glad the children were there. I hope every mother could feel the joy that their presence brought me. At each funeral my heart would break, and at some I wept with the families.

My experiences of the Eucharist as a priest were vivid and meaningful with slight leanings toward the mystical. From the altar, I saw gleam of love shining from parents and the fiery darts of attraction between spouses and offered those gifts with the gift of Christ to be united in the embrace of Salvation and Divinity. At times, I smelled sin and evil in the congregation and in my own heart. Parishioners and priests plotted, stole, abused, sought revenge, and broke vows. Still the whirling angels connected us to the depths of the universe in the moment where we passed beyond past, present, and future at the summit of the Paschal experience. I encountered vivid holiness and goodness and felt my heart race and my soul rise in their presence. The power of life and death embodied in the Eucharist confronted me and memories of ancient rites and biblical fervor washed over me.

The climactic words of Christ shook me every time I spoke them, “He took bread and gave you thanks. He broke the bread, gave it to his disciples and said, “Take this all of you and eat it.: this is my body which will be given up for you.” When supper was ended , he took the cup. Again he gave you thanks and praise. Gave his cup to his disciples and said: Take this all of you , and drink from it: this is the cup of my blood, the blood of a new and everlasting covenant.” These were the words that made sense of Christianity and priesthood for me. These were the words that brought life to vocation. These were the words that fleshed out the meaning of love, relationship, and sacrifice. They are the touchstone of my Christianity. For me, the Eucharist was never a boring place. mystery and surprise always hovered in the next moment like like the hesitant breath of a newborn.

Now, those experiences are joined by another world of experience. A world that many of you know well. It is a world that begins with falling in love and starting a family. It is a world mixed with desire, joy, fear, and anxiety. It is a world punctuated with hours of work and caregiving as well as Kodak and all-star moments. In this world I don't mind vomit, and I am happy to see a bowel movement because the next moment you smile and your eyes light up the world and my heart.

Last week, I said to my wife, “I love him so much, I feel like my heart will burst.” Looking at his tiny body huddled in my arms. His little limbs contain a hidden strength despite the feeling that I need to protect and care for him. He is not as fragile as he seems. My soul melts when I wake to watch my wife go, bleary eyed, to feed him. My dissolved soul spreads through my body as she hands him to me. I lull him to sleep among a thousand whispered prayers and fluttering angels.

So last week, kneeling in the pews of St. Mark's I heard the climactic words anew. Fr. John stood, larger than life echoing the words of Christ. “He broke the bread...take this, all of you, and eat it...this is my body....

After nearly two days without sleep in the NICU my body was broken. After a week, of going to work when my every thought was wondering if you were breathing my mind was broken. I realize all the parts of my life broken as they are help provide you with love, shelter, and nourishment. Charlie, take all the broken humanity that I am and let the love that holds it together nourish you.

“Take and drink ...this is the cup of my blood... a new and everlasting covenant.”

Once, on coming to a new parish I summed up my feelings this way, “Before, I even met you I loved you.” It was a mystical experience of universal love that many have shared with the Christian community. Now this mystical experience came to focus on one tiny heart and two eyes that barely opened or saw. It was a new covenant of Love. It was a new shared life, and it was certainly to be everlasting. Charlie, my blood is the blood of a new and everlasting covenant with you.

God Bless you Charlie.