Oh, to be a mystic...

"Bernard McGinn authored a four-volume study on the history of Christian mysticism. He says mysticism is “a consciousness of the presence of God that by definition exceeds description and … deeply transforms the subject who has experienced it.”

*If it does not radically change the lifestyle of the person—their worldview, their economics, their politics, their ability to form community, you have no reason to believe it is genuine mystical experience. It is usually just people with an addiction to religion, which is not that uncommon, by the way.*

Mysticism is not just a change in some religious ideas or affirmations. Mystics have no need to exclude or eliminate others, or define themselves as enlightened, whereas a mere transfer of religious assertions often makes people even more elitist and more exclusionary.

True mystics are glad to be common, ordinary, egalitarian, servants of all, and “just like everybody else,” because any need for specialness has been met once and for all."

Love (III)
-George Herbert 1593–1633

Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
... If I lack'd any thing.

"A guest," I answer'd, "worthy to be here";
Love said, "You shall be he."
"I, the unkind, ungrateful? ah my dear,
I cannot look on thee."
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
"Who made the eyes but I?"

"Truth, Lord, but I have marr'd them; let my shame
Go where it doth deserve."
"And know you not," says Love, "who bore the blame?"
"My dear, then I will serve."
"You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat."
So I did sit and eat.

"All the dubious features of Calvin's doctrine result from the basic failing that in the last analysis he separates God and Jesus Christ, thinking that what was in the beginning with God must be sought elsewhere than in Jesus Christ."
Karl Barth, Church Dogmatics

Ignatius of Loyola: “Take, Lord, and receive … all that I have and call my own. You have given all to me.To you, Lord, I return it. Everything is yours: Do with it what you will. Give me only your love and your grace. That is enough for me.“

(Adapted from St. Augustine’s Confessions, Book VIII: 4)

Come O Lord
Stir our hearts
Call us back
To you

Start your fire
In our hearts
Draw us near
To you

Let us love you
  Let us run to your side
Carry us home
To you.

(c) flyertunes 2008

Every tribe upon the earth
Every institute of man
Be-deviled, leveled--by the scourge
Of love of blood and land.

Cain’s curse it lives in man
Every sword in every clan
Every woman, every man
In the wars of blood and land.

Sherman marching to the sea
Buried heart at Wounded Knee
By the shores of Tripoli
From sea to shining sea…

All of history.

Every tribe and every tongue
Face in warpaint, smoking gun
The chieftains and the young
Scream for blood of the other one.

Sherman marching to the sea
Buried heart at Wounded Knee
On the shores of Tripoli
From sea to shining sea…

Na ga sa ki.

This land is my land
This land is mine.
From California to Palestine,
This land was made for me--and mine.

Bobby, the postman

My wife, Marnie and I had flown to England and driven a car to the far north country on the Scottish border, to Holy Island on the North Sea. We were visitors at the mother-house of the Northumbria Community and now we were on a weekend retreat led by Andy and Anna Raine of the Community who were teaching on the early Celtic Christian 'anamchara' or soul friend.

A soul friend’s role is to listen with one ear tuned to his friend’s heart and the other tuned to God in prayer.

There were 20 of us from all over the UK, and my wife and I–the lone Yanks. Most of the pilgrims were in their 40’s, except for a retired postman in his late 80’s; a very thin man, sporting a blue-stubbled beard, and wearing a tweed suit with yesterday's breakfast on his tie. In my memory, he looked like Paul's grandfather from A Hard Day's Night. He appeared to be suffering from dementia, had difficulty walking, and seemed very tired. His name was Bobby and he had taken a bus 500 kilometers by himself from way down south in London town to attend the soul friend retreat. He slept through much of the morning’s teaching. To close the session, we each drew lots for our weekend soul friend.

I drew Bobby’s name.

Just before lunch, we went off in pairs to various rooms in the big mother house to share our spiritual lives with our soul friends. Bobby and I were assigned to my room which was upstairs and on the other side of the 10,000 square foot 14th century manse. I held Bobby up as we shuffled along and up the old stairs. It took us 5 minutes to walk to my room.

We sat down in stuffed chairs and I shared my story with Bobby. I told him how excited I was to be in England, that I was singer-songwriter but God was leading me on a 'wild goose' chase and that I was being called into pastoral ministry. Bobby closed his eyes and I wondered if he was falling asleep. I rambled on dutifully for fifteen minutes, telling him about my busy life in the states. I was thinking: What a waste of time, this old man has no clue what I’m talking about. I told him I had three children. I was a musician. I lived in Minnesota which had 10,000 lakes and was full of Scandinavians. Had he ever been to the US? Now here I was in England trying to sort out a mid-life crisis and call. I filled up the time with lots of detailed information about the current struggles in my life. Bobby’s eyes flittered open, then closed. His head slumped to his chin.

A bit of drool formed on his lip.

I looked nervously at the clock. Whew! Time's up.

“Well, that’s it, Bobby.” I said. “I guess we should probably go back to the group. Would you like to say anything?” The idea was that your anamchara would ask some questions that might help you process what is going on in your soul. I restlessly wiggled in my chair. I didn’t expect him to say anything.

Bobby’s eyes were closed. He was very tired. A minute passed.

I started to get up and lead us back down to the group. He cleared his throat. Then Bobby opened his eyes to a squint and smacked his lips.

His rheumy eyes looked through me.

Then he spoke, in a pronounced London cockney accent:
“St. Augustine…St. Augustine said…St. Augustine said:

“Our hearts …are restless…(lip smack) until they find their rest in Thee, O God.”

And we sat with that together for a couple minutes in silence. Then I helped Bobby up out of his chair, and we slowly braced each other as we traveled back down the stairs and joined our fellow monks for lunch.

http://youtu.be/Dr9_mX31i74

Here we are 15 days into 2012 already. The infamous winter weather of the North Woods has wimped out on us so far this year. International Falls, the nation's icebox, which is 50 miles north of our door, has 3 inches of snow on the ground and many days in January the temperature has been above freezing--downright balmy.

I'm not complaining. I've been out x-country skiing, walking the dog, splitting wood, building fires, enjoying the quiet stillness of winter.