The worst thing we ever did is pretend
God isn’t the easiest thing
in this Universe
available to every soul
in every breath. — Chelan Harkin

In “The Worst Thing,” the mystical poet Chelan Harkin reflects on the mistakes we human beings have made over the years as we have tried to make sense of God. We imagined God as a “cloud man” in the sky, far away from us and our embodied experience. We imagined a God incapable of dancing, of crying, of being present in our bones. “The worst thing we ever did,” she observes, “is pretend God isn’t the easiest thing in this Universe available to every soul in every breath.”1

Chelan is right. We’ve made God difficult.

Difficult to believe in. Difficult to relate to. Difficult to have a conversation about (it’s not easy to disagree with someone when they are convinced they have the ultimate truth). Too many of us labor under patriarchal, authoritarian images of God that reinforce all these difficulties and strip us of the possibility to re-connect with “the easiest thing” that is as close to us as our breath.

This is where contemplation comes in.

From Centering Prayer to the Prayer of the Heart to Christian meditation (or Jewish meditation, Muslim meditation, and so forth) to any other practice that invites us to rest in silence as a means of cultivating a deeper encounter with the divine, contemplation includes any spiritual exercise we undertake to weave together our embodied breath, our deep interior silence, and the sacred presence of the Spirit who is, after all, the easiest thing.

But here’s an irony. We work just as hard to make contemplation difficult as we do to make God difficult.

“I’m Not Very Good at Contemplation”

Through my work as a spiritual director, writer, speaker, and retreat leader, I have the honor of walking alongside many people, from different generations or backgrounds or professions or faiths, who are learning or seeking to go deeper in their practice of intentional silence. Again and again, people report to me, often with vulnerability, sometimes defensively, sometimes with an air of resignation, some variation of “I’m just not very good at this.”

I hear this so often that it doesn’t surprise me. It saddens me, but it doesn’t surprise me.

Usually I will ask, “Why do you say this?” And almost always, the answer will be some variation of this: “I can’t find the silence. All I have within me is an endless assault of distracting thoughts.”

If I’m feeling a little playful or snarky, I’ll reply, “Oh, you too, huh?” Because this is hardly unusual, even for seasoned contemplative old-timers like me. Most people find contemplative practice to be not some gentle doorway into blissful inner peace, but rather a humbling immersion into a torrent of seemingly chaotic thoughts, ideas, images, daydreams, fantasies, feelings, and so forth.

And when I point this out to people, they’ll say “I know, I know” as if this has all been reviewed time and time again. Any introductory course on contemplative practice will always include reminders of just how turbulent and jam-packed your ordinary stream of consciousness always seems to be.

But it’s one thing to be told this, in a theoretical and abstract way, and another thing altogether to settle your body and mind to the point that you experience it for yourself.

It’s actually a very good sign for beginning contemplatives — or even practitioners at any level of experience — to notice the flurry of activity within, even though it feels overwhelming and slightly crazy. It’s good because noticing the torrent means you’re paying attention — in contrast to how easy it can be to more or less sleepwalk through life, allowing our awareness to flit from thought to thought or idea to idea, without paying any mind to how much distracted thinking is flowing through our consciousness, at or just below the threshold of awareness.

Nevertheless, in our effort to make the easy practice of contemplation unnecessarily difficult, pretty much we all have fallen into the trap of judging our experience, naming it as “wrong” or “bad” or “inferior” because it is not living up to what we think it should be. We think that it should promptly, if not immediately, transport us into a place of delicious inner comfort and serenity. And of course, that’s not how it goes.

This is very much like getting cranky at the weather because the sky is not always sunny.

When that thought first occurred to me — that judging our meditation experience is about as useful as judging the weather — I had the insight that I’d like to share with you now. It involves the weather, the sky, and what I’d like to call “the firmament within.”

Sky Above, Sky Within

From the time that I was a child, I have loved the natural world. I love trees and the forest, the beach, the mountains, and sites of natural splendor like waterfalls or remarkable rock formations.

And above it all, always there is the beautiful sky.

In his luminous book exploring the basics of contemplative spirituality, Into the Silent Land, Martin Laird offers a fascinating metaphor to help us understand the difference between our truest and deepest identity and the mercurial changes and chances that mark the ordinary flow of human experience. “Who we truly are” he compares to a mountain, whereas the crazy and chaotic flow of life he likens to the weather that surrounds this mountain. The weather is always changing, the mountain (barring the slow process of erosion or other geological change) stays the same.

The marvelous world of thoughts, sensation, emotions, and inspiration, the spectacular world of creation around us, are all patterns of stunning weather on the holy mountain of God. But we are not the weather. We are the mountain… When the mind is brought to stillness we see that we are the mountain and not the changing patterns of weather appearing on the mountain. We are the awareness in which thoughts and feelings (what we take to be ourselves) appear like so much weather on Mount Zion… Stillness reveals that we are the silent, vast awareness… To glimpse this fundamental truth is to be liberated.2

Laird is a Catholic priest, and while the heart of his teaching is truly universal, he offers his wisdom to us using the language and symbolism of the Christian tradition (all spiritual teachers speak out of their own tradition, and so we who read them from a contemplative perspective are always invited to find the universal wisdom in their words that transcends the limitations of their own particular tradition). With this in mind, we see that Laird identifies the mountain — “Mount Zion, the Holy Mountain of God” — with divine union. We are already one with the mystery we call God, but we typically don’t see or realize this, because our attention is so riveted on the weather. How can we be gently still and silent and appreciate the stability and grandeur of the mountain, when we are dazzled by the thunder and lightning that is dancing in the sky all around us?

This idea of the weather as a metaphor for how changeable and intriguing the ordinary human stream of consciousness can be came to mind when I discovered the long tradition in Buddhism of using the sky — and the weather — as metaphors for the inner experience of meditation. Like meteorological conditions surrounding the mountain, the earthly sky is always changing with different weather patterns, cloud formations, and even levels of light, thanks to the sun, the moon, the stars, and phenomena like the northern lights.

Consider these insights drawn from recent writings by two contemporary Buddhist teachers, Sogyal Rinpoche and Pema Chödrön:

This essential nature of mind is the background to the whole of life and death, like the sky, which folds the whole universe in its embrace.3

Our true nature could be compared to the sky, and the confusion of the ordinary mind to clouds.4

Even when we’re feeling most confused and hopeless, bodhichitta—like the open sky—is always here, undiminished by the clouds that temporarily cover it.5

Let’s not forget Chelan Harkin’s wisdom: “The worst thing we ever did was put God in the sky, out of reach” she warns us. But maybe after exiling God to the sky, the second worst thing we did was to exile the sky out of us. If we cannot see the “sky within,” we are at greater risk of judging, rather than simply accepting, our changeable relationship to silence and stillness.

There is an old tradition of referring to the sky — and to the heavens at large — as “the firmament,” implying that there is something firm and stable about our celestial surroundings. In ancient and medieval times, people imagined that the heavens consisted of some sort of giant dome that the sun and moon and stars travelled across, not unlike the domed studio in the movie The Truman Show. Thanks to the wisdom of modern astronomy and physics, we now recognize that “the firmament” is not a solid dome at all, but a vast expanse of space, much of which is simply a vacuum, although mysterious phenomena like dark matter or nebulae keep it interesting. As our understanding of the heavens has changed this notion of “firmament” has fallen out of favor.

But the Buddhist idea of the sky and the heavens as a metaphor for meditative consciousness gives me two ideas. What if we resurrect this notion of the firmament, only thinking more in terms of the firmament within. In other words, can we imagine that the apparatus of our consciousness: our nervous system, clustered in the mind, the heart and even the belly, and perhaps even therefore the entire physical body, functions as a kind of firmament, as a metaphorical chalice into which the wine of our consciousness, our awareness, our very mind and soul, is poured? It’s not a perfect analogy: it’s a problem to think of “mind” and “body” as separate from each other, which the chalice and wine metaphor implies. But if we can expand this notion to recognize that the chalice and the wine belong together, that the existence of each depends on the other, then we are getting closer to how this way of seeing things can help us.

In this “sky within,” the human body and nervous system is our firmament, therefore the mind (or better said, the heart-mind) is the azure stratosphere of our being. Then the ordinary stream of consciousness, whether intuitive or sensory — what Laird calls “the marvelous world of thoughts, sensation, emotions, and inspiration, the spectacular world of creation around us” — is both the “weather” and rhythm of dark and light that is continually changing the way we experience the sky.

This, my friends, has immediate and practical implications to how we experience and understand the practice of contemplation.

For what if, when our experience of Centering Prayer (or any other contemplative practice) seems “bad” or “poor” or too infested with thoughts, what if that is just the equivalent of the sky on a cloudy or stormy day? While it may be normal to prefer sunny days to rainy ones, no one seriously rejects overcast days as “bad.” We don’t judge the weather, we accept it (and adapt to it). No one can control the weather (granted, we do influence the weather, as climate change reveals, but influence is not the same thing as control). What if, instead of judging our “noisy” or overly-distracted experiences of contemplation, we learn to simply watch what is arising, the same way we look out the window to gaze into the sky and see what the weather is like today? Then we respond appropriately to whatever we see, just like you use an umbrella during rainstorms and sunglasses on bright days. Using the sky as a symbol for the inner experience of contemplation, can we settle in to an idea that whatever is happening in the sky, we can be present to it and find beauty and meaning in it?

Contemplation with Curiosity, Not Judgment

When someone says “I’m not very good at contemplation because my silence is choked out by all my distracting thoughts,” there is a problem: but the problem is not all those chaotic thoughts. The problem is the tendency that so many of us have to always judge ourselves. That tendency, which can leach the joy out of so much of our lives, spills over into a practice as simple and gentle as silent contemplation. We assume we’re not very good at something because our experience of it doesn’t match up with our expectation. But what if the problem here is not the experience in itself, but the expectation: especially when paired with that all-too-human rush to self-judgment?

This is why I’d like to explore this notion that contemplation is a journey toward getting to know the firmament within, learning to observe the inner sky without expectation, without judgment, without criticism or aggression toward oneself.

To accept this way of seeing things, we’ll all have some learning to do.

Centering Prayer, the contemplative exercise that I both practice and teach, has four simple guidelines or instructions:

1. Choose a sacred word as the symbol of your intention to consent to God’s presence and action within.

2. Sitting comfortably and with eyes closed, settle briefly and silently introduce the sacred word as the symbol of your consent to God’s presence and action within.

3. When engaged with your thoughts (which include body sensations, feelings, images and reflections), return ever-so-gently to the sacred word.

4. At the end of the prayer period, remain in silence with eyes closed for a couple of minutes.

Maybe we need an unofficial “fifth guideline”:

5. Meet whatever arises during Centering Prayer with curiosity, not criticism. Practice accepting your Centering Prayer experience simply as it is, refraining from any impulse to judge it.

Boats on the River: Under the Ever-Changing Sky

I love Thomas Keating’s metaphor of “Boats on the River” as much as anyone; I’ve found it very helpful over the years, both for understanding my own practice and in helping others with theirs. This idea: that the water represents the stream of silent consciousness, boats on the water represent our various thoughts, feelings, etc. and our job is to simply let the boats float down the river, is elegant and practical. The instruction “don’t get on a boat!” is as helpful as it is whimsical, because there is always the temptation to get so engaged with this or that thought that we lose sight of our intention to simply watch the river.

I’m not suggesting we get rid of the boats and the river. I just propose we expand our field of awareness to include the beautiful sky above it all.

Just off the top of my head, I can draw up a list of at least twelve different ways we can experience the terrestrial sky, along with the rhythm of day and night and the weather. As you read over this list, see if you can imagine how our “inner sky” could likewise change as much, and as dramatically, as the earth’s sky.

1. Twilight: Whether dawn or dusk, represents a time when the sky is both beautiful and dramatic, filled with bold colors and perhaps even a planet or two twinkling over the horizon.

2. Sunny, Clear Sky: a clear blue sky on a sunny day is a wonder to behold. To say a day is “beautiful” often implies that radiant loveliness that seems to touch everything when the sky is bright and cloudless.

3. Sunny, with Cumulus Clouds: Maybe even more beautiful than the empty sky is a sky dotted by shining, luminous cumulus clouds. Strolling in the heavens like so many puffs of cotton candy, they inspire our imagination and can incite a sense of wonder.

4. Windy or Breezy Skies: Depending on the time of year, time of day, or incoming weather fronts, we might notice just how dynamic the wind is, rolling through the sky. Still beautiful, but a bit more dramatic.

5. Overcast Sky: “It looks like it’s going to rain.” Overcast skies feel dramatic and foreboding in contrast to the carefree wonder of a sunny sky. Like music shifting from a major to minor key, these skies seem somber and pensive.

6. Gentle Rain: The movie Singing in the Rain exploits the fact that we seek shelter from rainfall, but somehow love it anyway. The ions released by rain feel good, and of course the water nourishes the earth.

7. Thunderstorms: a little bit of rain might seem romantic, but a powerful thunderstorm can be a bit terrifying, or awe-inspiring. Thunder and lightning reminds us just how humble we really are.

8. Severe Weather: Unless you are a storm-chaser, you probably want to keep a respectful distance from tornadoes, hurricanes, or other forms of powerful weather. And with good reasons: such storms display mighty power, but can cause real damage.

9. Moonlit Sky: As beautiful as a sunny sky is, a night sky under the soft glow of moonlight has its own magical charm. Another “sky” associated with love and romance, and perhaps a bit of mystery.

10. Starlit Sky: When the moon is new, and we’re far enough away from city lights, the stars across the sky can evoke a powerful sense not only of awe, but of recognition just how little we truly are.

11. Northern or Southern Lights: Many people never see this spectacular celestial light show. But if you are among the lucky ones, you might see the entire firmament shimmering with colorful splendor.

12. Darkness: Sometimes the clouds roll in at night, and even the subtle light of moon and stars is obscured. Here is John of the Cross’s “dark night of the soul,” — an abyss where everything seems to disappear.

Contemplative practice can lead us to as many different experiences of the “inner firmament” as the sky gives us different experiences of life outdoors. Obviously, our “inner sky” may not look or feel the same as the azure chalice that cradles the horizon of our planet. The point here is not to try to imagine a “sky scene” when we settle in to silent contemplation, but rather to learn to see how whatever we may experience within our hearts and minds is no more solid or permanent than how we experience the sky outside. When we meet whatever comes our way in contemplation: whether it is an avalanche of thoughts, or graced moments of gentle serenity — with openness and acceptance rather than self-criticism or self-judgment, we are practicing hospitality to our own self, and meeting even our imperfections with kindness rather than evaluation, accusation or blame.

I hope you find this “expanded” metaphor of the boats, the river and the sky to be a helpful invitation to bring openness and gentleness into your contemplative practice. I hope over the next few weeks or months to write meditations inspired by the dynamics of the sky and the weather, to explore how contemplative practice can show up in our lives in a variety of ways. Through the metaphor of the sky, let’s explore the diversity and nuances of the experience of contemplation. I hope what emerges will be a new way to think about our encounter with silence, so that we can foster more curiosity, less judgment, and in getting to know our inner landscape better, we might also come to know the source of all silence and love better as well.

Join me for a Zoom conversation based on this Substack Post.

On Wednesday, April 8, 2026 I’ll be hosting an online gathering where we’ll come together for a period of Centering Prayer followed by a discussion of this article and some of the issues it raises. I’d love to see you there. This event is free, everyone is welcome, although pre-registration is required. To register, click here: www.tinyurl.com/boatsandsky

Shortly after my book Read the Bible Like a Mystic was published, I started getting emails from people who claimed to be marketing professionals and/or directors of book clubs. In their emails they would lavish compliments on my book, gushing about how wonderful my book was, including descriptive information about the book (to make it seem like they had actually read it). The email would go on to say that my book had been chosen to be featured in a future meeting of said book club, or a future promotion through Goodreads, etc. I was invited to write back to the person, to learn more about this “special opportunity.”

For the first such email that came this way, I did in fact respond; what author wouldn’t want their book to be the featured title for a large book club? After all, I often get requests to do Zoom calls with book clubs or podcast appearances, and I try to accommodate such requests when my schedule will allow it. But with these “special opportunity” pitches, that second email always included a price tag: I was being asked to pay the book club organizer for the privilege of having them feature my book.

Stunned that I was being presented with a pay-to-play scheme, I immediately forwarded the email to my publisher’s marketing team, to see if it really was legit (although I assumed it wasn’t). Sure enough, a publicist wrote back and told me to ignore and delete any messages like it that came through. And they did, in fact, keep coming through: more and more emails, always from a different “book club” in a different part of the country, always with the same pitch: we’ve got hundreds of members. They’ll all buy your book. They’ll love it as much as I did. All we need from you is $250.

Here are a couple examples of these kinds of emails. Definitely a lot more sophisticated than the old “I live in Nigeria and I want to transfer a million dollars to your bank account” scams!

Hi Carl,

I’m the organizer of the Boston Based “Brie & Beaujolais” Book Club. Our members are drawn to books that inspire reflection, expand awareness, and linger long after the last page. We love works that open the heart and spark meaningful conversation over a good red wine and a slice of soft cheese.

Your book Read the Bible Like a Mystic immediately stood out to us. Its gentle wisdom, contemplative approach, and invitation to deeper spiritual understanding beautifully align with the spirit of our group. The way you bridge ancient tradition and modern insight has truly resonated with our members. It feels like exactly the kind of work our readers love to engage with.

We’d love to feature Read the Bible Like a Mystic in our upcoming session on Wednesday, October 22, 2025, at 7:00 PM EDT. The evening will include:

• An engaging discussion exploring the book’s themes of contemplation, connection, and inner transformation
• A wine and cheese pairing adding our signature twist of flavor and fun to the conversation
• Community sharing with members posting authentic reflections and reviews across our platforms
• An optional author Q&A offering an opportunity for you to connect directly with readers who appreciate your message and perspective

We believe Read the Bible Like a Mystic will inspire one of our most thoughtful and heartfelt discussions this year, and we’d be truly honored to feature it and, if possible, to welcome you for a brief chat or virtual visit.

Would you be open to a quick conversation to explore this opportunity?

Sounds pretty cool, right? But it comes with a catch. Unlike legitimate book clubs, they expected me to underwrite the cost of their wine and cheese in exchange for my book being “featured.”

I must have received a dozen or more emails from different alleged “book clubs” last fall, all trying to get me to pony up between $150 and $250, just so they would “feature” my book. As they kept coming in, and each one sounded suspiciously similar (and they always had the feel of being personalized, and familiar with my book), I began to realize that these scams were being created with the help of an artificial intelligence tool — to make them appear to be real.

More recently, the tactic has shifted from “our book club will feature your book” to “I’m a marketer and I want to help promote your special book.” Again, here’s an example — one that is so obviously AI-composed that I almost find it funny.

Dear Carl,

There are many books about the Bible. Few invite readers to slow down, breathe, and listen.

Read the Bible like a Mystic: Contemplative Wisdom and the Word feels less like a commentary and more like an invitation, an invitation to recover something ancient, spacious, and liberating within the sacred text.

In a time when Scripture is often approached either defensively or academically, your work reintroduces what you rightly call a “third way.” Not literalism. Not sterile analysis. But contemplation. The kind of reading that trusts the Spirit more than argument. The kind that sees poetry where others see proof-texts.

Given your longstanding exploration of Christian mysticism, Celtic spirituality, interspiritual dialogue, and the Divine Feminine, this book fits seamlessly within your broader body of work. It reflects your inclusive and expansive voice, one that encourages spiritual depth without hostility, and conviction without rigidity. That tone resonates deeply with readers who are spiritually curious but weary of polarization.

Here is the opportunity.

On Goodreads, there is a substantial and engaged readership actively exploring contemplative Christianity, mysticism, progressive theology, spiritual formation, and interfaith wisdom. Many of these readers are intentionally searching for works that approach Scripture with reverence yet refuse weaponization. However, discovery in that space is highly dependent on positioning.

When Read the Bible Like a Mystic appears on the right Goodreads Listopia categories— such as Christian mysticism, contemplative prayer, progressive Christianity, spiritual formation, interspiritual studies, modern theology, it moves from being one more title to being contextually aligned with active reader intent.

Listopia, when approached strategically, is not about artificial promotion. It is about organic placement within curated environments where genuine curiosity already exists. Proper alignment increases page visibility, strengthens shelf presence, and encourages authentic engagement. Readers browsing those lists are not passive. They are searching, often for guidance that feels both rooted and expansive.

In addition, I remain connected with a focused reading community that values spiritually reflective nonfiction. These are readers who approach books slowly, prayerfully, and thoughtfully. They do not read for incentives. They read for meaning. When they discover a book that deepens their practice or reframes their understanding of Scripture, they share it organically within their networks, through discussions, small groups, and personal recommendations.

Your book belongs in that atmosphere.

The message you are offering, that Scripture can be approached mystically without abandoning intellectual integrity or ethical responsibility, is timely. But timing alone does not guarantee visibility. Strategic placement ensures that the readers already seeking contemplative depth actually encounter your work.

If you would be open to it, I would be glad to outline how intentional Goodreads Listopia positioning could help Read the Bible like a Mystic gain stronger visibility among contemplative and spiritually curious readers.

Because there are many who long to read the Bible not with fear or argument, but with wonder.
The question is whether your book appears when they begin that search.

Connecting thoughtful spiritual works with readers seeking depth and compassion.

What is designed to look like an eager email from an appreciative reader, offering to help spread the word about my book, is once again a veiled pitch for money. At best, this is an unscrupulous marketer asking me to pay him for a service that is actually meant to be a non-commercial forum for readers to do “word-of-mouth” sharing of favorite books. But what is more likely going on here is, again, a scam: an invitation to spend money for a “service” that probably does not exist at all.

Since I work with an established traditional publisher, I had someone I could turn to who confirmed that these kinds of emails are either flat-out scams or (at best) are pitches for me to buy a marketing product with little or no real publicity value. I’m posting these here on Substack because I worry about self-published authors or authors with small independent publishers who may not understand that these offers to “help promote your wonderful book” are actually AI-generated attempts to get you to spend money for what is little more than a modern-day marketing version of snake oil.

Every author I know, myself included, genuinely wants their books to reach as many readers as possible; no matter how successful a book might be, it never seems to be selling well enough. That heart-level desire, unfortunately, makes us prime targets for the con artists; vulnerable to these kinds of unscrupulous pitches, made that much more nefarious by how AI is used to mimic the one thing every writer desires: a genuine connection with a fan.

If you’re an author, beware. Don’t let a computer-generated compliment distract you from seeing these scams for what they truly are.

And if you are reading this even though you’re not a writer, take this as a glimpse into our brave new AI-generated world. The scammers who are using AI to target vulnerable authors today will be using it to find a way into your inbox — and your wallet —tomorrow. Be vigilant.

Like all authors, Carl McColman (Decatur, GA) always hopes his books will sell more copies than they do — but he’s not willing to fall for a scam to make it happen. Learn more about him and his titles at www.anamchara.com.

December 6 is the Feast of Saint Nicholas, patron saint of children, and the template for Santa Claus.

It’s also the birthday of many amazing and talented people, including the Welsh spiritual writer Dion Fortune (born on this day in 1890), Jazz musician Dave Brubeck (1920), Polish composer Henryk Górecki (1933), Japanese composer Joe Hisaishi (1950), Peter Buck, guitarist for R.E.M. (1956), Nick Park, creator of “Wallace and Gromit” (1958), and Hollywood Director Judd Apatow (1967).

It’s also my birthday. So, no wonder I’m a bit interested in this day!

But what I think really makes December 6 special, especially for those of us who love mystical and contemplative spirituality, is that it is the birthday of arguably the most important English writer on mysticism in the twentieth century: Evelyn Underhill.

Born in Wolverhampton, England in 1875 (she died in London in June of 1941), Underhill was the daughter of a British barrister and grew up in a home that was only nominally Christian. From an early age, she was drawn to spiritual matters, and, traveling many times in her youth with her mother to Europe, she grew to love the heritage of Christian art and architecture, from which blossomed her interest in the great mystics — not only of Christianity, but of the world. Self-taught, she studied the writings of the mystics at a time when women rarely were invited to pursue higher education and certainly had no access to ordained ministry. After years of exploring the mystics on her own, at the age of 35, she published an extraordinary book, Mysticism: A Study in the Nature and Development of Spiritual Consciousness. Some have speculated that she was able to find a publisher — and an enthusiastic reception for the book among the public — only because in her day, Evelyn was more typically a man’s name than a woman’s (think of the novelist Evelyn Waugh). Hey, whatever it takes.

The success of Mysticism led to a vibrant and prolific writing career over the last thirty years of her life, paired with a deepening of her own spirituality through a spiritual director, the Austrian Catholic writer Friedrich von Hügel, who interacted with her from the time the book was published in 1911 to his death in 1925. His style of “spiritual direction” was patriarchal and authoritarian, but at that time this kind of hierarchical guidance was the norm. Nevertheless, he encouraged Underhill to be engaged more seriously with the Christian tradition, to make participation in a faith community and care for those in need essential to her spirituality, and to take more seriously the role that Christ plays in Christian mysticism. By the time of von Hügel’s death, Underhill was already beginning to write more about spirituality and less about mysticism — a transition that made her work not only more palatable to the church community, but also more humble, down to earth, and accessible. Nevertheless, the depth and interior insight that marked her more mystical writings continued to inform her later, more spiritually-centered writings as well.

She was a trailblazer: the first woman to lecture on religion at Oxford University, while strictly as a guest presenter — still, a significant achievement. In her later years she became a noted retreat director, and led retreats at several locations throughout England, although none was as close to her heart as the Chelmsford Diocesan Retreat House in the village of Pleshey, about 50 miles of northeast of London — a spiritual center she described as “soaked in love and prayer.” The Pleshey Retreat House is still operating today, and often hosts retreats and conferences based on the wisdom of Evelyn Underhill.

I have often told the story of how I became a fan of the wisdom of this unassuming British laywoman. After an intense dream I had about the end of the world the summer after I graduated from High School, an older friend gave me a copy of Mysticism, remarking that he thought I would enjoy it (I later learned he was in the habit of giving multiple copies of that book away!). I did indeed enjoy it, for it introduced me to the main ideas, major figures and spiritual principles that give mystical and contemplative spirituality its distinctive character. Thus began a lifelong love for Underhill. Other books of hers that I have found meaningful or helpful include The Spiritual Life, The Golden Sequence, The Mystics of the Church, as well as anthologies of her work such as The Evelyn Underhill Reader and An Anthology of the Love of God. But the two books that, after Mysticism, have made the greatest impact on me were The Letters of Evelyn Underhill (revealing the warm, friendly, “behind the scenes” side to her personality) and what I now consider her masterpiece, Practical Mysticism. Now more than a century old, it does show its age a bit, but it remains a beautiful introductory invitation into a life shaped by contemplative prayer — and was certainly ahead of its time, published decades before similar books were released by writers like Thomas Merton, Richard Rohr, and Thomas Keating.

So, what does Underhill have to say to us about mysticism? As the title of that book implies, she saw mysticism as a practical type of spirituality, not some airy or dreamy foray into what nowadays people might pejoratively dismiss as “woo-woo.” She never tried to minimize the awe and wonder that mystical spirituality can evoke in our hearts, but she always preferred a mysticism grounded in ordinary practices such as prayer, meditation, service to those in need, and seeking to conform life to the beautiful demands of love. For her, God is more than just an abstract concept or an abstract force: like all the great mystics throughout history, she experienced and wrote about God as a real presence in our hearts and our lives, a personality shaped by and flowing with love, who calls us to calibrate our lives to both the splendor and the sacrifice that authentic love entails. So, for Underhill, mysticism is never just an amusing pastime or spiritual hobby — it is a thorough and transforming way of life, that anyone who accepts its call can expect to be forever shaped and reshaped by the profound and wonderful nature of love.

There’s so much more to say about Underhill, but perhaps the best way for me to celebrate her birthday (and invite you to do the same) is by sharing with you an excerpt from my book The New Big Book of Christian Mysticism, which was explicitly written as a kind of homage to her legacy. This excerpt looks at how Underhill defines the nature of contemplative prayer in Practical Mysticism. It shows how, more than 80 years after her passing, Underhill’s mystical wisdom remains as relevant — and important — as ever.

THREE FORMS OF CONTEMPLATION

In Practical Mysticism, Evelyn Underhill articulates a threefold way of understanding contemplative prayer. Her model is quite useful and well worth summarizing here.

Discernment. The first form of contemplation invites us to recognize how God can be found in all things. This is a recurring theme in the writings of the mystics, and the theological term for God’s presence in creation is immanence (which is paired with transcendence, the principle that God cannot be contained by any created thing, not even by the universe as a whole). Discernment, in the sense Underhill uses the term, refers to our capacity for awareness of the immanent presence of God in and through nature—including the nature within us, which is to say our own hearts. Contemplative discernment means learning to sense the presence of the artist by gazing upon and appreciating the beauty and wonder of the artwork.

Recognition. The artistry of creation introduces us to the Spirit who dwells in us and in all things, but it can never capture the fullness of that divine presence—an immanence that is also paradoxically transcendent. Knowing that the God who is not elsewhere also transcends all created things, we are invited to enter the “cloud of unknowing” where we seek God, not in any created object, but in silence and darkness, in the mysteries of our own being and consciousness, knowing that even the human soul, vast as it is, can never fully embrace and reveal the limitless splendor of our divine lover.

Acknowledgment. As we discern God’s presence in all things, and recognize God’s mysterious unknowability, we are moved to accept the limits of even our own consciousness and spirit; we humbly acknowledge that no created thing, not even the diamond-fashioned interior castle, can ever fully reveal God to us, and so we consent to wait in the silence and darkness, trusting that, even beyond all human experience, God can, will, and does come to us without any effort on our part. This marks the transition from “active” to “infused” contemplation—in other words, the transition from contemplation as our intentional practice, moving instead to the humble acknowledgment that contemplation is God’s practice, which we receive as a free gift of grace. Acknowledgment transforms our prayer from an exercise in seeking spiritual fulfilment to a fully God-centered act of loving response to the infinite, ultimate, ineffable mystery.

While Underhill’s three forms of contemplation are certainly not the only way, or even perhaps the best way, of understanding the process by which we enter into the wordless wonder of silent adoration, they do illustrate that contemplative prayer is not something anyone can master; it is not some technique to work at until you get it right. Contemplation is a lifelong (and beyond) process of ever-unfolding possibilities that move us deeper and deeper into encounter and intimacy with God—an encounter that occurs beyond the limits of all our thoughts, ideas, mental images, and ability to know the ways of the Spirit.

To climb halfway up the mountain is not to reach the summit, even though the view from that mid-point of your journey may be spectacular. The mystical life calls us to the summit. When we embrace a spirituality that calls us into silence and beckons us to let go of the comforting but constraining cocoon of spiritual ideas and religious thoughts, ultimately, we are being called into a process that will never end—not even in the silence of eternity. We will have no choice but to see this journey through to the very heart of the mystery—not only here and now, but everywhere and forever. (New Big Book of Christian Mysticism, p. 291-293).

PRACTICING THE PRAYER OF RECOLLECTION

The Prayer of Recollection is a traditional form of Christian prayer, which Evelyn Underhill describes as “the disciplining and simplifying of the attention.”

The heart of the prayer of recollection is simply placing your attention on a single point that represents God and your intention to be present to God alone. This single point could be a word, an image like an icon, or even your breath. Underhill describes the prayer of recollection as “dwelling” on your point of attention, rather than thinking about it — “as one may gaze upon a picture that one loves.” She suggests that by dwelling on, and indeed in, this point of spiritual attention, that we may fall into a state of reverie, which she describes as a “holy daydream.”

The prayer of recollection invites us to simply rest in the presence of God, even if we don’t consciously feel or experience that presence. We know as an article of faith that the Holy Spirit has been poured into our hearts. Recollection, which simply means prayerfully placing your attention on that simple point of awareness, allows us to rest in that Divine Presence, without having to think elevated thoughts or come up with the right words to say.

But what if your mind wanders? We all have distracted minds — and hearts. So, it’s normal for your attention to flit from this to that. The prayer of recollection is about placing your attention on God, and then when it wanders off, simply returning it to God. No judgment, no force. Simply allow yourself to rest in attention to God and return to that attention whenever you need to. Remember, the real prayer is happening in your heart. So gently call your attention to God as often as you need to, while allowing your heart to rest in God’s love. This is the heart of recollection.

***

If this sounds to you a lot like more recent contemplative practices that have become popular like Centering Prayer or Christian Meditation, that’s because Underhill (inspired primarily by Teresa of Ávila and John of the Cross) is standing in the same mystical tradition as those later spiritual practices. I’m sharing this with you today to celebrate Underhill’s undying contribution to the mystical life — but also an invitation. If the above practice appeals to you, try it out. It might just be the doorway into contemplation that speaks especially to you.

Happy 150th Birthday, Evelyn Underhill! And thank you for your contribution to the study and practice of mystical spirituality in our time.

If you love mystics like Evelyn Underhill and Julian of Norwich, join me on a pilgrimage in search of the “Wisdom of the English Mystics” in England, May 27-June 2, 2026. Our journey will include two nights at Underhill’s beloved Pleshey. For information or to sign up, click here.

Quotation source:

McColman, Carl. The New Big Book of Christian Mysticism: An Essential Guide to Contemplative Spirituality (Kindle Edition), p. 291-293.

In the beginning, the Holy One spoke the universe into being: day and night, heaven and hell, earth and sky, fire and water, all spoken into the story of existence. The voice of the creator kept talking and life emerged, from single celled amoebas to the most complex of sentient beings. With the creation of humanity, it is said that we have been formed in the divine image and likeness, which means that we have been given that same capacity to speak. It matters not whether it took six days or six billion years to complete this creative act: the time came when the first human being uttered speech.

And God saw that it was good.

And then God was silent, knowing that the silence mattered as much as the words.

We wonder about the capacity for language on the part of whales and dolphins, bonobos and other evolved sentient beings. May they all find their voices. The more word-speakers there are, the better.

We have been given the capacity to speak. Created in the Divine image and likeness, when we speak, we do more than merely report information. When we speak, we create. It is our calling to speak well, and to create well.

Humankind has been speaking creative words ever since. Sometimes we have spoken well, and we have created wisdom, and beauty, and insight, and joy, and eros, and laughter, and justice, and mystery, and hope, and love, and faith, and Divine Union. Other times, alas, we have not spoken so well. Instead of blessings, we spoke curses. And we created hatred, and bitterness, and jealousy, and resentment, and exploitation, and racism, and sexism, and homophobia, and transphobia, and violence, and war, and despair.

We live out our brief lives in the midst of an unfinished poem, an ongoing story. Every time we speak, we create. Our words are incantations; they carry tremendous power. We all have the capacity to bless or to curse. Most of us tend to vacillate between the two. It has been said that it is a dreadful thing to fall into the hands of the living God. I think it is even more terrifying to realize this gift we have been given, the power and responsibility that lies at the root of every word we birth.

There once was a Scottish harper named Thomas of Erceldoune, who lived in the thirteenth century, about the same time as Rumi or Francis of Assisi. One day, on a riverbank, Thomas encountered the Queen of Fair Elfland, whom he mistakenly took to be an apparition of the Virgin Mary. The fairy queen disabused him of this misconception, and she saucily dared him to kiss her. When he did, she bid him to come with her to her fair kingdom, for she required him to sing and play for her. What felt like a long weekend of revelry ensued — but actually seven earthly years passed by. When at last the time came for Thomas to return to bonny Scotland, the queen offered him a boon: she gave him a tongue that could never tell a lie. From then Thomas became known as True Thomas, but also as Thomas the Rhymer, for he used his newfound gift to utter poetic prophecies. There are some who say that Thomas came to see the gift of not being able to tell a lie as a curse, but that is a digression we can save for another time.

Here’s the more enchanting question: when Thomas spoke his words of prophecy, was he merely observing something fated to happen, or did his words somehow create the very energetic dynamic by which the prophecy would come to pass? Like the purported butterfly effect, do the words that we speak have a creative power far more subtle than any of us could ever measure, even though the effects may come to be felt, in a minute or in a millennium?

Clearly, not every word spoken comes to pass, or else every time an angry teenager spits out “I wish you were dead” to their parents, horror would ensue. None of us understand the relationship between the words we speak and the worlds we create. But we all know that the great ambitions of life begin with a spoken (aloud or even just silently thought) declaration to make it so. A few years ago, I was cleaning out an old file and found a document from my 20s, in which I listed all my life goals. A couple of decades later, and I was stunned to see that almost every item on the list had come to pass. Maybe I didn’t dream big enough — but even though I had long forgotten even making that particular list, somehow the magic still worked deep within me, and the words became the story of my life.

Which brings me to consider the relationship between poetry, prayer, and the mystics.

The English writer Evelyn Underhill suggested that visionary mystics naturally keep the company of “prophets, poets, artists, and dreamers” — which makes a kind of imaginal sense: just as poets and prophets create new ways of thinking and being through the magic of their words, so do the mystics and contemplatives create (or co-create) the mystery of ever-deepening intimacy with God, flowing into and opening up to the bracing, ecstatic non-duality of Divine Union. Is it arrogant to suggest that we create intimacy with the Holy One, or even Divine Union? Perhaps — but I am confident that we really do cooperate with heaven in creating a joyous relationship with God, just as surely as Ginger Rogers co-created the stunning beauty and grace of her dance routines with Fred Astaire. It has been said that “Ginger did everything Fred did, only backwards and in heels.” To be a mystic is to dance with God, and we are all doing it backwards and in heels (yes, even those of us assigned male!), , which is to say, challenged by the frustrations and foibles of the human condition and our creaturely limitations. The Holy Mystery wants to dance with us, to embrace us, to hold and kiss us, and to sweep us off our feet as confidently as the groom wooed the bride in The Song of Songs. We co-create this primarily by saying yes, but also by learning how to dance in those heels.

It amazes me how many of the world’s mystics were (and continue to be) poets. Some big names show up on the list: John of the Cross, Thomas Merton, Rumi, Abraham Joshua Heschel, William Blake, George Herbert, Thomas Traherne, Umar Abubakar Sidi, and Thich Nhat Hanh, to name just a few. And it’s not just a boy’s club, as Evelyn Underhill, Catherine of Genoa, Rabi’a, Mirabai, Hadewijch, Chelan Harkin and Caryll Houselander make clear, although it seems perhaps fitting that many women mystic-poets are perhaps better known as poets than as mystics: in this category names like Mary Oliver, Kathleen Raine, Denise Levertov, Elizabeth Jennings and Kathleen Norris leap to mind. Then again, R. S. Thomas, Dante, and maybe even T. S. Eliot also pass muster as poets who were a bit more mysterious — and mystical — than our secular educational orthodoxies typically will admit.

What are we to make of this alarming confluence of word-artists and silence-seekers? How is it that prophets, poets, artists and dreamers live in that same bohemian hippie-pagan neighborhood where the contemplatives and mystics hang out? I think it has something to do with a deep unity between language and silence, that remains hidden (“mystical”) to us surface-dwellers, and yet is hard to miss once you begin to suspect what’s really going on. And the nexus, I believe, is the imagination — but not just our humdrum capacity to “make believe” and paint colorful pictures in our minds, like Barney the Dinosaur whisking a bunch of pre-schoolers off on yet another goofy adventure. That has its place (especially for the pre-schoolers), but the imagination that links silence and language, poetry and mystery, prayer and contemplation together goes much, much deeper into the human psyche, and perhaps even beyond the mere structure of human consciousness. It is the imagination that ushers us into the realm of mystery: the mystical realm. Don’t ask me to put this into words. It has something to do with the non-ordinary reality of Sufis or shamans or the otherworld where the druids encountered their gods and nature spirits. It’s a dreamspace, and it’s deeper than most of our ordinary dreams, filled as they are with the flotsam and jetsam of ordinary waking consciousness. Christian mystics speak of this using language of negation: the dark night of the soul, the cloud of unknowing, the dazzling darkness, the silent land. We can’t talk our way into it: at least, not using the syntax of prose. But we just might be able to poeticize our way there.

The ancient Celts believed that their bards were not just poets in the Robert Frost sense, but were seers — that there was something linked between writing poetry and speaking words of prophecy. The bards were linked with the druids and the vates, the oracles. Each of these types of wisdom-keepers relied on their incantatory use of language to both curate and convey knowledge, but also to shape and form the worlds they were speaking into being. Which brings us right back to the prologue of John’s Gospel and God calling the world into being through the Logos who became flesh and dwelt among us.

Are your eyes glazing over yet? This is one of the problems we have: the words that invite us into the creative possibilities of the imaginal realm, whether they come to us from Biblical canticles or mystical poetry or the bewildering proclamations of a shamanic philosopher like John Moriarty (whose prose reads like poetry), are words that we all to easily dismiss as either well-worn formulas we have heard so many times that we’ve decided they are bereft of power, or else they simply seem so confusing that we dismiss them as little more that artsy word-play, like the lyrics of bands like Yes or R.E.M.: playful, perhaps, but ultimately too easily dismissed as senseless. So when we encounter the poetry of the mystics, and dare to pray their words, it is perhaps a blessing when we are not overly familiar with their work. When we are still capable of being surprised but willing to receive their language in earnest: that’s when it becomes possible for the doors to the mysteries to truly open for us.

Perhaps what truly makes a mystical poet mystical is this simple fact, that their poems are prayers (and their prayers are poems). Clearly not all are written as prayers, though some are. But mystical poetry refashions our very understanding of prayer itself. For the linear-minded person who equates prayer with petition or intercession — merely asking God for what they want — the language of the mystics will likely just be wasted upon them. But when prayer is understand primarily as intimacy with the Divine, the possibilities open up exponentially. Just as a satisfying friendship (or romance) includes the capacity to communicate about many different things, so too a mystical prayer will bring many ways of speaking to (or listening to) the Great Mystery, encoded in its words — and in its silence.

Take a work like Evelyn Underhill’s Immanence or John of the Cross’s One Dark Night or Thomas Merton’s Hagia Sophia — each invites us into the possibility not merely of encountering God, but of drawing close to God, embracing God, kissing and being kissed by God, and finally surrendering into the ecstasy of undifferentiated union with God. Every mystical poem/prayer might be understood as simply a variation of Julian of Norwich’s prayer:

God, of your goodness,
give me yourself,
for you are enough for me.
I may ask nothing less
that is fully to your worship,
and if I do ask anything less,
ever shall I be in want.
Only in you I have all.

Here we see a mystical prayer that is essentially a poem. To look at this from the other direction, consider this jewel from George Herbert, Love (III).

Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.

But quick-eyed 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 answered, 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.

On the surface, this is no prayer, at least not as prayer is commonly understood. It is not spoken to God, but rather about God — God-as-Love. But is this reason enough to disqualify it as prayer? After all, think of the New Testament Canticles such as the Benedictus (Luke 1:68-79) or the Magnificat (Luke 1:46-55) — these songs of praise to God have been recited prayerfully by monks and others, every day for many centuries now, and yet they too speak of God in the third person. Indeed, the Benedictus is addressed to a mortal human being, the infant John the Baptist. Part of the mystery of prayer is how it works even it is addressed to someone other than the One who is Mystery. Why? Because, once again, the words themselves have a creative function in the human heart: they literally form us as beings-in-relationship with the living Divine. We recite these words and they remind us who God is, and who we are in relation to God. This is the secret of mystical poetry, and why it works as a portal into mystical prayer.

The narrator of George Herbert’s poem has an encounter with Love: “Love-with-a-capital-L,” which anyone familiar with the first letter of John in the New Testament will recognize as God.

Their relationship gets off to a pretty rocky start, however, since the narrator meets love with a kind of binding shame or embarrassment, conscious of all the ways that they fail to live a Love-infused life. Yet this does not dissuade Love, who engages almost playfully in a dialogue with this hesitating one. When the narrator insists “I cannot look on thee,” Love replies with an intimate gesture (taking the narrator’s hand) and an almost flirtatious rejoinder: “Who made the eyes, but I?”

Finding their options diminishing, the narrator tries one last gambit, offering to serve at the table rather than to be served, but Love won’t hear of it. Finally yielding, the poems ends with six words as simple as they are sublime.

Thoroughly down to earth, this poem is filled with images of dust and tenderness — and meat.

Like the great Jesuit poet Gerard Manley Hopkins, mystical poets are accustomed to finding God in all things (and all things in God). We do not need ecstatic poetry to usher us away from earth or the body or matter to find some otherworldly Creator in a celestial enclave. “All the way to heaven is heaven,” as St. Catherine of Siena proclaimed; a sentiment echoed by Elizabeth of the Trinity: “It seems to me that I have found my heaven on earth, because my heaven is you, my God, and you are in my soul: you in me, and I in you.” For the mystics, the spiritual life (including the life of prayer) is not about figuring out how to get into heaven after we die, but yielding to heaven’s insistent desire to get into us, right here and right now. When we accept that we are created in the image and likeness of the Holy One, that the Holy Spirit has been poured into our hearts, that we are partakers of the Divine Nature — then the poem/prayers of the mystics begin to glow with a heavenly light that is not an otherworldly radiance, but entirely of this place.

When we turn to the poetry of the mystics, and dare to read their poems as prayers, we find not only a supremely beautiful doorway into contemplation and ever-increasing intimacy with God, but to the extent that we have eyes to see and ears to hear, we shall also find ourselves ushered into the mystery at the very heart of God: the mystery of Divine Union, a gift freely given to all who choose to receive.

Wait — it gets better. For in words that get attributed to more than one contemplative author (so I don’t know who said them first): “The mystic is not a special kind of person; each person is a special kind of mystic.” Part of the nature of mysticism is to give itself away. One of the signs of spiritual maturity is the capacity to recognize the Holy Mystery in just about everyone. Mystical spirituality — mystical consciousness, mystical vision, mystical living — is not something one achieves so much as what one receives, and the funny part is that we’ve all received it, but most of us keep forgetting. We lionize spiritual masters like Jesus and the Buddha, or Howard Thurman and Evelyn Underhill and Teresa of Avila and Rumi because they seem to remember better than most of us, and also do a good job at reminding the rest of us, who we truly are.

When we learn to read mystical poetry like prayer, or mystical prayer like poetry, we not only get in touch with our own mystical essence, but gradually (or suddenly) we learn to see that mystical reality in others, even in those who might not normally be thought of as visionaries or contemplatives or even spiritual teachers (or whatever). I’ve long suspected that the greatest mystics in history are largely lost to us, because they never bothered to do what the more famous mystics do: become monks or nuns, write books (or poetry), get a following in their religious communities (or nowadays on Instagram). That humble woman who cleans your office at night while you’re at home spending money online — she could very well be the kind of contemplative that Simone Weil or Teilhard de Chardin would bow down before.

So read the mystical poets as prayer, and I suspect before too much longer you will be reading much poetry as mystical theology. Yes, God does show up rather frequently in poetry, so that makes it easy, but I don’t think we have to talk about God to encounter the Mystery: in fact, sometimes, talking about God is one of our favorite ways of shielding ourselves from the transforming presence of Divine Love. So I’ve stopped looking for God-talk, church-talk, pious language, or any other kind of performative spirituality when I read poetry. If it’s there, great; if it’s not, there’s still plenty to pay attention to. Does the poet make room for silence? For stillness? For wondering? For hope and love and compassion? Is the cry for justice dancing with a hope for reconciliation, or sullied by a blood-thirst for revenge? Then again, even the ones who scream for revenge can still surprise us with unannounced theophanies — this is a theme that plays out more than once in the sacred texts, after all.

A Buddhist friend of mine once told me that the heart of understanding the Dharma is understanding the concept of “the view” from the Noble Eightfold Path: a recognition that the key to following the Buddha lies not so much in mastering a bunch of propositional ideas so much as learning to see as the Buddha sees, to understand as the Buddha understands, or to allow a clarity of awareness to shape how one moves and relates in the world. There is a Christian corollary to this, as well; Franciscan author Richard Rohr hints at this more than once in his writings, inviting us to learn to “see as the mystics see.” Perhaps we can most easily access this “mystical view” in the words of the contemplative and mystical poets: words that form us, that shape us, that invite us to remember who we are and whose we are. Words that testify to Love, sometimes by testifying to the sorrows and horrors of the absence of Love (whether real or imagined). Love always gives us a choice, and that choice literally hums with possibilities. At this very moment, here and now, you and I can choose to create a future in which we draw closer to Love. What an exciting adventure. Pray the mystics. Let their words combine with yours to speak heaven into being. Choose to be one with Love.

N.B. This article originally was posted on Carl McColman’s Patreon page. It is scheduled to appear in the forthcoming anthology, Praying the Poets edited by Roger Butts (Gracelight, 2026).

On November 6, 1950, the American edition of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe was published (the British edition had been published three weeks earlier). So for us Yanks, today marks the 75th anniversary of the first Narnia book.

To celebrate this date, I’d like to share with you my theory for how C. S. Lewis, the author of the Narnia books, may have been inspired to create the story of Aslan, the noble lion, who is the central character and indeed the heart and soul of the Narnia books.

My story begins with an interesting letter that was written in January 1941 (more than nine years before the first Narnia book was published) to Lewis, from the noted English author and scholar of Christian mysticism, Evelyn Underhill.

Underhill, who lived from 1875 to 1941, was the leading English authority on mystical spirituality in her day. Indeed, her book Mysticism: A Study in the Nature and Development of Spiritual Consciousness, published in 1911, is widely regarded as a classic introduction to that subject. She and Lewis corresponded several times before her death in June 1941. He was a generation younger than her, and it is apparent from their letters that he admired her and maybe even was a “fan.”

Several of Underhill’s letters to Lewis are preserved in The Letters of Evelyn Underhill, published shortly after her death (that book is now out of print, but fortunately a new edition of the letters of Evelyn Underhill has been published, titled The Making of a Mystic). These letters reveal that Lewis sent her at least two of his books, which she read and offered him discerning feedback. The correspondence is for the most part very warm. In 1938, Underhill praises Out of the Silent Planet, even though she admits to having a “decided prejudice” against science fiction. She lauds him for “the fact that you have turned ‘empty space’ into heaven!”

A couple of years later, though, when commenting on The Problem of Pain, Underhill seems less enthused — not only does she take issue with one aspect of the book, but she positively scolds Lewis about it.

He made a comment in the book about animals, which clearly angered Underhill. Apparently, in 1940 Lewis seemed to think that wildness was a bad thing; in other words, he seemed to think that animals were brought nearer to God by being domesticated by human beings. He wrote,

The tame animal is in the deepest sense the only natural animal… the beasts are to be understood only in their relation to man and through man to God.

For Evelyn Underhill, this is beyond just a stupid idea. To her, these were fighting words. And she did not shrink back from the challenge. I can only quote part of her reply, because of how long it is. But again, she scolds him. She writes:

This seems to me frankly an intolerable doctrine and a frightful exaggeration of what is involved in the primacy of man. Is the cow which we have turned into a milk machine or the hen we have turned into an egg machine really nearer the mind of God than its wild ancestor?

She is just getting warmed up. She alludes to William Blake as she continues to excoriate Lewis.

You surely can’t mean that… the robin redbreast in a cage doesn’t put heaven in a rage but is regarded as an excellent arrangement. Your own example of the good-man, good-wife, and good-dog in the good homestead is a bit smug and utilitarian, don’t you think, over against the wild beauty of God’s creative action in the jungle and the deep sea? And if we ever get a sideway glimpse of the animal-in-itself, the animal existing for God’s glory and pleasure and lit by His light (and what a lovely experience that is!), we don’t owe it to the Pekinese, the Persian Cat or the canary, but to some wild free creature living in completeness of adjustment to Nature a life that is utterly independent of man. And this, thank Heaven, is the situation of all but the handful of creatures we have enslaved.

She goes on to make a theologically nuanced argument about how humankind and the natural world may relate to the each other in the light of salvation. But she points out that humanity’s role in the “redemption and transfiguration” of the animal world will come about not through taming animals: “Rather by loving and reverencing the creatures enough to leave them free.”

Great writer that she is, she finishes her argument with a brilliant final point.

Perhaps what it all comes to is this, that I feel your concept of God would be improved by just a touch of wildness.

When Lewis replied, his letter (found in The Collected Letters of C. S. Lewis, Volume 2) is by turns defensive, charming, and conciliatory, without much insight into how Underhill’s perspective may have influenced his thinking. But I can’t help but engage in a delicious bit of speculation.

As I said, Underhill wrote the letter I’ve just quoted in January 1941, just months before she died. Some seven years would pass before Lewis wrote the first of his seven Narnia books, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, which he began writing in 1948. Today it is probably his best known book, no thanks to the continued popularity of the Narnia series as a whole. But it is in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe that readers were first introduced to Aslan, the noble Lion who symbolizes Christ himself. According to C. S. Lewis lore, the inspiration for Aslan came from a dream he had while writing the book, probably sometime in 1949. But I can’t help but wonder if the dream was the original impulse — or if, in fact, the inspiration had come years earlier.

In one of the most memorable passages in that book, the Pevensie children from England first learn about Aslan from a pair of talking Beavers:

“I tell you he is the King of the wood and the son of the great Emperor-beyond-the-Sea… Aslan is a lion— the Lion, the great Lion.”

“Ooh!” said Susan, “I’d thought he was a man. Is he— quite safe? I shall feel rather nervous about meeting a lion.”

“That you will, dearie, and no mistake,” said Mrs. Beaver; “if there’s anyone who can appear before Aslan without their knees knocking, they’re either braver than most or else just silly.”

“Then he isn’t safe?” said Lucy.

“Safe?” said Mr. Beaver; “don’t you hear what Mrs. Beaver tells you? Who said anything about safe? ‘Course he isn’t safe. But he’s good. He’s the King, I tell you.”

Then, almost at the very end of the story, when Aslan silently departs from Narnia in the midst of a great celebration, the conversation with the Beavers is recalled.

Mr. Beaver had warned them, “He’ll be coming and going ,” he had said. “One day you’ll see him and another you won’t. He doesn’t like being tied down— and of course he has other countries to attend to. It’s quite all right . He’ll often drop in. Only you mustn’t press him. He’s wild, you know. Not like a tame lion.”

Aslan is not safe — because he’s wild, you know. Not like a tame lion. I think Evelyn Underhill would have heartily approved, had she still been alive when this story was published.

In other words: Aslan finally represents C. S. Lewis depicting Christ (and, therefore, God) with “just a touch of wildness.”

I suppose we’ll never know for sure if Underhill’s passionate defense of wild animals directly inspired C. S. Lewis when he sat down a few years later to unleash Aslan in the Narnia stories. The answer to that question could only be found in the deep subconscious of the man himself, which he took to his grave in 1963. But I like to hope and think that maybe her words were an inspiration to him. At any rate, we are all the richer for the insight and imagination that went into the telling of the Narnia stories. And Evelyn Underhill’s letter would bring a smile to any animal lover’s face.

If you love Narnia, C. S. Lewis, and/or Evelyn Underhill, join me on a pilgrimage in search of the “Wisdom of the English Mystics” in England, May 27-June 2, 2026. For information or to sign up, click here.

Notes

Underhill’s 1-13-1941 letter to C. S. Lewis is found on pages 300-302 of The Letters of Evelyn Underhill and on pages 340-342 of The Making of a Mystic.

Lewis’s reply, dated 1-16-1941, is found on pages 459-460 of The Collected Letters of C. S. Lewis, Volume 2.

Read about the publication of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe here: “Harper Collins Children’s Books Celebrates 75 Years of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe”

This post is adapted from a talk I gave at a CS Lewis Symposium at Grace Episcopal Church in Gainesville, GA in 2017.

It’s kind of an occupational hazard for anyone, I imagine, who is so bold (or so foolish) as to write a book about mysticism. I get asked all the time: whether in a public interview, or a private one-on-one conversation:

“What’s your definition of mysticism?”

Every time that question comes to me, I briefly think about Fr. Anthony Delisi, OCSO (of blessed memory). Fr. Anthony was a Trappist monk whom I worked with, back when I worked at the Cistercian abbey here in Georgia. He was a burly fellow with a gruff exterior and a profoundly sweet and kind heart. And he wasn’t above a bit of good natured teasing and even a bit of snark.

When I was writing The Big Book of Christian Mysticism, Fr. Anthony was one of several monks who agreed to read chapters of the book and offer me feedback. One time, fairly early on in the writing process, I gave Fr. Anthony the first chapter of the book.

The next day he showed up at my office, and pulled me aside. “I read your chapter,” he said, in his characteristically blunt way.

“What did you think of it?” I asked him, anxious like a teenager for approval.

“I kept wondering when you would get around to actually giving a definition of mysticism.”

“But Father, you know it’s impossible to define.”

“Yes, you finally admitted as much on page 35, when you basically said you had no idea what it was.”

“You’re right,” I said. “Do you think I need to be more precise with my definition?”

“Oh no, your definition is fine,” he mused. “I just wish you had said as much right up front, that way I wouldn’t have had to wade through 35 pages just to learn that you have no more of an idea about what it is than I do!”

That chapter got revised several times, and I tried to be a bit more clear about my understanding of mysticism. But to this very day, any attempt I make to explain what mysticism is, or even just to admit what it means to me, always makes me think of how a humble monk who had lived in the cloister for more than half a century was just as much at a loss for explaining mysticism as I was.

Because there really is no explaining it. Mysticism is related to mystery. And so, no matter how clever or perceptive or theologically sophisticated you, or I, (or anyone) might be, it simply cannot be defined. It cannot be nailed down, it cannot be concisely explained in a few well-chosen words.

I think this is part of what makes mysticism such a rich and awe-inspiring dimension of spirituality. It can’t be summarized, it can’t be defined, it can’t be put into words. Even though we human beings keep wanting and trying to put it into words anyway.

“You are a God who hides himself” muttered the prophet Isaiah during prayer. Mysticism is a way for relating with the hidden God.

Sometimes when I’m asked to explain mysticism, I’ll try to evade the question by offering an evocative image rather than a cut-and-dried definition.

Mysticism is the silence between each heartbeat. It is the moment of spacious presence that hides between and below all our thoughts. Mysticism is the experience of being wooed by God. It is listening to what contemplative silence has to say to us or teach us. It is the humble recognition that our words inevitably distort our image of God as much as they might help us to create an image of God in the first place. Mysticism is what happens when we read the Bible not as a legal document, but as a passionate love letter.

Because in addition to being about silence and about mystery, mysticism is all about love.

Silence: we pray, we meditate, we listen, we walk a labyrinth with our heart and mind both slowing down. “Silence is God's first language; everything else is a poor translation.” So said Thomas Keating, very likely having himself been inspired by Rumi or Meister Eckhart or John of the Cross. “Let all the earth keep silent before God,” declared the prophet Habbakuk, and mystics have been seeking to follow his instruction ever since.

Mystery: no words can ever contain God. Whatever reveals God ultimately betrays itself and conceals God as well. God is hidden, More wisdom from Isaiah: “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways my ways, says the Lord.” To be in a relationship with God (or Spirit, or the Divine —use the language you find the least objectionable) is to surrender our need to have things all figured out, to understand what we’re doing and who we’re doing it with, and to accept that we are in the cloud of unknowing, the dark night of the soul.

And finally, Love: mysticism is a love song. It is cosplaying The Song of Songs in real time. It’s forgetting all the crazy talk about God as wrathful or furious or at risk of sending us all to hell; and daring to believe that the One who created the stars and the galaxies is deeply interested in you and me and all of us, in our humility and our littleness and our bother. God is not bothered by us, for God loves us, and if we can truly accept and embody that love, we will be invited into some expression of ecstasy.

Words like these are so clunky and imperfect. Everything anyone can possibly say about mysticism is wrong. But we need to keep trying to say something anyway.

The Tao te Ching by Lao Tzu begins, “The Tao that can be spoken is not the eternal Tao, the name that can be named is not the eternal name.” In the Chinese translation of the New Testament, the Gospel of John beings, “In the beginning was the Tao, and the Tao was with God, and the Tao was God.” So it’s too far of a stretch to consider that the God who can be spoken of is not the eternal God.

Everything we say about God takes us away from God, even if it paradoxically also brings us closer to God. It can do both at the same time — but it will always guide us further and further into the house of mirrors. Anything that reveals God also conceals God. We encounter God in mystery, and mystery always enshrouds the divine in darkness and unknowing.

In his 1926 poem Ars Poetica, Archibald Macleish famously wrote, “A poem should not mean but be.” God (the ultimate Mystery) is like a poem, and therefore, mysticism is as well. To seek to understand the meaning of poetry, or mysticism, or the Mystery, is to miss the pure grace of encountering the beauty of being.

Perhaps the only way to truly experience the love of God begins with renouncing or surrendering all our efforts to manage or control God, to render God safe or tame by our efforts to comprehend God.

A friend of mine who taught many years in seminary once explained why he was no longer comfortable with the idea of evangelizing non-Christians: “You cannot love someone if you are mainly interested in changing them.” Perhaps we cannot truly love God — the Mystery at the heart of mysticism — if we are busy trying to figure God out.

The best way to define mysticism is to insist that mysticism cannot be defined. Therefore, the ineffability of mystical spirituality is an essential part of its beauty. Mysticism shines precisely because we cannot put it into words.

Poets accept this. So do Zen Buddhists, artists, intuitives and daydreamers.

Mysticism, after all, is not a problem to be solved. It is not a puzzle to be unpacked by scientists or philosophers or other linear thinkers. Not that there’s anything wrong with being an architect or an engineer —we need conscientious people who make amazing new things and who tell stories all about it. But sometimes, it seems that the very qualities that can make someone so skilled with the practical matters of living can ironically get in the way of the artistry of mystical intimacy, intimacy with the very heart of creation.

Mysticism sings silently between our heartbeats and illuminates the dark matter floating between the stars. It is a story that can never be told even though it has been chanted repeatedly since the dawn of time. It is the inner abyss and the playful lights that illuminate our deepest hopes and dreams.

Some might say that if mysticism cannot even be defined, then no wonder it exists only at the margins, the margins of faith, the margins that separate what is known from what is possible. This might be interpreted as dismissing the mystical, except for the fact that the mystics have always been on the margins. That was true two thousand years ago and it remains true today. Mystics are happy to hide in shadowy places and hold fast to liberating wisdom that only can be seen when we wander far away from the center of things.

Mysticism is ineffable, and in its ineffability, it is free. Not free in an American/consumer sense, the freedom of choosing if you want fries with that burger of if you’d rather drink a Coke or a Pepsi. Rather, mysticism embodies the deep and abiding freedom that always empowers us to do the one next right thing. To walk (or seek to walk) in the footsteps of Christ (and the Buddha) is to find the freedom that calls us into lives of compassion, care, and service. That may not seem like much to some, but to others it may seem like a life aflame with love. Increasingly, such freedom is rare — and radical. So mysticism is a doorway into a rare wisdom indeed. Just don’t try to put it into words.