One morning after graduating from High School, I was driving to my summer job — a warehouse gig, unskilled labor for a small business that made wood products for home construction. That summer I was falling in love with classical music, and this particular morning I was listening to our lone FM classical station as I drove west across the Virginia Peninsula from my home in Buckroe Beach to the warehouse in west Hampton. The morning sunlight danced across billowing cumulus clouds dotted throughout the azure sky. The music and the morning light were so beautiful that my mundane commute was, just for a few moments, transfigured into a sense of the eternal overflowing in the present.

The music was the “Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis” by the British Composer Ralph Vaughan Williams. It came from a series of tunes that Tallis, a Renaissance musician, had composed for a Psalter (liturgical music for the chanting of the Psalms). Tallis’ theme was haunting and ethereal, and Vaughan Williams gave it an even more transcendent feel, achingly beautiful and filled with the kind of longing that only the Divine could fulfill.

Forty-five years later and the Tallis Fantasia still transports me. I know that classical music is not everyone’s cuppa, and the sheer neoplatonic otherworldliness of this particular piece might not speak to those whose spirituality needs a more down-to-earth habitat. In the years since that morning drive, my understanding of mysticism — and my taste in music — have both widened, so that now I hear the mystery in John Coltrane and Sandy Denny as much as in Vaughan Williams.

But embracing an earthy mysticism does not mean we cannot also be transported by a heavenly spirituality as well. I hope you can hear the whisper of the eternal in the Tallis Fantasia. Listen for it.

This month I am traveling to speak with contemplative communities in Connecticut and New York. While I am on the road, I am reposting articles from the AnamChara archive. Today’s article was first published on November 27, 2024. I’m sharing it again especially for new readers, while trusting that longtime subscribers will enjoy revisiting it.

When I was younger, so much younger than today, I worked for several years managing a bookstore that served a small Episcopal university — including a seminary.1 By that point I had already been working with a spiritual director for several years and took my inner life seriously — at least as serious as any anxiety-ridden 27-year-old can.

One thing was for sure: I loved the writings of the mystics, and relished the opportunity to make sure a bookstore serving a theological seminary kept a generous selection of Christian mystical works in stock.

With that enthusiasm at play, when I met Dr. Robert Giannini, the seminary dean, I made a point of mentioning that I had an amateur love for mysticism, naively thinking that might impress the scholar. But his response what not what I expected.

Twenty years my senior, and no doubt more theologically conservative than I was, he wanted to make sure I knew what I was talking about — and he knew what he was dealing with. So he asked a simple question:

“Do you mean mysticism in the Evelyn Underhill sense, or mysticism in the Shirley Maclaine sense?”

If you are too young to remember the 1980s, let me explain. Actress Shirley MacLaine wrote a string of popular books about new age spirituality, beginning with her 1984 memoir, Out on a Limb. By the time I met Dr. Giannini, she had produced a television mini-series that explored her interest in such things as crystals, channeling, and reincarnation — topics that typically were not on the menu in most mainstream churches.

By contrast, Evelyn Underhill was noted for her advocacy of contemplative prayer, the wisdom teachings of the Christian mystics, and conformity to mainstream Christian doctrine. Communicating with spirits or using divination tools were not part of her approach to mysticism.

I was surprised by the dean’s question, but as I said, I was also a bit naive. It had never occurred to me that new agers might describe themselves as mystics or students of mysticism (yes, I eventually did discover this for myself). Nevertheless, I did not hesitate to answer his question, “Well, Underhill, of course!” He smiled, and we went on to talk about our shared interest in the Anglican laywoman and her writings. It was the start of a cordial if formal relationship that lasted until he left the seminary three years later.

The Two Faces of Christian Mysticism

I tell the story of my encounter with the seminary dean to illustrate something that I have pondered for many years now: and that’s how the word mysticism gets applied to a variety of spiritual practices, beliefs and perspectives.

Nobody as best I can tell will ever accuse Shirley Maclaine of being a Christian mystic. It seems to me that she is firmly grounded in the “spiritual but not religious” world. I say this without judgment or shame, just trying to be clear: and to set the stage for the main point of this article.

Which is this: over the years I have come to recognize that even within the Christian tradition, mysticism seems to be a word that can be broadly applied to two different ways of approaching spirituality and the inner life.

The dean asked me if my understanding of mysticism was closer to Evelyn Underhill and Shirley Maclaine. A fair question but it asked me to choose between a clearly Christian figure (Underhill) and a clear alternative (Maclaine, who journalists were calling “queen of the new age”).

But I’ve come to see that there are two broad categories of mysticism even within Christianity — certainly western Christianity. To illustrate, we’ll give Shirley MacLaine the night off, and pair Evelyn Underhill with another significant 20th century Christian mystic: Valentin Tomberg.

Mysticism in the Evelyn Underhill sense does overlap with mysticism in the Valentin Tomberg sense. Both types of mysticism are clearly anchored in the Christian tradition. But from there on, the differences seem to outshine the similarities.

Let’s call Evelyn Underhill a representative of contemplative mysticism. By contrast, Valentin Tomberg represents esoteric mysticism. Both are Christian, so there’s plenty of overlap: but there are significant differences as well. Let’s take a closer look.

Contemplative Mysticism

My entry into the world of mystical wisdom came through the writings of Evelyn Underhill, especially her 1911 magnum opus, Mysticism: A Study in the Nature and Development of Spiritual Consciousness. Although Underhill appears to be trying to make a universal statement about mysticism unencumbered by religious doctrine, she does not rise about her own cultural background and so the book very much considers mysticism from a thoroughly Christian perspective. Over the remaining 30 years of her life after the book was published, she did in fact become active in the Church of England and served the Christian community as a retreat leader and spiritual director. So it’s fair to say that Underhill’s exploration of mysticism is friendly to religious Christianity — at least of the Catholic/Anglican/mainline Protestant variety.

I call Underhill’s approach to mysticism contemplative for several reasons. To begin with, she draws very much from the mystical practices and teachings of the monasteries (and of monastic mystics down the ages). She also recognizes that contemplative prayer — the prayer of attentive, adoring silence — is the central practice of this type of mysticism. Like so many monastic mystics, Underhill emphasizes the cultivation of virtue, the turning away from selfishness and sinfulness, and the humble recognition that God is both the heart and the object of the mystical life. Underhill’s mysticism tends to be heart-centered, affective (emphasizing love over knowledge), accepting of church authority, and devotional in its focus. But it’s still mysticism: it promises the cultivation of a beautiful and exalted, perhaps even ecstatic, interior life that leads from purification to illumination and ultimately to nothing less than union with God.

Esoteric Mysticism

Valentin Tomberg represents a more esoteric or even hermitic expression of mysticism, especially when compared to Underhill; and to appreciate this, I have to disobey his own wishes and point out that he was the author of a challenging but highly renowned book that was published anonymously after his death. Meditations on the Tarot: A Journey Into Christian Hermeticism has a title and thematic content that seems almost guaranteed to scare off conservative and fundamentalist Christians: for the Tarot, after all, is associated with divination rather than devotion. But Tomberg is not promoting fortune telling; indeed, this book takes an almost Jungian approach to the Tarot cards, focusing on them as archetypal symbols rather than as a tool for psychic readings.

Interestingly, this book has been warmly received by many in the Christian world, especially among Catholics: Basil Pennington, Thomas Keating, Hans Urs Von Balthasar, and Bede Griffiths were among those who endorsed this book. It is even said that Pope John Paul II was a fan (you can find a picture online of the late pope with this book prominently visible on his desk, which in itself says little but still offers much food for thought). Tomberg, it turns out, was an adult convert to Catholicism, entering Christian practice after a season of life devoted to more esoteric pursuits like the study of anthroposophy, magic, the Kabbalah, and other hermetic disciplines.

Tomberg was something of a Renaissance man, and his wide interest in occultism, ceremonial magic, eastern spirituality, philosophy and psychology informs this rich and densely written book. But the heart of his “Christian hermeticism” remains the mystical path. His vision of mysticism is not hostile to the more contemplative variety championed by Underhill — it’s just much more intellectually broad and adventurous. This is an approach to mysticism that stresses the pursuit of knowledge, a willingness to draw connections across theological and philosophical differences, and a kind of broad willingness to hold doctrine and dogma loosely. Tomberg believes in angels, but also in reincarnation.

It is my experience that many people drawn to the riches of mystical Christianity tend to gravitate toward either the contemplative or the esoteric dimension of spirituality — and likewise tend to avoid the “other” dimension. In my experience, those who love the Rule of Saint Benedict often shy away from the teachings of Hermes Trismegistus. Those who are drawn to Rosicrucianism tend to avoid the stern teachings of the Carmelites or the Cistercians. Those who dive deep into the radical silence of Centering Prayer often tend to avoid the kind of philosophical depth found in the spirituality of Theosophy. And on it goes.

This isn’t a hard and fast distinction, of course; and thanks to the insightful work of spiritual teachers like Cynthia Bourgeault and Wayne Teasdale, it seems that more people are finding ways to bridge the contemplative depth of monastic mysticism with the imaginative richness of esoteric spirituality. Perhaps in the economy of divine grace, there’s room for both.

My point in writing this blog post is to celebrate that there is a rich variety of “types” in the world of mysticism. If you enter into mystical spirituality because you are drawn to psychic phenomena, esoteric knowledge, and even occult teachings, I encourage you to explore the wisdom of the many great nuns and monks down the centuries who are renowned as mystics. Likewise, if you found the mystical path thanks to the austere serenity of Thomas Merton or Simone Weil or Thomas Keating, don’t dismiss the more colorful stream of Christian esotericism: there’s wisdom to be found there as well.

Despite its significant flaws, Thomas Merton’s The Seven Storey Mountain is a modern classic of contemplative and mystical literature. But did you know that when it was published in England, it was given a new title? Evelyn Waugh edited (and abridged) the first UK edition of the book, which he renamed as Elected Silence.

Americans are so accustomed to associate election with political campaigns, that we forget the word originally meant simply “to choose.” Consider how similar the words elect and select are. When adults prepare to be baptized in a Catholic Church, they are called “the elect” to indicate that God has chosen them to receive the sacrament.

Evelyn Waugh boils down Merton’s autobiography into two simple words. Merton elected to be a silent monk, after all. He walked away from a promising academic career to immerse himself into the austere, timeless silence of a Trappist monastery.

Today is Election Day, and there is much that can be said about the state of politics in America: how divided we are as a nation, how vulgar and offensive so much of political sloganeering seems to be, how competing policy proposals seem all but lost in the insults and jeering that fills the airwaves — and dinner conversations. Political campaigns are noisy, and seem to be getting louder all the time. From the literal noise of blather from the pundits and candidates, to the metaphorical noise of relentless articles, social media posts, and clickbait, an incessant stream of words, words, words bombards us all the time.

Let’s vote, thoughtfully and with a consideration of our values and conscience. But once we have left the polling station, I think we need to listen to Merton and Waugh, and elect some silence of our own.

I’m not saying you need to run off to a monastery or a retreat center, unless of course that is your call. I believe most of us are called to “elect silence” right in our homes, our neighborhoods, our local communities. We can elect to give ourselves respite from the grinding cacophony of the media. We can choose to find rest and rejuvenation away from the noise of partisan politics. Silence invites us to create the space in our lives to truly be able to listen to the whispers of the Spirit in our hearts: whispers that are only available to us when we pause, take time to be still, and drink deeply from the refreshing well of serene silence.

We are not meant to be silent forever. We will continue to work, and will remain engaged with the public life of our nation. But let’s make sure that our activities and activism are fully anchored in the silence that rests deep within ourselves. Let’s not make the mistake of choosing everything but silence. It’s a principle of good financial management to save money before spending it. In a similar way, elect silence first: and then choose to say, and do, what is needed out of that contemplative stillness.

From the AnamChara Archive: This article was first published on November 5, 2024. New election day, but the message remains important. I’m reposting it to share with new readers and longtime subscribers alike.

I was texting with a friend recently, someone who shares my love for the mystical heart of contemplative spirituality; we got to talking about the concept of Memento Mori. It’s Latin for “Remember to die,” but it really means “remember that you must die.” It’s a concept that is especially associated with religious art — such as a painting of a skull on the monk’s desk. Gruesome as that may sound, the idea is actually quite fascinating: to the extent that we can remain mindful of our mortality, we will be inspired to live the life we have been given well, no matter how short it may be (or how little time we might have left).

It seems to me that there might be a corollary to Memento Mori — Para ad Moriendum, which is Latin for “prepare to die.” Again, please resist the temptation to view this as morbid or macabre. To prepare to die, from a contemplative perspective, means to prepare to die with grace and faith. We will all die. May we all do so only at the end of a long and happy life. But whether our years turn out to be short or long, whether the overall tone of our days is joyful or sorrowful — eventually, the end will come. Which leads to an obvious question: how shall we greet that moment, when finally it does arrive?

Must we consign ourselves to an end that is shaped by anxiety, by fear of the unknown, by the horror of our inability to know for sure what awaits us after our last breath? Or might there be a path toward death that is marked by a sense of peace, of trust, and even of thanksgiving for the gifts that life may have bestowed upon us?

In her wonderful book The Grace in Dying, hospice worker and psychotherapist Kathryn Dowling Singh offers this insight: that a contemplative practice is the best tool we human beings have for preparing for a mindful and serene death. It makes sense: for the work of releasing attachment to thoughts and distractions in contemplation could only help in the task of releasing our attachment to physical life as we near the inevitable end. This is not about “giving up” — but it is about touching a place of deep trust at a time when we are called to surrender everything. When, by the help of grace, that happens, then our last minutes may be filled with gratitude, serenity and a loving hope.

Memento Mori. Para ad Moriendum. For me, these are invitations not to manage the very end of my life, but to let mindfulness of my final destiny shape my capacity to live deeply and heartfully in the present moment, and in every moment to come.

In chapter 4 of The New Big Book of Christian Mysticism I look at the Hebrew Bible, Greek philosophy and pagan religion, and of course the stories of Jesus and his followers, as three distinct sources for creating the spiritual phenomenon of Christian Mysticism.

For the Jewish tradition, I offer this verse from I Samuel as a bit of insight into the mystical dimension of ancient Hebrew Spirituality:

“Then the spirit of the Lord will possess you, and you will be in a prophetic frenzy along with them and be turned into a different person.” — I Samuel 10:6, NRSV

These are words that the prophet Samuel speaks over Saul as he is being anointed the first king of Israel. These are prophetic words: Samuel is describing an event before it happens, that will help Samuel to realize his destiny not only as a the ruler of the people but as a prophet of God. The triggering event is an encounter he would have later that day with a group of prophets, making ecstatic music as they travel from a shrine. At this point, Saul himself would receive the Spirit of the Lord (literally, “the breath of Yahweh”) and would himself be transformed into a prophet — indeed, into a new (“different”) person altogether.

Could the Spirit of the Lord/the breath of Yahweh be understood as roughly equivalent to what Christians understand the Holy Spirit to be?

If we accept that idea, then Samuel is telling Saul that he is going to receive the Holy Spirit, respond with words of prophetic utterance, and ultimately becoming an entirely new person.

In the Christian tradition, there is a sense that people filled with the Holy Spirit of God will receive charismatic gifts; the most famous/controversial of such gifts if glossolalia, or “speaking in tongues,” but the ability to prophesy is also considered a gift of the Spirit (see I Corinthians 12). It’s important here to remember that prophecy does not mean foretelling the future so much as it simply means the ability to speak the words of God, which might be just as oriented toward the present as toward the future.

Saul was a king, an elite figure at the pinnacle of Hebrew society. But the New Testament makes it clear that the gifts of the Holy Spirit are meant for everyone: not just the privileged few.

Today, charismatic spirituality is controversial among many Christians because it often seems to be intertwined with fundamentalist or dualistic theology (with an overt emphasis on such things as spiritual warfare, fighting the devil, and so forth). For those of us who are drawn to the wisdom of the mystics, I think I Samuel 10:6 reminds us that the transforming power of the Spirit has roots that go much deeper than the New Testament. In fact, I would argue that the template Samuel offers to Saul is truly universal in its application. To be a contemplative is to consent to the breath of Yahweh (the Spirit who acts within us); this consent will not only guide us into the wisdom of God that leads us into community (“prophesy with them”) but also into a heart transformed by that indwelling Spirit of Life (“a different person”).

May we all find such inner transformation.

A common understanding of mysticism is that it is experiential — it’s not so much about theories or ideas, but rather about embodied experience. Whether you call it the experience of God, or of Spirit, or of Divine Union, Divine Love, the “Absolute” or whatever — Evelyn Underhill once described mysticism as “the art of union with Reality” — the life of the mystic is the life of real, embodied, encounter.

But what exactly are we encountering or experiencing? Is it only the gee-whiz, extraordinary (miraculous) experiences that count? Or is mysticism the heart of even the most mundane and ordinary of spiritual experiences, that anyone can experience, at any place and any time?

There are no tidy answers to these questions. Mysticism is a big topic, so embarking upon a mystical journey cannot be easily summed up in a special feeling or remarkable shift in consciousness. And if we take seriously the idea that God (Spirit, the Divine, however you name the Mystery) is at the heart of mystical experience, then we also have to acknowledge that this Sacred Mystery just might come to us in the most ordinary and down-to-earth of experiences, perhaps in a way that many people might not intuitively call “mystical.”

In your meditation, I invite you to dare to be radically open to the Mystery that cannot be put into words or neatly captured in a box or some similar container. You carry within you the seeds of a radical, eye-popping, jaw-dropping mystical experience. And you also carry within you the capacity to discover intimacy with the Spirit in the middle of the most down-to-earth and “ordinary” of moments in your life.

This is to say: mysticism is just as much about the attentiveness, the mindfulness, the paying-attention and watching, as it is about dramatic phenomenon which may or may not shape or dramatically transform one’s own spiritual understanding.

Meditate on love. Meditate on justice and serenity and healing. Meditate on the Mystery that you might call God or Spirit or some other name. Meditate on the fact that falling in love with Love will sooner or later take you beyond the functionality of words (or images or concepts). Be open to the Mystery. Be open to being surprised: whether in big or small ways. Your openness will be your best guide.

I am currently traveling to speak with contemplative communities in Virginia and Maryland. While I am on the road, I am reposting articles from the AnamChara archive. Today’s article was first published on November 17, 2024. I’m reposting it especially to share with new readers, while trusting that longtime subscribers will enjoy revisiting it.

Lady Gregory (1852-1932) was an Irish playwright and leading figure of the early 20th Century Celtic Renaissance. She was a friend and mentor to William Butler Yeats among other Irish literary lights. Today she is probably best known for her colorful retelling of Gaelic myths and legends. Indeed, today’s quotation comes from her book Gods and Fighting Men: The Story of the Tuatha de Danaan and of the Fianna of Ireland.

Here’s what she has told say on the subject of virtue:

“The four essential virtues are to be generous among the weak, and truthful among one’s friends, and brave among one’s enemies and courteous at all times.”
— Lady Augusta Gregory

It’s easy to forget that mysticism is built on a solid foundation of virtuous living. Especially those of us who are Americans are so used to living in a society geared toward convenience and instant gratification. If we become interested in mysticism, it’s because we want a mystical experience, for heaven’s sake! How easy it is to forget that the mystics saw divine union as the culminating grace of a long process and deep inner transformation, that in times of old was often described using language that today we might find intimidating: purgation, purification, mortification, asceticism.

Such language can evoke frightening images of austere monks whipping themselves while drops of blood drip form their tight cilices. But that image represents the abusive extreme of mystical purgation — and while it is wise and healthy to reject such compulsive self-punishment, it is also important to remember that a balanced and moderate practice of inner purification is something different — and something consistently recommended by the mystics.

What, then, is a healthy path of inner transformation? I believe Lady Gregory gives us a great starting point. Don’t approach purgation merely in terms of what you want to let go of; but rather consider the kind of virtuous life you wish to cultivate as a foundation for your contemplative practice. She offers us four excellent invitations: to cultivate generosity, authenticity, courage, and civility. I suspect if most of us are frankly honest with ourselves, we know that we could stand to grow in at least one of these virtues (if not all four)!

The mystical life is not about shame or judgment. If you have difficulty being generous with those in need, or standing up to bullies, or being kind to your political or professional rivals, try to gently set aside any temptation of treat yourself harshly. The mystical life is about love, after all, and part of that love is the necessary work of compassion toward one’s own self. We forgive ourselves when we fail to live up to our own ideals — and we love ourselves to keep striving toward the virtues that we see as befitting a contemplative life. This, too, is a spiritual practice.

I am currently traveling to speak with contemplative communities in Virginia and Maryland. While I am on the road, I am reposting articles the AnamChara archive. Today’s article was first published on March 23, 2025. I’m reposting it especially to share with new readers, while trusting that longtime subscribers will enjoy revisiting it.

The history of mysticism is a history of the love for God… For mystical consciousness, it is essential that everything internal become external and be made visible. A dream wants to be told, the “inner light” wants to shine, the vision has to be shared. — Dorothee Soelle

Dorothee Soelle (1929-2003) was a German Lutheran liberation theologian, famous for developing the concept of “Christofascism” — the toxicity that results from the union between Christianity and right-wing totalitarianism — and for declaring “Every theological statement must be a political statement as well” (in her book Against the Wind: the Memoir of a Radical Christian).

Some Christians who prioritize the social/political dimension of their faith often seem to have no time for contemplation and meditation. But Dorothee Soelle refused to throw spirituality and mysticism under the bus in her quest for a socially engaged faith; indeed, she wrote a luminous book about the social dimension of mysticism, called The Silent Cry: Mysticism and Resistance. The above quote comes from that book.

Make no mistake: Soelle rejects any “spirituality” that is escapist or otherworldly. Her mysticism is decidedly down-to-earth. But that’s been true of many, if not most, of the mystics of western culture. But in her quest to proclaim a mysticism that is socially engaged, she offers great insight into how to make mysticism practical.

And how do we make mysticism practical? We look for ways to bring our inner and outer lives into harmony. In Soelle’s words, we make our inner lives visible. We not only embody an experiential relationship with the Divine, but we manifest it in the external circumstances of our lives. If we contemplate the God of infinite mercy, then we strive to live merciful lives. If we meditate on the God of compassionate justice, then we orient the totality of our lives, external as well as internal, toward justice and compassion. And so forth.

This is not always easy, and I believe that the forces in our society that benefit from injustice and inequality would just as soon have mystics keep their spirituality to themselves. And some mystics are called to lives of solitude and seclusion — but many others are called to live out their deep love for the Divine in the midst of the messiness of ordinary life. If that’s who you are, then take Dorothee Soelle’s words to heart: cultivate your silence-loving heart, and let that heart direct your life so that you share your vision with others: a vision where love reigns supreme, we work together on behalf of justice and peace, and the experience of Divine Union is meant for everyone.

I am currently traveling to speak with contemplative communities in Virginia and Maryland. While I am on the road, I am reposting articles the AnamChara archive. Today’s article was first published on February 11, 2025. I’m reposting it especially to share with new readers, while trusting that longtime subscribers will enjoy revisiting it.

Whenever I publish a brief prayer, meditation, or reflection on a quote from a great mystic past or present, I post it on my Substack under the category of Mystical Journey. But what, exactly, do we mean when we speak of a mystical journey?

Journey may not be that hard of a word to wrap our heads around, but mystical is a humdinger. And when we talk about mysticism, we bump into an entire array of words that are all elusive or enigmatic in their own way: words like God or Spirit or ultimate reality or non-duality… So perhaps the first thing I need to say is that writing about mystical spirituality is nothing like writing about science or mathematics, because the words are mostly poetic, deeply metaphorical, and often carry a spectrum of factual and emotional meanings. Mysticism is an invitation into our inner worlds. Each one of us is a one-of-a-kind creation. So the very language we use will always be colored and shaped by our own uniqueness.

Maybe, then, I need to acknowledge that each of us is a singular miracle of divine creativity: “fearfully and wonderfully made,” as the Psalms put it. Given this uniqueness, the obvious question is: what does the concept of a mystical journey mean to you?

Whoever you are, and whatever your story might be, I am glad for us to journey together.

The mystical journey is for anyone and everyone, at any age or level of experience, who wants a deeper connection with God (the Sacred Mystery, which cannot be put into words). To be such a traveler is to seek to integrate the wisdom and teachings of great mystics and contemplatives into our own lives, our own spiritual practice, our own faith journey. This is a path for anyone who simply enjoys reading inspirational spiritual writing and finds that the insights, meditations, and reflections of the great mystics can inspire and encourage the spiritual journey today.

Why “Mystical Journey”?

First, the easy bit: Why a mystical journey? Well, life itself is a journey. For most of us, the journey from birth to death takes many years, and this is not meant to be a burden, but a joy. We experience many seasons and transitions over the course of this sojourn. We learn lessons, we grow and mature, and we attain wisdom that we can share with others.

Now, to the trickier bit: what makes life a mystical journey? Perhaps mysticism begins with a recognition that spirituality makes the most difference when it is embodied, experiential, contemplative, and visionary. This is one way (not the only way) of understanding what mysticism is: spirituality that is heart-centered, radiant with possibilities, and simultaneously both down-to-earth and joyously transcendent. Mystics tend to be found on both the margins and the cutting edge of society and faith community. They open up interior doorways to new ways of seeing, understanding, experiencing, and enjoying the Mystery that cannot be named (but for the sake of simplicity we call this Mystery God or Sacred or Divine.)

Since life is a journey, then naturally the mystical dimension of life also takes us on a journey. We do not “master” mysticism in a decisive moment or single life-event: as Brother Wayne Teasdale points out in his book The Mystic Heart, becoming a mystic is as much a process as an experience. We mature, we grow and change and blossom and unfold, in the life of contemplation and visionary knowing.

From ancient times, mystical teachers have spoken of different seasons of the mystical life, such as times of purification, illumination, and union. So let’s acknowledge (and celebrate) that everyone is at a different place in their own spiritual adventure. Mysticism is not a one-size-fits-all spirituality, and what nurtures you today may not necessarily be what you needed five years ago (or will need five years from now).

What about God?

As for “the Sacred Mystery,” there’s no good word for it, alas. Some find “God” helpful, but for others, that term seems obsolete or even triggering. Less fraught terminology like “Spirit,” “Sacred,” “Divine” or “Mystery” works for some, but not others. Likewise, “Goddess” or even “God the Mother” feels freeing to some, and unsettling to others. I will use a little bit of all these terms, and occasionally throw in other signifiers as well, to remind us that mysticism invites us to experience something that simply cannot be put into words. Please be patient when the language is not “your” language, and try to remember that the language you like will be problematic for others. I hope we can all be generous and hospitable as we seek to communicate what ultimately is beyond description.

If you’ve read this far, I’m assuming that spirituality matters to you, mystical experience and wisdom interests you, and that your heart seeks deeper intimacy with the Heart of the Mystery. This means you and I are kindred spirits. I certainly do not claim to have all the answers. We are co-learners here. Your comments, feedback, suggestions, insights, and ideas truly help me as I write this newsletter. Please, if something occurs to you, share it with me. I can’t promise that I can answer every idea or comment, but I do pledge to read them all, and to consider your input as I shape the future of this Substack. In a very real way, this is our project. A journey is so much more fun when you have travel companions. It is an honor to explore the mystical path with you.

Finally, a brief word about me. I’ve written a few books on this topic and have been blogging about mysticism for a number of years now. Ah, when I was in college and sweating about what I wanted to be when I grew up, if only some friendly counselor could have told me I would become a mysticism blogger. That would have cleared things right up! Never mind that the word “blogger” didn’t exist back then.

I live outside of Atlanta, GA with my wife and several pampered cats; I’m a spiritual director and retreat leader in addition to the writing I do. I grew up Christian and still primarily identify as such, but I am also a student of the Buddha so I think of myself as “interspiritual” or “perennialist” or simply a “dual practitioner.” Like many people drawn to the mystical and contemplative dimensions of the inner life, I struggle with the institutional side of religion, so I try to write for both people who are religious as well as people who prefer to simply identify as spiritual. I had my first mystical experience when I was sixteen years old — almost half a century ago now — and I am still integrating it. Mysticism will do that to you.

Thanks for being here on this Substack with me. Until next time: please breathe gently, live deeply, love lavishly, and trust that you are a miracle in human form.

Blessings,

Skye

From the AnamChara archive: This article was first published on November 9, 2024. I’ve revised it slightly and am happy to share it with new readers and longtime subscribers alike.

“Our soul is like a castle made entirely out of a diamond or of very clear crystal, in which there are many rooms… it is nothing else but a paradise where God finds delight.” — Saint Teresa of Ávila

Teresa of Ávila (1515-1582) is widely considered one of the greatest mystics of the Catholic Christian tradition. A Spanish Carmelite nun who lived at the time of the Protestant Reformation, her writing is colorful, intuitive, non-linear, and filled with striking images and useful insights into the experience of Divine Love. The Interior Castle, one of several books she wrote on the mystical life, is her most enduring classic, but other books well worth reading include her autobiography and The Way of Perfection.

Teresa lived in a tumultuous time — the Protestant Reformations began in northern Europe when she was just a small child; closer to home in Spain, the papal-sanctioned but state-run Tribunal of the Holy Office of the Inquisition — in other words, the Spanish Inquisition — was actively at work seeking to enforce orthodoxy and suppress heresy, but in practice this was mainly about oppressing Jews and even Catholic converts from Judaism who were accused of remaining observant Jews in secret. Several thousand people were executed because of the Inquisition’s power. She herself was the granddaughter of a Jewish converso who in 1485 was investigated by the Inquisition, and while he was not condemned, he nevertheless was very publicly humiliated for his alleged “crimes.”

Given this background, it’s rather amazing that Teresa had such an optimistic view of humanity that she could see our souls “made entirely of a diamond or of very clear crystal!” Especially given that during her lifetime, Reformers like John Calvin were developing theological ideas that would eventually result in the concept of “total depravity” — a profoundly pessimistic assessment of humanity. By contrast, the soul as a shimmering, sparkling castle suggests that humanity is not depraved so much as divine. Even though we may make many mistakes (a fact Teresa never soft-pedals), still, her sense of the beauty of the soul is both mystically inspired and a source of deep hope.

October 15 is Saint Teresa’s feast day. As we remember her, let’s not lose sight of how precious (and diamond-like) each and every soul is — and if we cannot see that beauty, we know it is not hidden from the eyes of the Divine.

From the AnamChara archive: This article was first published on November 19, 2024. I’ve edited and expanded it, and am happy to share it with new readers and longtime subscribers alike.

Note: I’ll be on the road speaking in Virginia and Maryland now through October 27. I’ll be sharing several of these archival posts while I’m traveling.

Whether we remain in the church or leave it, or follow a path somewhere in between, we are living in an age that is characterized by exile and spiritual search. Something new is trying to be born within us and among us. — John Philip Newell1

I have lost track of how many times I have recommended Brian D. McLaren’s book Do I Stay Christian? A Guide for the Doubters, the Disappointed, and the Disillusioned. It was not an easy book for me to read; and I would imagine it would be challenging — but possibly also liberating — for anyone who devoted much of their life not just to the teachings of Jesus and his followers, but also (and perhaps most especially) to the institutional and cultural experience of being “a Christian.”

We are living in a time when more and more people are questioning being a Christian — and not just rebels and outcasts; these days, even the most dedicated Christians — pastors and lay leaders and other “pillars of the church” — are wondering if the church is where they belong.

Wisely, McLaren never tries to answer the question that forms the title of his book. He recognized that conscientious and thoughtful people will reach different conclusions when grappling with this question — even if their circumstances seem on the surface to be similar. His book is not meant to show people the door, nor to try to convince them to stay. Rather, what McLaren tries to do is to help his readers be thoughtful and discerning as they reflect on the future of their relationship to the institution.

In The Great Search, John Philip Newell takes a slightly different approach to the questions that McLaren wrestles with. Newell writes not about discernment in the way McLaren does, but rather seeks to make sense of the fact that in our time, so many people are leaving the institution behind. Celt that he is, Newell sees this “search” as leading ultimately back to nature and to forms of community that live close to the earth. But just as Thomas Merton felt that the existence of monks and nuns carried meaning for everyone, not just to those who lived in the cloister; Newell recognizes that the great exodus from religious observance is a “sign of the times” that likewise has something meaningful to say for everyone. We are all meant to participate in the great search, regardless of our religonship to institutional religion.

Someone told me recently they struggled with religion because they preferred asking questions to just having all the “answers.” I believe a healthy religion, at its best, is not afraid of wondering and questioning and seeking — but probably the old-fashioned church has some more changing to do before that kind of religious “best practice” truly becomes the mainstream standard. In the meantime, we are all equally responsible for visualizing (and manifesting) that “something new” that wants to emerge from our hearts. Some of us will give birth to this new kind of spirituality even while remaining “in the pews,” whereas others will do so only in the wilderness. Where you happen to be is not the point. The point is this: are you ready to, spiritually speaking, give birth to something new, to something born of love that will transform us all? That may very well be the only question truly worth asking.

God’s Spirit is continually challenging, changing, and maturing us. Although we may be able to point to a single and decisive conversion experience, remaining faithful involves a journey of continual conversion. It can never be said in our lifetime that we have “arrived.” The spiritual life invites a process of transformation in the life of a believer. It is a process of growing in gratitude, trust, obedience, humility, compassion, service, and joy. — Marjorie J. Thompson1

I am a busy person. I don’t say this to complain; I love the work I do and the role I get to play in sharing mysticism with others. I love hanging out with friends, traveling with my life partner, and investing in the simple pleasures like taking walks or listening to music or reading a good book. There are many things I could say about my life, both good and bad, but one thing is for sure: I am not bored.

In her wonderful, invitational book on the spiritual life, Soul Feast, Presbyterian minister and spiritual director Marjorie J. Thompson offers a full description of the spiritual life as a transformational process. She lists seven dimensions of this process, qualities that the Spirit calls us to cultivate in our lives:

• Gratitude, a sense of appreciation and thanksgiving for whatever life throws our way;

• Trust, a letting-go of anxious control and a discovery that the Spirit does provide for us;

• Obedience, or deep listening, where we offer our will to the guidance of the Divine Will;

• Humility, a down-to-earth quality of gentle humor and self-forgetfulness as we live in simplicity;

• Compassion, a heart calibrated toward empathy and care rather than indifference and defensiveness;

• Service, an impulse to generosity and helpfulness, especially to those in need; and finally,

• Joy — which, if you have been reading me for a while, you know is a quality I believe most spiritual seekers (really, most people in general) tend to be deficient in.

I love this list, and I can think of even more qualities to add to it: silence, mindfulness, hospitality, awe, reverence, stillness, and wonder. Spirituality, after all, is about life — life encompassing the totality of the human experience — so perhaps even suffering, grieving, doubt, and (righteous) anger have their place on this “to-do list” of spiritual growth.

Do you see where I am going with all this?

These spiritual to-do’s seem to bring us blessings (and hopefully can contribute to that joy we all seem to need more of). But if we consider the entire list, and begin to see it as, in fact, a task list, the promise of joy gets a little wobbly and it all begins to feel rather overwhelming.

So we need a bit of balance here. Yes, there are lots of life-giving qualities available to us as spiritual seekers. But there’s also a need to live slowly, intentionally, and at a “human” pace. We don’t have to have spirituality or mysticism all figured out and tied up in a neat bow by this time next year.

The spiritual life is an invitation into the cathedral of time, the spaciousness of eternity. We can take our time as we seek to respond to the invitations and challenges that the Spirit brings us. Because spirituality is about love, even deeper than joy: and when we’re in love, we have nowhere we need to be, nothing we must attain. We simply live in love. Which, come to think of it, might be the most direct route to joy after all.

When I began my research into the myths most responsible for our understanding of masculinity today, I discovered that the masculine hadn’t always been conflated with the violence of hierarchy and domination. Long before the sword-wielding heroes of legend readily cut down forests, slaughtered the old deities, and vanquished their enemies, there were playful gods, animal-headed kings, mischievous lovers, vegetal magicians, trickster harpists, and riddling bards. These archetypes of ancient masculinities are mirrored by contemporary discoveries in biology, genetics, ecology, and quantum physics. My deepening study into myth and science blurred my ideas of gender distinction and, even more excitingly, my ideas of bounded individuality. — Sophie Strand1

At first, I was a bit skeptical about a book on sacred masculinity that was written by a young woman like Sophie Strand, who was not yet 29 when her book The Flowering Wand was published. Just as women are understandably wary of men appointing themselves as explainers of the feminine, I worried that even a well-meaning woman simply would not be able to navigate the volatility of testosterone and the challenges of inhabiting male bodies and identities in our troubled and fractious world. But my anxiety was allayed by this paragraph, found in the book’s introduction.

Men liberated from violence are men set free to play. Perhaps this is what Jesus was getting at with his instructions to “become like children” (Matthew 18:3). He wasn’t telling his followers to be immature, or powerless, or incapable of self-care. He was encouraging them — and by extension, all of us — to play. There’s nothing implicitly gendered here: Jesus is not just talking to men, but to us all. But then, like now, Jesus’s words come to us in a world marked by systems of power and privilege that benefit straight, cisgender men, at the expense of everyone else. But even the straight cis guys can be harmed by the “filthy, rotten system” (as Dorothy Day called it) that we live under. Powerful men make life hell for those with less power, in both big and small ways. Any system that is based on the unequal distribution of power will sooner or later bring suffering to everyone except those at the very top (and they, too, have their relatively mitigated suffering of having to always watch their back).

Playful gods, mischievous lovers, trickster harpists… Sophie Strand points out that there is something truly goofy and silly about masculinity at its best. This might be why Jungian analyst Ann Ulanov wrote a book on human sexual archetypes that paired “the clown” with “the witch.” Both clowns and witches subvert traditional hierarchies: the powerful witch undermines the limitations placed on women’s autonomy, while the clown liberates men from the role of oppressor by unleashing their inner foolishness.

Little boys can often be rascals, can’t they? They just love to play. I once read an article (I can’t recall the author) that suggested the reason why women like to have men around is because, at their best, men are playful and fun. Sophie Strand reminds us that there is a mythical foundation to this — and the wise, childlike Jesus seems to clearly agree.

Divine Mystery,
You are the silent source of life and love.
I believe you are supremely trustworthy,
Yet I do not always know how to trust you.
I too readily give in to fear, anxiety, and worry.
There is so much suffering in the world,
So much division, and so much anger.
Sometimes I cannot help but feel that the turmoil
In others requires me to yield to the turmoil in me.
Help me to understand, to see, and to walk
The contemplative path of peace, trust, and service.
Help me to center my heart in your felicity and joy,
So that serenity and gladness may inspire me
To embody your humble and confident power
For fostering justice, mercy, inclusion, and care.
Most of all, teach me to trust you generously,
Lavishly, and cheerfully, so that through this
Generous trust, I may truly be your beacon of light.
Resting in your timeless presence I pray,
Amen.

Julian of Norwich had this to say about her fourteenth showing or vision: “our lord God is ground of our beseking. Herein was seen two fair properties: that one is rightful prayer, that other is seker trust, which he will both be alike large.”1 Rendered into today’s English: the Holy One is the ground of our prayer, and herein we see two fair qualities: one is attentive prayer, the other is secure trust, and we are called to be generous with both.

This sentence of Julian’s has been deeply meaningful to me over the years, as I have sought to weave generosity, trust and prayer together as a braid of grace in my life. This prayer I wrote this morning was inspired by Julian’s wisdom. I hope it may be of some use to you as well.

From the AnamChara archive: This article was first published on November 6, 2024. I’m reposting it especially to share with new readers, while trusting that longtime subscribers will enjoy revisiting it.

Although we may cling to this life and fear its end, beyond death there is mind; and where there is mind, there is uninterrupted display: spacious, radiant, and continually manifesting. — Dzogchen Ponlop1

These words from the Tibetan Buddhist abbot and writer Dzogchen Ponlop (b. 1965) will, no doubt, strike different readers in different ways. To a materialist, these words are absurd. What mind? Perhaps radical materialism is, ultimately, nothing more than a failure of the imagination. If you cannot imagine something beyond the finality of death, is that so very different from a despairing prisoner who no longer can imagine life outside their locked cell?

But even if we are able to conceive of the “mind beyond death” as the abbot describes it, the next question that might arise is, whose mind? Is it my own little, individual mind that greets me in its spacious, radiant, manifesting suchness? Or is it some sort of universal mind, big mind, the mind of the universe, the mind of the All? Is death, as a fall into the “mind beyond,” not unlike the experience of love here on earth, which seems to be a falling into bliss and meaning and a sense of connection?

To theists, the low-hanging fruit here is irresistible; of course the mind beyond death is the mind of God! Even if the word “God” makes you twitch, there are nine billion names to choose from.2 Perhaps the mind of the Goddess, or Atman, or Spirit… what name do you wish to give to that which has no name or all names?

“Silence is God’s first language.” Words from Thomas Keating, with echoes of Rumi and John of the Cross. If this is so, we need no name for the spacious and radiant one. Death, it seems, is continually manifesting (over a million human beings will die this week3). So it makes sense to me that the mind of silence will continually manifest as well.

Perhaps there is really just one fundamental question of life: are we safe? Even if you believe there is no mind after death, how do you answer this question? And for those of us who do say “yes” to mind continually manifesting, we cannot be anything other than safe — for we are in that space that is spacious, radiant, and heart-openingly, beautifully silent.

Note: The following meditation was posted back in April 2025, but I’m sharing it again now in memory of the amazing nature mystic (and gifted writer) Annie Dillard, who passed away on September 15, 2026. Rest in peace, Tinker Creek pilgrim — thank you for your luminous words.

One day I was walking along Tinker Creek thinking of nothing at all and I saw the tree with the lights in it. I saw the backyard cedar where the mourning doves roost charged and transfigured, each cell buzzing with flame. I stood on the grass with the lights in it, grass that was wholly fire, utterly focused and utterly dreamed. It was less like seeing than like being for the first time seen, knocked breathless by a powerful glance… Gradually the lights went out in the cedar, the colors died, the cells unflamed and disappeared. I was still ringing. I had been my whole life a bell, and never knew it until at that moment I was lifted and struck. — Annie Dillard

In her classic book Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, Annie Dillard offers a powerful insight into nature mysticism by describing her visionary encounter with a “tree with the lights in it” — which makes me think of the famous lines by Elizabeth Barrett Browning:

Earth’s crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God;
But only he who sees, takes off his shoes,
The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries,
And daub their natural faces unaware…

Both Dillard and Browning remind us that the mystical encounter is for more available to us than we might we realize, but for some inexplicable reason we often miss it. Maybe we’re just too preoccupied with the cares of this world, like Browning’s blackberry pickers; or maybe we keep seeking the vision, like Dillard, only to find it is maddeningly elusive. Wanting the vision of the burning bush or the flame-lit tree is no guarantee that the epiphany will be granted.

What to do, then? We keep watch. We pay attention. And we need to persevere, trusting that the vision of heaven might be granted at any time.

Julian of Norwich said there are two types of prayer: the prayer of seeking God, and the prayer of beholding. We seek the burning bush, the tree with the lights, the mystical vision. We seek the epiphany on the street corner or the angel with the long dart of gold. And sometimes, probably when we least expect, our seeking opens up into beholding. Julian points out that, as sweet as beholding is and as arid as seeking seems, both types of prayer nourish us and please the Spirit. Part of learning to always seek the face of God is learning to understanding that even the seeking of the Divine Face is, itself, a fulfillment.

The contemplative life should not lead us just to suppress the imagination in order to get more pure messages from God. We must allow both for a contemplative prayer in which the imagination has little or no part and for a creative, imaginative, genuinely poetic side in our life. Our imagination must be able to click and find correspondences, symbols and meanings. It should point up new meanings. It should create nuclei of meaning around which everything can collect significantly.

— Thomas Merton, Contemplation in a World of Action1

Contemplative practices like Centering Prayer stress the beauty and grace of cultivating what Cynthia Bourgeault calls “objectless awareness” — in other words, a keen awareness that refrains from focusing on any one thing. As part of this process, we rely on a sacred word, phrase, image or even simply the rhythm of the breath, in order to release any internal thought, feeling, or daydream that clamors for our attention. Rather than zeroing in on this or that idea or notion, we release them all lightly, returning ever-so-gently to the sacred word which symbolizes our silent consent to the Spirit working deep within us.

Centering Prayer is a meaningful and spiritually rewarding exercise, and I commend it to anyone who feels called to deepen their spiritual practice through such attentive observance of silence. But it seems wise to remember that wordless meditation is not the only path up the mountain. No matter how beneficial silent prayer is, it is not meant to replace every other means for nurturing inner growth. And the renowned Trappist monk Thomas Merton understood this (even though he would never have called contemplation “Centering Prayer,” since that term was not used until after his death).

Merton sees spiritual methods like Centering Prayer, where “the imagination has little or no part” as needing a complementary practice, in which “a creative, imaginative, genuinely poetic side in our life” has free rein to pray.

While it might be logical and easy to assume that Merton is endorsing Ignatian spirituality here — a type of meditation that uses the imaginal faculty to foster a prayerful encounter with Christ or the saints — I believe Merton sees more possibilities for the imagination than just as a tool to facilitate prayer. He is not just telling us it’s okay to pray using the imagination; he is saying that spirituality needs opportunities where our imaginal potential can be truly creative. As Merton notes, “The imagination should be allowed a certain freedom to browse around, find its own spontaneous material and work with that material.”

What happens when we just let our inner creativity play, without giving it excessive guidelines or boundaries that it must observe? Sometimes, this might lead to aimless meandering, or an experience where all our wondering (and inner wandering) seems to yield little. But Merton knew that a slew of bad or half-baked ideas is the price we pay for the occasional insight that shines and glimmers with inexplicable genius. When we get out of the imagination’s way, it just might choose to dance with the Spirit. At that graced moment, suddenly everything becomes possible.

As I reflect on these words of Merton’s, I am reminded of a concept valuable to me as a writer: reverie. It’s that place where being lost in one’s own thoughts shades off into a pleasant daydream. It’s not practical and there’s no (immediate) profit in it. It also seems to be the opposite of Centering Prayer, where the game is to let all thoughts flow by — not to get lost in them. But when I am writing, I have learned that reverie is an important tool for my creative process. Journalist Burton Rascoe noted that a writer is working even when just staring out the window. What’s true for the writer is true for the contemplative — and the mystic — as well. May we all learn to pair our practice of intentional non-attachment to the reverie that puts us in touch with that creative place deep within us, where the Spirit dwells.

You’ve got what it takes to slow down.

You’ve got what it takes to listen to your heart.

You’ve got what it takes to truly be aware of the present moment.

You’ve got what it takes to find God in all things and in all people.

You’ve got what it takes to breathe slowly and gently and deeply.

You’ve got what it takes to notice the silence between every thought.

You’ve got what it takes to live in gratitude, giving thanks even for the difficult things.

You’ve got what it takes to love your neighbor as yourself — one love, one being.

You’ve got what it takes to open yourself generously to kindness and hospitality.

You’ve got what it takes to ask for what you need and to be receptive with others.

You’ve got what it takes to acknowledge the mystery at the heart of all things.

You’ve got what it takes to cultivate a life shaped by awe and wonder.

You’ve got what it takes to pray without ceasing, to take delight and find joy in the divine, to live in ever-blossoming empathy.

You’ve got what it takes to foster within you all the fruit of the Spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and equanimity.

You’ve got what it takes to embody the Beatitudes: to enjoy the happiness that emerges from both the splendor and the challenge of a mystically grounded life.

You’ve got what it takes to see the burning bush, to be caught up into the third heaven, to fall in love with everyone, and to see the gate of heaven everywhere.

You’ve got what it takes to wake up, to notice what is alive and luminous in you and around you, the divine presence revealed here and there and in all things.

You’ve got what it takes to embrace the unknowing, to fearlessly enter the obscure night, to be vulnerable and broken and incomplete, to tell the truth, and to live into the possibilities.

You’ve got what it takes to recover your wholeness: to cleanse yourself, and also to allow the Spirit to bring you healing and renewal and newness of life.

You’ve got what it takes to become fire, to glow with your inner light, to shimmer as you partake of the divine nature, to radiantly shine like the sun.

You’ve got what it takes to embody the darkness, to celebrate rest and leisure as you honor the rhythm of being, mindful of how no breath is complete without the inhale and the exhale.

You’ve got what it takes to recognize what has been mysteriously hidden in you all along: that you are one with God, fully human, fully divine, fully realized, fully becoming, fully you, fully ecstatic, fully ineffable, fully beyond the limits of reason or words — fully divinized, here, now; in this very place, in this very moment.

As the fir-tree lifts up itself with a far different need from the need of the palm-tree, so does each [person] stand before God, and lift up a different humanity to the common Father. And for each God has a different response. —George MacDonald1

George MacDonald (1824-1905) is perhaps best known today as the 19th century fantasy writer who was such a profound inspiration to J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis. His children’s books, including The Princess and the Goblin and At the Back of the North Wind, continue to be published in beautiful keepsake editions. John Philip Newell praised MacDonald as an important voice in the modern-day survival of Celtic spirituality, and I would add that he is perhaps one of the most under-rated of mystics from the last 200 years.

The beauty and idiosyncratic splendor of his mystical vision is on full display in his anthology called Unspoken Sermons — “unspoken” because they were written but never preached from a pulpit.2 And among those unspoken sermons, “The New Name” offers a particularly lovely vision of the dynamic nature of divine love.

This sermon reflects on a puzzling verse in the New Testament (Revelation 2:17) that suggests God will give us each a white stone with a unique new name on it when we go to heaven. We each get a unique new name because we are all, each of us, unique expressions of God’s love. Because of this, our capacity to love God is likewise one-of-a-kind. We are all like musical instruments, each of us creating a different melody and sound that will never be expressed by anyone else, throughout all space and time. Our contribution to the beauty of life (both here on earth and eventually in heaven) is not only unique, but uniquely beautiful. If we had never existed, the symphony of heavenly music would be all the poorer for it.

MacDonald seems to be saying something exquisitely simple and beautiful to us:

You matter. Your gift to life, to God, to the universe is irreplaceable and infinitely beautiful. Your very existence is a blessing to everyone. Thank you for being you, and for the life you hold and the love you share.

For a number of years I taught a class on spiritual writing for a continuing education program here in Atlanta. I used several different textbooks over the years; my favorite by far was The Art of Spiritual Writing by Vinita Hampton Wright, who for many years was an editor with Loyola Press in Chicago. I loved this book because it offered wonderful insights into the craft of writing, from journaling to publishing; but also drew clear connections between writing and spiritual practice. This quotation, one of many gems in the book, brings home the author’s gentle, clear-headed wisdom:

Prayer is attentiveness to your life and openness to the day and humility in the face of criticism and resolve in the moments of self-doubt. — Vinita Hampton Wright1

It echoes the wisdom of the French mystic Simone Weil, who said that “absolutely unmixed attention” is prayer.2 Vinita Hampton Wright takes this bit of wisdom and grounds it in the everyday reality of life. Not only to be attentive to your life, but to experience “openness to the day,” so prayer has a present-moment quality to it that is as essential as the attention.

Hampton Wright is not merely offering us spiritual encouragement; she is also providing practical advice to the writer who is hoping to be published some day. For such a person, prayer is an expression of humility: the down-to-earth resilience that enables a person to receive criticism, not with defensiveness or self-abnegation, but as a simple reality of creative work. No matter how good your work may be, to share it with others is to be vulnerable to rejection or criticism. This leads to her final point: prayer is resolve in the moments of self-doubt.

I have a longstanding and intimate relationship with my own self-doubt, and I sometimes fool myself into thinking that I’m the only person who second-guesses myself. It’s reassuring that be reminded that such “moments of self-doubt” are actually quite common. Writers (and other creators) discover that their relationship with self-doubt is not about “if” it happens, but rather “when” it occurs. When it does, it’s helpful to remember that prayer can guide us through such choppy waters.

Prayer, then, is the great antidote. Prayer calls us to be ruthlessly present to the exact moment we find ourselves in, even the moments of doubt and angst. Prayer is a reminder to be humble in the recognition that not all moments are pleasant or joyful; and to be resilient even when the transitory circumstances of our lives call us to question whatever might be going on.