Swimming with God

Posted on by Lisa Deam

Imagine something with me. You’re in a ship in a raging sea, going somewhere important. Perhaps going on a pilgrimage. But it’s beginning to look like you’re not going to make it. The ship dips and lists. The sea is alive – a force against you. You pray to God to save you from destruction.

Doesn’t our faith often feel like this? Like we’re being tossed around by untamable wind and waves? Medieval theologians often compared the world to the sea. “All the ways of this world are as fickle and unstable as a sudden storm at sea,” wrote the Venerable Bede in the 8th century. And every soul must cross this sea on the journey through life.

So what do we do? Usually we respond with alternating displays of strength and alarm. We try to build a stronger ship. Bone up on our sailing skills. Lay in resources. And when the storm comes, we cry out to Jesus to pilot our ship.

Now imagine that the worst happens. Despite everything you’ve done, your ship capsizes . . . you fall into the water. And it becomes calm, buoyant. You realize that you’re floating. Swimming. Drinking water yet not drowning.

How is this possible?

Perhaps because we’ve got it wrong. Perhaps Jesus does not pilot us through the sea but is the sea. Perhaps this is the way we make it through the waves.

Two female mystics of the Middle Ages paint this picture of our journey. The 14th-century Dominican Catherine of Siena prays:

Eternal Godhead!
I proclaim and do not deny it:
you are a peaceful sea
in which the soul feeds and is nourished
as she rests in you in love’s affection and union
by conforming her will with your high eternal will—
that will which wants nothing other than that we be made holy.

(source)

In this prayer, the sea becomes a figure of God’s gracious abundance. The soul does not have to survive the water in a ship. Instead, God is the water. He envelops us, and we rest in him.

We might even go for a swim in this sea. The 13th-century mystic Marguerite d’Oingt writes of a vision of unity she received:

The saints will be within their Creator as the fish within the sea: they will drink as much as they want, without getting tired and without diminishing the amount of water. The saints will be just like that, for they will drink and eat the great sweetness of God.

(source)

Marguerite envisions the sea as a source of living water that never runs out (John 4:10-14). It’s a source of nourishment, where the saints (that’s you and me!) taste the sweetness of God.

I love this imagery for the way it rewrites the usual script about the sea of life. In the words of Catherine of Siena and Marguerite d’Oingt, the sea does not inspire terror but represents the incredible generosity of God. It’s a way to conceive of being fully enveloped in God’s goodness. And it’s an image of peace and rest.

As we ply the waters of life, let us remember the vastness of God who, like the sea, is everywhere. Let us be assured that if our ship capsizes, we will not perish. Should we be tossed overboard, we can swim like fish in the sea that is God.

***

This post is loosely based on one chapter from my forthcoming book, 3000 Miles to Jesus: Pilgrimage as a Way of Life for Spiritual Seekers. It’s a sneak peak behind the scenes, because it contains a lot of material that didn’t make it into the book! Click here (my author website) for more info on 3000 Miles to Jesus.

Are You A Mystic?

Posted on by Lisa Deam

As you may have noticed, I’m always talking about the Christian mystics of the Middle Ages. But did you know that there were no mystics in the Middle Ages? The figures we call “mystics” – like Julian of Norwich and Catherine of Siena — would have referred to themselves as contemplatives or perhaps simply as devout Christians.

“Mystic” and “mysticism” are more modern terms (17th century). But the medievals did use the adjective “mystical.” The 15th-century chancellor of the University of Paris, Jean Gerson, wrote a book about mystical theology, which he defines as knowledge of God that comes from love (as opposed to books or academic study). Medievals also spoke of the mystical meaning of the Bible – its deeper, spiritual meaning, which usually pointed to the mystery of Christ.

So what about those figures we call mystics? Figures like Julian of Norwich, Catherine of Siena, and Meister Eckhart? These Christians experienced a heightened consciousness of God’s presence. They sought God’s love based on direct experience, not textbook knowledge. This is what we mean when we call them mystics – and I think it’s fine for us to use this term since it’s firmly entrenched in our vocabulary now.

In the medieval era, a mystical encounter with God could result from lectio divina – reading and spending time with Scripture. At other times, it might come after meditating on scenes from Christ’s life or on sacred imagery.

Margery Kempe had a mystical experience upon seeing the site of Calvary in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. She was graced with a vision of the crucified Christ in the very place he suffered and died. It knocked her to the ground. Jesus, she says, was present before her eyes.

However, mystics did not always have visions. Nor did they always experience complete or ecstatic union with God. Those were special gifts given to some of them. And they were also fairly rare experiences. The criteria for being a mystic is much simpler, and it opens the door to an “everyday mysticism” to which you and I have access today. Simply put, a mystic seeks a deeper and more direct consciousness of God in her daily life. She wants to be awakened by God! This often happens through what seem like quite ordinary activities, like prayer, reading and meditating on Scripture, and being part of a Christian community. Always, it happens through the work of the Spirit in us.

So . . . it’s not audacious to define yourself as a mystic; it doesn’t mean you’re extra holy or have to meet some impossible standard. It just means that you seek greater intimacy with God and long to be enlivened by God’s eternal presence.

What attracts me the most about mysticism is that it coaxes me out of my hiding place. I can hide behind books about God and Christianity; I can fall back on my education or on acquiring more knowledge (including Wikipedia sometimes–oops!). But all this will mean very little unless I truly know, on a heart level, God’s all-encompassing love. This is why I need to be an everyday mystic.

How about you? Would you define yourself as a mystic?

For reflection:


WEEKLY PRAYER: ST. GREGORY THE GREAT

Posted on by Lisa Deam

This week’s prayer is from Saint Gregory the Great, whose feast day was September 3. Saint Gregory was a sixth-century bishop, pope, and church reformer.

***

O God, the Protector of all who trust in you, without whom nothing is strong, nothing is holy, increase and multiply upon us your mercy; that, with you as our Ruler and Guide we may so pass through things temporal that we finally lose not the things eternal. Grant this, O heavenly Father, for Jesus Christ’s sake our Lord. Amen.

Source

On Turning in a Book

Posted on by Lisa Deam

As some of you may know, I’m writing a book on medieval pilgrimage. It features mystics like Margery Kempe and Walter Hilton and lots of pilgrims, both known and unknown, who journeyed to Jerusalem in the Middle Ages. From these pilgrims, we can learn about our own journey of faith today.

I have some news about said book. A few days ago, I turned in the manuscript to my editor.

I feel all the things a writer usually feels. For example, elation. I did it! I just completed 40,000 polished words! And anxiety. Will my editor like it? What revisions will she want me to do?

But I did not expect to feel . . . grief. I miss the project that has been so much a part of my life the past ten or so months. I miss working with such wonderful historical material: researching it, shaping it, seeing it come together, finding the words to make it sing. I even miss the less glamorous aspects: looking up niggling details, double-checking facts, formatting endnotes. I miss the way this writing project weighed on my mind. I miss sweating bullets and wondering whether I’d be able to pull it off. I miss waking up on mornings when I had a whole glorious day to do nothing but work on this book.

I really did not want to turn in my manuscript. Which is why I held onto it and tinkered with it for about two months longer than I should have (don’t tell my editor).

pilgrims cross alps
Pilgrims cross the Alps in the prayer book of Bishop Leonhard von Laymingen of Passau, Walters Manuscript W.163, fol. 1v

I miss my project because, for me, writing is perhaps my purest expression of faith. It is where I bare my soul–first and foremost to God, and then to my readers. When I write about pilgrims’ journeys, I walk this road in my heart. In footsteps and stories and metaphors, I am pouring out my belief in this road we all take to our interior Jerusalem. My desire to reach this destination. My awe and fear over how difficult it is. My heartfelt cry that God would make the going just a little bit easier. I cannot express these beliefs in any other way than through the words in my book. Writing is a form of worship, prayer, and wrestling with the angel.

So, I’m a little at a loss this week. Happy, but out of sorts. Relieved, but scared. Resting, but feeling loss.

Fortunately, the journey goes on. I await the next steps . . . revisions and then getting the book into your hands so that you can walk this road with me.

May God grant each of us the grace to walk our portion of the road today. Travel well, perigrini.