Seeing Clearly: Emphemeral Reality in Spiritual Relief

I used to pray on a regular basis for one thing in particular: namely that I might see clearly. Recently I have begun praying that prayer anew—with a few additions. Specifically, my prayer might be summarized as follows: “Help me to see things clearly, as they actually are. Help me to respond to them wisely and with love. Help me to remain as unaffected as one can and still live in charity.” We should note that when one prays such prayers, they generally are answered. At the least, I have begun to see very clearly a lot of things about myself that are not particularly pleasant. You see, the spiritual life is seen with the greatest clarity only by the soul and its communion with God because it is part of the invisible world. Certainly, there are external ramifications, but it is primarily an inward life before it can be anything else. Though often arduous—and though none of us consistently (if ever) measure up—the path to God is truly one of freedom. That being said, most of us do not live in freedom, in part because seeing clearly necessarily involves facing a lot of unpleasant things about ourselves along with the positives. Let us look more closely at this idea of freedom.

A central tenet in many schools of Buddhism is that life is transient. Put another way, if there is one constant in the world, it is change: the state of any given element is always ephemeral, transient. All things are subject to constant change including what we like to call the “self.” From moment to moment, we change along with all the material elements around us. We are not the same persons we were; we are continually in motion; we continually grow and evolve. Buddhism recognizes that much of the heartache and grief that we bear in life comes from our reluctance—even inability—to let go of the ephemeral reality around us, including the attachment to our sense of identity: to the “self” we tend to think of as not changing, for it is “just who we are.” In other words, as soon as things change in ways that we find desirable, we tend naturally to attempt to set them in concrete, and when we make this attempt, we risk stagnation, death, and untold other miseries, for the things that promised freedom and happiness have passed out of season and now fail to fulfill such purpose. We find letting go one of the hardest things in life to accomplish for we are creatures of longing, creatures who seek contentment in permanence, yet often in a permanence that simply does not exist. Still, there is one thing to which Buddhism remains silent that the Christian tradition offers us in light of the Buddha’s insight: Christ, the Friend who sticketh closer than a brother. Over the long years of life, letting go of this thing and then that—our hopes, our dreams, our fears, our loves, even our very selves and those we hold most dear—we grow closer and closer to the one Friend, who, though unseen, is nevertheless our closest intimate: whose very “unseenness” is the virtue that locates him beyond the transience of death.

I said in the previous issue that I violently resist the notion that other religions cannot lead us to God. I take nothing of what I said back: other religions can and often do offer new perspectives and depth of insight into elements of our being we have scarcely considered; they can in fact lead us to God, for all things in the universe bear testimony, particularly to those alert and perceptive; all things in the universe tend toward the center, which is none other than the beating and broken heart of Christ. Yet for all of that, I recognize that there is something deep, deep within me that feels a certain lack when spending long hours uncovering the gems in other spiritual systems: namely, my best Friend is rarely mentioned, though of course I take him with me, supplying what they in turn lack. Granted, we are often cynical when we hear Christ referred to as one’s best Friend, yet if you were to call me on this account, I would look at you without speaking and my eyes would quietly say, “Friend, you did not understand what I just said to you.”

The spiritual life, as we have said, is hidden, for it is both within and from above. It is not seen by the eyes of the cynical world, and, I would ask, what right do you have to accuse me of triteness when I say that Christ is my best Friend? for what is a “best friend”? Have we become so callous we no longer understand the meaning of the expression? Christ, the one Person to whom I can always turn who will never do me wrong, who is fully alive because He is life itself, and whose love for me—hidden from the external world, for again, the spiritual life is hidden, inward—has been the joy in the midst of sorrow many more times than I can count. I have wept tears that only he has seen; I have told him secrets that no one else knows, I have offered up my soul to him in ways I could never explain and that you might not even understand. When you react cynically to my statement, you crucify something inside of me, for I can bear my soul to no other the way I can with my best Friend. His absence seems so conspicuous in other spiritual traditions not because of any great interest I have in safeguarding “proper doctrine,” but rather in what my heart says to me: I may not be the best of friends to him, but he surely is the best of friends to me.

Of course, I do see Christ in other traditions as well, even if he is not overtly mentioned, much as in the height of romance, our love is on our mind so constantly that everywhere we go we look into all the faces we see, hoping against hope to catch just one more glimpse of him or her. Yet we would all agree that to be face to face with the one we love is infinitely more satisfying than all the fleeting thoughts and vain searchings in between. It is true that the absence of the one we love might cause us to seek for him or her, but at some point it is the reality of his/her presence that we seek. The absence causes us to become more aware of and to seek out the presence, but at some point it is the presence that we seek. That is also why asking expedient questions is profitable: an awareness of the absence leads to the uncovering of the presence—or at least creates an environment in which the seeking can breathe.

The idea of “seeing clearly” involves an inward seeing every bit as much if not more so than any outward one. We bind ourselves down with our many attachments—I say “attachments” and not merely “addictions”—one reason we may truly call such things idols. For what is an idol save that which appears divine but in truth fails to deliver the bliss that we seek? An idol is false: it is illusion, not reality. Only reality can set us free, which necessarily involves seeing clearly. That means, as much as anything, seeing ourselves clearly, which in turn means that we must be transformed, else we will see only what we have always seen and little more. It means becoming aware of the many and insidious ways we trap ourselves in false worlds and false realities, often making idols of things that exist only on the level of illusion. Like the Sadhu’s talk of the poisonous snakes he encountered on his many travels with their shiny, mesmeric eyes, we seek and are captivated by the pretty gleaming gems only to feel the venom oozing in our veins before we have even had a chance to blink. It seems that what our desire told us would make us happy in reality fooled us, failing to satisfy and often bringing us pain and sorrow, further enslaving us. Yet again, we were self-deluded.

We ultimately want to be free, but the illusion is often so powerful, we are reluctant, unwilling, even unable to give it up, at least until we may see more clearly: we believe so powerfully that the illusion is the reality that to give it up so that we may be free seems more than can be asked of us. We must see clearly if we ever wish to be free, even though seeing clearly involves its own road of pain, sorrow, and self-denial. Yet pain, sorrow, and denial are all parts of life regardless of the path we travel, it is simply that some forms lead to greater freedom, peace, joy, and growth of character, whereas other forms lead only further into pain and even despair. Yet though despair might be seen as the antonym of hope, when we cry out in desperation, it is not really desperation at that point but has now crossed over into its apparent opposite: hope. Faith, hope, and charity.

This weekend I turned another year older and it is somewhat ironic that a gift a friend bought me last year for the occasion would be opened for the first time this year. Last year, I tried reading Thomas Merton’s No Man is an Island only to react to the book with disgust. All the talk about self-surrender and our hopelessly inadequate love in response to God were just too over the top for me, however true. It is not that I had never known such things. But I suppose like all things in life, there are seasons and as I read the book now, the text has come alive. No, the spiritual jihad mentioned in the last issue has been at work within me and nothing else has contented me: what I might call a holy restlessness has seized me, and the spiritual life is often one of violence. No one who treads this path will remain unchanged: the forces within will rip and tear and shred him to bits before they have had their way with him.

To be a new creation means much more than saying a simple prayer; it means much more than being plunged below the baptismal waters of death to arise again to life: these and the other sacraments are but the entrance into the journey of a lifetime. To be a new creation means an ongoing act of spiritual violence ripping and tearing us apart until nothing remains but wheat free of chaff, gold free of dross. Nothing less than perfection and purity is the final end of the spiritual life and most of us live so far short of this end, books like those of Merton’s tend to evoke within us violent loathing. As Lewis has so well stated: no man knows the power of temptation, no man knows the power of his own will, until he has sought to lay it down in surrender. He will soon find that never was there a more fearsome beast in the universe than that living within his own flesh; temptation will take on powers that are nothing short of terrifying. Yet when he begins to see clearly he also begins to see that this path of fire is the path to peace; that paradox is the rule of the universe; that to live he must surely die. There is no way to be free but to let go: to inflict deep wounds if need be, slicing away that which he would not otherwise surrender, gouging out an eye or cutting off a hand if he must. The result may leave the marks of knives and nails upon the soul, but like the broken body of Christ, what remains will be beautiful beyond compare. We are only free when we own nothing: when no matter how many things may be under our immediate influence, none of them is seen as possessed by us. Let us turn to Merton for some extended excerpts on this and related insights:

Often the spiritual pilgrim will taste this despair. Yet the paradox of poverty produces riches beyond compare; “blessed,” said our Lord, “are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” For despair is typically the beginning of hope, and hope, as Merton reminds us, is evidence of things unseen. Faith, hope, and charity see things clearly, not just because they see what is, but because they see what can be, what will be. Faith, hope, and charity are all transformative virtues.

In the Hindu trinity—the Trimurti—we see Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva, all incarnations of the same entity, variously thought to be Brahma (in the Vedas) or Shiva (in the Bhagavad-Gita). Put another way, we see the Creator (Brahma), the Sustainer (Vishnu), and the Destroyer (Shiva). Without making too much or too little of the parallels both shared and not shared with the Christian faith, we may say that when the apparent destruction of Shiva manifests itself in despair, it is here the seeds are sown for the new creation and preservation: the eyes come open and a new universe is created. The new creation comes first in faith, hope, and charity, virtues which not only regenerate themselves but which transform those with whom they come in contact. In time, faith, hope, and charity will become sight—that is our great hope—in which we are fully known even as He is fully known. To see reality clearly, then, is to see not only its sustenance (its apparent permanence or immediacy from moment to moment: to see things as they “actually are”), not only the apparent despair of destruction as we see just how far short we fall of Divine perfection and thus how much of ourselves must yet die, but also to see the inherently creative elements of reality: to see things as they ultimately can and will be. We find all these ways of seeing clearly rooted in God who alone sees beginning, end, and all points in between.

Archive note: See also the discussion forum thread Christ the Friend regarding this newsletter.

Such observations from other religious traditions may spark our thought or may make us feel profoundly uncomfortable. No matter, for the most any religious tradition—including Christianity—has ever done is point beyond itself. It is really not so important how we characterize reality or our understanding of God, for God is for all intents and purposes as good as unknowable to us who can but grasp only the smallest aspects of His essence with that feeble organ between our ears. (By contrast, our hearts are capable of infinite expansion and can house the very throne, palace, and courtyards of heaven and all the adjacent hinterland as well.) The important thing is whether or not we are living in reality; whether or not we see clearly, for the only way to see clearly is to remove (or to have removed) the beams from our own eyes, our own hearts. One cannot see clearly who does not abide in the truth: it is impossible to see the totality of truth while leading a lie. To pray to see clearly, then, is to pray for spiritual transformation: to ask that nothing short of total purity be effected. To see clearly is to see ourselves as God sees us, both as we are and as we shall be; to see clearly is to see God. In this way, the invisible is brought to bear upon the visible and clarity of vision happens from top to bottom, all things aligning in proper place and perspective: not only in space (things as they “are”) but in time (as from our mortal perspective things “will be”; from God’s perspective also things as they are): the beginning, middle, end, and all points that lie in-between and beyond.

Subscribe to Le Penseur Réfléchit, the Mr. Renaissance bi-weekly newsletter.

Previous E-mail | Next E-mail