The Inward Thought, the Frequent, the Familiar Thought

Recently there was a news report, albeit brief, about a man who died in the hospital after being repeatedly fisted in the head. He and his co-worker had grievances—no one really seems to know over what—and the other man decided he was going to teach him a lesson. He did, of course, and now he is facing manslaughter charges. I was at the dead man’s wedding over a decade ago. He was four years older than me, and both he and his wife ran in the same circles that I was later to run in. The two had been separated for some time, likely citing irreconcilable differences. Her name shows up from time to time in the papers related to drug charges: she may or may not be in prison right now, nobody really seems to know. Roughly six years after their wedding, I was in a different city and ran into one of their friends who had married a man from the Dakotas. It was after staying all night at this couple’s house that I snorted my first line. It has been over a decade since all those days came to one glorious end, and I rarely ever think of my past now for I am not the man I was. The past has no real hold on me, save perhaps for a bit of emotional scar tissue—the sort of incidents that change a person for life and ultimately for better if one allows, as is true with all adversity in life. It was not the drugs that were the real problem anyway. It was despair.

I am not exactly certain why these memories crossed my mind as they did when I was lying in bed last night thinking about writing this newsletter. They seem dark and bleak. And yet in their own way, they are illustrative of the very passage upon which I have been reflecting, not as an intellectual curiosity but rather as the point at which one finally grasps the full import of something. To put a frame around these thoughts, I would turn not to Gandhi as I had originally thought (who is attributed with the saying, “Be the change you wish to see in the world”), but to Stephen Covey, a man previously unknown to me save for this single quotation: “Each of us tends to think we see things as they are, that we are objective. But this is not the case. We see the world, not as it is, but as we are—or as we are conditioned to see it.”

Lying in bed one morning last week, I felt at a loss. My mind was cluttered with many things, and it seemed that my spiritual vision and insight had been blunted and dulled. I had no real sense of direction, not regarding any course of action I was to take, but just in the sense of my life having any meaning or purpose in the moment. I was exhausted and barely had the energy to get out of bed. My silent prayers brought about an unexpected epiphany: I suddenly understood something I had not understood before. It does me no good to say what that understanding involved, as it was an experiential understanding, the moment-by-moment nature of the lived spiritual life where we are given “our daily bread” as is needed day-by-day to carry us through. Covey’s quotation, though misattributed to Gandhi, occurred to me then: “We see the world, not as it is, but as we are.” I did not until the moment of seeking for and finding understanding have anything within me capable of illumining my perspective. There was a torpor to my moral insight, a lack of clear spiritual vision. I had been feeling a bit out of sorts, and, like many, when I feel out of sorts, not only do various temptations present themselves to me, but I often find myself “acting out” far more than I wish.

The inevitable result of caving to temptation—absolutely any temptation no matter what kind—is that we feel a sense of devaluation, a loss of self-worth and self-respect. It makes it far more difficult to see our own worth accurately or the worth of others, much less to set our minds on things above. Thus, we tend to “see the world, not as it is, but as we are.” Likely the reason the opening scenes of the newsletter presented themselves to the theatre of my mind last night is because there was a day where despair was met only by despair: I not only created the world I found, but found myself in that subterranean world with like-minded co-creators who likewise despaired of life, their sense of self-worth and value eroded away by years of decadent living. We were creatures of the night, vampires whose flesh rots away even as they yet live, feasting on the life-force of others. As we mentioned in the May 19, 2004, issue Samurai and Mustard Seeds: Fealty’s Link to Faith, “We tend to become like the thing upon which we focus: if we lead a lie, our whole self becomes a little bit more lie-like; if we feed paranoia, the world becomes one giant conspiracy.”

To very large degree, we create the world in our own image. This realization now leaves a very interesting question: if then, we wish to see the world as we ought to see it, as the honest and sincere quest after truth, beauty, and goodness would dictate, both as it is and as it yet can and shall be, how then can we have any hope—much less certainty—of seeing it clearly? On the forum recently, Sara posted about the Quakers, or the Society of Friends as they are also known, and their central tenet of “the Inner Light.” According to this principle, we, as God’s creations, have within us “that of God in everyone” which on a very basic level gives us not only life but

In sum, this “seed of Christ” in all persons is just that: a seed. And like all seeds, it must be watered if it is to grow: it must be “activated.” This tiny mustard seed is the basis by which we first stretch forth uncertain fingers toward the kingdom of heaven; it is the basis by which we answer the gentle yet persistent knocking on the door of our hearts to open up and allow the indwelling presence of God to enter in and fill us. The emphasis, as with all true spiritual pilgrims, is placed on the relational and experiential: “first-hand knowledge of God is only possible through that which is experienced or inwardly revealed to the individual human being through the working of God’s quickening Spirit.” The answer as to how we can have any hope of seeing the world as we ought to see it is found in whether or not we nourish and water the inner knowledge that we already have. If we know we are leading a lie, we cannot very well expect to have our vision undiluted: our vision, like our life, will become increasingly lie-like. Heaven does not stock spiritual fruit, as Samurai and Mustard Seeds reminds us, but rather spiritual seeds, and we are not yet who we were created to be: we are ever becoming and the spiritual life is progressive and teleological.

The reason my spiritual vision cleared on the morning I describe, is because I longed with every ounce of my being to “see clearly.” There have been times I have asked and not received, primarily because I did not ask with my whole heart and my whole being. One has to want the good gifts of God. It seems to be almost a cosmic law that we cannot receive any more than we are willing—on the deepest level—to receive. A half-hearted request lets in a little light, because a half-hearted request does at least have some beginnings of a seedling or a sprout. A half-hearted request, however, must itself be nurtured if it is to become throaty and full-hearted. A half-hearted request is a seed, and if we are of only half a heart, then let us nourish the half that is good, and, while we cannot exactly throw the other half away, we can let it bask in the blood of its better half until it is wholly won over. Further, a whole-hearted request is always painfully aware of its baser half, hence the basis of the request. Pride, by contrast, is a spiritual killer: when we think ourselves in no danger of falling and in no need of daily nourishment, we are then far, far from seeing clearly and are liable to the grossest distortions, all the while feeling inordinately pleased with ourselves, reveling in our blindness and calling the darkness light.

So then, I was lying in bed thinking I was thinking about Gandhi, but in reality thinking about Covey, and not about Covey, but about what Covey said, “We see the world not as it is, but as we are.” And suddenly, as if in retrospect, the words of Christ as recounted in the gospels sprang to mind: “The eye is the lamp of the body; so then if your eye is clear, your whole body will be full of light. But if your eye is bad, your whole body will be full of darkness. If then the light that is in you is darkness, how great is the darkness!” (Matthew 6:22–23) or, the last sentence stated in the positive in Luke 11:36: “If therefore your whole body is full of light, with no dark part in it, it will be wholly illumined, as when the lamp [of the body] illumines you with its rays.”

Now Jesus is many things to many people. Some draw great strength and inspiration from focusing on his humanity, and that is as it should be. For myself, however, the figure I met in my life was the cosmic Christ, the one chosen of God as the firstfruits of many brothers, the living and risen presence that personally answered when I asked and who continues to be that friend that sticketh closer than a brother, made so possible because unlike my friends here on earth, he is no longer separable by death. He has been on the other side and he knows the secrets that lie beyond. I speak not of what I have read in the gospels or in other texts; I speak of my experience. One of my long-standing questions is, “Who is Jesus?” though implicit in the question is the relational element involved: “Who is Jesus to me?” It does not matter who and what he is in any other sense: he may be a mighty warrior, but that does me no good if he does not fight for me. He might be a valiant liberator, but that does me no good if he is not my kinsmen-redeemer. He might be a comfort and a present help in time of trouble, but that does me no good sitting there alone and afraid, unable to discern his presence or his comfort. If the question is to have any meaning at all, I have to ask, “Who is Jesus to me?” I do not know who he is in God’s eyes: only God knows that. I do not know who he is to you: only you know that. But I do know that when I pray to him, somebody answers. Thus, when I speak of Christ, I do not have in mind the humble man but rather the cosmic friend who answers when I speak.

As the words of Jesus as recorded in the gospels crossed my mind, it suddenly struck me that they contained a depth that Covey’s words did not. Covey’s words are neutral. He merely observes the truth that the eye sees what it brings to the seeing. By contrast, Jesus suggests that it is possible to see correctly, so that the inner matches the outer and the outer the inner. What is more, when I had my inward vision restored, I realized that undoubtedly there is a deeper way and a way that is higher. There is a spiritual discernment possible to be obtained and indeed we must possess if we hope to see the world correctly. It is not given to every person, not because it is not potentially available to everyone, but because not every person asks for it or seeks it out. There are many people who prefer to see the world as they would prefer to see it and who have little interest in finding out how it might actually be in itself. To see the world as it actually is, both in terms of how it is presently and how it ought eventually to be, requires integrity.

The word “integrity” is an interesting one. The word’s origin is found in the idea of “integer” (whole) or “integration” (collection of parts working seamlessly together as though one). Integrity suggests a perfection of the whole in the sense of “lacking nothing.” In response to a blog entry, I write:

In some translations, it does not say, “if your eye is clear,” but “if the eye be single.” With the word “single” we are again calling to mind notions of integrity or of an integrated unity: “if the eye be single,”—if it be of one whole, entire, sound, complete—“your whole body will be full of light.” The allusion is obvious when it comes to vision, for though light may flood the very chamber that surrounds a man, if he is blind, he will not be able to see it. In a sense, the blind man is never filled with light: waves of light may enter his body, but they are not processed by his senses and thus he cannot be said to be “filled with light.” Two things are required, then, for a man to be filled with light in this physical sense: (1) he must have at least one eye, and (2) it must be working properly. Likewise, we all have at least some inner light, but not everyone is willing to take the time to listen in their heart as Bob Metivier sings (subtly distinguishing it from listening to one’s heart, the “listen in” suggestive of an alignment with that which is “greater than”—and thus implicitly “exterior to”—ourselves).

In Matthew’s gospel, the words about the eye being single are prefaced by taking care not to fast to be seen by others, but in secrecy to God. In this way, one will lay treasures up for oneself in heaven rather than on earth. As heaven is both within and above, the treasures spoken of with this kind of fasting—or indeed any kind of spiritual offering—all deal with those that lead to singleness of purpose and moral character. In Do Not Let Your Hearts Be Troubled we noted that one of the chief reasons we pray is not to change God, but so that we ourselves might be changed. Likewise, cutting corners may never be seen by anyone else, but the corners we cut are undermining the structural integrity of our own dwelling place: undermining our own inner self whose light is not as bright and full as it would otherwise be.

The treasures that we lay up for ourselves in heaven, we lay up in our heart here on earth. That is one of the reasons why neither moth nor rust corrupt: the great hope is that this life is only the beginning and not the end, and, if so, the one thing that we may carry with us to the other side is who and what we are, in large part determined by the treasures we hide in our hearts. And that is one of the reasons that “where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.” I am particularly fond of George MacDonald’s insight when he writes that “what is with the treasure [the heart] must fare as the treasure; that the heart which haunts the treasure-house where the moth and rust corrupt, will be exposed to the same ravages as the treasure, will itself be rusted and moth-eaten. Many a man, many a woman, fair and flourishing to see, is going about with a rusty moth-eaten heart within that form of strength or beauty” (Rusted, Moth-Eaten Hearts).

Looking up these passages in Matthew Henry’s complete classic commentary—see Matthew 6—reveals a few interesting tid-bits as well. Considering that “the heart” is our term for the inner person or any part of the inner person, his comment strikes me that “we are therefore concerned to be right and wise in the choice of our treasure, because the temper of our minds, and consequently the tenor of our lives” directly depend on it. His next comment also strikes me, “Where the treasure is, there our cares and fears are, lest we come short of it; about that we are most solicitous; there our hope and trust are (Prov. 18:10, 11); there our joys and delights will be (Ps. 119:111); and there our thoughts will be, there the inward thought will be, the first thought, the free thought, the fixed thought, the frequent, the familiar thought.” Not only does the latter half of the sentence delight my literary sensibilities, the first also strikes me with its pairings of “cares and fears” with “hope and trust.” Allow me to explain.

Earlier this semester, two other graduate students and myself hosted Project Hope, a writing workshop for students and members of the community to come together and interact on a positive topic. After inviting several guest speakers from the religious community, who, for one reason or another, were not able to attend, I ended up presenting the spoken portion of the workshop myself. In preparation for my speech, I consulted the Oxford English Dictionary, a definitive source for words and their etymologies. In this case, there were no foreign words tied to hope, but the first noun definition itself interested me: “Expectation of something desired; desire combined with expectation.” We see then, a separation between desire alone—what we might then call mere “wishful thinking”—and expectation, which implies an element of promise. This definition would seem to suggest an insightful recipe of sorts: one part desire mixed with one part expectation yields abundant hope.

Shortly after my presentation, I ran across a webpage entitled What is Hope? It suggests that “Fear is a form of negative hope. Both are forms of anticipation as we forecast the future and experience emotions in line with our predictions.” That strikes me as very true. Hope is a desire—so we have much riding on it. It also has the element of expectation to it as well. Yet neither desire nor expectation are the thing itself—they are not yet the thing realized else they could not be said to be “hope”—and therefore we are fearful at times lest what we desire and anticipate fail to come to fruition. Thus, I am struck when Henry writes: “Where the treasure is, there our cares and fears are, lest we come short of it; about that we are most solicitous; there our hope and trust are” as well. The implication is that if we are concerned about whether or not our treasure is set on the right or no, we can put our fears to the question as much as our hopes. What we fear will show us what we desire and anticipate indirectly just as readily as what we desire and anticipate demonstrate directly. Have no fear of your fears, for in this sense, at least, they speak the truth.

In Matthew’s gospel, this passage about the eye is followed with the admonition about serving two masters: that one cannot serve both God and Mammon. Henry continues, in keeping with this theme of the “single eye”:

Henry then follows out by noting that “There is scarcely any one sin against which our Lord Jesus more largely and earnestly warns his disciples, or against which he arms them with more variety of arguments, than the sin of disquieting, distracting, distrustful cares about the things of life, which are a bad sign that both the treasure and the heart are on the earth.” His suggestion struck me as being very pertinent and ties back into this concepts brought up in Heaven and Earth: Flow, Synchronicity, and Thin Places. We are to trust the universe—trust God—that he will meet our needs. Rather than being weighted down with a lot of the cares and concerns that typically beset, we free ourselves from these things by focusing on what is both inward and upward. The kingdom of heaven is both within and above and the treasures, beginning in the form of seeds planted, are such things as are timeless and eternal. The cares of our day are transient and ephemeral, flitting here and there, but depth of character, spiritual discernment, love, and all the resultant spiritual gifts have never gone out of fashion and have long represented the highest in man and his aspirations. These are the sorts of things worth far more than gold or silver; on the most basic level, gold or silver can be lost, but with these gifts, not only can no man take them away, but one can, if one wants or needs, always gain for oneself more gold and silver as a matter of course, like the man in Ecclesiastes who has both wisdom and humility:

The poor, wise man may not be accounted for much, but he was able to withstand the mighty king’s army. He did not have to be physically strong or militarily wealthy, for he was wise. And as he was humble, “no one thought any more about him” and he and his city were able to live in peace and relative prosperity with one another. He may not have achieved the latest spoils and victories which are fleeting, but he will have everything he needs and more besides: he has enough to take care not only of himself but also those who are given into his charge. If, in addition to these things, he feels no desire for the acclaim of men and vanities of titles and honors, he has both the world and the heavens beside.

Bringing these related though discursive thoughts together, we do not know what we do not know. There are those who turn aside from the spiritual path because it seems to them unlikely. Consider my own humble beginnings in the opening paragraph or those of my peers now dead, imprisoned, or, as in the case with the “speeding” couple, afflicted with hepatitis C. They were like the mighty king with his army, living the “good life,” having fun, freely indulging their passions. You see where it got them. You see how long their treasures have lasted: it would seem that their hearts have suffered the same ravages as the rusted and moth-eaten treasure we all had chosen for ourselves in those days. God was merciful to me, and now I write newsletters like these that hopefully invest in a much different treasure while enjoying relative good health, peace of mind, and comparative prosperity. My disease at the time was not the drugs, as destructive as those are: my disease was that I saw the world not as it is, but as I was.

Those who knew me spoke of how unnaturally dark my eyes had become: my inner person was filled with darkness. Or, as Karen writes on the forum (though until now I have said nothing): “If you have ever looked into the eyes of a meth addict, you would have seen something beyond dark and evil, beyond lust, something inhuman.” I was that meth addict. I knew that evil. That was me. Karen has unwittingly torn a page out of my past and shown it to the world. There was no heaven above, there was only our present hell below. There is no way that I would have ever believed in any kind of spiritual reality, for not only were my eyes darkened and evil, so too was my understanding. And you can see my type in many places: look in the eyes around you. Some appear to see beyond what we can see, as though they are wiser and older and possessed of a wisdom we have yet to acquire. But there are others, yes there are others. And those others of which I speak are blind, blind, blind: the delicious irony is that the blinder they are, the more they believe that they can and do see: “If then the light that is in you is darkness, how great is the darkness!”

Whenever I am tempted to doubt, I have but to remember that we see the world not as it is, but as we are. The things that we have experienced in our lives seem to us obvious, whereas the things with which we have had little to no experience often seem suspect. When grappling with the prospect of life after death—which at times seems very unlikely to me—or even with more mundane cares and concerns, I often remind myself of the parables of the butterfly or the soon-to-be-born fetuses: the caterpillar would likely find the idea of flying through the skies on beautiful wings ludicrous. Perhaps other creatures fly thus, but he, a creeping land animal, prefers to keep his hopes humble and his imagination grounded upon the earth over which he inches along. Likewise, after the first child has passed through the birth canal, the child remaining in the womb is sick within himself, certain that the other has fallen into catastrophe. We have spoken of these parables before in Coconuts and Caterpillars: Learning to Doubt Doubt and then again in The Wise Man and the King: A Postmodern Parable.

As onlookers having seen both the process of birth resulting in life not death and caterpillars becoming winged creatures, we know that the skeptics in these tales seem to themselves entirely reasonable in their skepticisms—they do not know what they do not yet know. And if they set themselves up as final judge and jury, stating with dogmatic fervor just how stupid are those who believe otherwise, they speak as blind men, knowing not that of which they speak. What they call light and pride themselves in is ignorance and their folly is best regarded with compassion, for had they more light, they would surely amend their way and speak no more of such matters. The pride of speaking about that which we do not yet know has caused many of us to stumble whereas a little humility would have kept our spiritual vision unclouded.

Even the words we choose can become stumbling blocks if they are not made sufficiently flexible; as Sara’s post indicates:

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

If we are to see clearly, we must be transformed. This transformation is not itself a matter of more reading or more words, even very pretty and apt words. It is rather a matter of experience and genuine encounter. We can only speak of what such things mean to us—and would that we speak not as children of the darkness but as sons and daughters of the living God of light. We then will speak truly, for we will speak of what we have personally known and experienced. No one can take such “in-sight” from us. On the other hand, it should not surprise us that the words of some persons are lacking of light: they speak truly enough, after all, for they speak from what light they have. We all see the world not as it is, but as we are, by our inner lights or the dimness thereof. Let us likewise recognize that if we say that we have no darkness within, we speak falsely and not as sons and daughters of the light. For to speak in light is to speak of both light and dark together, so that the darkness may recede before the light. For those of us who desire to walk in the light, let us pray for the ability to see clearly and the grace and forbearance to follow the path thus illumined.

“The eye is the lamp of the body; so then if your eye is clear, your whole body will be full of light. But if your eye is bad, your whole body will be full of darkness. If then the light that is in you is darkness, how great is the darkness!”

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