In the Cleft of the Rock: Of Mystics and Mountains

My second hike since moving to Arizona:

My asthmatic Midwest lungs aren’t used to the mountain-desert air.  So I wheeze along in the elation of the climb and the frustration of breathing.  I find hiding places off the path to catch my breath, read a little; and my mind is full of phrases and lines from poetry and Scripture which contain imagery matching the scenery around me.

Humankind should ponder God…

recognize God’s wonders and signs.

Let these signs and wonders be

the firmament on which to build,

            so as not to be shaken by fear,

            or distracted from the love of God.

                                                            Hildegard of Bingen

Dillard couldn’t understand why mystics sought God on mountaintops, knowing He is fearsome and powerful.  She declared she would hide in a cave into which only slivers of God could shine in as light through the cracks.  I think I understand the mystics’ approach more than hers.

Terrible and beautiful and mighty though He may be, there comes a sense of desiring God’s full presence.  To have tasted bits is to awaken the appetite, and I know enough of God that I would rather die by the overwhelming holiness of His presence than content myself with hidden whispers, intermittent and small enough to fit in my hands or pockets.  Whatever is good in me, even by nature, is ugly without His presence.  Thus I had rather be infused by Him fully than continue ignorant existence with most of me and a fraction of Him.

Perhaps I am not explaining well.

It may be that in my finite being I simply cannot handle the infinite nature and being of God.  But I know that the glimpses of His infinite being I have received infinitely surpass in glory any of the finite moments of daily life.  So why would I not desire that which would pierce me and ruin me for human existence, though I know truly that would be the cost?

The mystics almost always considered union with God to be the end of Christianity.  So perhaps there is something here.

Oswald Chambers points out that even when we are permitted “mountaintop experiences” there is always a descent: that Jesus came down the mountain following the transfiguration only to be confronted by a crowd of (dirty, noisy) people and a demon-possessed boy.  John, who was with Him and saw Him in this state of glory, seems to have gotten the point, or he would not have written the letter we named 1 John: that if we are given such an experience of God’s glory, we are responsible for making His presence more visible in daily human life.

After all, it is not as if God is somehow less present in the noise and grime of cities and human sin.  Dostoyevski was right when he pictured God being powerfully present as a prostitute and murderer read the raising of Lazarus together.  Or as Augustine points out, in the worst points of his sinful youth, before he had thought of God at all, even then was the Lord faithfully present.

But sometimes His presence in these places is harder to see—or we are not given to recognize it until later, like the disciples on Jesus spoke with on the road to Emmaus, or like Shasta in The Horse and His Boy.  It seems to me that martyrs and mystics cannot serve Christ without each other.  I am speaking in old-fashioned terms; often God gives his followers moments of mountaintop clarity, glory and joy, and we are all called to be servants.  But it seems to me that perhaps some are specially called to one role or another, and maybe some spend a longer time receiving visions while others spend much more time being faithful servants to messy mankind.  In this case, the one who toils and suffers reminds the mystic that visions of glory are fulfilled most fully when directed into love for the people God has created, people who know nothing of glory in any form.  And the mystic reminds the martyr, as he sacrifices himself daily under the burden of love, that there is a high and beautiful vision and that God is working powerfully to accomplish this vision through his labor.

In Exodus 33, Moses intercedes for the people of Israel, who have turned away from the Lord after He delivered them from slavery.  Moses pleads for the God’s presence to continue among His people.  Then he asks to see God’s glory as a sign of His presence.  The Lord responds that His glory is too great, and it would kill Moses, but He makes a great concession: “Behold, there is a place by me where you shall stand on the rock, and while my glory passes by I will put you in a cleft of the rock, and I will cover you with my hand until I have passed by.  Then I will take away my hand, and you shall see my back, but my face shall not be seen.” (vv. 21-23)

This vivid demonstration of God’s majesty occurs in the context of Moses’ pleas for the people: His ministry and His personal encounters with God are inextricably linked.  Both flow in and out of the other.

Dillard’s approach to the topic interests me because in her work I see a mystic’s soul.  She has an incredible capacity for wonder, awe, and delight.  Perhaps it is the mystic in her which results in her fear of encountering God’s presence uncloaked, because she realizes that the glory which brings her delight and rapture in nature must be a truly terrifying force when united with holiness.

Hildegard of Bingen did understand, I think.  She was undeniably a mystic, yet her work speaks to a unity of purpose:

Who are the prophets?

They are a royal people,

who penetrate mystery

and see with the spirit’s eyes.

In illuminating darkness they speak out.

They are a living, penetrating clarity.

They are a blossom blooming only

on the shoot that is rooted in the

flood of light.

                                    (Hildegard of Bingen)

And finally, one last tidbit from another beautiful poem:

           

The infinite heights are too small to contain Thee,

     Yet perchance Thou canst niche in the clefts of me.

Shall my heart not treasure the hope to gain Thee,

    Or my yearning fail till my tongue’s last plea?

Nay, surely Thy name I will worship,

                 while breath in my nostrils be.

                                    Solomon ibn Gabirol, translated by Israel Zangwill