Earthy Mysticism, chapters 7-9

Earthy Mysticism is definitely a book that gets better as it goes along. The last three chapters are the best in the book.

Chapter 7, “Lost Christianity” is more than just a nod to Jacob Needleman; it’s a thoughtful attack on the stranglehold that therapeutic psychology has on religion these days. Sure, that’s not a new insight, but this kind of attack usually comes from fundamentalists, not mystics. Essentially, McNamara argues that the idolatry of psychology has led to two trends in our culture: the first trend abandons any real thrust toward the ecstatic or transformational, settling instead merely for “wellness” and “mental health” — where the goal of spirituality and religion, like psychology, is simply to be well-adjusted and to test in the “normal” range. The second trend is the urge toward manufactured ecstasies, whether through drugs, magic, electronically induced “theta brain states” or other engineered altered states of consciousness; McNamara attacks the lust for experience as the epitome of counterfeit spirituality: what he calls a “Peeping Tom mysticism.” But this is no mere screed against peyote and mushrooms — he trenchantly takes aim at mob consciousness, media-induced paranoia and neo-pentecostal reveries as further examples of ersatz ecstasies. So what does McNamara suggest instead of the psychology of well-adjustment or the hunger for experience? Not surprisingly, he turns to traditional mystical categories: recollection, detachment, focused will, and perhaps most of all, the commitment to live authentically: in other words, acting with courage and telling the truth. He calls for a singleness of desire (not to be confused with the extinguishing of desire, which he emphatically disavows), noting “In the West we are more inclined to cut our desires down to a size that we can manage. And so we eke out a pretty good existence on small pleasures, but are never surprised by joy, never seduced by mystery, and never smitten by the total pleasure of God’s personal, passionate Presence.” In other words: the disciplines of a mystic are not intended to quell our passion for God, but rather to liberate it.

Chapter 8, “The Myth of the Great Secret” was of particular interest to me because of my contention that Wicca has made a mistake by emphasizing secrecy as a strategy for spiritual development. Although he never discusses Wicca per se (when he does mention occultism it is merely to abruptly dismiss it), it appears that McNamara couldn’t agree more with me. The Great Secret, as McNamara describes it, is “hidden in plain sight” — it is the secret of unconditional divine love, of the redeeming reality of God’s suffering presence, of the grace that ennobles and redeems even the most horrific of events, revealing that ultimately the universe is a radically safe and loving place to be. We do not know the secret because we have forgotten it, nor because we are not yet ready for it, but because we generally work overtime to ignore it. Just as it takes more muscles to frown than to smile, so it is a greater effort to despair than to believe. And yet despair has become the order of the day. McNamara returns to the theme he introduced in chapter 7, attacking the hunger for and obsession with altered states of consciousness more aggressively: “Much of today’s preoccupation with altered states of consciousness has far more to do with the isolated exaltation of man than with the adoration of God… Letting technique dominate religious experience is comparable to attributing an uproariously happy marriage of twenty-five years to sexual technique.” And finally comes the punchline: “The only way you can possess God is to be possessed by him. The only way to enjoy him is to let him go. The only way to be heightened is to be humbled. The only way into the light of day is through the darkness of night. The only way to be divinely enriched is to be so poor you don’t even have a god.” And to this we could add: the only way to plumb the secrets of the mysteries is to exult in the obvious, the everyday, the commonplace. As he finishes the chapter: “The secret is Love, not emptiness, not meaninglessness, but a love so unbounded and limitless that it evokes from the imperfect, or rather, unfinished lover an eerie sense of the void. St. John the Evangelist said God is love (I John 4:16). St. Augustine went even further and said love is God.”

Chapter 9, “From Solitude to Storytelling” considers the elements of the true priest of Christ. As McNamara puts it, “We can become high priests of creation by participation in the high priesthood of Jesus. As high priests we must always be passionate. Passion literally means ‘to be abandoned.’ That is the central, final human stance: positive, creative abandonment to God.” McNamara goes on to list seven “hard-won virtues” that exemplify this priest of creation: solitude, solidarity, suffering, sweetness (which he insists is not the normal, hackneyed sense of that word), silence, storytelling, and sharing the good news. As anyone who knows me can attest, he won an abundance of brownie points by emphasizing the role of stories and storytelling in the priestly work. “In losing the story we have lost both the power and the glory. What Hilaire Belloc said seems irrefutable: ‘Truth must always be clothed in splendor.’ We have committed the unpardonable sin of transforming exciting stories into dull systems.” And while I don’t buy into the reality-tunnel of unpardonable sins, I think that is a criticism that could be aimed at neopaganism as easily as at Christianity. But then, lest I get too self-congratulatory, McNamara goes on to say, “But — and this is the clincher — as pioneers and pilgrims of the Absolute, we must not depend too much on the story, on the map, on what is known, safe and familiar. Dependency would kill us, for it is the unknown that gives us life.” In other words, even storytelling can become its own dull system, if we aren’t careful.

McNamara’s affected assemblage of alliteration annoyed me throughout this short book, and I finished the book still thinking he is better at identifying problems than proposing solutions. Still, the final third of the book is where he finally begins to show some of the passion he has championed throughout the text — the passion that he claims is at the heart of a truly earthy mysticism. As his final sentence proclaims, “We must live so passionately that we are not merely warmed by the fire that Christ came into the world to ignite but utterly devoured by it.”

So, at the end of it, what does McNamara mean by “earthy” mysticism? Well, it’s not what I think many neopagans would immediately think of. He has no use for sentimentality or romanticized veneration of nature. He sneers at the occult and rejects the dogmatic formulations of the therapeutic/secular worldview. Instead, McNamara is far more interested in letting the power and passion and fire and darkness of nature roar freely. An earthy mysticism is edgy, in your face, gendered, hearty, and alive. This is mysticism that grabs life by the jugular. And it’s not about feeling good or amassing personal power, but rather connecting with divine love in order to give it away.

One down, 76 to go! Next month I’ll step back in time almost 2000 years and explore the writings of the first century contemplative Jew, Philo of Alexandria. Stay tuned…