I have mentioned before the Catholic retreat I attended a month ago called "Light of the World," but I have not mentioned a peculiar inner vision that I had during it. Once I attempt to explain it, the reader will know why I held onto it this long, something that I rarely do with anything.
It was during a meditative period in the church proper, where the acting priest carried around a statue of Mary dressed in a robe that was possessed with, I forget how, special virtues or powers (for those not Catholic, Mary is perhaps the best loved of all the saints. Really, she is beyond "saint" because, according to orthodoxy, she was born without sin with the "immaculate conception" and rose directly to heaven on death. She is, although the Church does not want to say it, the female Christian goddess. Laymen know it and are glad for it). We were allowed to touch it while we prayed for whatever, and were told that our prayer would then have special strength. As is common with such sacred acts, many people cried, something I understand personally, although (as a man) have never allowed myself to do. But I know where the tears come from - from relief, as if a weight has been lifted from life. They are not quite tears of joy, for there is also tragedy there, mixed with frustration and crushed hopes. It is a cleansing feeling that we all want, but also fear, because a deeper part of our lives is exposed that truly expresses how we are experiencing life beyond our superficial personality shields. Life, beyond our tough exterior, is really tough. Life is not how we want it to be, and it often crushes what is finest in us. We swagger and laugh it off, but not really. The pain of it runs deep and none of us are really free from it.
And thus, I believe, the vision. Time in the darkened church had made my mind go blank, and it was in that blankness that the picture came. I seemed to be looking down on a village from dry mountains. It was a small village of adobe, a bit of old Mexico, with the classic squared Mexican church slightly off to the side nearest the mountains. The sky was a dull gray, and it capped the village and mountains like dense metal. With that image came the idea that the sky WAS of metal, made like a giant bell from the church that covered the entire world. And in that world was sin - relentless, inescapable sin. It was oppressive, to say the least, an odd vision to have while in the midst of the sacred.
The image has stuck with me, though, and I have theorized over it (of course). The "Bell" that covered the world clearly held us in sin - but could its ringing (that is, the role of the Church) exorcise it? Or could it be merely a vision from the Church doctrine itself that calls all of sinners, with none but Mary and Jesus free from this darkness since birth?
Those were later theories, however. What came to me immediately was the inescapable feeling that this world IS sin. We do not have to define sin, for we know it; we know it in our tears as the sacred digs beneath the surface. We know it from a depth that understands perfection and knows that THIS, this world, is not it - and that we were nevertheless meant for perfection. We know that this is possible, but not here - for here, there is always something, always some thought or deed that brings us back from the flight to heaven, to live under the gray dome of disappointment, heartache, and death.
The tears come, I think, both as a relief from the internal pressure of our disappointments and heartaches, and also from the realization that this is NOT our only place. We realize at one and the same time that we have been torn and wounded (and, like animals, have torn and wounded back) but also have the spark of perfection in us - that life under the gray dome is not our only home.
It is a cleansing thing, this realization, and we all crave it. We also fear it. It redefines life from a level of our being that is vastly more true than the one we live in, but also infinitely more demanding. We want to slide along in our comfortable world, but we also understand that the status quo is sub-par - that it is not only not so comfortable after all, but too superficial to fulfill what our inner being demands - which is perfection and liberation. In this, we have freedom from fear, freedom to do as we know we should; and freedom to be great, to be perfect in what we are, as we know we can and should be. We know this from the very spark we were born with. And it is this same spark that makes this life, isolated under the dome that is this world, so unsatisfactory.
This is the paradox for all times - that we cannot have freedom until we become free from the petty demands of our age, something we cannot do without self-discipline. It is the underlying theme of all the major religions. It is also this discipline that our age has rebelled against. Yet, in the vision it is clear: there is no real freedom under the dome. Those tears do not lie. FK
It was during a meditative period in the church proper, where the acting priest carried around a statue of Mary dressed in a robe that was possessed with, I forget how, special virtues or powers (for those not Catholic, Mary is perhaps the best loved of all the saints. Really, she is beyond "saint" because, according to orthodoxy, she was born without sin with the "immaculate conception" and rose directly to heaven on death. She is, although the Church does not want to say it, the female Christian goddess. Laymen know it and are glad for it). We were allowed to touch it while we prayed for whatever, and were told that our prayer would then have special strength. As is common with such sacred acts, many people cried, something I understand personally, although (as a man) have never allowed myself to do. But I know where the tears come from - from relief, as if a weight has been lifted from life. They are not quite tears of joy, for there is also tragedy there, mixed with frustration and crushed hopes. It is a cleansing feeling that we all want, but also fear, because a deeper part of our lives is exposed that truly expresses how we are experiencing life beyond our superficial personality shields. Life, beyond our tough exterior, is really tough. Life is not how we want it to be, and it often crushes what is finest in us. We swagger and laugh it off, but not really. The pain of it runs deep and none of us are really free from it.
And thus, I believe, the vision. Time in the darkened church had made my mind go blank, and it was in that blankness that the picture came. I seemed to be looking down on a village from dry mountains. It was a small village of adobe, a bit of old Mexico, with the classic squared Mexican church slightly off to the side nearest the mountains. The sky was a dull gray, and it capped the village and mountains like dense metal. With that image came the idea that the sky WAS of metal, made like a giant bell from the church that covered the entire world. And in that world was sin - relentless, inescapable sin. It was oppressive, to say the least, an odd vision to have while in the midst of the sacred.
The image has stuck with me, though, and I have theorized over it (of course). The "Bell" that covered the world clearly held us in sin - but could its ringing (that is, the role of the Church) exorcise it? Or could it be merely a vision from the Church doctrine itself that calls all of sinners, with none but Mary and Jesus free from this darkness since birth?
Those were later theories, however. What came to me immediately was the inescapable feeling that this world IS sin. We do not have to define sin, for we know it; we know it in our tears as the sacred digs beneath the surface. We know it from a depth that understands perfection and knows that THIS, this world, is not it - and that we were nevertheless meant for perfection. We know that this is possible, but not here - for here, there is always something, always some thought or deed that brings us back from the flight to heaven, to live under the gray dome of disappointment, heartache, and death.
The tears come, I think, both as a relief from the internal pressure of our disappointments and heartaches, and also from the realization that this is NOT our only place. We realize at one and the same time that we have been torn and wounded (and, like animals, have torn and wounded back) but also have the spark of perfection in us - that life under the gray dome is not our only home.
It is a cleansing thing, this realization, and we all crave it. We also fear it. It redefines life from a level of our being that is vastly more true than the one we live in, but also infinitely more demanding. We want to slide along in our comfortable world, but we also understand that the status quo is sub-par - that it is not only not so comfortable after all, but too superficial to fulfill what our inner being demands - which is perfection and liberation. In this, we have freedom from fear, freedom to do as we know we should; and freedom to be great, to be perfect in what we are, as we know we can and should be. We know this from the very spark we were born with. And it is this same spark that makes this life, isolated under the dome that is this world, so unsatisfactory.
This is the paradox for all times - that we cannot have freedom until we become free from the petty demands of our age, something we cannot do without self-discipline. It is the underlying theme of all the major religions. It is also this discipline that our age has rebelled against. Yet, in the vision it is clear: there is no real freedom under the dome. Those tears do not lie. FK
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