A deeper way of knowing

A deeper "Yes"

Photo by Jorge Mallo on Unsplash

It’s Advent; we’re waiting. And in last week’s Zoom gathering of Contemplative Chapel, we pondered a beautiful, poetic reflection by Steve Garnaas-Holmes. Watching a flock of geese on a frozen pond in Maine, he seemed to wonder when they’ll fly south: “How do they know when to go?” They are waiting patiently, but not for understanding; they wait for a deeper way of knowing:

Something in them (the scientists will never find it)
reaches out to them.
When it is time they don't know, they simply go:
not an understanding achieved, but a beckoning accepted.

from The Deepest "Yes," by Steve Garnaas-Holmes, www.unfoldinglight.net

It is an interior, bodily knowing, perhaps something like Mary, who asked the angel, “How can this be?” “The Holy Spirit will come upon you,” the angel said, “and the power of the Most High will overshadow you,” after which Mary gave her own “deepest yes.”

We pondered a beautiful poem by Andrea Potos entitled, “When Beginning the Poem,” which speaks of this deeper knowing - not so much an intellectual wrestling as “a stepping aside,” and patiently waiting for a truth to emerge, “like a watcher at the meadow’s edge / as the doe / finds her way to the center.” (I’ll post these insightful poems separately on ContemplativeChapel.org)

A professor friend once offered a memorable illustration:

Imagine, he said, two ways of knowing: a Greek way and a Hebrew way.  If you were to ask a Greek, “How high is that high diving board over there?” the Greek would use whatever measuring instruments he had, and after calculating angles and such, he would come back to you and say, “That high dive is 26 feet and four inches high.”  And, impressed, you might say, “Wow. That’s really high.”

But if you asked a Hebrew, “How high is that high dive over there?” the Hebrew would say, “If you want to know how high that high dive is, go over to it and stand at the bottom of the ladder. Grip the vertical handrails on either side of the ladder, close your eyes, and then slowly begin climbing to the top. When you get to the top, the handrails will bend horizontally, so you’ll have to be careful, but keeping your eyes closed, continue to hold onto the rails as you slowly walk out the diving board.  Soon, the rails will stop, but keep your eyes closed and continue slowly walking until your toes feel the end of the diving board. With your eyes closed, facing straight ahead, take a few calming breaths.  And then,…quickly...LOOK DOWN!

“And that feeling in your stomach? THAT’S how high that high dive is.”

The difference, of course, is “knowing” something conceptually, in your mind, versus “knowing” something experientially, in your body, with every fiber of your being.

Anthony DeMello, the Jesuit priest who spent most of his priesthood in India, offers a similarly memorable story to illustrate the distinction.  It’s called, “The Explorer”:

The explorer returned to his people, who were eager to know about the Amazon.

But how could he ever put into words the feelings that flooded his heart when he saw exotic flowers and heard the night-sounds of the forests; when he sensed the danger of wild beasts or paddled his canoe over treacherous rapids?

He said, "Go and find out for yourselves." To guide them he drew a map of the river. 

They pounced upon the map. They framed it in their townhall. They made copies of it for themselves. And all who had a copy considered themselves experts on the river; for did they not know its every turn and bend, how broad it was and how deep, where the rapids were and where the falls?

(It is said that Buddha stubbornly refused to be drawn into talking about God. He was probably familiar with the dangers of drawing maps for armchair explorers.)

Anthony De Mello, The Song of the Bird

Maybe you know someone who seems to be an expert on the Bible and who has a lot of information about Jesus. This person can quote chapter and verse in support of their staunchly held beliefs. Such people can be impressive, but not always in an endearing way. They’ve mastered the map, but something seems to be missing.

I once had a parishioner who was a leading trial attorney and evangelical Christian. He told me that he could prove in a court of law, beyond a reasonable doubt, that Jesus physically rose from the dead.  Again, impressive. 

But how important is it to prove the resurrection in a court of law?  I think I’m more interested whether we can show that the resurrection is a reality in our daily lives, in the way we manifest the living Christ in our own bodies and in our relationships, especially with the marginalized and those who cannot repay our kindness.

St. Paul describes what it looks like when a person embodies the Spirit or the living Christ.  “The fruit of the Spirit,” he says, “is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.” (Gal. 5:22). And in another place, Paul urges people “let their gentleness be known to everyone,” and to focus on all that is true, good, just, and commendable. He says that if we can just shift our attention from those things that bring worry, to those things that bring gratitude, then “the peace of God, which surpasses understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.” (Phil. 4:5-9) 

It’s as if shifting our attention to the Presence and activity of the Divine, combined with opening and surrendering ourselves to same, has the effect of magnifying that very Presence in our own body, in our daily life and consciousness.  More and more, we become images of that healing Presence ourselves.

I think it’s interesting when someone knows a lot about God or the Bible. But I find it healing and inspiring to be in the presence of humble people who have obviously yielded themselves to the Divine and are showing forth this Spirit, this living Christ, “not only with their lips but in their lives.”

In the early church, arguably the time of the church’s greatest vitality and growth, there was no such thing as a New Testament. There was no creed or authoritative magisterium to declare what was orthodox and what was heresy (i.e. to keep people in line). There was just the Spirit on the loose and growing numbers of people who were opening their lives to it. The result was that people were becoming what they loved and longed for.

One of the earliest Christian theologians, a man named Tertullian, explained that outsiders looked at Christians with longing: “They look at us and say, ‘See how those Christians love one another, how they are ready to die for each other.’ (For they themselves are readier to kill each other.)”

The more we’ve emphasized the importance of believing doctrines about God, rather than a religion about emptying ourselves of beliefs so that we can embody God, the more we have become a people who “are readier to kill each other.” 

But the world is still charged with the grandeur of God, as Hopkins wrote, with the Spirit brooding over us and even within us. Many of us want to turn our attention this Divine Presence and activity in the world and in ourselves. We want to yield ourselves, in surrendering silence, to this Mystery, in hopes that it will more and more emerge in us not as right beliefs in our minds, but in hopes that it will emerge as new life in our bodies — as love, joy, peace, patience, kindness…, in our daily lives, in every fiber of our being.