And he cometh to Bethsaida; and they bring a blind man unto him, and besought him to touch him. And he took the blind man by the hand, and led him out of the town; and when he had spit on his eyes, and put his hands upon him, he asked him if he saw ought. And he looked up, and said, I see men as trees, walking. After that he put his hands again upon his eyes, and made him look up: and he was restored, and saw every man clearly. And he sent him away to his house, saying, Neither go into the town, nor tell it to any in the town.

Perhaps we’re meant to conclude that the blind man himself needed to be more deeply committed to the Truth before his healing could be fully effected; one notices that the first time he merely “looked up”, while the second time—in the translation you’re using—he “looked intently”. According to the Authorized (King James) Version, in the former case the man “looked up”, but in the second case Jesus “made him look up”. Either way there appear to be two distinct levels or degrees of intensity, and only after the second is realized does the miracle occur.

As for the admittedly puzzling fact that the man is instructed by Christ to go “to his house” but at the same told not to enter the town, here’s what St Jerome has to say:

“Note the text exactly. If we consider the literal interpretation only, it does not make any sense. If this bind man is found in Bethsaida and is taken out and cured, and he is then commanded: ‘Return to thine own house,’ certainly he is bid to ‘return to Bethsaida.’ If, however, he returns there, what is the meaning of the command: ‘Neither enter into the town’? You see, therefore, that the interpretation must be symbolic. He is led out from the house of the Jews, from the town, from the law, from the traditions of the Jews. He who could not be cured in the law is cured in the grace of the Gospel. It is said to him, ‘Return to thine own house’—not into the house that he considers his own, the one from which he came out, but into the house that was also the house of Abraham, since Abraham is the father of those who believe” (Homily 79).

The problem, of course, is that like everything God gave us we’ve managed to corrupt and pervert our fighting capacity, using it not in defense of justice, whether inward or outward, but for our own selfish ends. Indignation is then far from holy! We simply want to “get back at” the people who’ve harmed us or—even more reprehensibly—who’ve simply gotten in the way of our getting what we want. The way, or at least one way, to begin again using this capacity in a way Heaven would approve is to realize that “turning the other cheek”, rather than a sign of weakness or wimpiness, is actually a manifestation of real power. The Taoists are especially good on this point, the Tao Teh Ching being perhaps the best book in the world for showing how true strength is to be found, paradoxically, in seeming weakness.

Do you know the story about the Imam Ali? Engaged in a campaign of the lesser jihad, it seems he had an enemy pinned to the ground and was about to cut off his head when the man spat in his face. Ali immediately put his sword back in its sheath and walked away. When asked what in the world he was doing, he explained to his companions, “I refuse to kill when I am angry.”

When it comes to the relationship, temporal and otherwise, between creation and the fall, we get into the realm of theologoumena and speculation. I call my students’ attention to the fact that St Irenaeus, among others, teaches that the created world is ipso facto imperfect, since whatever is generated is necessarily less than what is not generated. Following this line of thought, we could therefore say that the creation amounts to a “first fall”, followed sequentially—in keeping with the temporal narrative of the Scriptures—by the fall of the angels and then the fall of man.

On the other hand I see no reason to reject the meta-temporal possibility (or possibilities) you propose: that the fall of man in some way logically preceded, and perhaps thus entailed, the fall of creation—or rather that fall-which-is-creation—or again that these two “events” are so intimately interconnected that the fall of man and the creation of the universe (as we know it) are two sides of the same coin, or two ways of saying the same thing.

By way of answer, I’ve copied below my recent message to Katie, a tenth grade high school student from Arizona, who had written to me as part of her research in an honors language class. She’d decided to prepare a term paper on the question of whether there is one (and only one) true religion, and she’d developed, she told me, four “criteria” a true religion should have:

1. It must explain the misery of man; in other words, why its deity or deities have allowed for the harshness of reality if they are considered all-powerful.

2. It must have some form of consistency with scientifically proven facts (such as the facts we already know about life, like the age of the world and evolution).

3. It must explain why the deity or deities—as well as its holy, beyond-life places—cannot be physically seen by the average person.

4. It must have some degree of universal equality because, if it is true, everyone should be able to follow it, so there should be no discrimination against particular groups.

It’s interesting, isn’t it? to see how many unexamined assumptions an obviously intelligent young girl has accepted without the slightest suspicion they could be wrong. The misdeeds of modern education are numberless! In any case, Katie then posed three questions she wanted me to answer:

1. Do you believe there is one true religion?

2. Do you agree with the criteria I am using in my paper? Why or why not?

3. Are there any criteria you would add that you think a true religion must possess?

Here was my response:

1. No. I think there is more than one true religion and more than one way to be “saved”, that is, to reach total union with and participation in What Is Supremely Real. It’s important to add, however, that not ever religion is true. There are false and dangerous religions too. While there is more than one “path up the mountain” of the Real, there are also paths that merely circle the base, as well as others that lead the unwary into the desert.

2. No, I think several of your criteria are significantly flawed.

The first I agree with: every authentic religion includes a theodicy, an explanation of evil. But insisting, secondly, that a true religion must accept the claims of modern science makes no sense, since this science is by its very nature limited to what we can experience “empirically”, that is, with one or more of our physical senses.

This leads to a comment on your third criterion. Every true and saving religion will tell you that the reason God can’t be “physically seen” by the “average person”—or by any person for that matter!—is that He isn’t physical. But not being physical is not the same as not being real any more than not being empirical is the same as not being knowable. Think about it: the very claim that “the only things we can know are physical facts” isn’t itself based on any physical fact. See the problem?

You should be very careful in any case in assuming that the “facts” of modern science are beyond any doubt. This science is, or at least it can be, quite “political” and is by no means the “objective” enterprise unreflective people think. I recommend reading the short article I have attached to this email. (I sent her a copy of my “Requiring Religion”). Darwinian evolution and the age of the world, two “facts” you mention, are slipperier issues than you’ve imagined!

Be careful too when it comes to “equality”, one of the great shibboleths of our time and place. Of course, religions should be open to everyone regardless of race, gender, etc. since their purpose is to save as many people as possible. But this doesn’t mean there aren’t pronounced inequalities among people when it comes to how well, or how deeply, they’ve progressed in the spiritual life. There is always a hierarchy of holiness as there is of intelligence.

3. I wouldn’t so much “add” to as replace your criteria. I’d say there are two keys to every true religion: first, such a religion will teach its followers that there is only one ultimate “Deity” (even if there are subordinate “deities”) and that this Deity is necessarily absolute, infinite, and eternal; and second, it will give those followers the means and methods they need, not only to directly experience that Deity—by activating their non-physical senses—but to enter into It and to become themselves fully like It.

So what do you say: would that be simple enough?

By the way, I agree with the premise behind your question: some metaphysical writers do indeed make things more syntactically and terminologically difficult than is absolutely essential. But I wouldn’t conclude from this fact that their syntax or diction is necessarily inappropriate. Forcing a reader to work for his knowledge is an excellent way of sorting out those who are able and ready to benefit from those who aren’t. One gives milk to the Katies in order that, in time, they might be ready for meat.

As it happens, late last summer I found myself in a position where advice of a more general sort was called for. I was asked to give the keynote address at the opening convocation for new students at the University of South Carolina. My “generalities” on this occasion were of course still targeted to a very particular audience: mostly eighteen-year-olds, whose choice in colleges had come down to a large research university with a popular and financially well-supported football team!

Nonetheless it occurs to me that my remarks—offered with a view to piquing and sustaining the interest of an audience not exactly ripe for metaphysics!—might go some way in suggesting a possible answer to your question. So for better or worse, and with all its deliberate silliness, here’s what I said (for a PDF of the talk that includes the University’s seal, which I mention, click here):

“Ten score and ten years ago our fathers brought forth in this state a new university, conceived in Liberty—and in Wisdom as well—and dedicated to the proposition that emollit mores nec sinit esse feros.”

I’ve been asked to say a few words about USC’s academic traditions and expectations. I begin in this peculiar way for three reasons. First, the weirder a thing is the longer it sticks in our minds, and like all speakers I’m hoping you’ll remember at least something of what I say here today. My second reason has to do with the time constraints I’m working under. I was told I should speak for seven minutes or so—seven short minutes in which to inform, encourage, and entice. I was sure the task I’d been set was impossible, until I remembered the speech I’ve just deliberately echoed, Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address. Often regarded as the most famous in American history, it was perhaps also the shortest. It was ten sentences long, and Lincoln delivered it in two minutes flat. Clearly I’ve more than enough time if I use it prudently.

Which brings me to my third reason. A picture, they say, is worth a thousand words. I realized what prudence required was a visual aid, something you could look at while I speak and preferably something you would likely see again as a reminder of my remarks. I was therefore delighted to learn that one of USC’s most visible and recognizable icons would be on hand here today—not quite as recognizable as Cocky, perhaps, but richer in meaning for an academic occasion! I’m talking about the University’s official seal, prominently displayed on the stage behind me as well as on your programs. With a little help from Honest Abe, I’ve given you the gist of its message already, and I’ll add something in just a moment about the imagery. But first a translation of the Latin: emollit mores nec sinit esse feros.

As you’ve no doubt guessed, these words are the University’s motto, and they can be rendered into English in a variety of ways: “It refines the manners and corrects their harshness.” “It improves our character and keeps us from cruelty.” Or (my personal favorite): “It softens the heart and curbs the wild desires.” I realize the motto on its own, at least in these translations, may not sound too inspiring. Someone has quipped that a lobotomy might also improve your character and keep you from cruelty! While it’s difficult not to smile at such satire, the images on the seal are proof something rather different is at stake.

What we see are two human figures: Wisdom, represented by the goddess Minerva on the right, and Liberty, the figure on the left. And they’re holding hands, indicating some sort of union between them. Meanwhile Liberty’s other hand is raised toward the sky, and there’s an eagle soaring overhead. Together these are indisputable clues that the liberating education here depicted is meant to lift us above, not lower us beneath, our previous capacities, assumptions, and expectations. In light of this symbolism, a less literal but more telling paraphrase of the motto might be: “It gives us the inward freedom and strength not to be distracted or discouraged by the inevitable struggles and challenges of life”; or perhaps: “It focuses our otherwise volatile and scattered thoughts, giving us wings to rise above ourselves, and helping us realize the full potential of the human mind and heart”. This, in short, is the promise of a Carolina education.

It’s a promise, however, that can’t be fulfilled without effort. I realize we often talk about “receiving” an education, but that’s actually a very misleading expression. On the contrary, a good education is something you must reach out and grasp, go out and confront, and seize for yourselves.

The question, of course, is how best to do that. In answer I could give you all sorts of standard advice: study hard, stay on top of your academic requirements, get to know your professors, take advantage of the numerous extracurricular opportunities Carolina provides. But standard is boring. So, to keep your attention as I begin moving toward my conclusion, I’m going to say something weird again: “Beware of Bulverism.” Over thirty years of college teaching experience tells me this is the key to fulfilling USC’s promise and getting the most from your next four years.

I expect you’ve not encountered this term before, and that’s no surprise. Bulverism is a made-up word, occurring as far as I know only once in all English literature, in a short essay with that title by one of my all-time favorite authors, C. S. Lewis. Lewis himself doesn’t define the word. But he gives us the clue we need to its meaning when he says that he’s long considered writing the biography of its imaginary inventor, one Ezekiel Bulver, who at the age of six overheard his mother say to his father, who’d been maintaining that any two sides of a triangle are together greater than the third, “Oh, you just say that because you’re a man!” Suddenly it dawned upon young Mr Bulver that rational discourse was no necessary part of conversation. All you have to do is assume the people you disagree with are wrong and then dismiss their error as arising from the box or category you’ve decided to place them in.

Lewis is teasing, of course—teasing, that is, about six-year old Zeke. He’s perfectly serious, however, about the phenomenon, and so am I. Bulverism, or “you-just-say-that-because-ism”, is everywhere in our culture today. In fact it’s very tempting for all of us, even in a university environment, to dodge the difficult work of thinking by instead being Bulverists. And be assured, Bulverism spans a whole spectrum. It applies not just to the relatively crass and predictable: “So-and-so just says that because she’s a woman, or because he’s a Republican, or because she’s a Clemson fan.” It also crops up among the allegedly sophisticated: “So-and-so just says that because he’s a Platonist, or because she’s a dean, or because (horror of horrors!) he hasn’t read my latest book.” I give these last examples simply to show I’m not just picking on you entering freshmen!

No, Bulverism is a disease we must all labor hard to avoid. For Bulverists, as I hope you can see, are the real lobotomists, with this difference: that the brains they injure most are their own. Until we stop pigeon-holing the people around us and begin opening ourselves to the humbling possibility that they may see the world in important ways we haven’t and may therefore know something important we don’t, we’ll never realize the full potential of our minds and hearts. So I say to you: Dedicate yourselves to the proposition that emollit mores nec sinit esse feros. Beware of Bulverism. Fly like eagles.”

It’s rather like glossalalia: no doubt some people receive the gift of speaking in tongues, but the Pentacostals err in supposing that this particular charism is a decisive manifestation of one’s relation with God, or perhaps even a sine qua non of salvation. In the same way, I can well understand that a “dark night of the soul” (to use the western terminology) can serve as an important element of purgation for a given man or woman. But it’s a mistake to insist that everyone must undergo this frightening and dangerous passage.

There are almost certainly elements of delusion in at least some forms or modes of abandonment, notwithstanding the fact that God can of course bring forth good from this evil. Do you know Kyriacos Markides’s book The Mountain of Silence? The following passage seems especially pertinent. The author’s friend and interlocutor “Father Maximos”, a pseudonym for His Eminence Athanasius, Metropolitan of Limassol, is speaking:

“Even saints had to face … obstacles in their spiritual struggle. This is what happened to Saint Silouan while he was a novice at the Russian monastery of Saint Panteleimon on Mount Athos…. We see a young monk who was patient, obedient, and loved by everybody in the monastery. As a result he was assaulted by the logismos of self-praise, that he was living like a saint. Such a logismos springs from worldly vanity. He was doing all the external things that one is supposed to do, and yet the logismos of vanity was still haunting his mind. Since he lacked spiritual experience he assumed he was right on target heading toward sainthood.”

“He was not quite off the mark,” I [Markides] pointed out. “After all, the Church did canonize him as a saint.”

“But at that time he was young and still under the influence of worldly vanity. His experiences are very instructive. Even though he prayed ceaselessly, the Holy Spirit did not as yet take residence in his heart and that eventually led him to despair and doubt.”

“I suppose,” I pointed out, “that in this case there is an interesting convergence of delusion mixed in with virtue. After all, he struggled for God and dedicated his life to God.”

“This is absolutely so….”

“But if a saint can be so deceived, what does it say about ordinary mortals like most of us?” I complained.

“Don’t forget that Silouan underwent these experiences when he was quite young, a novice who was in a great hurry. From his experience we learn the lesson that ceaseless prayer, without utter humility and metanoia, can lead to all sorts of delusions. It can lead to worldly vanity and even to pathological symptoms….” (pp. 205-206).

As you can see, a feeling of abandonment is, at least in some cases, the result of approaching prayer in the wrong way or with a disproportionate zeal, and that being so, it follows that “God-forsakeness” is by no means an essential state or stage in everyone’s spiritual life. As Markides observes—and “Father Maximos” confirms—virtue on one level can sometimes coexist with delusion on another.

Frithjof Schuon (1907-1998) is widely regarded as one of the most provocative and challenging voices on religion in recent times. The leading figure in the perennialist school of comparative religious thought, Schuon was the author of over two dozen books and several thousand poems, letters, and private spiritual texts. Splendor of the True features some of the most important and influential of these writings, presented here in a new translation.

This unique compilation represents the full range of Schuon’s work on religion and tradition, metaphysics and epistemology, human nature and destiny, sacred art and symbolism, and spirituality and contemplative method. Beginning with a careful examination of Schuon as perennial philosopher, Sufi shaykh, and teacher of gnosis, the volume includes a selection of his poems and samples of his artwork as well as previously unpublished materials drawn from his letters, personal memoirs, and private texts for disciples. Also featured are extensive translator’s notes and a glossary of technical terms.

Bridging the divide between seeker and scholar, Schuon challenges the prevailing academic opinion that religion should be studied with an agnostic neutrality and on a foundation of scientistic assumptions. From sophisticated and demanding philosophical prose to the lyric beauty of verse, he speaks to those who are looking for greater interfaith understanding and a deeper penetration to the esoteric heart of specific traditions, while at the same time turning the critical tables on an increasingly noisy chorus of skeptics and debunkers.

Splendor of the True will prove an important resource not only for theologians, philosophers, and students of religion and spirituality, but for anyone interested in the common ground of the world’s major faiths.

I’ll keep you apprised as the book makes its way through production.

You think, for the various reasons you’ve sketched, that I’m wrong about the “transcendent unity of religions”, and you wish to argue me out of my silliness. But I have no interest whatsoever in persuading you I’m right. I don’t wish to change your mind, whereas you have a motive, and perhaps (from your point of view) an obligation, to change mine, if for no other reason than to protect other Christians from a distorted presentation of the Gospel.

If you still wish to talk, one possible solution might be to set the card-carrying perennialists to one side and ask instead: Was Meister Eckhart a Christian? I pick Eckhart as an “extreme case”, though one might also choose Jakob Boehme (Protestant), Angelus Silesius (Catholic), or perhaps Dionysios the Areopagite (Orthodox).

My hunch, you see, is that the real issue between us is not so much the salvific validity of other religious traditions but rather the orthodoxy (small “o”) of Christian metaphysics. In a sense it’s Alexandria and Antioch all over again. Needless to say, you’re not alone in thinking that such figures are not truly, or fully, or authentically Christian, and of course if they’re not, then I’m not. One thinks of Luther’s comment that Dionysios “Platonizes more than he Christianizes”.

Is it possible for us to get over this hurdle?

It seems there are at least three important issues here: (1) Does the soul of a person who has died remain conscious after the death of the body? (2) Can such a soul “appear” or otherwise make itself known to the living? (3) Do demons (fallen angels) sometimes deceive people into thinking they’ve encountered the “ghost” of a dead friend or relative?

The vast majority of Christians would answer the first question in the affirmative, though a minority contend that the soul “falls asleep” and does not wake again until the General Resurrection, when it is reunited with its body.

As for issues two and three, the Orthodox Church teaches that the soul of a person who has died remains in the vicinity of its body for several days (symbolically, three) after death before embarking on its postmortem journey. Could it manifest itself in some way during this period? There’s no reason to think it couldn’t—with God’s leave, of course.

But the Orthodox would immediately add that one must beware of demonic deception in such a case, for the “principalities and powers of the air” (Ephesians 6:12) are said to have the ability to create illusions and thus to capitalize on the weaknesses of people who become too caught up in looking for supernatural, or rather preternatural, phenomena.

The Fathers were not metaphysicians, of course; this goes without saying, and there should no surprise in the fact that they presented the Truth “dynamically” and in reference to a “historical transformation”. But thinking of Christ’s work in these terms need in no way conflict with a metaphysical perspective. One temporal event can’t happen at two different times—I leave aside here any “quantum” objections!—but there’s nothing to prevent a temporal event from having a trans-temporal root. These are different orders altogether.

In any case, here’s how I myself attempt to sum up the metaphysical essentials of the Faith roughly half way through my lecture course on Christian Theology, as we begin transitioning from Christology to Soteriology:

We’ve learned that a transcendent and yet immanent Mystery, whose center is everywhere and circumference nowhere, is (even as we speak) emptying Itself into our world and ourselves, at once creatively and re-creatively, bringing us and all things into being from the No-Thing It is while at the same time redeeming and restoring those who, inevitably and yet reprehensibly, are falling away into a nothing It is not.

Now it’s up to those who are falling away to respond, and this they do in two ways: (1) through their trust in the fact that the world-restoring operations of the Mystery have already achieved their goal, and (2) through their recognition that, paradoxically, they are nonetheless responsible for achieving this very goal for themselves, which they can do by mirroring the operations of the Mystery, willingly emptying themselves into It even as It empties Itself into them, in order that finally they might become what It is.

As you’ve no doubt already intuited, the effort to “properly reconcile the temporal and the eternal in the Christian message” is not a scholastic exercise, but a matter of spiritual practice.

Many other books are available too, and it’s clear from your list of explorations that you’ve already read rather widely. But in the final analysis a book can’t teach you. You need the guidance of another, flesh-and-blood human being. And no legitimate guide will be able to help you until and unless you establish a sacramental relationship with a genuine, orthodox tradition. Prayer presupposes sincerity, and sincerity demands faith and commitment.

In the meantime, of course, you can always offer up personal prayers—spontaneous requests for God’s help, woven of humility and trust. These last words are crucial. He who wishes to pray must be prepared to put himself, his agenda, his expectations aside. You speak of having investigated many methods and techniques. But the technique—if you will allow me to speak like the Zen masters—consists in realizing there is no technique.

There is instead a crystal-clear space opened up by our resignation and attentive listening.

(Of course, God is at the same time neither masculine nor feminine, but this complementary truth is less immediately pertinent to the question you pose.)

Setting aside the “alchemical” or “androgynous” implications of this harmony for fully deified men and women, it’s easy enough to see what’s at stake when it comes to practicing the virtues. I was just reading this morning an unpublished text of Schuon’s in which he notes that the virtue of dispassion pertains to “militant virility” whereas the virtue of compassion pertains to “liberating femininity”. It obviously doesn’t follow, however, that either of us is excused from practicing the complementary virtue. Though I’m a man, I must cultivate compassion no less than dispassion, and though you’re a woman you must cultivate dispassion no less than compassion.

These are but baby steps, of course, and yet they’re an essential first movement toward the mode of theosis hinted at in the Genesis text.