Trances, ecstasies, visions and raptures

 Yesterday in our Sunday school class, I taught a session on Teresa of Avila, the famous 16^th century Spanish mystic. I’ve always been drawn to Teresa—for her vivid imagination, her deep desire for intimacy with God, and her zeal for reform. Her book, The Interior Castle, has both intrigued and challenged me. An extended metaphor, Teresa envisions the Christian soul slowly growing in maturity, going from “mansion” to “mansion” in the castle until it finally reaches the 7^th mansion and finds perfect union with God. All of this takes place inside the believer, in the soul.

I stumble a bit in the 6^th mansion. Teresa’s experiences in prayer seem a bit extreme—visions and locutions, trances, raptures, and all sorts of ecstatic experiences that take the person out of their senses and leave them inebriated with God. Sometimes a sister might find herself silently drunk in the Spirit for days after the experience. I found myself asking, “Is this something I should want?” In one sense, yes, it might be wonderful. But, on the other hand, well—it all sounds sort of weird.

The 7^th mansion, the place of perfect unity, is surprisingly and blessedly free from extremes. God tells the saint that now that they are one (“the branch abiding in the vine”), there is no longer any need for more than occasional ecstatic experiences. The children of the spiritual marriage are good works, a reaching out to people who are suffering and need our comfort and presence. A good conclusion.

In the class discussion, one person told us that Teresa of Avila is the Patron Saint of Chess. Not only that, she was known for her joyful dancing in worship. That intrigued me, so I looked it up on the internet. Sure enough, partly because of Teresa’s use of the chess game as a metaphor in another book, The Way of Perfection, and because of her sharp intellect and ability to look ahead and plan, she has become the Patron Saint of Chess. Concerning her dancing, although her books focus on overcoming sin, on penance, and on suffering as parts of the path toward growth, many sources attest to her joyful habit of dancing during worship. She was a many-faceted saint.

One other thing. I learned that she is also the Patron Saint of Headaches and Migraines. One source said it was because her zeal for reform in the convents gave her superiors headaches.

Concerning the subject of ecstatic experiences, I wondered why this isn’t experienced as much among Protestants, and why it isn’t experienced more today. Perhaps it is in the more Pentecostal branches of the church. I also wondered why I haven’t experienced raptures, trances, or visions.

Then I realized I have. Although not a regular part of my life, at certain times in my journey the Spirit has visited me in a supernatural way that has impacted the rest of my life. Let me tell you about one such experience.

Hal and I had just returned to Oregon on our first missionary furlough from Bolivia. Accompanying us were five-year old David and two-year-old Kristin. Our task for the year—to travel throughout the yearly meeting speaking in churches, conferences, homes, etc., informing about the mission work in Latin America. I was nervous. Actually, I was frightened, sometimes experiencing moments of panic. Could I do this and do it well?

On this particular day, Kristin’s cousin Karina was with us on a play-date and the little girls, both two-years-old, were running around, giggling, having a noisy good time. I was doing housework, at the moment on my knees scrubbing the bathtub. I give these details to show that I was not in a spiritually charged, mystical atmosphere.

As I was scrubbing, the curtain that separates the everyday world from another realm divided and I slipped through. I was in the same house, but it was strange. I found a door I hadn’t seen before and as I opened it and went in, I discovered a secret room in this old house. It was a dining room, sparely furnished with a large wooden dining table and chairs and a wooden dish cabinet at the far end of the room.

I walked to the cabinet and somehow knew that I was supposed to set the table. I took down the four plates. They were fine china, white with a gold rim. But as I lifted each one, it came alive. A beautiful moving picture of nature filled it. The first held a meadow of wild flowers bending in a gentle breeze. The second featured a forest, leaves all fluttering, sunlight and shadows dancing. The third plate was a high mountain range, cumulous clouds scudding through the sky, and an eagle in the distance. The fourth and final plate showed a stormy ocean, waves crashing on the rocks, gulls cutting the air. All of them beautiful. I was breathless with the wonder of it.

Then I began taking down the four crystal goblets. As I lifted each one some inner instinct told me to put it to my ear like a sea shell. The sounds of each goblet corresponded to the scenes on the plates: bees, insects, and birdsong; the wind in the trees; the cry of an eagle; waves crashing on the rocks. Such incredible music!

I wondered who owned such marvelous dishes.

Suddenly an angel appeared at my side. He didn’t look anything like any angel I had ever imagined. He was obviously American and very athletic, sporting a blond crew cut and a knee-length Greek toga. I knew in my spirit that he was good. I was startled but not afraid.

The angel looked at me, smiled, then pointed to the dishes and said, “They’re yours, you know. Why don’t you use them?”

At that moment I found myself back in the bathroom, soapy sponge in hand, kids playing in the background. I sat back stunned, every detail of the experience clear in my mind. I sensed a new lightness in my spirit although I didn’t know what any of it meant. I carried that lightness and joy with me throughout the day.

When Hal returned in the evening I told him about my strange experience. He immediately responded with, “Oh, Nancy! Don’t you see what God is saying to you?! He’s telling you that in this hard task you have before you, he has gifted you with all you need to nourish people and to do it beautifully.” He wasn’t talking about food.

I’ve carried the message of the vision with me for over 50 years now. My life’s work has been about communication—mostly writing, but also teaching and speaking. As an introvert often called into public ministry which is naturally uncomfortable, God reminds me that he has given me all I need. Both substance (nourishment) and form (beautiful dishes).

I don’t know if this experience was an official “trance” or “rapture,” but I didn’t (and don’t) feel the need to categorize it. I knew (and know) that it was real.

Thanks be to God for all the ways he speaks to his children.

Old books, timeless treasures

 In Sunday school class earlier this week, we talked about the value of reading the devotional classics. Different class members shared writers and books that had been formational in their own growth in the Christian faith. It was rich.

Some definitions are in order: Devotional classics are books that speak to the heart, that have the formation of holy habits and personal transformation as their aim. Devotional classics refer to books whose value has been affirmed over time. In other words, these are old books. Maybe beyond old or new, they are works that are timeless in their worth.

Examples that come to mind are the “old” guys and girls: St. Francis of Assisi, Brother Lawrence, Julian of Norwich, George Fox, John Wesley—the list is long. Some of the “newer” devotional classics include 20^th century writers such as C.S. Lewis, Dag Hammarskjold, Thomas Merton, and Henri Nouwen.

A classic that influenced me many years ago was Teresa of Avila’s Interior Castle. I first approached this book, not as devotional reading, but as class preparation. I was scheduled to teach a class on spirituality to Latin American church leaders. Since the classic Spanish mystics of the 16^th and 17^th centuries are foundational to current Latin American spirituality, I needed to include them as background to the course. So I found myself reading Teresa, John of the Cross, and Ignatius of Loyola

Teresa was a Carmelite nun and mystic who became influential as a monastic reformer. She was known for her devotion to Jesus and her mystical prayer life. She was often called on to instruct young nuns in the life of faith. Her life story is long and dramatic and her reforms brought deep changes to the Catholic monastic movement.

I got another view into this woman through the poetry of humorist Phyllis McGinley. Apparently Teresa had a feisty aspect to her personality. Here’s McGinley’s poem:

Conversation in Avila

Teresa was God’s familiar. She often spoke
To Him informally,
As if together they shared some heavenly joke.
Once, watching stormily
Her heart’s ambitions wither to odds and ends,
With all to start anew,
She cried, “If this is the way You treat Your friends,
No wonder You have so few!”

There is no perfect record standing by
Of God’s reply.

Interior Castle is considered Teresa’s best work. The castle is an extended metaphor for a person’s intimate relationship with Jesus. The castle is within the person. It’s a mysterious, medieval, and quite asymmetrical structure composed of many large rooms or “mansions.” The seven mansions represent ascending levels of spiritual intimacy. The person progresses to a new room only after having attained to the maturity level of the previous room. It can all be slow going.

I was fascinated by the disciplines and experiences in each room, beginning with silent listening, contemplative prayer, and visions. This is good stuff, I thought. But as the pilgrim progressed through the different rooms, her experiences seemed to get stranger, even extreme. She went through dreams, swoons, ecstasies, mortifications, raptures, and trances, some of them seeming to last for days. Darkness and pain become part of the spiritual cleansing. I had to ask myself, is this the sort of thing I want to experience? No, I decided.

In the sixth room, Jesus tells his beloved daughter that they have reached a level of profound commitment. They are now “novios,” engaged to be spiritually married. I began to worry, wondering what extremes I’d find in the last mansion, the place of mystical marriage.

Teresa surprised me. It wasn’t at all what I expected. Jesus, in essence, tells his beloved, “My bride, we are now united. You have no more need of raptures and trances and swoons. That’s behind you. Now we will leave the castle and go out into the streets of the city where people I love are suffering and dying. We’ll go together. And you will serve the people and tell them how much I love them.”

Wow. I cried as I read that last chapter. The book become more than class preparation. It was a devotional classic in every sense of the term. It said to me that intimacy with Jesus comes before any service or ministry out in the world. And it is the relationship with Jesus that empowers and makes that service fruitful. While God doesn’t seem to be asking me to go through all the stuff Teresa experienced in her castle, the principle still stands. Thank you, Teresa.

Concerning the value of the classics, C.S. Lewis once wrote that “It is a good rule, after reading a new book, never to allow yourself another new one till you have read an old one in between.” Lewis, himself a scholar of medieval literature, was referring to more than the devotional classics, but he included them.

I’m currently re-reading Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov, and finding it tough going. I remember how it impacted me as a young woman, but it’s been many years and I am no longer young. So I’m taking it slow, reading a couple of chapters, then switching to a contemporary (and much easier) book, and coming back for another dip into Dostoevsky. I’m not sure that’s what C.S. Lewis had in mind, but I intend to keep reading.

Old books—they’re sort of like us. We’re all growing older. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could feel we’d reached a high level of maturity and passed the test of time. I know older people who, indeed, have earned the respect of those who follow them and have become almost legendary. Probably not many of us will win the distinction of becoming a classic; most of us would not want that title anyway.

I will keep on reading seasoned old books, along with the new. I won’t be too concerned with becoming a human devotional classic. I’ll let myself be content with my grandson’s recent assessment: “You’re a really cool grandma!”

That’s classic enough for me.